 Chapter 56 of St. George and St. Michael Volume 3 I have now to account a small adventure to which it would scarcely be worthwhile to afford a place, were it not for the important fact that it opened to Richard a great window, not only in Dorothy's history while she lived at the castle, but which was of far more importance, into the character molding that history. For character has far more to do with determining history, than history has to do with determining character. Without the interview whose circumstance I am about to narrate, Richard could not so soon at least have done justice to a character which had been, if not keeping parallel pace with his own, yet advancing rapidly in the same direction. The decree of the Parliament had gone forth that Raglan should be destroyed. The same hour in which the sad news reached Caspar, he set out to succure, if possible, the treasures he had concealed. He had little fear of their being discovered, but great fear of their being rendered inaccessible from the workshop. When he reached the neighborhood he hired a horse and cart from a small farmer whom he knew, and, taking the precaution to put on the dress of a countryman, got on it and drove to the castle. The huge oaken leaves of brick gate, bound and riveted with iron, lay torn from their hinges, and he entered unquestioned, but instead of the solitude of desertion for which he had hoped, he found the whole place forming with country people, men and women, most of them with baskets and sacks, while the space between the outer defenses and the moat of the castle itself was filled with country vehicles of every description, from a wheelbarrow to a great wagon. When the most valuable of the effects found in the place had been carried to London, a sale for the large remainder had been held on the spot, at which not a few of the neighboring families had been purchasers. After all, however, a great many things were left unheard for, which were not, from a money point of view, the sole one taken, worth removing. And now the peasantry were, like jackals, admitted to pick the bones of a huge carcass, ere the skeleton itself should be torn asunder. Nor could the invading populace have been disappointed of their expectations. They found numberless things of immense value in their eyes, and great use in their meager economy. For years, I might say centuries after, pieces of furniture in panels of carved oak, bits of tapestry, antique sconces and candlesticks of brass, ancient horse furniture, and a thousand things besides of endless interest, were to be found scattered in farmhouses and cottages all over Monmouth and neighboring shires. I should not wonder if, even now in the third century, and after the rage for the collection of such things had so long prevailed, there were some of them still to be discovered in places where no one has thought of looking. When Caspar saw what was going on, he judged it prudent to turn and drive his car into the quarry, and having air secured it, went back and entered the castle. There was a great divided torrent of humanity rushing and lingering through the various lines of rooms, here meeting in whirlpools, there parted into meurovulets, man and woman searching for whatever might look valuable in his or her eyes. Things that nowadays would fetch their weight in silver, some of them even in gold, were passed by as worthless, or popped into a bag to be carried home for the amusement of cottage children. The noises of hobnailed shoes on the oak floors, and of unrestrained clownish and churlish voices everywhere, were tremendous. Here a fat cottager might be seen standing on a lovely quilt of patchwork procade, falling down, rough in her cupidity, curtains on which the newborn and dying eyes of generations of nobles had rested, henceforth to adorn a miserable cottage, while her husband was taking down the bed, larger perhaps than the room itself in which they would in vain try to set it up, or cruelly forcing a lid, which, having a spring lock, had closed again after the carved chest had been already rifled by the commissioner or his men. The kitchen was full of squabbling women, and no place in the agonies of dissolution. But there was a small group of persons, fortuitously met, but linked together by an old painful memory of the place itself, strongly revived by their present meeting. Tomb of fanatical hatred of everything Catholic, coupled with a profound sense of personal injury, had prevailed over avarice, causing them to leave the part of acquisition to their wives, and aspire to that of pure destruction. It was the same company, almost to a man, whose misadventures in their search of raglan for arms, under the misguidance of Tom Fool, I have related in an earlier chapter. In their hearts they nursed a half persuasion that raglan had fallen because of their wrongs within its walls, and the shame that there had been heaped upon the godly. These men, happening to meet, as I say, in the midst of the surrounding tumult, had fallen into a conversation chiefly occupied with reminiscences of that awful experience, whose terrors now look like an evil dream, and, in a place thus crowded with men and women, buzzing with voices and resounding with feet, as little likely to return as a vanished thunder cloud. In the course of their conversation, therefore, they grew valiant, grew conscious next at a high column, and resolved their width to take to