THE WATER OF THE

WONDROUS ISLES

CONTENTS

THE FIRST PART:

OF THE HOUSE OF CAPTIVITY.

CHAPTER I.

CATCH AT UTTERHAY.

Whilom, as tells the tale, was a walled cheaping-town hight Utterhay, which was
builded in a bight of the land a little off the great highway which went from
over the mountains to the sea.

The said town was hard on the borders of a wood, which men held to be mighty
great, or maybe measureless; though few indeed had entered it, and they that
had, brought back tales wild and confused thereof.

Therein was neither highway nor byway, nor wood-reeve nor way-warden; never
came chapman thence into Utterhay; no man of Utterhay was so poor or so bold
that he durst raise the hunt therein; no outlaw durst flee thereto; no man of
God had such trust in the saints that he durst build him a cell in that wood.

For all men deemed it more than perilous; and some said that there walked the
worst of the dead; othersome that the Goddesses of the Gentiles haunted there;
others again that it was the faery rather, but they full of malice and guile.
But most commonly it was deemed that the devils swarmed amidst of its thickets,
and that wheresoever a man sought to, who was once environed by it, ever it was
the Gate of Hell whereto he came. And the said wood was called Evilshaw.

Nevertheless the cheaping-town throve not ill; for whatso evil things haunted
Evilshaw, never came they into Utterhay in such guise that men knew them,
neither wotted they of any hurt that they had of the Devils of Evilshaw.

Now in the said cheaping-town, on a day, it was market and high noon, and in
the market-place was much people thronging; and amidst of them went a woman,
tall, and strong of aspect, of some thirty winters by seeming, black-haired,
hook-nosed and hawk-eyed, not so fair to look on as masterful and proud. She
led a great grey ass betwixt two panniers, wherein she laded her marketings.
But now she had done her chaffer, and was looking about her as if to note the
folk for her disport; but when she came across a child, whether it were borne
in arms or led by its kinswomen, or were going alone, as were some, she seemed
more heedful of it, and eyed it more closely than aught else.

So she strolled about till she was come to the outskirts of the throng, and
there she happened on a babe of some two winters, which was crawling about on
its hands and knees, with scarce a rag upon its little body. She watched it,
and looked whereto it was going, and saw a woman sitting on a stone, with none
anigh her, her face bowed over her knees as if she were weary or sorry. Unto
her crept the little one, murmuring and merry, and put its arms about the
woman’s legs, and buried its face in the folds of her gown: she looked up
therewith, and showed a face which had once been full fair, but was now grown
bony and haggard, though she were scarce past five and twenty years. She took
the child and strained it to her bosom, and kissed it, face and hands, and made
it great cheer, but ever woefully. The tall stranger stood looking down on her,
and noted how evilly she was clad, and how she seemed to have nought to do with
that throng of thriving cheapeners, and she smiled somewhat sourly.

At last she spake, and her voice was not so harsh as might have been looked for
from her face: Dame, she said, thou seemest to be less busy than most folk
here; might I crave of thee to tell an alien who has but some hour to dwell in
this good town where she may find her a chamber wherein to rest and eat a
morsel, and be untroubled of ribalds and ill company? Said the poor-wife: Short
shall be my tale; I am over poor to know of hostelries and ale-houses that I
may tell thee aught thereof. Said the other: Maybe some neighbour of thine
would take me in for thy sake? Said the mother: What neighbours have I since my
man died; and I dying of hunger, and in this town of thrift and abundance?

The leader of the ass was silent a while, then she said: Poor woman! I begin to
have pity on thee; and I tell thee that luck hath come to thee to-day.

Now the poor-wife had stood up with the babe in her arms and was turning to go
her ways; but the alien put forth a hand to her, and said: Stand a while and
hearken good tidings. And she put her hand to her girdle-pouch, and drew
thereout a good golden piece, a noble, and said: When I am sitting down in
thine house thou wilt have earned this, and when I take my soles out thereof
there will be three more of like countenance, if I be content with thee
meanwhile.

The woman looked on the gold, and tears came into her eyes; but she laughed and
said: Houseroom may I give thee for an hour truly, and therewithal water of the
well, and a mouse’s meal of bread. If thou deem that worth three nobles, how
may I say thee nay, when they may save the life of my little one. But what else
wouldst thou of me? Little enough, said the alien; so lead me straight to thine
house.

So went they forth of the market-place, and the woman led them, the alien and
the ass, out of the street through the west gate of Utterhay, that, to wit,
which looked on Evilshaw, and so into a scattering street without the wall, the
end of which neared a corner of the wood aforesaid: the houses there were
nought so evil of fashion, but whereas they were so nigh unto the Devil’s Park,
rich men might no longer away with them, and they were become wares for poor
folk.

Now the townswoman laid her hand on the latch of the door that was hers, and
threw the door open; then she put forth her palm to the other, and said: Wilt
thou give me the first gold now, since rest is made sure for thee, as long as
thou wilt? The ass-leader put it into her hand, and she took it and laid it on
her baby’s cheek, and then kissed both gold and child together; then she turned
to the alien and said: As for thy way-beast, I have nought for him, neither hay
nor corn: thou wert best to leave him in the street. The stranger nodded a
yeasay, and the three went in together, the mother, the child, and the alien.

Not right small was the chamber; but there was little therein; one stool to
wit, a yew-chair, a little table, and a coffer: there was no fire on the
hearth, nought save white ashes of small wood; but it was June, so that was of
no account.

The guest sat down in the yew-chair, and the poor-wife laid her child down
gently on the floor and came and stood before the stranger, as if abiding her
bidding.

Spake the alien: Nought so uncomely or strait is thy chamber; and thy child,
which I see is a woman, and therefore belike shall long abide with thee, is
lovely of shape, and fair of flesh. Now also thou shalt have better days, as I
deem, and I pray them on thine head.

She spake in a kind wheedling voice, and the poor-wife’s face grew softer, and
presently tears fell down on to the table from her, but she spake no word. The
guest now drew forth, not three nobles, but four, and laid them on the table,
and said: Lo, my friend, the three nobles which I behight thee! now are they
thine; but this other thou shalt take and spend for me. Go up into the town,
and buy for me white bread of the best; and right good flesh, or poulaine if it
may be, already cooked and dight; and, withal, the best wine that thou mayst
get, and sweetmeats for thy baby; and when thou comest back, we will sit
together and dine here. And thereafter, when we be full of meat and drink, we
shall devise something more for thy good speed.

The woman knelt before her weeping, but might speak no word because of the
fullness of her heart. She kissed the guest’s hands, and took the money, and
then arose and caught up her child, and kissed her bare flesh eagerly many
times, and then hastened out of the house and up the street and through the
gate; and the guest sat hearkening to the sound of her footsteps till it died
out, and there was nought to be heard save the far-off murmur of the market,
and the chirrup of the little one on the floor.

Then arose the guest and took up the child from the floor, who kicked and
screamed, and craved her mother as her broken speech might; but the alien spake
softly to her, and said: Hush, dear one, and be good, and we will go and find
her; and she gave her therewith a sugar-plum from out of her scrip. Then she
came out of doors, and spake sweetly to the little one: See now this pretty
way-beast. We will ride merrily on him to find thy mother.

Then she laid the child in the pannier with a soft cushion under, and a silk
cloth over her, so that she lay there happily. Then she took her ass’s rein and
went her ways over the waste toward Evilshaw; for, as ye may deem, where the
houses and the street ended, the beaten way ended also.

Quietly and speedily she went, and met but three men on the way; and when these
saw her, and that she was making for Evilshaw, they turned their heads away,
each one, and blessed themselves, and went past swiftly. Not one sought to stay
her, or held any converse with her, and no foot she heard following after her.
So in scarce more than the saying of a low mass she was in amongst the trees,
with her ass and her wares and her prey.

No stay she made there, but held forward at her best before the night should
fall upon her. And whatsoever might be told concerning the creatures that other
folk had met in Evilshaw, of her it must needs be said that therein she
happened on nought worser than herself.

CHAPTER II.

NOW SHALL BE TOLD OF THE HOUSE BY THE WATER-SIDE.

Four days they wended the wood, and nought befell to tell of. The witch-wife
(for even such was she) fed the stolen child well and duly, and whiles caressed
her and spake sweetly unto her; whiles also she would take her out of the
pannier, and set her on the ass’s back and hold her thereon heedfully; or,
otherwhiles, when they came upon grassy and flowery places, she would set her
down on the ground and let her roam about, and pluck the flowers and the
strawberries. And whoso might be sorry, the child was glad, so many things new
and fair as she came upon.

At last, when the fifth day was waning, and they had been a long while wending
a wood set thick with trees, it began to grow grey betwixt the distant boles,
and then from grey to white, and it was as if a new world of light lay before
them. Thitherward went they, and in a little, and before the sun was set, came
they to the shore of a great water, and thence was no more land to be seen
before them than if it had been the main sea itself, though this was a sweet
water. Albeit, less than a half mile from the shore lay two eyots, as it might
have been on the salt sea; but one of these sat low down on the water, and was
green and well bushed, but the other, which lay east of it, and was nigher to
the shore, was high, rocky, and barren.

Now the ending of the wood left a fair green plain betwixt it and the water,
whiles more than a furlong across, whiles much less; and whiles the trees came
down close to the water-side. But the place whereas they came from out the wood
was of the widest, and there it was a broad bight of greensward of the fashion
of the moon seven nights old, and a close hedge of thicket there was at the
back of it; and the lake lay south, and the wood north. Some deal of this
greensward was broken by closes of acre-land, and the tall green wheat stood
blossoming therein; but the most was sweet meadow, and there as now was a
gallant flock of goats feeding down it; five kine withal, and a tethered bull.
Through the widest of this meadow ran a clear stream winding down to the lake,
and on a little knoll beside a lap of the said stream, two bow-shots from the
water, was a knoll, whereon stood, amidst of a potherb garden, a little house
strongly framed of timber. Before it the steep bank of the lake broke down into
a slowly-shelving beach, whose honey-coloured sand thrust up a tongue in
amongst the grass of the mead.

Went the witch-wife straight to the door of the said house as if she were at
home, as was sooth indeed. She threw the door open, and unladed the ass of all
his wares, and first of the youngling, whom she shook awake, and bore into the
house, and laid safely on the floor of the chamber; nor did she wait on her
wailing, but set about what was to be done to kindle fire, and milk a she-goat,
and get meat upon the board. That did she, and fed both herself and the child
plenteously: neither did she stint her of meat ever, from that time forward,
however else she dealt with her.

CHAPTER III.

OF SKIN-CHANGING.

One thing must here be told: Whenas the said dame stood forth clad amidst of
the chamber the next morning, the child ran up to her to greet her or what not,
but straightway when she saw her close, drew aback, and stood gasping with
affright; for verily she deemed this was nowise she who had brought her last
night into the fair chamber, and given bread and milk to her and put her to
bed, but someone else. For this one had not dark hair, and hooked nose, and
eyen hawk-bright; stark and tall was she indeed, as that other one, and by
seeming of the same-like age; but there came to an end all her likeness to last
night’s housewife. This one had golden-red hair flowing down from her head;
eyes of hazel colour, long and not well-opened, but narrow and sly. High of
cheekbones she was, long-chinned and thin-lipped; her skin was fine and white,
but without ruddiness; flat-breasted she was, and narrow-hipped.

Now she laughed at the babe’s terror, and said, but in her old voice at least:
Thou foolish little beast! I know what scares thee, to wit, that thou deemest
me changed: now I tell thee that I am the one who brought thee here last night,
and fed thee; neither is my changing a matter of thine, since at least I am the
one who shall keep thee from hunger and weather henceforward; that is enough
for thee to know as now. Now thou hast to eat and sleep and play and cry out,
that thou mayest the sooner wax, and grow into the doing of my will.

Therewith she led her out into the sunshine, and tethered her to an ash sapling
which grew anigh the door, that the child might be safe the while she went
about her work in acre and mead.

But as for that matter of changing of aspect, the maiden came to know
thereafter that the witch durst not go into the wood in the same skin as that
which she wore at home, wherefore she had changed it for the journey to
Utterhay, and changed back again in the night-tide before she arose.

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE WAXING OF THE STOLEN CHILD.

This little one, who is henceforth called Birdalone, though the witch called
her but seldom so, nor indeed by any name, dwelt there betwixt the water and
the wood, and saw none save the said witch-wife, who, as aforesaid, fed her
well, but scarce meddled with her else for a long while; so she wandered
well-nigh as she had will, and much in the wood; for she had no fear thereof,
nor indeed of aught else save of the dame. She learned of the ways and the wont
of all the creatures round about her, and the very grass and flowers were
friends to her, and she made tales of them in her mind; and the wild things
feared her in no wise, and the fowl would come to her hand, and play with her
and love her. A lovely child she was, rosy and strong, and as merry as the
birds on the bough; and had she trouble, for whiles she came across some ugly
mood of the witch-wife, she bore it all as lightly as they.

Wore the years thus, till now she was grown tall and thin, and had seen twelve
winters, and was far stronger and handier than at first sight she looked to be.
That found her mistress, and would not forego the using of her deftness. For
indeed the maiden knew all matters of wood and field full well, and somewhat of
the water also (though no boat had she ever seen there), for she learned
herself swimming, as the ducks do belike.

But now her mistress would learn her swinking, and hard was the lesson, for
with twiggen rods and switches was she learned, and was somewhat stubborn with
this woman, who she deemed loved her not; and, however it were, there began to
grow in her an inkling that all was not well with the dame, and howsoever she
might fear her, she trusted her not, nor worshipped her; otherwise she had
learned her lesson speedily; for she was not slack nor a sluggard, and hated
not the toil, even when it pained and wearied her, but against the anger and
malice she hardened her heart.

It is to be said, that though there she dwelt alone with the witch-wife, she
had somehow got to know that they two were not alone in the world, and she knew
of male and female, and young and old. Thereof doubtless the witch herself had
learned her, would she, would she not; for though she were mostly few-spoken,
yet whiles the tongue of her would loosen, and she would tell Birdalone tales
of men and women, and kings and warriors and thralls, and the folk of the world
beyond them, if it were but to scare the child. Yea, and when she rated
Birdalone, or girded at her, words would come forth which the maiden stored up,
and by laying two and two together gat wisdom howso it were. Moreover, she was
of the race of Adam, and her heart conceived of diverse matters from her
mother’s milk and her father’s blood, and her heart and her mind grew up along
with her body. Herein also was she wise, to wit, how to give wrath the go-by,
so that she oft found the wood a better home than the house: for now she knew
that the witch-wife would enter it never; wherefore she loved it much, and
haunted it daily if she might.

Amidst all this she lived not unmerrily; for the earth was her friend, and
solaced her when she had suffered aught: withal she was soon grown hardy as
well as strong; and evil she could thole, nor let it burden her with misery.

CHAPTER V.

OF BIRDALONE, AND HOW SHE IS GROWN INTO MAIDENHOOD.

Wear the years and the years amidst such days as these, and now is Birdalone
grown a dear maiden of seventeen summers; and yet was her life not unhappy;
though the mirth of her childhood was somewhat chastened in her, and she walked
the earth soberly and measurely, as though deep thoughts were ever in her head:
though, forsooth, it is not all so sure that her serious face and solemn eyes
were but a part of the beauty which was growing with the coming forth of
childhood into youth and maidenhood. But this at least is sure, that about this
time those forebodings which had shown her that she had no call to love and
honour her mistress took clearer shape, and became a burden on her, which she
might never wholly shake off. For this she saw, that she was not her own, but a
chattel and a tool of one who not only used her as a thrall in the passing day,
but had it in her mind to make of her a thing accursed like to herself, and to
bait the trap with her for the taking of the sons of Adam. Forsooth she saw,
though dimly, that her mistress was indeed wicked, and that in the bonds of
that wickedness was she bound.

One thing, moreover, had she noted now this long while, that once and again, it
might be once every two moons, the witch-wife would arise in the dead of night
and go forth from the house, and be away for a day, or two or three, or whiles
more, and come back again weary and fordone; but never said she any word to
Birdalone hereof. Yet oft when she arose to go this errand, before she left the
chamber would she come to Birdalone’s truckle-bed, and stand over her to note
if she were asleep or not; and ever at such times did Birdalone feign slumber
amidst of sickening dread. Forsooth in these latter days it whiles entered the
maiden’s head that when the dame was gone she would rise and follow her and see
whither she went, and what she did; but terror constrained her that she went
not.

Now from amidst all these imaginings arose a hope in her that she might one day
escape from her thralldom: and whiles, when she was lonely and safe in the
wood, to this hope she yielded herself; but thereof came such tumult of her
soul for joy of the hope, that she might not master her passion; the earth
would seem to rise beneath her, and the woods to whirl about before her eyes,
so that she might not keep her feet, but would sink adown to earth, and lie
there weeping. Then most oft would come the cold fit after the hot, and the
terror would take her that some day the witch would surprise the joy of that
hope in her eyes, and would know what it meant, or that some light word might
bewray her; and therewith came imaginings of what would then befall her, nor
were that hard to picture, and it would come before her over and over again
till she became weary and worn out therewith.

But though they abode ever with her, these troubling thoughts pricked not so
oft at the keenest, but were as the dull ache of little import that comes after
pain overcome: for in sooth busy and toilsome days did she wear, which irked
her in nowise, since it eased her of the torment of those hopes and fears
aforesaid, and brought her sound sleep and sweet awaking. The kine and the
goats must she milk, and plough and sow and reap the acre-land according to the
seasons, and lead the beasts to the woodland pastures when their own were
flooded or burned; she must gather the fruits of the orchard, and the hazel
nuts up the woodlands, and beat the walnut-trees in September. She must make
the butter and the cheese, grind the wheat in the quern, make and bake the
bread, and in all ways earn her livelihood hard enough. Moreover, the bowman’s
craft had she learned, and at the dame’s bidding must fare alone into the wood
now and again to slay big deer and little, and win venison: but neither did
that irk her at all, for rest and peace were in the woods for her.

True it is, that as she wended thicket or glade or wood-lawn, she would at
whiles grow timorous, and tread light and heedfully, lest rustling leaves or
crackling stick should arouse some strange creature in human shape, devil, or
god now damned, or woman of the faery. But if such were there, either they were
wise and would not be seen, or kind and had no will to scare the simple maiden;
or else maybe there were none such in those days. Anyhow, nought evil came to
her out of Evilshaw.

CHAPTER VI.

HEREIN IS TOLD OF BIRDALONE’S RAIMENT.

Lank and long is Birdalone the sweet, with legs that come forth bare and
browned from under her scant grey coat and scantier smock beneath, which was
all her raiment save when the time was bitter, and then, forsooth, it was a
cloak of goat-skin that eked her attire: for the dame heeded little the
clothing of her; nor did Birdalone give so much heed thereto that she cared to
risk the anger of her mistress by asking her for aught.

But on a day of this same spring, when the witch-wife was of sweeter temper
than her wont was, and the day was very warm and kindly, though it was but one
of the last of February days, Birdalone, blushing and shamefaced, craved
timidly some more womanly attire. But the dame turned gruffly on her and said:
Tush, child! what needeth it? here be no men to behold thee. I shall see to it,
that when due time comes thou shalt be whitened and sleeked to the very utmost.
But look thou! thou art a handy wench; take the deer-skin that hangs up yonder
and make thee brogues for thy feet, if so thou wilt.

Even so did Birdalone, and shaped the skin to her feet; but as she was sewing
them a fancy came into her head; for she had just come across some threads of
silk of divers colours; so she took them and her shoon and her needle up into
the wood, and there sat down happily under a great spreading oak which much she
haunted, and fell to broidering the kindly deer-skin. And she got to be long
about it, and came back to it the next day and the next, and many days, whenso
her servitude would suffer it, and yet the shoon were scarce done.

So on a morning the dame looked on her feet as she moved about the chamber, and
cried out at her: What! art thou barefoot as an hen yet? Hast thou spoilt the
good deer-skin and art yet but shoeless? Nay, our lady, said Birdalone, but the
shoon are not altogether done. Show them to me, said the dame.

Birdalone went to her little coffer to fetch them, and brought them somewhat
timorously, for she knew not how her mistress would take her working on them so
long, if perchance she would blame her, or it might be chastise her, for even
in those days the witch-wife’s hand was whiles raised against her. But now when
the dame took the shoes and looked on them, and saw how there were oak-leaves
done into them, and flowers, and coneys, and squirrels, she but smiled somewhat
grimly on Birdalone, and said: Well, belike thou art a fool to waste thy time
and mine in such toys; and to give thee thy due would be to give thee stripes.
But thou doest herein after the nature of earthly women, to adorn thy body,
whatsoever else is toward. And well is that, since I would have thee a woman so
soon as may be; and I will help thy mind for finery, since thou art so deft
with thy needle.

Therewith she went to the big coffer and drew forth thence a piece of fine
green cloth, and another of fine linen, and said to Birdalone: This mayest thou
take, and make thee a gown thereof and a new smock, and make them if thou wilt
as gay as thy new shoon are gotten to be; and here is wherewithal. And
therewith she gave her two handfuls of silken threads and gold, and said: Now I
suppose that I must do the more part of thy work, while thou art making thee
these gaudy garments. But maybe someone may be coming this way ere long, who
will deem the bird the finer for her fine feathers. Now depart from me; for I
would both work for thee and me, and ponder weighty matters.

Who was glad now but Birdalone; she grew red with new pleasure, and knelt down
and kissed the witch’s hand, and then went her ways to the wood with her
precious lading, and wrought there under her oak-tree day after day, and all
days, either there, or in the house when the weather was foul. That was in the
middle of March, when all birds were singing, and the young leaves showing on
the hawthorns, so that there were pale green clouds, as it were, betwixt the
great grey boles of oak and sweet-chestnut; and by the lake the meadow-saffron
new-thrust-up was opening its blossom; and March wore and April, and still she
was at work happily when now it was later May, and the hare-bells were in full
bloom down the bent before her.

All this while the witch had meddled little with Birdalone, and had bidden her
to no work afield or in the stead which was anywise grievous, but had done all
herself; yet was she few-spoken with her, and would oft behold her gloomily.
And one evening when Birdalone came in from the wood, the witch came close up
to her and stared her in the face, and said suddenly: Is it in thine heart to
flee away from me and leave me?

A sharp pang of fear shot through Birdalone’s heart at that word, and she
turned very red, and then pale to the lips, but stammered out: No, lady, it is
not in mine heart. The dame looked grimly on her and said: If thou try it and
fail, thou shalt rue it once only, to wit, lifelong; and thou canst but fail.
She was silent a while, and then spake in a milder voice: Be content here a
while with me, and thereafter thou shalt be more content, and that before long.

She said no more at that time; but her word clave to Birdalone’s heart, and for
some time thereafter she was sorely oppressed with a burden of fear, and knew
not how to hold herself before the witch-wife. But the days wore, and nought
betid, and the maiden’s heart grew lighter, and still she wrought on at her
gown and her smock, and it was well-nigh done. She had broidered the said gown
with roses and lilies, and a tall tree springing up from amidmost the hem of
the skirt, and a hart on either side thereof, face to face of each other. And
the smock she had sewn daintily at the hems and the bosom with fair knots and
buds. It was now past the middle of June, hot and bright weather.

CHAPTER VII.

BIRDALONE HATH AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOOD.

On a day she went to the wood, and sat down under her oak-tree, and it was far
and far out of sight of anyone standing in the meadow by the lake; and in the
wood Birdalone looked to see nought at all save the rabbits and squirrels, who
were, forsooth, familiar enough with her, and fearless, so that they would come
to her hand and sport with her when she hailed them. Wherefore, as the day was
exceeding hot, she put off from her her simple raiment, that she might feel all
the pleasure of the cool shadow and what air was stirring, and the kindness of
the greensward upon her very body. So she sat sewing, covered but by a lap of
the green gown which her needle was painting.

But as she sat there intent on her work, and her head bent over it, and it was
now at the point of high noon, she heard as if some creature were going anigh
to her; she heeded it not, deeming that it would be but some wandering hind.
But even therewith she heard one say her name in a soft voice, and she leapt up
trembling, deeming at first that it would be the witch come to fetch her: but
yet more scared she was, when she saw standing before her the shape of a young
woman as naked as herself, save that she had an oak wreath round about her
loins.

The new-comer, who was now close to her, smiled on her, and said in a kind and
sweet voice: Fear nought, Birdalone, for I deem thou wilt find me a friend, and
it is not unlike that thou wilt need one ere long. And furthermore, I will say
it, said she smiling, that since I am not afraid of thee, thou needest not be
afraid of me. Said Birdalone, she also smiling: True it is that thou art nought
fearsome to look on. The new-comer laughed outright, and said: Are we not well
met then in the wildwood? and we both as two children whom the earth loveth. So
play we at a game. At what game? said Birdalone. Spake she of the oak-wreath:
This; thou shalt tell me what I am like in thine eyes first, because thou wert
afraid of me; and then when thou art done, I will tell thee what thou seemest
to me.

Quoth Birdalone: For me that will be hard; for I have nought to liken thee to,
whereas save this sight of thee I have seen nought save her that dwelleth in
the House by the Water, and whom I serve. Nay, said the other, then will I
begin, and tell thee first whatlike thou art, so that thou wilt know the better
how to frame thy word concerning me. But tell me, hast thou ever seen thyself
in a mirror? What thing is that? said Birdalone. It is a polished round of
steel or some other white metal, said the wood-maiden, which giveth back in all
truth the image of whatso cometh before it. Said Birdalone and reddened
therewith: We have at home a broad latten dish, which it is my work, amongst
other things, to brighten and keep bright; yet may I not make it so bright that
I may see much of mine image therein; and yet. What wouldst thou? said the
wood-woman. Said Birdalone: I shall tell thee presently when thy part of the
play is done.

Laughed the new-comer, and said: It is well; now am I to be thy mirror. Thus it
is with thee: thou standest before me a tall and slim maiden, somewhat thin, as
befitteth thy seventeen summers; where thy flesh is bare of wont, as thy throat
and thine arms and thy legs from the middle down, it is tanned a beauteous
colour, but otherwhere it is even as fair a white, wholesome and clean, and as
if the golden sunlight, which fulfilleth the promise of the earth, were playing
therein. Fairer and rounder shall be thine arms and thy shoulders when thou
hast seen five more summers, yet scarce more lovesome, so strong and fine as
now they are. Low are thy breasts, as is meet for so young a maiden, yet is
there no lack in them; nor ever shall they be fairer than now they are. In
goodly fashion sits thine head upon thy shoulders, upheld by a long and most
well-wrought neck, that the sun hath tanned as aforesaid. The hair of thee is
simple brown, yet somewhat more golden than dark; and ah! now thou lettest it
loose it waveth softly past thy fair smooth forehead and on to thy shoulders,
and is not stayed by thy girdlestead, but hideth nought of thy knees, and thy
legs shapely thin, and thy strong and clean-wrought ankles and feet, which are
with thee as full of thine heart and thy soul and as wise and deft as be thy
wrists and thine hands, and their very fellows. Now as to thy face: under that
smooth forehead is thy nose, which is of measure, neither small nor great,
straight, and lovely carven at the nostrils: thine eyen are as grey as a
hawk’s, but kind and serious, and nothing fierce nor shifting. Nay, now thou
lettest thine eyelids fall, it is as fair with thy face as if they were open,
so smooth and simple are they and with their long full lashes. But well are
thine eyen set in thine head, wide apart, well opened, and so as none shall say
thou mayst not look in the face of them. Thy cheeks shall one day be a snare
for the unwary, yet are they not fully rounded, as some would have them; but
not I, for most pitiful kind are they forsooth. Delicate and clear-made is the
little trench that goeth from thy nose to thy lips, and sweet it is, and there
is more might in it than in sweet words spoken. Thy lips, they are of the
finest fashion, yet rather thin than full; and some would not have it so; but I
would, whereas I see therein a sign of thy valiancy and friendliness. Surely he
who did thy carven chin had a mind to a master-work and did no less. Great was
the deftness of thine imaginer, and he would have all folk that see thee wonder
at thy deep thinking and thy carefulness and thy kindness. Ah maiden! is it so
that thy thoughts are ever deep and solemn? Yet at least I know it of thee that
they be hale and true and sweet.

My friend, when thou hast a mirror, some of all this shalt thou see, but not
all; and when thou hast a lover some deal wilt thou hear, but not all. But now
thy she-friend may tell it thee all, if she have eyes to see it, as have I;
whereas no man could say so much of thee before the mere love should overtake
him, and turn his speech into the folly of love and the madness of desire. So
now I have played the play, and told thee of thee; tell me now of me, and play
thy play.

