CHAPTER XXVII.
While they were speaking, three visitors whom they did not expect were approaching San Salvador.
A German, a Frenchman, and an Italian, who had known each other many years, meeting occasionally in the society of different European capitals, had met in Paris that spring, and weary of a round of pleasures which led to nothing but weariness, had started off on a long rambling journey.
They made no plans except to go to places they had heard but little of, and to be ready to stop at a moment’s notice.
It was the German who had discovered that their pleasures led to weariness alone; but his friends readily agreed with him.
“I am inclined to think,” said the Italian, “that the only refuge of civilization is in barbarism.”
“Or in a truer civilization,” said the German.
“Or in a more robust physical health,” said the Frenchman. “So many of our moral impressions proceed from the stomach, or the nerves.”
Though the German had given expression to the unrest of his companions, he was indebted, and perfectly aware that he was indebted to another for his own awakening. It was but a word utteredby a stranger whom he had met in travelling through the Alps; yet the word had often recurred to his mind. How many times when contemplating some act, not dishonorable, indeed, yet worldly, as he had studied and doubted, a lowly murmured word had stolen up in his memory: “E poi?”
In preparing for some reception or fête like a hundred others, in returning from some dissipation, in looking forward in his career and planning out his future life, with what a solemn impressiveness the quiet interrogation had been heard in the first pause of excitement: “E poi?”
Their holiday was almost ended for the three friends, and they were now on their homeward way, the line of their travels forming a long loop, now a little past the turn. The Italian had a young wife who might be pouting at his absence; the Frenchman was a banker, and his partners were getting impatient; the German was an official on leave, and his term was nearly out.
Yet when their train drew up for a few minutes at the lonely station of the Olives, and the Frenchman, usually the leader in all their enterprises, exclaimed, “Once more, my friends! I am sure that no one ever stopped here before,” the other two hailed the proposal, and snatching their valises, they stepped from the carriage just as the train was about to start.
The Italian, one of whose nicknames was Mezzofanti, or Tuttofanti, was always spokesman when they were likely to encounter apatois; but somewhatto their surprise, this simple-seeming station-master spoke both French and English passably.
There was an orange-farm twenty miles northward, he said, but no means of reaching it at that time. Fifteen miles southward was a castle, and a hamlet called the Olives. The man with the donkey-cart just leaving the station was going there.
A castle! It sounded well.
Mezzofanti called the man and entered into negotiations with him; and he, after looking the travelers over with a somewhat critical expression, consented to take them to the Olives on condition that they would take turns walking each a part of the way. He himself would walk half the distance. His donkey would not be able to carry them all.
He further told them that they could not stop at the castle, the master being absent; but they could stop at his house, and could have donkeys to return to the station the next day. They would want a number of donkeys there, as they were expecting supplies. He could give them three good ones, so that they could ride all the way.
There was a certain calm dignity about this man, though his dress was that of a laborer, and his French imperfect, which won their confidence; and they accepted his offer. He had learned French, he said, from his mother, who came to the Olives from France before he was born. He was called Pierre at home. It was the name his mother gave him.
The first part of their road was over an aridplain, dull thin grass and a few parched shrubs spotting the sandy soil; but in the distance was a mass of rich dark green foliage with keen mountains, black and white, rising into the splendid blue above them.
The German remembered one who had said: “I am a daughter of the mountains.” He never saw one of those masses of rock and snow rising into the air without wondering if it might not be there she drew her first breath.
The man, Pierre, did not know the names of the mountains. Some of them had their own names. That highest peak at the left was called the White Lady, and was beyond the castle. The castle was very ancient, and one part in ruins. There were many stories about it. His mother knew them. For him, he was content with the present. The past interested him but little. The castle was set on a spur of the mountains, and quite close to them. The inner wall of the court was a cliff. Their road would lead them ten miles straight to the mountains; then they turned southward, and after five miles would reach the Olives, which was south of the heights and just round a turn. At the first turn was a fountain where they could water the donkey, and rest a little while, if they liked. There was an old ruined house there where they usually stopped, going to and from the station.
