CHAPTER VII.
“Are you prepared for mountain climbing?” Elena asked the next morning when Tacita woke.
“I am prepared for anything! I have had such a refreshing sleep! How long has it been?”
“Nearly twelve hours, my dear. Your ancestors must have come from Ephesus. I thought that I knew how to sleep; but the singleness of purpose with which you lay yourself away is something entirely your own. It is a gift. It arrives at genius. Now, who do you think that I can see coming over a rocky path above the olives?”
“Can it be Dylar?”
“It is Dylar. He will be here in fifteen minutes.”
The people of the house paid as little attention to their guests in the morning as they had the evening before. Elena brought the breakfast, if she did not prepare it. Probably they were all out picking oranges. Children were visible at a distance gathering the fruit up from under the trees. The orchard was a good many acres in extent.
When Tacita, prepared for her journey, went down to the door, their driver of the day before stood there with two donkeys girded with chair-shapedsaddles, with high backs and foot-rests. Not far away there was another donkey. Beside it stood a man who uncovered his head, and looked with an eager smile at the young traveler when she appeared.
“He is one of my people,” Elena said. “I have been talking with him. You should salute him in this way,” lifting her hand above her face.
Tacita imitated her with a smiling glance toward the guide, who responded.
Away under the trees talking with the farmers was a third man, who as soon as Tacita appeared, came to meet her.
It was Dylar; but Dylar in a conventional dress such as any gentleman might wear in traveling; and with the dress, he had assumed something of the conventional manner. Had he lost by the change? she asked herself, while he made courteous inquiries, and looked to see if her saddle was firm. No: the face was the same, and could easily make one forget the costume; and there was sincerity in the tone of his inquiries.
“We cross this angle of the mountains, and go back almost in the direction from which you came yesterday,” Dylar said. “I am sorry that it was necessary to take you by the longer way. Late in the afternoon we shall reach a house where you and Elena will sleep. It is a solitary place, but more comfortable than it looks at first sight, and it is quite safe. To-morrow you will have but three hours’ ride.”
They mounted, and took the path that led backward over the heights. They rode singly, Elena with her guide leading. Tacita followed with a man at her bridle, and Dylar came last.
The air grew cooler and finer. It was the air that makes one wish to dance.
Tacita asked herself what it could be in all these faces,—Dylar’s, Elena’s, the two guides’, yes, and in her own mother’s and grandfather’s,—which made them resemble each other in spite of different features and characters. It was a spiritual family resemblance. Ingenuous was not the word. It was not dignity alone. Strong and gentle did not describe it. It was the expression of a certain harmonious poise and elastic firmness of mind indicating that each one had found his proper place, and was content with it; indicating, too, a mutual complaisance, but a supreme dependence on something higher.
Their way led deeper into the mountains. Now and then, in turnings of the path, Tacita lost sight of her companions. She looked backward once for Dylar. When he appeared, he smiled and waved his hand to her encouragingly.
“He smiled!” she whispered to herself, but did not look back again.
The sky was blue and cloudless, and pulsed with its fullness of light. Somewhere, not far away, there was a waterfall. Its infant thunder and lisping splash pervaded the air. The scene grew more grand and terrible. One moment they would beshut into a narrow space from which exit seemed impossible, dark stone grinding close without a sign of pathway; then the solid walls were cleft as in an instant. In the near deeps lurked a delicate shadow; far below was revealed from time to time a velvety darkness.
Tacita’s mind, floating between present contentment, a half-forgotten pain, and a mystical anticipation, confused the scene about her with others far away. Clustered windows, crowded sculptures and balconies, seemed to emboss the cliffs at either hand, or float in misty lines along their surfaces. The sound of the haunting cascade became the dip of oars, or the swash of the lagoon ploughed by a steamboat. She saw their time-stained old Venetian house; and the last scenes she had witnessed there rose before her. A wreath of mist that had risen from some invisible stream and paused among the rocks recalled a narrow bed with a white-haired old man lying on it, peaceful and dead. The hymn sung as he died seemed only that moment to have ceased on the air. Why had it sounded familiar? Perhaps it might have a phrase in common with some song she knew. How did it go? She hummed softly, feeling for the tune, found a bar or two, and sang in a low voice.
To her astonishment, her guide at once took up the strain, and from him Elena and her guide, and then Dylar. They sang:—
“San Salvador, San Salvador,We live in thee!’Tis love that holds the threads of fate;Death’s but the opening of a gate,The parting of a mist that dims the sky.We live in thee! We live in thee!San Salvador,We live in thee!”
“San Salvador, San Salvador,We live in thee!’Tis love that holds the threads of fate;Death’s but the opening of a gate,The parting of a mist that dims the sky.We live in thee! We live in thee!San Salvador,We live in thee!”
“San Salvador, San Salvador,We live in thee!’Tis love that holds the threads of fate;Death’s but the opening of a gate,The parting of a mist that dims the sky.We live in thee! We live in thee!San Salvador,We live in thee!”