For a while stood Birdalone silent, blushing and confused, but whiles casting
shy glances at her own body, what she might see of it. At last she spake: Fair
friend, I would do thy will, but I am not deft of speech; for I speak but
little, save with the fowl and wild things, and they may not learn me the
speech of man. Yet I will say that I wonder to hear thee call me fair and
beauteous; for my dame tells me that never, nor sayeth aught of my aspect save
in her anger, and then it is: Rag! and bag-of-bones! and when wilt thou be a
woman, thou lank elf thou? The new-comer laughed well-favouredly hereat, and
put forth a hand, and stroked her friend’s cheek. Birdalone looked piteous kind
on her and said: But now I must needs believe thy words, thou who art so kind
to me, and withal thyself so beauteous. And I will tell thee that it fills my
heart with joy to know that I am fair like to thee. For this moreover I will
tell thee, that I have seen nought in field or woodland that is as lovely to me
as thou art; nay, not the fritillary nodding at our brook’s mouth, nor the
willow-boughs waving on Green Eyot; nor the wild-cat sporting on the little
woodlawn, when she saw me not; nor the white doe rising up from the grass to
look to her fawn; nor aught that moves and grows. Yet there is another thing
which I must tell thee, to wit, that what thou hast said about the fashion of
any part of me, that same, setting aside thy lovely words, which make the tears
come into the eyes of me, would I say of thee. Look thou! I take thine hair and
lay the tress amongst mine, and thou mayst not tell which is which; and amidst
the soft waves of it thy forehead is nestling smooth as thou saidst of mine:
hawk-grey and wide apart are thine eyen, and deep thought and all tenderness is
in them, as of me thou sayest: fine is thy nose and of due measure; and thy
cheeks a little hollow, and somewhat thin thy lovely lips; and thy round chin
so goodly carven, as it might not be better done. And of thy body else I will
say as thou sayst of mine, though I deem these hands have done more work than
thine. But see thou! thy leg and mine as they stand together; and thine arm, as
if it were of my body. Slim and slender thou art, or it may be lank; and I deem
our dame would call thee also bag-of-bones. Now is this strange. Who art thou?
Art thou my very own sister? I would thou wert.

Spake then to Birdalone that image of her, and said, smiling kindly on her: As
to our likeness, thou hast it now; so alike are we, as if we were cast in one
mould. But thy sister of blood I am not; nay, I will tell thee at once that I
am not of the children of Adam. As to what I am, that is a long story, and I
may not tell it as now; but thou mayst call me Habundia, as I call thee
Birdalone. Now it is true that to everyone I show not myself in this fair shape
of thee; but be not aghast thereat, or deem me like unto thy mistress herein,
for as now I am, so ever shall I be unto thee.

Quoth Birdalone, looking on her anxiously: Yea, and I shall see thee again,
shall I not? else should I grieve, and wish that I had never seen thee at all.
Yea, forsooth, said Habundia, for I myself were most fain to see thee oft. But
now must thou presently get thee back home, for evil as now is the mood of thy
mistress, and she is rueing the gift of the green gown, and hath in her mind to
seek occasion to chastise thee.

Now was Birdalone half weeping, as she did on her raiment while her friend
looked on her kindly. She said presently: Habundia, thou seest I am hard
bestead; give me some good rede thereto.

That will I, said the wood-wife. When thou goest home to the house, be glad of
countenance, and joyous that thy gown is nigh done; and therewith be exceeding
wary. For I deem it most like that she will ask thee what thou hast seen in the
wood, and then if thou falter, or thy face change, then she will have an
inkling of what hath befallen, to wit, that thou hast seen someone; and then
will she be minded to question thy skin. But if thou keep countenance
valiantly, then presently will her doubt run off her, and she will cease
grudging, and will grow mild with thee and meddle not. This is the first rede,
and is for to-day; and now for the second, which is for days yet unborn. Thou
hast in thy mind to flee away from her; and even so shalt thou do one day,
though it may be by way of Weeping Cross; for she is sly and wise and grim,
though sooth it is that she hateth thee not utterly. Now thou must note that
nowise she hindereth thee from faring in this wood, and that is because she
wotteth, as I do, that by this way there is no outgoing for thee. Wherefore
look thou to it that it is by the way of the water that thou shalt fare to the
land of men-folk. Belike this may seem marvellous to thee; but so it is; and
belike I may tell thee more hereof when time serveth. Now cometh the last word
of my rede. Maybe if thou come often to the wood, we shall whiles happen on
each other; but if thou have occasion for me, and wouldst see me at once, come
hither, and make fire, and burn a hair of my head therein, and I will be with
thee: here is for thee a tress of mine hair; now thou art clad, thou mayst take
a knife from thy pouch and shear it from off me.

Even so did Birdalone, and set the tress in her pouch; and therewith they
kissed and embraced each other, and Birdalone went her ways home to the house,
but Habundia went back into the wood as she had come.

CHAPTER VIII.

OF BIRDALONE AND THE WITCH-WIFE.

It went with Birdalone as Habundia had foretold, for she came home to the house
glad of semblance, flushed and light-foot, so that she was lovely and graceful
beyond her wont. The dame looked on her doubtfully and grimly a while, and then
she said: What ails thee, my servant, that thou lookest so masterful? Nought
ails me, lady, said Birdalone, save that I am gay because of the summer season,
and chiefly because of thy kindness and thy gift, and that I have well-nigh
done my work thereon, and that soon now I shall feel these dainty things
beating about my ankles. And she held up and spread abroad the skirt with her
two hands, and it was indeed goodly to look on.

The witch-wife snorted scornfully and scowled on her, and said: Thine ankles
forsooth! Bag-o’-bones! thou wisp! forsooth, thou art in love with thy looks,
though thou knowest not what like a fair woman is. Forsooth, I begin to think
that thou wilt never grow into a woman at all, but will abide a skinny elf thy
life long. Belike I did myself wrong to suffer thee to waste these three or
four months of thy thrall’s work, since for nought but thrall’s work shalt thou
ever be meet.

Birdalone hung her head adown, and blushed, but smiled a little, and swayed her
body gently, as a willow-bough is swayed when a light air arises in the
morning. But the witch stood so scowling on her, and with so sour a look, that
Birdalone, glancing at her, found her heart sink so within her, that she scarce
kept countenance; yet she lost it not.

Then said the witch sharply: Wert thou in the wood to-day? Yea, lady, said the
maiden. Then said the dame fiercely: And what sawest thou? Quoth Birdalone,
looking up with an innocent face somewhat scared: Lady, I saw a bear, one of
the big ones, crossing a glade. And thou without bow and arrow or wood-knife, I
warrant me, said the witch. Thou shalt be whipped, to keep thee in mind that
thy life is mine and not thine. Nay, nay, I pray thee be not wroth! said the
maid; he was a long way down the glade, and would not have followed me if he
had seen me: there was no peril therein. Said the witch-wife: Didst thou see
aught else? Yea, said Birdalone, and was weeping somewhat now; which forsooth
was not hard for her to do, over-wrought as she was betwixt hope and fear: yea,
I saw my white doe and her fawn, and they passed close by me; and two herons
flew over my head toward the water; and . . . But the witch turned sharply and
said: Thrall! hast thou seen a woman to-day in the wood? A woman? said
Birdalone, and what woman, my lady, said Birdalone. Hath any woman come to the
house, and passed forth into the wood?

The dame looked on her carefully, and remembered how she had faltered and
changed countenance that other day, when she had charged her with being minded
to flee; and now she saw her with wondering face, and in no wise confused or
afraid of guilt, as it seemed; so she believed her tale, and being the more at
ease thereby, her wrath ran off her, and she spake altogether pleasantly to
Birdalone, and said: Now I have had my gird at thee, my servant, I must tell
thee that in sooth it is not all for nothing that thou hast had these months of
rest; for verily thou hast grown more of a woman thereby, and hast sleekened
and rounded much. Albeit, the haysel will wait no longer for us, and the day
after to-morrow we must fall to on it. But when that is done, thou shalt be
free to do thy green gown, or what thou wilt, till wheat harvest is toward; and
thereafter we shall see to it. Or what sayest thou?

Birdalone wondered somewhat at this so gracious word, but not much; for in her
heart now was some guile born to meet the witch’s guile; so she knelt down and
took the dame’s hands and kissed them, and said: I say nought, lady, save that
I thank thee over and over again that thou art become so good to me; and that I
will full merrily work for thee in the hay-field, or at whatsoever else thou
wilt.

And indeed she was so light-hearted that she had so escaped from the hand of
the witch for that time, and above all, that she had gotten a friend so kind
and dear as the wood-woman, that her heart went out even toward her mistress,
so that she went nigh to loving her.

CHAPTER IX.

OF BIRDALONE’S SWIMMING.

Full fair was the morrow morn, and Birdalone arose betimes before the sun was
up, and she thought she would make of this a holiday before the swink afield
began again, since the witch was grown good toward her. So she did on her fair
shoes, and her new raiment, though the green gown was not fully done, and said
to herself that she would consider what she would do with her holiday when she
was amidst of her bathing.

So she went down to the water-side, and when she was standing knee-deep in the
little sandy bight aforesaid, she looked over to Green Eyot, and was minded to
swim over thither, as oft she did. And it was a windless dawn after a hot
night, and a light mist lay upon the face of the water, and above it rose the
greenery of the eyot.

She pushed off into the deep and swam strongly through the still water, and the
sun rose while she was on the way, and by then she had laid a hand on the
willow-twigs of the eyot, was sending a long beam across the waters; and her
wet shoulders rose up into the path of it and were turned into ruddy gold. She
hoisted herself up, and climbing the low bank, was standing amongst the
meadow-sweet, and dripping on to its fragrance. Then she turned about to the
green plain and the house and the hedge of woodland beyond, and sighed, and
said softly: A pity of it, to leave it! If it were no better otherwhere, and
not so fair?

Then she turned inward to the eyot, which had done her nought but good, and
which she loved; and she unbound her hair, and let it fall till the ends of the
tresses mingled with the heads of the meadow-sweet, and thereafter walked
quietly up into the grassy middle of the isle.

She was wont to go to a knoll there where the grass was fine, and flowery at
this time with white clover and dog violet, and lie down under the shade of a
big thorn with a much-twisted bole: but to-day some thought came across her,
and she turned before she came to the thorn, and went straight over the eyot
(which was but a furlong over at that place) and down to the southward-looking
shore thereof. There she let herself softly down into the water and thrust off
without more ado, and swam on and on till she had gone a long way. Then she
communed with herself, and found that she was thinking: If I might only swim
all the water and be free.

And still she swam on: and now a light wind had been drawn up from the west,
and was driving a little ripple athwart the lake, and she swam the swiftlier
for it awhile, but then turned over on her back and floated southward still.
Till on a sudden, as she lay looking up toward the far-away blue sky, and she
so little and low on the face of the waters, and the lake so deep beneath her,
and the wind coming ever fresher from the west, and the ripple rising higher
against her, a terror fell upon her, and she longed for the green earth and its
well-wrought little blossoms and leaves and grass; then she turned over again
and swam straight for the eyot, which now was but a little green heap far away
before her.

Long she was ere she made land there, and the sun was high in the heavens when
she came, all spent and weary, to the shadow of the hawthorn-tree; and she cast
herself down there and fell asleep straightway. Forsooth her swim was about as
much as she had might for.

When she awoke it lacked but an hour of noon-tide, and she felt the life in her
and was happy, but had no will to rise up for a while; for it was ajoy to her
to turn her head this way and that to the dear and dainty flowers, that made
the wide, grey, empty lake seem so far away, and no more to be dealt with than
the very sky itself.

At last she arose, and when she had plucked and eaten some handfuls of the
strawberries which grew plenteously on the sweet ground of the eyot, she went
down to the landward-looking shore, and took the water, and swam slowly across
the warm ripple till she came once more to the strand and her raiment. She clad
herself, and set her hand to her pouch and drew forth bread, and sat eating it
on the bank above the smooth sand. Then she looked around, and stood up with
her face toward the house, to see if the dame would call to her. But she saw
the witch come out of the porch and stand there looking under the sharp of her
hand toward her, and thereafter she went back again into the house without
giving any sign. Wherefore Birdalone deemed that she had leave that day, and
that she might take yet more holiday; so she stepped lightly down from her
place of vantage, turned her face toward the east, and went quietly along the
very lip of the water.

CHAPTER X.

BIRDALONE COMES ON NEW TIDINGS.

Soon she had covered up the house from her, for on that eastern end, both a
tongue of the woodland shoved out west into the meadow, and, withal, the whole
body of the wood there drew down to the water, and presently cut off all the
greensward save a narrow strip along by the lake, off the narrowest whereof lay
the rocky eyot aforesaid, nigher unto the shore than lay Green Eyot.

Now never had Birdalone gone so far east as to be over against Rock Eyot. In
her childish days the witch had let her know that she might go where she would,
but therewith had told her a tale of a huge serpent which dwelt in the dark
wood over against Rock Eyot, whose wont it was to lap his folds round and round
living things that went there, and devour them; and many an evil dream had that
evil serpent brought to Birdalone. In after days belike she scarce trowed in
the tale, yet the terror of it abode with her. Moreover the wildwood toward
that side, as it drew toward the water, was dark and dreary and forbidding,
running into black thickets standing amidst quagmires, all unlike to the sweet,
clean upland ridges, oak begrown and greenswarded, of the parts which lay
toward the north, and which she mostly haunted.

But this summer day, which was so bright and hot, Birdalone deemed she might
harden her heart to try the adventure; and she had a mind to enter the wood
thereby, and win her way up into the oakland whereas she had met Habundia, and
perchance she might happen on her; for she would not dare to summon her so soon
after their first meeting. And if she met her, there would be the holiday
worthily brought to an end!

On went Birdalone, and was soon at the narrowest of the greensward, and had the
wood black on her left hand, for the trees of it were mostly alder. But when
she was come just over against Rock Eyot, she found a straight creek or inlet
of the water across her way; and the said creek ran right up into the alder
thicket; and, indeed, was much overhung by huge ancient alders, gnarled, riven,
mossy, and falling low over the water. But close on the mouth of the creek, on
Birdalone’s side thereof, lay a thing floating on the dull water, which she
knew not how to call a boat, for such had she never seen, nor heard of, but
which was indeed a boat, oarless and sailless.

She looked on it all about, and wondered; yet she saw at once that it was for
wending the water, and she thought, might she but have a long pole, she might
push it about the shallow parts of the lake, and belike take much fish. She
tried to shove it somewhat toward the lake, but with her little might could
make nothing of the work; for the craft was heavy, like a barge, if there were
nothing else that withstood her.

About this new thing she hung a long while, wondering that she had never heard
thereof, or been set to toil therewith. She noted that it was mostly pale grey
of hue, as if it had been bleached by sun and water, but at the stem and stern
were smears of darker colour, as though someone had been trying the tints of
staining there.

Now so much did this new matter take up all her mind, that she thought no more
of going up into the wood; but though she had fain abided there long to see
whatever might be seen, she deemed it would go ill with her did the witch
happen on her there; wherefore she turned about, and went back the way she had
come, going very slowly and pondering the tidings. And ever she called to mind
what Habundia had said to her, that it was by water she must flee, and wondered
if she had sent her this thing that she might escape therein; so different as
her going would be thereby to swimming the lake with her wet body. Then again
she thought, that before she might let herself hope this, it were best, if she
might, to find out from the witch what was the thing, and if she knew thereof.
Yet at last she called to mind how little patient of questions was her
mistress, and that if she were unheedful she might come to raise an evil storm
about her. Wherefore she took this rede at the last, that she would keep all
hidden in her own breast till she should see Habundia again; and meanwhile she
might steal down thither from time to time to see if the thing still abode
there; which she might the easier do by swimming if she chose her time
heedfully, and go thither from Rock Eyot, which now and again she visited.

CHAPTER XI.

OF BIRDALONE’S GUILT AND THE CHASTISEMENT THEREOF.

By this she was come back to the sandy bight, and the sun was westering; and
she looked up toward the house and saw that it was the time of their evening
meal, for the blue smoke of the cooking fire was going up into the air. So she
went thither speedily, and entered gay of seeming. The witch looked on her
doubtfully, but presently fell to speaking with her graciously as yesterday,
and Birdalone was glad and easy of mind, and went about the serving of her; for
always she ate after the dame; and the mistress asked her of many matters
concerning the house, and the gathering of stuff.

So came the talk on the fishing of the brook that ran before their door, and
how the trouts therein were but little, and not seldom none at all; and even
therewith came these words into Birdalone’s mouth, she scarce knew how: My
lady, why do we not fish the lake, whereas there be shoal places betwixt us and
the eyots where lie many and great fish, as I have seen when I have been
swimming thereover? And now in that same creek whereas the serpent used to lurk
when I was little, we have a thing come, which is made to swim on the water;
and I, could I have a long pole to shove withal.

But no time she had to make an end, ere the witch-wife sprang up and turned on
her with a snarl as of an evil dog, and her face changed horribly: her teeth
showed grinning, her eyes goggled in her head, her brow was all to-furrowed,
and her hands clenched like iron springs.

Birdalone shuddered back from her and cringed in mere terror, but had no might
to cry out. The witch hauled her up by the hair, and dragged her head back so
that her throat lay bare before her all along. Then drew the witch a sharp
knife from her girdle, and raised her hand over her, growling and snarling like
a wolf. But suddenly she dropped the knife, her hand fell to her side, and she
fell in a heap on the floor and lay there hushed.

Birdalone stood gazing on her, and trembling in every limb; too confused was
she to think or do aught, though some image off light through the open door
passed before her: but her feet seemed of lead, and, as in an evil dream, she
had no might to move her limbs, and the minutes went by as she stood there half
dead with fear.

At last, (and belike it was no long while) the witch-wife came to herself
again, and sat up on the floor, and looked all about the chamber, and when her
eyes fell upon Birdalone, she said in a weak voice, yet joyfully; Hah! thou art
there still, my good servant! Then she said: A sickness fell upon me suddenly,
as whiles it is wont; but now am I myself again; and presently I have a word
for thee.

Therewith she rose up slowly, Birdalone helping her, and sat in her big chair
silent awhile, and then she spake: My servant, thou hast for the more part
served me well: but this time thou hast done ill, whereas thou hast been spying
on my ways; whereof may come heavy trouble but if we look to it. Well is it for
thee that thou hast none unto whom thou mightest babble; for then must I needs
have slain thee here and now. But for this first time I pardon thee, and thou
hast escaped the wrath.

Her voice was soft and wheedling; but for Birdalone the terror had entered into
her soul, and yet abode with her.

The witch-wife sat a while, and then arose and went about the chamber, and came
to a certain aumbry and opened it, and drew forth a little flasket of lead and
a golden cup scored over with strange signs, and laid them on the board beside
her chair, wherein she now sat down again, and spake once more, still in the
same soft and wheedling voice: Yet, my servant, thy guilt would be required of
me, if I let this pass as if to-day were the same as yesterday; yea, and of
thee also would it be required; therefore it is a part of the pardon that thou
be corrected: and the correction must be terrible to thee, that thou mayst
remember never again to thrust thyself into the jaws of death. And what may I
do to correct thee? It shall be in a strange way, such as thou hast never
dreamed of. Yet the anguish thereof shall go to thine heart’s root; but this
must thou needs bear, for my good and thine, so that both we may live and be
merry hereafter. Go now, fill this cup with water from the spring and come back
with it. Birdalone took the cup with a sinking heart, and filled it, and
brought it back, and stood before the witch more dead than alive.

Then the witch-wife took up the flasket and pulled out the stopple and betook
it to Birdalone, and said: Drink of this now, a little sip, no more. And the
maiden did so, and the liquor was no sooner down her gullet than the witch-wife
and the chamber, and all things about her, became somewhat dim to her; but yet
not so much so as that she could not see them. But when she stretched out her
arm she could see it not at all, nor her limbs nor any other part of her which
her eyes might fall upon. Then would she have uttered a lamentable wail, but
the voice was sealed up in her and no sound came from her voice. Then she heard
the witch-wife how she said (and yet she heard it as if her voice came from
afar), Nay, thou canst not speak, and thou canst not see thyself, nor may any
other, save me, and I but dimly. But this is but part of what I must lay upon
thee; for next I must give thee a new shape, and that both thyself and all
other may see. But, before I do that, I must speak a word to thee, which thy
new shape would not suffer the sense thereof to reach to thine heart. Hearken!

CHAPTER XII.

THE WORDS OF THE WITCH-WIFE TO BIRDALONE.

Said the witch-wife: When thou comest to thyself (for it is not my will that
thou shouldest never have thine own shape again), doubtless the first thing
which thou shalt do with thy new-gained voice and thy new-gained wit shall be
to curse me, and curse me again. Do as thou wilt herein; but I charge thee,
disobey me not, for that shall bring thee to thy bane. For if thou do not my
bidding, and if thou pry into my matters, and lay bare that which I will have
hidden, then will it be imputed unto thee for guilt, and will I, will I not, I
must be avenged on thee even to slaying: and then is undone all the toil and
pain I have had in rearing thee into a deft and lovely maiden. Deem thou, then,
this present anguish kind to thee, to keep thee that thou come not to nought.

Now since I have begun speaking, I will go on; for little heretofore have I
spoken to thee what was in mine heart. Well I wot that thou thinkest of me but
as of an evil dream, whereof none can aught but long to awake from it. Yet I
would have thee look to this at least; that I took thee from poverty and
pinching, and have reared thee as faithfully as ever mother did to child;
clemming thee never, smiting thee not so oft, and but seldom cruelly. Moreover,
I have suffered thee to go whereso thou wouldest, and have compelled thee to
toil for nought but what was needful for our two livelihoods. And I have not
stayed thy swimmings in the lake, nor thy wanderings in the wood, and thou hast
learned bowshot there, till thou art now a past-master in the craft: and,
moreover, thou art swift-foot as the best of the deer, and mayest over-run any
one of them whom thou wilt.

Soothly a merry life hast thou had as a child, and merry now would be thy life,
save for thine hatred of me. Into a lovely lily-lass hast thou grown. That I
tell thee now, though my wont has been to gird at thee for the fashion of thy
body; that was but the word of the mistress to the thrall. And now what
awaiteth thee? For thou mayst say: I am lonely here, and there is no man to
look on me. Of what avail, therefore, is my goodliness and shapeliness? Child,
I answer thee that the time is coming when thou shalt see here a many of the
fairest of men, and then shalt thou be rather rose than lily, and fully come to
womanhood; and all those shall love and worship thee, and thou mayst gladden
whom thou wilt, and whom thou wilt mayst sadden; and no lack soever shalt thou
have of the sweetness of love, or the glory of dominion.

Think of it then! All this is for thee if thou dwell here quietly with me,
doing my will till thy womanhood hath blossomed. Wherefore I beseech and pray
thee put out of thy mind the thought of fleeing from me. For if thou try it,
one of two things shall be: either I shall bring thee back and slay thee, or
make thee live in misery of torment; or else thou wilt escape, and then what
will it be? Dost thou know how it shall go with thee, coming poor and nameless,
an outcast, into the world of men? Lust shalt thou draw unto thee, but scarce
love. I say an outcast shalt thou be, without worship or dominion; thy body
shall be a prey to ribalds, and when the fine flower thereof hath faded, thou
shalt find that the words of thy lovers were but mockery. That no man shall
love thee, and no woman aid thee. Then shall Eld come to thee and find thee at
home with Hell; and Death shall come and mock thee for thy life cast away for
nought, for nought. This is my word to thee: and now I have nought to do to
thee save to change thee thy skin, and therein must thou do as thou canst, but
it shall be no ugly or evil shape at least. But another time maybe I shall not
be so kind as to give thee a new shape, but shall let thee wander about seen by
none but me. Then she took the cup and took water in the hollow of her hand and
cast it into Birdalone’s face, and muttered words withal; and presently she saw
herself indeed, that she was become a milk-white hind; and she heard and saw
again, but not as she, the maiden, was wont to hear and see; for both her
hearing and seeing and her thought was of a beast and not of a maiden.

Said the witch-wife: It is done now, till I give thee grace again; and now be
off into the field; but if thou stray more than half a bowshot from the brook,
it shall be the worse for thee. And now the day was done and night was come.

CHAPTER XIII.

BIRDALONE MEETETH THE WOOD-WOMAN AGAIN.

It was fifteen days thereafter that Birdalone awoke lying in her bed on a
bright morning, as if all this had been but a dream. But the witch-wife was
standing over her and crying out: Thou art late, slug-a-bed, this fair-weather
day, and the grass all spoiling for lack of the scythe. Off! and down to the
meadow with thee.

Birdalone waited not for more words, but sprang out of bed, and had her
work-a-day raiment on in a twinkling, and stayed but to wash her in a pool of
the brook, and then was amidst the tall grass with the swathe falling before
her. As she worked she thought, and could scarce tell whether joy at her
present deliverance, or terror of the witch-wife, were the greatest. Sore was
her longing to go see her friend in the wood, but the haysel lasted more than a
week, and when that was done, whether it were of set purpose or no, the dame
forgat her other promise, to give Birdalone more holiday, and kept her close to
her work about meadow and acre. Otherwise her mistress nowise mishandled or
threatened her, though she had gone back to the surliness and railing which was
her wont. At last, on a morning when the dame had bidden her to nought of work,
Birdalone took her bow in her hand and cast her quiver on her back, and went
her ways into the wood, and forgat not the tress of Habundia’s hair; but she
had no need to use it, for when she was come to the Oak of Tryst, straightway
came Habundia forth from the thicket, and now so like to Birdalone that it was
a wonder, for as her friend she bare bow and quiver, and green gown trussed up
till her knees were naked.

So they kissed and embraced, and Birdalone wept upon her friend’s bosom, but
was ashamed of the words which would have told her of her case. Then Habundia
set her down upon the greensward, and sat down beside her, and caressed her and
soothed her; then she smiled on Birdalone, and said: Thy tale is partly told
without words, and I would weep for thee if I might shed tears. But thou mayest
tell me wherefore thou didst suffer this; though forsooth I have an inkling
thereof. Hast thou happened on the witch’s ferry?

Even so it was, sister, quoth Birdalone. And therewith she plucked up heart,
and told her all the tale of the vanishing of her body and the skin-changing.
And Habundia answered: Well then, there is this to be said, that sooner or
later this must have happened, for thereby lieth thy road of escape; wherefore
it is better sooner than later. But tell me again: was she fierce and rough in
words with thee? for what she said to thee thou hast not yet told me. Said
Birdalone: In her first fury, when she was like to have slain me, she had no
words, nought but wolfish cries. But thereafter she spake unto me strangely,
yet neither fiercely nor roughly; nay, it seemed to me as if almost she loved
me. And more than almost she besought me rather than commanded me not to flee
from her. And wert thou beguiled by her soft speech? said Habundia. Nowise to
cast aside my hope of escape, nay, not even in that hour, said Birdalone; but
amidst all the confusion and terror somewhat was I moved to compassion on her.

Spake Habundia, looking anxiously on her: Dost thou deem that thou art somewhat
cowed by what she hath done to thee? Said Birdalone, and flushed very red: Oh
no, no! Nought save death or bonds shall come betwixt me and my utmost striving
for escape. That is better than well, said Habundia; but again, canst thou have
patience a little, and be wary and wise the while? So meseemeth, said the
maiden. Said Habundia: Again it is well. Now is the summer beginning to wane,
and by my rede thou shalt not try the flight until May is come again and
well-nigh worn into June; for thou wilt be bigger then, little sister, and
tidings are waxing that shall get matters ready for thy departure: moreover,
thou must yet learn what thou hast to do meanwhile, and thereof shall I tell
thee somewhat as now. For that boat, the thing which thou didst find, and for
which thou didst suffer, is called the Sending Boat, and therein thy mistress
fareth time and again, I deem to seek to some other of her kind, but I know not
unto whom, or whereto. Hast thou noted of her that whiles she goeth away
privily by night and cloud? Yea, verily, said Birdalone, and this is one of the
things which heretofore hath made me most afraid. Said Habundia: Well now, that
she wendeth somewhither in this ferry I wot; but as I wot not whither, so also
I know not what she doth with the Sending Boat to make it obey her; whereas,
though I know all things of the wood, I know but little of the lake. Wherefore,
though there be peril to thee therein, follow her twice or thrice when she
riseth up for this faring, and note closely what is her manner of dealing with
the said Sending Boat, so that thou mayst do in like wise. Wilt thou risk the
smart and the skin-changing, or even if it were the stroke of the knife, to
gather this wisdom? And thereafter thou shalt come hither and tell me how thou
hast sped. With a good heart will I, dear sister, said Birdalone.

