I am restless, I am athirst for far away things.
Tagore.
Eric lay at the feet of the enchantress. Days had passed, and from one beauty to another she had been leading him. But her laugh had become always harder, a note of impatience had stolen into the silken tones of her voice.
This youth was in truth but a child, his hands grasping at the sun-rays, plucking the flowers, taking the joys that were offered him, lightly laughing at the birds, sublimely unconscious that perhaps something might be asked of him in return.
Often he begged the one who held him captive to uncover her eyes, explaining that although he was happy in his new surroundings he could not tarry for ever; the open world lay before him through which he was still pursuing the same vision.
But again and again his companion put him off with fresh promises—heaping upon him new joys and pleasures, till he felt weary of so much ease and comfort; there were even times when he had a longing for the dusty roads,—the heat of the sun—the dangers of the dark night—for storm and wind.
At those moments the strange woman seemed to read his thoughts in spite of the bandage over her eyes; and she would redouble her kindness, always having a fresh joy in store for him, something unexpected and enchanting.
Eric lay now, as the lion used to lie, stretched at the feet of the woman he could not leave.
To-day she sat upon a marble bench within a garden where nearly all the flowers were blue. The garden was small and square, paved with marble; two narrow water channels, lined with peacock-blue tiles, ran crossways through it. In the centre stood a marble well; those who leaned over the side to look into the depths noticed that the water was blue as the sea, and strange voices seemed calling from below with monotonous entreaty.
On all sides high walls encircled the garden, and shady trees spread over the whole enclosure, casting mysterious lights and patterns upon the cool floor.
The flowers were so blue that they also had the colour of the summer sea when the sun beats on it in all his force. Small marble paths ran along between the beds, and each path was bordered by some low-growing fire-coloured flower that glowed with the intensity of a furnace.
Each day the woman was clad in a garment of gorgeous magnificence, each day more splendid than the last; but never again had she been robed in the snowy folds of the first day, which Eric had loved best of all.
Now, as she leaned against the carved bench, her dress seemed woven out of the changing colours of the rainbow. It was golden at the shoulders, turning gradually into green, blue, and violet, always richer in hue, till at the foot it deepened into bright-toned purples upon the dark carpet where Eric rested quite close to her feet.
As always, those little feet were bare, with only thin sandals to protect the soft soles from the hardness of the stone.
Round her forehead lay a thick dark wreath of corn-flowers, beneath which the bandage showed startling white.
Her hands were ceaselessly playing with long chains of sapphires and emeralds. She gathered them into her palms, and let them slip between her fingers, down upon her golden robe, like bright water splashing out of a precious jar.
Around the well, upon low marble seats, were grouped the fairest maidens that earth could give, and they were like unto a wreath of many-shaded flowers.
They all had coronals of blossoms on their heads in the shades of the robes they wore; and each held a golden harp on which she played tunes that melted heart and soul.
All the maidens turned their eyes towards the beautiful lad who lay among the folds of the woman's dress—but none, oh! none had the orbs of his dream!
He had searched their faces in turn, and it had been all in vain.
Fair faces they had; their arms were soft and white; their long hair trailed on the ground mixing with the petals that had fallen from the wreaths.
The air was heavy with the perfume that came from the flowers, and the sweet tones of the harps sighed amongst the spreading branches of the trees.
But Eric was restless, he felt cramped in this garden of beauty; resentment began to grow in his heart against this fair being who played with him as a child plays with a toy. She lured him on, yet never did she satisfy the longing of his soul!
Every time that he extended his hand to tear the covering from her eyes, with a word or gesture she changed the current of his thoughts.
When he asked to be shown the road that would take him back whence he had come, the woman would laugh—the laugh he had begun to hate,—and cover his face with soft caresses which seemed to drain all his manhood and leave him without will or power to think.
Within his heart he made plans how he might escape. The sweet perfumes, the melting voices, the endless well-being, the tropical fruit he was ever feasting upon, wearied and sickened him; and yet he felt he could not leave this bewitching sorceress before he had seen the colour of her eyes.
But somehow, although he wished it with a fevered longing, he also dreaded the disappointment it might bring.
And there he lay in this enchanted garden eating his heart out with the longing for freedom, and yet unable to break through the silken bonds that held him as with chains of iron!
L'espoir même a des portes closes;Cette terre est pleine de chosesDont nous ne voyons qu'un côte.V. Hugo.
L'espoir même a des portes closes;Cette terre est pleine de chosesDont nous ne voyons qu'un côte.
V. Hugo.
Eric was wandering through the maze of gardens, grottos, and domed halls that formed the dwelling of the sorceress. It was night—but a clear night; almost as light as day because of the radiant moon that lay low in the sky; she was oppressively near the earth, intruding her wise rays, that had seen all too much, into every corner and hiding-place. Eric hated her indiscretion; he had hoped to wrap himself in the mantle of the dark so that he might steal away at last.
He could stand no longer the suffocating oppression which had gradually been coming over him. To-night he had slunk away from the luxurious feast his fair jailer had been giving him.
