 Chapter 48 of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Men sing in the moat's house. Then strode the warriors of the wolf over the bodies of the slain onto the dais of their own hall, and Folkmite led the sunbeam by the hand, and now was his sword in its sheath, and his face was grown calm, though it was stern and sad. But even as he trod the dais, comes a slim swain of the wolves, twisting himself through the throng, and so maketh way to Folkmite, and sayeth to him, Chieftain, the alderman of Bergdale sendeth me hither to say a word to thee, and even this which I am to tell to thee, and the war-leader both. It is most true, that our kinswoman the bride will not die but live. So help me, the warrior and the face, this is the word of the alderman. When Folkmite heard this, his face changed, and he hung his head, and face of God who was standing close by beheld him, and deemed that tears were falling from his eyes onto the whole floor. As for him, he grew exceeding glad, and he turned to the sunbeam and met her eyes, and saw that she could scarce refrain her longing for him, and he was abashed for the sweetness of his love. But she drew up close to him and spake to him softly, and said, This is the day that maketh them ends, and yet I long for another day. When I saw thee coming to me that first day in shadowy veil, I thought thee so goodly a warrior, that my heart was in my mouth. But now, how goodly thou art, for the battle is over, and we shall live! Ye, said face of God, and none shall be grudges our love. Behold thy brother, the hard heart, the warrior, he weepeth, because he hath heard that the bride shall live. Be sure, then, that she shall not gain say him, O fair shall the world be to-morrow. But she said, O go, main, I have no words, is there no minstrelsy amongst us? Now by this time were many of the men of the wolf and the woodlanders gathered on the dais of the hall, and the dalesmen noticing this, and watching that these men were now in their own moat-house, withdrew them as they might for the press toward the netherend thereof. That the sunbeam noted, and that all those about her, save the war-leader, were of the kindreds of the wolf and the woodland, and still speaking softly, she said to face of God, Go, main, Miss Seymouth, I am now in my wrong place. For now the wolf raises up his head, but I am departing from him. Surely I should now be standing amongst my people of the face, where too I am going ere long. She said, Beloved, I am now become thy kindred and thine home, and it is meet for thee to stand beside me. She cast her eyes adown and answered not, and she fell a pondering of how sorely she had desired that fair dale. And now she would leave it, and be content, and more than content. Now the kindreds had sundered, they upon the dais ranked themselves together there in the house which their fathers had builded, and when they saw themselves so meatly ordered, their hearts being full, with the sweetness of hope accomplished and the joy of deliverance from death, song arose amongst them, and they fell to singing together, and this is somewhat of their singing. Now raised with a lay of the long coming day, bright white was the sun when we saw its begun, or its noon now we live, it hath ceased not to give, it shall give and give more than this wealth of its store. Though fair was the yesterday, kindly and good was the wasteland our guester, and kind was the wood, though below us for reaping lay under our hand the harvest of weeping, the grief of the land. Dumb cowered the sorrow, not daring to cry on the help of tomorrow the deed drawing nigh. All increase throve in the dale of our love, there the ox and the steed fed down the mead. The grapes hung high, twixed earth and sky, and the apples fell round the orchard well. Yet drear was the land there, and all was for naught, none put forth a hand there for what the year wrought, and raised it to our flowing with gifts of the earth, for man's grief was growing beside of the mirth, and of the springs and the summers that wasted their wealth, and the birds the newcomers made merry by stealth. Yet here of old abode the bold, nor had they wailed, though the wheat had failed, and the vine no more gave forth her store, yea, they found the waste good for the fearless of mood. Then to these that were dwelling aloof from the dale, fared the wild wind at telling the worst of the tale, as men bathed in the morning they saw in the pool the image of scawning the throne of the fool. The picture was gleaming in helmet and sword, and shone forth it seeming from cups of the board. Forth then they came, with a battle-flame, from the wood and the waste, and the dale did they haste. They saw the storm rise, and with untroubled eyes the war-storm they met, and the rain ruddy wet. O'er the dale then was lit in the candle of day, night sorrow was smitten and gloom fled away. Now the grief shackles sonder, how many to mourn, shall awaken and wonder how gladness was born. O'er want on to sorrow, how sweet on to you shall be pondering to-morrow what deed is to do. Fell many a man, neath the edges wan, in the heat of the play that fashion the day. Praise all ye then the death of men, and the gift of the aid of the unafraid. O stronger the living men, mighty to save, and good is their giving, and gifts that we have. But the dead, they that gave us once, never again, long and long shall they save us, so trouble and pain. O banner above us, O God of the strong, love them as ye love us, that bore down our wrong. So they sang in the hall, and there was many a man wept as the song ended, for those that should never see the good days of the dale, and all the joy that was to be, and men swore by all that they loved, that they would never forget those that had fallen in the winning of Silverdale, and that when each year the cups of memory went round, there should be no mere names to them, but the very men whom they had known and loved. CHAPTER 49 OF THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS by William Morris. Now Daloch, who had gone away for a while, came back again into the hall, and at his back were a half-score of men who bore ladders with them. They were stout men, clad in scanty and ragged raiment, but girt with swords and bearing axes, those of them who were not handling the ladders. Men looked on them curiously, because they saw them to be of the roughest of the thralls. They were sullen and fierce-eyed to behold, and their hands and bare arms were flecked with blood, and it was easy to see that they had been chasing the fleers, and making them pay for their many torments of past days. But when face of God beheld this, he cried out, Oh Daloch, is it so that thou hast bethought thee to bring in hither meant to fall to the cleansing of the hall, and to do away the defiling of the dusky men? Even so, war-leader, said Daloch, also ye shall know that all battle is over in Silverstead, for the thralls fell in numbers not to be endured, and the dusky men who had turned their backs to us, and hindered them from fleeing north. But though they have slain many, they have not slain all, and their remnants have fled by diverse ways west away, that they may gain the wood and the ways to Rosedale, and the stoutest of the thralls are at their heels, and ever as they go, fresh men from the fields joining the chase with great joy, and gathered together of the best of them two-hundreds and a half well-armed, and if thou wilt give me leave, I will get to me yet more, and follow hard on the fleers, and so get me home to Rosedale. For thither will the runaways meet what so of their kind may be left there. Also, I would fame be there to set some order amongst the forefolk of my own people, whom this day's work hath delivered from torment, and if thou wilt suffer a few men of the Dalesmen to come along with me, then shall all things be better done there. Look, go with thine hands, said face of God, take whom so thou wilt of the Burgdalers that have a mind to fare with thee, to the number of fives go, and send word of thy thriving to Folkmite, the chieftain of the Dale. As for us, my seamoth, that we shall abide here no long while, how sayest thou Folkmite, shall Dallach go. Then Folkmite, who stood close beside him, looked up and readen somewhat, as a man caught heedless, when he should be heedful. But he looked kindly on face of God, and said, Warleader, so long as thou art in the Dale which ye kindreds have won back for us, thou art the chieftain and no other, and I bid thee doest thou wilt in this matter, and in all things, and I hereby give command to all my kindred to do according to thy will, everywhere and always, as they love me, and indeed I deem that thy will shall be theirs, since it is only fools who know not their well-wishers. How say ye kinsmen? Then those about cried out, Hail to face of God, hail to the Dalesmen, hail to our friends. But Folkmite went up to face of God, and threw his arms about him and kissed him, and he said therewith all, so that most men heard him. Herewith I kiss not only thee, thou goodly and glorious warrior, but this kiss and embraces for all the men of the kindreds of the Dales and the shepherds, since I deem that never have men more valiant, dwelt upon the earth. Therewith all men shouted for joy of him, and were exceeding glad. But Folkmite spake apart to face of God, and said, Brother, I suppose that thou wilt deem it good to abide in this hall, or in Iots, for hereabouts now is the heart of the host, but as for me I would have left to depart for a little, since I have an errand, whereof thou mayest what? Then face of God smiled on him, and said, Go, and all good go with thee, and tell my father that I would have tidings, since I may not be there. So he spake, yet in his heart was he glad that he might not go to behold the bride, lying sick and sorry. But Folkmite departed without more words, and in the door of the hall he met Crow the Shaftspeeder, who would have spoken to him, and given him the tidings. But Folkmite said to him, Do thine errand to the war-leader, who is within the hall? And so went on his way. Then came Crow up the hall, and stood before face of God, and said, War-leader, we have done that which was to be done, and have cleared all the houses about the market-stead. Moreover, by the reed of Dallach, we have set certain men of the poor Folk of the Dale, who were well looked to by the others, to the burying of the slain felons, and they be digging trenches in the fields on the north side of the market-stead, and carry the carcasses dither as they may. But the slain whom they find of the kindreds, do they array out yonder before this hall? In all wise, these men, tame and biddable, save that they rage against the dusky men, though they fear them yet. As for us, they deem as gods come down from heaven to help them. So much for what is good, now I have an ill word to say, to it that in the houses where as we have found many thralls alive, yet also have we found many dead, for amongst these murder-calls were some of an evil sort, who, when they saw that the battle would go against them, rushed into the houses, hewing down all before them, man, woman, and child, so that many of the halls and chambers we saw running blood like to shambles. To be short of them whom they were going to hew to the gods, we have found thirteen living and three dead, of which latter is one woman, and of the living seven women, and all these, living and dead, with the leaden shackles yet on them, wherein they should be burned. To all these and others whom we have found, we have done what of service we could, in the way of victual and clothes, so that they scarce believe that they are on this lower earth. Moreover, I have with me two score of them who are men of some wits, and who know of the stores of victual and other wares which the felons had, and these will fetch and carry for you as much as you will. Is all done rightly, war-leader. Right well, said face of God, and we give thee our thanks therefore, and