themselves the honor of giving the first sweep of the besom of destruction to raglan castle. Satisfying themselves first, therefore, that their wives were doing their duty for their household, Mistress Upstill was as good as two men, at least in appropriation, they set out, cast down taking the lead, Master Sycamore, John Croning, and the rest following, armed with crowbars for the top of the Great Tower, ambitious to commence the overthrow by attacking the very summit, the high places of wickedness, the crown of pride, and, after some devious wandering, at length found the way to the stair. When Kaspar Koltov entered the castle, he made straight for the keep, and to his delight found no one in the lower part. To make certain, however, that he was alone in the place, ere he secured himself from intrusion, he ran up the stair, gave a glance at the doors as he ran, and reached the top, just as Upstill, in fiercest crowning pride, was heaving the first capstone from between two battlements. Kaspar was close by the cocks, instantly he turned one, and as the dislodged stone struck the water of the moat, a sudden hollow roaring invaded their ears, and while they stood aghast at the well-remembered sound, and ere yet the marrow had time to freeze in their stupid bones, the very moat itself into which they had cast the insulted stone, storming and spouting seemed to come rushing up to avenge it upon them where they stood. The moment he turned the cock, Kaspar shot halfway down the stair, but as quietly as he could, and into a little chamber in the wall, where stood two great vessels through which the pipes of the fire engine inside had communicated with the pipes in the wall outside. There he waited until the steps which, long before he reached his refuge, he heard come thundering down the stairs after him, had passed and had long hazed, when he sprang up again to save the water for another end, and to attach the draw-bridge to the sluice so that it would raise it to its full height. Then he hurried down to the water-trap under the bridge and set it, after which he could hardly help wasting a little of his precious time lurking in a convenient corner to watch the result. He had not to wait long, the shrieks of the yokels as they ran, and their looks of horror when they appeared quickly gathered around them a gaping crowd to hear their tale, the more foolhardy in which, partly doubting their word for the fountains no longer played, and partly ambitious of showing their superior courage, rushed to the gothic bridge. Down came the draw-bridge with a clang, and with it ensured ascent a torn of water fit to sweep a regiment away which shone along the stone-bridge and dashed them from it bruised and bleeding, and half-drowned with the water which, in their terror and surprise, found easy way into their bodies, kaspar with drew satisfied, for he now felt sure of all the time he required to get some other things he had thought of saving down into the shaft with a cabinet and chest. Having affected this, and with much labor and difficulty, aided by rollers, got all into the quarry and then into the cart. He did not resist the temptation to go again amongst the crowd and enjoy listening to the various remarks and conjectures and terrors to which doubtless his trick had given rise. He therefore got a great harmful of trampled corn from the field above and laid it before his patient horse, then ran round and re-entered the castle by the main gate. He had not been in the crowd many minutes, however, when he saw indications of suspicion ripening to conviction. What had given ground for it he could not tell, but at some point he must have been seen on the other side of the tower moat. All this time, up still on his party had been recounting, with various embellishment, their adventures both former and latter. And when Carl Toff was recognized, or at least suspected in the crowd, the rumor presently arose and spread that he was either the devil himself or an accredited agent of that potentate. Be it then the old Satan himself, Kaspar heard a man say anxiously to his neighbor as he tried to get a look at his feet, which was not easy in such a press. Kaspar, highly amused and thinking such evil replication would rather protect than injure him, shows him anxiety about his feet and made as if he would fame keep them out of the field of observation. But thereupon he saw the faces and gestures of the younger men begin to grow threatening. Evidently anger was succeeding to fear and some of them, fired with the ambition possibly of thrashing the devil, ventured to give him a rough shove or two from behind. Neither outbreak of sulfurous flashes or even kick of clove and hoof following, they proceeded with the game and rapidly advanced to such extremities. Ex postulation and Kaspar's broken English were such an excitement it always became, seeming only to act as fresh incitement and justification that at length he was compelled in self-defense to draw a dagger. This checked them a little and ere audacity had had time to recover itself. A young man came shoving through the crowd, pushing them all right and left until he reached Kaspar and stood by his side. Now there was that about Richard Haywood to give him influence with the crowd. He was a strong man and a gentleman and they drew back. They fools think I was the tuffle, said Kaspar. Richard turned upon them with indignation. You Englishmen, he