Then Habundia kissed her and said: It is a joy to me to see thee so valiant,
but herein may I help thee somewhat; here is a gold finger-ring, see thou!
fashioned as a serpent holding his tail in his mouth; whenso thou goest on this
quest, set thou this same ring on the middle finger of thy left hand, and say
thou above thy breath at least:

To left and right,

Before, behind,

Of me be sight

As of the wind!

And nought then shall be seen of thee even by one who standeth close beside.
But wear not the ring openly save at such times, or let the witch have sight
thereof ever, or she will know that thou hast met me. Dost thou understand, and
canst thou remember?

Laughed Birdalone, and took the ring and set it on her finger, and spake aloud
even as Habundia had given her the words. Then quoth Habundia, laughing: Now
have I lost my friend and sister, for thou art gone, Birdalone. Take off the
ring, sweetling, and get thee to thine hunting, for if thou come home
empty-handed there will be flyting awaiting thee, or worse.

So Birdalone took off the ring and came back to sight again laughing; then the
wood-woman kissed her and turned her heels to her, and was gone; but Birdalone
strung her bow, and got to her woodcraft, and presently had a brace of hares,
wherewith she went back home to the dame; who indeed girded at her for her
sloth, and her little catch in so long a while; but there it ended.

CHAPTER XIV.

OF BIRDALONE’S FISHING.

Now were the days wearing toward wheat-harvest, and nought befel to tell of,
save that on a morn the witch-wife called Birdalone to her, and said: Now is
little to be done till the wheat is ready for the hook, and thy days are idle;
or what is that word that fell from thee that other day, that there be good
swims for fish about the eyots? Canst thou swim across bearing thine angle, and
back again therewith, and thy catch withal? Yea, certes, said Birdalone gaily;
with one hand I may swim gallantly, or with my legs alone, if I stir mine arms
ever so little. I will go straightway if thou wilt, lady; but give me a length
of twine so that I may tie my catch about my middle when I swim back again.

Therewith she went forth lightly to fetch her angle, which was in a shed
without; but just as she took it in her hand, a sudden thought came to her, so
wary as she was grown. She undid the bosom of her gown, and took forth her
serpent-ring; for she bore it next to her skin, made fast to the bosom of her
smock; but now she hid it carefully in the thickest of her brow-hair, which was
very thick and soft. Withal the tress of Habundia’s hair she bore ever mingled
with her own.

No sooner had she done it, but she was glad; for she heard the dame calling
her, who, when she came to the house-door, spake and said: Now shall I fare
with thee down to the water, and look to thy garments lest they be fouled by
some straying beast. And therewith she looked curiously on Birdalone, and knit
her brows when she saw that the maiden changed countenance in nowise.

Down to the water went they, and the witch sat down close to where Birdalone
should take the water, and watched her do off her raiment, and eyed her keenly
when she was bare, but said nought. Birdalone turned her head as she stood
knee-deep, and said: How long shall I abide, lady, if I have luck? As long as
thou wilt, said the dame: most like I shall be gone by then thou comest back,
even if thou be away no long while.

Fell Birdalone to swimming then, and when she was more than half over, the
witch, stirring no more than need was, got hold of her raiment, which was but
the old grey coat over a smock, and ransacked it, but found nought, as well ye
may wot. And when she had done, she sat down again in heavy mood as it seemed,
and watched Birdalone swimming, and when she beheld her body come forth out of
the water, and pass out of sight amongst the flowers of the eyot, she arose and
went her ways home.

Birdalone looked through the willow-boughs, and saw her turn away; then she
fared to her fishing with a smile, and soon had plenteous catch from under the
willow-boughs. Then, whereas the day was very calm and fair, and the dame had
given her holiday, she wandered about the eyot, and most in a little wood of
berry-trees, as quicken and whitebeam and dog-wood, and sported with the birds,
who feared her not, but came and sat on her shoulders, and crept about her
feet. She went also and stood a while on the southern shore, and looked on the
wide water dim in the offing under the hot-weather haze, and longed to be gone
beyond it. Then she turned away, and to the other shore, and gat her fish and
strung them on the string, and made them fast to her middle, and so took the
water back again to the yellow strand, where now was no one awaiting her. But
before she did on her garments, she looked on them, and saw that they lay not
as she had left them, whereby she knew well that the witch-wife had handled
them.

Amidst all this the day was wearing to an end, and again she saw the smoke of
the cooking-fire going up into the air from the chimney of the house; and she
smiled ruefully, thinking that the witch might yet find an occasion for
ransacking her raiment. But she plucked up heart, and came home with her catch,
and the dame met her with a glum face, and neither praised her nor blamed her,
but took the fish silently. Such ending had that day.

CHAPTER XV.

BIRDALONE WEARETH HER SERPENT-RING.

After this she went once and again fishing on to Green Eyot by the bidding of
the dame, who went not again to the shore with her. These times she had half a
mind to go see the Sending Boat, but durst not, lest the thing itself might
have life enough to tell of her.

And now was come the time of wheat-harvest, and Birdalone must wear her days
swinking in the acre-land, clad but in smock and shoes; and the toil was hard,
and browned her skin and hardened her hands, but it irked her not, for the
witch let her work all alone, and it was holiday unto the maiden if her
mistress were not anigh, despite those words which had somewhat touched her
heart that other day.

But when wheat-getting was done, there was again rest for her body, and
swimming withal and fishing from the eyot by the witch’s leave. And again by
her own leave she went to seek Habundia in the wood, and spent a happy hour
with her, and came back with a fawn which she had shot, and so but barely saved
her skin from the twig-shower. Then yet again she went into the wood on the
witch’s errand as well as her own, and was paid by her friend’s sweet converse,
and by nought else save the grudging girding of her mistress.

But on a night when September was well in, and the sky was moonless and
overcast, somewhat before midnight the dame came and hung over Birdalone as she
lay abed, and watched to see if she waked; forsooth the witch’s coming had
waked her; but even so she was wary, and lay still, nor changed her breathing.
So the witch turned away, but even therewith Birdalone made a shift to get a
glimpse of her, and this she saw thereby, that the semblance of her was
changed, and that she bore the self-same skin wherewith she had come to
Utterhay, and which she had worn twice or thrice afterwards when she had an
errand thither.

The witch now glided swiftly to the door, and out into the night. Birdalone lay
still a little, lest she should fall into a trap, and then arose very quietly
and did on her smock, which lay ever under her pillow with the ring sewn
thereto again, and so went out adoors also, and deemed she saw the witch some
way on ahead; but it was nothing for her light feet to overtake her. So she
stayed to take the ring from her smock, and set it on her finger; then in a low
voice she said:

To left and right,

Before, behind,

Of me be sight

As of the wind!

Then boldly she sped on, and was soon close on the heels of the witch, who made
her way to the edge of the lake, and then turned east, and went even as
Birdalone had gone when she came across the Sending Boat.

So fared the witch-wife straight to the creek-side, and Birdalone must needs
stick close to her, or she had known nought, so black was the night amongst the
alder-boughs. But the witch-wife fumbled about a while when she was stayed by
the creek, and presently drew somewhat from under her cloak, and the maiden saw
that she was about striking flint upon steel, and quaked somewhat, lest her
charm had played her false. Presently the tinder quickened, and the dame had
lighted a lantern, which she held up, peering all about; and full she looked on
the place whereas was Birdalone, and made no show of seeing her, though
well-nigh the maiden looked for it to see her drop the lantern and spring on
her.

Now the witch, holding the lantern aloft, steps over the gunwale of the boat,
and sits down on the thwart; and it was a near thing but that Birdalone
followed her into the boat, but she feared the getting forth again, so she but
hung over it as close as she might. Then she saw the witch draw out of her
girdle that sharp little knife which Birdalone had seen raised against her own
throat; and then the witch bared her arm, and pricked it till the blood sprang
from that barren white skin; thereat she stood up, and went to the bows of the
craft and hung over them, and drew her arm to and fro over the stem to bloody
it; and went thereafter to the stern, and took blood into her right hand and
passed it over the place of the steerage (for there was no rudder) and came
back and sat down on the thwart again; and, so far as Birdalone might see,
busied herself in staunching the little wound on her arm. Then deemed Birdalone
that she knew what manner of paint was that which had made the rusty smears
which she had seen on the boat by daylight.

But now as the witch sat there, a harsh voice began to stir in her throat, and
then words came out of her, and she sang in a crow’s croak:

The red raven-wine now

Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;

Then wake and awake

And the wonted way take!

The way of the Wender forth over the flood,

For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.

Therewithal began the boat to stir, and anon it glided forth out of the creek
into the waters of the lake, and the light of the lantern died, and it was but
a minute ere Birdalone lost all sight of it. She abode a little longer, lest
perchance boat and witch might come back on her hands, and then turned and went
swiftly back again. She would have drawn off her ring straightway, but the
thought came on her, that she had seen the witch depart in her second
semblance; how if she were abiding her at home in her wonted skin? So she came
to the house even as she was, and opened the door, and looked in, quaking; but
there was no image of a child of Adam therein, and no living thing, save the
cat drowsing before the fire; wherefore Birdalone took the ring from her finger
and went to the hearth, and stirred up the cat with her foot till he arose and
fell to rubbing himself against her legs, and she was fain of him.

Thereafter she made her ring fast to her smock again, and set the smock under
her pillow as her wont was, and betook herself to bed, and fell asleep sweetly,
leaving all troublous thoughts for the morrow; and that the more as she was
free of the witch-wife for that night at least.

CHAPTER XVI.

BIRDALONE MEETETH HABUNDIA AGAIN; AND LEARNETH HER FIRST WISDOM OF HER.

When morning was, Birdalone arose, and longed sore to go into the wood to seek
Habundia again, but durst not, lest the witch-wife should come to hand again
earlier than might be looked for. So she abode quiet and did what was toward
near about the house. All that day the witch came not back, nor the next; but
the morrow thereafter, when Birdalone arose, she found the wonted aspect of her
mistress in the wonted place, who, when she saw the maiden, greeted her, and
was somewhat blithe with her; and Birdalone would have asked her leave to go to
the wood, but she trusted little in her unwonted soft mood; which yet lasted so
long that on the third day she herself bade Birdalone go take her pleasure in
the wood, and bear back with her what of venison she might.

Forthwith went Birdalone as glad as might be, and met her friend at the Oak of
Tryst, and told her closely how all had betid; and Habundia said: Here, then,
thou hast learned how to sail the lake. But hast thou learned enough to try the
adventure and not to fail? Even so I deem, said Birdalone; but this I would
say, that meseemeth it better that I follow the witch down to the boat one more
time at least; for this first time it was dark; and moreover shall I not be
surer of the spell if I hear it said oftener, lest it be not ever the same
words? What sayest thou? She said: Thou art right herein, and, since the
adventure may not be tried till next June is at hand, there is time enough and
to spare. And now for this hour that is we need talk no more of it. Only, my
sweet, I beseech thee be wary; and above all suffer not the witch-wife to set
eye or hand on the ring. Truly mine heart oft aches sorely for thy peril; for
therein the image of thee abideth rather as of my daughter than my friend. Yea,
now thou laughest, but kindly, so that the sound of thy laughter is as sweet
music. But know that though thou art but a young maiden, and I in all wise like
unto thee of aspect, yet have I dwelt many and many a year upon the earth, and
much wisdom have learned. Trowest thou me?

Yea, yea, said Birdalone, with all my heart. Then she hung her head a while and
kept silence, and thereafter looked up and spake: I would ask thee a thing and
crave somewhat of thee, as if thou wert verily my mother; wilt thou grant it
me? Yea, surely, child, said Habundia. Said Birdalone: This it is then, that
thou wilt learn me of thy wisdom. Habundia smiled full kindly on her, and said:
This of all things I would have had thee ask; and this day and now shall we
begin to open the book of the earth before thee. For therein is mine heritage
and my dominion. Sit by me, child, and hearken!

So the maiden sat down by her likeness under the oak, and began to learn her
lesson. Forsooth forgotten is the wisdom, though the tale of its learning
abideth, wherefore nought may we tell thereof.

When it was done, Birdalone kissed her wood-mother and said: This is now the
best day of my life, this and the day when first I saw thee. I will come hither
now many times before the day of my departure. Yea, but, sweet child, said
Habundia, beware of the witch and her cruelty; I fear me she shall yet be grim
toward thee. So will I be wary, said Birdalone, but I will venture some little
peril of pain but if thou forbid me, mother. And I pray thee by thy love to
forbid me not. And this I pray thee the more, because after one of these grim
times then mostly doth she meddle the less with me for a while, wherefore I
shall be the freer to come hither. Habundia kissed her and embraced her, and
said: Valiant art thou for a young maiden, my child, and I would not refrain
thee more than a father would refrain his young son from the strokes of the
tilt-yard. But I pray thee to forget not my love, and my sorrow for thy grief.

Therewith they sundered, and it was drawing toward evening. Birdalone sought
catch, and brought home venison to the dame, who was yet blithe with her, and
spake that evening as she eyed her: I cannot tell how it is, but thou seemest
changed unto me, and lookest more towards thy womanhood than even yesterday. I
mean the face of thee, for wert thou stripped, lean enough I should see thee,
doubtless. But now look to it, I beseech thee, to be both deft and obedient, so
that I may be as kind to thee as I would be, and kinder than I have been
heretofore.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PASSING OF THE YEAR INTO WINTER.

Wore the days now, till on a night of October, toward the end thereof, the
witch went a-night-tide to the Sending Boat, and Birdalone followed her as
erst. This time the night was wild and windy, but the moon was high aloft and
big, and all cloud save a few flecks was blown from off the heavens; so that
the night was as light as could be; and even at the tree-hung creek it was easy
to see all that was done. And so it was that the witch did and spake in all
wise as she did before.

Another time, when November was well-nigh out, the dame arose for her
lake-faring; but this night the snow lay deep betwixt house and water, and
Birdalone thought that it would scarce do to follow. Forsooth she knew not
whether her feet would the less leave their print in the snow because they were
not to be seen. When she asked Habundia thereof, she laughed and said: Once
more thou hast been wise, my child, for though it had been no harder to put
this might into thy ring, that whoso wore it should not touch the ground, yet
it hath not been done.

It must be told, that in this while Birdalone went oft to the Trysting Tree,
and called on her mother (as now she called her) to come to her, and ever more
and more of wisdom she won thereby. Though the witch was oft surly with her,
and spared not her girding, yet, the needful work done, she meddled little with
her. But on a day she straightly banned her the wood, and Birdalone went
notwithstanding, and when she was there with the wood-mother nought she told
her thereof, but was blithe and merry beyond her wont. She came back home
thereafter empty handed, and stepped into the chamber proudly and with bright
eyes and flushed cheeks, though she looked for nought save chastisement; yea,
it might be even the skin-changing. Forsooth the witch was sitting crouched in
her chair with her hands on the elbows and her head thrust forward, like a wild
beast at point to spring; but when her eye fell on Birdalone, she faltered and
drew back into herself again, and muttered somewhat unheard; but to Birdalone
spake nought of good or bad.

Now was winter-tide upon them, when there was nought to do in field and acre,
and but a little in the byre. In years bygone, and even in the last one, the
witch had not spared Birdalone toil any the more, but had made errands for her
amidst the snow and biting winds, or over the lake when it was laid with ice.
But now she bade her to nought save what she had a will to; whereby she lost
but little, whereas Birdalone was well willing to strive against wind and
weather and the roughness of the winter earth, and overcome if she might, so
that all were well done that had to be done about the stead.

Still did the witch give her hard words and rail at her for the most part, but
from the teeth outward only, and because she was wont thereto. Inwardly indeed
she began to fear Birdalone, and deemed that she would one day have the
mastery; and this led her into fierce and restless moods; so that she would sit
staring at the maiden’s beauty handling her knife withal, and scarce able to
forbear her. And in such a mood she once made occasion to chastise her as her
wont had been erst, and looked to see Birdalone rebel against her; but it fell
out otherwise, for Birdalone submitted herself to her meekly and with a
cheerful countenance. And this also was a terror to the witch, who deemed, as
indeed it was, that the purpose was growing in her thrall. So from that time
she meddled with her no more. All this while, as may be thought, Birdalone went
yet oftener to the Oak of Tryst, despite frost and snow and wind, and gat much
lore of her wood-mother, and learned wisdom abundantly. And her days were
happy.

CHAPTER XVIII.

OF SPRING-TIDE AND THE MIND OF BIRDALONE.

Now was the winter gone and the spring-tide come again, and with the blossoming
of the earth blossomed Birdalone also. Nought sweeter of flesh might she be
than erst, but there was now a new majesty grown into her beauty; her limbs
were rounded, her body fulfilled, her skin sleeked and whitened; and if any
mother’s son had beheld her feet as they trod the meadow besprinkled with
saffron and daffodil, ill had it gone with him were he gainsaid the kisses of
them, though for the kissing had he fared the worse belike.

That spring-tide, amidst of April, she followed the witch-wife down to the
Sending Boat for the third time; and there went everything as erst, and she
deemed now that the lesson was well learned, and that she was well-nigh as wise
as the witch herself therein.

But the day after she went about somewhat pensive, as though a troublous
thought were on her; and when, three days thereafter, she met the wood-mother,
she spake to her even as they parted, and said: Mother, much wisdom hast thou
learned me, and now this at the last withal, that hitherto there has been shame
in my life; and now fain were I to be done with it. Fair child, said Habundia,
little is the shame though this woman hath had the upper hand of thee and hath
used thee cruelly: how mightest thou, a child, strive with her? But now I see
and know that there is an end of that; that she feareth thee now, and will
never again raise a hand against thee save thou fall wholly into her power; as
thou shalt not, my child. Be comforted then for what is gone by! Nay, mother,
said Birdalone, it is not that which troubleth me; for, as thou sayest, what
else might I do? But thy wisdom which thou hast set in my heart hath learned me
that for these last months I have been meeting guile with guile and lies with
lies. And now will I do so no more, lest I become a guileful woman, with nought
good in me save the fairness of my body. Wherefore hearken, sweet mother! What
is done, is done; but when it cometh to the day, which is speedily drawing
nigh, that I must part from thee, it may be for a long while, then will I not
fare to the Sending Boat by night and cloud and with hidden head, but will walk
thither in broad day, and let that befall which must befall.

Changed then Habundia’s face and became haggard and woeful, and she cried out:
O if I could but weep, as ye children of Adam! O my grief and sorrow! Child,
child! then will betide that falling into her hands which I spake of e’en now;
and then shall this wretch, this servant of evil, assuredly slay thee there and
then, or will keep thee to torment thee till thy life be but a slow death. Nay,
nay, do as I should do, and fare with hidden head, and my ring on thy finger.
Or else, O child, how wilt thou hurt me!

Birdalone wept; but presently she fell to caressing the mother’s hand, and
said: This is thy doing, wherein thou hast made me wise. Yet fear not: for I
deem that the witch-wife will not slay me, whereas she looketh to have some
gain of me; moreover, in the evil of her heart is mingled some love toward me,
whereof, as erst I told thee, I have a morsel of compassion. Mother, she will
not slay me; and I say that she shall not torment me, for I will compel her to
slay me else. It is my mind that she will let me go. Said the mother: Yea,
mayhappen, yet but as a bird with a string to its leg. If it be so, said
Birdalone, then let my luck prevail over her guile; as well it may be, since I
have known thee, O wise mother!

The wood-wife hung her head and spake nought for a while; then she said: I see
that thou wilt have it so, and that there is something in thine heart which we,
who are not children of Adam, may not understand; yet once wert thou more like
unto us. Now all I may say is, that thou must rule in this matter, and that I
am sad.

Then she looked down again and presently raised a brighter face, and said:
Belike all shall be better than I thought. Then she kissed Birdalone and they
parted for that time.

CHAPTER XIX.

THEY BID FAREWELL, BIRDALONE AND THE WOOD-MOTHER.

Now April was gone, and May was come with the thorn a-blossoming, and there was
Birdalone waxing still in loveliness. And now the witch had left all girding at
her even, and spake to her but little, save when she needs must. But to
Birdalone it seemed that she watched her exceeding closely.

Birdalone went oft to the wood, and learned yet more of lore: but of the matter
of the Departure, how it was to be gone about they spake no more, and great was
the love betwixt them.

At last when May was worn nigh to June came Birdalone to the Oak of Tryst, and
found the wood-mother there; and when they had talked a while, but ever from
the teeth out, spake Habundia: Though thou be now the wiser of us two maybe,
yet have I wisdom to wot that this is the hour of our sundering, and that
to-morrow thou wilt try the adventure of the Sending Boat: is it not so? Yea,
mother, said Birdalone; I bid thee farewell now: woe is me therefor! Said
Habundia: And thou wilt deliver thyself into the hands of the witch, wilt thou,
as thou saidst that other day? Quoth Birdalone: Is it not wisdom, dear mother,
if I trust in my goodhap? Alas, said the mother, it may be so when all is said.
But O my sad heart! and how I fear for thee!

My mother, my mother! said Birdalone, that I should make the days grievous unto
thee! and thou who hast made my days so joyous! But now canst thou not say of
thy wisdom that we shall meet again?

The wood-woman sat down, and let her head fall over her knees, and was silent a
long while; then she rose up and stood before Birdalone, and said: Yea, we
shall meet again, howsoever it may be. Let us depart with that sweet word in
the air between us. Yet first thou shalt give me a tress of thine hair, as I
did to thee when first we met; for by means of it may I know to-morrow how thou
hast sped.

Even so did Birdalone, and this was the end of their talk, save broken words of
lamentation as they said farewell. And therewith for that while they sundered.

CHAPTER XX.

OF BIRDALONE AND THE SENDING BOAT.

Birdalone woke up in the morning, and arose and clad herself, and she saw not
the witch-wife in the chamber, though her bed looked as if it had been slept
in. Birdalone accounted little thereof, whereas the dame would oft go on one
errand or another much betimes in the morning. Yet was she somewhat glad, for
she was nowise wishful for a wrangle with her. Withal, despite her valiancy, as
may well be thought, she was all a-flutter with hopes and fears, and must needs
refrain her body from overmuch quaking and restlessness if she might.

Now she mingled the tress of the wood-mother’s hair with her own hair, but
deemed it nought perilous to leave the ring yet sewn to her smock: she set some
deal of bread and flesh in her scrip, lest her voyage should be long, and then
all simply stepped over the threshold of the House of her Captivity.

She went straight to the strand aforesaid, seeing nought of the witch-wife by
the way; and when she came there, was about to turn straightway to her left
hand down to the creek, when it came into her mind that she would first swim
over to Green Eyot for this last of times. For the eyot indeed she loved, and
deemed it her own, since never had her evil dream, the witch, set foot thereon.
Moreover, she said to herself that the cool lake would allay the fever of her
blood, and make her flesh firmer and less timorous for the adventure. And
again, that if the witch should see her from afar, as she could scarce fail to
do, she would deem the maiden was about her wonted morning swimming, and would
be the less like to spy on her.

So now, when she had let her garments slip from off her on to the sand close to
the water’s edge, she stood a while, with her feet scarce covered by the little
ripple of the bight, to be a token of safety to her mistress. To say sooth, now
it was come so nigh to the deed, she shrank aback a little, and was fain to
dally with the time, and, if it might be, thrust something of no import betwixt
her and the terror of the last moment.

Now she took the water, and rowed strongly with her lovely limbs till she came
to the eyot, and there she went aland, and visited every place which had been
kind to her; and kissed the trees and flowers that had solaced her, and once
more drew the birds and rabbits to sport with her; till suddenly it came into
her head that the time was wearing overfast. Then she ran down to the water and
plunged in, and swam over to the strand as fast as she might, and came aland
there, thinking of nothing less than what had befallen.

For lo! when she looked around for her raiment and her scrip, it was nowhere to
be seen; straightway then it came into her mind, as in one flash, that this was
the witch’s work; that she had divined this deed of the flight, and had watched
her, and taken the occasion of her nakedness and absence that she might draw
her back to the House of Captivity. And this the more as the precious ring was
sewn to Birdalone’s smock, and the witch would have found it there when she
handled the raiment.

Birdalone wasted no time in seeking for the lost; she looked down on to the
smooth sand, and saw there footprints which were not her own, and all those
went straight back home to the house. Then she turned, and for one moment of
time looked up toward the house, and saw plainly the witch come out adoors, and
the sun flashed from something bright in her hand.

Then indeed she made no stay, but set off running at her swiftest along the
water-side toward the creek and the Sending Boat. As is aforesaid she was as
fleet-foot as a deer, so but in a little space of time she had come to the
creek, and leapt into the boat, panting and breathless. She turned and looked
hastily along the path her feet had just worn, and deemed she saw a fluttering
and flashing coming along it, but some way off; yet was not sure, for her eyes
were dizzy with the swiftness of her flight and the hot sun and the hurry of
her heart. Then she looked about a moment confusedly, for she called to mind
that in her nakedness she had neither knife, nor scissors, nor bodkin to let
her blood withal. But even therewith close to hand she saw hanging down a stem
of half-dead briar-rose with big thorns upon it; she hastily tore off a length
thereof and scratched her left arm till the blood flowed, and stepped lightly
first to stem and then to stern, and besmeared them therewith. Then she sat
down on the thwart and cried aloud:

The red raven-wine now

Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;

Then wake and awake

And the wonted way take!

The way of the Wender forth over the flood,

For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.

Scarce had she time to wonder if the boat would obey her spell ere it began to
stir beneath her, and then glided out into the lake and took its way over the
summer ripple, going betwixt Green Eyot and the mainland, as if to weather the
western ness of the eyot: and it went not a stonecast from the shore of the
said mainland.

Hither to meet it now cometh the witch, running along the bank, her skirts
flying wild about her, and a heavy short-sword gleaming in her hand. Her
furious running she stayed over against the boat, and cried out in a voice
broken for lack of breath:

Back over the flood

To the house by the wood!

Back unto thy rest

In the alder nest!

For the blood of the Sender lies warm on thy bow,

And the heart of the Wender is weary as now.

But she saw that the Sending Boat heeded her words nothing, whereas it was not
her blood that had awakened it, but Birdalone’s. Then cried out the witch: O
child, child! say the spell and come back to me! to me, who have reared thee
and loved thee and hoped in thee! O come back!

But how should Birdalone heed her prayer? She saw the sax; and withal had her
heart forgotten, her flesh might well remember. She sat still, nor so much as
turned her head toward the witch-wife.

Then came wild yelling words from the witch’s mouth, and she cried: Go then,
naked and outcast! Go then, naked fool! and come back hither after thou hast
been under the hands of the pitiless! Ah, it had been better for thee had I
slain thee! And therewith she whirled the sax over her head and cast it at
Birdalone. But now had the boat turned its head toward the ness of Green Eyot
and was swiftly departing, so that Birdalone but half heard the last words of
the witch-wife, and the sax fell flashing into the water far astern.

There the witch stood tossing her arms and screaming, wordless; but no more of
her saw Birdalone, for the boat came round about the ness of Green Eyot, and
there lay the Great Water under the summer heavens all wide and landless before
her. And it was now noon of day.

Here ends the First Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is called Of
the House of Captivity. And now begins the Second Part, which is called Of the
Wondrous Isles.

THE SECOND PART:

OF THE WONDROUS ISLES

CHAPTER I.

THE FIRST ISLE.

So glided Birdalone over the lake and was come forth from the House of
Captivity; it might well be that she was but swimming unto death; naked as she
was, fireless, foodless, and helpless, at the mercy of mere sorcery. Yet she
called to mind the word of the wood-mother that they should meet again, and
took heart thereby; and she was glad in that she had had her will, and shaken
off the guile and thraldom of the witch. Much she thought of the wood-mother,
and loved her, and wondered had she yet sought into and seen her welfare by the
burning of a hair of that tress of hers; and therewith she looked on that tress
of Habundia’s hair and kissed it.

All day the Sending Boat sped on, and she saw no land and nought to tell of. It
was but wave and sky and the familiar fowl of the lake, as coot, and mallard,
and heron, and now and then a swift wood-dove going her ways from shore to
shore; two gerfalcons she saw also, an osprey, and a great ern on his errand
high up aloft.

Birdalone waked in her loneliness till the day was spent, and somewhat worn of
the night; then she fell asleep for weariness; but so it was, that before dusk
she had deemed that a blue cloud lay before her in the offing which moved not.

