 CHAPTER XXII OF THE DWARF AND THE PARDON Now she began to say, My friend, now shall I tell thee what I have done for thee and me, and if thou have a mind to blame me and punish me, yet remember first, that what I have done has been for thee and our hope of happy life. Well, I shall tell thee. But therewithal her speech failed her, and springing up she faced the bent and pointed with her finger, and she, all deadly pale and shaking so that she might scarce stand, and might speak no word, though a feeble gibbering came from her mouth. Walter leapt up, and put his arm about her, and looked with the wood she pointed, and at first saw Nought, and then Nought but a brown and yellow rock rolling down the bent, and then at last he saw that it was the evil thing which had met him when first he came into that land, and now it stood upright, and he could see that it was clad in a coat of yellow samite. Then Walter stooped down, and gat his bow into his hand, and stood before the maid while he knocked an arrow. But the monster made ready his tackle, while Walter was stooping down, and or ever he could loose his bow-string twang'd, and an arrow flew forth, and grazed the maid's arm above the elbow, so that the blood ran, and the dwarf gave forth a hush and horrible cry. Then flew Walter's shaft, and true was it aimed, so that it smote the monster full on the breast, but fell down from him, as if he were made of stone. Then the creature set up his horrible cry again, and loosed with all, and Walter deemed that he had smitten the maid, for she fell down in a heap behind him. Then waxed Walter Woodroth, and cast down his bow, and drew his sword, and strode forward towards the bent against the dwarf. But he roared out again, and there were words in his roar, and he said, FOOL! Thou shalt go free if thou wilt give up the enemy. And who, said Walter, is the enemy? She, the pink and white thing lying there, she is not dead yet, she is but dying for fear of me. Yea, she hath reason. I could have set the shaft in her heart as easily as scratching her arm, but I need her body alive, that I may wreak me on her. What wilt thou do with her? said Walter. For now he had heard that the maid was not slain, he had waxed wary again, and stood watching his chance. The dwarf yelled so at his last word, that no word came from the noise awhile, and then he said, What will I with her? Let me at her, and stand by, and look on, and then shalt thou have a strange tale to carry off with thee, for I will let thee go this while. Said Walter, But what need to wreak thee? What hath she done to thee? What need? What need? roared the dwarf. Have I not told thee that she is the enemy? And thou askest of what she hath done? Of what? Fool! She is the murderer. She hath slain the lady that was our lady, and that made us, she whom we all worshipped and adored. O impudent fool! Therewith he knocked and loosed another arrow, which would have smitten Walter in the face, but that he lowered his head in the very nick of time. Then with a great shout he rushed up the bent, and was on the dwarf before he could get his sword out, and, leaping aloft, dealt the creature a stroke amid most of the crown. And so mightily he smote, that he draved the heavy sword right through to the teeth, so that he fell dead straightway. Walter stood over him a minute. And when he saw that he moved not, he went slowly down to the stream, whereby the maid yet lay, cowering down and quivering all over, and covering her face with her hands. Then he took her by the wrist, and said, up-maiden, up, and tell me this tale of the slaying. But she shrunk away from him, and looked at him with wild eyes, and said, what hast thou done with him? Is he gone? He is dead, said Walter. I have slain him. There lies he with cloven skull on the bent side. Unless, forsooth, he vanish away like the lion I slew, or else, perchance, he will come to life again. And art thou a lie, like to the rest of them? Let me hear of this slaying. She rose up, and stood before him, trembling, and said, oh, thou art angry with me, with thine anger I cannot bear. Ah, what have I done? Thou hast slain one, and I may be the other, and never had we escaped till both these twain were dead. Ah, thou dost not know, thou dost not know! O me, what shall I do to appease thy wrath? He looked on her, and his heart rose to his mouth at the thought of sundering from her. All he looked on her, and her piteous friendly face melted all his heart. He threw down his sword, and took her by the shoulders, and kissed her face over and over, and strained her to him, so that he felt the sweetness of her bosom. Then he lifted her up like a child, and set her down on the green grass, and went down to the water, and filled his hat therefrom, and came back to her. Then he gave her to drink, and bathed her face and her hands, so that the colour came aback to the cheeks and lips of her. And she smiled on him, and kissed his hands, and said, oh, now thou art kind to me, yea, said he, and true it is that if thou hast slain I have done no less, and if thou hast lied even so have I. And if thou hast played the wanton, as I deem not that thou hast, I full surely have so done. So now thou shalt pardon me, and when thy spirit has come back to thee, thou shalt tell me thy tale in all friendship, and in all loving kindness will I hearken the same. Therewith he knelt before her, and kissed her feet. But she said, yea, yea, what thou willest that will I do, but first tell me one thing, hast thou buried this horror, and hidden him in the earth? He deemed that fear had bewildered her, and that she scarcely yet knew how things had gone. But he said, fair sweet friend, I have not done it as yet, but now will I go and do it, if it seem good to thee. Yea, she said, but first must thou smite off his head, and lie it by his buttocks when he is in the earth, or evil things will happen else. This of the burying is no idle matter, I bid thee believe. I doubt it not, said he. Surely such malice as was in this one will be hard to slay. And he picked up his sword, and turned to go to the field of deed. She said, I must needs go with thee. Terror hath so filled my soul that I durst not abide here without thee. So they went both together, to where the creature lay. The maid durst not look on the dead monster. But Walter noted that he was gut with a big ungainly sacks. So he drew it from the sheath, and there smote off the hideous head of the fiend with his own weapon. Then they twain together laboured the earth. She with Walter's sword, he with the ugly sacks, till they had made a grave deep and wide enough. And therein they thrust the creature, and covered him up, weapons, and all together. CHAPTER XXIII Of the peaceful ending of that wild day, thereafter Walter led the maid down again, and said to her, now sweetling shall the story be told. Nay, friend, she said, not here. This place hath been polluted by my craven fear, and the horror of the vile wretch, of whom no words may tell his vileness. Let us hence and onward, thou seest I have once more come to life again. But, said he, thou hast been hurt by the dwarf's arrow. She laughed, and said, Had I never had greater hurt from them than that, little had been the tale thereof. Yet whereas thou lookest dolorous about it, we will speedily heal it. Therewith she sought about, and found neither streamside certain herbs, and she spake words over them, and bade Walter lay them on the wound, which Fossuth was of the least. And he did so, and bound a strip of his shirt about her arm, and then would she set forth. But he said, Thou art all unshod, and, but if that be seen to, our journey shall be stayed by thy foot-sornness. I may make a shift to fashion thee brogues. She said, I may well go barefoot, and in any case I entreat thee, that we tarry here no longer, but go away hence, if it be but for a mile. And she looked piteously on him, so that he might not gain say her. So then they crossed the stream, and set forward, when amidst all these haps the day was worn to mid-morning. But after they had gone a mile, they sat them down on a knoll under the shadow of a big thorn-tree, within sight of the mountains. Then said Walter, Now will I cut thee the brogues from the skirt of my buff-coat, which shall be well-meet for such work, and meanwhile, shalt thou tell me thy tale. Thou art kind, she said, but be kinder yet, and abide my tale till we have done our day's work. For we were best to make no long delay here, because, though thou hast slain the king-dwarf, yet there be others of his kindred, who swarm in some parts of the wood as the rabbits in a warren. Now true it is that they have but little understanding, lest it may be than the very brute beasts. And that, as I said afore, unless they be set on our slot like to hounds, they shall have no inkling of where to seek us, yet might they happen upon us by mere misadventure. And moreover, friend, quoth she, blushing, I would beg of thee some little respite, for though I scarce fear thy wrath any more, since thou hast been so kind to me, yet is there shame in that which I have to tell thee. Wherefore, since the fairest of the day is before us, let us use it all we may, and, when thou hast done me my new foot-gear, get us gone forward again. He kissed her kindly, and Ye said her asking. He had already fallen to work on the leather, and in a while had fashioned her the brogues. So she tied them to her feet, and arose with a smile, and said, Now, am I hail and strong again, what with the rest, and what with thy loving kindness, and thou shalt see how nimble I shall be to leave this land, for as fair as it is. For sooth a land of lies it is, and of grief to the children of Adam. So they went their ways thence, and fared nimbly indeed, and made no stay till some three hours after noon, when they rested by a thicket side, where the strawberries grew plenty. They ate thereof what they would, and from a great oak hard by, Walter shot him first one culver, and then another, and hung them to his girdle, to be for their evening's meal. So thence they went forward again, and naught befell them to tell of, till they were come, when as it lacked scarce an hour of sunset, to the banks of another river, not right great, but bigger than the last one. There the maid cast herself down, and said, Friend, no further will thy friend go this even, nay, to say sooth, she cannot. So now we will eat of thy venison, and then shall my tale be, since I may no longer delay it, and thereafter shall our slumber be sweet and safe as