now it were well if these thy folk were to dite our dinner for us in some green field, the niest that may be, and thither shall all the host be bidden by sound of horn. Meantime, let us void this hall till it be cleansed of the filth of the dusky ones, but hereafter shall we come again to it, and light a fire on the holy half, and bid the gods and the fathers come back and behold their children, sitting glad in the ancient hall. Then men shouted and were exceeding joyous, but face of God said once more, Bear ye a bench out into the marketplace over against the door of this hall, thereon will I sit with other chieftains of the kindreds, that whoso will may have recourse to us. So therewith all the men of the kindreds made their ways out of the hall and into the market-stead, which was by this time much cleared of the slaughtered felons, and the bale for the burnt offering was now but smouldering, and a thin column of blue smoke was going up, wavering, amidst the light airs of the afternoon. Men were somewhat silent now, for they were stiff and weary with the morning's battle, and a many had been hurt with all, and on many there yet rested the after-grief of battle and sorrow for the loss of friends and well-wishers, for in the battle had fallen one long hundred and two of the men of the host, and of these were two score and five of the kindreds of the steer, the bull, and the bridge, who had made such valiant onslaught by the southern road. Of the shepherds died one score save three, for though they scattered the foe at once, yet they fell on with such headlong valour, rather than wisely, that many were trapped in the throng of the dusky men. Of the woodlanders were slain one score and nine, for hard had been the fight about them, and no man of them spared himself one wit. Of the men of the wolf, who were but a few, fell sixteen men, and all save two of these in face of God's battle. Of the burgdale men, whom folk might lead, to wit, them of the face, the vine, and the sickle, were but seven men slain outright. In this tale I told all those who died of their hurts, after the day of battle. There with all, many others were sorely hurt, who mended, and went about afterwards, hail and hearty. So as the folk abode in the marketplace, somewhat faint and weary, they heard horns blow up merrily, and crow the shaft speeder came forth, and stood on the mound of the altar, and bade men fare to dinner, and therewith he led the way, bearing in his hand the banner of the golden bushel, of which house he was. And they followed him into a fair and great mead onto the south-west of Silverstead, besprinkled about with ancient trees of sweet chestnut. There they found the boards spread for them with the best of victual, which the poor downtrodden folk knew how to dite for them, and especially was their great plenty of good wine of the sun-smit and bents. So they fell to their meat, and the poor folk, both men and women, served them gladly, though they were somewhat a feared of these fierce sword-wielders, the gods who had delivered them. The said thralls were mostly not of those who had fallen so bitterly on their fleeing masters, but were men and women of the households, not so roughly treated as the others. That is to say, those who had been want to toil under the lash in the fields and the silver mines, and were as wild as they durst be. As for these waiting thralls, the men of the kindreds were gentle and blithe with them, and often as they served them, would they stay their hands, and especially if they were women, and would draw down their heads to put a morsel in their mouths, or set the wine-cup to their lips, and they would stroke them and caress them, and treat them in all wise as their dear friends. Moreover, when any man was full, he would arise and take hold of one of the thralls, and set him in his place, and serve him with meat and drink, and talk with him kindly, so that the poor folk were much bewildered with joy. And the first that arose from table were the sunbeam and bome and hall-face, with many of the swains and the women of the woodlanders, and they went from table to table serving the others. The sunbeam had done off her armour, and went about exceeding fair and lovely in her kirtle, but bome yet bore her hobok, for she loved it, and indeed it was so fine and well wrought that it was no great burden, albeit she had gone down with the sunbeam and other women to a fair stream thereby, and there they had bathed and washed themselves. And bome's hurts, which were not great, had been looked to and bound up afresh, and she had come to table unhelmed, with a wreath of wind-flowers round her head. There they feasted, and their hearts were strengthened by the meat and drink, and if sorrow were blended with their joy, yet were they high-hearted through both joy and sorrow, looking forward to the good days to be in the dales at the roots of the mountains, and the love and fellowship of folks and of houses. But as for face of God, he went not to the meadow, but abode sitting on the bench in the market-place, where were none else now of the kindreds save the appointed warders. They had brought him a morsel and a cup of wine, and he had eaten and drunk, and now he sat there, with Daleward and Lain sheathed across his knees, and seeming to gaze on the thralls of Silverdale, visiting carrying away the bodies of the slain felons, after they had stripped them of their raiment and weapons. Yet indeed, all this was before his eyes as a picture which he noted not. Rather he sat pondering many things, wondering at his being there in Silverdale in the hour of victory, longing for the peace of Burgdale and the bride-chamber of the sun-beam. Then went his thought out toward his old playmate, lying hurt in Silverdale, and his heart was grieved because of her, yet not for long, though his thought still dwelt on her, since he deemed that she would live, and presently be happy, and happy thenceforward for many years. So pondered face of God in the market-place of Silverdale. End of Chapter 49. Chapter 50 of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Folk-mights seeeth the bride and speaketh with her. Thou tells the tale of Folk-mights that he went his ways from the hall to the house where the bride lay, and the swain who had brought the message went along with him, and he was proud of walking beside so mighty a warrior, and he talked to Folk-mights as they went, and the sound of his voice was irksome to the chieftain, but he made as though he harkened. Yet when they came to the door of the house, which was just out of the place on the southern road, for thereby had the bride fallen to earth, he could withhold his grief no longer, but turned on the threshold and laid his head on the door-jam, and sobbed and wept till the tears fell down like rain. The boy stood by wondering, and wishing that Folk-mights would forbear weeping, but durst not speak to him. In a while Folk-mights left weeping and went in, and found a fair hall sore befouled by the felons, and in the corner on a bed covered with furs the wounded woman, and at first sight he deemed her not so pale as he looked to see her, as she lay with her long dark red hair strewed over the pillow, her head moving about wearily. A linen cloth was thrown over her body, but her arms lay out of it before her. Beside her sat the alderman, his face sober enough, but not as one in heavy sorrow, and a nigh him was another chair, as if someone had but just got up from it. There was no one else in the hall save two women of the woodlanders, one of whom was cooking some potion on the hearth, and another was sweeping the floor and eye of Bran, or some such stuff, which had been thrown down to stop up the blood. So Folk-mights went up to the bride, sorely dreading the image of death which she had grown to be, and sorely loving the woman she was and would be. He knelt down by the bedside, heeding iron face little, though he nodded friendly to him, and he held his face close to hers. But she had her eyes shut, and did not open them till he had been there a little while, and then they opened and fixed themselves on his without surprise or change. Then she lifted her right hand, for it was in her left shoulder and side that she had been hurt, and slowly laid it on his head, and drew his face to hers, and kissed it fondly, as she both smiled and let the tears run over from her eyes. Then she spake in a weak voice, Thou seest, chieftain and dear friend, that I may not stand by thy victorious side to-day. And now, though I were feign if thou wouldst never leave me, yet needs must I go about thy work, since thou art to become the alderman of the Folk of Silverdale. Yea, and even if thou werest not to go from me, yet in a manner should I go from thee, for I am grievously hurt, and I know by myself. And also the leeches have told me that the fevers are coming on me, so that presently I shall not know thee, but may deem thee to be a woman, or a hound, or the very wolf that is the image of the father of thy kindred, or even it may be someone else that I have played with, time had gone. Her voice faltered and faded out here, and she was silent a while. Then she said, So depart, kind friend and dear love, bearing this word with thee, that should I die, I call on I am face my kinsmen, to bear witness that I bid thee carry me to Bale in Silverdale, and lay mine ashes with the ashes of thy fathers, with whom thine own shall mingle at the last, since I have been of the warriors who have helped to bring thee back to the land of thy folk. Then she smiled and shut her eyes and said, And if I live, as indeed I hope, and how glad and glad I shall be to live, then shall thou bring me to thy house and thy bed, that I might not depart from thee, while both our lives last. And she opened her eyes and looked at him, and he might not speak for a while, so ravished as he was betwixt joy and sorrow, but the old man arose and took a gold ring from off his arm and spake. This is the gold ring of the God of the face, and I bear it on mine arm, betwixt the folk and the God in all man-motes, and I bore it through the battle to-day, and this is as holy a ring as may be, and since ye are plighting truth, and I am the witness thereof, it's were good that ye held this ring together and called the God to witness, who is akin to the God of the earth as we all be. Take the ring, Folkmite, for I trust thee, and of all women now alive would I have this woman happy. So Folkmite took the ring and thrust his hand through it, and took her hand, and said, Ye fathers, thou God of the face, thou earth God, thou warrior, bear witness that my life and my body applied to this woman, the bride of the house of the steer. His face was flushed and bright as he spoke, but as his words ceased, he noted how feebly her hand lay in his, and his face fell, and he gazed on her timidly. But she lay quiet, and said softly and slowly, O fathers of my kindred, O warrior and God of the earth, bear witness that I plight my truth to this man, to lie in his grave if I die, and in his bed if I live. And she smiled on him again, and then closed her eyes, but opened them presently once more, and said, Dear friend, how fared it with gold-main today? Said Folkmite, so well he did that none might have done better. She fared in the fight as if he had been our father, the warrior. He is a great chieftain. She said, Will thou give him this message for me, that in no wise he forget the oath which he swore upon the fingering as it lay on the sundial of the garden of the face, and say moreover, that I am sorry that we shall part, and have between us such breadth of wild wood and mountain-neck. Ye surely will I give thy message, said Folkmite, and in his heart he rejoiced, because he heard her speak as if she were sure of life. Then she said faintly, It is now thy work to depart from me, and do as it behove of the chieftain of the people and the aldermen of Silverdale. Depart, lest the leeches chide me. Farewell, my dear." So he laid his face to