She slept the short night through, and was awakened by the boat smiting against
something, and when her eyes opened she saw that she was come aland and that
the sun was just risen. She stood up, and for the first minute wondered where
she was, and she beheld her nakedness and knew not what it meant; then she
loosened her hair, and shook its abundance all about her, and thereafter she
turned her eyes on this new land and saw that it was fair and goodly. The
flowery grass came down to the very water, and first was a fair meadow-land
besprinkled with big ancient trees; thence arose slopes of vineyard, and
orchard and garden; and, looking down on all, was a great White House, carven
and glorious. A little air of wind had awakened with the sunrise, and bore the
garden sweetness down to her; and warm it was after the chill of the wide
water. No other land could she see when she looked lakeward thence.

She stepped ashore, and stood ankle-deep in the sweet grass, and looked about
her for a while, and saw no shape of man astir. She was yet weary, and stiff
with abiding so long amongst the hard ribs of the boat, so she laid herself
down on the grass, and its softness solaced her; and presently she fell asleep
again.

CHAPTER II.

BIRDALONE FALLETH IN WITH NEW FRIENDS.

When she next awoke, the sun was not yet high, and the morning young, yet she
stood upon her feet much refreshed by that short slumber. She turned toward the
hill and the gay house, and saw one coming over the meadow to her, a woman to
wit, in a shining golden gown, and as she drew nigh Birdalone could see that
she was young and fair, tall, white-skinned and hazel-eyed, with long red hair
dancing all about her as she tripped lightly and merrily over the greensward.

Now she comes up to Birdalone with wonder in her eyes, and greets her kindly,
and asked her of her name, and Birdalone told it all simply; and the new-comer
said: What errand hast thou hither, that thou art come thus naked and alone in
this ill-omened ferry? Birdalone trembled at her words, though she spake kindly
to her, and she said: It is a long story, but fate drave me thereto, and
misery, and I knew not whither I was bound. But is there no welcome for me in
this lovely land? I lack not deftness wholly; and I will be a servant of
servants, and ask no better if it must be so. Said the new-comer: Unto that
mayst thou come, but sore will be thy servitude. I fear me thy welcome here may
be but evil. Said Birdalone: Wilt thou not tell me how so? Quoth that lady: We
know thy ferry here, that it is the craft wherein cometh hither now and again
the sister of our lady the Queen, into whose realm thou art now come, and who
liveth up in the white palace yonder, and whom we serve. And meseems thou wilt
not have come hither by her leave, or thou wouldst be in other guise than this;
so that belike thou wilt be the runaway of thy mistress. Wherefore I fear that
thou wilt be sent back to thy said mistress after a while, and that that while
will be grievous to thee, body and soul.

Birdalone’s heart sank, and she was pale and trembling; but she said: O dear
lady, might I then depart as I have come hither, without the wotting of this
Queen! after thou hast given me a morsel of bread, for I am hungry. Said the
gold-clad one, looking on her pitifully: Nay, maiden, I cannot choose but bring
thee before our mistress, whereas most like she hath already seen thee from
above there. For she is far-sighted beyond the wont of folk who be more
manlike. But as for the bread, see thou! I have brought a manchet in my pouch,
and cheese withal, as I came hurrying; for I thought, she will be hungry. And
she reached the victual out to her. And Birdalone took it and kissed the golden
lady’s hands, and she might not refrain her tears, but wept as she ate.

Meanwhile the golden lady spake unto her and said: Nevertheless, thou poor
maiden, somewhat may be done for thine helping, and I will presently speak to
my sisters thereon, who are, both of them, wiser than I. Sisters by blood are
we not, but by love and fellowship. And I doubt not but that as we go up into
the house we shall happen upon them in the garden. But now I look upon thee,
how fair a woman art thou!

Thou art kind and friendly, said Birdalone, smiling amidst of her tears, might
I know by what name to call so dear a woman? Thou shalt call me Aurea, said the
other; and my next sister is Viridis, and the third, Atra; for that is
according to the hues of our raiment, and other names we have not now. And lo!
here cometh Viridis over the meadow.

Birdalone looked, and saw a woman coming toward them clad all in green, with a
rose-wreath on her head. And she drew nigh, and greeted Birdalone kindly, and
she also was a very beauteous woman; not great of body, whereas Aurea was tall
and big-made, though excellently shapen. Light brown and goodly waved of hair
was Viridis, her eyes brown, and rather long than great; her lips full and
ruddy, her cheeks soft and sweet and smooth, and as rosy-tinted pearl; her
hands small and delicate of fashion; her whole body soft-shapen as an egg; a
kind, wheedling look her face bore.

When she had looked a while on Birdalone, she kissed her, and said: I would
thou wert happier, for thou art beauteous, and all but the evil must love thee.
Therewith she drew a cate from her pouch, and said: Eat somewhat, for thou wilt
be hungry; and let us go meet our other sister, who is wiser than we.

So they went, all three of them, and came from off the meadow on to the
garden-slopes, and at the entry thereof was come Atra to meet them; she was
clad all in black, a tall, slim woman, with the grace of the willow-bough in
the wind, with dark plenteous hair and grey hawk-eyes; her skin privet-white,
with but little red in her cheeks. She also greeted Birdalone kindly, but sadly
withal. She gave her strawberries to eat laid on a big kale-blade; and she
said: Sisters, here are we hidden by the trees, and cannot be seen from the
house; therefore we may sit here for a minute or two, while we talk together as
to what may perchance be done for the helping of this unhappy maiden, who is so
fair and lovely, and hath strayed into so ugly a trap. Then she said to
Birdalone: Thou must know, poor wanderer, that this Queen, our mistress, who is
sister to the Witch Under the Wood, is big and strong, well-made, and
white-skinned, so that she deems herself a Queen of all beauty: keen-eyed is
she to see a fly where others would see nought smaller than a coney; fine-eared
withal; wise in wizardry; not altogether dull-witted, though she be proud, and
crueller than the cruellest. But herein she faileth, that her memory is of the
shortest for matters of the passing hour, albeit she remembers her spells and
witch-songs over well. But other matters will scarce abide in her head for four
and twenty hours. Wherefore, sisters, if we may keep this maiden out of her
sight (after she hath seen her and given doom upon her) till the dead of
to-morrow night, we may perchance do some good for her; and it is in my mind
that then she may do good for us also.

Now they rejoiced in this word of Atra the wise; and Atra prayed Birdalone to
tell them somewhat more of her story; and she told them much; but, whyso it
were, she said nought concerning the wood-wife, whose outward semblance was the
same as hers. Then they pitied her, and caressed her; but Atra said: We must
tarry here no more, but go straight up to the lady, or maybe we shall lose all.

So they went their ways and came into the pleasance, and trod the sweet
greensward betwixt the garland flowers and the beauteous trees; which now
indeed, though Birdalone saw them all clear and over-clear, were become nought
to her. Those three also spake gently to her, and now and then asked her
somewhat, as if to show her that she was one of themselves; but she spake not,
or answered at random, and to say sooth scarce heard their words: forsooth she
was now become heart-sick, and was half dead for fear; and her nakedness, which
would have troubled her little across the water, was now grown a shame and a
terror unto her, and every deal of her body quivered with the anguish thereof.

CHAPTER III.

BIRDALONE IS BROUGHT BEFORE THE WITCH-WIFE’S SISTER.

So came they at last to the very house, and whereas it stood high on the bent,
a great stair or perron of stone went up to it, and was of much majesty. They
went through the porch, which was pillared and lovely, and into a great hall
most nobly builded, and at the other end thereof, on a golden throne raised
upon a dais, sat a big woman clad in red scarlet. The three damsels led
Birdalone to some four paces of the great lady, and then stood away from her,
and left her standing there alone, the scarlet-clad woman before her; on the
right and the left the tall pillars going up gleaming toward the roof, and
about her feet the dark polished pavement, with the wallowing of strange beasts
and great serpents and dragons all done on the coal-blue ground.

When she was so left alone, at first she tottered, and went nigh to falling;
but then came back some little heart to her, as she said to herself that now
she should verily die once for all, and that no long while would be the passing
from life into death. She looked up and beheld the lady-witch, that she was
somewhat like to her sister, white-skinned and of plenteous golden-hair as was
she, but younger of aspect, and nowise so ill-looked as that other had now
become; for somewhat well-shapen of body she was; but her face forbidding; her
lower lip thrust out, her cheeks flaggy and drooping, her eyes little more than
half open; to be short, a face both proud, foolish, and cruel; terrible indeed,
sitting in judgment in that place on a shrinking naked creature.

Now she spake; and if there were no majesty or solemnity in the voice, there
was ugly glee and malice therein; but she said to those damsels: Is this the
woman that my keen eyes beheld come aland from my sister’s Sending Boat e’en
now? Aurea knelt on one knee, and said: Yea, so please you, my lady.

Then said the witch: Ho thou! Wilt thou plead some errand hither from my
sister? Dost thou deem me so witless as not to know that if she had sent thee
hither thou wouldst not have come in this plight? Nay, I know; thou hast stolen
thyself from her: thou art a thief, and as a thief shalt thou be dealt with.

Spake Birdalone in a clear voice: No errand do I feign from thy sister, lady:
when I could bear my life there no longer, I took occasion to flee from her:
this is all the tale. Yet once and again it hath been in my mind that it was
thy sister who stole me from them that loved me.

Hah, thrall! said the lady, thou art bold; thou art over-bold, thou naked
wretch, to bandy words with me. What heed I thy tale now thou art under my
hand? Her voice was cold rather than fierce, yet was there the poison of malice
therein. But Birdalone spake: If I be bold, lady, it is because I see that I
have come into the House of Death. The dying may well be bold.

The House of Death! cried the stupid lady; and wilt thou call my noble house
the House of Death? Now art thou no longer bold, stripped thrall, but impudent.

Scorn rose into Birdalone’s heart at this word, but she refrained her, and
spake: I meant that I have stirred the wrath in thee, and that thou wilt slay
me therefor; and that it availeth not to crave mercy of thee.

Laughed the lady: Thou art a fool, thrall, said she; if a sparrow fled hither
from my sister, I should not wring its neck, but keep it for her. So shall I do
with thee. I shall not slay thee, and so destroy my sister’s chattel; nor shall
I spoil thee, and spoil her possession. I shall send thee back unto her, the
stolen thrall in the stolen boat, when I have learned thee a lesson here.
Forsooth it was for that cause meseemeth that she let thee slip through her
fingers, for she is wise enough to have stayed thee from this holiday had she
willed it. But she is tender-hearted, and kind, and soft, and might well deem
that if thy chastisement were done to her hand here, it were better done than
by her mercy. Now, thrall, I have spoken enough to thee, or more than enough:
get thee back out of earshot!

CHAPTER IV.

OF THE WITCH’S PRISON IN THE WAILING-TOWER.

Birdalone did as she was bidden, and the witch called unto her Atra, who came
and stood humbly on the footpace beside her, and held converse with her
mistress a while. Then she went backward from her a little, and then came to
Birdalone, and in a somewhat harsh voice bade her come with her. Birdalone
followed her, quaking, and they came out of the hall and into a long passage,
which led to a wide stair winding round a newel; and all was builded exceeding
fair, had Birdalone’s heart suffered her eyes to see it; but her flesh was
weak, and quaked before the torment to come, so that her knees well-nigh failed
her.

But now Atra lays a hand kindly on her shoulder and stays her, and says: Now
meseems the walls of the Wailing-Tower, for so it hight, have no ears to hear,
and we may talk together. Wottest thou why I have brought thee hither? Said
Birdalone in a faint voice: Hast thou been bidden to whip me? And if I had been
so bidden, dear maiden, said Atra laughing, nowise would I do it. Hold up thine
heart! For all hath gone well so far, and now meseems betwixt us three we shall
save thee.

Birdalone’s spirit came back to her at that word, and she put her hands to her
face and fell a-weeping. But Atra was kind to her and made much of her; and she
kissed her and wiped her tears, and Birdalone smiled again amidst her sobs, and
she thanked Atra; who said to her: First of all I must tell thee that I am
taking thee to prison by the witch’s bidding. Yea, said Birdalone, and what is
prison? Said Atra: A prison is a grim place where poor folk who have done that
which pleaseth not rich folk are shut up, that they may be grieved and
tormented by not being able to fare abroad, or go where they would; and by
suffering whatsoever their masters may lay upon them, as darkness, and cold,
and hunger, and stripes. Somewhat so, or worse, our lady would have it for
thee; but so would not we. Therefore for thee shall this prison be a place
where thou shalt be safe till we may bring thee forth when the night hath worn
towards its ending. For she will have forgotten thee by to-morrow; and this she
knoweth; wherefore just now, when thou stoodest out of earshot, she was bidding
me, amongst other matters, to bring thee before her to-morrow morning, and tell
her the tale of thee, that she might call it to mind then what she had will to
this morning.

Yea, said Birdalone, but will she not remember that she hath given thee a
charge concerning me? But little thereof, said Atra, and with a few words I may
easily confuse her memory so that speech thereon will fail her. Keep up thine
heart, sweetling; but let us up this stair now forthwith, for I were fain to
have thee hid away in this prison, and then will I down to her and tell her
that thou art lying therein in all misery and terror, lest it come into her
head to send for thee ere her memory is grown dim.

Again did Birdalone take heart, and they hastened a long way up the stair, till
Atra stayed at last at a door all done with iron, endlong and over-thwart. Then
she took a leash of keys from her girdle, one big and two little, and set the
big one in the lock and turned it, and shoved the heavy door and entered
thereby a chamber four-square and vaulted; and the vault was upheld by a pillar
of red marble, wherein, somewhat higher than a man’s head, were set stanchions
of latten, that could be clasped and unclasped. This chamber was in a way
goodly, but yet grim to look on; for the walls were all of black ashlar stone
close-jointed, and the floor black also, but of marble polished so wholly that
it was as dark water, and gave back the image of Birdalone’s dear feet and legs
as she went thereon. The windows were not small, and the chamber was light in
every corner because of them, but they were so high up under the vaulting that
none might see thereout aught save the heavens. There was nought in the chamber
save a narrow bench of oak and three stools of the same, a great and stately
carven chair dight with cushions of purple and gold, and in one corner a big
oaken coffer.

Now spake Atra: This is our lady’s prison, and I fear me we cannot make it soft
for thee, dear stranger. Yea, I must tell thee (and she reddened therewith)
that it is part of my charge to set thee in irons. Birdalone smiled on her, and
was over weary to ask what that meant, though she knew not. But Atra went to
the big coffer and opened it and thrust in her hands, and there was a jangling
therewith, and when she turned about to Birdalone again she had iron chains in
her hands, and she said: This shameth me, dear friend; yet if thou wouldst wear
them it might be well, for she may have a mind to go visit her prison, and if
she find thee there unshackled she shall be wroth, and oftenest her wrath hath
a whip in its hand. And these are the lightest that I might find.

Birdalone smiled again, and spake not, for she was very weary, and Atra did the
irons on her wrists and her ankles; and said thereafter: Yet bear in mind that
it is a friend that hath the key of these things. And now I will go away for a
little, but I shall be on thine errands; for first I shall tell the mistress
that thou art lying here shackled and in all wanhope; and next, by the will and
command of her, I am to see that thou be well fed and nourished to-day that
thou mayst be the stronger for to-morrow. Now if I may give thee rede, it is
that thou forbear to open the coffer yonder; for ugly things shalt thou find
there, and that may dishearten thee again.

Therewith she kissed her kindly on the cheek and went her ways, and the great
key turned in the lock behind her.

There then was Birdalone left to herself; and she was over weary even to weep;
true it is that she made a step or two towards the coffer, but reframed her,
and took two of the pillows from the great chair and turned aside into the
other corner, her chains jingling as she went. There she laid herself down, and
nestled into the very wall-nook, and presently fell asleep, and slumbered
dreamlessly and sweetly a long while.

CHAPTER V.

THEY FEAST IN THE WITCH’S PRISON.

Birdalone was awakened by the sound of the key in the lock, and the door
opened, and there was Atra bearing dishes and platters, and behind her Viridis
with the like gear, and beakers and a flagon to boot, and both they were
smiling and merry.

Birdalone’s heart leapt up to meet them, and in especial was she gladdened by
the coming of Viridis, who had seemed to be the kindest of them all.

Viridis spake: Now is come the meat for the dear sister, and it is time, for
surely thou art famished, and it is now long past high noon. Do off her irons,
Atra. Said Atra: Maybe it were well to let the fetters abide on her ankles,
lest the mistress should come; but for the wrists, reach out thine hands,
wayfarer. So did Birdalone, and Atra laid her things on the ground, and
unlocked the hand-shackles, and did them off: and meanwhile Viridis spread
forth the banquet, partly on the floor, and partly on that ill-omened coffer.
Then she went up to Birdalone and kissed her, and said: Now shalt thou sit in
our lady’s throne, and we shall serve thee, and thou shalt deem thee a great
one.

Nought else would they have, and Birdalone laid her nakedness on the purple
cushions, and then they fell all three to the feast. The victual was both
plenteous and dainty, of venison and fowl, and cream and fruits and sweetmeats,
and good wine they had withal: never had Birdalone feasted in like manner, and
the heart came back unto her, and her cheeks grew rosy and her eyes glittered.
But she said: How if your lady were to come upon us here, and we so merry? Said
Atra: Out of the chair must thou when thou hearest the key in the lock, and
then is all well, and she would have nought against us; for she herself bade
us, and me in special, to keep thee company here, and talk with thee; and Aurea
also would have been here, but that she is serving the lady as now. Hath she
then some pity on me, said Birdalone, that she hath bidden thee do by me what
is most to my pleasure?

Laughed Viridis thereat, and Atra said: She hath no pity, nor ever shall have;
but so hard of heart is she, that she may not deem that we could love thee, a
stranger, and unhappy, who can serve us in nowise; so she feareth not the
abatement of thy grief from any compassion of us. Rather she hath sent us, and
me in especial, not to comfort thee, but to grieve thee by words; for she
biddeth me tell thee fair tales, forsooth, of what to-morrow shall be to thee,
and the day after; and of how she shall begin on thee, and what shall follow
the beginning, and what thou mayst look for after that. For by all this she
deemeth to lower thy pride and abate thy valour, and to make every moment of
to-day a terror to thy flesh and thy soul, so that thereby thou mayest thole
the bitterness twice over. Such is her pity for thee! And yet belike this
cruelty hath saved thee, for but for that she had not refrained her from thee
to-day, and to-morrow thou shalt be far away from her.

Meanwhile, said Viridis, in her soft sweet voice, none of all these things will
we talk over with thee, but things comfortable and kind; and we will tell each
to each of our story. Will we not, Atra? Yea, verily, said she.

Birdalone looked upon them and said: Wondrous is your compassion and
loving-kindness unto me, and scarce do I know how to bear the burden thereof.
But tell me one thing truly; will ye not suffer in my place when this witch
cometh to know that ye have stolen me away from her?

Nay, said Atra, I have told thee that by to-morrow she will have altogether, or
at least almost, forgotten thee and thy coming hither. Moreover, she is
foreseeing, and hath come to know that if she raise a hand against any of us
three, it will lead her to her bane, save it be for heavy guilt clearly proven
against us. Forsooth, in the earlier days of our captivity such a guilt we fell
into, and did not wholly escape, as Viridis can bear me witness. But we are now
grown wiser, and know our mistress better, and will give her no such joy.

Viridis cast her eyes down at those words and Atra’s smile, and turned red and
then pale, and Birdalone looked on her wondering what ailed her; then she said:
Do ye sisters work in the field and the garden? I mean at milking the kine and
the goats, and digging the earth, and sowing and reaping, and the like. Nay,
said Atra; either our mistress or someone else who is of marvellous might, hath
so ordained, that here everything waxeth of itself without tillage, or sowing
or reaping, or any kind of tending; and whatso we need of other matters the
mistress taketh it for us from out of her Wonder-coffer, or suffereth us to
take it for ourselves. For thou must know that this land is one of the Isles of
the Lake, and is called the Isle of Increase Unsought.

Meseemeth then, said Birdalone, were the mistress of you to gainsay you the
gifts of the Wonder-coffer, ye were undone. Yea, verily, said Atra; then would
be but the fruits of the earth and the wild creatures for our avail, and these,
we have not learned how to turn them into dinner and supper. And they all
laughed thereat; but Birdalone said: See ye then how I was right to offer
myself unto you as a servant, for in all matters of the house and the byre and
the field have I skill. But since ye would not or could not have me, I wonder
not that ye be ill at ease here, and long to be gone, for as plenteous and
lovely as the isle is, and though ye live here without present mishandling or
pining. For, sooth to say, ye have over you a tyrant and a fool.

Viridis answered: Yet is there something else, dear friend, that whets our
longing to depart. Tell her thereof, Atra.

Atra smiled and said: Simple it is: there are they who long for us and for whom
we long, and we would be together. Said Birdalone: Be these kinsfolk of yours,
as fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, or the like?

Reddened Viridis again; but Atra spake, and she also blushed somewhat, though
she smiled: Those whom we love, and who love us, be not queans, but carles;
neither be they of our blood, but aliens, till love overcometh them and causeth
them to long to be of one flesh with us; and their longing is beyond measure,
and they desire our bodies, which they deem far fairer than belike they be. And
they would bed us, and beget children on us. And all this we let them do with a
good will, because we love them for their might, and their truth, and the
hotness of their love toward us.

Looked up Viridis thereat, and her eyes gleamed amidst the flushing of her
cheeks, and she said: Sister, sister! even in such wise, and no other, as they
desire us do we desire them; it is no mere good will toward them from us, but
longing and hot love.

Now must Atra blush no less than Viridis; yet she but said: I have told thee
hereof, Birdalone, because I deem that thou hast lived simply and without the
sight of men; but it is what all know in the world of the sons of Adam. Said
Birdalone: Thou sayest sooth concerning me. Yet about this love have I learned
somewhat even ere to-day, and now, as ye speak and I, meseems the lore of it
comes pouring in on me and fills my heart with its sweetness. And O, to have
such love from any, and with such love to be loved withal!

Dear sister, said little Viridis, fear not; such as thou shall not fail of the
love of some man whom thou must needs love. Is it not so, sister Atra? Said
Atra: Yea; such love shall come unto her as surely as death.

They were silent now a little, and it was as if some sweet incense had been
burned within the chamber. For Birdalone the colour came and went in her
cheeks, her flesh quaked, her heart beat quick, and she was oppressed by the
sweetness of longing. More daintily she moved her limbs, and laid foot to foot
and felt the sleekness of her sides; and tender she was of her body as of that
which should one day be so sorely loved.

Now she spake timidly to the others, and said: Each one of you then has a man
who loves her, and longs for her and for none else? So it is, said Viridis. How
sweet that shall be! said Birdalone; and now all the more I wonder that ye
could trouble yourselves over me, or think of me once; and the kinder I think
it of you.

Said Atra smiling on her: Nay, now must the cat be out of the bag, and I must
tell thee that thou art to think of us as chapmen who with our kindness would
buy something of thee, to wit, that thou wouldst do an errand for us to those
three lovers of ours. Surely, said Birdalone, it were a little payment to set
against your saving of my life and my soul; and had I to go barefoot over red
gleeds I would do it. And yet, if I may go hence to your lovers, why not all
three of you along with me?

Said Atra: For this reason; thy ferry, the Sending Boat, wherein ye came
hither, is even somewhat akin to thy mistress and ours; and the mistress here
hath banned it against bearing us; and now, were we so much as to touch it,
such sore turmoil would arise, and such hideous noise as if earth and heaven
were falling together; and the lady would be on us straightway, and we should
be undone; and, as thou shalt hear presently, this hath been proved. But thou,
thou art free of the said ferry. Forsooth I wot not why thy mistress banned it
not against thee; maybe because she deemed not that thou wouldst dare to use it
or even go anigh it.

Birdalone considered, and thought that even so it was; that the witch deemed
that she would not dare use the Sending Boat, nor know how to, even if she came
upon it, and that if she did so find it, she would sicken her of the road
thereto. So now she told her friends the whole tale thereof more closely than
she had afore, save again what pertained to Habundia; withal she told every
word of what her mistress had said to her at that time when she changed her
into a hind. And Viridis heard and wondered, and pitied her. But Atra sat
somewhat downcast a while. Then she said: However this may be, we will send
thee forth to-morrow in the dawn, and take the risk of what may befall
thereafter; and thou shalt bear a token for each of those three that love us.
For we deem that they have not forgotten aught, but are still seeking us.

Birdalone said: Whatsoever ye bid me; that will I do, and deem me your debtor
still. But now I pray you, pleasure a poor captive somewhat more. Wherein? said
they both; we be all ready thereto. Said the maiden: Would ye do so much as to
tell me the tale of how ye came hither, and then how it hath been with you from
your first coming until now? With a good will, said Atra; hearken!

CHAPTER VI.

ATRA TELLS OF HOW THEY THREE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF INCREASE UNSOUGHT.

We were born and bred in the land that lies south-west along this Great Water,
and we waxed happily, and became fellows when we were yet but children, and
thus grew up dear friends into maidenhood and womanhood. We were wooed by many
men, but our hearts turned to none of them save unto three, who were goodly,
kind, and valiant; and thou mayst call them the Golden Knight, who is Aurea’s
man; the Green Knight, who is man of Viridis; and my man, the Black Squire. But
in this was unhap, that because of certain feuds which had endured from old
time, this love was perilous unto them and us; so that we lived in doubt and
unrest.

Came a day, now three years ago, when the king of the whole land brought his
folk into our lakeside country, and there held a court and a mote in a fair
great meadow anigh to the water. But even as the mote was hallowed, and the
Peace of God proclaimed at the blast of the war-horn, came we three woeful
ladies clad in black and knelt before the lord king, and prayed him hearken us.
And he deemed that we were fair, so he had compassion on us, and raised us up,
and bade us speak.

So we told our tale, how that strife and wounds and death stood betwixt us and
love; and we wept, and bewailed it, that our love must be slain because men
were wroth with each other and not with us.

The king looked on us kindly, and said: Who be the swains for whom these lovely
damsels make such a piece of work? So we named them, and said that they were
there in the mote; and the king knew them for valiant men who had done him good
service; and he cried out their names, and bade them stand forth out of the
throng. So forth they stood, the Golden Knight, the Green Knight, and the Black
Squire (and he also was now a knight); but now were they all three clad in
black, and they were unarmed, save for their swords girt to their sides,
without which no man amongst us may come to the mote, be he baron or earl or
duke, or the very lord king himself.

So the king looked upon us and them, and laughed and said: Fair ladies, ye have
got me by the nose, so needs must my body follow. Do ye three knights, whom I
know for valiant men and true, take each his love by the hand, and let the
weddings be to-morrow. Who then were joyful but us? But even at the word the
king spake arose great turmoil in the mote, for they smote the feud and
contention awake, and men thronged forward against each other, and swords were
drawn and brandished. But the king arose in his place and spake long and
deftly, and waxed exceeding wroth, while none heeded him nor hearkened. And
there stood our three men, who laid no hand to hilt, but abode heart-whole by
seeming amid the tumult. And lovely they were to look on. At last the wise men
and old barons went between, and by fair words appeased the trouble, and the
mote grew hushed. Then spake the king: What is this, my thanes? I had deemed
that my foemen were far away, and that ye that here are were all friends unto
me and unto each other. But now must we try another rede. Therewith he turned
unto our men and said: Ye champions, are ye so much in love with Love that ye
will fight for him? They all yeasaid that, and then the king said: Then do I
declare that these three will hold the field against all comers from matins
till high noon, and that he who vanquisheth any one of them shall have his lady
and wed her if he will, and, if he will, shall ransom her. And this field shall
be foughten after two months’ frist in these fair meadows, when I return from
the outermost marches of the south, whereto I am now wending. But when the
battle is done, then let all men bow to the judgment of God, whether he be well
content or not, and this on peril of life and limb. And now let there be deep
peace between all men meanwhile; and if any break the peace, be he high or low,
rich or unrich, churl or earl, I swear it by the souls of my fathers that he
shall lose nought save his life therefor.

At these words was there a rumour of yeasay, and all men were content, save we
three poor maidens, into whose hearts had now entered fear of loss and death.

But our kindreds on both sides were glad and proud, and they were not so bitter
against us as they had been; they put hand to pouch, and let rear for us a fair
pavilion of painted timber, all hung with silk and pictured cloths and Saracen
tapestry, by the very lake-side; and gay boats gaily bedight lay off the said
pavilion for our pleasure; and when all was done, it yet lacked a half month of
the day of battle, and thither were we brought in triumph by the kindreds on a
fair day of May, and there was not a sword or a spear amongst the whole
company, and peaceful and merry was all by seeming. But we were not suffered to
meet our lovers all this while, from the time when the mote was.