He had left her there, upon her throne of gold, amidst priceless draperies, amongst the garlands of red poppies that had been entwined round the tables at which richly clad, loud-voiced youths were gathered—youths who drank and sang, and whose eyes had a strangely tired look, always straining after some pleasure that seemed to pass them by and leave them with empty outstretched hands.
All had clamoured round that golden throne, pressing near to the queenly figure who sat there in a scarlet robe, her eyes still bandaged beneath the wreath of poppies which was pressed upon her shining tresses.
Her penetrating laugh had sounded clearly above all the din, and she had lifted her hands high in the air throwing the gorgeous-coloured poppy-leaves over their bowed heads; and she had drunk out of a golden goblet which she had held in turns to their thirsting lips.
One of the youths was as young as Eric himself and of marvellous beauty, with eyes like flashing jewels, but which held a look of such intense suffering that Eric could not bear the sight.
This boy had dragged himself on his knees to the steps of the throne, uttering incoherent prayers, the hot tears running down his cheeks; then he had hidden his face within the scarlet folds of her dress and had cried as if his heart would break, whilst the wild woman in red had laughed, laughed, mocking his sorrow with hard words, till all the others had laughed with her.
It was then that Eric had fled, with a mad desire to get out into the cool night and flee as far as he could from all these revels of which his simple soul could not grasp the meaning.
Yet the wonderful woman had dropped some of the poison into his veins, because, in spite of his great desire to escape, he felt a burning regret in his heart at the thought that he was leaving without having seen the woman's eyes. At the same time he almost dreaded to find the face of his dreams behind that white cloth which had become uncanny to him ... and yet?... why was this burning pain at his heart? Why had he come here? Why had he not turned back when the old bell had so persistently warned him? Suddenly he felt older, wiser, as if years had elapsed since he left the sea-shore and lost his way within this labyrinth so full of beauty and temptation.
He thought he felt once more the soft touch of the woman's hands, that he saw the glowing flower of her lips, the soft yielding figure, the white arms, the rippling fair hair, the tiny feet, and he stood still clasping his hands over his burning eyes.
Why had he not torn the bandage from her brow, and pressed his lips upon that tempting mouth, crushing it beneath his own? Indeed he had been a fool! And no doubt it was thus she considered him, and was now deriding his memory amongst those shameless guests who crowded around her tables; those tables that were bending under the weight of the costly dishes, and where the brilliant poppies were shedding their petals as they faded and drooped amongst hundreds of lighted candles.
Eric groaned in his distress; he longed to go back before that golden throne and tell the beautiful woman that he hated her ... hated her!...
But now he must escape—but why was the moon so bright? Why could he not find his way to the snow-white hall, and from there, over the deep water, past the mysterious well, out into the wide world once more?
Why did his head ache and throb? Why did his throat feel dry with ill-contained sobs? What had come to him? Never had he felt thus.
All the sweet peace of his soul had been replaced by waves of unknown sensations and desires; and beneath it all, that burning pain at his heart, that unsatisfied yearning for something he could not grasp.
The moon flooded everything in a hard, merciless light; he ran from place to place seeking an issue, only to find everywhere blank walls to stop him. He knew that he was losing his head, the blood beat in his temples, his eyes could no more clearly see.... With a stifled cry of distress he dropped down, and all became dark around him.
For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.
Ecclesiastes.
After a short time Eric's senses came back; he looked up and saw that he was in a small, very dark chamber. How he got there he did not know, he had never seen the place before. Then he rose to his feet with a start. A curtain had been quietly drawn aside, and he could see now into an inner chamber out of which a faint light shone.
Forgetting all his fear and misery he ran forward, hoping to find an outlet whence he could reach the old moaning bell, and thence escape to liberty under God's great sky, free like a bird once more to wander wherever he would. But the sight he saw riveted his feet to the ground: upon a low narrow couch lay the woman he had learnt to hate. She was stretched motionless, asleep on her back, her wonderful face only faintly discernible—and oh! marvel, her eyes were no longer covered.
All about her seemed wrapped in grey vapours; the soft draperies with which her body was covered were also grey, like finely woven cobwebs.
At each side of her couch, close to her head, stood large jars of tarnished silver, filled with irises the colour of autumn clouds.
At her feet, rigid and unblinking, as if cast out of steel or carved in granite, his eyes gazing into space, was an eagle of unusual size; there he sat in quiet majesty at the feet of this vision of beauty, like a ghost of the mountains that had been turned to stone. A faint haze lay over all, something mysterious and grave-like; nor was it to be discovered whence the light came. There were no windows, no opening anywhere, and yet everything was distinctly visible.
The face of the woman was more perfect than it had ever been. Eric was now bending over it with a feeling of awe and wonder.
Was ever sleeper so still, was ever living face so pale, lips so blanched? Gradually a cold sensation of fear began to creep over the startled youth; he bent lower, his face close to that silent one. He sprang back with a cry of horror ... beneath the long lashes he saw that the woman was looking at him, and yet....
Oh! What was it? What horrible nightmare was this?... She was looking, she was staring ... yes, she was staring with sightless eyes—eyes out of which the light of life had gone for ever! for ever!...