hers, and kissed her, and rose up, and embraced Ironface, and went his ways without looking back. But just over the threshold he met Old Hallward of the House of the Steer, who was at point to enter, and he greeted him kindly. The old man looked on him steadily, and said, Tomorrow the day after, I will utter a word to thee, O chief of the wolf. In a good hour, said Folkmite, for all I words are true. Therewith he got him away from the house, and came to face of God, where he sat before the altar of the crooked sword. And now were the chiefs come back from their meat, and were sitting with him. There also were Woodfather and Woodwant, but Bome was with the Sunbeam, who was resting softly in the fair meadow after all the turmoil. So men made place for Folkmite beside the warleader, who looked upon his face, and saw that it was sober and unsmiling, but not heavy or moody with grief. So he deemed that all was as well as it might be with the bride, and with a good heart fell to take in counsel with the others, and kindly and friendly with the reeds which they held there, with no gain saying of man by man, for the whole Folk was glad at heart. So there they ordered all matters duly for that present time, and by then they had made an end. It was past sunset, and men were lodged in the chief houses about the markets there, albeit though they ate their meat with all joy of heart, and were merry in converse one with the other. The men of the Wolf would by no means feast in their hall again till it had been cleansed and hallowed anew. End of Chapter 50 Chapter 51 of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris On the morrow they bore to bale their slain men, and there with all what was left of the bodies of the four chieftains of the great undoing. They brought them into a most fair meadow to the west of Silverstead, where they had piled up a very great bale for the burning. In that meadow was the doomering and the thingstead of the Folk of the Wolf, and they had hallowed it when they had first conquered Silverdale, and it was deemed far holier that the moat-house aforesaid, where the men of the kindred might hold no due court. But rather it was a feast-hall, and a house where men had converse together, and wherein precious things and tokens of the fathers were stored up. The thingstead in the meadow was flowery and well-grast, and a little stream winding about thereby nearly cast a ring around it, and beyond the stream was a full fair grove of oak-trees, very tall and ancient. There then they burned the dead of the host, wrapped about in exceeding fair raiment, and when the ashes were gathered, the men of Burgdale and the shepherds left those of their Folk for the kindred to bury there in Silverdale, for they said that they had a right to claim such guesting for them that had helped to win back the dale. But when the burning was done and the bale quenched, and the ashes gathered and buried, and that was on the morrow, then the men bore forth the banners of the jaws of the Wolf and the red hand, and the silver arm, and the golden bushel, and the ragged sword, and the Wolf of the Woodland, and with great joy and triumph, they brought them into the moat-house, and hung them up over the dais, and they kindled fire on the holy hearth by holding up a disk of bright glass to the sun, and then they sang before the banners, and this is somewhat of the song that they sang before them. Why are you ending, O wenson wither? What shyness over the fallow swords! What is the joy that you bear in hither? What is the tale of your blended words? For whither we end but here have we stayed us, here by the ancient holy hearth, long of the moons and the years delayed us, but here have we come from the heart of the dearth. We are the men of joy belated, we are the wanderers over the waist, we are but they that sat and waited, watching the empty winds make haste. Long long we sat and knew no others, save alien folk and the foes of the road, till late and at last we met our brothers, and needs must we to the older board. For once on a day they prayed for guesting, and how were we then their bead to do? Wild was the waste for the people's resting, and deep the wealth of the dale we knew. Here were the boards that we must spread them, down in the fruitful dale and dear, here were the halls where we would bed them, and how should we tarry other where? Over the waist we came together, there was the tangle of thwart the way, there was the windstorm and the weather, the red rain darkened down the day. But that day of the days, what grief should let us, when we saw through the clouds the dale-glad sun? We tore at the tangle that beset us, and stood at peace when the day was done. All of the happy take our greeting, bid thou the fathers come and see, the folk signs on thy walls a meeting, and deem to-day what men we be. Look on the holy hearth new-litten, how the sparks fly twinkling up a loof, how the wavering smoke by the sunlight smitten curls up around the beam-rich roof. For here once more is the wolf abiding, nor ever more from the dale shall wend, and never again his head be hiding, till all days be dark and the world have end. CHAPTER 52 of THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS by William Morris On the third day there was high tide and great joy amongst all men from end to end of the dale, and the delivered thralls were feasted and made much off by the kindreds, so that they scarce knew how to believe their own five senses that told them the good tidings. For none strove to grieve them and torment them. What they would, that did they, and they had all things plentiously, since for all there was enough into spare of goods, stored up for the dusky men, as corn and wine and oil and spices, and raiment and silver. Horses were there also, and neat and sheep and swine in abundance. With all there was the good and dear land, the waxing corn on the acres, the blossoming vines on the hillside, and about the orchards and alongside the ways, the plum trees and cherry trees and pear trees that had cast out their blossom, and were overhung with little young fruit, and the fair apple trees and blossoming, and the chestnuts spreading their boughs from their twisted trunks over the green grass. And there was the goodly pasture for the horses and the neat, and the timey hillgrass for the sheep. And beyond it all, the thickets of the great wood, with its unfailing store of goodly timber of ash and oak and holly, and yoke-elm. There need no man lack, and less man compelled him, and all was rich enough and wide enough for the waxing of a very great folk. Now therefore men betook them to what was their own before the coming of the dusky men. And though at first many of the delivered thrall folk feasted somewhat above measure, and though there were some of them who were not very brisk at working on the earth for their livelihood, yet were the most part of them quick of wit and deft of hand, and they mostly fell too presently at their cunning, both of husbandry and handicraft. Moreover, they had great love of the kindreds, and especially of the woodlanders, and strove to do all things that might pleasure them. And as for those who were dull and listless, because of their many torments of the last ten years, they would at least fetch and carry willingly for them of the kindreds. And these last grudged them not to meet and raiment and house-room, even if they wrought but little for it, because they called to mind the evil days of their thralldom, and bethought them how few amends days upon the earth. Thus all things throve in Silverdale, and the days wore on toward the summer, and the yuletide rest beyond it, and the years beyond and far beyond the winning of Silverdale. CHAPTER 53 of THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS by William Morris But of the time then passing, it is to be said that the whole host abode in Silverdale ingrate mirth and good-liking, till they should hear tidings of Dalak and his company, who had followed hot foot on the fliers of the dusky men. And on the tenth day after the battle, Ironface and his two sons and Stoneface were sitting about sunset under a great oak tree by that stream-side which ran through the moat-stead. There also was Folkmite, somewhat distraught because of his love for the bride, who was now mending of her hurts. As they sat there, in all content, they saw folk coming toward them, three in number, and as they drew nigher they saw that it was old Hallward of the Steer, and the Sunbeam and Bo-May following him hand in hand. When they came to the brook, Bo-May ran up to the elder to help him over the stepping-stones, which she did as one who loved him, as the old man was stark enough to have waded the water-waste deep. She was no longer in her war-gear, but was clad after her want of shadowy veil, in nought but a white-wollen curdle. So she stood in the stream beside the stones and let the swift water ripple up over her ankles, while the elder leaned on her shoulder and looked down upon her kindly. The Sunbeam followed after them, stepping daintily from stone to stone, so that she was a fair sight to see. Her face was smiling and happy, and as she stepped forth onto the green grass, the colour flushed up in it, but she cast her eyes a-down as one somewhat shame-faced. So the chieftains rose up before the leader of the steer, and Folkmite went up to him and greeted him, and took his hand and kissed him on the cheek, and Hallward said, Hail to the chiefs of the kindred and my earthly friends! Then Folkmite bathed him, sit down by him, and all the men sat down again. But Sunbeam leaned her back against a sapling-ash hard by, her feet set close together, and Folkmite went to and fro in short turns, keeping well within ear-shots. Then said Hallward, Folkmite, I have prayed thy kinswoman bore me to lead me to thee, that I might speak with thee, and it is good that I find my kinsmen of the face in thy company, for I would say a word to thee that concerns them somewhat. Said Folkmite, Guest and warrior of the steer, thy words are ever good, and if this time thou comest to ask out of me, then shall they be better than good. Said Hallward, tell me, Folkmite, hast thou seen my daughter, the bride, today? Yea, said Folkmite, reddening. What is thou, Demer, first date? Said Hallward, said Folkmite, thou knowest thyself that the fever hath left her, and that she is mending. Hallward said, in a few days be like, we shall be wending home to Burgdale, when Demer's thou that the bride may travel, if it were but on a litter. Folkmite was silent, and Hallward smiled on him and said, Would as thou have a tarry, O chief of the wolf? So it is, said Folkmite, that it might be labor lost for her to journey to Burgdale at present. Think as thou, said Hallward, as thou are mine then, that if she goeth, she shall speedily come back hither. It has been in my mind, said Folkmite, that I should wed her. Wilt thou gain say it? I pray thee, I am face my friend, and ye, stone face and hall face, and thou, face of God my brother, to lay thy words to mine in this matter. Then said Hallward, stroking his beard, there will be a seat missing in the hall of the steer, and a sore lack in the heart of many a man in Burgdale, if the bride come back to us no more. We loot not to lose the maiden by her wedding, for it is no long way betwixt the house of the steer and the house of the face. But now, when I arise in the morning amiss her, I shall take my staff and walk down the street of Burgstead, for I shall say, The maiden hath gone to see I am face my friend. She is well in the house of the face, and then shall I remember how that the wood and the waste lie between us. How sayest thou, alderman? A sore lack it will be, said I am face, but all good go with her. Though while shall I go hatless down Burgstead street and say, Now will I go fetch my daughter the bride from the house of the steer, while many a day's journey shall lie betwixt us. Said Hallward, I will not beat about the bush folk