BESIDE the minister and myself, nothing human moved in the crimson woods. Blue haze was there, and the steady drift of colored leaves, and the sunshine freely falling through bared limbs, but no man or woman. The fallen leaves rustled as the deer passed, the squirrels chattered and the foxes barked, but we heard no sweet laughter or ringing song.
We found a bank of moss, and lying upon it a chaplet of red-brown oak leaves; further on, the mint beside a crystal streamlet had been trodden underfoot; then, flung down upon the brown earth beneath some pines, we came upon a long trailer of scarlet vine. Beyond was a fairy hollow, a cuplike depression, curtained from the world by the red vines that hung from the trees upon its brim, and carpeted with the gold of a great maple; and here Fear became a giant with whom it was vain to wrestle.
There had been a struggle in the hollow. The curtain of vines was torn, the boughs of a sumach bent and broken, the fallen leaves groun underfoot. In one place there was blood upon the leaves.
The forest seemed suddenly very quiet,—quite soundless save for the beating of our hearts. On every side opened red and yellow ways, sunny glades, labyrinthine paths, long aisles, all dim with the blue haze like the cloudy incense in stone cathedrals, but nothing moved in them save the creatures of the forest. Without the hollow there was no sign. The leaves looked undisturbed, or others, drifting down, had hidden any marks there might have been; no footprints, no broken branches, no token of those who had left the hollow. Down which of the painted ways had they gone, and where were they now?
Sparrow and I sat our horses, and stared now down this alley, now down that, into the blue that closed each vista.
“The Santa Teresa is just off the big spring,” he said at last. “She must have dropped down there in order to take in water quietly.”
“The man that came upon her is still in town,—or was an hour agone,” I replied.
“Then she has n't sailed yet,” he said.
In the distance something grew out of the blue mist. I had not lived thirteen years in the woodland to be dim of sight or dull of hearing.
“Some one is coming,” I announced. “Back your horse into this clump of sumach.”
The sumach grew thick, and was draped, moreover, with some broad-leafed vine. Within its covert we could see with small danger of being seen, unless the approaching figure should prove to be that of an Indian. It was not an Indian; it was my Lord Carnal. He came on slowly, glancing from side to side, and pausing now and then as if to listen. He was so little of a woodsman that he never looked underfoot.
Sparrow touched my arm and pointed down a glade at right angles with the path my lord was pursuing. Up this glade there was coming toward us another figure,—a small black figure that moved swiftly, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Black Lamoral stood like a stone; the brown mare, too, had learned what meant a certain touch upon her shoulder. Sparrow and I, with small shame for our eavesdropping, bent to our saddlebows and looked sideways through tiny gaps in the crimson foliage.
My lord descended one side of the hollow, his heavy foot bringing down the dead leaves and loose earth; the Italian glided down the opposite side, disturbing the economy of the forest as little as a snake would have done.
“I thought I should never meet you,” growled my lord. “I thought I had lost you and her and myself. This d-d red forest and this blue haze are enough to”—He broke off with an oath.
“I came as fast as I could,” said the other. His voice was strange, thin and dreamy, matching his filmy eyes and his eternal, very faint smile. “Your poor physician congratulates your lordship upon the success that still attends you. Yours is a fortunate star, my lord.”
“Then you have her safe?” cried my lord.
“Three miles from here, on the river bank, is a ring of pines, in which the trees grow so thick that it is always twilight. Ten years ago a man was murdered there, and Sir Thomas Dale chained the murderer to the tree beneath which his victim was buried, and left him to perish of hunger and thirst. That is the tale they tell at Jamestown. The wood is said to be haunted by murdered and murderer, and no one enters it or comes nearer to it than he can avoid: which makes it an excellent resort for those whom the dead cannot scare. The lady is there, my lord, with your four knaves to guard her. They do not know that the gloom and quiet of the place are due to more than nature.”
My lord began to laugh. Either he had been drinking, or the success of his villainy had served for wine. “You are a man in a thousand, Nicolo!” he said. “How far above or below the ship is this fortunate wood?”
“Just opposite, my lord.”
“Can a boat land easily?”
“A creek runs through the wood to the river. There needs but the appointed signal from the bank, and a boat from the Santa Teresa can be rowed up the stream to the very tree beneath which the lady sits.”