“Did the prince live much at the castle?” one of the gentlemen asked.
“No; he came occasionally. He lived abroad,now here, now there. He had spent a fortnight the year before at Castle Dylar with his bride.”
“Oh, there is a bride!” said the Frenchman. “What is she like?”
The man had spoken in a serious and matter-of-fact way; but at the question a smile flitted over his face.
“She is tall and slender, and white and golden-haired,” he said. “She is very silent; but when she smiles, you think that she has spoken.”
The Italian changed color. “Do you know her name—her maiden name?” he asked.
“We call her Lady, or Princess,” the man said. “I know no other name.”
“Where is she from?”
“Oh, far away!” he replied with a vague gesture.
The Italian asked no more; but his face betrayed excitement.
Their road had begun to rise and to be overshadowed by trees. After a while they reached the ruined house built up against the rock, and they alighted to rest, or look about them.
The German exclaimed: “Did you ever see such a green atmosphere! I do not think that you will find such a pine-steeped dimness even in your Italy, Loredan.”
Beside the house a small stream of water from the heights dropped into a trough. Dropping, it twisted itself into a rope. Overflowing the trough, it rippled along beside the road they were to follow.
Pierre drank, washed his face and hands, and watered his donkey. The three travelers went to look at the house. Everything betokened desertion and ruin. The door and shutter hung half off their hinges, and only an upper shutter was closed. A stone stair went up from the one room below; but a heap of brushwood on it barred the passage.
They pursued their way; and as they went, the scene softened. A narrow space of rising grassy land, planted with olive-trees, interposed between them and the rocks, which only here and there thrust out a rude sentinel; and their road, having risen gradually to the house in the pines, began to descend as gradually. The afternoon sun had been excluded; but now it shone across their way. Olive-trees quite replaced the pines, and allowed glimpses of an illuminated landscape to be seen between their crisped-up leaves. They rounded a curve and entered the village. At their right, under thick olives that hid all above them, grassy terraces rose to the castle; at their left were the farms with great white houses sunk in luxuriant vegetation.
The travelers were enchanted. It was a picture! It was a paradise!
Pierre conducted them to his house, and the whole family came out to welcome them with a rustic frankness and an urban courtesy. There was the mother of their host, a woman of eighty, his wife, two tall boys, a girl and a baby. From the roof terrace another girl parted the long palm-leaves to peep down at them.
Entering the wide door was like entering a church. The only partition of the whole ground-floor was made by square pillars of whitewashed masonry which supported the floor above on a succession of arches. But the pillars were so large that they gave an effect of different rooms. Over some of the arches curtains were looped to be used when greater privacy was desired.
One corner next the door seemed designed for a parlor. Far to the right in another direction could be discerned a hand-loom and spinning-wheel, and a stone stair. Far to the left was a kitchen where something was being cooked at an open fire, and nearer, between the white arches, a table set for supper.
Pierre led his visitors up the nave of this strange house, and up the stair to their chambers. They were whitewashed rooms with green doors and small casement windows, over which hung full white linen curtains. Green wooden shutters were opened outside. There were no carpets, only straw mats; yet there was no sign of poverty. The simplicity was artistic.
One of the boys went up with them to the castle. The sun was low, and sent long lines of orange light across the greensward under the trees. Three flights of stone steps led them to the lower hall, where they waited till their guide obtained for them the readily accorded permission to see the castle.
“There is very little to see,” the housekeepersaid. “But what there is I will show you with pleasure.”
They questioned her as they went from room to room, and by secret passages to the upper terrace. Was there any pass through the mountains? Her replies made them wonder that so intelligent a woman should feel so little interest in her immediate neighborhood.
She knew of no pass except one far to the northward; but as the mountains were a group and not a chain, it did not matter. Climbing in the vicinity of the castle had proved so dangerous that the prince had forbidden it.