might, what gift will thou give us for the maiden? Said folk might, whatever is mine shall be thine, and whatsoever of the dale, the kindred, and the poor folk be grudgy not, that shall thou have, and deemest thou that they will be grudgy ought. Is it enough? Hallward said, I will not chieftain, see thou to it. Bo-me, my friend, bring hither that which I would have from Silverdale for the house of the steer in payment for our maiden. Then Bo-me came forward speedily, and went up to the sun-beam, and led her by the hand in front of folkmites and Hallward and the other chieftains. Then folkmites started, and leapt up from the ground, for sooth to say, he had been thinking so wholly of the bride, that his sister was not in his mind, and he had no deeming of whither Hallward was coming, though the others guessed well enough, and now smiled on him merrily when they saw how wild folkmites stared. As for the sun-beam, she stood there blushing like a rose in June, but looking her brother straight in the face. As Hallward said, Folkmite, chieftain of the wolf, since thou wouldst take our maiden the bride away from us, I asked thee to make good her place with this maiden, so that the house of the steer may not lack, when they who are want to wed therein, come to us and pray us for a bed-fellow for the best of their kindred. Then became folkmites smiling and merrily on to the others, and he said, chieftain of the steer, this gift is thine, together with art else which thou mayst desire of us. Then he kissed the sun-beam and said, sister, we looked for this to befall in some fashion, yet we deemed that he that should lead thee away might abide with us for a moon or two. But now let all this be, since if thou art not to bear children to the kindreds of Silverdale, yet shall thou bear them to their friends and fellows, and now choose what gift thou wilt have of us to keep us in thy memory. Then he said, the memory of my people shall not fade for me, yet indeed I ask thee for a gift, to it bore me and the two sons of Woodfather that are left, since Woodwickard was slain, and be like the elder and his wife will be feigned to go with their sons, and ye will not into them. Even so shall it be done, said folkmite, and he was silent a while pondering. And then he said, lo, you friends, doth it not seem strange to you that peace sundereth as well as war? Indeed I deem it grievous that ye shall have to miss your well-beloved kin's woman. And for me I am now grown so used to this woman, my sister, though at while she hath been masterful with me, that I shall often turn about and think to speak to her, when there lie long days of wood and waste betwixt her voice and mine. The sunbeam laughed in his face, though the tears studded in her eyes as she said, Keep up thine heart, for at least the way is shorter betwixt Burgdale and Silverdale than betwixt life and death, and the road we shall learn be like, said Hall-face. So it is that my brother is no ill woodman, as ye learned last autumn. Ironface smiled, but somewhat sadly, for he beheld face of God, who had no eyes for any one save the sunbeam. And no marvel was that, for never had she looked fairer. And for sooth the war-leader was not utterly well-pleased, for he was deeming that there would be delaying of his wedding, now that the sunbeam was to become a maid of the steer, and in his mind he half-deemed that it would be better if he were to take her by the hand, and lead her home through the wildwood, he and she alone, and she looked on him shyly, as though she had a deeming of his thought. Albeit he knew it might not be, that he, the chosen war-leader, should trouble the peace of the kindred, for he wanted that all this was done for peace-sake. So Hall would stood forth, and took the sunbeam's right hand in his, and said, Now do I take this maiden, sunbeam of the kindred of the wolf, and lead her into the house of the steer, to be in all ways one of the maidens of our house, and to wed in the blood wherein we have been want to wed. Neither from henceforth let anyone say this woman is not of the blood of the steer, for we have given her our blood, and she is of us, duly and truly. Thereafter they talked together merrily for a little, and then turned toward the houses, for the sun was now down. And as they went, I am faced spake to his son, and said, Gourd, main, will thou verily keep thine oath to wed the fairest woman in the world? By how much is this one fairer than my dear daughter, visual no more dwell in my house? Said face of God, Ye father, I shall keep my oath, for the gods, who know much, know that when I swore last yule, I was thinking of the fair woman going yonder beside Horward, and of none other. Ah, son, said I am faced, why didst thou be guileous? Asst thou but told as the truth, then? Ye, alderman, said face of God, smiling, and how thou wouldst have raged against me then, when thou hast scarce forgiven me now. In soothe, father, I feared to tell you all, I was young, I was one against the world, ye, ye, and even that was sweet to me, so sorely as I loved her. Asst thou forgotten, father? I am faced smiled and answered not, and so came they to the house wherein they were guested. End of chapter 53 Chapter 54 Of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Tidings of Dalak, a folk-mote in Silverdale. Three days thereafter came two swift runners from Rosedale, with tidings of Dalak. In all wise had he thriven, and had slain many of the runaways, and had come happily to Rosedale. Therein by the mere shaking of their swords had they all their will, for there were but a few of the dusky warriors in the Dale, since the more part had fared to the slaughter in Silverstead. Now therefore had Dalak been made alderman of Rosedale, and the burgdailers who had gone with him should abide the coming thither of the rest of the burgdale host, and meantime of their coming should uphold the new alderman in Rosedale. How be it, Dalak sent word that it was not to be doubted, but that many of the dusky men had escaped to the woods, and should yet be the death of many a mother's son, unless it were well luked to. And now the more part of the burgdale men at the shepherds began to luked toward home, albeit some amongst them had not been ill pleased to abide there yet a while, for life was exceeding soft to them there, though they helped the poor folk gladly in their husbandry, for especially the women of the Dale, of whom many were very goodly, hankered after the fair-faced tall burgdailers, and were as kind to them as might be. For sooth, not a few, both Carles and Queens of the Old Thraw Folk, prayed them of Burgdale to take them home thither, that they might see new things, and forget their old torments once and for all, yea, even in dreams. The burgdailers would not gain say them, and there was no one else to hinder, so that they went with the Burgdale men at their departure, hard on five score of the Silverdale folk who were not of the kindreds. And now was a great folk-moat holding in Silverdale, where too the Burgdale men and the shepherds were bidden, and there at the war-leader gave out the morrow of the morrow for the day of the departure of the host. There were also the matters of Silverdale duly ordered. The men of the wolf would have had the woodlanders dwell with them in the fair-builded stead, and take to them of the goodly stone houses there what they would. But this they nay said, choosing rather to dwell in scattered houses which they built for themselves at the utmost limit of the tillage. Indeed, the most abode, not even there a long while, they loved the wood and its deeds. So they went forth into the wood and cleared them space to dwell in, and builded them halls such as they loved, and fell to their old woodland crafts of charcoal-burning and hunting wherein they throve well. And good for Silverdale was their abiding there, since they became a sure defence and stout outpost against all foemen. For the rest, where so ever they dwelt, they were guest-cherishing and blithe, and they were well beloved by all people, and they wedded with the other houses of the children of the wolf. As to the other matters whereof they took reed at this folk-moat, they had mostly to do with the warding of the dale, and the learning of the delivered thralls to handle weapons duly. For men deemed it most like that they would have to meet other men of the kindred of the felons, which indeed fell out as the years wore. Moreover, folk-moat, by the reed of Stoneface, sent messengers to the plain and the cities onto men whom he knew there, doing them to wits of the tidings of Silverdale, and how that a peaceful and guest-loving people, having good store of wares, now dwelt therein so that Chapman might have recourse thither. Lastly, spake folk-moat and said, Guests and brothers-in-arms, we have been looking about our new house, which was our old one, and therein we find great store of wares which we need not, and which we can but use if you use them. Of your kindness, therefore, we pray you to take of those things what you can easily carry, and if you say the way is long, as indeed it is, since you have bent on going through the wood to Rosdale and so on to Burgdale, yet shall we furnish you with peace to bear your goods, and with such wanes as may pass through the woodland ways. Then rose up Fox of Upton and said, War folk-moat, and ye men of the wolf, be it known unto you, that if we have done anything for your help in the winning of Silverdale, we have thus done that, that we might help ourselves also, so that we might live in peace hence-forward, and that we might have your friendship and fellowship therewithal, so that here in Silverdale might wax a mighty folk who, joined unto us, should be strong enough to face the whole world. Such are the reeds of wise men when they go awaring, but we have no will to go back home again, made rich with your wealth. This hath been far from our thought in this matter. And there went up a murmur from all the Burgdailers, ye saying his word. But folk-moat took up the word again and spake, men of Burgdail and the sheep-cuts, what ye say is both manly and friendly. Yet since we look to see a road made plain through the woodland, betwixt Burgdail and Silverdale, and that often ye shall face us in the feast-hall, and while stand beside us in the fray, we must needs pray you not to shame us by departing empty-handed, for how, then, may we look upon your faces again? Storm-face, my friend, thou art old and wise. Therefore, I bid thee to help us herein, and speak for us to thy kindred, that they may say is not in this matter. Then stood up, storm-face, and said, Versooth, friends, thought-might is in the right herein, for ye may look for anger from the whites that come and go betwixt his kindred and the gods, if they see us fairing back giftless through the woods. Moreover, now that ye have seen Silverdale, ye may what our richer land it is of all good things, and able to bring forth enough and to spare. And now, Miss Seymouth, the gods love this folk that shall dwell here, and they shall become a mighty folk, and a part of our very selves. Therefore, let us take the gifts of our friends, and thank them blithely. For surely, as saith folk-might, henceforth the wood shall become a road betwixt us, and the thickets are halting place for friends bearing goodwill in their hands. When he had spoken, men ye said his words, and forbore the gifts no longer, and the folk-moutes sundered in all loving-kindness. End of chapter 54 Chapter 55 of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Departure from Silverdale On the morrow of the morrow were the burgdale men and they of the shepherds gathered together in the market-stead, early in the morning, and they were all ready for departure, and the men of the wolf and the woodlanders, and of all the delivered thralls a great many, stood round about them, grieving that they must go. There was much talk between the folk of the dale and the guests, and many promises were given and taken