Eric sank to his knees and hid his face against the still form, and as he did so he felt something wet upon his cheek, something that was trickling slowly down upon the floor where he knelt, something that was gradually spreading in a dark patch, which widened over the grey folds of the robe. And then Eric saw that within the woman's heart a dagger had been thrust.... A dagger within the very centre of her heart.
Over thy creations of beauty there is a mist of tears.
Tagore.
High and austere in their forsaken silence stood the walls of the great church—God's own sun looked in through the crumbling windows, and God's own sky was its only roof. Many of the columns had fallen, but others stood, erect and rigid, frowning down from their immense height, grey and lonely, like giant trees in winter.
Large heaps of stones lay about the mosaic floor that still showed signs of a beautiful design; statues had fallen from their pedestals and lay in helpless attitudes, their arms broken, their vacant eyes gazing with stony indifference into the sunshine. Sometimes their heads were missing, having rolled away as they fell.
Nature was rapidly doing her work; she was spreading her consoling mantle of verdure and flowers over this crumbling work of art, which human hands had once, long ago, built with pious vows and prayers.
Growths were bursting out of every crevice and crack in rambling confusion. Even the wild plants of the heath beyond had begun to creep into the church, giving the forgotten monument a festive look as if flowers had been strewn everywhere on the floor for some blessed feast-day. In greater masses than any other plant, wild lavender had taken possession of the church, bursting the mosaic floor asunder in a thousand places and pushing its way everywhere, so that over all lay a bluey-grey shimmer like evening mists rising out of a bog.
Through the wide-open portals the desolate land could be seen, stretching as far as the eye could reach, covered with the same dusty blue flower, and quite on the horizon it mixed with the sky, so that it was difficult to discern where the one began and the other ended.
A peculiar stillness lay over everything; it was not easy to imagine that human feet had once crowded towards the now broken altar that shone like a death-cloth as the rays of the sun struck upon the still white stone. The thick carpet of lavender sent out a faint perfume of other days, within which a whole treasure of memories was stowed away ... forgotten. Peace, peace, peace was over all, the peace of things that are past.
Before the altar, stretched out all his length on the ground amongst the blue of the lavender, lay Eric, his face pressed against the floor, his golden curls matted, his neat clothes soiled and dusty. He lay there, all his young body expressing one long cry of protest against the cruel things he had just learnt.
He had fled and fled, blind instinct guiding his steps, quite ignorant as to how he had found his way out. And then, when he once more saw the great sky over his head, he had rushed unseeingly forward, climbing the rocks, leaving the sea far behind.
On, on, in breathless haste to get away from that silent figure wrapped in grey folds, with the sightless eyes and the dagger within her heart ... neither did he know how he had reached this desolate place.
He had seen this ruined fane standing grey and forsaken on a waste of blue-grey flowers; he had seen it outlined in magnificent solitude against the clear sky, and a great wish had come over him to take refuge there, in that holy place, after the atmosphere of tragedy and temptation he had just left behind.
What mattered that the place was a ruin, that holy chants and fervent prayers were no more heard within the skeleton walls! It had been God's house, and the weary wanderer needed sanctuary.
Motionless as one asleep or dead he lay.
There was no sound around him except the buzzing of bees amongst the sweet-smelling lavender.
They flitted hither and thither, fetching out of each blossom its treasure of honey and sweetness, whilst tiny blue butterflies danced in their midst in frivolous useless gaiety. All of a sudden a flight of doves came floating out of the summer sky and settled like white sunlit clouds on every window-sill, where they fluttered their wings, filling the whole place with flashes of light, as the sun gleamed on their snowy feathers.
But still Eric lay without movement, his face among the crushed flowers.
The doves cooed and kissed each other; the bees swarmed around, and from somewhere very far overhead a bird sang a glad song, his voice rising shrill and pure into the warm air.
The sun began to slant his rays through the beautiful high windows, lighting up one of the sides of the building with sheets of gold.
He sent his warm beams to kiss the young man's curls, and to caress the white hands that were clasped before him; then one of the rays fell upon a picture that still kept its place above the altar.
At that very moment Eric, for the first time, raised his head—and there, smiling down upon him in angelic pity, was a face of such perfect sweetness, that he felt the hot tears come rushing to his tired eyes.
With folded hands he knelt in a posture of adoration, and gazed into the wonderful countenance that looked into his. A long cloak of some indescribable shade flowed down, enfolding the Virgin's ethereal limbs. Her hands were outstretched in a gesture of blessing; upon her head she wore a high golden crown, and the sun beat upon it making it shine like real metal; and her eyes, her wonderful eyes, were full of tears.... But in her heart.... Oh! did he rightly see? or was he dreaming the same awful dream over again?... in her heart, too, a dagger had been thrust! Must all hearts be killed? What was this old world teaching him? Was sorrow everywhere? Were those that blessed treated alike with those who poisoned heart and soul?
How ignorant he had been, singing like a bird in the sunshine, understanding nothing, feeling nothing but his own joy to be alive!