The Italian spoke of the prince and princess, but learned no more than he already knew, though the housekeeper showed no unwillingness to enlighten him. She was enthusiastic in her admiration for the princess, but did not hear him ask what the lady’s maiden name was,—did not or would not.
Before going away, the three gentlemen laid their cards on the drawing-room table; and when they were gone, the housekeeper looked at them. She read:—
Don Claudio Loredan, Venice.
Vicomte François de Courcelles, Paris.
Herr Ludwig von Ritter, Berlin.
“These must be sent in early to-morrow morning,” she said. “A gentleman from Venice! Perhaps he may have known the princess.”
After supper the travelers went out to smoke their cigarettes under the palm-tree, and the oldwoman, knitting-work in hand, followed them. She evidently expected their request that she would tell them something of the history of the castle, and complied with it with the eagerness of a professional story-teller.
“The origin of Castle Dylar is wrapped in mystery. It is believed that an army of builders once went from land to land building churches, castles, and monuments of various sorts. They built fortresses, and walls for cities, too, and had means unknown to us of moving great stones and fitting them cunningly together. It is believed that Castle Dylar was built by them.
“As for its owner, we will say no evil of the dead. His few poor tenants lived in huts, and knew not how to cultivate the land. They raised a little, which they and their beasts shared; and when their provisions failed, they killed and ate the beasts, being the stronger and more intelligent. When the owner—I know not his name—when he came here from time to time, often with a number of companions, they fared better. But, from father to son, the master came less and less, till one was left who came not at all, but sold the castle and land to a Dylar.
“Oh, then were the people cared for! Then were they lifted out of their misery! Then did the land bloom! The first tree planted by Dylar was an olive-tree. ‘I dedicate the land to peace and light,’ he said; and, gentlemen, peace and light have dwelt in it to this day. The stupid children of thetenantry were taught. Men came and built these houses to last a thousand years, and then another thousand. They dug a hole to let the river through the mountains. They cultivated land. Men did great works, and went away when they were paid; but other men and women came in, one by one and two by two, and dwelt here. They were children of sorrow chosen out of the world to come here and live in peace. We have all that we want, and we know not drouth. The sun and the snow-peaks fill our cups to overflowing. When the land grows dry, our men set donkeys to turning the great wheel you see yonder, with a bucket at every spoke; and they fill a tank that sends out little rivulets running over all the land. They go to every plant and tree, like mothers giving drink to their children. We know not drouth; and Christ is our King.
“There have been nine Dylars with the present one. Each Dylar uses his number to his name, or sometimes alone. If a written order had the figure nine alone, or nine straight lines signed to it, that order would be obeyed. We put it on all things for them, too. When our prince was here last year with his bride, we sent everything up in nines, nine jars of olives, nine boxes of oil; and the child who could find a bunch of nine cherries, or a sprig of nine strawberries to send up to the princess’ table was a happy child. We sent her a box of olive-wood to put her laces in. It was fluted in groups of nine all round, and had nine lilies on thecover, and a border made of the figure interlaced and flowering out. And in the centre of the cover were the initials J. C., with a crown above them; for Christ is King of us all. I found on the jasmine-tree on our terrace a flower with nine petals, which was a wonder; for they have usually only five or six, sometimes only four. The princess pressed the flower to keep, and said it was the prince’s flower.
“The Dylar made it a virtue for their people to be healthy and clean and cheerful. They gave them games and pleasures as well as labor. And whenever they find a young man, or a girl who has a gift for some airy kind of work that needs a nicer study, they send them out to learn. They seldom come back to stay; but they come, sooner or later, to see their old home before they die.
“For us, we do many things. We spin thread of linen and silk, we weave and embroider and make laces. We make wine and preserve olives and make oil. We knit hose that a queen has worn, and would have more. For we have a silk farm, and a silk that reels off like sunshine. And Christ is our King.”