I deem. She spake merrily now, and as one who feared nothing, and Walter was much heartened by her words and her voice, and he fell to and made a fire, and a woodland oven in the earth, and so thence dieted his fowl, and baked them after the manner of woodmen. And they ate, both of them, in all love, and in good liking of life, and were much strengthened by their supper. And when they were done, Walter eaked his fire, both against the chill of the midnight and dawning, and for a guard against wild beasts, and by that time night was come, and the moon arisen. Then the maiden drew up to the fire, and turned to Walter, and spake. Chapter 24 The maid tells of what had befallen her. Now, friend, by the clear of the moon and this firelight, will I tell what I may and can of my tale. Thus it is. If I be holy of the race of Adam, I what not, nor can I tell thee how many years old I may be. For there are, as it were, shards or gaps in my life, wherein are but a few things dimly remembered, and doubtless many things forgotten. I remember well when I was a little child, and right happy, and there were people about me whom I loved, and who loved me. It was not in this land, but all things were lovely there, the years beginning, the happy mid-year, the years waning, the years ending, and then again its beginning. That passed away, and then for a while is more than dimness, for naught I remember, save that I was. Thereafter I remember again, and am a young maiden, and I know some things, and long to know more. I am no wise happy. I am amongst people who bid me go, and I go, and do this, and I do it. None loveth me, none tormenteth me, but I wear my heart in longing, for I scarce know what. Neither then am I in this land, but in a land that I love not, and a house that is big and stately, but not lovely. Then is a dim time again, and sedents a time not right clear, an evil time wherein I am older, well nigh grown to womanhood. There are a many folk about me, and they foul, and greedy, and hard, and my spirit is fierce, and my body feeble, and I am set to tasks that I would not do by them that are unwiser than I, and smitten I am by them that are less valiant than I, and I know lack, and stripes, and diverse misery, but all that is now become but a dim picture to me, save that amongst all these unfriends is a friend to me, an old woman who telleth me sweet tales of other life wherein all is high and goodly, or at the least valiant and doughty, and she setteth hope in my heart, and learneth me, and maketh me to know much, oh much, so that at last I am grown wise, and wise to be mighty if I durst. Yet am I nought in this land all this while, but as me seamoth in a great and foul city, and then, as it were, I fall asleep, and in my sleep is nought, save here and there a wild dream, some deal lovely, some deal hideous, but of this dream is my mistress apart, and the monster with all whose head thou didst cleave to-day, but when I am awaken from it, then am I verily in this land, and myself as thou seeest me to-day, and the first part of my life here is this, that I am in the pillard-hall yonder, half-clad, and with bound hands, and the dwarf leadeth me to the lady, and I hear his horrible croak as he sayeth, Lady, will this one do? And then the sweet voice of the lady saying, This one will do, thou shalt have thy reward, now set thou the token upon her. Then I remember the dwarf dragging me away, and my heart sinking for fear of him, but for that time he did me no more harm than the riveting upon my leg this iron ring which here thou seeest. So from that time forward I have lived in this land, and been the thrall of the lady, and I remember my life here day by day, and no part of it has fallen into the dimness of dreams. Remember of, will I tell thee, but little, but this I will tell thee, that in spite of my past dreams, or it may be because of them, I had not lost the wisdom which the old woman had erst-learned me, and for more wisdom I longed. Maybe this longing shall now make both thee and me happy, but for the passing time it brought me grief. Here at first my mistress was indeed wayward with me, but as any great lady might be with her bought thrall, wiles caressing me, and wiles chastising me as her mood went. But she seemed not to be cruel of malice, or with any set purpose, but so it was, rather little by little than by any great sudden uncovering of my intent, that she came to know that I also had some of the wisdom whereby she lived her queenly life. That was about two years after I was first her thrall, and three weary years have gone by since she began to see in me the enemy of her days. Now why, or wherefore I know not, but it seemeth that it would not avail her to slay me outright, or suffer me to die, but naught withheld her from piling up griefs and miseries on my head. At last she set her servant the dwarf upon me, even he whose head thou clavest to-day. Many things I bore from him, whereof it were unseemly for my tongue to tell before thee. But the time came when he exceeded, and I could bear no more, and then I showed him this sharp knife, wherewith I would have thrust me through to the heart if thou hadst not pardoned me in now. And I told him that if he forebore me not I would slay, not him, but myself. And this he might not away with, because of the commandment of the lady, who had given him the word, that in any case I must be kept living, and her hand, with all, fear held somewhat hereafter. That was their need to me of all my wisdom, for with all this her hatred grew, and wiles raged within her so furiously that it over-mastered her fear. And at such times she would have put me to death if I had not escaped her by some turn of my law. Now further, I shall tell thee, that somewhat more than a year ago hitherto this land came the king's son, the second goodly man, as thou art the third, whom her sorceries have drawn hither since I have dwelt here. For, Soothe, when he first came he seemed to us, to me, and yet more to my lady, to be as beautiful as an angel, and sorely she loved him, and he her after his fashion. But he was light-minded and cold-hearted, and in a while he must needs turn his eyes upon me, and offer me his love, which was but foul and unkind as it turned out, for when I naysaid him, as maybe I had not done, save for fear of my mistress, he had no pity upon me, but spared not to lead me into the trap of her wrath, and leave me without help or a good word. But, oh friend, in spite of all grief and anguish, I learned still, and waxed wise, and wiser, abiding the day of my deliverance, which has come, and thou art come. Therewith she took Walter's hands, and kissed them, but he kissed her face, and her tears wet her lips. Then she went on, but sedence, months ago, the lady began to weary of this dastard, despite of his beauty, and then it was thy turn to be swept into her net, I partly guess how. For on a day in broad daylight, as I was serving my mistress in the hall, and the evil thing, whose head is now cloven, was lying across the threshold of the door, as it were a dream fell upon me, though I strove to cast it off for fear of chastisement. For the pillard hall wavered, and vanished from my sight, and my feet were treading a rough stone pavement, instead of the marble wonder of the hall, and there was a scent of the salt sea, and of the tackle of ships, and behind me were tall houses, and before me the ships indeed, with their ropes beating, and their sails flapping, and their masts wavering, and in mine ears was the hail and howl of mariners, things that I had seen, and heard, in the dimness of my life gone by, and there was I, and the dwarf before me, and the lady after me, going over the gangway aboard of a tall ship, and she gathered way, and was gotten out of the haven, and straight way I saw the mariners cast abroad with their ancient, quoth Walter, what then, sawest thou the blazin' thereon of a wolf-like beast ramping up against a maiden, and that might well have been thou, she said, yea, so it was, but refrain thee, that I may tell on my tale. The ship and the sea vanished away, but I was not back in the hall of the golden house, and again were we three in the street of the self-same town which we had but just left, but somewhat dim was my vision thereof, and I saw little, saved the door of a goodly house before me, and speedily it died out, and we were again in the pillard hall, wherein my thralldom was made manifest. Maiden, said Walter, one question I would ask thee, to it, didst thou see me on the key by the ships? Nay, she said, there were many folk about, but they were all as images of the aliens to me. Now harken further, three months thereafter came the dream upon me again, when we were all three together in the pillard hall, and again was the vision somewhat dim. Once more we were in the street of a busy town, but all unlike to that other one, and there were men standing together on our right hands by the door of a house. Yay, yay, quoth Walter, and for Soothe one of them was who but I. Refrain thee, beloved, she said, for my tale draweth to its ending, and I would have thee harken heedfully, for maybe thou shalt once again deem my deed past pardon. Some twenty days after this last dream I had some leisure for my mistress's service, so I went to disport me by the well of the oak tree. Or for Soothe, she might have set in my mind the thought of going there, that I might meet thee, and give her some occasion against me. And I sat thereby, no wise lovingly earth, but sick at heart, because of late the king's son had been more than ever instant with me to yield him my body, threatening me else with casting me into all that the worst could do to me of torments and shames day by day. I say my heart failed me, and I was well nigh brought to the point of yay saying his desires that I might take the chance of something befalling me that were less bad than the worst. But here must I tell thee a thing, and pray thee to take it to heart. This, more than ought else, had given me strength to nay say that dastard, that my wisdom both hath been, and now is, the wisdom of a wise maid, and not of a woman, and all the might thereof shall I lose with my maiden-head. Evil wilt thou think of me, then, for all was I tried so sore, that I was at point to cast it all away, so wretchedly as I shrank from the horror of the lady's wrath. There, as I sat pondering these things, I saw a man coming, and thought no otherwise thereof, but that it was the king's son, till I saw the stranger drawing near, and his