My lord's laughter rang out again. “You're a man in ten thousand, Nicolo! Nicolo, the bridegroom's in town.”
“Back so soon?” said the Italian. “Then we must change your lordship's plan. With him on the ground, you can no longer wait until nightfall to row downstream to the lady and the Santa Teresa. He'll come to look for her.”
“Ay he'll come to look for her, curse him!” echoed my lord.
“Do you think the dead will scare him?” continued the Italian.
“No, I don't!” answered my lord, with an oath. “I would he were among them! An I could have killed him before I went”—
“I had devised a way to do it long ago, had not your lordship's conscience been so tender. And yet, before now, our enemies—yours and mine, my lord—have met with sudden and mysterious death. Men stared, but they ended by calling it a dispensation of Providence.” He broke off to laugh with silent, hateful laughter, as mirthful as the grin of a death's-head.
“I know, I know!” said my lord impatiently. “We are not overnice, Nicolo. But between me and those who then stood in my way there had passed no challenge. This is my mortal foe, through whose heart I would drive my sword. I would give my ruby to know whether he's in the town or in the forest.”
“He's in the forest,” I said.
Black Lamoral and the brown mare were beside them before either moved hand or foot, or did aught but stare and stare, as though men and horses had risen from the dead. All the color was gone from my lord's face,—it looked white, drawn, and pinched; as for his companion, his countenance did not change,—never changed, I believe,—but the trembling of the feather in his hat was not caused by the wind.
Jeremy Sparrow bent down from his saddle, seized the Italian under the armpits, and swung him clean from the ground up to the brown mare's neck. “Divinity and medicine,” he said genially, “soul healer and body poisoner, we'll ride double for a time,” and proceeded to bind the doctor's hands with his own scarf. The creature of venom before him writhed and struggled, but the minister's strength was as the strength of ten, and the minister's hand held him down. By this I was off Black Lamoral and facing my lord. The color had come back to his lip and cheek, and the flash to his eye. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“I shall not draw mine, my lord,” I told him. “I keep troth.”
He stared at me with a frown that suddenly changed into a laugh, forced and unnatural enough. “Then go thy ways, and let me go mine!” he cried. “Be complaisant, worthy captain of trainbands and Burgess from a dozen huts! The King and I will make it worth your while.”
“I will not draw my sword upon you,” I replied, “but I will try a fall with you,” and I seized him by the wrist.
He was a good wrestler as he was a good swordsman, but, with bitter anger in my heart and a vision of the haunted wood before my eyes, I think I could have wrestled with Hercules and won. Presently I threw him, and, pinning him down with my knee upon his breast, cried to Sparrow to cut the bridle reins from Black Lamoral and throw them to me. Though he had the Italian upon his hands, he managed to obey. With my free hand and my teeth I drew a thong about my lord's arms and bound them to his sides; then took my knee from his chest and my hand from his throat, and rose to my feet. He rose too with one spring. He was very white, and there was foam on his lips.
“What next, captain?” he demanded thickly. “Your score is mounting up rather rapidly. What next?”
“This,” I replied, and with the other thong fastened him, despite his struggles, to the young maple beneath which we had wrestled. When the task was done, I first drew his sword from its jeweled scabbard and laid it on the ground at his feet, and then cut the leather which restrained his arms, leaving him only tied to the tree. “I am not Sir Thomas Dale,” I said, “and therefore I shall not gag you and leave you bound for an indefinite length of time, to contemplate a grave that you thought to dig. One haunted wood is enough for one county. Your lordship will observe that I have knotted your bonds in easy reach of your hands, the use of which I have just restored to you. The knot is a peculiar one; an Indian taught it to me. If you set to work at once, you will get it untied before nightfall. That you may not think it the Gordian knot and treat it as such, I have put your sword where you can get it only when you have worked for it. Your familiar, my lord, may prove of use to us; therefore we will take him with us to the haunted wood. I have the honor to wish your lordship a very good day.”