cried, and treat a foreigner thus. But there was nothing about him to show that he was around head and from behind rose a cry, a malignant, a royalist, and the fellows near began again to advance threateningly. Mr. Haywood, said Kaspar hurriedly, for he recognized his helper from the time he had seen him a prisoner, let us make for the hall. I know the place and can bring us both off safe. It was one of Richard's greatest virtues that he could place much confidence. He gave one glance at his companion and said, I will do as thou sayest. Follow me then, sir, said Kaspar, and turning with brandish dagger, he forced his way to the hall door. Richard following with fists, his sole weapons, defending your rear. There were but few in the hall, and although their enemies came raging after them, they were impeded by the crowd, so that there was time as they crossed it for Kaspar to say. Follow me over the bridge, but, for God's sake, put your feet exactly where I put mine as we cross. You will see why in a moment after. I will, said Richard, and, delayed a little by needful care, gained the other side just as the foremost of their pursuers rushed on the bridge, and with a clang and a roar were swept from it by the descending torrent. They lost no time in explanations. Kaspar hurried Richard to the workshop, down the shaft, through the passage, and into the quarry, whence, taking no notice of his cart, he went with him to the white horse, where Lady was waiting him. And Richard was well rewarded for the kindness he had shown. For ere they said goodbye, the German, whose heart was full of Dorothy, and understood, as indeed everyone in the castle did, something of her relations Richard had told him all he knew about her life in the castle. And now she had been both before and during the siege a guardian angel, as the Marquis himself had said to Raglan. Nor was the story of her attempted visit to her old playfellow in the turret chamber, or the suffering she had to endure in consequence forgotten. And when Kaspar and he parted, Richard rode home with fresh string, and light, and love in his heart, and Lady shared in them all somehow, for she constantly reflected, or imaged, rather, the moods of her master. As much as ever he believed Dorothy mistaken, and yet could have kneeled in reverence before her. He had himself tried to do the truth, and no one but he who tries to do the truth can perceive the grandeur of another who does the same. Alive to his own shortcomings, such a one that better understands the success of his brother or sister, there the truth takes to him shape, and he worships at her shrine. He saw more clearly than before what he had been learning ever since she had renounced him, that it is not correctness of opinion. Could he be sure that his own opinions were correct? That constitutes rightness, but that condition of soul which, as a matter of course, causes it to move along the lines of truth and duty, the life going forth in motion according to the law of light, this alone places a nature in harmony with the central truth. It was in the doing of the will of his father that Jesus was the Son of God, yea the eternal Son of the eternal Father, nor was this to make little of the truth intellectually considered, of the fact of things. The greatest fact of all is that we are bound to obey the truth, and that to the full extent of our knowledge thereof, however little that may be. This obligation acknowledged and obeyed, the road is open to all truth, and the only road, the way to know, is to do the known. Then why, thought Richard with himself, should he and Dorothy be parted? Why should Dorothy imagine they should? All depended on their common magnanimity, not the magnanimity that pardons false, but the magnanimity that recognizes virtues. He who gladly kneels with one who thinks largely wide from himself, in so doing draws nearer to the father of both, than he who pours forth his soul in sympathetic torrent, only in the company of those who think like himself. If a man be of the truth, then and only then is he of those who gather with the Lord. In forms natural to the age and his individual thought, if not altogether in such as I have here put down, Richard thus fashioned his insights as he soldered home upon Lady, his head above the clouds, and his heart higher than his head, as it ought to be once or twice a day at least, for indeed is any worldly success compared to a moment's breathing in divine air, above the region where the miserable word success yet carries a meaning. End of Chapter 56, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gerkin, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 57 Of St. George and St. Michael Vol. 