golden hair, and his grey eyes, and then I heard his voice, and his kindness pierced my heart, and I knew that my friend had come to see me, and or friend, these tears are for the sweetness of that past hour, said Walter. I came to see my friend, I also. Now have I noted what thou bedest me, and I will forbear all as thou commandest me, till we be safe out of the desert, and far away from all evil things, but wilt thou ban me from all caresses? She laughed amidst her tears, and said, Oh, nay, poor lad, if thou wilt be but wise. Then she leaned toward him, and took his face betwixt her hands, and kissed him oft, and the tears started in his eyes for love and pity of her. Then she said, Alas, friend, even yet mayest thou doom me guilty, and all thy love may turn away from me, when I have told thee all that I have done for the sake of thee and me. Oh! If then there might be some chastisement for the guilty woman, and not mere sundering, fear nothing, sweetling, said he, for indeed I deem that already I know partly what thou hast done. She sighed, and said, I will tell thee next, that I banned thy kissing and caressing of me till to-day, because I knew that my mistress would surely know if a man, if thou, hadst so much as touched a finger of mine in love. It was to try me herein that on the morning of the hunting she kissed and embraced me, till I almost died thereof, and showed thee my shoulder and my limbs, and to try thee with all, if thine eye should glister, all thy cheek flush thereat. For indeed she was raging in jealousy of thee. Next, my friend, even while we were talking together at the well of the rock, I was pondering on what we should do to escape from this land of lies. Maybe thou wilt say, why didst thou not take my hand and flee with me as we fled to-day? Friend, it is most true that were she not dead we had not escaped thus far, for her trackers would have followed us, set on by her, and brought us back to an evil fate. Therefore I tell thee, that from the first I did plot the death of those two, the dwarf and the mistress. For no otherwise mightest thou live, or I escape from death in life. But as to the dastard who threatened me with a thrall's pains, I heeded him not to live or die, for while I knew that thy valiant sword, yea, or thy bare hands, would speedily tame him. Now first I knew, that I must make a show of yielding to the king's son, and somewhat how I did therein thou knowest. But no night, and no time did I give him to bed me, till after I had met thee as thou wentest to the golden house, before the adventure of fetching the lion's skin. And up to that time I had scarce known what to do, save ever to bid thee, with sore grief and pain, to yield thee to the wicked woman's desire. But as we spake together, there by the stream, and I saw that the evil thing, whose head thou clavest in now, was spying on us, then amidst the sickness of terror which ever came over me when so ever I thought of him, and much more when I saw him, ah, he is dead now. It came flashing into my mind how I might destroy my enemy. Therefore I made the dwarf my messenger to her, by bidding thee to my bed, in such wise that he might hear it. And what thou well that he speedily carried her the tidings. Meanwhile I hastened to lie to the king's son, and all privily bade him come to me, and not thee. And thereafter, by dint of waiting and watching, and taking the only chance that there was, I met thee, as thou camest back, from fetching the skin of the lion that never was, and gave thee that warning, or else had we been undone indeed, said Walter, was the lion of her making or of thine, then? She said, of hers, why should I deal with such a matter? Yay, said Walter, but she verily swooned, and she was verily wroth with the enemy. The maid smiled, and said, if her lie was not like very sooth, then had she not been the craft's master that I knew her, one may lie otherwise than with the tongue alone. Yet indeed her wrath against the enemy was naught feigned, for the enemy was even I, and in these latter days never did her wrath leave me. But to go on with my tale, now doubt thou not, that when thou camest into the hall yes to eve, the mistress knew of thy counterfeit trist with me, and meant naught but death for thee, yet first would she have thee in her arms again, therefore did she make much of thee at table, and that was partly for my torment also, and therefore did she make that trist with thee, and deemed doubtless that thou wouldst not dare to forego it, even if thou shouldst go to me thereafter. Now I had trained that dastard to me, as I have told thee, but I gave him a sleepy draught, so that when I came to the bed he might not move toward me nor open his eyes, but I lay down beside him, so that the lady might know that my body had been there, for well had she wotted if it had not. Then as there I lay, I cast over him thy shape, so that none might have known but that thou werest lying by my side, and there, trembling, I abode what should befall, thus I pass through the hour when ours thou shouldst have been at her chamber, and the time of my trist with thee was come as the mistress would be deeming, so that I looked for her speedily, and my heart well nigh failed me for fear of her cruelty. Presently then I heard a stirring in her chamber, and I slipped from out to the bed, and hid me behind the hangings, and was like to die for fear of her. And lo! Presently she came, stealing in softly, holding a lamp in one hand, and a knife in the other. And I tell thee of a sooth, that I also had a sharp knife in my hand, to defend my life if need were. She held the lamp up above her head, before she drew near to the bedside, and I heard her mutter. She is not there, then, but she shall be taken. Then she went up to the bed, and stooped over it, and laid her hand on the place where I had lain, and therewith her eyes turned to that false image of thee lying there. And she fell a-trembling, and shaking, and the lamp fell to the floor, and was quenched. But there was bright moonlight in the room, and still I could see what bitid. But she uttered a noise like the low roar of a wild beast, and I saw her arm and hand rise up, and the flashing of the steel beneath the hand. And then down came the hand and the steel, and I went night aswooning, lest perchance I had wrought over well, and thine image were thy very self. The dust had died without a groan. Why should I lament him? I cannot. But the lady drew him to water, and snatched the clothes from off his shoulders and breast, and fellow gibbering, sounds mostly without meaning, but broken here and there with words. Then I heard her say, I shall forget, I shall forget, and the new days shall come. Then was there silence of her a little. And thereafter she cried out, in a terrible voice, Oh no, no, no, I cannot forget, I cannot forget. And she raised a great wailing cry that filled all the night with horror, didst thou not hear it, and caught up the knife from the bed, and thrust it into her breast, and fell down a dead heap over the bed, and onto the man whom she had slain. And then I thought of thee, and joy smote across my terror, how shall I gain say it? And I fled away to thee, and I took thine hands in mine, thy dear hands, and we fled away together. Shall we be still together? He spoke slowly, and touched her nut. And she, for bearing all sobbing and weeping, sat looking wistfully on him. He said, I think thou hast told me all, and whether thy guile slew her, or her own evil heart, she was slain last night, who lay in mine arms the night before. It was ill, and ill done of me, for I loved not her, but thee, and I wished for her death that I might be with thee. Thou wottest this, and still thou lovest me, it may be overweeningly. What have I to say then? If there be any guilt of guile, I also was in the guile, and if there be any guilt of murder, I also was in the murder. Thus we say to each other, and to God, and his hallows we say, We too have conspired to slay the woman who tormented one of us, and would have slain the other. And if we have done a miss therein, then shall we two together pay the penalty, for in this have we done as one body and one soul. Therewith he put his arms about her and kissed her, but soberly and friendly as if he would comfort her, and thereafter he said to her, Maybe to-morrow in the sunlight I will ask thee of this woman what she verily was, but now let her be. And thou, thou art over-worried, and I bid thee sleep. So he went about, and gathered of Bracken a great heap for her bed, and did his coat thereover, and led her there too. And she lay down meekly, and smiled, and crossed her arms over her bosom, and presently fell asleep. But as for him he watched by the fireside till dawn began to glimmer, and then he also laid him down and slept. Red by Corrie Samuel. The Wood Beyond the World by William Morris. Chapter 25 of the Triumphant Summer Array of the Maid. When the day was bright, Walter arose, and met the maid coming from the river-bank, fresh and rosy from the water. She paled a little when they met face to face, and she shrank from him shyly. But he took her hand, and kissed her frankly, and the two were glad, and had no need to tell each other of their joy, though much else they deemed they had to say, could they have found words there too. So they came to their fire, and sat down, and fell to breakfast. And ere they were done, the maid said, My master, thou seest we become nigh unto the hill-country, and to-day about the sunset be like, we shall come into the land of the bear-folk, and both it is, that there is peril if we fall into their hands, and that we may scarce escape them. Yet I deem that we may deal with the peril by wisdom. What is the peril? said Walter. I mean, what is the worst of it? said the maid. To be offered up in sacrifice to their God. But if we escape death at their hands, what then? said Walter. One of two things, said she, the first that they shall take us into their tribe. And will they thunder us in that case? said Walter. Nay, said she. Walter laughed, and said, Therein is little harm then, but what is the other chance? said she, that we leave them with their good will, and come back to one of the lands of Christendom. said Walter. I am not all so sure that this is the better of the two choices, though forsooth thou see Mr. Think so. But tell me now, what like is their God, that they should offer up newcomers to him? Their God is a woman, she said, and the mother of their nation and tribes, or so they deem, before the