The dryad

THE HONOR OF THE ROCK

When Simon saw that Argathona was clean gone from the room where the others were blinking at the change from light to dark and from dark to light again, he guessed that she had slipped away by the turret-stair, and he knew that it would not take her long, with her cunning, to get clear of the city. Yet, to make assurance surer, he set his back to the arras that masked the turret-door, and stood there with his sword bare waiting composedly for the trouble that seemed very likely to ensue.

Indeed, the trouble came quickly, for as soon as Duke Baldwin had winked his eyes clear of the dazzle and saw that Argathona was gone, he was very wroth with Simon for shielding her retreat, calling him a companion of witches and other ill names, while he bade those about him fling the rascal from the path. But Simon silenced him with words few indeed, but fiercer and fouler than even the duke could compass, and the duke's orders were so incoherent that none knew, or, indeed, greatly desired to know, what he wished. For while Simon stood there at vantage, with his back against the door, with his mighty sword before him, there were few of those by Duke Baldwin's side that liked the looks of him well enough to covet a closer acquaintanceship without need. For though they were valiant knights all, they remembered Simon's play with the Varangian, and esteemed him no less terrible than the giant Fierabras, with whom Ogier combated in the tale of Ogier the Dane.

Now while they stood aloof, uncertain what to do, Simon shouted anew at the duke:

"Duke of dotards, duke of donkeys, you are a foul-lipped fool to call your own son's sweetheart a witch, for she shows as one of God's angels before the sluts and trulls you cherish. So if you have the pluck of your bulk, you will fight this quarrel out with me, sword to sword or fist to fist, I care not which, and we shall see who is the better man and who serves the better kind of woman."

Outside in the court-yard, and beyond on the high-road down the hill, could be heard the rattle and clatter of the men and horses of Esclaramonde's escort starting on their departure for Thebes. In the room a silence like a stupor fell on those that heard their great duke so flouted by a common man-at-arms. But the great duke himself, whose moods veered like the vane, was only tickled with Simon's insolence, and he laughed a wild laugh, for he prized courage in others as much as he prided himself on his own courage, and he was mightily minded to try a fall with the big man.

"Now, by the beard of King Philip," he shouted, "I have a mind to meet your wishes. I had an itch to come to grips with you this morning, and I cherish no desire to deny myself twice in the same day."

The duke was volatile for all his obstinacy, and already the thought of a bout with Simon had dissipated much of his chagrin at preceding discomfitures. Duke Baldwin always charged headlong at any whim, as a bull charges at red temptation.

"On your knee, fellow," he commanded.

"Nay," grunted Simon, "I have nothing to kneel for."

His simplicity missed the duke's meaning, and when the duke saw how he missed, he grinned, for his purpose was to make a knight of the giant.

"Nay, man, on your knee to take the accolade. I cannot cross weapons with one that does not wear the rank of a knight. When you are knighted we will test your mettle."

Now Simon, seeing what the duke would be at, housed his sword, and, coming forward, bent his knee, while those of the duke's party, familiar as they were with their master's vagaries, stared in amaze to find him, after the passing of such great matters, so mightily taken up with so small a thing. But nothing ever seemed small to Duke Baldwin that jumped with his immediate humor. The duke drew his sword and was about to raise it when he bethought him.

"Stay, what is thy name, fellow?" he questioned; and Simon answered, readily enough:

"Simon the Strong, of sweet Rouen city."

Again the duke lifted his sword, and again he lowered it.

"Tell me, friend Simon," he inquired, "have you any broad lands to your name?"

Simon bethought him of his mother's cabbage-garden out in the suburbs of Rouen, a narrow patch enough where a gaunt goat tugged at its tether. It was many a long day since he had seen it, but it came very vividly to his memory now, and made him feel qualmish for a moment, with a spasm of home-sickness.

"In sooth," he answered, slowly, "I have a trifle of property at Florency, but it is no great matter, truly."

"Never care for that," said the duke, cheerfully; "small or great it will serve the turn well enough to help you to gentility."

Then he gave Simon a clap on the shoulder with the flat of his sword and cried out, "Arise, Sir Simon of Florency," and so straightway Simon arose and marvelled a little in himself that he seemed no different for his new honor.