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by April, 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. St. George and St. Michael, Vol. 3 by George McDonald. The Skeleton The death of the Marquis took place in December, long before which time the second Marquis of Warchester, ever busy in the King's affairs, and unable to show himself with safety in England, or there be useful, had gone from Ireland to Paris. As the country was now a good deal quieter, and there was nothing to detain her in London, and much to draw her to Weifern, Dorothy resolved to go home, and there, if possible, remain. Indeed, there was now nothing else she could do, except visit Mr. Herbert at Langatoch. But much as she revered and loved the old man, and would have enjoyed his company, she felt now such a longing for activity, that she must go and look after her affairs. What with the words of the good Marquis and her own late experiences and conflicts, Dorothy had gained much enlightenment. She had learned that well-being is a condition of inward calm, resting upon yet deeper harmonies of being, and resulting in serene activity, the prevention of which natural result, in perturbation, and confusion of thought and feeling. But for many sakes the thought of home was in itself precious and enticing to her. It was full of clear memories of her mother, and vague memories of her father, not to mention memories of the childhood Richard and she had spent together, from which the late Mists had begun to rise, and reveal them sparkling with dew and sunshine. As soon therefore, as Marquis Henry had gone to Countess Anne, Dorothy took her leave, with many kind words between, of the ladies Elizabeth, Anne and Mary, and set out, attended by her old bailiff, and some of the men of her small tenetry, who have fought the king's battle in vain, had gone home again to fight their own. At Weifern she found everything in rigid order, almost catalytic repose. How was it ever to be home again? What new thing could restore the homefulness where the revered over life had vanished? And how shall the world be warmed and brightened to him who knows no greater or better man than himself therein? No more skillful workmen, no diviner thinker, no more godlike doer than himself. And what can the universe have in it of home, of country, nay, even of world, to him who cannot believe in a soul of souls a heart of hearts? I should fall out with the very beating of the heart within my bosom. Did I not believe in the pulse of the infinite heart? For how else should it be heart of mine? I made it not. And any moment it may seem to fail me. Yet never, if it be what I think it, can it betray me. It is no wonder then that, with only memories of what had been to render it lovely in her eyes, Dorothy should have soon begun to feel the place lonely. The very next morning, after her rather late arrival, she sent to saddle Dick once more, called Marquis, and with no other attendant, set out to see what they had done to dear old Raglan. Marquis had been chained up almost all the time they were in London, and freedom is blessed even to a dog. Dick was ever joyful under his mistress, and now was married with the keen invigorating air of a frosty December morning, and frolic some admits the early snow, which lay unusually thick on the ground, notwithstanding his 120 miles ride, for they had taken nearly a week to do it. So that between them they soon raised Dorothy's spirits also, and she turned to her hopes and grew cheerful. This mood made her the less prepared to encounter the change that awaited her. What a change it was! While she approached, what with the trees left, and the towers, the rampart, and the outer shell of the courts, little injured to the distant eye, she had not an idea of the devastation within. But when she rode through one entrance after another, with the gates torn from their hinges, crossed the moat by a mound of earth instead of the drop-bridge, and rode through the open gateway, where the portaculluses were wedged up in their grooves, and their chains gone into the paved court, she beheld a desolation, at sight of which her heart seemed to stand still in her bosom. The rugged horror of the heaps of ruins was indeed softly covered with snow. But what this took from the desolation in harshness it added in coldness and desertion and hopelessness. She felt like one who looks for the corpse of his friend and finds but his skeleton. The broken bones of the house projected gaunt and ragged. Its eyes returned no shine. They did not even stare. For not a pane of glass was left in a window. They were but eye-holes, black and blank, with shadow and no-ness. The roofs were gone, all but that of the great hall, which they had not dared to touch. She climbed the grand staircase, open to the wind and slippery with ice, and reached her own room. Snow lay on the floor, which had swollen and burst upwards, with November rains. Through room after room she wandered with his sense of loneliness and desolation and desertion, such as never before had she known, even in her worst dreams. Yet was there to her, in the midst of her sorrow and loss, a strange fascination in the scene. Such a hive of burning human life now, cold and silent. Even Marky appeared aware of the change, for with tucked in tail he went about sadly sniffing and gazing up and down. Once indeed, and only once, he turned his face to the heavens and gave a strange protesting howl, which made Dorothy Weep, and a little relieved, her oppressed heart. She would go and see the workshop, on the way she would first visit the turret chamber. But so strangely had destruction altered the look of what it had spared, that it was with difficulty she recognized the doors and ways of the house she had once known so well. Here was a great hole to the shining snow, where once had been a dark corner, there a heap of stones, where once had been a carpeted corridor. All the human look of indwelling had passed away. Where she had been used to go about, as if by instinct, she had now to fall back upon memory, and call up again with an effort sometimes painful in its difficulty, that which