“Who governs you?” asked the vicomte. “Of course your prince, and the housekeeper told us, three of your oldest men. But is there nothing else?”
“Oh, now and again, some people come from far away, and ask some questions, and get some taxes, they call them. They have need of money, thosewho send. I know not. They come and they go. We welcome them, and we bid them godspeed.”
“But if two of you should disagree?”
“Then each tells his story to the Three, and they decide. And if they cannot decide, they write to Dylar, whose messenger comes.”
“But if some one accuse you, have you no one to see that no damaging truth, or no lie, is proven against you? Have you no one to speak for you?”
“Why should another tell my story for me? And is it not the truth which all wish to have proven? Are we children? or bees? See, now: if I prove a lie to-day, and gain a pound of silk by it, or a gallon of oil like honey distilled, then the spirits of peace in the air about me are disgusted with the evil scent of my vice, and they fly away, and evil spirits, who love an evil deed, come near; and of three pounds of silk they weave a chain that binds my thoughts all down to that sin I have committed, or of three gallons of bad oil they kindle a lamp in my heart that burns: and the only way to have peace is to go to him I have robbed, and say: ‘I lied; and here are three pounds of silk for the one:’ or, ‘I lied; and here are three gallons of pure oil for one.’ Moreover, the King, when I do evil, is no longer my king; but the Dark One rules over me. What have I gained, though the silk or the oil were like Basil’s gold?”
“Who is Basil?” asked the German, smiling. “And what was Basil’s gold?”
“Basil was a Dylar, one of the first. It is saidthat he was as wise as Solomon, and could understand the language of all growing things; that he knew what the curl of a leaf meant, or the sob of the wind. He came and went. There are wild stories, that he was borne over chasms. I know not. But he gave his people a message from the earth that he read in a grain of virgin gold.”
The German was shaken by a strong tremor. “The message! The message!” he exclaimed.
The old woman smiled at his eagerness. “Listen!” she said. “‘Dig for your gold, my children, says Earth, your Mother. Deep in your hearts it lies hidden.’”
“Is there any other settlement near of the Dylar?” the German asked impetuously.
“None, sir.”
“One has gone forth into the world from this place, a woman, tall, dark-eyed, with black hair heavy about the brows, and a soft voice. She is a lady. Who is she? Where is she?”
“I know no such. There is one abroad who sings. She is famous, and she returns no more. I do not know where she is, nor what name she sings by. There are others who are married. There are two young girls who study. I know no such lady. It might be one of Dylar’s messengers; but she is away.”
“Could I learn at the castle?”
“Ah, no! we do not keep their track. They come and they go. There was one who came last year. She was something like your lady. Shestayed a week; and she reaped a field of wheat. She is strong to work in the fields.”
The German sighed, and said no more.
“The present Dylar is young, is he not?” asked the Italian.
“Oh, yes; but little over thirty. But he is very serious. His father was gay till he lost his wife. Then he never smiled again. But when our Dylar came here with his bride last year he was different. His eyes followed her everywhere.”
“What did he call her?” asked the Italian.
“He called her Love; nought else. We called her princess. How fair she was! If you should tell her a story, when you had ended, it would seem to you that she had been the one who talked, and not you. She has changes of expression, and little movements, so that she seems to have spoken when she has not uttered a word. At the castle they saved all the hairs that were in her combs and brushes, and I have a little lock of them that coils round so soft and shining!”
When they went in, the Italian lingered behind his companions, and detained the old woman. “Show me the lock of hair you told us of,” he said.
She brought it with pleasure, and carefully unfolding a paper by the light of a lamp hung against one of the pillars just inside the door, showed a glossy golden ring, and lifting it, let it drop in a long coil.
“I will give you a gold piece for one hair!” said Don Claudio.
“I do not want the gold,” she said; “but you shall have the hair.” She drew out two or three of the shining threads and gave them to him; and he laid them inside a clasped fold of his pocketbook.