days when they had chieftains and lords of battle. That will be long ago, said he. How then may she be living now? said the maid. Doubtless that woman of your agon is dead this many and many a year, but they take to them still a new woman, one after other, as they may happen on them, to be in the stead of the ancient mother. And to tell thee the very truth right out, she that Lyoth dead in the pill at all, was even the last of these, and now, if they knew it, they lack a God. This shall we tell them. Yea, yea, said Walter, a goodly welcome shall we have of them then, if we come amongst them with our hands red with the blood of their God. She smiled on him, and said, if I come amongst them with the tidings that I have slain her, and they trow therein, without doubt they shall make me Lady and Goddess in her stead. This is a strange word, said Walter, but if so they do, how shall that further us in reaching the kindreds of the world, and the folk of Holy Church? She laughed outright, so joyous was she grown, now that she knew that his life was yet to be a part of hers. Sweet heart, she said, now I see that thou desirest wholly what I desire, yet in any case abiding with them would be living and not dying, even as thou hadst it even now. But for Soothe, they will not hinder our departure if they deem me their God. They do not look for it, nor desire it, that their God should dwell with them daily. Have no fear. Then she laughed again, and said, What? Thou lookest on me, and deemest me to be but a sorry image of a Goddess, and me with my scanty coat, and bare arms, and naked feet. But wait! I know well how to array me when the time cometh, thou shalt see it. And now, my master, where it not meet that we took to the road? So they arose, and found a ford of the river that took the maid but to the sea, and so set forth up the greensward of the slopes, whereas there were but few trees, so went they faring toward the hill-country. At the last they were come to the feet of the very hills, and in the hollows betwixt the buttresses of them grew nuts and berry-trees, and the greensward round about them was both thick and much flowery. There they stayed them, and dined, whereas Walter had shot a hare by the way, and they had found a bubbling spring under a grey stone in a bite of the coppice, wherein now the birds were singing their best, when they had eaten, and had rested somewhat, the maid arose, and said, Now shall the queen array herself, and seem like a very goddess. Then she fell to work, while Walter looked on, and she made a garland for her head of eglantine where the roses were the fairest, and with mingled flowers of the summer she wreathed her middle about, and let the garland of them hang down to below her knees, and knots of the flowers she made fast to the skirts of her coat, and did them for arm-rings about her arms, and for anklets and sandals for her feet. Then she said a garland about Walter's head, and then stood a little off from him, and set her feet together, and lifted up her arms, and said, Lo now, am I not as like to the mother of summer as if I were clad in silk and gold, and even so shall I be deemed by the folk of the bear? Come now, thou shalt see how all shall be well. She laughed joyously, but he might scarce laugh for pity of his love. Then they set forth again, and began to climb the hills, and the hours wore as they went in sweet converse, till at last Walter looked on the maid, and smiled on her, and said, One thing I would say to thee, lovely friend, to wit, work thou clad in silk and gold, thy stately raiment might well suffer a few stains, or here and there a rent may be. But stately would it be still when the folk of the bear should come up against thee. But as to this flowery array of thine, in a few hours it shall be all faded and naught. Nay, even now, as I look on thee, the meadow-sweet that hangeth from thy girdle-stead has wax and dull, and wilted, and the blossoming eye-bright that is for a hem to the little white coat of thee is already forgetting how to be bright and blue. What sayest thou then? She laughed at his word, and stood still, and looked back over her shoulder, while with her fingers she dealt with the flowers about her side, like to a bird preening his feathers. Then she said, Is it verily so, as thou sayest? Look again! So he looked, and wondered, for lo, beneath his eyes the spires of the meadow-sweet grew crisp and clear again, the eye-bright blossoms shone once more over the whiteness of her legs. The eglantine roses opened, and all was as fresh and bright, as if it were still growing on its own roots. He wondered, and was even some deal aghast. But she said, Dear friend, be not troubled. Did I not tell thee that I am wise in hidden law? But in my wisdom shall be no longer any scathed to any man. And again, this my wisdom, as I told thee erst, shall end on the day whereon I am made all happy. And it is thou that shall wield it all, my master. Yet must my wisdom needs endure for a little season yet. Let us on, then, boldly and happily. After twenty-six they come to the folk of the bears. On they went, and before long they were come up onto the down-country, where was scarcer tree save knulled and knotty thornbushes here and there, but nought else higher than the wind. And here, on these upper lands, they saw that the pastures were much burned with the drought, albeit summer was not worn old. Now they went, making due south toward the mountains, whose heads they saw from time to time, rising deep blue over the bleak grayness of the downland ridges. And so they went, till at last, hard on sunset, after they had climbed long over a high bent. They came to the brow thereof, and looking down, beheld new tidings. There was a wide valley below them, greener than the downs which they had come over, and greener yet amid most, from the watering of a stream which, all beset with willows, wound about the bottom. Sheep and neat were pasturing about the dale, and moreover a long line of smoke was going up straight into the windless heavens, from the midst of a ring of little round houses built of turfs, and thatched with reed. And beyond that, toward an east-lying bite of the dale, they could see what looked like to a doom-ring of big stones, though there were no rocky places in that land. About the cooking-fire amidst of the houses, and here and there other-where, they saw, standing, or going to and fro, huge figures of men and women, with children playing about betwixt them. They stood and gazed down-tit, for a minute or two. And though all were at peace there, yet to waltre at least, it seemed strange and awful. He spake softly, as though he would not have his voice reach those men, though they were for sooth out of earshot of anything save a shout. Are these, then, the children of the bear? What shall we do now? She said, yea, of the bear they be, though there be other folks of them far and far away to the northward and eastward, near to the borders of the sea. And as to what we shall do, let us go down at once and peacefully. Indeed, by now there will be no escape from them, for lo you they have seen us. For sooth some three or four of the big men had turned them toward the bent whereon stood the twain, and were hailing them in huge rough voices, wherein, how soever, seemed to be no anger or threat. So the maid took waltre by the hand, and thus they went down quietly, and the bear folk, seeing them, stood all together, facing them, to abide their coming. Waltre saw of them, that, though they were very tall and bigly made, they were not so far above the stature of men as to be marvels. The curls were long-haired and shaggy of beard, and their hair all red or tawny, their skins, where their naked flesh showed, were burned brown with sun and weather, but to a fair and pleasant brown, not like to black amours. The queens were comely and well-eyed, nor was there anything of fierce or evil looking about either the curls or the queens, but somewhat grave and solemn of aspect were they. Clad were they all, saving the young men-children, but somewhat scantily, and in nought save sheepskins or deerskins. For weapons they saw amongst them clubs, and spears headed with bone or flint, and ugly axes of big flints set in wooden handles, nor was there, as far as they could see, either now or afterward, any bow amongst them. But some of the young men seemed to have slings done about their shoulders. Now, when they were come but three fathom from them, the maid lifted up her voice, and spake clearly and sweetly. Hail ye folk of the bears! We have come amongst you, and that for your good and not for your hurt, wherefore we would know if we be welcome. There was an old man who stood foremost in the midst. Clad in a mantle of deerskins worked very goodly, and with a gold ring on his arm, and a chaplet of blue stones on his head, and he spake. Little ye, but so goodly, that if ye were but bigger, we should deem that ye were come from the gods' house. But have I heard, that how mighty so ever may the gods be, and chiefly our god, they be at wiles not so bigly made as we of the bears? How this may be, I what not? But if ye be not of the gods, or their kindred, then I ye mere aliens, and we know not what to do with aliens, save we meet them in battle, or give them to the god, or save we make them children of the bear. But yet again, ye may be messengers of some folk who would bind friendship and alliance with us, in which case ye shall at the least depart in peace, and wiles ye are with us shall be our guests in all good cheer. Now therefore we bid you declare the matter unto us, then spake the maid. Father, it were easy for us to declare what we be unto you here present, but me seamoth, ye who be gathered round the fire here this evening, are less than the whole tale of the children of the bear. So it is, maiden, said the elder, that many more children hath the bear. This then we bid you, said the maid, that ye send the tokens round and gather your people to you, and when they be assembled in the doomering, then shall we put our errand before you, and according to that shall ye deal with us. Thou hast spoken well, said the elder, and even so had we bidden you ourselves. Tomorrow, before noon, shall ye stand in the doomering in this dale, and speak with the children of the bear. Therewith he turned to his own folk, and called out something, whereof those twain knew not the meaning, and there came to him one after another six young men, unto each of whom he gave a thing from out his pouch, but what