had vanished altogether, except from the mines of its scattered household, she found the door of the turret chamber. But that was all she found. The chamber was gone. Nothing was there but the blanket gap in the wall. And beyond it, far down, the nearly empty moat of the tower. She turned, frightened and sick at heart, and made her way to the bridge. That still stood, but the drawbridge above was gone. She crossed the moat and entered the workshop. A single glance took in all that was left of the keep. Not a floor was between her and the sky. The reservoir, great as a little mountain tarn, had vanished utterly. All was cleared out and the white wintry clouds were sailing over her head. Nearly a third part of the walls had been brought within a few feet of the ground. The furnace was gone, all but its mason work. It was like the change of centuries rather than months. The castle had half melted away. Its idea was blotted out, saved from the human spirit. She turned from the workshop in positive pain of body at the site, and wandered, she hardly knew wither, till she found herself in Lady Glamorgan's parlor. There was left a single broken chair. She sat down on it, closed her eyes, and laid back her head. She opened them with a slight start. There stood Richard a yard or two away. He had heard of her return, and gone at once to Wyfern. There, learning wither she had be taken herself, he had followed, and tracking what of her footsteps he could discover had at length found her. End of chapter fifty-seven Chapter fifty-eight of St. George and St. Michael, volume three. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Courtney Miller. St. George and St. Michael, volume three by George Macdonald. Love and no leasing. Their eyes met in the flashes of a double sunrise. Their hands met, but the hand of each grasped the heart of the other. Two honest, pure souls never looked out of their windows with meeting gaze. Had there been no bodies to divide them, they would have mingled in a rapture of faith and high content. The desolation was gone. The desert bloomed and blossomed as the rose. To Dorothy it was for a moment as a raglan were rebuilt. The ruin and the winter had vanished before the creative, therefore prophetic, throb of the heart of love. Then her eyes fell, not defeated by those of the youth, for Dorothy's faith gave her a boldness that was lovely even against the foil of maidenly reserve, but beaten down by conscience. The words of the marquee shot like an arrow into her memory. Love outlives all but leasing, and her eyes fell before Richard's. But Richard imagined that something in his look had displeased her and was ashamed, for he had ever been, and ever would be, sensitive as a child to rebuke. Even when it was mistaken or unjust, he would always find within him some ground whereon it might have lighted. Forgive me, Dorothy, he said, supposing she had found his look presumptuous. Nay, Richard, returned Dorothy with her eyes fast on the ground, once it seemed rosy mists came rising through her. I know no cause wherefore thou should ask me to forgive thee, but I do know, although thou knowest not, good cause wherefore I should ask thee to forgive me. Richard, I will tell thee the truth, and thou wilt tell me again how I might have shunned doing amiss, and how far my lie was an evil thing. Lie, Dorothy, thou hast never lied. Hear me, Richard, first and then judge. Thou rememberest I did tell thee that night as we talked in the field, that I had about me no misives. The word was true, but its purport was false. When I said that, thou didst hold in thy hand my comb, wherein were concealed certain papers in cipher. O thou cunning one! cried Richard, half reproachfully, half humorously, but the amusement overtopped the seriousness. My heart did reproach me, but Richard, what was I to do? Wherefore did thy heart reproach thee, Dorothy? That I told a falsehood, that I told thee a falsehood, Richard. Then had it been up still, thou wiltst not have minded? Up still! I would never have told up still a falsehood. I would have beaten him first. Then thou didst think it better to tell a falsehood to me than to up still? I would rather sin against thee, and it were a sin, Richard, were it wrong to think I would rather be in thy hands, sin or none, or sin in all, than in those of a mean spirit knave whom I despised? Besides, I might one day, somehow or other, make it up to thee, but I could not to him. But was it sin, Richard? Tell me that. I have thought and thought over the matter until my mind is maize. Thou seest it was my Lord Marquis' business, not mine, and thou hadst no right in the matter. Prithee, Dorothy, ask me not to judge. Are thou then so angry with me that thou will not help me to judge myself a right? Not so, Dorothy, but there is one command in the New Testament for the which I am often more thankful than for any other. What is that, Richard? Judge not. Prithee, between whom lieeth the quarrel, Dorothy? Bethink thee. Between thee and me, Richard. No, verily, Dorothy, I accuse thee not. Dorothy was silent for a moment, thinking. I see, Richard, she said, a lieth between me and my own conscience. Then who am I, Dorothy, that I should dare step betwixt thee and thy conscience? God forbid. That were presumption deserving indeed the pains of hell. But if my conscience and I seek a daiseman betwixt us? Mortal man can never be that daiseman, Dorothy. Nay, and