Now all seemed changed; pain and temptation, hard words and sweet smiles, had replaced each other in bewildering confusion, and into the heart of this miraculous Mother of God, this most pure of all women they had also thrust a cruel blade—and yet she continued to smile, her fair hands extended to his helpless gropings to understand!
His eyes riveted to the Holy Face, he approached the devastated altar around which the sun-rays had concentrated all their brightness, till the picture of the Virgin was no longer a painting, but a living woman, all light and radiance, Divine pity and love.
The weary wanderer sank on his knees, his hands folded, his head bent on the altar, and as he knelt there murmuring old forgotten prayers of his childhood, real warm tears streamed from the eyes of the holy picture and fell drop by drop on his sunny locks.
And it was like a gentle blessing which held within it a sweet promise of peace and comfort.
The lavender-covered waste and the gaunt ruins of the church had been left far behind, and our traveller was now ascending the rocky pass of the great rugged mountains that rose high and forbidding above his head. He had felt a longing to climb somewhere very high, with a wish to be as near the blue sky as possible.
Something of the peace that the holy picture had filtered into his heart still remained. Within his clear look there was a dreamy wonder as if he still saw pure visions before him, the warm tears of the Mother of God having consecrated him to a deeper understanding. But there remained a shadow upon his soul from his dark experiences within the dwelling of the sorceress.
He was no more the gay, flitting, singing bird he had been. He strode forward with a more manly tread; something of the boyish eagerness had gone out of his step, some of the sweet confidence had gone from his eyes when they rested on those he met on his way.
When he played on his flute he marvelled at the new tones it had taken; they seemed deeper, sadder, and his voice vibrated less with the joy of living.
Yet the world was still wonderful and full of promise; these rocky mountains had shapes and colours that made his heart rejoice.
In this he was still the same Eric Gundian whom King Wanda had loved: he was without fear, and not even the sight of these treeless giants of stone daunted his wanderer's spirit.
Each night when he slept, no matter where he rested his head, the vision he was following always appeared to him clear, vivid, unchanged—those great solemn eyes that looked into his without ever a droop of the lids. He felt he must cross these enormous heights before he could reach what he was seeking; that as yet his road had been too easy, and that it would be needed of him to make some great effort before he was worthy of attaining his goal.
He looked back in thoughts upon the way he had come, and there seemed to him a great difference between the Eric of yesterday and to-day.
Dense clouds were enfolding the peaks of the mountains and creeping like soft monsters along the sides, filling the deep precipices with damp moving masses which were all coming towards him ready to swallow him up.
Steeper and steeper became the road, the air rarer, whilst the clouds lay thick and impenetrable over all.
Eric toiled on; only seldom could he look down upon what lay beneath because of the vapours that were wrapping themselves around him.
He knew not where he was going, but he stolidly continued his way in spite of the hard rocks and stones that wounded his feet, in spite of the path becoming always more irksome and dangerous.
Often he had but a narrow ledge to walk on, with a chasm on one side, a high wall of rock on the other; and as the clouds lay over everything he was in constant peril of life.
There were moments when a straying sun-ray would break through the clouds, casting a sudden light upon them, transforming them into mother-of-pearl; and sometimes the shaft of light ran straight along the white mist as if a finger of a god were pointing downwards to the dwellings of men.
Then out of the wall of mist a shadow rose and stood before him. It was faintly outlined against the whiteness that was about him, and the shadow was that of a man. And as he looked, full of surprise, another was at his side, and then a third, and these three shades pointed down the road he had been ascending.
Eric turned, and there, behind him, was a whole procession of diaphanous figures all following his footsteps.
They seemed transparent, yet all of them had personality; their faces although blurred and indistinct were full of different expressions.
Some were old and bent, others strong, stalwart, upright. Several of the female figures were young and fair; there were even small children amongst them, and all appeared waiting for him to lead the way.
He moved on, passing the three forms he had first seen, and with a shudder he realized that when he tried to touch them his fingers met nothing but space—his hand passed right through!
And each time he turned his head there they were, all of them, pressing close on his heels, silent, persistent. Truly it was a gruesome company to be wandering with in this wilderness of rocks and clouds.
Eric wondered how long it would last, and if they meant to go with him all the way.
Who were they? And what did they want of him?
Although many of them were beautiful, Eric thought them horrible and uncanny, and kept wondering in what way he could relieve himself of their presence; indeed he had not reckoned with such companions on his road.
Should he turn back? But if he did he would have to pass them all, and he remembered with a shudder how his hand had gone right through those bodiless shapes when he had tried to touch them, so it was better to go forward instead of retracing his footsteps.
Eric came now to a turn of the path where a great rock jutted out, barring his way in such a fashion that to pass it he would have to put one foot before the other on a ledge so narrow that the sight alone made him feel giddy and faint.
Beneath him gaped the great sea of clouds covering unknown depths he could not penetrate; but forwards he must go! Was he not like a hunted animal with this procession of ghosts so remorselessly tracking him?