Now on a day came a messenger on the spur, and did us to wit that the king
would be with us on the morrow, and that the day after, the fateful field
should be foughten. Then, though the coming of this day had been so longed for
by us, yet now it was at hand it cast us into all unrest and trouble, so that
we scarce knew whether to go, or stand, or sit, or what to do with our bodies.
Our folk, and all other men withal, were so busy making ready for the morrow of
to-morrow, that they left us alone to wear through the day as we might.

Now it was afternoon, and the day hot and hazy, and we stood on the very lip of
the land wearied with hope and fear, and striving to keep good countenance to
each other; and there came a boat unto the shore gaily painted and gilded, and
bedight with silken cloths and cushions; and the steerer thereof was a woman,
not young, by seeming of fifty winters; red-haired she was, thin-lipped and
narrow-eyed, flat-breasted and strait-hipped; an ungoodly woman, though her
skin was white and smooth as for her age. Hast thou ever seen such an one,
guest? Said Birdalone, smiling: Forsooth that have I; for such an one is my
mistress to behold.

Well, said Atra, this dame stretched out her hands to us, and said: Will not
the pretty ladies, the dear ladies, who have nought on hand this afternoon,
come into my boat and look on the face of the water, so calm and fair as it is,
and let their lovely hands go over the gunwale and play with the ripple, and so
beguile this heavy time for a two hours; and then give a little gift of a piece
or two of silver to a poor carline, who loveth all fair ladies and bright
warriors, and who needeth a little livelihood?

Now the woman seemed nought lovely unto us, and to me forsooth she seemed
hateful; but we looked on each other, and we found that we were utterly weary
of going up and down on the meadow, and lying about in the pavilion, and it
seemed as if this would give us a little rest; withal we saw not that the woman
could do us any hurt, whereas we were three, and strong enough as women go; nor
were we mariners so evil but that we might sail or steer a boat at a pinch. So
we stepped into the boat straightway, and the woman sat aft and paddled deftly
with the steering oar, and we glided away from the land.

Soon we were come so far that we could but just see our pavilion through the
haze, which had somewhat thickened, and we said to the woman that she should go
about and make for the shore, and that then we would go to and fro a while
along by our stead. She nodded yeasay, and began by seeming to dight the craft
for return. But therewith the haze was grown suddenly into a low cloud, which
came down upon us from the south-west in the arms of a cold breeze, that grew
stronger every minute, so no wonder it was though the steerer might not keep
head to wind; and then who was afraid and ashamed save ourselves?

But the woman said, and there seemed to be a mock in her voice: Ill luck,
pretty ladies! Now is there nought for it but to drive, if we would not drown.
But belike this duskiness will clear presently, and then at least we shall know
whither we be going; and we may either turn back, or seek some other shelter,
for I know the lake well; I know, I know.

We were too terror-stricken to speak, for we felt that still the wind grew
stronger, and the lake began to rise into waves, and the craft to wallow; but
well-nigh therewith was the dusk and the mist gone; the sky was bright blue
overhead, and the westering sun shone cloudless; but on no land it shone, or on
aught save the blue waters and the white wave-crests.

Then wept Aurea, and this Viridis here, but as to me, I grew wroth and cried
out to the steerer: Accursed carline! thou hast betrayed us; never now may we
get back to our pavilion till the fight is foughten, and our lovers will deem
that we have forsaken them, and we are shamed for ever. Well, well, said the
carline, what remedy save patience for the winds and waves? And she laughed
mockingly. Quoth I: There is this remedy, that we three arise and lay hands on
thee, and cast thee outboard, save thou straightway turn the boat’s head and
back to the main. Forsooth I doubt not but that as thou hast raised this foul
wind against us, thou canst raise a fair wind for us.

Hearken to the lovely lady! quoth the carline, how she deemeth me to be none
other than the great God himself, to hold the winds in the hollow of my hand,
and still the waves with a word! What! am I wrought somewhat after his image,
kind ladies? And she grinned horribly therewith. Then she said again: As to thy
remedy, sweetling, meseemeth it nought. For how shall ye sail this stormy water
when your captain is gone, and ye but holiday sailors belike?

As she spake, a great wave came up from the windward, and brake over us, and
half filled the craft, and lifted her bows up towering, and then down we went
into the trough; and I sat cowed and quaking, and spake never another word.

Now began the sun to sink, and the wind abated, and the sea went down, but the
boat sped on as swift as ever over the landless waters.

Now the sun was down, and dusk was at hand, and the carline spake, and drew a
bright-gleaming sax from under her raiment: Damsels, I warn you that now it
were best that ye obey me in all things; for though ye be three and I one, yet
whereas I have here an edge-friend, I may take the life of any one of you, or
of all three, as simply as I could cut a lamb’s throat. Moreover it will serve
you better in the house whereto ye are wending, that I make a good tale of you
rather than a bad. For the mistress of that house is of all might; and I must
say it of her, though she is my very sister, yet she is not so sweet-tempered
and kind of heart as I am, but somewhat rough and unyielding of mood, so that
it is best to please her. Wherefore, maidens, I rede you be sage.

Our unhappy hearts were now so sunken in wan-hope, that we had no word
wherewith to answer her, and she spake: Now obey ye my bidding and eat and
drink, that ye may come hale and sound to your journey’s end, for I would not
give starvelings to my dear sister. Therewith she brought forth victual for us,
and that nought evil, of flesh and bread, and cheese and cakes, and good wine
withal; and we were hunger-weary as well as sorrow-weary; and hunger did at
that moment overcome sorrow, so we ate and drank, and, would we, would we not,
something of heart came back to us thereby. Then again spake the carline: Now
my will is that ye sleep; and ye have cushions and cloths enough to dight you a
fair bed; and this bidding is easy for you to obey. Forsooth, so weary were we
with sorrow, and our hunger was now quenched, that we laid us down and slept at
once, and forgat our troubles.

When we awoke it was after the first dawn, and we were come aland even where
thou didst this morning, guest. And thou mayst deem it wondrous, but so it was,
that close to where our boat took land lay the ferry which brought thee hither.

Now the carline bade us get ashore, and we did so, and found the land wondrous
fair, little as that solaced us then. But she said unto us: Hearken! now are ye
come home; and long shall ye dwell here, for never shall ye depart hence save
by the will of my sister and me, wherefore, once more, I rede you be good, for
it will be better for you. Go forth now unto yonder house, and on the way ye
shall meet the Queen of this land, and ye have nought to do but to say to her
that ye are the Gift; and then shall she see to your matter.

Therewith she gat into her own craft, the Sending Boat, and therein did the
deed and spake the words ye wot of, and was gone north-away; and when we turned
to seek for our boat wherein we had come hither, it was gone.

We stood miserably for a while on the lip of the land, and then I said that we
might as well go meet our fate as die there of grief and hunger. So we went,
and came into those fair gardens, and as we went slowly up toward the house
came on us a woman clad in red scarlet and grandly dight. A big woman she was,
and like to her that beguiled us, but far younger and fairer of favour, foolish
and proud of visage. She stared on us, and seemed half afeard of us at first,
but asked us what we were, and I answered that we were the Gift. The Gift? said
she, what meaneth that? Will ye obey me in all things? If ye gainsay it, ye
will perish, unless ye can eat grass; for on this isle everything cometh from
my hand.

What might we do? We all knelt down before her, and swore to do her will. Then
she said, after she had stared on us a while: Now I know: ye are they of whom
my sister spake, that she would fetch me a gift of a leash of damsels for my
service. Now I take the Gift and thank her good heart. But if ye would do my
will, then . . . But she broke off here and stared at us a long while, and then
she said: Now I know; she bade me treat you well, and hold my hand from you, or
evil would come of it, belike at last my bane. So go ye home to the house, and
I will give you meat and drink, and show you my stores and the Wonder-coffer,
and ye shall serve me in honour.

Even so did we; and we ate and drank and rested, and nought we lacked, save
leave to depart home to our lovers, and some mistress better than this stupid
and proud lump of flesh. But the next morning when we came before the lady, she
knew nought of what we were; and again we had to tell her that we were the
Gift, and again she glared at us balefully, and again she called to mind her
sister and her rede concerning us. And this went on for many days, till at last
she got to know what we were; and she followed her sister’s rede in that she
never mishandled us, though we could see that it irked her to forbear, nor did
she speak to us more roughly than her fool’s wont was; and we had in our hands
all that was needed for our sustenance, and lived easily enough.

Now our coming hither betid three years ago, and a month thereafter comes thy
witch hither in her ferry, and she greeted us when we met, and asked us,
grinning, had she not been kind to win us such good days? Yea, and over kind,
said she, ye would deem me, knew ye what would have betid you save for my good
word. Forsooth we deemed it no kind deed to steal us from our lovers; but we
kept good tongues in our heads, for thralls must needs kiss the rod.

She went away in two days, but came again many times thereafter, till we won
the secret of the Sending Boat, and her spell therewith; but we knew not that
was banned against us. Wherefore on a day in the grey of the morning, when we
had been on this isle somewhat less than a year, we went down to it and stepped
in, and reddened stem and stern and said the spell-words. But straightway arose
an hideous braying and clatter, and thunder came therewith, and trembling of
the earth, and the waters of the lake arose in huge waves; nor might we move
from our seats in the boat till the two witches came running down to us, and
haled us out ashore, and had us up into the house, and into this very
prison-chamber, wherein we are now sitting so merry. And here we bore what was
laid upon us, whereof, dear guest, we shall tell thee nought. But this came of
it, that never thereafter durst we try the adventure of the Sending Boat, but
have lived on in lazy sorrow and shameful ease, till thou, dear guest and
sister, wert sent hither by heaven for our helping.

Now what became of the king’s court, and the hazelled field of our champions,
we wot not, or whether they be yet alive we cannot tell thee; but if they be
alive, it is to them that we would have thee do our errand, and thereof will we
tell thee closely to-morrow. And so, sweetling, an end of my tale.

CHAPTER VII.

THE THREE DAMSELS TAKE BIRDALONE OUT OF THE WITCH’S PRISON.

Birdalone thanked Atra much for her tale, and strange it was to her to hear of
such new things and the deeds of folk; but the dealing of the witches with
those three was familiar to her and was of her world.

Now they talked merrily, till there came a footstep to the door and one without
knocked. Viridis paled thereat, and a pang of fear smote Birdalone, and she
swiftly got from out the chair and sat down on a stool; but when Atra opened,
it was but Aurea come from her service to bid Atra take her place. So she went,
and again was there pleasant converse betwixt Aurea and the other twain; and
certain matters did Aurea tell Birdalone which had been left untold by Atra.
And chiefly, when Birdalone asked if any other folk had come into the isle
while they dwelt there, she said yea; once had come a knight with a lady, his
love, fleeing from war and mishap, and these had the witch overcome by
wizardry, and destroyed them miserably: and that again another had strayed
thither, and him also the witch undid, because he would not do her will and lie
in her bed. Withal had come drifting there a young damsel, a castaway of the
winds and waves; her the witch kept as a thrall, and after a while took to
mishandling her so sorely, that at last, what for shame and what for weariness
of life, she cast herself into the water and was drowned. None of these folk
might the damsels help so as to do them any good, though they tried it, and
went nigh to suffer therefor themselves.

Now the day wore, and in a while Atra came back, and Viridis must serve. At
last the dusk and the dark was come. Then said Atra: Now must we twain begone
to wait upon our lady, as the wont is: and that is now for our good hap, for if
we be with her all three, and especially, to say sooth, if I be with her, we
may well keep her from visiting thee here; since belike she shall yet dimly
remember that thou art in her prison. Therefore thou must forgive it if I
shackle thy wrists again. And now if thou wilt follow my rede, thou shalt try
to sleep some deal, and it were well if thou might’st sleep till we come for
thee in the grey dawn.

Therewith they left her there, and she nestled in the corner once more, and
there did verily fall asleep, and slept till the key in the lock and the
opening door awakened her, and Atra came stealing soft-footed into the prison.
Eager she was and panting, and she kneeled before Birdalone and unlocked her
leg-shackles, and then stood up and did the like by the irons on her wrists.
Then she said: Look up, dear friend, to thy prison windows, and behold the dawn
beginning to break on the day of thy deliverance, and ours maybe. But come now
at once: and again, wilt thou pardon me, that we clothe thee not here for thy
journey? For from our own bodies must we clothe thee, and if by any hap our
lady were to see any one of us more or less unclad, it might draw her on to see
what was toward, and we might yet be found out, for our undoing.

Therewith she took her hand, and led her forth of the prison, and locked the
door behind her; and then downstairs they went, and out-a-doors by a little
wicket at the stair-end. The dawn drew on apace now, and Birdalone saw at once
the other twain lurking in the wall-nook hard by. No word was spoken between
them, and with noiseless feet they went forth into the orchard, where the
blackbirds and thrushes were beginning their first morning song, and ere they
came out on to the meadow the full choir of them was a-singing.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHAT WISE BIRDALONE WAS CLAD, AND HOW SHE WENT HER WAYS FROM THE ISLE OF
INCREASE UNSOUGHT.

When they were all clear of the orchard trees the three damsels kept Birdalone
between them closely, so that her white body should not be seen if the lady
were awake and looking forth. Thus they brought her to where a few thorn-bushes
made a cover for them close to the water’s edge, some twenty yards from the
Sending Boat. There they stood together, and Atra said:

Now, dear guest, and dearest messenger, it is our matter to clothe thee from
our very bodies; and do thou, Viridis, begin.

Viridis came forward blushing, as her wont was, and took off her green gown and
laid it on the grass; then she set her hand to her smock, and did it off, and
stood naked, knee set to knee, and swaying like the willow branch; and then was
seen all the dainty fashion of her body, and how lovely of hue and sweet of
flesh she was.

But she said: Dear sister Birdalone, here is my smock, which I lend thee, but
as to my love, I give it thee therewith; therefore grudge it not, though thou
give me back the linen, for happy will be the day to me when I have it again;
for now none may do it on me save the Green Knight, my own love. Therewith she
gave her the smock, and kissed her, and Birdalone did it on, and felt the
valianter and mightier when she had a garment upon her.

Then Aurea did off her golden gown, and stood in smock alone, so that her naked
arms shone more precious than the golden sleeves that had covered them. And she
spake: Birdalone, dear messenger, take now my golden gown, and send it back to
me when thou hast found the man unto whom it is due; and think meanwhile that,
when thou wearest it, thou wearest my love, and that when thou pullest it off,
thou art clad with my love instead of it.

So Birdalone did on the gown, and became to look on as the daintiest of the
queens of the earth; and she turned her head about to look on her gold-clad
flanks, and wondered.

Thereafter Atra knit up her skirts into her girdle, and then did off her shoon,
so that her slim feet shone like pearls on the green grass; and she said:

Birdalone, sweet friend! wilt thou be my messenger to bear these shoon to my
Black Squire, and meanwhile put my love for thee under thy feet, to speed thee
and to bear thee up? Wherefore be good to me.

Birdalone then shod herself, and though pity it were to hide her feet from the
eyes of Earth, yet felt she the stouter-hearted thereby, and her cheeks flushed
and her eyes brightened.

Thereafter Aurea gave her withal a golden collar for the neck, and Viridis a
girdle of silver well-wrought, and Atra a gold finger-ring set with a sapphire
stone; and all these she did on her; but yet she knew that they were tokens to
be delivered to the three lovers according as was due.

Then spake Atra: Lo, sister, we pray thee to bear these lendings on thy body in
such wise that when thou comest to the mainland they may be seen by knights
seeking adventures, and that thou mayst answer to any who may challenge thee
thereof and say that thou bearest this raiment and these jewels from Aurea and
Viridis and Atra to Baudoin the Golden Knight, and to Hugh the Green Knight,
and to Arthur the Black Squire. And if thou deem that thou hast found these,
then shall they tell thee a token, such as we shall tell thee, that they be
truly these and none other; and thereafter, when thou art made sure, they shall
take of thee the raiment, the gems, and the Sending Boat, and come hither if
they may. And God look to the rest! But as for the token to be told aforesaid,
we have determined that each of us shall tell thee privily what question thou
shalt ask for her, and what answer thou must look for.

When she had done speaking, each came up to Birdalone and spake something into
her ear amidst blushes enough forsooth. And what they said will be seen
hereafter. Then again said Atra: Now by this errand shall we be well paid for
the care we have had of thee. It may be, forsooth, that thou shalt not find our
speech-friends; for they may be dead, or they may deem us untrue, and may have
forsaken us and their land; and in any such case thou art free of our errand;
but whatsoever may betide us, God speed thee!

Then Viridis drew forth a basket from under a bush, and said: We know not how
long thy voyage may be, but some little provision for the way we may at least
give thee: now wilt thou bear this aboard thyself; for we dare not touch thy
craft, nay, nor come nigh it, no one of us. And she set down the basket and
cast her arms about her, and kissed her and wept over her; and the other twain,
they also kissed her lovingly. Birdalone wept even as Viridis, and said: May ye
do well, who have been so kind to me; but now am I both so glad and so sorry,
that the voice of me will not make due words for me. O farewell!

Therewith she took up her basket, and turned and went speedily to the Sending
Boat; and they beheld her how she stepped aboard and bared her arm, and drew
blood from it with the pin of her girdle-buckle, and therewith reddened stem
and stern; and a pang of fear smote into their hearts lest their lady had
banned it for Birdalone as for them. But Birdalone sat down on the thwart, and
turned her face south, and spake:

The red raven-wine now

Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;

Awake then, awake!

And the southward way take:

The way of the Wender forth over the flood,

For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.

No cloud barred the gateway of the sun as she spoke; no wave rose upon the
bosom of the lake; no clatter nor tumult was there; but the Sending Boat
stirred, and then shot out swiftly into the wide water; and the sun arose as
they looked, and his path of light flashed on Birdalone’s golden gown for a
moment, and then it grew grey again, and presently she was gone from before
their eyes.

So they turned up into the orchard: and now was Viridis of good cheer, and
Aurea no less; but Atra lagged behind, and as she went, some passion took her,
she knew not wherefore; her bosom swelled, her shoulders heaved therewith, and
she wept.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW BIRDALONE CAME TO THE ISLE OF THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.

All went well with Birdalone when she had left the Isle of Increase Unsought,
much as it had on her first voyage, save that now she was both clad and
victualled, and her heart, if yet it harboured fear, was also full of new and
strange hope; and oft, even as she sat there amidst the waste of waters, she
wondered what new longing this was which wrought so sweet a pain in her, that
it made her cheeks burn, and her eyes dim, and her hands and her limbs
restless. And then would she set her mind to her friends and their errand, and
would hope and pray for them; but again would she fall to picture to herself
what manner of men they were who were so sore longed for by those three
beauteous women; and she deemed that since they were thus desired, they must be
fairer even than her friends of the isle; and again the nameless longing
overtook her, and held her till it wearied her into sleep.

When she awoke again the boat had stayed, and she was come aland; but the dawn
was not yet come, and the night was moonless, yet was there light enough to
see, from the water and the stars, that the bows of the boat were lying safe on
a little sandy beach. So she stepped out and looked around, and deemed she
could see great trees before her, and imagined also dark masses of she knew not
what. So she walked warily up the said strand till she came on to soft grass,
and smelled the scent of the clover as her foot-soles crushed it. There she sat
down, and presently lay along and went to sleep.

After a while she awoke, and felt happy and well at ease, and had no will to
move: the sun was shining brightly, but had not been up long: the song of birds
was all about her, but amidst it she deemed she heard some speech of man,
though it were not like to what she had heard in her life before. So she raised
herself on her elbow, and looked up and saw a new thing, and sat up now, and
beheld and wondered.

For there stood before her, gazing wide-eyed on her, two little children, some
three winters of age, a man and a woman as it seemed. The man-child with light
and fine white-golden hair, falling straight down and square over his brow, and
blue-grey eyes which were both kind and merry, and shyly seeking as it were.
Plump and rosy he was, sturdy and stout-limbed. No less fair was the woman; her
hair golden-brown, as oft it is with children who grow up dark-haired, and
curling in fair little rings all over her head; her eyes were big and dark
grey; she was thinner than the lad, and somewhat taller.

These two babes had between them a milk-white she-goat, and had been playing
with her, and now she turned her head to this and that one of them, bleating,
as if to crave more of the game; but they had no eyes for her, but stood
staring with might and main on the new-comer and her shining golden gown.

Birdalone laughed with joy when she saw the little ones, and a dim memory of
the days of Utterhay passed before her: she stretched out a hand to them, and
spake softly and caressingly, and the little lad came forward smiling, and took
her hand, and made as if he would help her up for courtesy’s sake. She laughed
on him, and arose; and when she stood up, tall and golden, he seemed somewhat
afeard of so big a creature, but stood his ground valiantly. Then she stooped
down to him and kissed him, and he naysaid her not, but seemed rather glad when
it was over; but when Birdalone went to the little maid, and kissed her, the
child clung to her as if she were her mother, and babbled to her.

Then comes the lad to her, and takes her hand, and would draw her away, and
speaks to her in his prattle, and she understood him to mean that she should
come with him to see the father. So she went, wondering what should next
betide; and the little maiden went on the other side of her, holding by a fold
of her skirt. Forsooth the goat followed bleating, not well pleased to be
forgotten.

Now had Birdalone time to look about her, though the two babes fell to
prattling with her in their way, and she thought it sweet to look down on the
two little faces that looked up to her so pleased and merry.

She was in a grassy plain, somewhat over rough and broken to be called a
meadow, and not enough be-timbered to be called a wood; it rose up a little and
slowly as they left the water, but scarce so much as one might call it a hill.
Straight before her on the way that they were going went up into the air great
masses of grey stone builded by man’s hand, but looking, even from this way
off, ragged and ruinous. It may well be thought that Birdalone wondered what
things might lie betwixt the trees and the towers.

Now as they went they came on other goats, who seemed tame, and these joined
them to their fellow, and suffered the younglings to play with them. Moreover
there were rabbits great plenty scuttling in and out of the brakes and the
rough ground upon the way, and the younglings beheld them, and the little lad
said, after his fashion: Why do the rabbits run away from us, and the goats
follow us? Now, sooth to say, Birdalone scarce knew why, and had no word ready
for the child; but she said at last: Mayhappen they will come to me; so it was
once when I dwelt away from here. Shall I go fetch thee one? The little ones
yeasaid that, though somewhat shyly and doubtfully. Then said Birdalone: Do ye,
sweetlings, abide me here, and go not away. They nodded their heads thereat,
and Birdalone kilted her skirts and went her ways to some broken bushed ground,
where was a many rabbits playing about; but she went not out of eye-shot of the
babes. Before she was well-nigh to the little beasts, she fell to talking to
them in a low sweet voice, as had been her wont when she was little; and when
they heard it, those who had not scuttled away at first glance of her, fell to
creeping little short creeps one to the other, as their manner is when they be
alone together and merry; and they suffered her to come quite amongst them, and
crept about her feet while she stood, still talking unto them. Then she stooped
down and took up one in her arms and caressed it, and then laid him down and
took up another, and so with three or four of them; and she fell to pushing
them, and rolling them over with her foot; then she turned a little away from
them toward the children, and then a little more, and the rabbits fell to
following her, and she turned and took up one in her arms, and went straight on
toward the children, but turning and talking to the rabbits now and again.

As to the babes, she saw the goats, of whom were now a dozen, or thereabouts,
standing together in a kind of ring, and the little ones going from one to the
other playing with them happily. But presently the lad turned and saw her
coming with her tail of little beasts, and he cried out a great Oh and ran
toward her straightway, and the maiden after him; and he held out his arms to
have the rabbit she bore, and she gave it to him smiling, and said: Lo now!
here be pretty playmates; but look to it that ye be soft and kind with them,
for they are but feeble people. So the younglings fell to sporting with their
new friends, and for a little forgat both goats and golden lady; but the goats
drew nigh, and stood about them bleating, nor durst they run at the rabbits to
butt them, because of Birdalone and the little ones.

There then stood the slim maiden, tall and gleaming above her little flock; and
her heart was full of mirth and rest, and the fear was all forgotten. But as
she looked up toward the grey walls, lo, new tidings to hand! For she saw an
old man with a long white beard slowly coming toward them: she started not, but
abode his coming quietly, and as he drew nigh she could see of him that he was
big and stark, and, old as he was, not yet bowed with his many years. He stood
looking on this Queen and her court silently a while, and then he spake: Such a
sight I looked not to see on this Isle of the Young and the Old. She said: But
meseemeth it is full meet that these younglings should sport with the
creatures. He smiled and said: Such a voice I looked not to hear on the Isle of
the Young and the Old.

Birdalone became somewhat troubled, and said: Am I welcome here? for if I be
not, I will pray thy leave to depart. He said: Thou art as welcome as the very
spring, my child; and if thou have a mind to abide here, who shall naysay thee?
For surely thou art young; nay, in regard to me thou art scarce older than
babes. All blessings be with thee. But though thou art true and kind, as is
clear to be seen by thy playing with these children and the landward beasts in
peace and love, yet it may be so that thou hast brought hither somewhat less
than peace. And he smiled upon her strangely.

She looked somewhat scared at his last words, and said: But how so? If I might
I would bear nought but peace and happiness to any place. The old carle laughed
outright now, and said: How so, dear child? because ladies so sweet and
lovesome as thou be sent by love, and love rendeth apart that which was joined
together.

She wondered at his word, and was bewildered by it, but she held her peace; and
he said: Now we may talk hereof later on; but the matter to hand now is the
quenching of thine hunger; for I will not ask thee whereby thou camest, since
by water thou needs must have come. Wherefore now I bid thee to our house, and
these little ones shall go with us, and the three of these horned folk whom we
are wont to tether amidst the wrack and ruin of what once was fair; the rest
have our leave to depart, and these nibblers also; for we have a potherb garden
by our house, and are fain to keep the increase of the same for ourselves.
Birdalone laughed, and shook her skirts at the coneys, and they all scuttled
away after the manner of their kind. Thereat the little lad looked downcast and
well-nigh tearful, but the maid stamped her foot, and roared well-favouredly.

Birdalone did her best to solace her, and plucked a bough from a hawthorn bush
far above the little ones’ reach whereon was yet some belated blossom, and gave
it to her and stilled her. But the old man picked out his milch-goats from the
flock (whereof was the white), and drave them before him, while the two babes
went on still beside Birdalone, the little carle holding her hand and playing
with the fingers thereof; the maiden sometimes hanging on to her gown,
sometimes going loose and sporting about beside her.

So came they to where the ground became smoother, and there was a fair piece of
greensward in a nook made by those great walls and towers, which sheltered it
from the north. The said walls seemed to be the remnant of what had once been a
great house and castle; and up aloft, where was now no stair to come at them,
were chimneys and hearths here and there, and windows with fair seats in them,
and arched doors and carven pillars, and many things beautiful, but now was all
ruined and broken, and the house was roofless and floorless: withal it was
overgrown with ash-trees and quicken-beam, and other berry-trees and key-trees,
which had many years ago seeded in the rent walls, and now grew there great and
flourishing. But in the innermost nook of this mighty remnant, and using for
its lowly walls two sides of the ancient ashlar ones, stood a cot builded not
over trimly of small wood, and now much overgrown with roses and woodbine. In
front of it was a piece of garden ground, wherein waxed potherbs, and a little
deal of wheat; and therein was a goodly row of bee-skeps; and all without it
was the pleasant greensward aforesaid, wherein stood three great ancient oaks,
and divers thorns, which also were ancient after their kind.

The elder led his guest into the cot, which had but simple plenishing of stools
and benches, and a table unartful, and then went to tether his goats in the
ruined hall of the house, and the children must needs with him, though
Birdalone had been glad of one of them at least; but there was no nay, but that
they must go see their dear white goat in her stall. Howsoever all three came
back again presently, the old carle with a courteous word in his mouth, and he
took Birdalone’s hand, and kissed it and bade her welcome to his house, as
though he had been a great lord at home in his own castle. Therewith must the
little ones also kiss her hand and be courteous; and Birdalone suffered it,
laughing, and then caught them up in her arms, and clipped and kissed them
well-favouredly; wherewith belike they were not over-well pleased, though the
boy endured it kindly. Thereafter the elder set forth his banquet, which was
simple enough: upland cheer of cream and honey, and rough bread; but sweet it
was to Birdalone to eat it with good welcome, and the courtesy of the old man.

When they were done, they went out-a-doors, and Birdalone and the old man laid
them down under an oak-tree, and the children sported about anigh them. Then
spake Birdalone: Old man, thou hast been kind unto me; but now wouldest thou
tell me about thee, what thou art, and what are these walls about us here? Said
he: I doubt if I may do so, this day at least. But belike thou shalt abide with
us, and then some day the word may come into my mouth. She held her peace, and
into her mind it came that it would be sweet to dwell there, and watch those
fair children waxing, and the lad growing up and loving her; yea, even she fell
to telling up the years which would make him a man, and tried to see herself,
how she would look, when the years were worn thereto. Then she reddened at the
untold thought, and looked down and was silent. But the elder looked on her
anxiously, and said: It will be no such hard life for thee, for I have still
some work in me, and thou mayst do something in spite of thy slender and
delicate fashion. She laughed merrily, and said: Forsooth, good sire, I might
do somewhat more than something; for I am deft in all such work as here ye
need; so fear not but I should earn my livelihood, and that with joy. Merry
days shall we have then, said he.