“San Salvador, San Salvador,
We live in thee!
’Tis love that holds the threads of fate;
Death’s but the opening of a gate,
The parting of a mist that dims the sky.
We live in thee! We live in thee!
San Salvador,
We live in thee!”
Tacita held her breath to listen. Was she indeed riding through mountain paths and morning air, or lying in a dream in some strange land? Dylar’s was the voice that had sung beneath their window when her grandfather was dying!
The way grew wilder. The rocks were black and frowning. Sometimes their path was but a narrow shelf along the face of a precipice. Once the guide made her descend, and fastened a rope from iron hook to hook set in the rock for her to hold in passing.
At noon they reached a little plateau,—a few feet of short turf, some tiny vines and spotted lichens, and a blue flower, all of which seemed miracles in that place. Here they dismounted and ate their luncheon.
“What a wonder a flower would be, if there were only one in the world!” Dylar said, seeing Tacita bend over this.
She smiled, and continued to examine it carefully, without touching. It seemed something sacred. Who drew the little lines on its petals, and scattered the gold dust in its heart, and gave it all that seeming of innocent faith and courage? The grass-blades, too, with their fine serrated edges, and sharp points thrust upward, then curving over,as if they were spears changing to pruning-hooks,—what beautiful things they were when there were but few!
Dylar and Elena talked with their guides in a language that she had never heard before, yet which she could almost understand.
It was a clear-sounding and sonorous language, with a good deal of accent, and it almost sang.
“You will soon learn it,” Elena said. “It is the flower of all languages, not yet rich, but pure.”
They mounted, and pursued their way. After some hours the path began to broaden and descend. They entered a pine wood, and the sun deserted them, showing only on the tops of the highest trees. The way was dim and fragrant, long brown aisles of gloom stretched away at their left. But only a fringe of trees stood between them and the crags at their right.
The path turned with a long curve, and they were at the door of a dark old house, built of rough stones, and set against a cliff. Opposite the door a road went down into the pines, and disappeared. The road by which they had come continued past the door, descended gently, and disappeared around the cliffs.
The house had a sinister, deserted look. The door was off the hinges, and set against an inner wall. The rude shutters of an upper window hung half open. Where the masonry of the house ended and the natural rock began was not apparent. Naturehad adopted the rough stones, and set her lichens and grasses in their interstices.
A rivulet fell from the heights into a trough near the door, twisting itself as it fell, and braiding in strands of light. From the trough the water overflowed, and followed the road.
“It is not so bad as it looks,” Elena said.
Dylar came to assist Tacita. “I think that you will be able to rest well here, unpromising as it looks,” he said. “Do not be anxious. You will be well guarded. And to-morrow your journey will come to an end.”
As they entered the house, a man came hastening down the stairs. He saluted Dylar with reverence and Elena with delight. They spoke together in the language the guides had used. The man bowed lowly before Tacita, and smiled a welcome.
The room had no door but that by which they had entered, and no furniture but a rough bench and table. There was a cavernous chimney. The floor was strown all about with twigs and pine-needles.
One of the guides brought in some boughs, and kindled a fire on the hearth.
Dylar took leave of Tacita, and pursued his way down the carriage-road leading by the rocks. In parting he said,—
“After to-morrow I will see you, if the King wills.”
A stair led directly from the room to a landing. Two doors opened on this landing. One wasclosed. The other stood wide open into a chamber that was in pleasant contrast with the room below. A wide white bed, a deep sofa, a commode and mirror, a table set with covers for two drawn up before the sofa, and a second table holding roasted fowl, salad, wine, and fruit promised every necessary comfort. The room was rough but clean. A gray muslin curtain was drawn back from one side of the window, and there was a glazed sash in a sliding frame at the other.
“Isn’t it cosy!” said Elena, who seemed to be overflowing with joy at finding herself so near home. “Now, lie down on the sofa, dear, and you shall have some soup as soon as it is hot. We shall fare well. Our supper has been prepared by the housekeeper at the castle, and sent in good order.”
“I must not ask what castle?” Tacita said.
“Why, Castle Dylar, of course!” Elena said, and went down stairs for the soup.
There was a sound from below of the door being set on its hinges and barred, and the shutters were closed.
“The guides will sleep below,” Elena said.
“Elena,” said Tacita, “what did Dylar mean when he said ‘if the King wills?’ Who is the king?”
“Christ Jesus,” replied Elena, bowing her head.
“Evviva Gesù!” exclaimed the girl with pleasant surprise. “And is Dylar the master of Castle Dylar?”
“He is sole master!”
“Am I allowed to ask if he has any title of nobility?”
“He is a prince,” said Elena.
She asked no more.
Later, when half asleep, she became aware of strange sounds from below, as of a heavy weight falling, and grating hinges.
“Don’t be afraid,” Elena said. “The men are putting the donkeys in their stable. And our chamber door is strongly barred.”