"Now, friend," said the duke, sheathing his sword and stretching his great arms apart, "see if you can spill me as you spilled my tall soldier this morning."

Simon was willing, everyway. He was as eager to try the duke's strength as the duke was to try Simon's, and, win or lose, the struggle meant time gained for Argathona, though he had little fear for her safety. Then, as none of the knights present had the right or the courage to protest against the strange encounter, the two strong men were about to set to in good earnest when their purposes were interrupted by Jaufre, Guy, Ambrose, and Raymond, who came from the bedchamber to tell the duke that his son desired to speak with him.

The duke was vexed at the interruption, for he had set his heart on a bout with Simon, and with him the immediate impulse was ever peremptory to the exclusion of all other thoughts and needs. But he could not very well deny his son, though he cherished some rancor against him as being the cause of the knight's trouble and muddle.

"Sirs," he said to the knights, "these jars must not mar our festival. There are other women in the world, and will be other weddings, but in the mean time you will do well to return to the banqueting-hall and continue your cheer."

Sir Jaufre, Sir Guy, and the others quitted the room. The duke bade Simon stay where he was and went into the next room, where he found Rainouart stretched upon what should have been his marriage bed. The duke's physician was by his side, but he left the room on the entrance of the duke, after assuring him that the wound was slight, as being the work of an unpractised hand, and would soon heal.

Rainouart was very pale, less with the loss of blood than with all the dear and grievous emotions that had pillaged his heart so fiercely that night, but his spirit was high and bright in his eyes, and he spoke to his father with a firm voice.

"Where is my sweet lady?"

"If you mean the lady of Thebes," said Duke Baldwin, "she has gone hence in a great rage."

"I do not think of her," Rainouart said. "I think of the girl from the greenwood, the girl who saved my life once, and now has saved my honor."

Duke Baldwin grinned maliciously, for he was vexed with his son for being such a fool as to get tangled up in his love affairs and thereby bring people to loggerheads untimely.

"Why, she has gone, too. There came a squall of wind that blew the lights out, and in the blackness the valiant lass slipped away, with none to stay her."

At this news Rainouart's heart was wrung with such anguish that even the dull duke could read his misery in his eyes, and even Baldwin's tough composition felt something that was distinctly akin to a pulse of pity, and he added:

"The Jill-o'-lantern left her giant squire behind her."

Rainouart lifted himself eagerly on his elbow.

"I would see that squire at once."

"That may be easily done," said Duke Baldwin, "for he waits in the next room."

Therefore Duke Baldwin raised his voice and trumpeted loudly for Sir Simon of Florency, and instantly Simon lifted the curtain and came into the room and looked with some compassion at the young knight on the couch. Rainouart recognized him at once as the squire who stood by the pavilion of the Prince of Eleusis.

"Where is my lady?" Rainouart asked, feverishly. Simon answered him leisurely:

"She has gone back to the forest, being a little disheartened with your city and its citizens, but she left you these leaves for the healing of your hurt, and this message, that you are to come to her in the greenwood."

As Simon said his say, he drew from his pouch the leaves of the herb of healing that Argathona had given him, and laid them on the bed. Rainouart took them tenderly in his hands and kissed them fondly, while the duke smiled sourly at the folly that leads a man to the lipping of weeds.

"I will go to her in the morning," Rainouart declared; but here Duke Baldwin shook his head.

"That may not be, son," he said, emphatically.

"May not be," Rainouart flung back, hotly. "I tell you it must be. She saved my life and I loved her, and we swore our mutual troth. Then I was practised on by magic, and I forgot my true-love, and went in bondage to a false faith, and from this shame my true-love has saved me now as before she saved me from death. I am bound to her in honor as I am bound to her in love, and on my honor and by my love I will go to her with the dawn."

Again Duke Baldwin shook his head, and again Duke Baldwin answered as before.

"That may not be, son." Then seeing the anger shine in Rainouart's eyes, and the stubborn look on Rainouart's face that seemed to mirror his own native obstinacy, he went on in a voice that for him was gentle.

"Hear me out, son Rainouart, for your honor is as near to me and as dear to me as my own, and against that I think no tongue has ever wagged."