I bowed low, swung myself into my saddle, and turned my back upon his glaring eyes and bared teeth. Sparrow, his prize flung across his saddlebow, turned with me. A minute more saw us out of the hollow, and entered upon the glade up which had come the Italian. When we had gone a short distance, I turned in my saddle and looked back. The tiny hollow had vanished; all the forest looked level, dreamy and still, barren of humanity, given over to its own shy children, nothing moving save the slow-falling leaves. But from beyond a great clump of sumach, set like a torch in the vaporous blue, came a steady stream of words, happily rendered indistinguishable by distance, and I knew that the King's minion was cursing the Italian, the Governor, the Santa Teresa, the Due Return, the minister, the forest, the haunted wood, his sword, the knot that I had tied, and myself.
I admit that the sound was music in mine ears.
ON the outskirts of the haunted wood we dismounted, fastening the horses to two pines. The Italian we gagged and bound across the brown mare's saddle. Then, as noiselessly as Indians, we entered the wood.
Once within it, it was as though the sun had suddenly sunk from the heavens. The pines, of magnificent height and girth, were so closely set that far overhead, where the branches began, was a heavy roof of foliage, impervious to the sunshine, brooding, dark and sullen as a thundercloud, over the cavernous world beneath. There was no undergrowth, no clinging vines, no bloom, no color; only the dark, innumerable tree trunks and the purplish-brown, scented, and slippery earth. The air was heavy, cold, and still, like cave air; the silence as blank and awful as the silence beneath the earth.
The minister and I stole through the dusk, and for a long time heard nothing but our own breathing and the beating of our hearts. But coming to a sluggish stream, as quiet as the wood through which it crept, and following its slow windings, we at last heard a voice, and in the distance made out dark forms sitting on the earth beside that sombre water. We went on with caution, gliding from tree to tree and making no noise. In the cheerless silence of that place any sound would have shattered the stillness like a pistol shot.
Presently we came to a halt, and, ourselves hidden by a giant trunk, looked out on stealers and stolen. They were gathered on the bank of the stream, waiting for the boat from the Santa Teresa. The lady whom we sought lay like a fallen flower on the dark ground beneath a pine. She did not move, and her eyes were shut. At her head crouched the negress, her white garments showing ghostlike through the gloom. Beneath the next tree sat Diccon, his hands tied behind him, and around him my Lord Carnal's four knaves. It was Diccon's voice that we had heard. He was still speaking, and now we could distinguish the words.
“So Sir Thomas chains him there,” he said,—“right there to that tree under which you are sitting, Jacky Bonhomme.” Jacques incontinently shifted his position. “He chains him there, with one chain around his neck, one around his waist, and one around his ankles. Then he sticks me a bodkin through his tongue.” A groan of admiration from his audience. “Then they dig, before his very eyes, a grave,—shallow enough they make it, too,—and they put into it, uncoffined, with only a long white shroud upon him, the man he murdered. Then they cover the grave. You're sitting on it now, you other Jacky.”
“Godam!” cried the rascal addressed, and removed with expedition to a less storied piece of ground.
“Then they go away,” continued Diccon in graveyard tones. “They all go away together,—Sir Thomas and Captain Argall, Captain West, Lieutenant George Percy and his cousin, my master, and Sir Thomas's men; they go out of the wood as though it were accursed, though indeed it was not half so gloomy then as it is now. The sun shone into it then, sometimes, and the birds sang. You would n't think it from the looks of things now, would you? As the dead man rotted in his grave, and the living man died by inches above him, they say the wood grew darker, and darker, and darker. How dark it's getting now, and cold,—cold as the dead!”
His auditors drew closer together, and shivered. Sparrow and I were so near that we could see the hands of the ingenious story-teller, bound behind his back, working as he talked. Now they strained this way, and now that, at the piece of rope that bound them.
“That was ten years ago,” he said, his voice becoming more and more impressive. “Since that day nothing comes into this wood,—nothing human, that is. Neither white man nor Indian comes, that's certain. Then why are n't there chains around that tree, and why are there no bones beneath it, on the ground there? Because, Jackies all, the man that did that murder walks! It is not always deadly still here; sometimes there 's a clanking of chains! And a bodkin through the tongue can't keep the dead from wailing! And the murdered man walks, too; in his shroud he follows the other—Is n't that something white in the distance yonder?”