thou need an umpire. Thou must seek to him who brought thee and thy conscience together and told thee to agree. Let God, overall and in all, tell thee whether or no, thou wert wrong. For me, I dare not. Believe me, Dorothy. It is sheer presumption for one man to intermetal with the things that belong to the spirit of another man. But these are only the things of a woman, said Dorothy, in pure childish humility born of love. Sure, Dorothy, thou wouldst not jest in such sober matters. God forbid, Richard. I but spoke that which was in me. I see now it was foolishness. All a man can do in this matter of judgment, said Richard, is to lead his fellow man, if so be he can, up to the judgment of God. He must never dare judge him for himself, and thou cannot tell whether thou did well or ill in what thou didst, though shouldst not vex thy soul. God is thy refuge, even from the wrongs of thine own judgment. Pray to him to let thee know the truth, that if needful thou mayst repent. Be patient and not sorrowful until he show thee. Nor fear that he will judge thee harshly, because he must judge thee truly. That were to wrong God. Trust in him, even when thou fearst wrong in thyself, for he will deliver thee therefrom. Ah, how good and kind art thou, Richard. How should I be other to thee, beloved Dorothy? Thou art not then angry with me that I did deceive thee? If thou didst write, wherefore should I be angry? If thou didst wrong, I am well content to know that thou wilt be sorry, therefore as soon as thou ceased it, and before that thou canst not, thou must not be sorry. I am sure that what thou knowest to be right, that thou will do, and it seemeth as if God himself were content with that for the time. What the very right thing is, concerning which we may now differ, we must come to see together one day, the same and not another, to both and this doing of what we see, is to each of us the path thither. Let God judge us, Dorothy, for his judgment is light in the inward parts, showing the truth and enabling us to judge ourselves. For me to judge thee, and thee me, Dorothy, would with it bear no light. Why, Dorothy, knowest thou not, yet how shouldst thou know? That this is the very matter for the which we, my father and his party, contend, that each man, namely in matters of conscience, shall be left to his God and remain unjudged of his brother? And if I fight for this on mine own part, unto whom should I accord it, if not to thee, Dorothy, who art the highest in soul and purest in mind, and bravest in heart of all women I have known? Therefore I love thee with all the power of a heart that loves, that which is true, before that which is beautiful, and that which is honest, before that which is of good report. What followed I leave to the imagination of such of my readers, as are capable of understanding that the truer the nature, the deeper must be the passion, and of hoping that the human soul will yet burst into grander blossoms of love than ever poet has dreamed, not to say sung. I leave it also to the hearts of those who understand that love is greater than knowledge. For those who have neither heart nor imagination, only brains, to them I presume to leave nothing, knowing what self-satisfying resources they possess of their own. The pair wandered all over the ruins together, and Dorothy had a hundred places to take Richard to, and tell him what they had been, and how they had looked in their wholeness and use. Amongst the rest her own chamber, where their marquee had brought her the letter which Mistress Upstill had found so badly concealed. Then Richard's turn came, and he gave Dorothy a sadly vivid account of what he had seen of the destruction of the place. How, as if with whole republics of ants, it had swarmed all over with men paid to destroy it. How in every direction the walls were falling at once. How they dug and drained at fishponds and moat in the wild hope of finding hidden treasure, and had found in the former nothing but mud and a bunch of huge old keys, the last of some lost story of ancient days, and in the latter nothing but a pair of silver gilt spurs, which he had himself bought of the fellow who found them. He told her what a terrible shell the Tower of Towers had been to break. How after throwing its battle-minted crown into the moat, they had in vain attacked the walls. Might almost as well have sought with pickaxes and crowbars to tear asunder the living rock. And at last, but this was hearsay, he had not seen it, had undermined the wall, propped it up with timber, set the timber on fire, and so succeeded in bringing down a portion of the hard, tough, messy defense. What became of the wild beasts in the base of the kitchen tower? Dost no, Richard? I saw their cages, answered Richard, but they were empty. I asked what they were and what had become of the animals, of which all the country had heard, but no one could tell me. I asked them questions until they began to puzzle themselves to answer them, and now I believe all Gwent is divided between two opinions as to their fate. One that they are roaming the country, the other that Lord Herbert, as they still call him, has by his magic conveyed them away to Ireland to assist him in a general massacre of the Protestants. Mighty in mutual faith, neither politics nor morals nor even theology was any more able to part those whose plain truth had begotten absolute confidence. Strive they might, sin they