to come and go betwixt the two dales. There also were the men of the thrallfolk who were to went home with the burgdalers, and they had been stuffed with good things by the men of the kindreds, and were as faint as might be. As for the sunbeam, she was somewhat out of herself at first, being eager and restless beyond her want, and yet at while sweeping ripe, when she called to mind that she was now leaving all those things, the gain whereof had been a dream to her, both waking and sleeping, for these years passed. But at last, as she stood in the door of the moat-house, and beheld all the throng of folk happy and friendly, it came over her that she herself had done her full share to bring all this about, and that all those pleasant places of silver dale, now fully of the goodly life of man, would be there even as she had striven for them, and that they would be a part of her left behind, though she were dwelling other where. Therewith all she said to herself that it was now her part to wield the life of men in burgdal, and to begin once more her days of a chieftain and a swear of the folk, and the life of a stirring woman, which the edge of the sword and the need of the hard hand play had taken out of her hands for a while, making her as a child in the hands of the strong wielders of the blades. So now she became calm once more, and her face was clad again with the full measure of that majesty of beauty, which had once overawed face of God amidst his love of her, and folk beheld her, and marvelled at her fairness, and said, she hath an inward sorrow at leaving the fair dale where in her father's dwelt, and where her mother's ashes lie in earth. Albeit now was her sorrow but little, and much was her hope, and her foresight of days to be. Though all the dale, yea, every leaf and twig of it whereby her feet had ever passed, and each stone of the fair houses, was to her as a picture that she could look on from henceforth for ever. Of the bride it has to be said that she was now much mended, and she caused men bear her on a litter out into the marketplace, that she might look on the departure of her folk. She had seen face of God once and again since the day of battle, and each time had been kind and blithe with him, and for eye and face she loved him so well, she was ever loath to let him depart from her, save when folk might was with her. And now was the alderman standing beside her, and she said to him, Friend in kinsmen, this is the day of departure, and though I must need to bide behind, and am content to abide, yet doth mine heart ache with the sundering. For tomorrow, when I wake in the morning, there will be no more sending of a messenger to fetch thee to me. Indeed, great hath been the love between me and my people, and naught hath come between us to mar it. Now, kinsmen, I would see Goldmay my cousin, that I may bid him farewell, for who knoweth if I shall see him again hereafter? Then went eye and face, and found face of God, where he was speaking with folk might and the chieftains, and said to him, Come quickly, for thy cousin the bride would speak with thee. Face of God reddened, and paled afterwards, but he went along with his father silently, and his heart beat as he came and stood before the litter, whereas the bride lay, clad all in white, and propped up on fair cushions of red silk. She was frail to look on, and worn and pale yet, but he deemed that she was very happy. She smiled on him, and reached out to her hand, and said, Welcome once more, cousin, and he held her hand and kissed it, and was nigh weeping, so so was he beset by a throng of memories concerning her and him in the days when they were little, and he bethought him of her loving-kindness of past days, beyond that of most children, beyond that of most maidens, and how there was nothing in his life, but she had a share in it, till the day when he found the hall on the mountain. So he said to her, Kinswoman, is it well with thee? Ye, she said, I am now whole of my hurts. He was silent awhile, then he said, and otherwise, art thou merry at heart? Ye, indeed, said she, yet thou will not find it hard to deem that I am sorry of the sundering betwixt me and Burgdale. Again he was silent, and said in awhile, dost thou deem that I wrought that sundering? She smiled kindly on him, and said, Goldmane, my playmate, thou art to become a mighty warrior and a great chief, but thou art not so mighty as that. Many things lay behind the sundering, which were neither thou nor I. Yet, said he, it was but such a little timer gone that all things seemed so sure, and we, to both of us, was the outlook happy. Let it be happy still, she said, now begrudging is gone. Be like the sundering came because we were so sure, and had no defence against the wearing of the days, even as it ferreth with a folk that hath no foes. He smiled and said, even as it hath befallen thy folk, O bride, awhile ago. She reddened and reached her hand to him, and he took it and held it, and said, Shall I see thee again as the days wear? Said she, O chieftain of the folk, thou shalt have much to do in Burgdale, and the way is long. Yet would I have thee see my children? Forget not the token on my hand which thou holdest. But now get thee to thy folk with no more words, for after all playmate the sundering is grievous to me, and I would not spin out the time thereof. Farewell. He said no more, but stoop down and kissed her lips, and then turned from her, and took his ways to the head of the host, and fell to asking and answering, and bidding and arraying. And in a little time was his heart dancing with joy to think of the days that lay before him, wherein now all seemed happy. So was all arrayed for departure when it lacked three hours of noon. As folk-mates had promised, there were certain light wanes drawn by bullocks abiding the departure of the host, and of sumpter-bullocks and horses no few, and all these were laden with fair gifts of the dale as silver and raiment and weapons. There were many things fair wrought in the time of the sorrow, the tense fourth should see but little sorrow. Moreover there was plenty of provision for the way, both meal and wine, and sheep and neat, and all things as fair as might be, and well arrayed. It was the shepherds who were to lead the way, and after them were arrayed the men of the vine and the sickle, then they of the steer the bridge and the bull, and lastly the house of the face, with old stone face leading them. The sun-beam was to journey along with the house of the steer which had taken her in as a maiden of their blood, and though she had so much leaver have fared with the house of the face, yet she went meekly as she was bidden as one who has gotten a great thing, and will make no stir about a small one. Along with her were wood father and wood-mother and wood-wise, now a whole of his hurt, and wood-once and bome. Save bome, they were not very joyous, for they were feign of silver-dale, and it irked them to leave it. Moreover they also had leaver have gone along with the house of the war-leader. Last of all went those people of the once-thrawls of the dusky men who had cast in their lot with the burg-dailers, and they were exceeding merry, and especially the women of them, they were chattering like the stairs in the autumn evening, when they gather from the fields in the tall elm-trees before they go to roost. Now all the men of the dail, both of the kindreds and of the thraw-folk, made way for the host and its havings, that they might go their ways down the dail, albeit the woodlanders clung close to the line of their ancient friends, and with them, as men who were sorry for the sundering, were wolf-stone and godswain and spear-fist. But the chiefs, they drew around folk-mite a little beside the way. Now red-coat of waterless, who had been hurt, and was now whole again, cast his arms about folk-mite and kissed him, and said, All away hence to burg-dail will I soar with good wishes for thee and thine, and especially for my dear friend, godswain of the silver arm, that I would wish and long that they might turn into spells to draw thy feet to usward, for we love thee well. In likewise speak other of the burg-dailers, and folk-mite was kind and blithe with them, and he said, Friends, forget ye not, that the way is no longer from you to us, than it is from us to you. One half of this matter is for you to deal with. True is that, said Redbeard of the Knolls. But look, ye fort-mite, we be but simple husband men, and may not often stir from our meadows and acres. Even now I bethink me, that's me as a midsters, and I am beginning to be drawn by the thought of the heasel. Where as thou? And there with he reddened. I doubt thou hast little to do save the work of chieftains, and we know that such work is but little missed if it be undone. There at folk-mite laughed, and when the others saw that he laughed, they laughed also, else had they forborn for Curtis's sake. But folk-mite answered, Nay, chief of the sickle! I am not all together a chieftain. Now we have gotten as peace, and as a husband man shall I be. Moreover, doubt ye not that I shall do my utmost to behold the fair dale again. For it is but mountains that meet not. Now Spake, face of God to folk-mite, smiling and somewhat softly, and said, He's all forgiven now, since the day when we first felt each other's arms. Nay, all, said folk-mite, noweth before them what I foretold thee in shadowy veil, that thou mightest pay for all that I have gone. If thou wouldest but look to it. Indeed, thou art angry with me for that saying on that eve of shadowy veil. But see thou, in those days, I was an older man than thou, and might admonish thee somewhat. But now, though but a few days have gone over thine head, yet many deeds have abided in thine hand, and thou art much aged. Angereth left thee, and wisdom hath waxed in thee. As for me, I may now say this as I love thee. Then shall all be well. Then face of God cast his arms about him and kissed him, and turned away toward storm-face and hall-face his brother, where they stood at the head of the array of the face. And even therewith came up the alderman, somewhat sad and sober of countenance, and he pushed by the war-leader roughly, and would not speak with him. And now they began to move on amidst the shouting of the men of Silverdale, yet were there amongst the woodlanders, those who wept when they saw their friends thoroughly departing from them. But when they of the foremost of the host were gotten so far forward that the men of the face could begin to move, lo! there was reedman with his fiddle amongst the leaders, and he had done a man's work in the day of life, about him on this morn, with some who had learned the craft of singing well together, and knew his minstrelsy, and he turned to these and nodded as their array moved on, and he drew his bow across the strings, and straight way they fell a singing, even as it might be thus. Back again to the dear dale, where born was the kindred, here when we could, through all wrath of the heavens, all storms of the earth. O true we have left here a part of our treasure, the ashes of stout ones, the stems of the shield, but the bold lives they spend, have sewn us new pleasure, fair tales for the telling in fold and on-field. For as often as we sing of their edges upheaving, when the yellowing windows well draw forth dear drops from the depths of delight. O when down by our feet, the gray sickles are lying, and behind us is curling the suppotide smoke. No which shall they grudge as the joy and sun dying, remembrance of men that put from us the yoke. When the huddle of views from the fells we have driven, and we see down the dale, the gray reach of the roof, we see the lens that draves sorrow aloof. Once then we lamented, and mourn them departed, once only no offener, henceforth shall we fling, their names up aloft where the merriest hearted to the fathers unseen of our life-days we sing. Then there was silence in the ranks of men, and many murmured the names of the fallen, as