Rainouart's face darkened, for he thought of his mother, the gracious lady so basely abandoned, and he thanked God in his heart that his honor was not as the honor of Duke Baldwin. But Duke Baldwin was not skilled to read either his son's face or his son's heart, and he went on, bluffly:

"As for love, why, I am a jolly lover, too, though you and I read in the book of love at different chapters. But you cannot go to your lass yet awhile, for your very honor's sake."

"Why not?" Rainouart asked, with such a frown as might have wrinkled his father's forehead, and the big duke, who liked his son's manner best when most it resembled his own, went on very amiably to explain. He told how the Duchess of Thebes had declared war upon Athens, at which tidings Rainouart laughed contemptuously; and how Fernand Ximenes inclined to her, and would in all likelihood whistle the Grand Company to her cause. At this Rainouart's eyes shone and his pale cheeks flushed ruddy, for if this were so, it promised a fight that would be worth the fighting.

"Therefore," the duke went on, "your sweetheart must wait awhile till this little brawl be over, for I am sure that no lass who played the lad so gallantly as your fancy would have her lover lag aloof from a battle."

He smiled somewhat sourly as he spoke, for he had no great confidence in the martial constancy of knights that plied their books and fell in love with country wenches. But he read Rainouart's answer in his eyes before he got it from his lips, and it reassured him.

"While Athens is at war," Rainouart said, simply, "I ride and fight with Athens. When Athens is at peace I will marry my true-love."

Simon nodded his head approvingly, and the duke for his part applauded in his heart. He liked the lad's belligerent spirit, however little he relished the nonsense about the witch in the wood. Duke Baldwin's affection for his son, never very vehement, had waxed when he had returned as the betrothed of the Duchess of Thebes, but had dwindled to insignificance with the shattering of that alliance and the chance that his son might die by a stroke from a woman's hand. Indeed, the jovial duke, alarmed by the sudden possibility of an heirless duchy, had even in the last few minutes begun to revolve again in his mind a project that he had abandoned with the coming of the Duchess of Thebes. He had up to that time been so much disappointed with his son that, although as a general principle much averse to marriage as an institution, he was seriously thinking of wedding again. He loved to have about him none but such as were jolly eaters, jolly drinkers, jolly lovers, jolly soldiers, and when he observed the difference between his son and himself and those he cherished, he shuddered over the thought that such a puling, mulish reader of books might one day rule in Athens. Baldwin was still in the prime of life, with every right to hope for an heir, and he began to reconcile himself to the thought of a state which he had always regarded as bondage, though when it existed for him before he had allowed it to bind him but little. In such case the young prince might be clapped into a monastery to doze away his life over tomes of nonsense, while the jolly duke would see to it that the son-child of his dreams should be brought up to a very different purpose.

Now, however, the readiness of Rainouart to obey the call to arms made Baldwin more content with his son, though he frowned at the foolish words about marrying his true-love. However, with the gain of a little time Rainouart's mind might change, though that did not seem likely, or he might be prevailed upon to take a less high-flown sense of his obligations to his lovely amazon, or, at the worst, the girl might be got rid of some way or other.

"Well," he said, cheerfully, "you must wait a while ere you can talk of marriage to a maid. For you are married, lad, hard and fast, married to the lady Esclaramonde of Thebes, for a marriage is a marriage though it be but a marriage in name."

Rainouart gave a groan at the duke's speech, and Simon, who had not thought of this dilemma, scratched his chin and scowled. The duke nodded sagaciously.

"Only our Holy Father the Pope can set you apart now, for even when we take Thebes it would scarcely chime with the chivalry of the Rock to kill the baggage, however much she deserve it. But I will send an envoy to Avignon to put our case before the pontiff. By the time he returns we shall have taken Thebes, and then you will be a free man to go a-wooing in a wood."

"And till then," Simon added, "I will be your esquire, if you agree, for such was the wish of your dear lady, whose humble servant I am very proud to be."

Rainouart stretched out his hand and clasped the hand of Simon.

"We will be brothers-in-arms," he vowed, "as we are brothers in service." Then he turned to his father.

"Sire," he said; "your son is your soldier till there be an end of the war and till the pope makes me a free man again. And then, by your leave, I will take my troth anew to the greenwood, and humbly pray my sweet love to forgive me."

The duke said nothing, for he had nothing pleasant to say to such vagaries. But Simon tugged at his russet beard, and muttered:

"I think she will forgive you."