could not, against each other. They talked, wandering about, a long time, forgetting, I am sorry to say, even their poor shivering horses which, after trying to console themselves with the renewal of a friendship which a broad white line across ladies' face had for a moment, on Dick's part, somewhat impeded, had become very restless. At length an expostulatory winny from lady called Richard to his duty, and with compunctions of heart the pair hurried to mount. They rode home together in a bliss that would have been too deep almost for conscious delight, but that their animals were eager after motion, and as now the surface of the fields had grown soft, they turned into them, and a tremendous gallop soon brought their gladness to the surface in great fountain throbs of joy. Now must I bury my dead out of my sight. Did farewell to the old, resplendent, stately, scarred, defiant ragman, itself the grave of many an old story, and the cradle of the new, and alas, in contrast with the old, not merely the mechanical, but the unpoetic in commonplace, yes, vulgar era of our island's history? Little did Lord Herbert dream of the age he was initiating, of the irreverence and pride and destruction that were about to follow in his footsteps, wasting, defiling, scarring, obliterating, turning beauty into ashes, and worse, that divine mechanics should thus, through selfishness and avarice, be leagueed with filth and squalor and ugliness. When one looks upon raglan, indignation rises, not at the storm of iron which battered its walls to powder, hardly even at the decree to level them with the dust, but at the later destroyer who could desecrate the beauty yet left by wrath and fear, who with the stones of my lady's chamber would build a kennel, or with the carved stones of chapel or hall, a barn, or cowhouse, what would the inventor of the water commanding engine have said to the pollution of our waters, the destruction of the very landmarks of our history, the desecration of ruins that ought to be venerated for their loveliness as well as their story? Would he not have broken it to pieces, that the ruin it must occasion might not be laid to his charge? May all such men, as for the sake of money, constitute themselves the creators of ugliness, not to speak of far worse evils in the land, live or die, I care not which, to know in their own selves what a lovely human psyche lies hid even in the chrysalis of a railway director, and to load their past selves as an abomination, incredible but that it had been, he who calls such a woosh a curse must undergo it ere his being can be other than a blot. But this air too will pass, and truth come forth in form's new and more lovely still. The living raglan has gone from me, and before me rise the broken, mouldering walls which are the monument of their own past. My heart swells as I think of them, lonely in the deepening twilight, when the ivy which has flung itself like a garment about the bareness of their looped and windowed ragginess is but as darker streaks of the all-prevailing dusk, and the moon is gathering in the east, feigning with the soul for sake the fattersome body for a season, to go flittering hither and thither, alighting and flitting like a bat or bird, now drawing itself slow along the molding to taste its curve and flow, now creeping into a cranny, and brooding and thinking back to the fancy fields the tremble of an ancient kiss, yet softly rippling the air, or decries the dim stain which no tempest can wash away. Ah, here is a stair! True there are but three steps, a broken one and a fragment. What said I? See how the phantom steps continue it, winding up and up to the door of my lady's chamber. See its polished floor, black as night, its walls rich with tapestry, lovely old, and harmoniously withered, for the ancient time had its ancient times, and its things that had come down from solemn antiquity. See the silver sconces, the tall mirrors, the part-open window, long, low, carved latest, and filled with lozenge panes of the softest yellow green, in a multitude of shades. There stands my lady herself, leaning from it, looking down into the court. Ah, lovely lady, is not the heart as the heart of my mother, my wife, my daughters? Thou hast had thy troubles. I trust they are over now, and that thou art satisfied with God for making me. The vision fades and the old walls rise like a broken cenotaph, but the same sky with its clouds never the same hangs over them. The same moon will fold them all night in a doubtful radiance befitting the things that dwell alone, and are all of other times, for she too is but a ghost, a thing of the past, and her life is but the light of memory. Into the empty crannies blow the same winds that once refreshed the souls of maiden and minute arms. Only the yellow flower that grew in its gardens now grows upon its walls. And however the mind, or even the spirit of man may change, the heart remains the same, and an effort to read the hearts of our forefathers will help us to know the heart of our neighbor. Whoever cares to distinguish the bones of fat from the drapery of invention in the foregone tale will find them all in the late Mr. Dirk's Life of the Marquis of Rochester and the Sertamen Religiousum and Golden Apathems of Dr. Bailey. End of Chapter 59, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona End of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3, by George MacDonald.