My lord's four knaves looked down the arcade of trees, and saw the something white as plainly as if it had been verily there. Each moment the wood grew darker,—a thing in nature, since the sun outside was swiftly sinking to the horizon. But to those to whom that tale had been told it was a darkening unearthly and portentous, bringing with it a colder air and a deepened silence.
“Oh, Sir Thomas Dale, Sir Thomas Dale!”
The voice seemed to come from the distance, and bore in its dismal cadence the melancholy of the damned. For a moment my heart stood still, and the hair of my head commenced to rise; the next, I knew that Diccon had found an ally, not in the dead, but in the living. The minister, standing beside me, opened his mouth again, and again that dismal voice rang through the wood, and again it seemed, by I know not what art, to come from any spot rather than from that particular tree behind whose trunk stood Master Jeremy Sparrow.
“Oh, the bodkin through my tongue! Oh, the bodkin through my tongue!”
Two of the guard sat with hanging lip and lacklustre eyes, turned to stone; one, at full length upon the ground, bruised his face against the pine needles and called on the Virgin; the fourth, panic-stricken, leaped to his feet and dashed off into the darkness, to trouble us no more that day.
“Oh, the heavy chains!” cried the unseen spectre. “Oh, the dead man in his grave!”
The man on his face dug his nails into the earth and howled; his fellows were too frightened for sound or motion. Diccon, a hardy rogue, with little fear of God or man, gave no sign of perturbation beyond a desperate tugging at the rope about his wrists. He was ever quick to take suggestion, and he had probably begun to question the nature of the ghost who was doing him such yeoman service.
“D' ye think they've had enough?” said Sparrow in my ear. “My invention flaggeth.”
I nodded, too choked with laughter for speech, and drew my sword. The next moment we were upon the men like wolves upon the fold.
They made no resistance. Amazed and shaken as they were, we might have dispatched them with all ease, to join the dead whose lamentations yet rang in their ears; but we contented ourselves with disarming them and bidding them begone for their lives in the direction of the Pamunkey. They went like frightened deer, their one goal in life escape from the wood.
“Did you meet the Italian?”
I turned to find my wife at my side. The King's ward had a kingly spirit; she was not one that the dead or the living could daunt. To her, as to me, danger was a trumpet call to nerve heart and strengthen soul. She had been in peril of that which she most feared, but the light in her eye was not quenched, and the hand with which she touched mine, though cold, was steady.
“Is he dead?” she asked. “At court they called him the Black Death. They said”—
“I did not kill him,” I answered, “but I will if you desire it.”
“And his master?” she demanded. “What have you done with his master?”
I told her. At the vision my words conjured up her strained nerves gave way, and she broke into laughter as cruel as it was sweet. Peal after peal rang through the haunted wood, and increased the eeriness of the place.
“The knot that I tied he will untie directly,” I said. “If we would reach Jamestown first, we had best be going.”
“Night is upon us, too,” said the minister, “and this place hath the look of the very valley of the shadow of death. If the spirits walk, it is hard upon their time—and I prefer to walk elsewhere.”
“Cease your laughter, madam,” I said. “Should a boat be coming up this stream, you would betray us.”
I went over to Diccon, and in a silence as grim as his own cut the rope which bound his hands, which done we all moved through the deepening gloom to where we had left the horses, Jeremy Sparrow going on ahead to have them in readiness. Presently he came hurrying back. “The Italian is gone!” he cried.
“Gone!” I exclaimed. “I told you to tie him fast to the saddle!”
“Why, so I did,” he replied. “I drew the thongs so tight that they cut into his flesh. He could not have endured to pull against them.”
“Then how did he get away?”
“Why,” he answered, with a rueful countenance, “I did bind him, as I have said; but when I had done so, I bethought me of how the leather must cut, and of how pain is dreadful even to a snake, and of the injunction to do as you would be done by, and so e'en loosened his bonds. But, as I am a christened man, I thought that they would yet hold him fast!”
I began to swear, but ended in vexed laughter. “The milk's spilt. There 's no use in crying over it. After all, we must have loosed him before we entered the town.”
“Will you not bring the matter before the Governor?” he asked.
I shook my head. “If Yeardley did me right, he would put in jeopardy his office and his person. This is my private quarrel, and I will draw no man into it against his will. Here are the horses, and we had best be gone, for by this time my lord and his physician may have their heads together again.”