it was Walter might not see save that it was little and of small account. To each, also, he spake a word or two, and straight they set off running, one after the other, turning toward the bend which was over against that whereby the twain had come into the dale, and was soon out of sight in the gathering dusk. Then the elder turned him again to Walter, and the maid, and spake. Man and woman, whatsoever ye may be, or whatsoever may abide you to-morrow, to-night ye are welcome guests to us, so we bid you come eat and drink at our fire. So they sat, all together, upon the grass, round about the embers of the fire, and ate curds and cheese, and drank milk in abundance, and as the night grew on them they quickened the fire that they might have light. This wild folk talked merrily amongst themselves, with laughter enough and friendly jests, but to the newcomers they were few spoken, though, as the twain deemed, for no enmity that they bore them. But this found Walter, that the young ones, both men and women, seemed to find it a hard matter to keep their eyes off them, and seemed with all to gaze on them with somewhat of doubt, or it might be of fear. So when the night was wearing little, the elder arose, and bade the twain to come with him, and led them to a small house or booth, which was amid most of all, and somewhat bigger than the others, and he did them to wit, that they should rest there that night, and bade them sleep in peace, and without fear till the morrow. So they entered, and found beds thereon of Heather and Ling, and they laid them down sweetly, like brother and sister, when they had kissed each other. But they noted that four brisk men lay without the booth, and across the door, with their weapons beside them, so that they must need to look upon themselves as captives. Then Walter might not refrain him, but spake. Sweet and dear friend, I have come a long way from the key at Langton, and the vision of the dwarf, the maid, and the lady, and for this kiss wherewith I have kissed the ear now, and the kindness of thine eyes, it was worth the time, and the travail. But to-morrow, me seamoth, I shall go no further in this world, though my journey be far longer than from Langton hither. And now, may God and all Hallows keep thee amongst this wild folk, when as I shall be gone from thee. She laughed, low and sweetly, and said, Dear friend, dost thou speak to me thus mournfully to move me to love thee better? Then is thy labour lost, for no better may I love thee than now I do, and that is with mine whole heart. But keep a good courage, I bid thee, for we be not sundered yet, nor shall we be. Nor do I deem that we shall die here, or to-morrow, but many years hence after we have known all the sweetness of life. Meanwhile I bid thee good night, fair friend. CHAPTER XXVII Morning amongst the bears. So Walter laid him down, and fell asleep, and knew no more till he awoke in bright daylight with the maid standing over him. She was fresh from the water, for she had been to the river to bathe her, and the sun through the open door fell streaming on her feet, close to Walter's pillow. He turned about, and cast his arm about them, and caressed them, while she stood smiling upon him. Then he arose and looked on her, and said, How thou art fair and bright this morning? And yet, and yet, were it not well, that thou do off thee all this faded and drooping bravery of leaves and blossoms, that maketh thee look like to a jungler's damsel on a morrow of Mayday? And he gazed ruefully on her. She laughed on him merrily, and said, Yea, and be like these others think no better of my attire, or not much better, for yonder they are gathering small wood for the burnt offering, which, forsooth, shall be thou and I, unless I better it all by means of the wisdom I learned of the old woman, and perfected betwixt the stripes of my mistress, whom a little while ago thou lovedst somewhat. And as she spake, her eyes sparkle, her cheek flushed, and her limbs and her feet seemed as if they could scarce refrain from dancing for joy. Then Walter knit his brow, and for a moment a thought half-framed was in his mind. Is it so, that she will beret me, and live without me? And he cast his eyes onto the ground. But she said, Look up, and into mine eyes, friend, and see if there be in them any falseness toward thee. For I know thy thought, I know thy thought, dost thou not see that my joy and gladness is for the love of thee, and the thought of the rest from trouble that is at hand? He looked up, and his eyes met the eyes of her love, and he would have cast his arms about her. But she drew back, and said, Nay, thou must refrain thee a while, dear friend, lest these folk cast eyes on us, and deem us over loverlike, for what I am to bid them deem me. Abide awhile, and then shall all be in me according to thy will. But now I must tell thee, that it is not very far from noon, and that the bears are streaming into the dale, and already there is a host of men at the doomering, and as I said, the bale for the burnt offering is well-nigh-dite, whether it be for us or for some other creature. And now I have to bid thee this, and it will be a thing easy for thee to do, to quit, that thou look as if thou weret of the race of the gods, and not to blench, or show sign of blenching, whatever betide, to yea say both my yea say, and my nay say, and lastly this, which is the only hard thing for thee, but thou hast already done it before somewhat, to look upon me with no masterful eyes of love, nor as if thou weret at once praying me and commanding me. Rather, thou shalt so demean thee, as if thou weret my man all simply, and know wise my master. O friend beloved, said Walter, here at least art thou the master, and I will do all thy bidding in certain hope of this, that either we shall live together, or die together. But as they spoke, in came the elder, and with him a young maiden, bearing with them their breakfast of curds, and cream, and strawberries, and he bade them eat. So they ate, and were not unmarried, and the while of their eating the elder talked with them soberly, but not hardly, or with any seeming enmity, and ever his talk gat onto the drought, which was now burning up the down pastures, and how the grass in the watered dales, which was no widespread of land, would not hold out much longer unless the God sent them rain. And Walter noted that those two, the elder and the maid, eyed each other curiously amidst of this talk, the elder intent on what she might say, and if she gave heed to his words, while on her side the maid answered his speech graciously and pleasantly, but said little that was of any import. Nor would she have him fix her eyes, which wandered lightly from this thing to that. Nor would her lips grow stern and stable, but ever smiled in answer to the light of her eyes, as she sat there, with her face as the very face of the gladness of the summer day. End of Section 9. CHAPTER XXVIII of the New God of the Bears. At last the old man said, My children, ye shall now come with me unto the doomering of our folk, the bears of the southern dales, and deliver to them your errand, and I beseech you to have pity upon your own bodies, as I have pity on them, on thine especially maiden, so fair and brighter creature as thou art, for so it is, that if ye deal us out light and lying words, after the manner of dastards, ye shall miss the worship and glory of wending away amidst of the flames, a gift to the God, and a hope to the people, and shall be passed by the rods of the folk, until ye faint and fail amongst them, and then shall ye be thrust down into the flow at the dales end, and a stone-laden hurdle cast upon you, that we may thenceforth forget your folly. The maid now looked full into his eyes, and Walter deemed that the old man shrank before her, but she said, Thou art old and wise, O great man of the bears, yet nought I need to learn of thee, now lead us on our way to the stead of the errands. So the elder brought them along to the doomering at the eastern end of the dale, and it was now all peopled with those huge men, wept after their fashion, and standing up, so that the grey stones thereof but showed a little over their heads. But amidst of the sedring was a big stone fashioned as a chair, whereon sat a very old man, long hoary and white-bearded, and on either side of him stood a great-limbed woman, clad in war-gear, holding each of them along spear, and with a flint-bladed knife in the girdle, and there were no other women in all the moat. Then the elder led those twain into the midst of the moat, and there bade them go up onto a wide, flat-topped stone six feet above the ground, just over against the ancient chieftain, and they mounted it by a rough stair, and stood there before that folk. Walter in his array of the outward world, which had been fair enough of crimson cloth and silk and white linen, but was now travel-stained and worn, and the maid with nought upon her saved the smock wherein she had fled from the golden house of the wood beyond the world, decked with the faded flowers which she had wreathed about her yesterday. Nevertheless, so it was that those big men eyed her intently, and with somewhat of worship. Now did Walter, according to her bidding, sink down on his knees beside her, and drawing his sword hold it before him, as if to keep all interlopers aloof from the maid. And there was silence in the moat, and all eyes were fixed on those twain. At last the old chief arose and spake, ye men, here a calmer man and a woman, we know not whence, whereas they have given word to our folk who first met them, that they would tell their errands to none save the moat of the people, which it was their due to do if they were minded to risk it. For either they be aliens, without an errand hither save it may be to beguile us, in which case they shall presently die an evil death, or they have come amongst us that we may give them to the God with flint-edge and fire, or they have a message to us, from some folk or other, on the issue of which lieth life or death. Now shall ye hear what they have to say concerning themselves and their faring hither, but me seameth it shall be the woman who is the chief, and hath the word in her mouth, for lo you the man kneeleth at her feet, as one who would serve and worship her. Spake out, then, woman, and let our warriors hear thee. Then the maid lifted up her voice, and spake out, clear and shrilling, like to a flute of the best of the minstrels. Ye men of the children of the bear, I would ask you a question, and