He bravely set his face to the dangerous pass, and very carefully, his hands clutching at the rough surface of the rock, he managed to turn the dreaded corner; as he did so, there, right in the middle of his path, blocking his way, was a very old man.
He sat with head bent, his long grey beard dragging on the ground; within his clasped hands he grasped a thick stick against which he was leaning.
He looked sad and weary, and yet he was full of quiet dignity; a surprising figure to meet in a lonely place. His grey clothing hung loosely over his emaciated body, his wide mantle fell in thin folds about him; on his head he wore a broad-brimmed, weather-beaten hat.
At the young man's exclamation of surprise he raised his head and looked keenly at him, but spoke not a word. Yet this old man was not a spectre like the others, but in verity a living human creature, and for that reason welcome to our lonely wanderer.
"Speak to me," cried Eric. "I am half mad with the longing to hear a human voice. Tell me, if thou canst, who are these silent ones that dog my steps, and make these mountains horrible to me? Fain would I be rid of them!"
He turned to look behind him and there they were, close upon his footsteps, huddled together on the narrow shelf he had just passed; and all of them looked at him with hungry, expectant eyes; and yet through their bodies the rocks could be distinctly seen. It was a grim sight! The old man did not reply, but turned his head towards the silent apparitions and scrutinized them long and earnestly, then a slow smile broke over his face.
At last he spoke:
"Be not hard upon those that are dead, my son; these here find no peace because they did not receive a holy burial, nor were prayers said over their silent hearts; they felt thy coming, so they have arisen from where they lay in waiting, to follow thee. Let thy heart be soft unto them. Their presence around thee speaks in thy favour, for they try to follow only those whose conscience is without stain, for those alone can help them whose lives have been pure."
"Who are they?" asked the young man, and the old one answered:
"They are the restless souls of those who died here amongst the mountains. They all had hopes in their hearts when they started, and dreams or ambitions; each thought himself strong enough to scale these cruel heights, but they dropped down on the way; few, very few, ever reach the top. They lose courage or weary and try to turn back; but it is difficult to go back for those who have started on these paths that lead so high."
"Tell me, O wise man," cried the youth, "what mountains are these, and why did I feel that I must try to ascend them?"
"They are called the mountains of Life, my son. For some they bear also the name of the mountains of Temptation; for others they mean Toil; for others Trouble; for some they are named Redemption, and for the fewest they are called the mountains of Attainment."
"For me what shall they be called, my father?"
"That remains to be seen, my boy," responded the solemn voice.
"Tarry awhile beside me and I shall tell thee a few things that may be of use to thee. Thy fair face pleases me, and I wish thee well. But I am old, and my voice has no more the force as of a river in spring-time when the snows have melted; it is more like a sluggish stream over which a thick sheet of ice has been laid. But sit thee down close by me that I need not raise it overmuch."
So saying he drew his cloak away, making room for Eric on the rock where he was resting. The waiting shapes had become fainter, and were like torn pieces of mist that had caught upon the rocks.
"But before all else, I pray thee, tell me," said Eric, "why thou sayest these shadows have awaited my coming; and why thou dost not thyself lead them to peace? Thou who art so wise?"
The venerable face turned to the young one with a sad smile, and the old solemn voice answered in a low tone, "To be wise is not the same as to be good. Long ago, in the days of my youth, and later also in the years of my manhood, I was a great sinner, and many a dark unavowed act have I committed. But wise I always was, and even magic have I understood.
"There comes a time, my son, when the heart longs for peace; the white peace of solitude. Amongst men it could never be found, so I came up here; but that was only after my head had bent beneath the snow of age, after I had tasted all fruits both bitter and sweet; and this I tell thee: few are worth the eating. Yet thou shalt also eat of many; but have a care, I pray thee, and grasp not those that were best left untouched; and yet? and yet?
"When I look back I know it all had some meaning behind it—something that was but a link of one long chain, and the chain is so long that the links are but of small importance, although each link deems itself the one which holds all the chain together; and it is better it should be so, because the long chain needs each separate link. My talk is dark to thee," added the old man, laying his hand on Eric's.
"Forgive an old man whose thoughts ramble along; seest thou, up here in this wild solitude amongst the clouds and eagles, one learns to look down upon things and to realize their value; but it is useless to begin such knowledge too soon, for we, the weary ones, need all thy joy, all thy careless happiness, we need thy efforts, thy hopes, thy dreams, thy tears; none are wasted; they all go to make one great whole! Life is long and yet it is short, and many roads there are, but they all, without exception, lead to the same end. I am very near that end now; some reach it sooner than I. I know not what thou seekest, but all men are running after the same thing, though they call it by different names, not knowing that they can grasp but its shadow, because the thing itself is God's.
"I have given it a name. I call it Happiness; but truly this I can tell thee: men know not when they have it ... they see it before them, and then they turn round and they see it far behind ... but whilst it is theirs they are blind. Dark are my words to thee, but I love thee the more, because I read within thy eyes that all I am saying is without sense to thee, dear beginner of Life."
"But thou hast not told me," queried Eric, "why these phantoms hope to find salvation through me, and why with thy great wisdom thou canst do less for them than I with my foolish youth?"