they fared on their way from out the marketplace of Silverstead. Then once more we looked up the song. Come tell me, o friends, for whom bide of the maiden, wet foot from the river-ford down in the dale, for whom have the good wife, the ox-wagon laden, with a babble of children, round-handed and hail? Come tell me, for what are the women abiding, till each on the other aware they lean? Is it that the sorrow had worn them, or hushed had they bided with lips parched and won? The birds of the air, other tidings have borne them, how glad through the wood goeth man beside man. Then fair forth, o valiant, and loiter no longer, than the cry of the cuckoo when may is at hand. Late wax of the dail do you carry when the host breaketh out from the thicket on shorn, it shall be as the sun that refuses to tarry on the crown of all mornings the midsummer morn. Again the song fell down, so they were well on the western way down Silverdale, and then Reedsman handled his fiddle once more, and again the fair you so slowly, while our echoing halls of our voices are dumb, and abideth on Lytton the hearth brand the holy, and the feet of the kind fairer field shall we come. For not yet through the wood and its tangle you wander, now skirt we no thicket, no path by the mere. Far aloof for our feet leads the dail road out yonder, full fair is the morning, its highway delaying, save the friend's loving kindness, the sundering of speech, the well-willer's word that ends words with the saying, the loath to depart, while each looketh on each. There on then, for not I ye laid them with sorrow, the love of this land do ye bear with you still, in two dales of the earth, for today and tomorrow, is waxing the oak tree of peace and good will. Thus the silver dail, even as men who were a portion thereof, had had not utterly left it behind, and that night they lay in the wild wood, not very far from the dail's end, for they went softly, faring among so many friends. End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Talk upon the tree On the morrow morning, when they were on their way again, face of God left his own folk to go with the house of the steer awhile, and amongst them he fell in with the sunbeam, going along with Bome. So they greeted him kindly, and face of God fell into talk with the sunbeam, as they went side by side through a great oak wood, where for a space was plain green suede, bare of all under wood. So in their talk he said to her, What dimus thou, my speech friend, concerning our coming back to guest in Silverdale one day. The way is long, she said. That may hinder us, but not stay us, said face of God. That is sooth, said the sunbeam. Said face of God, what thing shall stay us? Or dimus thou, that we shall never see besides the long road? Said he. Yea, and what things? Think as thou, said the sunbeam, that the winning of Silverstead is the last battle which thou shall see. Nay, said he, nay, shall I Dale, our Dale, be free from all trouble within itself hence forward? Is there a war built round it to keep out forever storm, pestilence and famine, and the waywardness of its own folk? Waste, woth face of God, and to meet such troubles and overcome them, or to die in strife with them, this is a great part of a man's life. Yea, she said, and hast thou forgotten that thou art now a great chieftain, and that the folk shall look to thee, to use the many days in the year? He laughed and said, so it is, how many days have gone by since I thou be in thy days? She said, and each deed is the corn of wheat from which cometh many corns, and a man's days on the earth are not over many. Then farewell Silver Dale, said he, waving his hand toward the north. War and trouble may bring me back to thee, but it may be not else shall. Fare well. She looked on him fondly, but unsmiling, as he went beside her, strong and warrior-like. The pieces from him went bow-may, barefoot in her white kirtle, but bearing her bow in her hand. A leash of arrows was in her girdle. Her quiver hung at her back, and she was girt with a sword. On the other side went wood-wants and wood-wise, lightly clad, but wept. Wood mother was riding in an ox-way, just behind them, and wood-father went beside her, bearing an axe. Scattered all gaily clad, bearing weapons, so that the oak-wood was bright with them, and the glades merry with their talk and singing and laughter. And before them down the glades, went the banner of the steer, and the white beast led them the nearest way to Burgdale. End of Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. How the host came home again. It was fourteen days before they came to Rosedale, for they had much baggage with them, and they had no mind to weary themselves, and the wood was nothing loathsome to them, whereas the weather was fair and bright for the more parts. They fell in with no mishap by the way, but a score and three of runaways joined themselves to the host, having watched their goings and watching that they were not heard of the overthrow of the dusky men in Silverdale, and others not. The Burgdale has received them all, for it seemed to them no great matter for a score or so of newcomers to the Dale, but when the host was come to Rosedale, they found it fair and lovely, and there they met with those of their folk who had gone with Dallach. But Dallach welcomed the kindreds with great joy and bade them abide, for they were led into Burgdale to tell men there of the tidings. Albeit they were mostly loathed to tarry, yet when he lay hard on them not to depart as men on the morrow of a guild-feast, they abode their three days and were as well guested as might be. And on their departure they were laden with gifts from the wealth of Rosedale by Dallach and his folk. Before they went their ways, Dallach said, You have given me much from time to time, when you found me in the wood-naked waste-rull, yet now I would ask you a gift to lay on the top of all that you have given me. Said face of God, name the gift and thou shall have it, for we deem thee our friend. I am no less, said Dallach, as in time to come I may perchance be able to show you. But now I am able to see how this folk, new-born again, is like to deal with me. For pleasure and a fair life have become so strange to them that they scarce know what to do with them, or how to live, and unless all is to go awry, I must needs command and forbid. Though be like they love me, yet they fear me not, so that when my commandments please of them, they do as I bid, and when it please of them not, they arise that I shall in no case lift a hand against them, which indeed is the very sooth. But your folk, they fear as warriors of the world, who have slain the dusky men in the marketplace of Silverstead, and they are of alien blood to them, men who will do as their friend bideth, think our folk, against them who are neither friends or foes. With such help I shall be well hoping. In such wise chief said that so it should be, if men could be found willing to abide in Rosedale for a while. And when the matter was put abroad, there was no lack of such men amongst the younger warriors, who had noted that the dale was fair amongst dales, and it's women fairer yet amongst women. So two score and ten of the Bergdale men abode in Rosedale, no one of whom was more than Rosedale, and never came back to Bergdale, save us guests. For a half score were wedded in Rosedale before the year's ending, and seven more, who had also taken to them wives of the goodliest of the Rosedale women, betook them the next spring to the Berg of the Runaways, and there built them a stead, and drew a garth about it, and dug and sewed the banks of the river, which they called Inglebourne. And as years passed, this same stead leadingly, and men resorted dither both from Rosedale and Bergdale, for it was a pleasant place, and the land when it was cured was sweet and good, and the wood thereabout was full of deer of all kinds. So their stead was called Inglebourne after the stream, and in later days it became a very goodly habitation of men. Moreover, some of the once enthralled folk of Rosedale, when they knew that men of Bergdale to dwell in the dale, prayed hard to go along with them, for they looked on the Bergdale as if they were new gods of the earth. The Bergdale chiefs would not gain say these men either, but took with them three score and ten from Rosedale, men and women, and promised them dwelling and livelihood in Bergdale. So now, with good hearts, the host of Bergdale turned their faces toward their well-beloved men, and they made good diligence, so that in three days' time they would come and nigh the edge of the woodland wilderness. Thither in the even tide, as they were making ready for their last supper and bed in the wood, came three men and two women of their folk, who had been abiding their coming, ever since they had had the tidings of Silverdale and the battles from Dahlach. Great was the joy of these familiar faces of their friends, and heard their wanted voices, telling all the story of battle and slaughter. And for their part, the men of the host feasted these stay-at-homes and made much of them. But one of them, a man of the house of the face, left the host little after nightfall, and bore back to Bergstead at once the tidings of the coming home of the host. Albeit since Dahlach's tidings of victory had come to the Dahlach, the dwellers in the steds of the countryside had left Bergstead and gone home to their own houses, so that there was no great multitude abiding in the thought. So early on the morrow was the host a stir, but ere they came to Wildlake's way, the shepherd folk turned aside westward to go home, after they had bid them farewell to their friends and fellows of the Dahlach, for their souls longed for the sheep-cuts in and the garths where the last years' ricks shouldered up against the old stone gables, and where the doors were busy in the tall unfrequent ash trees, and the green flowery meadows are down along the bright streams, where the crow-futs and the pagels were blooming now, and the hare-bells were in flower about the thornbushes at the down's foot, whence went the savor of their blossom over sheepwalk and water-meadow. So these went their ways with many kind and two hours afterwards. All the rest of the host stood on the level ground of the port way, but presently were the ranks of war disordered and broken up by the joy of the women and children, as they felt a drawing goodman or brother or lover out of the throng to the way that led speediest to their homesteads and halls. For the war-leader would not hold the host together any longer, and hopefully they of the face and the steer would suffice for a company if any need were, and they would be easily gathered to meet any hat. So now the men of the middle and lower dale made for their houses by the road and the lanes and the meadows and the men of the upper dale and Burgstead went their ways along the port way toward their halls with the throng and the long day before them and it was as it were made giddy and cumbered with the exceeding joy of return and the thought of the day when the fear of death and sundering had been ever in their hearts. For these new hours were full of the kissing and embracing of lovers and the sweetness of renewed delight in beholding the fair bodies so sorely desired and harkening beneath the chestnut trees and the talk of the deeds of the fighting men and of the heavy days of the homerbiders. Many a tale told often or again there was the singing of old songs and of new and the beholding the well-loved nuke of the pleasant places which death might well have made nought for them and they were sweet with the fear of that which was past and in their pleasantness was fresh promise amid their joys came evening and nightfall and though folk were weary with the fullness of delight yet now for many their weariness led them to the chamber of love before the rest of deep night came to them to make them strong for the happy life to be begun again on the morrow. House by