But therewith her eye caught the gleam of her golden sleeve, and she thought of
Aurea, and her heart smote her for her errand; then she laid her hand on her
girdle and called to mind little Viridis, and the glitter of the ring on her
finger brought the image of Atra before her; then she rose up and said: Thou
art kind, father, but I may not; I have an errand; this day must I depart from
thee. He said: Thou hast broken my heart; if I were not so old, I would weep.
And he hung adown his head.

She stood before him abashed, as if she had done him a wrong. At last he looked
up and said: Must it be to-day? Wilt thou not abide with us night-long, and go
thy ways in the early morning?

Now she scarce knew how to gainsay him, so wretched as the old carle looked; so
it came to this, that she yeasaid the abiding till to-morrow. Then suddenly he
became gay and merry, and he kissed her hand, and fell to much speaking,
telling tales of little import concerning his earlier days. But when she asked
him again of how he came there, and what meant the great ruined house, then he
became foolish and wandering, and might scarce answer her; whereas otherwise he
was a well-spoken old carle of many words, and those of the grandest.

Then changed his mood again, and he fell to bewailing her departure, and how
that henceforth he should have none to speak to him with understanding. Then
she smiled on him and said: But yonder babes will grow up; month by month they
will be better fellows unto thee. Fair child, he said, thou dost not know. My
days to come are but few, so that I should see but little of their waxing in
any case. But furthermore, wax they will not; such as they be now, such shall
they be till I at least see the last of them and the earth.

Birdalone wondered at this word, and the place seemed changed to her, yea, was
grown somewhat dreary; but she said to the carle: And thou, dost thou change in
any wise, since these change not? He laughed somewhat grimly, and said: The old
that be here change from old to dead; how could I change to better? Yea, the
first thing I had to do here was to bury an old man. Quoth she: And were there
any children here then? Yea, said he; these same, or I can see no difference in
them. Said Birdalone: And how long ago is that? And how camest thou hither? His
face became foolish, and he gibbered rather than spake: No, I wot not; no, no,
no, not a whit, a whit. But presently after was he himself again, and telling
her a tale of a great lady of the earl-folk, a baron’s dame, and how dear he
was unto her. He lay yet on the grass, and she stood before him, and presently
he put forth a hand to her gown-hem and drew her to him thereby, and fell to
caressing her feet; and Birdalone was ashamed thereat, and a little angry. He
was nought abashed, but sat up and said: Well, since thou must needs depart
to-morrow, be we merry to-day. And I pray thee talk much with me, fair child,
for sweet and sweet is thy voice to hearken. Then he arose and said: Now will I
fetch thee somewhat to eke the joy of us both. And he turned therewith and went
into the house.

Birdalone stood there, and was now perplexed and downhearted; for now the look
of the elder scarce liked her, and the children began to seem to her as images,
or at the best not more to her than the rabbits or the goats; and she rued her
word that she would abide there the night through. For she said to herself: I
fear some trap or guile; is the witch behind this also? for the old man is yet
stark, and though he be foolish at whiles, yet may wizardry have learned him
some guile.

With that cometh out the carle again, bearing a little keg and a mazer roughly
wrought; and he came to Birdalone, and sat down, and bade her sit by him, and
said to her: Maybe I shall hear more of thy sweet voice when thy sweet lips
have been in the cup. Therewith he poured forth into the mazer, and handed it
to Birdalone, and lo! it was clear and good mead. She sipped thereof daintily,
and, to say sooth, was well-pleased therewith, and it stirred the heart in her.
But then she gave back the cup to the elder, and would no more of it. As for
him, he drank what was left in the cup, looking over the rim thereof meanwhile;
and then filled himself another, and another, and yet more. But whereas it
might have been looked for that his tongue should be loosened by the good mead
into foolishness and gibbering, he became rather few-spoken, and more courteous
and stately even than he had been at the first. But in the end, forsooth, he
was forgetting Birdalone, what she was, and he fell a-talking, always with much
pomp and state, as if to barons and earls, and great ladies; till suddenly his
head fell back, he turned over on his face, and all wit was gone from him.

At first, then, Birdalone was afraid that he was dead, or nigh unto death, and
she knelt down and raised his head, and fetched water and cast it over his
face. But when she saw that he was breathing not so ill, and that the colour
was little changed in his lips and cheeks, she knew that it was but the might
of the mead that had overcome him. Wherefore she laid him so that he was easy,
and then stood up and looked about her, and saw the children playing together a
little way off; and nought else anigh her, save the birds in the brake, or
flying on their errands eagerly from place to place. Then, as it were, without
her will being told them, her limbs and her feet turned her about to the shore
where lay the Sending Boat, and she went speedily but quietly thitherward, her
heart beating quick, for fear lest something should yet stay her, and her eyes
glancing from brake to bush, as if she looked to see some enemy, old or new,
come out thence.

So now her will was clear enough to her feet, and they brought her down to the
water-side and the long strand, past which the wide water lay windless and
gleaming in the hot afternoon. Then lightly she stepped aboard, and awoke the
Sending Boat with blood-offering, and it obeyed her, and sped swiftly on the
way to the southward.

CHAPTER X.

BIRDALONE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE QUEENS.

Birdalone awoke the next morning while the boat was yet speeding over the
water, and the sun was up: but she was hard on the land, which sat low and
green, like a meadow exceeding fair, on the bosom of the water, and many goodly
trees were sprinkled about the greenland. But from amidst the trees, no great
way from the water’s edge, rose a great house, white and fair, as if it were
new-builded, and all glorious with pinnacles, and tabernacles set with imagery.

Presently the boat’s bows ran into the reed and rush at the brim of the water,
and Birdalone stepped ashore without more ado, and the scent of the
meadow-sweet amongst which she landed brought back unto her the image of Green
Eyot that while agone.

But now when she was ashore the dread took hold of her again, and her knees
trembled under her, so that she might scarce stand, so fearful was she of
walking into some trap; especially when she beheld that goodly house, lest
therein awaited her some proud and cruel lady, and no kind damsels to deliver
her.

She looked about her, and saw in all the fair meadow neither man nor woman, nor
draught-beast nor milch-beast, nought but the little creatures of the brake and
the bent-grass, which were but as the blossoms thereof; and the birds running
in the herbage or singing amidst the tree-boughs.

Then she thought that she must needs go forward, or belike her errand would not
speed; that the Sending Boat might not obey her, unless she saw through the
adventure to the end; so she went on toward the house quaking.

Soon was she at the porch of the white palace, and had seen no man nor heard
any voice of men; much she marvelled, despite her dread, at the beauty of the
said house, and the newness thereof; for it was as one flower arisen out of the
earth, and every part of it made the beauty of the other parts more excellent;
and so new it was, that it would have seemed as if the masons thereof had but
struck their scaffold yesterday, save that under the very feet of the walls the
sweet garden flowers grew all uncrushed.

Now comes Birdalone through the porch unto the screens of the great hall; and
she stopped a little to recover her breath, that she might be the quieter and
calmer amongst the great folk and mighty whom she looked to find therein. So
she gathered heart; but one thing daunted her, to wit, that she heard no sound
come from that great and goodly hall, so that she doubted if it were perchance
left desert by them who had been its lords.

She raised her hand to the door of the screen, and it opened easily before her,
and she entered, and there indeed she saw new tidings. For the boards end-long
and over-thwart were set, and thereat were sitting a many folk, and their hands
were reached out to knife and to dish, and to platter and cup; but such a hush
there was within, that the song of the garden birds without sounded to her as
loud as they were the voices of the children of Adam.

Next she saw that all that company, from the great folk on the dais down to
those who stood about the hall to do the service, were women, one and all; not
one carle might she see from where she stood: lovely were they many of them,
and none less than comely; their cheeks were bright, and their eyes gleamed,
and their hair flowed down fair of fashion. And she stood, and durst not move a
long while, but expected when someone would speak a word, and all should turn
their heads toward the new-comer. But none moved nor spake. And the fear
increased in her amidst that hush, and weighed so heavy on her heart, that at
last she might endure it no longer, but fell swooning to the floor.

When she came to herself; and the swoon-dreams had left her, she saw by the
changing of the sun through the hall-windows, that she had lain there long,
more nearly two hours than one; and at first she covered her face with her
hands as she crouched there, that she might not see the sight of the silent
hall, for yet was it as hushed as before. Then slowly she arose, and the sound
of her raiment and her stirring feet was loud in her ears. But when she was
upright on her feet, she hardened her heart, and went forth into the hall, and
no less was her wonder than erst. For when she came close to those ladies as
they sat at table, and her raiment brushed the raiment of the serving-women as
she passed by, then saw she how no breath came from any of these, and that they
neither spake nor moved, because they were dead.

At first, then, she thought to flee away at once, but again she had mind of her
errand, and so went up the hall, and so forth on to the dais; and there again,
close by the high table, she saw new tidings. For there was set a bier, covered
with gold and pall, and on it was laid a tall man, a king, belted and crowned;
and beside the said bier, by the head of the king, knelt a queen of exceeding
goodly body, clad all in raiment of pearl and bawdekin; and her hands were
clasped together, and her mouth was drawn, and her brow knit with the anguish
of her grief. But athwart the king’s breast lay a naked sword all bloody; and
this Birdalone noted, that whereas the lady was of skin and hue as if she were
alive, the king was yellow as wax, and his cheeks were shrunken, and his eyes
had been closed by the wakers of the dead.

Long Birdalone looked and wondered; and now if her fear were less, her sorrow
was more for all that folk sitting there dead in their ancient state and pomp.
And was not the thought clean out of her head, that yet they might awake and
challenge her, and that she might be made one of that silent company. Withal
she felt her head beginning to fail her, and she feared that she might swoon
again and never waken more, but lie for ever beside that image of the dead
king.

So then she refrained her both of fear and sorrow, and walked speedily down the
hall, looking neither to the right nor left: and she came forth into the
pleasance, but stayed there nought, so nigh it seemed to that hushed company.
Thence came she forth into the open meadow, and sweet and dear seemed its hot
sunshine and noisy birds and rustling leaves. Nevertheless, so great was the
tumult of her spirits, that once more she grew faint, and felt that she might
scarce go further. So she dragged herself into the shade of a thorn-tree, and
let her body sink unto the ground, and lay there long unwitting.

CHAPTER XI.

AND NOW SHE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE KINGS.

When Birdalone came to herself it was drawing toward the glooming, and she rose
up hastily, and went down to the Sending Boat, for she would not for aught
abide the night in that fearful isle, lest the flock of the hall should come
alive and walk in the dusk and the dark. She stepped aboard lightly, and
yielded her blood to the pride of that ferry, and it awoke and bore her forth,
and she went through the night till she fell asleep.

When she awoke it was broad day and the sun just arising, and lo! before her,
some half mile off, an isle rugged and rocky, and going up steep from the
shore; and then, held as it were by the fangs of the rocks and pikes of the
higher land, was a castle, white, high, and hugely builded, though, because of
the rock-land belike, it spread not much abroad. Like to the lovely house of
yesterday, it seemed new-builded; and, little as Birdalone knew of such
matters, her heart told her that this new house was fashioned for battle.

She was downcast when she saw the isle so rugged and forbidding, but when the
boat came aland in a stony bight, whence the ground went up somewhat steeply
toward the heights, she went ashore straightway, and toiled up toward the white
battlement. Presently she found herself in a strait and rugged path betwixt two
walls of rock, so that she lost sight of the castle a while, till she came out
on to a level place which looked down from aloft on to the blue water, but all
over against her close at hand were the great towers and walls. She was worn by
the rough road, and over helpless she felt her, and all too little to deal with
that huge morsel of the world; and her valiancy gave way, and her trust in her
errand. She sat down on a stone and wept abundantly.

After a while she was amended, and she looked up and saw the huge hold, and
said: Yea, but if it were less by the half than it is, it would still be big
enough to cow me. Yet she stood not up. Then she put forth a foot of her, and
said aloud: Sorely hath this rough road tried Atra’s shoon and their goodly
window-work; if they are to be known I must be speedy on my journey or go
barefoot.

As she spoke she stood up, and the sound of her own voice frighted her, though
nought noiseless was the place; for the wind was there, and beat to and fro the
castle and the rock, and ran baffled into every corner of that market-place of
nothing. For in that garth was neither knight nor squire nor sergeant; no
spear-head glittered from the wall, no gleam of helm showed from the
war-swales; no porter was at the gate; the drawbridge over the deep ghyll was
down, the portcullis was up, and the great door cast wide open.

Birdalone steeled her heart and went forward swiftly, and over the bridge, and
entered the basecourt, and came without more ado to the door of the great hall,
and opened it easily, as with the door of yesterday, looking to find another
show like unto that one; and even so it fell out.

Forsooth the hall was nought light and lovely, and gay with gold and bright
colours, as that other, but beset with huge round pillars that bore aloft a
wide vault of stone, and of stone were the tables; and the hallings that hung
on the wall were terrible pictures of battle and death, and the fall of cities,
and towers a-tumbling and houses a-flaming.

None the less there also were the shapes of folk that moved not nor spake,
though not so thronged was that hall as the other one; and it seemed as if men
were sitting there at a council rather than a feast. Close by Birdalone’s right
hand as she entered were standing in a row along the screen big men-at-arms all
weaponed, and their faces hidden by their sallets; and down below the dais on
either side of the high table was again a throng of all-armed men; and at the
high-table itself; and looking down the hall, sat three crowned kings, each
with his drawn sword lying across his knees, and three long-hoary wise men
stood before them at the nether side of the board.

Birdalone looked on it all, striving with her fear: but yet more there was, for
she deemed that needs must she go through the hall up to the dais, lest the
Sending Boat deny its obedience. Up toward the dais she went then, passing by
weaponed men who sat as if abiding the council’s end at the end-long tables.
And now, though no shape of man there spake or breathed, yet sound lacked not;
for within the hall went the wind as without, and beat about from wall to wall,
and drave clang and clash from the weapons hung up, and waved the arras, and
fared moaning in the nooks, and hummed in the vault above.

Came she up to the dais then, and stood beside one of the wise men, and looked
on the kings, and saw the mightiness which had been in them, and quaked before
them. Then she turned from them and looked down to the floor, and lo! there,
just below the dais, lay a woman on a golden bier; exceeding fair had she been,
with long yellow hair streaming down from her head; but now waxen white she
was, with ashen lips and sunken cheeks. Clad was she in raiment of purple and
pall, but the bosom of her was bared on one side, and therein was the road
whereby the steel had fared which had been her bane.

Now when Birdalone had gazed thereon a while, she deemed that if she tarried
there long amidst those fierce men by the dead woman, she should lose her wit
full soon, so sore the fear, held back, beset her now. Wherefore she turned and
went hastily down the hall, and out-a-doors, and over the bridge, and ran
fleet-foot down the rocky way whereby she had come, till she could run no
further, and lay down under a great stone breathless and fordone; yet her heart
upheld her and suffered her not to swoon, belike because she had given her
limbs such hard work to do.

There she lay awake and troubled for an hour or more, and then she fell asleep,
and slept till the day was worn toward sunset, and nought meddled with her. She
arose and went to her ship somewhat downhearted, wondering how many such
terrors should befall her; nay, whether the Sending Boat would so lead her that
henceforth she should happen on no children of Adam but such as were dead
images of the living. Had all the world died since she left the Isle of the
Young and the Old?

Howsoever, she had nought to do save to board her ferry, and content its greedy
soul with her blood, and drive it with the spell-words. And thereafter, when it
was speeding on, and the twilight dusking apace, she looked aback, and seemed
to see the far-off woodland in the northern ort, and the oak-clad ridge, where
she had met her wood-mother; and then it was as if Habundia were saying to her:
Meet again we shall. And therewith straightway became life sweeter unto her.

Deepened then the dusk, and became night, and she floated on through it, and
was asleep alone on the bosom of the water.

CHAPTER XII.

OF BIRDALONE, HOW SHE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF NOTHING.

Long before sunrise, in the very morn-dusk, she awoke and found that her ferry
had taken land again. Little might she see what the said land was like; so she
sat patiently and abode the day in the boat; but when day was come, little more
was to see than erst. For flat was the isle, and scarce raised above the wash
of the leeward ripple on a fair day; nor was it either timbered or bushed or
grassed, and, so far as Birdalone might see, no one foot of it differed in
aught from another. Natheless she deemed that she was bound to go ashore and
seek out the adventure, or spoil her errand else.

Out of the boat she stepped then, and found the earth all paved of a middling
gravel, and nought at all growing there, not even the smallest of herbs; and
she stooped down and searched the gravel, and found neither worm nor beetle
therein, nay nor any one of the sharp and slimy creatures which are wont in
such ground.

A little further she went, and yet a little further, and no change there was in
the land; and yet she went on and found nothing; and she wended her ways
southward by the sun, and the day was windless.

At last she had gone a long way and had no sight of water south of the isle,
nor had she seen any hill, nay, not so much as an ant-heap, whence she might
look further around; and it seemed to her that she might go on for ever, and
reach the heart of Nowhither at last. Wherefore she thought she would turn back
and depart this ugly isle, and that no other adventure abided her therein. And
by now it was high noon; and she turned about and took a few steps on the
backward road.

But even therewith it seemed as if the sun, which heretofore had been shining
brightly in the heavens, went out as a burnt-down candle, and all was become
dull grey over head, as all under foot was a dull dun. But Birdalone deemed she
could follow a straight course back again, and so walked on sturdily. Hour
after hour she went and stayed not, but saw before her no glimpse of the
northern shore, and no change in the aspect of the ground about her.

It had so happened that a little before she had turned to go back, she had
eaten her dinner of a piece of bread and a morsel of cheese, and now as she
stooped and peered on the ground, looking for some sign of the way, as her
foot-prints going south, and had her eyes low anigh the earth, she saw
something white at her feet in the gathering dusk (for the day was wearing),
and she put her hand to it and lifted it, and found it a crumb of bread, and
knew that it must have come from her dinner of’ seven hours ago, whereas till
that time her bread had lain unbroken in her scrip. Fear and anguish smote her
therewith, for she saw that in that dull land, every piece whereof was like
every other piece, she must have gone about in a ring, and come back again to
where she first turned to make for the northern shore.

Yet would she not cast aside all hope, but clad herself in her valiancy.
Forsooth she knew it availed nought to try to move on in the twilight; so she
laid herself down on that waste, and made up her mind to sleep if she might,
and abide the new day there, and then to strive with the way once more, for
belike, she thought, it may be fair to-morrow, and the sun shining. And as she
was very weary with tramping the waste all day, she fell asleep at once, and
slept the short night through.

But when she awoke, and saw what the new day was, her heart fell indeed, for
now was she encompassed and shut in with a thick dark mist (though it seemed to
be broad day), so that had there been aught to see she would not have seen it
her own length away from her. So there she stood, hanging her head, and
striving to think; but the master-thought of death drawing nigh scattered all
other thoughts, or made them dim and feeble.

Long she stood there; but suddenly something came into her mind. She set her
hand to the fair-broidered pouch which hung from Viridis’ loin-girdle, and drew
out thence flint and steel and tinder, which matters, forsooth, had served her
before in the boat to make fire withal. Then she set her hand to her head, and
drew forth the tress of hair which Habundia had given her, and which was coiled
up in the crown of her own abundant locks which decked her so gloriously; she
drew two hairs from the said tress, and held them between her lips while she
did up the tress in its place again, and then, pale and trembling, fell to
striking a light, and when she had the tinder burning, she cried out:

O wood-mother, wood-mother! How then may we meet again as thou didst promise
me, if I die here in this empty waste? O wood-mother, if thou mightest but come
hither for my deliverance!

Then she burned the hairs one after another, and stood waiting, but nought
befell a great while, and her heart sickened, and there she stood like a stone.

But in awhile, lo! there came as it were a shadow amidst the mist, or rather
lying thereon, faint and colourless, and it was of the shape of the
wood-mother, with girt-up gown and bow in hand. Birdalone cried aloud with joy,
and hastened toward the semblance, but came to it no nigher, and still she
went, and the semblance still escaped her, and she followed on and on; and this
lasted long, and faster and faster must she follow lest it vanish, and she
gathered her skirts into her girdle, and fell to running fleet-foot after the
fleeing shadow, which she loved dearly even amidst the jaws of death; and all
her fleetness of foot had Birdalone to put forth in following up the chase; but
even to die in the pain would she not miss that dear shadow.

But suddenly, as she ran, the mist was all gone from before her, the sun shone
hot and cloudless; there was no shadow or shape of Habundia there, nought but
the blue lake and the ugly lip of that hideous desert, with the Sending Boat
lying a half score yards from her feet; and behind her stood up, as it were a
wall, the mist from out of which she had come.

Forsooth Birdalone was too breathless to cry out her joy, but her heart went
nigh to breaking therewith, and lovely indeed to her was the rippled water and
the blue sky; and she knew that her wood-mother had sped a sending to her help,
and she fell a-weeping where she stood, for love of her wise mother, and for
longing to behold her: she stretched out her arms to the north quarter, and
said blessings on her in a voice faint for weariness. Then she laid her down on
the desert, and rested her with sleep, despite the hot sun, and when she awoke,
some three hours thereafter, all was as before, save that the sky had now some
light-flying clouds, and still was the wall of mist behind her. Wherefore she
deemed she had yet time, and the blue rippling water wooed her much-besweated
limbs; so she did off her raiment and took the water, and became happy and
unweary therein. Then she landed and stood in the sun to dry her, and so,
strengthened with that refreshing, clad her, and went aboard and did the due
rites, and sped over the waters, and had soon lost sight of that ugly blotch on
the fair face of the Great Water.

Here ends the Second Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is called
Of the Wondrous Isles, and begins the Third Part of the said tale, which is
called Of the Castle of the Quest.

THE THIRD PART:

OF THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.

CHAPTER I.

BIRDALONE COMES TO THE CASTLE OF THE QUEST.

Empty was the day to Birdalone save for her thoughts, and she slept not a good
while of the night. When she awoke in the morning there was no land before her,
and she began to fear somewhat that so it might be many days, and that she
might have to fare the water landless, and perchance till she starved for
hunger; for now was there but little victual left of that which the kind
Viridis had given her. So she wore the day somewhat uneasily, and by then night
fell had eaten but little; yet was that little the last crumb and gobbet of her
store. Wherefore it is no wonder though she were dismayed when she awoke early
on the morrow, and beheld nought before her save the landless water.

But about noon she deemed she saw a little cloud in the offing that moved not
as the other clouds, and she watched it closely at first, and it changed not
any the more, and she grew weary of watching it and strove to sleep, turning
her head to the after part of her ferry; and thus betwixt sleeping and waking
she wore away three hours: then she stood up and looked ahead, and lo, the
white cloud had taken shape, and was a white castle far away (for the day was
exceeding clear), sitting, as it seemed, on the very face of the water. The
boat sped on swiftly thitherward, so that it was not right long ere Birdalone
beheld the green shore on either side of the said castle, and at last, three
hours before sunset, she was drawing nigh thereto, and beheld it all clearly,
what it was.

It was brand-new, and was fair enough, builded part of stone and lime, part of
framed work, but was but middling big. As she drew nigher yet, she saw that
there were folk on the walls of it, and they seemed to see her, for a horn was
winded from the battlement, and folk were running together to somewhither. And
now was Birdalone come so near, that she saw the water-gate of the castle, and
folk coming out thereby on to the landing-place; and she saw presently, that a
very tall man with grizzled hair stood foremost of them, and he waved his hand
to her, and spake something, but the wind bore the words away from her; yet she
seemed to know that this folk would do her to wit that they would have none of
her; and her heart died within her, so faint and hungry as she was.

Howsoever the ferry sped on its way swiftly, and in a minute or two had stayed
itself at the landing-stair, whereabout were gathered a score of men, some
armed some unarmed, and they seemed for the more part to be grey-headed and
past middle-age.

Birdalone stood up in her craft, and the aforesaid tall grey man, who was
unarmed, but clad in knightly raiment, stood on the stair and spake unto her,
and said: Lady, this is an house where women enter never since first the roof
was done thereon, which forsooth was but a year ago. We will pray thee
therefore to turn thy boat’s head away, and seek some other lodging by the
water, either eastward or westward.

Little knew Birdalone of worldly courtesy, or she had made him a sharp answer
belike; but she only looked on him ruefully, and said: Good warrior, I am come
a long way, and may not turn back from mine errand; and I am now lacking
victual and hungry, and if ye help me not, it is like that I shall die. Much
lieth on mine errand, if ye knew it. She was weeping-ripe, but refrained her
tears, though her lip quivered. She stretched out her hands to the greybeard,
and he looked on her and found her exceeding fair; and he deemed her to be
guileless, both because of her simple speech and sweet voice, and the
goodliness of her face and eyes. But he said: Lady, thine errand hath nought to
do with it, it is thy womanhood that bars our door. For all we are bound by
oath not to suffer a woman to abide in this castle till our lords take the bann
off, and bid us open to women. She smiled faintly, and said: If I might but see
thy lords then, since thou art not master here. He said: They are away, and
will not be back till to-morrow morning; and I wot not the hour of their
return. And yet, said he, I would we might help thee somewhat. O I pray thee, I
pray thee! she said, or mine errand will come to nought after all.

Therewith came another man down the stair, and stood by the old knight and
plucked his sleeve, and fell to talk with him softly. This man was by his habit
a religious, and was a younger man than the others, it might be of five and
thirty winters, and he was fair of favour. While they spake together Birdalone
sat her down again, and was well-nigh spent.

At last the old man spake: Damsel, he said, we deem we may suffer thee to enter
the castle since thy need is so great, and have a meal’s meat at our hands, and
yet save our oath, if thou depart thence by the landward gate before sunset.
Will this serve thee? Fair sir, said Birdalone, it will save my life and mine
errand; I may say no more words for my faintness, else would I thank thee.

She stood up on her feet, and the old man-at-arms reached out his hand to her,
and she took it and came her ways up the stair, but found herself but feeble.
But the priest (forsooth he was chaplain of the castle) helped her on the other
side. But when she stood on the level stones by the water-gate, she turned to
the old man and said: One thing I will ask of thee, Is this place one of the
Wondrous Isles? The elder shook his head. We know not the Wondrous Isles, said
he; this castle is builded on the mainland. Her face flushed for joy at the
word, and she said: One thing I will crave of thee, to wit, that thou wilt
leave my barge lying here untouched till thy masters come back, and wilt give
command that none meddle therewith.

He would have answered, but the priest brake in, and said: This will he do,
lady, and he is the castellan, and moreover he will swear to obey thee herein.
And therewith he drew forth a cross with God nailed thereon, and the castellan
swore on it with a good will.

Then the priest drew Birdalone on, and between them they brought her into the
great hall, and set her down in a chair and propped her with cushions. And when
she was thus at rest, she began to weep somewhat, and the castellan and the
priest stood by and comforted her; for themseemed, despite her grief, that she
had brought the sun into their house.

Next were victual brought unto her of broth and venison, and good wine and
cates and strawberries; and she was not so famished but she might eat and drink
with a good will. But when she was done, and had rested a little, the castellan
stood up and said: Lady, the sun is gone off the western windows now, and I
must save mine oath; but ere thou depart, I were fain to hear thy voice giving
me pardon for my evil cheer and the thrusting of thee forth. And therewith he
put one knee to the ground, and took her hand and kissed it. But Birdalone was
grown merry again, and she laughed and said: What pardon thou canst have of me,
kind knight, thou hast; but now methinks thou makest overmuch of me, because I
am the only woman who hath come into thy castle. I am but a simple maiden,
though mine errand be not little.

Forsooth she wondered that the stark and gruff old man was so changed to her in
little space; for nought she knew as yet how the sight of her cast a hot gleed
of love into the hearts of them who beheld her.

Now Birdalone arose; but the castellan knelt at her feet, and kissed her hand
again, and again, and yet again. Then he said: Thou art gracious indeed. But
methinks the father here will lead thee out-a-gates; for he may show thee a
lair, wherein thou shalt be safe enough to-night; and to-morrow may bring new
tidings.