Sadly the old man replied:
"Because, my son, youth and innocence have a strength that all the wisdom from over the seven seas cannot equal. Indeed, we who have lived and now look back, are far more willing to stretch out our hands in help; our hearts are larger, our patience greater, our understanding deeper; but it has thus been decreed that all this cannot be weighed against one little drop of thy pure innocence or of the faith thou hast, that removeth mountains."
The old head bowed itself over the clasped hands, and on the long grey locks lay a mist that was silvery and lustreless, as if some one had breathed over a mirror.
The sad, tired eyes gazed with a far-off look into space, following forgotten visions of long ago.
There was a deep silence which the young man did not try to break. He bowed in awe before this gaunt old figure, and longed to hear more, to drink in the wise words that fell from his lips.
Although many were quite incomprehensible to him, his instinct told him that he could learn much wisdom if he listened with all his soul. Strange it was that such a man should call himself a sinner when such a delightful peace filled Eric's whole being as he sat there close beside him.
The old man turned his head and looked into the young man's eyes.
"Fair thou art in thy glorious untouched youth. I did not hope to look again on so good a sight. I wish I could give thee some of my wisdom to keep thee from harm, but a loving, pure heart is also a shield, perhaps even better than any I could give thee; and yet when old age lifts its eyes to look upon youth, and sees it beautiful, a prayer comes to its lips that it may remain thus unsoiled for ever!
"Thou must go forth without fear; and have patience, dear youth, with those quiet followers of thine. If thou art strong enough thou mayest lead them to peace; for this I must tell thee: thy way will be hard and long till thou reachest the end which is thy desire; but by the love of my snowy hair I entreat thee climb to the highest summit, let not thy soul be satisfied till thou hast scaled the last, steepest peak.
"There may be easier roads, but take them not; others may tempt thee from thy giddy path, but listen not to their talk. I shall put all my faith in thee, and I will not that thou disappoint me. Before I die, I want to know that one has reached the greatest height."
"But tell me," cried the youth, "will I find at the end that for which I am seeking, which I am wandering after all the world over?"
"That I cannot answer thee now, my son," replied his companion. "Come with me to my dwelling; I shall gaze into my magic stone and perchance I shall be able to tell thee. Give me thy hand, for I am weary; we have not far to go, and it will be sweet to me to lean upon thy youth."
With great care and solicitude Eric helped the feeble old hermit to his feet, and following the gentle pressure of his hand, he let himself be directed to the mouth of a dark cave, hewn out of the rock, close to where they had been sitting.
"What a lonely place to live in!" cried the young man. "In truth it is like an eagle's nest hung on the very edge of the precipice!"
"It is a good dwelling for me, who only want to look backwards and not forwards," said the old man.
"Here I live in peace away from the clamouring of the crowd; I live with the thought of what has been, and what was evil drops away from what was good.
"I remember far more clearly the sun that shone than the days that were dark. I see faces I loved, and those I hated have no more power over me. Even strange it seems that once I could hate; yet well do I remember how I loved; for this also shalt thou learn: that Love is the beginning and end of all things.
"Love is the key that opens every door. Love is the answer to all questions. Love is the very centre of the heart of the universe. Love is the voice of God, the punishment and the recompense He gives to His people.
"Love carries the heart to the verge of the unknown. In Love all is contained: joy and pain, hope and despair, the night and the day; what was, what is, and what shall be ... but again my tongue wanders away with me, soon thou shalt weary of my talk.
"Look about thee and tell me if my dwelling is to thy liking."
The cave in which they stood was dark; but when Eric's eyes had got accustomed to the dimness he saw that indeed it was but a poor abode.
His host lit a small ancient oil lamp which spread a feeble light around. He placed it upon a table hewn out of the root of a tree, and sat heavily down on a stool near by, resting his head in his hand, his still keen eyes following the young man's movements as he looked about him.
The cave was not large, and the sides were of bare stone. A cavity had been cut out at the farther end where a few rough skins were spread, and that was the bed, indeed more like a grave than a resting-place.
In one of the corners there was a rude hearth with a few old pots; opposite was a shelf bending beneath the weight of many old volumes bound in shabby leather; a tiny aperture gave a very faint light somewhere near the roof, otherwise the door was the only opening; it was shut by a thick woollen curtain hung on a string.
Against one of the walls stood a large wooden chest covered with an old shawl, once of fine bright texture, now so mellowed by age that its curious design was hardly discernible; a few low stools and a big heavy table completed the whole furnishing of this primitive dwelling.
"Well," asked the hermit, "what sayest thou to my sumptuous apartment?"
Smiling down upon his host Eric rejoined:
"Somewhat gloomy it seems to me—and too near the edge of the precipice on dark nights. In very truth the thought makes me shudder, that if one had not a care one could step from the door over the brink!"
The old man laughed softly, but with the sound of some one who for many a year had no more been accustomed to mirth.
"Come and sit thee by me, for I still have much to tell thee. Take yonder stool, bring it close to my side that I need not raise my tired old voice."