house they feasted and few were the lovers that sat house of the face for needs must she go with her new folk to the house of the steer and needs must face of God be amongst his own folk in that hour of high tide and sits beside his father beneath the image of the God with the rabie Goet's head end of 57 58 of the roots of the mountains by William Morris this Librivox recording is in the public domain where the maiden ward was held in Burgdale now May was well-worn when the host came home to Burgdale and on the very morrow of men's homecoming they began to talk eagerly of the midsummer weddings and how the maiden ward would be the greatest and fairest of all yet seen whereas battle and deliverance from battle stir up the longing and love both of men and maidens much also men spake the sunbeam and needs must their wedding abide to the time of the maiden ward at midsummer and needs also must the sunbeam go on the ward with the other brides of the folk so then must face of God keep his soul impatience till those few days were over doing what work came to hand and he held his head high among the people and was well doing and now so wonderful and rare was her beauty that folk looked on her with somewhat of fear as though she came from the very folk of the Gods indeed she seemed somewhat changed from what she had been of late she was sober of demeanour during those last days of her maidenhood and sat amongst the kindred as one communing with herself whom or shaken by passion soft and kind was she in converse with others and sweet were the smiles that came into her face if others faces seemed to crave for them for it must be said that as some folk eat out their hearts with fear of the coming evils even so was she feeding her soul with the joy of the days though or the days toward midsummer when the wheat was getting past the blossoming and the grass in the moan fields was growing deep again after the shearing of the scythe when the leaves were most and biggest when the roses were beginning to fall when the apples were reddening and the skins of the great berries gathering bloom higher loft floated the light clouds dwindled all things sought the shadow by daytime and the twilight of even and the twilight of dawn were but sundered by three hours of half dark night so in the bright forenoon were seventeen brides assembled in the gate of Burgstead but of the rest of the dale were twenty and three looked for and with these was the sun beam her face many were restless and babbling like April throssels and not a few talked to her eagerly and in their restless love of her dragged her about hither and thither no men were to be seen that morning for such was the custom that the carls either departed to the fields and the acres or abode within doors on the morning of the day of the maiden ward but there was a throng of women about the gate and down the street of Burgstead and it may well be deemed they kept not silas that hour so fared the brides of Burgstead to the place of the maiden ward on the causeway where two were come already the other brides from steds up and down the dale or were even then close at hand on the way and among them were Longcoat and her two fellows with whom face of God had held converse on that morning whereon he had followed his fate to the mountain there then and by the roadside had their grooms built them up bowers of green boughs to shelter them from the sun's burning which were thatched with bulrushes and decked with garlands of the fairest flowers of the meadows and the gardens for sooth they were a lovely sight to Lucan for no fairer women might be seen in the world and the eldest of them was scant of five and twenty winters every maiden their sleeves and gownhems and girdles yay their very shoes and sandals were embroidered so fairly and closely that as they shifted in the sun they changed colour like the kingfisher shooting from shadow to sunshine according to due custom every maiden bore some weapon a few had bows in their hands and quivers at their backs some had noughts but a sword go to their sides some bore slender-shafted so as not to over-burden their shapely hands but to some it seemed a merry game to carry long and heavy thrusts-bears or to bear great war-axes over their shoulders most had their flowing hair coiffed with bright helms some had burdened their arms with shields some bore steel-horberks over their linen smocks almost all had some piece of war-gear on their bodies and one to it steel-inden all and fair-damsel were so arrayed that no garments could be seen on her but bright steel-war-gear as for the sun-beam she was clad in a white-kirtle embroidered from throat to hem with work of green-bowers and flowers of the goodliest fashion and a garland of roses on her head Dalewarden himself was go to her side by a girdle fair wrought of golden wire and she bore no other weapon or war-gear and she let him lie quiet in his scabbard nor touched the hills once whereas some of the other damsels would be ever drawing their swords out and thrusting them back but all noted that goodly weapon the yoke-fellow of so many great deeds there then on the portway between the water and the rock-wall rose up plentious and gleeful talk of clear voices shrill and soft and wiles the maiden sang and wiles they told tales of old days and wiles they joined hands and danced together on the sweet summer dust of the highway then they mostly grew weary and sat down on the banks of the road or under the leafy bowers noon came and there with all good wives of the neighbouring Dale who brought their meat and drink and fruit and fresh flowers from the teeming gardens and thereafter for a while it was fate but little and softly when the day was at its hottest in the early afternoon then came out of Burgstead men making semblance of Chapman with a wane bearing wares and they made as though they were wending down the portway westward to go out of the Dale then arose the weapon maidens and barred the way to them and turned the shadows growing long came herdsmen from down the Dale driving neat and making as though they would pass by into Burgstead but to them also did the maidens gainsay the road so that needs must they turn back amidst laughter and mockery they themselves also laughing and mocking and so at last when the maidens had been all alone a while and it was now hard on sunset they drew together and fell to singing and one gold may of the house of the bridge a most sweet singer stood amidst their ring and led them and this is somewhat of the meaning of their words the sun will not tarry now change of the light fail the colours that marry the day to the night amid the sun's burning bright weapons we bore for this eve of our earning comes once and no more for today and tomorrow no other alike it doth hide this day is the token of oath and behest that near shall be broken through ill days and best here the truth hath been given the oath hath been done to the folk that have driven well under the sun and the gifts of its giving our truth day shall win at the dale for our living and dear days therein amidst all that thou gainest how gainful are we for witness of sorrow wide over the earth rise up on the morrow to look on our mirth thy blooms art thou bringing back ever for men and thy birds are singing each summer again but to men little hearted what winter is worse than thy summers departed that bore them the curse and in such art thou knowing where thrive of the year is all growing save thrall them and fear nor such be our lovers hearts drawing an eye while yet thy light hovers aloft in the sky lo the seeker the finder of death in the blade what lips shall be kinder on lips of mine laid lo he that hath driven back tribes of the south sweet breath is thine even look at down look on me then and ask what I lack come many a morrow to gaze on the dale and if ere thou see a sorrow remember its tale but will be of a story to tell how men died in the garnering of glory that no man may hide o sun sinking under o fragrance of earth o heart o the wonder whence longing hath birth so they sang and the sun sank indeed and amidst their singing the eve was still about them though they came a happy murmur from the face of the meadows and the houses of the Thorp aloof but as their song fell they heard the sound of footsteps of many on the road so they turned and stood with beating hearts in such order as when a band of the valiant draw together to meet many foes coming on them from all sides and they stand back to back to face even therewith their raiment gleaming amidst the gathering dusk came on them the young men of the dale newly delivered from the grief of war then in very deed the fierce mouths of the razors of the warshouts were kind on the faces of tender maidens then went spear and axe and helm and shield clattering to the earth as the arms of the newcomers went round about the bodies of the brides of sunshine and a glee and loving speech and the maidens suffered the young men to lead them wither they would and twilight began to draw round about them as the maiden band was sundered some they were led away westward down the port way to the homesteads there about and for diverse of these the way was long to their halls and they would have to wend over long stretches of dewy meadows and here the night wind whisper in many a tree the east begin to lighten with the dawn before they came to the lighted feasts that awaited them but some turned up the port way straight towards Burgstead and short was their road to the halls where even now the lights were being kindled for their greeting as for the sun beam she had been very quiet the day long speaking as little as she might do laughing not at all and smiling for kindness's sake rather than for merriment and when the grooms came seeking their maidens she withdrew herself from the band and stood alone amidst the road nigh at a Burgstead than they and her heart beat hard and her breath came short and quick as though fear had caught her in its grip and indeed for one moment of time she feared that he was not coming to her for he had gone with the other grooms to that gathered band and had passed from one to the other until he had got him through the whole company and beheld her awaiting him then indeed he bounded toward her and caught her by the hands and then by the shoulders and drew her to him and she nothing loath and in that while he said to her come then my friend lo thou they go each their own way toward the halls of their houses and for thee have I chosen away away over the footbridge yonder on this best even of the year nay nay she said it may not be surely the Bergsted grooms look to thee to lead them to the gate and surely in the house of the face they look to see thee before any other nay goldman my dear we must need to go by the portway he said we shall be home but a very little while after the first for the way I tell of is as short as the portway we shall sit down for a minute on a bank under the chestnut trees and then swatch the moon coming up over the southern cliffs and I shall behold thee in the summer night and deem that I see all thy beauty which yet shall make me dumb with wonder when I see it indeed in the house amongst the candles oh nay she said by the portway shall we go the torch bearer shall be abidingly at the gate then shall we rise up and when first through a wide treeless meadow wherein amidst the night we shall behold the kind moving about like odorous shadows and through the grayness of the moonlight thou shalt deem that thou see us the pink color of the eglantine blossoms so fragrant they are oh nay she said but it is me that we go by the portway but he said then from the wide meadow and then into an orchard close beyond it there in the ancient walnut tree the owls siteth breathing hard in the night time but thou shall not hear him for the joy of the nightingale singing from the apple trees of the close then from out of the shadowed orchard shall we come into the open town meadow and over its days is shall the moonlight