let the chieftain who siteth before me answer it. The old man nodded his head, and she went on. Tell me, children of the bear, how long a time is warn since ye saw the God of your worship made manifest in the body of a woman? said the elder. Many winters have worn since my father's father was a child, and saw the very God in a bodily form of a woman. Then she said again, Do ye rejoice at her coming, and would ye rejoice if once more she came amongst you? Ye, said the old chieftain, for she gave us gifts, and learned us law, and came to us in no terrible shape, but as a young woman as goodly as thou. Then said the maid, Now, then, is the day of your gladness come, for the old body is dead, and I am the new body of your God, come amongst you for your welfare. Then fell a great silence on the moat. Till the old man spake, and said, What shall I say and live, for if thou be verily the God, and I threaten thee, wilt thou not destroy me? But thou hast spoken a great word with a sweet mouth, and hast taken the burden of blood on thy lily hands, and if the children of the bear be befooled of liked liars, how shall they put the shame off them? Therefore, I say, show to us a token, and if thou be the God, this shall be easy to thee, and if thou show it not, then is thy falsehood manifest, and thou shalt tree the weird, for we shall deliver thee into the hands of these women here, who shall thrust thee down into the flow which is hereby, after they have wearied themselves with whipping thee. But thy man, that kneeleth at thy feet, shall we give to the true God, and he shall go to her by the road of the flint and the fire, hast thou heard? Then give to us the sign and the token. She changed countenance no wit at his word, but her eyes were the brighter, and her cheek the fresher, and her feet moved a little, as if they were growing glad before the dance, and she looked out over the moat, and spake in her clear voice. Old man, thou needest not to fear for thy words, for sooth it is not me whom thou threatenest with stripes and a foul death, but some light fool and liar who is not here. Now harken! I wot well that ye would have somewhat of me, to wit that I should send you rain to end this drought, which otherwise seemeth like to lie long upon you. But this rain, I must go into the mountains of the south to fetch it you. Therefore shall certain of your warriors bring me on my way, with this, my man, up to the great pass of the said mountains, and we shall set thitherward this very day. She was silent a while, and all looked on her, but none spake, or moved, so that they seemed as images of stone amongst the stones. Then she spake again, and said, Some would say, men of the bear, that this were a sign and a token great enough, but I know you, and how stubborn and perversive heart he be, and how that the gift not yet within your hand is no gift to you, and the wonder ye see not, your heart's trough not. Therefore, look ye upon me as here I stand, I, who have come from the fairer country, and the green wood of the lands, and see if I bear not the summer with me, and the hearts that maketh increase, and the hand that giveth. Lo then, as she spake, the faded flowers that hung about her, gathered life, and grew fresh again, the woodbine round her neck, and her sleek shoulders knit itself together, and embraced her freshly, and cast its scent about her face. The lilies that girded her loins lifted up their heads, and the gold of their tassels fell upon her. The eye-bright grew clean blue again upon her smock. The egglentine found its blooms again, and then began to shed the leaves thereof upon her feet. The meadow-sweet wreathed amongst it, made clear the sweetness of her legs, and the mousier studded her raiment as with gems. There she stood amidst of the blossoms, like a great orient pearl against the fretwork of the goldsmiths, and the breeze that came up the valley from behind bore the sweetness of her fragrance all over the man-moat. Then indeed the bears stood up, and shouted, and cried, and smote on their shields, and tossed their spears aloft. Then the elder rose from his seat, and came up humbly to where she stood, and prayed her to say what she would have done, while the others drew about in knots, but durst not come very nigh to her. She answered the ancient chief, and said that she would depart presently toward the mountains, whereby she might send them the rain which they lacked, and that thence she would away to the southward for a while, but that they should hear of her, or it might be see her, for they who were now of middle age should be gone to their fathers. Then the old man besought her, that they might make her a litter of fragrant green boughs, and so bear her away toward the mountain pass amidst a triumph of the whole folk. But she leapt lightly down from the stone, and walked to and fro on the greensward, while it seemed of her that her feet scarce touched the grass. And she spake to the ancient chief, where he still kneeled in worship of her, and said, Nay, deemest thou of me that I need bearing by men's hands, or that I shall tire at all when I am doing my will, and I the very heart of the year's increase. So it is that the going of my feet over your pastures shall make them to thrive both this year and the coming years surely will I go afoot. So they worshipped her the more, and blessed her. And then first of all they brought meat, the deentiest they might, for both her and for Walter. But they would not look on the maid while she ate, or suffer Walter to behold to the while. Afterwards, when they had eaten, some twenty men, weppened after their fashion, made them ready to wend with the maiden up into the mountains, and anon they set out thitherward all together. How be it, the huge men held them ever somewhat aloof from the maid, and when they came to the resting place for that night, where was no house, for it was up amongst the foothills before the mountains, then it was a wonder to see how carefully they built up a sleeping place for her, and tilted it over with their skin-clogs, and how they watched night long about her. But Walter they let sleep peacefully on the grass, a little way aloof from the watchers round the maid. CHAPTER XXIX Walter strays in the pass, and is sundered from the maid. Morning came. And they arose and went on their ways, and went all day till the sun was nigh set, and they would come up into the very pass, and in the jaws thereof was an earthen howl. There the maid bade them stay, and she went up on to the howl, and stood there, and spake to them, and said, O men of the bear, I give you thanks for your following, and I bless you, and promise you the increase of the earth, but now ye shall turn aback, and leave me to go my ways, and my man with the iron sword shall follow me. Now, maybe, I shall come amongst the bear-folk again before long, and yet again, and learn them wisdom, but for this time it is enough. And I shall tell you that ye were best to hasten home straight way to your houses in the downland dales, for the weather which I have bidden for you is even now coming forth from the forge of storms in the heart of the mountains. Now this last word I give you, that times are changed since I wore the last shape of God that ye have seen, wherefore a change I command you. If so be aliens come amongst you. I will not that ye send them to me by the flint and the fire. Rather, unless they be baleful unto you, and worthy of an evil death, ye shall suffer them to abide with you. Ye shall make them become children of the bears, if they be goodly enough and worthy, and they shall be my children as ye be. Otherwise, if they be ill-favoured and weakling, let them live, and be thralls to you, but not joined with you, man's a woman. Now depart ye with my blessing. Therewith she came down from the mound, and went her ways up the pass so lightly that it was to Walter standing amongst the bears, as if she had vanished away. But the men of that folk abode standing and worshipping their God for a little while, and that while he durst not thunder him from their company. But when they had blessed him, and gone on their way backward, he betook him in haste to following the maid, thinking to find her abiding him in some nook of the pass. Howsoever, it was now twilight or more, and, for all his haste, dark night overtook him, so that beforece he was stayed amidst the tangle of the mountain ways. And moreover, ere the night was grown old, the weather came upon him on the back of a great south wind, so that the mountain looks rattled and roared, and there was the rain and the hail, with thunder and lightning, monstrous and terrible, and all the huge array of a summer storm. So he was driven, at last, to crouch under a big rock, and abide to the day. But not so were his troubles at an end, for under the said rock he fell asleep, and when he awoke it was day indeed, but as to the pass, the way thereby was blind with the driving rain and the lowering lift, so that, though he struggled as well as he might against the storm and the tangle, he made but little way. And now, once more, the thought came on him, that the maid was of the phase, or of some race even mightier, and it came on him now not as erst with half fear and whole desire, but with a bitter oppression of dread, of loss and misery, so that he began to fear that she had but won his love to leave him and forget him for a newcomer, after the want of fair women, as old tales tell. Two days he battled thus with storm and blindness, and one hope of his life, for he was growing weak and foredone. But the third morning the storm abated, though the rain yet fell heavily, and he could see his way somewhat as well as feel it. With all he found that now his path was leading him downwards. As it grew dusk he came down into a grassy valley, with a stream running through it to the southward, and the rain was now but little, coming down but in dashes from time to time, so he crept down to the stream side, and lay amongst the bushes there, and said to himself that on the morrow he would get him victual, so that he might live to seek his maiden through the wide world. He was of somewhat better heart, but now that he was laid quiet, and had no more for that present to trouble him about the way, the anguish of his loss fell upon him the quina, and he might not refrain him from lamenting his dear maiden aloud, as one who deemed himself in the empty wilderness, and thus he lamented for her sweetness and her loveliness, and the kindness of her voice and her speech