As Eric sat down he saw that two covered objects lay upon the table. The hermit stretched out his trembling hand and drew the smaller of the two towards him, raising the dark cloth that covered it.
As he did so, a round ball, cut out of a stone the colour of smouldering ashes, became visible; it was resting on a small three-legged stand carved in old ivory.
"I shall now look into this magic ball to see thy future, dear wanderer. Give me thy hand whilst I concentrate my mind upon the polished surface; thou must think with all thy might of that which is thy greatest desire, and thou must not speak or the charm will be broken."
Eric laid his hand confidently within the dry wrinkled palm, and remained silent, as he had been bid, his face near to that of the old man, his fair locks resting against the silvery ones.
With breathless intensity he watched the magic ball, and saw with wonder how it began to glow as if a fire were burning inside.
The curious light became always more intense till the ball was one burning flame upon which he could hardly keep his eyes.
He felt an unwonted drowsiness come over him, but with all his might he kept his mind fixed upon the eyes of his dream, and then out of the silence came the voice of his companion, inexplicably changed and musical, like far-off bells.
"I see a great picture on a wall—in the middle of which there sits a woman on a throne, the woman has no face.... I see eager questioning all around thee, but there are tears in thy eyes.... I see a long road on which thou art wandering mostly in the brilliant sunshine, but sometimes it is the moon that lights thy way. Thy tears have dried, but thou knowest not where thou goest and thou singest like a bird. Many other faces cross thy road and mostly they smile on thee....
"But somewhere there is a shadow that falls over thy path and thou art afraid—something there is that thou dost not understand and that contains sore temptations for thee ... then.... Yes, if I rightly see ... there is blood, it drips slowly to the ground, but thy own hands are without stain, yet thou art full of fear and fleest as quickly as thou canst.
"Then again there is sunshine, and round thee all is blue, the sky as well as the ground—then once more there are tears, warm and wet, but this time they are not thine.... And now thou wanderest where the air is rarer and thy breath comes in gasps—thou mountest ever higher and higher ... there comes a moment's rest and again thou art wandering, and always thy road is steeper and thy step more weary.... All around thee there are shapes that make thee afraid.
"And now I hear the voice of a child crying, crying ... again a shadow falls over thee ... this time like to the shadow of death."
The chanting voice paused and the grey head bent closer down upon the fiery ball; the pressure upon the young man's hand became an iron grip. Drops of perspiration stood upon the wrinkled brow as if an enormous effort were being made. Then the voice spoke again:
"What I now see is a long road through a country of sunshine and riches—it is evening, sweet music rises in the air, a haze of dust lies over the horizon; then all I see, at the end, is a face of wonderful sweetness, yet sad and full of yearning—and I see two eyes ... strange and wonderful, and somehow thy heart is at peace.... That is all."
The voice had ceased; the grip upon the young man's hand had relaxed, a heavy silence lay over them.
The glow in the magic ball died down till only the smouldering colour remained. Then Eric spoke like one in a dream:
"Thou sawest the eyes! deep, grey, unblinking, sad, and yearning? So I shall reach them in the end! Canst thou not tell me whose they are?"
The old man's head had fallen on his breast as if overcome by fatigue; now he raised it very slowly and looked long and lovingly at the young eager face.
"Nay! that I cannot tell thee, but this I know: Happiness cometh not there where we seek it; it cometh like a breath out of the unknown, and then the heart is glad and a great light is spread over all that our eyes rest upon. Then we are full of strength and courage, and each man is our friend.
"But the thing we clasp to our heart is never ours to keep, for thus it is in this world. Joy and pain lie so close side by side that there seems no line to cross between the two—and yet when crossed.... Well, my son, I shall show thee what no other eye but mine own has ever looked upon; it is all that remains to me of what was on the other side of the line...."
The trembling hand removed the cover from the second object that lay on the table, and there, revealed to Eric's astonished gaze, was a face the like of which he had never seen before.
It lay, the head thrown back, the eyes closed, the lips slightly parted as if asking for a last caress.
The hair waved away from the delicate, somewhat sunken temples, forming the pillow on which it rested.
A calm expression of peace lay over the angelically pure features that had the soft whiteness of ivory.
There was no colour save a faint tint of pink on the beseeching mouth. Yes, it was peace that was the principal expression of that face, and yet there was also a sad yearning in it, as if the closed eyes longed to raise their lids a last time to look upon a face they loved....
The old man's head now lay on the hard table upon his outstretched arms; he was overwhelmed by some tremendous emotion, unable to look at those silent features.
The youth knew not what force moved him, but he knelt down beside the emaciated old figure and, taking it into his strong young arms, he drew the bowed head towards him, and held it long against his heart in a silent embrace.
After a while both looked up and the grey hermit pressed one of his shaking hands on the young man's head; the other he laid with a caressing movement against the marble face.
"I have worked at this with the last strength of my feeble old hands. And each day for many years I laboured to create the fairness of this face which I loved, but which never was mine!