be lying and across the water lie the fair garden of the face and I have died for thee there a little boat to aft us across the night dark waters that shall be like wavering flames of white fire where the moon smites them and like the void of all things where the shadows hang over them there then shall we be in the garden beholding how the hall windows are yellow and harkening the sound of the nightingales in the trees there then shall we go along the grass paths whereby the pinks and the cloves and the lavender ascending forth their fragrance to cheer us who faint at the scent of the overworn roses and the honey sweetness of the lilies all this is for thee and for not but for thee this even and many a blossom whereof thou knowest not shall grieve if thy foot tread made be void of thee on the even of the chamber of love but lo at last at the garden's end is the you-walk arched over for thee and thou canst not see whereby to enter it but I I know it and I lead thee into and along the dark tunnel through the moonlight and thine hand is not weary of mine as we go but at the end shall we come to a wicket turn we about its corner then and there are we blinking on the torches of the torchbearers and the candles through the open door and the hall ablaze with light and full of joyous clamour like the balefire in the night kindled on a nest above the sea by fisherfolk remembering the gods oh nay she said but by the port way must we go the straightest way to the gate of spake and knew not what she said for even as he was speaking he led her away and her feet went as her will went rather than her words and even as she said that last word she set her foot on the first board of the footbridge and she turned back one moment and saw the long line of the rock wall yet glowing with the last of the sunset of midsummer while as she turned again low was just beginning to lift himself above the edge of the southern cliffs and betwixt her and him all burgdale and face of god moreover thus then they crossed the bridge into the green meadows and through the closest and into the garden of the face and onto the whole door and other brides and grooms were there before them for six grooms had brought home brides to the house of the face but none the folk and the love that had led him and old stone face said to many of the rows of base-skeps in the gardens of the dale that's way should be grudge way would love us an hours waste of candle light so at last those twain went up the some bright hall hand in hand in all their loveliness and up onto the dais and stood together by smile as they saw that there was speech in the mouth of the war leader then he spread his hands abroad before them all and cried out how then have I kept mine oath whereas I swore on the holy bore to wed the fairest woman of the world a mighty shout went rattling about the timbers of the roof in answer to his word and they that looked up to the gable with joy over the gathered folk but spake iron face unheard amidst the clamour of the hall how fares it now with my darling and my daughter who dwelleth among strangers in the land beyond the wildwood end of chapter 58 chapter 59 of the roots of the mountains by William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain the place of God to the bride accomplished a moatstead appointed for the three folks to it the men of Burgdale the shepherds and the children of the wolf three years and two months thereafter three hours afternoon in the days of early autumn came a wane tilted over with precious webs of cloth and drawn by eight white oxen into the marketplace of Silverstead to score a goodly war gear went beside it and much people of Silverdale thronged about them The wane stayed at the foot of the stair that led up to the door of the moat house and there lighted down there from a woman goodly of fashion with wide grey eyes and face and hands brown with the sun's burning she had a helm on her head and a sword and a bow may with the second man child born to face of God she stayed not amidst the wondering folk but hastened up the stair which she had once seen running with the blood of men the door was open and she went in and walked straight away with the babe in her arms and her heart went forth to meet the chieftain of her folk and the glad tears started in her eyes and ran down her cheeks as she drew near to him by his eyes sat the bride and her also bome deemed to have waxed goodlier while she and folk might knew bome here she had gone half the length of the hall the more part of whom bome knew well on the day us also stood aside a score of men weaponed and looking as if they were awaiting the word which had sent them forth on some errand now stood up folk might and said fair greeting and love to my friend and the daughter of my folk how fairest thou bome best of all friendly women said bome it is well both with all those and with me and my heart laughs to see the folk might and to look on the elders of the valiant and our lovely sister the bride but I have a message for thee from face of god wilt thou that I deliver it here yea surely said folk might and came forth and took her hand and kissed her and they led her between them to a seat on the dais beside folk might but all men looked on the child in her arms and wondered what it was but bome took the babe which was both fair and great and set it on the knees of the bride and said thus say a face of god friend and kinswoman well of thy friend the ring which I gave thee once in the garden of the face give thou to bome my trusty and well beloved in token of the fulfillment of my behest then the bride kissed bome again and fell to fondling of the child which was loath to leave bome but she spake again to thee also folk might we are happy yet is there a hollow place in our hearts which grieve with us and only thou and thine may amend it though whilst we hear tell of thee yet we see thee not and feign were we might we see thee and what if the said tales be true wilt thou help us somewhat herein or wilt thou leave us all the labour for sure we be that thou wilt not say that thou remember us does no more and that thy love for thou have an answer from thee then laughed folk might and said sister bore may see us thou these weapon men hereby yea she said said he these men bear a message with them to face of God my brother crow the shaft speeder stand forth and tell thy friend bore may the message I have set in thy mouth friend and helper in the Dale which thou hast given to us do all things thrive neither are we grown old in three years wearing nor are our memories worsened we long soar to see you and give you guesting in Silverdale and one day that shall be fall meanwhile know this that we have the wolf and the woodland mindful of the earth that bore us and the pits whence we were digged have a mind to go see shadowy veil every three years and there to hold high tide in the ancient hall of the wolf and sit in the doomering of our fathers but since you have joined yourself to us in battle and have given us this Dale our health and wealth without price and without reward we deem you are very brethren and small shall be our whole glee and barren shall our doomering seem to us unless you sit there beside us come then that we may to face and sound of voice that we may speak together of matters that concern our welfare so that we three kindreds may become one folk and if this seem good to you know that we shall be in shadowy veil in a half month's wearing grieve us not by for bearing to come Lord bore me this is the message and I have learned it well for it please us me to bear it to the message bore me it is good in all ways said she but is it timely may our folk have the message and get to shadowy veil so as to meet you there yeah surely said folk might for our kinsmen here shall take the road through shadowy veil and in four days time they shall be in burgdale and as they wattest it is scant to two days journey then to shadowy veil therewith and use all diligence with thy message so the messengers began to stir but bore me cried out oh folk might my friend I perceive thou art little change from the man I knew in shadowy veil who would have his dinner before the fowl were plucked for shall I not go back with these messengers so that I also may get ready to went to the motel of shadowy veil but the bride looked kindly on her and laughed thou should us divide here in silverdale till we depart for the folk thing and then go thither with us and this I also pray thee to do that thou mayest rejoice the hearts of thine old friends and also that thou mayest teach me all that I should know concerning this fair child of my brother and my sister and she looked on her so kindly as she caressed the babe the bore me's heart melted and she cried out words that thou swear in thou dwellest or bride of my kinsman and this that thou bidest me is easy and pleasant for me to do but afterwards I must get me back to burgdale for I seem to have left much there that calleth for me yea said folk mind and art thou wedded bore me thought thou'd never bend the you in battle again said bore me that's when I followed those twain through the wild woods of burgdale she sighed therewith and said in all the dale there's no better man of his hands than my man nor any goodlier to look on and he is even that heart of highcliff whom thou knowest well or bride said the bride thou say a sooth there is no better man in the dale said bore me some babe bathed me wed him when he pressed hard upon me she stayed a while and then said face of god also deemed I should not nay say the man and now my son by him is of like ace to this little one good is thy story said folk might adeem us thou bore me that such strong and goodly women as thou and women so kind and friendly should for bear the wedding and the bringing forth of children yea and we who may even yet after gather to another field before we die but before all and me is good since the day we're on a loose shaft from the break of the bent over yonder therewith she fell amusing and made as though she were harkening to the soft voice of the bride caressing the newcom baby but in sooth neither heard nor saw what was going on about her for her thoughts were in bygones how be it presently she came to herself again and fell to asking many questions who had once been the thralls of the dusky men and they answered all duly and told her the whole story of the dale since the day of the victory so bo may and the cars who had come with her abode for that half month in silver dale guested in all love by the folk thereof both the kindred and the poor that was she full of joy since she knew that face of god and the sunbeam would be feign thereof thereafter when the time was come fared folk might and the bride and many of the elders and warriors of the wolf and the woodland to shadowy veil and dale and the best of rose dale went with them being so bidden and bo may and her following according to the word of the bride and face and the chiefs of burgdale and the shepherds and many others and great joy there was at the meeting and the sunbeam remembered the word which he spoke to face of god when first he came to shadowy veil that she would be wishable to see again the dwelling wherein she had passed through so much joy and sorrow of her younger days but if anyone were feign of this meeting the alderman was more in his arms and caressed her whom he had deemed should be a very daughter of his house now telleth the tale of all these kindreds to it the men of burgdale and the sheep coats and the children of the wolf and the woodlanders and the men of rose dale that they were friends henceforth and became as one folk for better or worse in peace and in war in waning and waxing they ever held shadowy veil a holy place and for long and long after they met there in mid-autumn and held converse and council together no more as now telleth the tale of these kindreds and folks but makeeth an ending End of chapter 59 End of the Roots of the Mountains by William Morris