So the priest made obeisance to her and led her down the hall, and the
castellan’s eyes were following them till the screen hid them. The priest left
her in the hall-porch a while, and went into the buttery, and came back with a
basket of meat and drink, and they went forth at the great gate together, and
there was the last of the sun before them.

CHAPTER II.

OF BIRDALONE, AND HOW SHE RESTED THE NIGHT THROUGH IN A BOWER WITHOUT THE
CASTLE OF THE QUEST.

On a fair smooth road went they amidst of a goodly meadow-land, wherein were
little copses here and there. When they were fairly out of the gate, the priest
reached for Birdalone’s hand, and she let him take it and lead her along
thereby, thinking no evil; but he might scarce speak for a while, so great was
the stir in his heart at the touch of her bare flesh. But Birdalone spake and
said: Thou art kind, father, to lead me on my way thus.

He answered in a husky voice with his eyes cast down, and forsooth set on the
feet of her: It is not far that I am leading thee; there is a broken cot by the
copse at the turn of the road yonder, where thou mayst abide to-night; it is
better lodging than none, evil as it is for such an one as thou. Birdalone
laughed: Worse have I had, said she, than would be the copse without the cot.
And she thought withal of the prison in the Isle of Increase Unsought.

Her voice seemed so cheery and friendly to the priest, that he shook off
somewhat the moodiness of his desire, and looked up and said: I shall tell
thee, lady, that I suppose thou hast more errand with my lords than to crave
lodging of them despite the custom of the castle. Nay, I have an inkling of
what thine errand may be, whereof more anon; but now shall I tell thee what is
best for thee to do so as to have speech of them the soonest. They have gone
forth with some of our lads to gather venison, or it may be beeves and muttons
for our victualling, and somewhat of battle may they have had on the way, for
ill neighbours have we. But if they come back unfoughten they will be wending
this road, and must needs pass by thy copse-side; and if thou be sleeping the
noise of them will full surely awaken thee. Then all thou hast to do is to come
forth and stand in the way before them, that they may see thee; and when once
they have seen thee, how may they pass thee by unspoken with?

I thank thee heartily for thy rede, said Birdalone; but I would ask thee two
things: first, what is the name of the castle behind us? and second, why have
ye the custom of shutting the door upon women? Said the priest: The castle is
called in this country-side, the White Ward by the Water; but within there we
call it the Castle of the Quest; and thus is it called because my lords are
seeking their loves whom they have lost; and they have sworn an oath that no
woman shall enter therein till their own loves have trodden its floors.

Rose the heart of Birdalone at that word, and she deemed indeed that she was
come thither whereas her she-friends would have had her. The priest beheld her
and saw how her beauty was eked by that gladness, and he scarce knew how to
contain himself; and might speak no word awhile; then he said: Hearken further
concerning thy matter; if my lords be tarried, and come not by matin-song, then
I doubt not but the castellan will send folk to see to thee. He looked down
therewith and said: I will come to thee myself; and will bring thee
men-at-arms, if need be. But sometime to-morrow morning my lords will come,
save mischief hath betid, which God forbid. And he crossed himself; then he
looked up and full in her face, and said: But keep thine heart up; for
whatsoever may betide, thou shalt not be left uncared for.

Said Birdalone: I see of thee that thou art become my good friend, and it
rejoiceth my heart; I shall be well at ease to-night in thy cot, and to-morrow
morn I shall be valiant to do thy bidding.

The sweetness of her speech so overcame him, that he but looked confusedly on
her, as if he scarce heard her; and they went on together without more words,
till he said: Here are we at the cot, and I will show thee thy chamber. So he
led her to a little thatched bower, built with walls of wattle-work daubed with
clay, which stood without the remnant of the cot: it was clean and dry, for the
roof was weather-tight; but there was nought in it at all save a heap of
bracken in a corner.

There stood the priest, still holding Birdalone’s hand, and spake not, but
looked about, yet always covertly on Birdalone; but in a while he let go her
hand, and seemed to wake up, and said: This it is; a sorry place enough, were
it even for a gangrel body. Even so am I, quoth she laughing; and thou mayest
look to it, that herein I shall rest full happily. Then he gave her a horn,
drawing it from out of the basket of victual, which he now set down on the
ground; and he said: If thou shouldst deem thee hard bestead, then wind this
horn, and we shall know its voice up there and come to help thee. Now I give
thee good-night.

She thanked him sweetly, and he went slowly out of the bower, but was scarce
gone ere he came back again, and said: One thing I may perchance tell thee
without drawing thine anger on my head; to wit, that I it was who said to the
castellan that he should take thee in. Wilt thou say aught to this? She said: I
will thank thee again and again; for it was the saving of my life and mine
errand. And clearer is it now than ever that thou art a good friend unto me.

As she looked on him and caressed him with kind eyes, she saw that his brow was
knit, and his face troubled, and she said to him: What ails thee? art thou
wroth with me in any wise? O no, said he; how should I be wroth with thee! But
there is a thing I would ask of thee. Yea, and what? said she. He said: Nay, I
may not, I may not. It shall be for to-morrow, or another day. He spake it
looking down, and in a broken voice; and she wondered somewhat at him, but not
much, deeming that he was troubled by something which had nought to do with
her, and which he might refrain from thinking of, even before a stranger.

But presently he caught her hand and kissed it, and bade her good-night again,
and then went hastily out of the bower; and when he was well without, he
muttered, but not so as she might hear him: Durst I have asked her, she would
have suffered me to kiss her cheek. Alas! fool that I was! Birdalone turned
then to her bracken bed, and found it sweet and clean; and she was at rest and
peace in her mind, albeit her body was exceeding weary. She felt happy in the
little lonely cot, and her heart had gone out to the sweet meadow-land, and she
loved it after all the trouble of the water; and herseemed that even now, in
the dusk a-growing into dark, it loved and caressed her. So she laid her down,
nor unclad herself at all, lest she should have to arise on a sudden, and show
those tokens of the three damsels on her body.

A little while she lay there happily, hearkening the voices of the nightingales
in the brake, and then she fell into a dreamless sleep, unbroken till the short
night passed into day.

CHAPTER III.

HOW BIRDALONE DIGHT HER FOR MEETING THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUEST.

It was the birds beginning their first song once more that awakened Birdalone
before the sun was up; but she had no will to stir a while, whereas she felt so
happy and restful; and that all the more when she remembered where she was, and
told herself that her errand was now like to be accomplished; and she thought
of her friends whom she had left on the Isle of Increase Unsought, and blessed
them for their kindness, and the love of them was sweet to her heart, and
amidst such thoughts she fell asleep again.

When she awoke thereafter there was a flood of sunshine lying on the meadows,
and she sprang up in haste lest she had overslept herself, but when she was
come out of the bower, she soon saw that the sunbeams lay low on the land, and
that it was yet the first hour of the sun; so she turned about, and went
through the copse to the other side, and lo! a little clear stream running
before her. So she spake to herself softly and said: Fie on it! I was weary
with the boat and my hunger last night, and I went to bed unwashen; and this
morn I am weary for the foulness of my unwashen body. Unseemly it were to me to
show myself sluttish before these lords; let me find time for a bath at least.

Therewith she went swiftly down to the water, undoing her girdle and laces by
the way. She came to the stream and found it running between blue-flowering
mouse-ear and rushes, into a pool which deepened from a sandy shallow: so anon
her borrowed raiment was lying on the grassy lip of the water, and she was
swimming and disporting her in the pool, with her hair loose and wavering over
her white back like some tress of the water-weed. Therein she durst not tarry
long, but came hurrying out on to the grass, and clad herself in haste. But she
covered not her shoulders with the golden gown, nor laced it over her bosom, so
that Viridis’ smock might be the plainer to see: which smock was noteworthy,
for the breast thereof was broidered with green boughs, whence brake forth
little flames of fire, and all so dainty-wrought as if the faery had done it.

Withal she gathered up the gown into her girdle, and let the skirt-hem clear
her ankles, so that Atra’s shoon might be seen at once; and they were daintily
dight with window-work and broidery of gold and green stones, and blue. And
forsooth it was little likely that any man should stand before her a minute ere
his eyes would seek to her feet and ankles, so clean and kindly as they were
fashioned.

Therewith she set her hands to her head, and trussed up her hair, and bound it
closely to her head, so that it might hide no whit of her borrowed attire.

There she stood, with Aurea’s collar lying on her dear neck, and Viridis’
girdle about her shapen loins, and Atra’s ring on her lovesome finger. And she
hearkened a while and heard no sound of coming men; and there came into her
heart a gentle fear, which grieved her not. Over the water before her hung an
eglantine bush, with its many roses either budding or but just out. Birdalone
stole thither softly, and said, smiling: Nay, if I have nothing that is mine on
my body, I will take this of the maiden’s bath and make it mine. And therewith
she plucked a spray of the bush and turned it into a garland for her head; and
then when she had stood shyly a while in that same place, she turned and went
swiftly to her place beside her night-harbour, and stood there hearkening with
that sweet fear growing upon her, her colour coming and going, and her heart
beating fast.

Now the thought of that kind priest who had led her to the bower last night
came into her mind, and she wondered why he had been so troubled. And she
thought, would those others be so kind to her, or would they deem her an
impudent wench or a foolish, or pass her by?

Forsooth if any had passed her by it had been not that he should miss seeing
her beauty, but that he should fear it, and deem her some goddess of the
Gentiles of old time come before him for his ensnaring.

CHAPTER IV.

AND NOW SHE MEETS THE CHAMPIONS.

Now, as she stood hearkening, she deemed she heard something that was not so
loud as the song of the blackbird in the brake, but further off and longer
voiced: and again she hearkened heedfully, and the sound came again, and she
deemed now that it was the voice of an horn. But the third time of her hearing
it she knew that it was nought less; and at last it grew nigher, and there was
mingled with it the sound of men shouting and the lowing of neat.

Then she stepped down to the very edge of the way, and now she saw the
riding-reek go up into the clear air, and she said: Now are they coming without
fail, and I must pluck up a heart; for surely these dear friends of my friends
shall neither harm a poor maiden nor scorn her.

Soon came the leading beasts from out of the dust-cloud, and behind them was
the glitter of spear-heads; and then presently was a herd of neat shambling and
jostling along the road, and after them a score or so of spearmen in jack and
sallet, who, forsooth, turned to look on Birdalone as they passed by, and spake
here and there a word or two, laughing and pointing to her, but stayed not; and
all went on straight to the castle.

Thereafter was a void, and then came riding leisurely another score of weaponed
men, whereof some in white armour; and amongst them were five sumpter horses
laden with carcasses of venison. And all these also went by and stayed not,
though the most of them gazed on Birdalone hard enough.

Last of all came three knights riding, one with a gold surcoat over his armour,
and thereon a cleft heart of red; the second with a green surcoat, and on the
same a chief of silver with green boughs thereon, their ends a-flaming; but the
third bore a black surcoat besprinkled with silver tears. And all these three
rode bare-headed, save that the Black Knight bore an oak-wreath on the head.

Now did Birdalone take to her valiancy, and she stepped out into the road till
she was but a ten paces from those men, who reined up when they beheld her; and
she said in a clear voice: Abide, warriors! for if ye be what I deem you, I
have an errand unto you.

Scarce were the words out of her mouth, ere all three had leapt off their
horses, and the Golden Knight came up to her, and laid his hand upon her side,
and spake eagerly and said: Where is she, whence thou gattest this gown of good
web? And thou, said she, art thou Baudoin the Golden Knight? But he set his
hand to the collar on her neck, and touched her skin withal, and said: This,
was she alive when thou camest by it? She said: If thou be Baudoin the Golden
Knight, I have an errand to thee. I am he, said the knight; O tell me, tell me,
is she dead? Said Birdalone: Aurea was alive when last I saw her, and mine
errand is from her to thee, if thou be verily her lover. Now with this word I
pray thee to be content a while, said she, smiling kindly upon him, for needs
must I do mine errand in such wise as I was bidden. And thou seest also that
thy friends would have a word of me.

Forsooth, they were thrusting in on her, and the Green Knight gat a hold of her
left wrist in his left hand, and his right was on her shoulder, and his bright
face close to her bosom whereon lay Viridis’ smock; and thereat she shrank
aback somewhat, but said: Sir, it is sooth that the smock is for thee when thou
hast answered me a question or two. Meanwhile I pray thee forbear a little;
for, as I trow, all is well, and thou shalt see my dear friend Viridis again.

He withdrew him a little, flushed and shamefaced. He was a young man exceeding
beauteous, clear-skinned and grey-eyed, with curly golden hair, and he bore his
armour as though it were silken cloth. Birdalone looked upon him kindly though
shyly, and was glad to the heart’s root that Viridis had so lovely a man to her
darling. As for the Golden Knight, as Birdalone might see now, he stood a
little aloof; he was a very goodly man of some five and thirty winters; tall he
was, broad-shouldered and thin-flanked, black-haired, with somewhat heavy
eyebrows, and fierce hawk-eyes; a man terrible of aspect, when one first beheld
him.

Now when the Black Squire had hearkened Birdalone’s word concerning Viridis, he
threw himself down on the ground before her, and fell to kissing her feet; or,
if you will, Atra’s shoon which covered them. When she drew back a little, he
rose on one knee and looked up at her with an eager face, and she said: To thee
also I have an errand from Atra, thy speech-friend, if thou be Arthur the Black
Squire. He spake not, but still gazed on her till she reddened. She knew not
whether to deem him less goodly than the other twain. He also was a young man
of not over five and twenty years, slim and lithe, with much brown hair; his
face tanned so dark that his eyes gleamed light from amidst it; his chin was
round and cloven, his mouth and nose excellently fashioned; little hair he had
upon his face, his cheeks were somewhat more hollow than round. Birdalone noted
of his bare hands, which were as brown as his face, that they were very trim
and shapely.

Now he rose to his feet, and the three stood together and gazed on her; as how
might they do otherwise? Birdalone hung her head, and knew not what next to do
or say. But she thought within herself, would these three men have been as kind
to her as her three friends of the Isle, had she happened on them in like case
as she was that time? And she settled with herself that they would have been no
less kind.

Now spake the Golden Knight, and said: Will the kind maiden do her errand to us
here and now? for we be eager and worn with trouble. Birdalone looked adown and
was somewhat confused. Fair sirs, said she, I will do your will herein.

But the Black Squire looked on her and saw that she was troubled, and he said:
Your pardon, fair fellows, but is it not so that we have an house somewhat
anigh, not ill purveyed of many things? By your leave I would entreat this kind
and dear lady to honour us so much as to enter the Castle of the Quest with us,
and abide there so long as she will; and therein may she tell us all her errand
at her leisure; and already we may see and know, that it may not be aught save
a joyous one.

Then spake the Golden Knight, and said: I will ask the lady to pardon me, and
will now join my prayer to thine, brother, that she come home with us. Lady, he
said, wilt thou not pardon me, that in the eager desire to hear tidings of my
speech-friend I forgat all else.

And therewithal he knelt before her, and took her hand and kissed it; and for
all his fierce eyes and his warrior’s mien, she deemed him kind and friendly.
Then needs must the Green Knight kneel and kiss also, though he had no pardon
to crave; but a fair sweet lad she thought him, and again her heart swelled
with joy to think that her friend Viridis had so dear a speech-friend to long
for her.

Then came the turn of the Black Squire, and by then were the two others turned
away a little toward their horses; and he knelt down on both knees before
Birdalone and took her right arm above the wrist, and looked at the hand and
kissed it as if it were a relic, but stood not up; and she stood bending over
him, and a new sweetness entered into her, the like of which she had never
felt. But as for the Black Squire, it seemed that one hand would not suffice
him, and he took her left hand and fell to kissing it, and then both the hands
together all over the backs of them, and then the palms thereof, and he buried
his face in the two palms, and held them to his cheeks; and the dear hands
suffered it all, and consented to the embracing of his cheeks. But Birdalone
deemed that this was the kindest and sweetest of the three kind warriors, and
sorry she was when he let go her hands and stood up.

His face was flushed, but his speech calm, as he spake so that the other
knights might hear him: Now will we straight to the castle, lady, and we will
ask thee which of us three thou wilt honour by riding his horse there; shall it
be Baudoin’s bright bay, or Hugh’s dapple-grey, or my red roan? And therewith
he took her by the hand and led her toward the horses. But she laughed, and
turning a little, pointed to the castle, and said: Nay, sweet lords, but I will
fare afoot, such a little way as it is, and I all unwont to the saddle.

Spake the Green Knight: If that be so, lady, then shall we three walk afoot
with thee. Nay, nay, she said; I have nought to carry but myself; but ye have
your byrnies and your other armour, which were heavy for you to drag on afoot,
even a little way. Moreover, I were fain to see you mount your horses, and ride
and run about the meadow with tossing manes and flashing swords, while I trudge
quietly toward the gate; for such things, and so beauteous, are all new unto
me, as ye shall learn presently when I tell you my story. Do so much to
pleasure me, kind knights.

The tall Baudoin nodded to her, smiling kindly, as much as to say that he
thought well of her desire. But the Green Knight ran to his horse with a glad
shout, and anon was in the saddle with his bright sword in his fist; then he
spurred, and went a-gallop hither and thither over the mead, making his horse
turn short and bound, and playing many tricks of the tilt-yard, and crying, A
Hugh, A Hugh, for the Green Gown! The Golden Knight was slower and more staid,
but in manywise he showed his war-deftness, riding after Hugh as if he would
fall on him, and staying his way just as it became perilous; and he cried,
Baudoin, Baudoin, for Gold-sleeves! And all this seemed to Birdalone both
terrible and lovely.

But for the Black Squire, he was slow to let loose Birdalone’s hand; but
thereafter he was speedy to vault into his saddle, and he made courses over the
meadow, but ever came back to Birdalone as she went her ways, riding round and
round her, and tossing his sword into the air the while and catching it as it
fell. And no less lovely did this seem to Birdalone, and she smiled on him and
waved her hand to him.

Going slowly in this wise, she came at last to the castle gate; and now had all
those three out-gone her and stood afoot in the wicket to welcome her, and the
Golden Knight, who was the oldest of the three, was the speaker of the welcome.

Over the threshold of the Castle of the Quest went Birdalone’s feet then, and
she was grown so happy as she had never deemed she should be all her life long.

CHAPTER V.

BIRDALONE HAS TRUE TOKENS FROM THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUEST.

Now they brought Birdalone into a very fair chamber, where was presently
everything she might need, save a tiring woman, which, forsooth, was no lack
unto her, since never had she had any to help her array her body. So she did
what she might to make herself the trimmer; and in a while came two fair swains
of service, who brought her in all honour into the great hall, where were the
three lords abiding her. There were they served well and plenteously, and fair
was the converse between them; and in especial was the talk of Arthur the Black
Squire goodly and wise and cheery, and well-measured; and the Green Knight’s
speech merry and kind, as of an happy child; and the Golden Knight spake ever
free and kindly, though not of many words was he. And who was happy if
Birdalone were not?

But when they had eaten and washed their hands, then spake the Golden Knight:
Dear maiden, now are we ready to hear the innermost of thine errand, all we
together, if thou wilt.

Birdalone smiled and reddened withal, as she said: Fair lords, I doubt not but
ye are even they unto whom I was sent, but they who sent me, and who saved me
from death and worse, bade me do mine errand in such a way, that I should speak
with each one of you privily, and that for a token each should tell me a thing
known but to him and his love, and to me unto whom she hath told it. Now am I
all ready to do mine errand thus, and no other wise.

Laughed they now, and were merry, and the Green Knight blushed like a maiden;
forsooth like to his very speech-friend Viridis. But the Black Squire said:
Fair fellows, get we all into the pleasance this fair morn, and sit there on
the grass, and our sweet lady shall take us one after other into the plashed
alley, and have the tokens of us.

Even so they did, and went into the pleasance, which was a goodly little garth
south of the castle, grassed, and set thick with roses and lilies and
gillyflowers, and other fragrant flowers. There then they sat on the daisied
greensward, the three lords together, and Birdalone over against them, and they
three watched her beauty and loveliness and wondered thereat.

But she said: Now it comes to the very point of mine errand; wherefore I bid
thee, Baudoin the Golden Knight, to come apart with me and answer to my
questions, so that I may know surely that I am doing mine errand aright.

Therewith she arose to her feet, and he also, and he led her into the plashed
alley, out of earshot of the other twain, who lay upon the grass biding their
turn with but little patience.

But when those two were in the deep shade of the alley, Birdalone said: Thou
must know, Sir Golden Knight, that the three lovers of you three were good to
me in my need, and clad my nakedness from their very bodies, but this raiment
they lent me, and gave it not; for they bade me give it up piece by piece each
unto the one who had given it to his love, whom I should know by the token that
he should tell truly the tale of its giving. Now, fair sir, I know well, for I
have been told, what was the tale of thy giving this golden gown to Aurea, and
that same tale shalt thou now tell me, and if thou tell it aright, then is the
gown thine. Begin, then, without more tarrying.

Lady, said the knight, thus it was: Aurea, my sweetling, abode with an ancient
dame, a kinswoman of hers, who was but scantly kind to her; and on a day when
we had met privily, and were talking together, my love lamented the niggard
ways of her said kinswoman, and told how she had no goodly gown to make her
fair when feasts were toward; but I laughed at her, and told her that so clad
as she was (and her attire was verily but simple) she was fairer than any
other; and then, as ye may wot, there was kissing and clipping between us; but
at last, as from the first I meant it, I promised her I would purvey her such a
gown as no lady should go with a better in all the country-side; but I said
that in return I must have the gown she went in then, which had so long
embraced her body and been strained so close to her body and her sides, and was
as it were a part of her. That she promised me with kisses, and I went away as
merry as a bird. Straightway thereafter I did do make this very gown, which
thou bearest, dear maiden, and on the appointed day she came out to me unto the
same place clad as she was before; but the new gown I had with me. Hard by our
trysting-place was a hazel-copse thick enow, for it was midsummer, and she said
she would go thereinto and shift gowns, and bear me out thence the gift of the
old clout (so she called it, laughing merrily). But I said: Nay, I would go
into the copse with her to guard her from evil things, beasts or men; and
withal to see her do off the old gown, that I might know before I wedded her
whatlike stuffing and padding went to make the grace of her flanks and her
hips. And again was she merry, and she said: Come, then, thou Thomas
unbelieving, and see the side of me. So we went into that cover together, and
she did off her gown before mine eyes, and stood there in her white coat with
her arms bare, and her shoulders and bosom little covered, and she was as
lovely as a woman of the faery. Then I made no prayer unto her for leave, but
took my arms about her, and kissed her arms and shoulders and bosom all she
would suffer me, for I was mad with love of her naked flesh. Then she did on
this golden gown, and departed when she had given me the old clout aforesaid,
and I went away with it, scarce feeling the ground beneath my feet; and I set
the dear gown in a fair little coffer, and here in this castle I have it now,
and many times I take it forth and kiss it and lay my head upon it. Now this is
a simple tale, lady, and I am ashamed that I have made it so long for thee. And
yet I know not; for thou seemest to me so kind and loving and true, that I am
fain that thou shouldest know how sorely I love thy friend and mine.

Birdalone deemed Baudoin a good man indeed, and the tears came into her eyes as
she answered and said: True is thy tale, dear friend, and I have deemed it
rather short than long. I see well that thou art Aurea’s very lover; and it
joys me to think that thou, O terrible champion, art yet so tender and true.
Now is the golden gown thine, but I will pray thee to lend it me a little
longer. But this jewel shalt thou have from my neck here and now; and thou
knowest whence it came, thine Aurea’s neck forsooth.

Therewith she betook it him, and he held it in his hand doubtfully a while, and
then he said: Dear maiden, I thank thee, but I will take this collar, and lay
it in my casket, and be glad thereof; and that the more, as, now I look on
thee, I see nought missing from the loveliness of thine own neck.

Go to thy fellows now, said Birdalone, and send me the Green Knight, the goodly
lad. So went he, and presently came Hugh thither merry and smiling, and said:
Thou hast been long about the first token, sweet mistress; I fear me I shall
make no such goodly story as hath Baudoin. And yet, said she, Viridis’ tale was
the longest of all. I doubt thou mayst fail in the token. And she laughed; and
he no less, and took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek frankly, and in
such wise that she feared him nought, and said: Now that is to pay thee for thy
gibe; what wouldst thou have of me? Said Birdalone: I would have thee tell me
how it was that Viridis came by the smock with the green boughs aflame, which
now I bear upon me.

Hearken, darling lady, said he: On a day Viridis and I were alone in the
meadow, and so happy, that we might find nought to do save to fall into strife
together; and I said it to her, that she loved me not as well as I loved her;
which, by the way, was no less than a lie, for of all things living she is the
most loving, and when we be together she knoweth not how to make enough of me.
Well, we fell to wrangling after the manner of lovers, till I, having nothing
else to say, bade her remember that since we had first come to love each other,
I had given her many things, and she had given me nothing. Lo, then! my dear,
what an ill-conditioned lad was I. But, little as I meant it, she took it all
amiss, and leapt up, and fell to running back home over the meadow; thou mayst
think how easily I caught up with her, and how little loth she was to be
dragged back by the shoulders. So when we were sitting again under the
thorn-bush, we had well-nigh done our wrangle; but she unlaced her gown and
drew down a corner thereof, to show me her shoulder, how I had hurt it e’en
now; and forsooth some little mark there was on the rose-leaf skin; and that
made good time for kissing again, as ye may well wot. Then she said unto me:
And how may I, a poor damsel, give thee gifts, and my kindred all greedy about
me? Yet would I give thee a gift, such as I may, if I but knew what thou
wouldst take. Now my heart was afire with that kissing of her shoulder, and I
said that I would have that very same smock from her body, which then she bore,
and that thereof I should deem that I had a rich gift indeed. What! said she,
and wouldst thou have it here and now? And indeed I think she would have done
it off her that minute had I pressed her, but I lacked the boldness thereto;
and I said: Nay, but would she bring it unto me the next time we met; and
forsooth she brought it folded in a piece of green silk, and dearly have I
loved it and kissed it sithence. But as for thy smock, I had it fairly wrought
and embroidered with the flaming green branches, as thou seest it, and I gave
it to her; but not on the day when she gave me the gift; for the new one was
long about doing. Now this is all the tale, and how Viridis might eke it into a
long one, I wot not. But let it be, and tell me, have I won thy smock, or lost
it?

Birdalone laughed on him and said: Well, at least thou shalt have it as a gift;
and thou mayst call it given either by Viridis or me, which thou wilt. But with
it goes another gift; which thou mayst have at once since thou must lend me the
smock a little longer. And therewith she betook him her girdle, and he kissed
it, but said: Nay, fair lady, this befitteth well the loveliness of thy body
that thou shouldst wear it; and well it befitteth the truth and love of thy
soul toward it for me; I pray thee to keep it. Nevertheless, she said, I will
not have it, for it goeth with mine errand that thou take it of me. Now I bid
thee depart, and send hither thy fellow, the Black Squire.

Went he then, and anon comes the Black Squire, and now that he was alone with
Birdalone this first time, he seemed moody and downcast, all unlike the two
others. He stood a little aloof from Birdalone, and said: What wouldst thou ask
of me? Her heart was somewhat chilled by his moodiness, for erst had she deemed
him the kindest of the three; but she said: It is of mine errand to ask of thee
concerning this foot-gear which Atra lent me until I give it unto thee, if thou
be verily her lover. Said he: I was verily her lover. Birdalone said: Then
canst thou tell me the manner of thy giving these fair shoon unto Atra?

He said: Even so; we were walking together in this country-side and came to a
ford of the river, and it was somewhat deep and took me to over the knee, so I
bore her over in my arms; then we went on a little further till we must cross
the river back again in another place, and there the ford was shallower, and,
the day being hot, Atra must needs wade it on her own feet. So she did off
hosen and shoon, and I led her by the hand, and it took her but up to mid-leg.
But when we came up out of the water and were on the grass again, I craved the
gift of her foot-gear for the love of her, and she gave it straightway, and
fared home barefoot, for it was over the meads we were wending in early summer,
and the grass was thick and soft. But thereafter I did do make the fair shoon
which thou hast on thy feet, and gave them to her. And, for a further token
that my tale is true, I shall tell thee that the name of the first ford we
waded that day is the Grey-nag’s Wade, and the second is called Goat Ford. This
is all my tale, lady; is the token true?

True it is, squire, said Birdalone, and was silent awhile, and he also. Then
she looked on him friendly, and said: Thou art out of heart as now, my friend.
Fear not, for thou shalt without doubt see thy speech-friend again. Moreover
here is a ring which she set upon my finger, bidding me give it thee. And she
held it out unto him.