and her mirth. Then he fell to crying out, concerning the beauty of her shaping, praising the parts of her body as her face, and her hands, and her shoulders, and her feet, and cursing the evil fate which had sundered him from the friendliness of her, and the peerless fashion of her. CHAPTER XXX. Now they meet again. Complaining thus wise, he fell asleep from sheer weariness, and when he awoke, it was broad day, calm and bright and cloudless, with the scent of the earth refreshed going up into the heavens, and the birds singing sweetly in the bushes about him. For the dale, whereunto he was now come, was a fair and lovely place amidst the shelving slopes of the mountains, a paradise of the wilderness, and naught but pleasant and sweet things would be seen there, now that the morn was so clear and sunny. He arose, and looked about him, and saw where a hundred yards aloof was a thicket of small wood, as thorn and elder and white-beam, all wreathed about with the binds of wayfaring tree. It hid a bite of the stream which turned round about it, and betwixt it, and Walter was the grass short and thick and sweet, and all beset with flowers. And he said to himself, that it was even such a place as wherein the angels were leading the blessed, in the great painted paradise in the choir of the big church at Langton on Holm. But lo! as he looked he cried aloud for joy, for forth from the thicket, unto the flowery grass, came one like to an angel from out of the said picture, white clad and barefoot, sweet of flesh, with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks, for it was the maid herself. So he ran to her, and she abode him, holding forth kind hands to him, and smiling, while she wept for joy of the meeting. He threw himself upon her, and spared not to kiss her, her cheeks and her mouth and her arms and her shoulders, and where soever she would suffer it. Till at last she drew her back a little, laughing on him for love, and said, for bear now friend, for it is enough for this time, and tell me how thou hast sped. Ill, ill, said he. What ails thee? she said. Hunger, he said, and longing for thee. Well, she said, me thou hast, there is one ill quenched. Take my hand, and we will see to the other one. So he took her hand, and to hold it seemed to him sweet beyond measure. But he looked up, and saw a little blue smoke going up into the air from beyond the thicket, and he laughed, for he was weak with hunger, and he said, who is it the cooking yonder? Thou shalt see, she said, and led him therewith into the said thicket, and through it, and low, a fair little grassy place, full of flowers, betwixt the bushes and the bite of the stream, and on the sandy air, just off the greensward, was a fire of sticks, and beside it two trouts, lying, fat, and red-flegged. Here is the breakfast, said she. When it was time to wash the night off me, Ian, now, I went down to the strand here into the rippling shallow, and saw the bank below it, where the water draws together yonder, and deepens, but it seemed like to hold fish, and whereas I looked to meet thee presently, I groped the bank for them, going softly, and low thou, help me now, that we cook them. So they roasted them on the red embers, and fell to and ate well, both of them, and drank of the water of the stream out of each other's hollow hands, and that feast seemed glorious to them, such gladness went with it. But when they were done with their meat, Walter said to the maid, and how didst thou know that thou shouldst see me presently? She said, looking on him wistfully, this needed no wizardry. I lay not so far from thee last night, but that I heard thy voice and knew it, said he. Why didst thou not come to me then, since thou heardest me bemoaning thee? She cast her eyes down, and plucked at the flowers and grass, and said, It was dear to hear thee praising me. I knew not before that I was so sore desired, or that thou hadst taken such note of my body, and found it so dear. Then she reddened sorely, and said, I knew not that ought of me had such beauty as thou didst bewhale. And she wept for joy. Then she looked on him, and smiled, and said, Will thou have the very truth of it? I went close up to thee, and stood there hidden by the bushes and the night, and amidst thy bewhaling I knew that thou wist soon fall asleep, and in sooth I outwaked thee. Then was she silent again, and he spake not, but looked on her shyly, and she said, reddening yet more, furthermore, I must needst tell thee that I feared to go to thee in the dark night, and my heart so yearning towards thee. And she hung her head a down, but he said, Is it so indeed that thou fearst me? Then doth that make me afraid, afraid of thy nace? For I was going to entreat thee, and say to thee, Beloved, we have now gone through many troubles. Let us now take a good reward at once, and wed together. Here amidst this sweet and pleasant house of the mountains, ere we go further on our way. If indeed we go further at all! For where shall we find any place sweeter or happier than this? But she sprang up to her feet, and stood there trembling before him, because of her love. And she said, Beloved, I have deemed that it were good for us to go seek mankind as they live in the wild, and to live amongst them. And as for me, I will tell thee the soothe, to wit, that I long for this sorely, for I feel afraid in the wilderness, and as if I needed help and protection against my mistress, though she be dead. And I need the comfort of many people, and the throngs of the cities. I cannot forget her. It was but last night that I dreamed. I suppose as the dawn grew a-cold, that I was yet under her hand, and she was stripping me for the torment, so that I woke up panting and crying out. I pray thee, be not angry with me for telling thee of my desires, for if thou wouldst not have it so, then here will I abide with thee as thy mate, and strive to gather courage. He rose up, and kissed her face, and said, Nay. I had in Soothe no mind to abide here for ever. I meant but that we should feast a while here, and then depart. Soothe it is, that if thou dreadest the wilderness, somewhat I dread the city. She turned pale, and said, Thou shalt have thy will, my friend, if it must be so. But bethink thee we be not yet at our journey's end, and may have many things and much strife to endure, before we be at peace and in welfare. Now shall I tell thee, did I not before, that while I am amade untouched, my wisdom, and some deal of might, abideth with me, and only so long. Therefore I entreat thee, let us go now, side by side, out of this fair valley, even as we are, so that my wisdom and might may help thee at need. For my friend, I would not that our lives be short, so much of joy as hath now come into them. Yea, ye beloved, he said, let us on straight away, then, and shorten the while at Sunderath thus. Love, she said, thou shalt pardon me one time for all. But this is to be said, that I know somewhat of the haps that lie a little way ahead of us, partly by my law, and partly by what I learned of this land of the wild folk, whilst thou worked lying asleep that morning. So they left that pleasant place by the water, and came into the open valley, and went their ways through the pass, and it soon became stony again, as they mounted the bent which went up from out the dale. And when they came to the brow of the said bent, they had a sight of the open country, lying fair and joyous in the sunshine, and amidst of it, against the blue hills, the walls and towers of a great city. Then said the maid, O dear friend, lo you, it's not that our abode that lie a theonda, and is so beatious? Dwell not our friends there, and our protection against uncouth whites, and mere evil things in guileful shapes. O city, I bid thee hail! But Walter looked on her, and smiled somewhat, and said, I rejoice in thy joy. But there be evil things in yonder city also, though they be not fays nor devils, or it is like to know city that I what of. And in every city shall foes grow up to us without rhyme or reason, and life therein shall be tangled unto us. Yea, she said, but in the wilderness amongst the devils, what was to be done by manly might or valiancy? There had stout a full back upon the guile and wizardry, which I had filched for my very foes, but when we come down yonder, then shall thy valiancy prevail to cleave the tangle for us, or at the least it shall leave a tale of thee behind, and I shall worship thee. He laughed, and his face grew brighter. Master Emo's the meadow, quote he, and one man is of little might against many, but I promise thee I shall not be slothful before thee. End of Section 10. Section 11 of The Wood Beyond the World. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel. The Wood Beyond the World by William Morris. Chapter 31. They Come Upon New Folk. With that they went down from the bend again, and came to where the pass narrowed so much that they went betwixt a steep wall of rock on either side. But after an hour's going the said wall gave back suddenly, and, or they were where almost, they came on another dell, like to that which they had left, but not so fair, though it was grassy and well-watered, and not so big either. But here indeed befell a change to them, for low, tents and pavilions pitched in the said valley, and amidst of it a throng of men, mostly weapon, and with horses ready-saddled at hand. So they stayed their feet, and Walter's heart failed him, for he said to himself, Who waters what these men may be, save that they be aliens? It is most like that we shall be taken as thralls, and then, at the best, we shall be sundered, and that is all one with the worst. But the maid, when she saw the horses, and the gay tents, and the pennons fluttering, and the glitter of spears, and gleaming of white armour, smote her palms together for joy, and cried out, Here now are come the folk of the city for our welcoming, and fair and lovely are they, and of many things shall they be thinking, and of many things shall they do, and we shall be partakers thereof. Come then, and let us meet them, fair friend. And Walter said, Alas! thou knowest not, would that we might flee, but now is it over-late, so put we a good face on it, and go to them quietly, as erewhile we did in the bear-country. So did they, and there sundered six from the men at arms, and came to those twain, and made humble obeisance to Walter, but spake no word. Then they made as they would lead them to the others, and the twain went with them, wandering, and came in to the ring of men at