I mounted Black Lamoral, and lifted Mistress Percy to a seat behind me. The brown mare bore the minister and the negress, and Diccon, doggedly silent, trudged beside us.
We passed through the haunted wood and the painted forest beyond without adventure. We rode in silence: the lady behind me too weary for speech, the minister revolving in his mind the escape of the Italian, and I with my own thoughts to occupy me. It was dusk when we crossed the neck of land, and as we rode down the street torches were being lit in the houses. The upper room in the guest house was brightly illumined, and the window was open. Black Lamoral and the brown mare made a trampling with their hoofs, and I began to whistle a gay old tune I had learnt in the wars. A figure in scarlet and black came to the window, and stood there looking down upon us. The lady riding with me straightened herself and raised her weary head. “The next time we go to the forest, Ralph,” she said in a clear, high voice, “thou 'lt show me a certain tree,” and she broke into silvery laughter. She laughed until we had left behind the guest house and the figure in the upper window, and then the laughter changed to something like a sob. If there were pain and anger in her heart, pain and anger were in mine also. She had never called me by my name before. She had only used it now as a dagger with which to stab at that fierce heart above us.
At last we reached the minister's house, and dismounted before the door. Diccon led the horses away, and I handed my wife into the great room. The minister tarried but for a few words anent some precautions that I meant to take, and then betook himself to his own chamber. As he went out of the door Diccon entered the room.
“Oh, I am weary!” sighed Mistress Jocelyn Percy. “What was the mighty business, Captain Percy, that made you break tryst with a lady? You should go to court, sir, to be taught gallantry.”
“Where should a wife go to be taught obedience?” I demanded. “You know where I went and why I could not keep tryst. Why did you not obey my orders?”
She opened wide her eyes. “Your orders? I never received any,—not that I should have obeyed them if I had. Know where you went? I know neither why nor where you went!”
I leaned my hand upon the table, and looked from her to Diccon.
“I was sent by the Governor to quell a disturbance amongst the nearest Indians. The woods today have been full of danger. Moreover, the plan that we made yesterday was overheard by the Italian. When I had to go this morning without seeing you, I left you word where I had gone and why, and also my commands that you should not stir outside the garden. Were you not told this, madam?”
“No!” she cried.
I looked at Diccon. “I told madam that you were called away on business,” he said sullenly. “I told her that you were sorry you could not go with her to the woods.”
“You told her nothing more?”
“No.”
“May I ask why?”
He threw back his head. “I did not believe the Paspaheghs would trouble her,” he answered, with hardihood, “and you had n't seen fit, sir, to tell me of the other danger. Madam wanted to go, and I thought it a pity that she should lose her pleasure for nothing.”
I had been hunting the day before, and my whip yet lay upon the table. “I have known you for a hardy rogue,” I said, with my hand upon it; “now I know you for a faithless one as well. If I gave you credit for all the vices of the soldier, I gave you credit also for his virtues. I was the more deceived. The disobedient servant I might pardon, but the soldier who is faithless to his trust”—
I raised the whip and brought it down again and again across his shoulders. He stood without a word, his face dark red and his hands clenched at his sides. For a minute or more there was no sound in the room save the sound of the blows; then my wife suddenly cried out: “It is enough! You have beaten him enough! Let him go, sir!”
I threw down the whip. “Begone, sirrah!” I ordered. “And keep out of my sight to-morrow!”
With his face still dark red and with a pulse beating fiercely in his cheek, he moved slowly toward the door, turned when he had reached it and saluted, then went out and closed it after him.
“Now he too will be your enemy,” said Mistress Percy, “and all through me. I have brought you many enemies, have I not? Perhaps you count me amongst them? I should not wonder if you did. Do you not wish me gone from Virginia?”
“So I were with you, madam,” I said bluntly, and went to call the minister down to supper.
THE next day, Governor and Councilors sat to receive presents from the Paspaheghs and to listen to long and affectionate messages from Opechancanough, who, like the player queen, did protest too much. The Council met at Yeardley's house, and I was called before it to make my report of the expedition of the day before. It was late afternoon when the Governor dismissed us, and I found myself leaving the house in company with Master Pory.