"I will not weary thee with the story of my life; it is dark and ugly, but this thou shalt know: I loved her, and she gave me all the passion of her pure heart. She knew not who I was, and when she found it out she could not bear the truth, so she searched a cold grave in the deep, dark floods. Thus she lay when last I looked upon her; the vision burnt itself deep into my brain for ever. For long, long years after she had crossed my path I continued to live a wicked life, full of dark deeds, full of treachery, keeping faith with none.
"But when, old and bent, I came to these solitudes her face alone was always with me. Then I began to carve upon the snowy marble the features I had loved the most in this world.
"Day by day I toiled, for my fingers were stiff and trembling, but I felt I could not die before I had completed this work of love. I felt that if I could conjure into life the marvel of her face as it was that day when they took her out of the cruel water and laid her, for ever silent, before me, her murderer, I would find forgiveness before that God I had always mocked but had learnt to believe in here in this vast solitude so near His sky!
"It is but a short while ago that I completed my work; thou seest thyself how surpassing fair it is, and since that day peace at last seems to be spreading very slowly over my soul...."
The old man paused, then drawing the youth quite near to him, he took his head in both his hands, bent it gently back, saying in a solemn voice:
"Remember the words of a very old man, who has known all of pain and joy, who also has lived through the hell of remorse though it came too late ... too late.... Mayest thou never learn how sad is the word: Too late! Go thy way, my son. Search for the treasure thou dreamest of, and when it is thine hold it fast. It may come to thee in quite unexpected form—at first even thou mayest not realize that thou art so near; it may not come in splendid raiment with a crown on its head, but keep thy heart open as well as thy eyes; turn not away from the humblest call, never leave undone a deed of love.
"I, in my solitude, well know what it is to bitterly regret. All the wisdom I have acquired is but ashes to me because never did I understand how to use my riches,—I cherished what was of brass, and what was pure gold, in my vanity, I trampled underfoot. Thou hast within thee something that makes me believe thou art of those who win! Now I have said enough, and thou must continue thy road; but that thou shouldst not forget the grey hermit of the hills, I have for thee a gift, which, in the days of my youth, was my most trusted friend. In thy hands it will have greater power than ever it had in mine."
So saying the old man rose, went to the bed, and drew something out of the dark. When he came back he held within his hand a shining sword.
"This sword have I loved in the pride of my youth, and even now, in my bitter old age, it was ever at my side. Whilst I worked at the cold, hard marble, it lay on the table near my hand; it alone felt my hot tears of gratitude on the day I had completed my work.
"A legend is attached to it: it is said that if carried by hands that are clean of all sin it has unknown powers that reveal themselves in time of need. It may be true ..." the old man bowed his head.... "But my hands ... were never clean ... so no miracle shone on my road.
"To me it was simply a good strong sword which I used in my own defence. I used it, too, against my country's foes, and many an evening has it dripped with blood. Gird it round thy waist and go forth with my blessing. I know not if the blessing of a man such as I hath worth in the eyes of God; nevertheless it comes from the deepest depths of my weary soul, and may it follow thee wherever thou goest and help thee to win."
Eric bent his knee, and the hermit laid both his hands on his golden locks, lingering tenderly over them as if loath to take his fingers away.
"One more gift have I for thee, my son, for I know the peril and loneliness of thy road. Here inside this box"—and he drew a small casket from his breast—"thou shalt find some tablets I once learnt to make, and which possess marvellous power to keep the traveller alive when he can find no food on his way; one of these alone is as much as a feast at the table of a king. Neither is this their only magic; for he who tastes of them to him is given command over all languages spoken under the sun."
"But am I not taking thy daily bread from thee?" cried the young man, as he sprang to his feet.
"Be without fear, dear youth; my days are numbered, and enough remains to me to keep my tired old body alive, as long as God still desires me to be of this earth. Go in peace, and have a kindly thought for the old sinner whose last joy has been to look into thy sunny eyes!"
He led Eric to the door of the cave, and pulling the curtain aside, gave a strange, shrill whistle.
As he did so there was a fluttering of wings, and somewhere out of the clouds a milk-white falcon swooped down to his hand.
"This bird of mine will show thee the road. Follow him without faltering, even if he seem to lead thee where no foot can climb. Be of good cheer, may God be with thee!"
Eric bowed his head, kissed the kind old hand, and then turned his face towards the lonely path he had to follow, the hawk flying before him like a white banner floating in the wind.
The old man stood on his threshold casting longing looks after the retreating form. An expression of intense sadness and resignation came over his furrowed countenance; slowly, with all the fatigue of nearly a century's living heavy upon him, he went back into his dark abode. There he stood for a long while beside the rustic table contemplating the pale marble face, and all his soul was in his eyes. The flickering light played on the exquisite visage, throwing over it a living warmth, so that the eyelids appeared to quiver as if they were trying to open once more.
Slowly and painfully the aged recluse bent down till his faded lips rested on the pure brow, the icy coldness of the stone penetrating through all his veins—then with a reluctant movement he laid the dark cloth over that vision of beauty, hiding it out of sight; and it was like the lid of a coffin being shut over the face of the dead.