arms, and stood before an old-hoar night, armed all save his head with most goodly armour, and he also bowed before Walter, but spake no word. Then they took them to the master-pavilion, and made signs to them to sit, and they brought them dainty meat and good wine, and the while of their eating arose up a stir about them, and when they were done with their meat, the ancient night came to them, still bowing and courteous wise, and did them to wit by signs that they should depart. And when they were without, they saw all the other tents struck, and men beginning to busy them with striking the pavilion, and the others mounted and ranked in good order for the road, and there were two horse-litters before them, wherein they were bitten to mount, Walter in one, and the maid in the other, and no otherwise might they do. Then presently was a horn-blown, and all took to the road together, and Walter saw betwixt the curtains of the litter, that men at arms rode on either side of him, albeit they had left him his sword by his side, so they went down the mountain passes, and before sunset were gotten into the plain, but they made no stay for nightfall, save to eat a morsel and drink a draught, going through the night as men who knew their way well. As they went, Walter wondered what would betide, and if, per adventure, they also would be for offering them up to their gods, whereas they were aliens for certain, and be like also Saracens. Moreover, there was a cold fear at his heart that he should be sundered from the maid, whereas their masters now were mighty men of war, holding in their hands that which all men desire to wit the manifest beauty of a woman. Yet he strove to think the best of it that he might. And so, at last, when the night was far spent and dawn was at hand, they stayed at a great and mighty gate in a huge wall. There they blew loudly on the horn thrice, and thereafter the gates were opened, and they all passed through into a street, which seemed to Walter in the glimmer, to be both great and goodly amongst the abodes of men. Then it was but a little ere they came into a square, wide spreading, one side whereof Walter took to be the front of a most goodly house. There the doors of the court opened to them, or ever the horn might blow, though forsooth blow it did loudly three times. For all they entered therein, and men came to Walter and signed to him to a light. So did he, and would have tarried to look about for the maid, but they suffered it not, but led him up a huge stair into a chamber, very great, and but dimly lighted because of its greatness. Then they brought him to a bed, died as fair as might be, and made signs to him to strip and lie therein, perforce he did say, and then they bore away his raiment and left him lying there. So he lay there quietly, deeming it no avail for him, a mother-naked man, to seek escape thence, but it was long ere he might sleep because of his trouble of mind. At last pure weariness got the better of his hopes and fears, and he fell into slumber, just as the dawn was passing in to-day. CHAPTER XXXII. OF THE NEW KING OF THE CITY AND LAND OF STARKWALL. When he awoke again, the sun was shining brightly into that chamber, and he looked, and beheld that it was peerless of beauty and riches, amongst all that he had ever seen. The ceiling done with gold and overseas blue, the walls hung with aris of the finest, though he might not tell what was the history done therein. The chairs and stools were of a carven work, well be painted, and a midmost was a great ivory chair under a cloth of estate, of borderkin of gold and green, much bepelled, and all the floor was fine work, Alexandrine. He looked on all this, wondering what had befallen him. When low there came folk into the chamber, to wit, to serving men well bedight, and three old men clad in rich gowns of silk. These came to him, and, still by signs, without speech, bade him arise and come with them. And when he bade them look to it that he was naked, and laughed doubtfully, they neither laughed in answer, nor offered him any raiment, but still would have him arise, and he did so perforce. They brought him with them out of the chamber, and threw certain passages pillard and goodly, till they came to a bath, as fair as any might be. And there the serving men washed him carefully and tenderly, the old men looking on the while. When it was done, still they offered not to clothe him, but led him out, and through the passages again, back to the chamber. Only this time he must pass between a double hedge of men, some weaponed, some in peaceful array, but all clad gloriously, and full chieftainlike of aspect, either for valiancy, or wisdom. In the chamber itself was now a concourse of men, of greater state by deeming of their array, but all these were standing orderly in a ring about the ivory chair aforesaid. Now said Walter to himself, Surely all this looks toward the knife and the altar for me, but he kept a stout countenance despite of all, so they led him up to the ivory chair, and he beheld on either side thereof a bench, and on each was laid a set of raiment from the shirt upwards. But there was much diversity betwixt these arrays. For one was all of robes of peace, glorious and bejemmed, unmeet for any savor great king, while the other was war-weed, seamly, well-fashioned, but little adorned, nay, rather worn and bestained with weather, and the pelting of the spear-storm, now those old men signed to Walter to take which of those raiments he would, and do it on. He looked to the right and to the left, and when he had looked on the war-gear, the heart arose in him, and he called to mind the array of the goldings in the forefront of battle, and he made one step toward the weapons, and laid his hand thereon. Then ran a glad murmur through that concourse, and the old men drew up to him smiling and joyous, and helped him to do them on, and as he took up the helm, he noted that over its broad brown iron sat a golden crown, so when he was clad and wept with a sword and a steel ax in his hand, the elders showed him to the ivory throne, and he laid the ax on the arm of the chair, and drew forth the sword from the scabbard, and sat him down, and laid the ancient blade across his knees. Then he looked about on those great men, and spake. How long shall we speak no word to each other, or is it so that God hath stricken you dumb? Then all they cried out with one voice, all hail to the king, the king of battle! Spake, Walter, if I be king, will ye do my will as I bid you? Answered the elder, Not have we will to do, Lord, save as thou biddest. Said Walter, Thou then, wilt thou answer a question in all truth? Ye, Lord, said the elder, if I may live afterward. Then said Walter, The woman that came with me into your camp of the mountain, what hath befallen her? The elder answered, Not hath befallen her, either of good or evil, save that she hath slept, and eaten, and bathed her. What, then, is the king's pleasure concerning her? That ye bring her hither to me straightway, said Walter. Ye, said the elder, and in what guise shall we bring her hither? Shall she be arrayed as a servant, or a great lady? Then Walter pondered awhile, and spake at last. Ask her what is her will herein, and as she will have it, so let it be. But set ye another chair beside mine, and lead her there too. Thou wise old man, send one or two to bring her in hither, but abide thou, for I have a question or two to ask of thee yet. And ye, Lords, abide here the coming of my she-fellow, if it weary you not. So the elder spake to three of the most honourable of the Lords, and they went their ways to bring in the maid. CHAPTER XXIII. CONCERNING THE FASHION OF KINGMAKING IN STARKWALL. Meanwhile the king spake to the elder, and said, Now tell me whereof I am become king, and what is the fashion and cause of the king-making, for wondrous it is to me, whereas I am but an alien amidst of mighty men. Lord, said the old man, Thou art become king of a mighty city, which hath under it many other cities and wide lands, and havens by the seaside, and which lacketh no wealth which men desire. Many wise men dwell therein, and are fools not more than in other lands. A valiant host shall follow thee to battle, when needs must thou wend afield, a host not to be withstood save by the ancient godfolk, if any of them were left upon the earth, as be like none are. And as to the name of our said city, it hight the city of the Starkwall, or more shortly Starkwall. Now, as to the fashion of our king-making, if our king dyeth, and leaveeth an heir-male begotten of his body, then is he king after him. But if he die, and leave no heir, then send we out a great lord, with knights and sergeants, to that pass of the mountain where too ye came yesterday, and the first man that cometh unto them, they take and lead to the city, as they did with thee, Lord. For we believe and trow, that of old time our forefathers came down from the mountains by that same pass, poor and rude, but full of valiancy, before they conquered these lands, and buildeth the Starkwall. But now, furthermore, when we have gotten said wanderer, and brought him home to our city, we behold him mother-naked, all the great men of us, both sages and warriors. Then, if we find him ill-fashioned and counterfeit of his body, we roll him in a great carpet till he dies, or wiles, if he be but a simple man, and without guile. We deliver him for thrall to some artificer amongst us, as a shoemaker, a rite, or what-nud, and so forget him. But in either case we make as if no such man had come to us, and we send again the Lord and his knights to watch the pass, for we say that such a one the fathers of old time have not sent us. But again, when we have seen to the newcomer, that he is well-fashioned of his body, all is not done, for we deem that never would the fathers send us adult or a craven to be our king. Therefore we bid the naked one take to him which he will of these raiments, either the ancient armour, which now thou bearest, Lord, or this golden raiment here. And if he take the war-gear, as thou take it, St. King, it is well. But if he take the raiment of peace, then hath he the choice either to be thrall of some good man of the city, or to be proven how wise he may be, and so fair the narrow edge betwixt death and kingship, for if he falls short of his wisdom, then shall he die the death. This is my question answered, King, and praise be to the fathers that they have sent us one whom none may doubt, either for wisdom or valiancy. End of Section 11