“I am bound for my lord's,” said that worthy as we neared the guest house. “My lord hath Xeres wine that is the very original nectar of the gods, and he drinks it from goblets worth a king's ransom. We have heard a deal to-day about burying hatchets: bury thine for the nonce, Ralph Percy, and come drink with us.”
“Not I,” I said. “I would sooner drink with—some one else.”
He laughed. “Here's my lord himself shall persuade you.”
My lord, dressed with his usual magnificence and darkly handsome as ever, was indeed standing within the guest-house door. Pory drew up beside him. I was passing on with a slight bow, when the Secretary caught me by the sleeve. At the Governor's house wine had been set forth to revive the jaded Council, and he was already half seas over. “Tarry with us, captain!” he cried. “Good wine's good wine, no matter who pours it! 'S bud! in my young days men called a truce and forgot they were foes when the bottle went round!”
“If Captain Percy will stay,” quoth my lord, “I will give him welcome and good wine. As Master Pory says, men cannot be always fighting. A breathing spell to-day gives to-morrow's struggle new zest.”
He spoke frankly, with open face and candid eyes. I was not fooled. If yesterday he would have slain me only in fair fight, it was not so to-day. Under the lace that fell over his wrist was a red cirque, the mark of the thong with which I had bound him. As if he had told me, I knew that he had thrown his scruples to the winds, and that he cared not what foul play he used to sweep me from his path. My spirit and my wit rose to meet the danger. Of a sudden I resolved to accept his invitation.
“So be it,” I said, with a laugh and a shrug of my shoulders. “A cup of wine is no great matter. I'll take it at your hands, my lord, and drink to our better acquaintance.”
We all three went up into my lord's room. The King had fitted out his minion bravely for the Virginia voyage, and the riches that had decked the state cabin aboard the Santa Teresa now served to transform the bare room in the guest house at Jamestown into a corner of Whitehall. The walls were hung with arras, there was a noble carpet beneath as well as upon the table, and against the wall stood richly carved trunks. On the table, beside a bowl of late flowers were a great silver flagon and a number of goblets, some of chased silver and some of colored glass, strangely shaped and fragile as an eggshell. The late sun now shining in at the open window made the glass to glow like precious stones.
My lord rang a little silver bell, and a door behind us was opened. “Wine, Giles!” cried my lord in a raised voice. “Wine for Master Pory, Captain Percy, and myself! And Giles, my two choice goblets.”
Giles, whom I had never seen before, advanced to the table, took the flagon, and went toward the door, which he had shut behind him. I negligently turned in my seat, and so came in for a glimpse, as he slipped through the door, of a figure in black in the next room.
The wine was brought, and with it two goblets. My lord broke off in the midst of an account of the morning's bear-baiting which the tediousness of the Indians had caused us to miss. “Who knows if we three shall ever drink together again?” he said. “To honor this bout I use my most precious cups.” Voice and manner were free and unconstrained. “This gold cup “—he held it up—“belonged to the Medici. Master Pory, who is a man of taste, will note the beauty of the graven maenads upon this side, and of the Bacchus and Ariadne upon this. It is the work of none other than Benvenuto Cellini. I pour for you, sir.” He filled the gold cup with the ruby wine and set it before the Secretary, who eyed it with all the passion of a lover, and waited not for us, but raised it to his lips at once. My lord took up the other cup. “This glass,” he continued, “as green as an emerald, freckled inside and out with gold, and shaped like a lily, was once amongst a convent's treasures. My father brought it from Italy, years ago. I use it as he used it, only on gala days. I fill to you, sir.” He poured the wine into the green and gold and twisted bauble and set it before me, then filled a silver goblet for himself. “Drink, gentlemen,” he said.
“Faith, I have drunken already,” quoth the Secretary, and proceeded to fill for himself a second time. “Here's to you, gentlemen!” and he emptied half the measure.
“Captain Percy does not drink,” remarked my lord.
I leaned my elbow upon the table, and, holding up the glass against the light, began to admire its beauty. “The tint is wonderful,” I said, “as lucent a green as the top of the comber that is to break and overwhelm you. And these knobs of gold, within and without, and the strange shape the tortured glass has been made to take. I find it of a quite sinister beauty, my lord.”
“It hath been much admired,” said the nobleman addressed.
“I am strangely suited, my lord,” I went on, still dreamily enjoying the beauty of the green gem within my clasp. “I am a soldier with an imagination. Sometimes, to give the rein to my fancy pleases me more than wine. Now, this strange chalice,—might it not breed dreams as strange?”
“When I had drunken, I think,” replied my lord. “The wine would be a potent spur to my fancy.”
“What saith honest Jack Falstaff?” broke in the maudlin Secretary. “Doth he not bear testimony that good sherris maketh the brain apprehensive and quick; filleth it with nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which being delivered by the tongue become excellent wit? Wherefore let us drink, gentlemen, and beget fancies.” He filled for himself again, and buried his nose in the cup.
“'T is such a cup, methinks,” I said, “as Medea may have filled for Theseus. The white hand of Circe may have closed around this stem when she stood to greet Ulysses, and knew not that he had the saving herb in his palm. Goneril may have sent this green and gilded shape to Regan. Fair Rosamond may have drunk from it while the Queen watched her. At some voluptuous feast, Caesar Borgia and his sister, sitting crowned with roses, side by side, may have pressed it upon a reluctant guest, who had, perhaps, a treasure of his own. I dare swear Rene, the Florentine, hath fingered many such a goblet before it went to whom Catherine de' Medici delighted to honor.”
“She had the whitest hands,” maundered the Secretary. “I kissed them once before she died, in Blois, when I was young. Rene was one of your slow poisoners. Smell a rose, draw on a pair of perfumed gloves, drink from a certain cup, and you rang your own knell, though your bier might not receive you for many and many a day,—not till the rose was dust, the gloves lost, the cup forgotten.”
“There's a fashion I have seen followed abroad, that I like,” I said. “Host and guest fill to each other, then change tankards. You are my host to-day, my lord, and I am your guest. I will drink to you, my lord, from your silver goblet.”
With as frank a manner as his own of a while before, I pushed the green and gold glass over to him, and held out my hand for the silver goblet. That a man may smile and smile and be a villain is no new doctrine. My lord's laugh and gesture of courtesy were as free and ready as if the poisoned splendor he drew toward him had been as innocent as a pearl within the shell. I took the silver cup from before him. “I drink to the King,” I said, and drained it to the bottom. “Your lordship does not drink. 'T is a toast no man refuses.”
He raised the glass to his lips, but set it down before its rim had touched them. “I have a headache,” he declared. “I will not drink to-day.”
Master Pory pulled the flagon toward him, tilted it, and found it empty. His rueful face made me laugh. My lord laughed too,—somewhat loudly,—but ordered no more wine. “I would I were at the Mermaid again,” lamented the now drunken Secretary. “There we did n't split a flagon in three parts.... The Tsar of Muscovy drinks me down a quartern of aqua vitae at a gulp,—I've seen him do it....I would I were the Bacchus on this cup, with the purple grapes adangle above me.... Wine and women—wine and women... good wine needs no bush... good sherris sack”... His voice died into unintelligible mutterings, and his gray unreverend head sank upon the table.
I rose, leaving him to his drunken slumbers, and, bowing to my lord, took my leave. My lord followed me down to the public room below. A party of upriver planters had been drinking, and a bit of chalk lay upon a settle behind the door upon which the landlord had marked their score. I passed it; then turned back and picked it up. “How long a line shall I draw, my lord?” I asked with a smile.
“How does the length of the door strike you?” he answered.
I drew the chalk from top to bottom of the wood. “A heavy Core makes a heavy reckoning, my lord,” I said, and, leaving the mark upon the door, I bowed again and went out into the street.
The sun was sinking when I reached the minister's house, and going into the great room drew a stool to the table and sat down to think. Mistress Percy was in her own chamber; in the room overhead the minister paced up and down, humming a psalm. A fire was burning briskly upon the hearth, and the red light rose and fell,—now brightening all the room, now leaving it to the gathering dusk. Through the door, which I had left open, came the odor of the pines, the fallen leaves, and the damp earth. In the churchyard an owl hooted, and the murmur of the river was louder than usual.
I had sat staring at the table before me for perhaps half an hour, when I chanced to raise my eyes to the opposite wall. Now, on this wall, reflecting the firelight and the open door behind me, hung a small Venetian mirror, which I had bought from a number of such toys brought in by the Southampton, and had given to Mistress Percy. My eyes rested upon it, idly at first, then closely enough as I saw within it a man enter the room. I had heard no footfall; there was no noise now behind me. The fire was somewhat sunken, and the room was almost in darkness; I saw him in the glass dimly, as shadow rather than substance. But the light was not so faint that the mirror could not show me the raised hand and the dagger within its grasp. I sat without motion, watching the figure in the glass grow larger. When it was nearly upon me, and the hand with the dagger drawn back for the blow, I sprang up, wheeled, and caught it by the wrist.
A moment's fierce struggle, and I had the dagger in my own hand and the man at my mercy. The fire upon the hearth seized on a pine knot and blazed up brightly, filling the room with light. “Diccon!” I cried, and dropped my arm.
I had never thought of this. The room was very quiet as, master and man, we stood and looked each other in the face. He fell back to the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily; into the space between us the past came thronging.
I opened my hand and let the dagger drop to the floor. “I suppose that this was because of last night,” I said. “I shall never strike you again.”
I went to the table, and sitting down leaned my forehead upon my hand. It was Diccon who would have done this thing! The fire crackled on the hearth as had crackled the old camp fires in Flanders; the wind outside was the wind that had whistled through the rigging of the Treasurer, one terrible night when we lashed ourselves to the same mast and never thought to see the morning. Diccon!
Upon the table was the minister's inkhorn and pen. I drew my tablets from the breast of my doublet and began to write. “Diccon!” I called, without turning, when I had finished.
He came slowly forward to the table, and stood beside it with hanging head. I tore the leaf from the book and pushed it over to him. “Take it,” I ordered.
“To the commander?” he asked. “I am to take it to the commander?”
I shook my head. “Read it.”
He stared at it vacantly, turning it now this way, now that.
“Did you forget how to read when you forgot all else?” I said sternly.
He read, and the color rushed into his face.
“It is your freedom,” I said. “You are no longer man of mine. Begone, sirrah!”
He crumpled the paper in his hand. “I was mad,” he muttered.
“I could almost believe it,” I replied. “Begone!”
After a moment he went. Sitting still in my place, I heard him heavily and slowly leave the room, descend the step at the door, and go out into the night.
A door opened, and Mistress Jocelyn Percy came into the great room, like a sunbeam strayed back to earth. Her skirt was of flowered satin, her bodice of rich taffeta; between the gossamer walls of her French ruff rose the whitest neck to meet the fairest face. Upon her dark hair sat, as lightly as a kiss, a little pearl-bordered cap. A color was in her cheeks and a laugh on her lips. The rosy light of the burning pine caressed her,—now dwelling on the rich dress, now on the gold chain around the slender waist, now on rounded arms, now on the white forehead below the pearls. Well, she was a fair lady for a man to lay down his life for.
“I held court this afternoon!” she cried. “Where were you, sir? Madam West was here, and my Lady Temperance Yeardley, and Master Wynne, and Master Thorpe from Henricus, and Master Rolfe with his Indian brother,—who, I protest, needs but silk doublet and hose and a month at Whitehall to make him a very fine gentleman.”
“If courage, steadfastness, truth, and courtesy make a gentleman,” I said, “he is one already. Such an one needs not silk doublet nor court training.”
She looked at me with her bright eyes. “No,” she repeated, “such an one needs not silk doublet nor court training.” Going to the fire, she stood with one hand upon the mantelshelf, looking down into the ruddy hollows. Presently she stooped and gathered up something from the hearth. “You waste paper strangely, Captain Percy,” she said. “Here is a whole handful of torn pieces.”
She came over to the table, and with a laugh showered the white fragments down upon it, then fell to idly piecing them together. “What were you writing?” she asked. “'To all whom it may concern: I, Ralph Percy, Gentleman, of the Hundred of Weyanoke, do hereby set free from all service to me and mine'”—
I took from her the bits of paper, and fed the fire with them. “Paper is but paper,” I said. “It is easily rent. Happily a man's will is more durable.”