He took the ring, and said: Yea, it is best that I have it of thee, lest unluck
come thereof. She saw trouble in his face, but knew not what to say to cheer
him, and they stood silently facing one another for awhile. Then he said: Let
us back to our fellows, and talk it over, what is now to be done.

So they went their ways to where lay the other two upon the green grass, and
the Black Squire lay down beside them; but Birdalone stood before them and
spake unto the three.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW THE CHAMPIONS WOULD DO BIRDALONE TO BE CLAD ANEW IN THE CASTLE OF THE
QUEST.

Lords, she said, now is it clear by the tokens that mine errand is to you and
none other; now therefore am I to tell you what to do to come unto your
speech-friends and deliver them and bring them back hither. For this is their
case, that they are in captivity in a wonder-isle of this great water, and it
is called the Isle of Increase Unsought.

Spake the Golden Knight: Fair lady, we have heard before that our friends fared
hence, or rather were taken hence over the water. And that is the cause why we
builded this castle on the water’s edge, on the very stead where was raised the
pavilion, the house made for the ladies to abide therein the battle of the
Champions. Since that time, moreover, many a barge and keel have we thrust out
into the water, that we might accomplish the Quest whereunto we were vowed; but
ever one way went our seafaring, that when we were come so far out into the
water as to lose sight of land, came upon us mist, rose against us dusk and
darkness; and then a fierce driving wind that drave us back to this shore. It
is but six days ago since we tried this adventure for the last time, and belike
the same shall befall us the next time we try it. Wherefore I must ask thee,
lady, dost thou know any way whereby we may come to the said isle? For if thou
dost, full surely we will try it, whatsoever may be the risk thereby to our
bodies or our souls.

Full surely I do, said Birdalone; else how had I come from thence hither mine
own self? And therewith she told them of the Sending Boat, what it was, and how
she had come all the way by means thereof from the Isle of Increase Unsought;
and they all hearkened her heedfully, and wondered both at the sorcery, and the
valiant heart of her who had driven it as she would in despite of the evil. But
in the end she spake and said: Lords, ye have now heard some deal of my story,
even that which concerns you thereof; and which must needs be told at once:
wherefore doubtless ye shall fare unto your speech-friends by this ferry in the
very wise that I shall show you; unless perchance ye deem that I have been
lying and making light tales to you, as, sooth to say, I deem ye think it not.

Spake the Golden Knight: Damsel, in all wise we trow in thee and thy tale. And
God forbid that we should tarry! Go we hence this very day.

Yea, but hearken, said the Black Squire: Is it not a part of this damsel’s
errand that she should deliver to us the raiment of our friends, which now she
beareth on her own body, that we may bear it back unto them?

Sooth is that, said Birdalone, and ye may well wot that this may be nought but
needful, whereas the said ladies be all beset by sorceries.

See ye then, fellows, said the Black Squire, it may not be to-day nor yet
to-morrow that we may take the road. For ye wot that there is no woman’s gear
in all the castle, and we must needs send otherwhere to seek it.

Look thou, maiden, said the Golden Knight, laughing, how duly this young knight
thinketh of thee; whereas I, who am his elder, and should be wiser than he, am
but heedless of thee. I pray thy pardon.

Moreover, said the Black Squire, there may well be wisdom in abiding; for it is
to be thought that our dear loves considered this, and knew what the time of
tarrying should be, and have so dight their matter as to fit in therewith; and
I may not deem it of them that they would have us array this our dear sister
and theirs in unseemly wise. Nay, for that would be an ill beginning of this
deal of the Quest.

Now all yeasaid this gladly; and the Green Knight said: It were not so ill done
that we should see more of our sister here ere we depart, and hear more of her
tale; for meseemeth she began it erewhile but half-way. And he turned to
Birdalone, and took her hand and caressed it.

Birdalone smiled on them somewhat shyly, and thanked them; but bade them spend
as little time as might be on her arrayal. For, said she, though those ladies
may well have reckoned on the time of the arrayal of my body, yet surely also
they shall have reckoned with the eager fire of love in the hearts of you, and
the haste it shall breed therein.

Well pleased were they with that word of hers, but none the less sent two
sergeants and a squire with led horses unto the cheaping-town, a goodly and
great town hight Greenford, which was some twenty miles thence, with the errand
to bring back with them a good shaper and embroideress, and sewing-women, and
cloth and silk and linen, and all things needful.

As for jewels, each one of them was fain to give her something which he prized,
and fair and rich were the gifts, though they had not been made for women. As a
fair SS collar of gold, which the Golden Knight gave her, and a girdle of broad
golden plates, wrought beauteously, which was the gift of the Black Squire.
Albeit he did not offer to clasp it round her loins, as she deemed he would;
for when the Green Knight brought his gift, a great gold ring, very ancient of
fashion, he would have her turn back the sleeve from her fore-arm, that he
might set his dwarf-wrought gold upon the bare flesh; neither did he refrain
him from kissing it withal.

But the messengers came back with their work-women and stuffs early on the
morrow; and now was changed all the manner of the womanless castle, and men
were full merry therein.

CHAPTER VII.

OF BIRDALONE, HOW SHE TOLD THE CHAMPIONS ALL HER TALE.

It was a matter of eight days, the making of all Birdalone’s raiment, and
meanwhile she was ever with the three Champions, either all three together, or
one or other of them. And as to their manners with her, ever was the Golden
Knight of somewhat sober demeanour, as if he were an older man than he verily
was. The Green Knight was for ever praising Birdalone’s beauty to her face, and
seemed to find it no easy matter to keep his eyes off her, and somewhat he
wearied her with kisses and caresses; but a gay and sportive lad he was; and
when she rebuked him for his overmuch fondness, as now and again she did, he
would laugh at himself along with her; and in sooth she deemed him heart-whole,
and of all truth to Viridis, and oft he would talk of her to Birdalone, and
praise her darling beauty to her, and tell of his longing for his love aloof.
Only, quoth he, here art thou, my sister, dwelling amongst us, and shedding thy
fragrance on us, and showing to us, wilt thou, wilt thou not, as do the
flowers, all the grace and loveliness of thee; and thou so tender of heart
withal, that thou must not blame me overmuch if whiles I forget that thou art
my sister, and that my love is, woe’s me! far away. So thou wilt pardon me,
wilt thou not? Yea, verily, said she, with a whole heart. Yet thou needest not
reach out for my hand; thou hast had enough of it this morning. And she hid it,
laughing, in the folds of her gown; and he laughed also, and said: Of a truth
thou art good in all wise, and a young fool am I; but Viridis shall make me
wiser, when we come together again. Sawest thou ever so fair a damsel? Never,
she said, and surely there is none fairer in all the world. So hold thee aloof
now for a while, and think of her.

As for the Black Squire, hight Arthur, Birdalone was troubled for him, and he
made her somewhat sad. True it is that he came not before her again so moody
and downcast as when he was giving her the token; yet she deemed that he
enforced himself to seem of good cheer. Furthermore, though he sought her
company ever, and that lonely with him, and would talk with her almost as one
man with another, though with a certain tenderness in his voice, and looking
earnestly on her the while, yet never would he take her hand, or touch her in
any wise. And true it is that she longed for the touch of his hand.

On the third day of her sojourn in the Castle of the Quest, Birdalone took
heart at the much egging of her friends, as they sat all together in the meadow
without the castle, to tell them all the story of her; she hid none, save
concerning the wood-mother, for she deemed that her sweet friend would love her
the better if she babbled not of her.

So the Champions hearkened her telling the tale in her clear lovely voice, and
great was their love and pity for the poor lonely maiden. And in especial clear
it was to see that they were sore moved when she told how she first came on the
Sending Boat, and how the witch-wife tormented her innocent body for that
guilt. Then Baudoin laid his hand upon her head, and spake: Poor child, much
indeed hast thou suffered! and now I will say it, that it was for us and our
loves that thou hast borne all this anguish of captivity and toil and stripes.

But Hugh leaned over to her, as she sat with her head hanging down, and kissed
her cheek, and said: Yea! and I was not there to smite the head off that
accursed one; and I knew nought of thee and thine anguish, as I took my light
pleasure about these free meadows. And he turned very red, and went nigh to
weep.

Arthur sat still with his eyes bent down on the ground, and he said nothing;
and Birdalone glanced on him wistfully ere she went on with her tale. And she
went on and told closely all that had happened unto her in the crossing of the
water and on the Isle of Increase Unsought, and the other Wonder Isles; and she
deemed it not too much that she should tell it twice over, nor they that twice
over they should hearken it.

That same evening as Birdalone walked by herself in the castle pleasance, she
saw Arthur peering about as if he were seeking someone; so she stood forth, and
asked him was he seeking aught; and he said: Thee was I seeking. But she durst
not ask him what he would, but stood silent and trembling before him, till he
took her hand, and spake not loud but eagerly.

After what thou hast told us to-day, I seem to know thee what thou art; and I
tell thee that it is a pain and grief to me to leave thee, yea to leave thee
were it but for a minute. O I pray thee pity me for the sundering. And
therewith he turned about and hastened into the castle. But Birdalone stood
there with her heart beating fast and her flesh quivering, and a strange
sweetness of joy took hold of her. But she said to herself that it was no
wonder though she felt so happy, seeing that she had found out that, despite
her fears, this one of her friends loved her no less well than the others. And
then she spake it in a soft voice that she would indeed pity him for the
sundering, yea, and herself also.

Nevertheless, when they met thereafter, his demeanour to her was none otherwise
than it had been; but she no longer heeded this since now she trowed in him.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE MEANWHILE OF THE DEPARTING OF THE CHAMPIONS, THEY WOULD PLEASURE
BIRDALONE WITH FEATS OF ARMS AND GAMES OF PROWESS.

Passed the days now speedily, and the three Champions did what they might for
the solace of Birdalone. For they and their household showed her of arms, and
they tilted together courteously; and the sergeants stood forth, and shot in
the bow before her, till she herself by their bidding took the bow in hand, and
shot straighter and well-nigh as hard as the best man there, whereat they
marvelled, and praised her much.

Then the young men ran afoot before her for the prize of a belt and knife, and
forsooth she wotted well that were she to run against them with trussed-up
skirts she would bear off the prize; but she had no heart thereto, for amidst
them all, and her new friendships, she had grown shamefast, and might play the
wood-maiden no longer. Yet twice the Champions fared further afield with her to
show her some woodcraft; yet were not very free to go far, because of the ill
neighbours whereof the chaplain had told her that first night of her coming.

And in all these pastimes, whatso they were, Birdalone bore herself well and
merrily, and put from her the sorrow of the sundering, and the peril of her
dear friends which grew now so near at hand.

The chaplain aforesaid, who hight Leonard, she fell in with not seldom; and he
was ever meek and humble before her; and ever withal was sorrow easy to be seen
in his countenance, and trouble withal; and she knew not how to help him, save
by being courteous and kind with him whenso they met; but none the more might
he pluck up cheerful countenance in answer to her kindness.

With Sir Aymeris, the grizzle-haired castellan, she foregathered also oft
enough, and could not forbear some merry gibes with him concerning their first
meeting, and how that she had been a burden and a terror to him; and these
mocks she made him because she saw it liked him not ill to be mocked in
friendly fashion; though forsooth betwixt the laughter he looked on her
somewhat ruefully. And ever, ere he parted from her, he made occasion to kiss
her hands; and she suffered it smiling, and was debonair to him; whereas she
saw that he was of good will to her. In such wise then wore the hours and the
days.

CHAPTER IX.

BIRDALONE COMETH BEFORE THE CHAMPIONS IN HER NEW ARRAY.

Now the time was come when Birdalone had all her gear ready, and the women were
to abide in the castle as her serving-damsels while the Champions were away.

So now in the summer eve, an hour before sunset, Birdalone did on the richest
of her new raiment, and came into the hall where sat the Three together, and
Sir Aymeris with them. She was so clad, that she had on a green gown with
broidered sleeves, and thereover a white cote-hardie welted with gold, and
gold-embroidered; on her feet were gold shoon of window-work, pearled and
gemmed; and on her head a rose garland; on her neck she bore the Golden
Knight’s collar; her loins were girt with the Black Squire’s girdle; and on her
wrist was the Green Knight’s ancient gold ring; and she carried in her arms
Aurea’s gown and Viridis’ shift and Atra’s shoon.

Rather sunrise than sunset it seemed, as verily Birdalone she came into the
hall with bright eager eyes, and flushed cheeks, and countenance smiling with
love. The men stood up all, and would come down from the dais to meet her; but
she bade them go back, and sit each in his place till she stood before them.

Up the hall then she walked, and every step of hers seemed lovelier than the
last, till she came to them and gave unto each his keepsake, and said:
Champions, now is mine errand all done, save that to-morrow I must show you the
manner of the Sending Boat. Now there is nought save the darkness of the coming
night to hinder you from this last deal of your Quest; and it is I that have
brought you to this, and have done this good unto you, if no more good I do in
the world. Wherefore I pray you to love me ever, and bear me ever in your
minds.

They gazed on her, and were overcome by her loveliness and grace, and by the
kindness and valiancy of her heart. Next arose the Golden Knight, Baudoin to
wit, and took a cross from his breast, and held it up, and spake: Maiden, thou
sayest well, and never shall we forget thee, or cease to love thee; and here I
swear by God upon the Tree, that it shall be a light thing for me to die for
thee, if in any need I find thee. Brethren, will ye not swear the same? And
this is but thy due, maiden, for I declare unto thee, that when thou didst
enter the hall e’en now, it was as if the very sun of heaven was coming in unto
us.

Thereon the other two took the Rood and swore upon it: and Hugh was hushed and
meek and sad-faced after he had sworn; but Arthur the Black Squire bowed down
his head and wept, and his fellows marvelled nought thereat, neither did
Birdalone; and all her body yearned toward him to solace him.

Now turned Sir Baudoin to the castellan and said: Sir Aymeris, I will now swear
thee to guard this lady as the apple of thine eye whiles we three be away, and
therein to spare neither thyself nor others. For thou seest well what grief it
would be to us if she came to any harm.

And to me also, said the castellan. And therewith he swore upon the Rood, and
then came round the table, and knelt before Birdalone, and kissed her hands.

Thereafter were they all silent a space; and then came Birdalone to the inner
side of the table and sat betwixt Baudoin and Hugh. But the Black Squire took
up the word and spake: Birdalone, sweet child, one thing is to be said, to wit,
that it were well that thou keep within walls while we be away; or at least
that thou go but a little beyond the castle, and never but within a half
bowshot, save thou be well accompanied. For there be men of violence dwelling
no great way off, reivers and rovers, who would be well pleased to take from us
anything which we deem dear; besides others who would think the lifting of such
a jewel good hap indeed. Sir Aymeris, have a care of the Red Knight; and if
thou mightest come by a few more stout lads, to wage them, it were well.

Birdalone heeded not what the castellan answered, such a shaft of joy went to
her heart when she heard that friend speak her own name in such wise as he had
never done erst, and that before them all. She but murmured some yeasay to that
which Arthur had spoken unto her, and then she held her peace for the sweetness
of that moment.

So there they sat and talked a while in dear and pleasant converse; and Hugh
fell to asking her of her life in the House under the Wood, and she answered
all frankly and simply, and the more she told the dearer she seemed to them.

Thus drew night in, till folk came flockmeal into the hall; for needs must be
feast and banquet for triumph of the furtherance of the Quest; and the most of
men were merry; but somewhat sober were all the three Champions, so that whoso
ran might read it in their faces. As for Birdalone, she showed cheerful to all
that folk which loved her and praised her; but inwardly sorrow had come home to
her heart.

CHAPTER X.

THE CHAMPIONS GO THEIR WAYS IN THE SENDING BOAT.

When the sun was arisen on the morrow the three Champions went down to the
landing-place, and there was none with them; for they had given command that no
man should pry into their doings. Thither to them cometh Birdalone, clad no
more in her gay attire, but in a strait black coat and with unshod feet; and
she looked no sorrier than she was.

By Birdalone’s rede the Champions bore down in their own hands the victual and
weapons and armour that they needed for the voyage; for she knew not but that
the Sending Boat might take it amiss that any should touch her save the
senders. And when they had done lading her, then all four stood together by the
water’s edge, and Birdalone spake to her friends, and again bade them beware of
the wiles of the Isle of Nothing; and again she told them of the woful images
of the Isle of Kings and the Isle of Queens, and the strange folk of the Isle
of the Young and the Old. Then she said: Now when ye come to the Isle of
Increase Unsought, what think ye to do? Said the Green Knight: If I might rule,
we should go straight up to the witch sitting in her hall, as thou toldest us,
my dear, and then and there smite the head from off her. His eyes flashed and
his brow knitted, and so fierce he looked that Birdalone shrank back from him;
but the Black Squire smiled and said: It may come to the smiting off of heads
in the end; yet must we so fashion our carving, that it avail us for the
freeing of our friends; else may the witch die, and the secret of the
prison-house die with her. How sayest thou, dear Birdalone?

She reddened at the caress of his voice, and answered: By my rede ye shall seek
and find your speech-friends ere ye make open war upon the witch; else may her
malice destroy them ere ye undo her. Her face flushed yet more as she spake
again: But concerning all things, I deem that Atra may give you the best rede,
when ye have met the loves; for that she knoweth more of the isle and its
guiles than the others.

Quoth Baudoin: Herein is wisdom, sweet maiden, for as guileless as thou mayst
be; and so far as we may we shall follow thy rede; but all lieth in the fathom
of the coming time. And now this moment is the moment of sundering and
farewell.

Came he then to Birdalone and took his two hands about her head, and lifted her
face unto him, and kissed it kindly, as a father might kiss a daughter, and
said: Farewell, dear child, and take heed to the word that Arthur spake
yesterday, and go not from the castle even a little way save with good and sure
company.

Then came Hugh to her, and took her hand somewhat timidly; but she put up her
face to him in simple wise, and he kissed either cheek of her, and said no more
than: Farewell, Birdalone!

Lastly came Arthur, and stood before her a little; and then he knelt down on
the stones before her and kissed her feet many times, and she shuddered and
caught her breath as they felt his kisses; but neither he nor she spake a word,
and he stood up and turned away at once toward the Sending Boat, and boarded
her first of the three; and the others followed straightway.

Thereafter the Champions bared each an arm, and let blood flow thence into a
bowl, and reddened stem and stern of their barge, and then all three spake the
spell together thus, as Birdalone had taught them:

The red raven-wine now

Hast thou drunk, stern and bow:

Wake then, and awake,

And the northern way take!

The way of the Wenders forth over the flood,

For the will of the Senders is blent with the blood.

Went all as before thereafter, that the Sending Boat stirred under them, and
then turned about and pointed her bows to the northward, and sped swiftly over
the waters. It was a fair sunny day, with no cloud, nought save the summer haze
lying on the lake far away. Birdalone stood watching the speeding of the boat,
till she could see it no longer, not even as a fleck on the face of the waters.
Then she turned away and went toward her chamber, saying to herself that the
sundering was easier to bear than she had deemed it would be, and that she had
a many things to do that day. But when she came into her chamber, and shut the
door, she looked about her on the things which had grown so familiar to her in
these few latter days, and she stood watching the bright sunshine that streamed
across the floor and lay warm upon her feet; then she took three steps toward
the window, and saw the lake lying all a-glitter under the sun, and her heart
failed her withal, and she had no might so much as to think about her sorrow
and caress it, but fell down where she was swooning on to the floor, and lay
there, while all the house began to stir about her.

Here ends the Third Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is called Of
the Castle of the Quest, and begins the fourth Part of the said tale, which is
called Of the Days of Abiding.

THE FOURTH PART:

OF THE DAYS OF ABIDING.

CHAPTER I.

OF BIRDALONE’S GRIEF; AND OF LEONARD THE CHAPLAIN.

Now came Birdalone to herself, and that was but little joy unto her, and she
yet lay still on the floor for a while, for she loathed the hour that was to
come. Then the life stirred in her, and whereas she would not that her women
should find her there, she stood up, and clad herself somewhat more seemly; yet
she did on her black raiment; and determined in her mind that nought would she
wear save black unadorned while her friends were away.

She betook her now to the chamber where her women were gathered together, and
watched them working a while, but spake nought. Then she went her ways into the
pleasance, and paced the plashed alley up and down, letting the tears run down
from her as they would. Then she turned back into the castle, and went
out-a-gates and walked over the meadow a little, and might well have gone
further than wisdom would. But the castellan espied her from a window, and came
hurrying out after her, and with many prayers for pardon, brought her back
again, babbling to her by the way; but not a word might he get from her; and
when he came into the hall with her, and, after his wont, knelt down to kiss
her hands, she caught them away from him peevishly, and was sorry for it
thereafter.

Long she sat in the hall, scarce moving, till she heard one entering from the
screen, and lo it was Leonard the chaplain. He came her way, and showed her
rueful countenance; and pity of him smote her, and she remembered therewith how
they first went out of gates together; and at the thought thereof her tears
brake forth again, but she made him a sign with her hand to sit down beside
her, and he did so; and when she might for her weeping, she looked kindly on
him, and he fell to talk, making as if he noted not her tears and sorrow; but
she answered him little, for she had shame to begin the talk concerning the
Champions and their Quest, and their departure; yet might she not bring her
tongue to make any speech else. But presently he took up the word, and asked
her how long a while she deemed they would be away, and she answered, smiling
on him for thanks, and having reckoned the days on her fingers: If all go
better than well, they may be back in ten days’ time. Said the chaplain: There
be longer whiles of waiting in most men’s lives. Yea, she said, but this is the
delay at the best; it may be far longer; for how may we tell what haps may be?

Yea, said Leonard, shall we then call it twenty days, or thirty? Forsooth, that
may be long for thee; though there be some who must needs endure hope deferred
a deal longer. But it may run out longer than even thirty days, thy
waiting-tide.

She answered not, and he said: Whenso the time hangs heavy on hand with thee,
if thou hast will to fare abroad out of the castle, I shall be ever at hand to
guide thee. Indeed, I wot that the castellan will be loth to let thee go; but
he is old and straitlaced: and yet withal he wotteth, as do we all, that there
is now little peril or none were we to fare a five miles or more, whereas we
are as good as at peace for the last five days with all save the Red Knight,
and of him we wot that he is gone into another land with as many of his folk as
be not needed for the warding of his hold.

I thank thee, said Birdalone, but it is like to be my will not to fare
out-a-gates till the Champions come back home. I was glad e’en now when the
castellan fetched me in again: to say sooth, fear of peril had just entered my
heart when he came up with me.

The priest seemed somewhat chapfallen at her answer. He spake little more, and
presently he stood up, made his obeisance, and departed.

CHAPTER II.

BIRDALONE LEARNETH LORE OF THE PRIEST. TEN DAYS OF WAITING WEAR.

Wore that day and the next, and Birdalone fell to talking with her women,
whereof were five now left; and four of them were young, the eldest scarce of
thirty summers, and the fifth was a woman of sixty, both wise and kind. All
these told her somewhat of their own lives when she asked them; and some withal
told of folk whom they had known or heard tell of. And well pleased was
Birdalone to hear thereof, and learn more of the ways of the world, and
quick-witted she was at the lesson, so that she needed not to ask many
questions.

Furthermore, she took to her broidering again, and fell to doing a goodly pair
of shoon for Atra, since she had worn those borrowed ones somewhat hardly. And
the women wondered at her needlework, so marvellous fine as it was, and how
that in little space of time were come flowers and trees, and birds and beasts,
all lovely; and they said that the faery must have learned her that craft. But
she laughed and reddened, and thought of the wood-mother; and, sitting there
within the four walls, she longed for the oak-glades, and the wood-lawns, and
for the sight of the beasts that dwelt therein.

Again she fell in with Leonard the priest, and he asked her could she read in a
book, and when she said nay, he offered to teach her that lore, and she yeasaid
that joyously; and thenceforth would she have him with her every day a good
while; and an apt scholar she was, and he no ill master, and she learned her A
B C speedily.

Now it was the ninth day since the Champions were gone, and all that time she
had not been out-a-gates; and after the first two days, had enforced herself to
fill up her time with her work as aforesaid: but this last day she might do but
little, for she could not but take it for sure that the morrow would be the day
of return; nay, even she deemed that they might come in the night-tide; so that
when she went to bed, though she was weary, she would wake if she might, so
that it was nigh dawn ere she fell asleep.

Some three hours after she woke up, and heard a sound of folk stirring in the
house, and the clashing of weapons; and the heart leapt in her, and she said:
They are come, they are come! Nevertheless she durst not get out of bed, lest
her hope had beguiled her; and she lay awake another hour, and no tidings came
to her; and then she wept herself to sleep; and when she awoke once more, she
found that she must have wept sleeping, for the pillow beside her face was all
wet with the tears.

The sun was high now, and his beams were cast back from the ripple of the lake,
and shone wavering on the wall of the chamber, the window whereof gave on to
the water. Then came a hand on the latch of the door, and she started, and her
heart grieved her; but it was one of the women who opened, and came in, and
Birdalone rose up sitting in her bed, and said faintly, for she could scarce
speak: Is any tiding toward, Catherine? The maid said: Yes, my lady; for early
after sunrise came weaponed men to the gate, and would sell us beeves; and my
lord, Sir Aymeris, must needs go forth and chaffer with them, though belike
they had been lifting what was neither ours, nor theirs, nor the neighbours’.
Maybe Sir Aymeris looked to buy tidings from them as well as beef. Anyhow they
departed when they had gotten their money and drunk a cup. And now it is said
that the Red Knight hath been hurt in some fray, and keepeth his bed; wherefore
the land shall have peace of him awhile. Said Birdalone: I thank thee, good
Catherine; I shall lie a little longer; depart now.

The woman went her ways; and when she was gone, Birdalone wept and sobbed, and
writhed upon her bed, and found no solace to her grief. But she arose and paced
the chamber, and sithence looked out of the window over the empty water, and
wept again. Then she said: Yet they may come ere noon, or it may be ere
evening, or perchance to-morrow morning. And she stayed her weeping, and was
calmer. But still she walked the floor, and whiles looked out of window, and
whiles she looked on her limbs, and felt the sleekness of her sides, and she
said: O my body! how thou longest!

But at last she clad herself in haste, and went stealthily from the chamber, as
if she feared to meet anyone; and she stole up to the tower-top that was
nighest, and looked through the door on to the leads, and saw no one there; so
she went out, and stood by the battlement, and gazed long over the water, but
saw neither boat nor burning mountain coming towards her.

CHAPTER III.

NOW WOULD BIRDALONE RIDE ABROAD.

After a while she came down again, and went to the women, and sat working with
them a while, and so wore away two hours. Then she sent for the priest and had
her lesson of him; and when she had been at it another two hours, she bade him
begin and learn her writing; and nought loth he was thereto; forsooth he had
been longing to pray her to suffer him learn her, but durst not. For in such
teaching needs must he sit full nigh to her, and watch her hands, and her
fingers striving to shape the letters; nay, whiles must he touch her hand with
his, and hold it. Wherefore now he promised himself a taste of Paradise. Withal
he was full meet to learn her, whereas he was one of the best of scribes, and a
fair-writer full handy.

So they fell to the lesson, and she became eager thereover, and learned fast,
and clave to the work, while his soul was tormented with longing for her. And
thus wore a three hours, and then suddenly she looked up wearily from her work,
and her trouble was awake, and the longing for her speech-friend, and she gave
the priest leave for that day, but suffered him to kiss her hand for wages.

Then she hurried up to the tower-top, when the afternoon was wearing into
evening; and abode there a long while looking over the waters, till it began to
dusk, and then came down miserably and went to her women.

The next day was like unto this; nought betid, and she wore the hours whiles
going up to the tower-top and looking over the lake, whiles broidering amidst
her maids, whiles learning her clerk’s work with Sir Leonard, but ever eating
her heart out with her longing.

On the third of these days she called the castellan to her for a talk, and
asked him what he thought of it, this delay of his lords’ return. Quoth the
greyhead: My lady, we may not wonder if they be tarried for a few days; for
this is an adventure on which they have gone, and many haps betide in such
tales. Now I beseech thee torment not thyself; for the time is not yet come for
thee even to doubt that they have miscarried.

His words solaced her much for that time, whereas she saw that he spake but the
sooth; so she thanked him, and smiled upon him kindly; and he was ravished
thereat, and was for kneeling before her at once and kissing her hands after
his wont; but she smiled again and refrained him, and said: Nay, not yet, fair
friend; that is for the departure, and I have yet a word to say unto thee: to
wit, that I long to go out-a-gates, and it will solace me and give me patience
to abide the coming of my friends. For thou must know, Sir Aymeris, that I was
reared amidst the woods and the meadows, with the burning of the sun, and the
buffets of the wind; and now for lack of some deal of that am I waxing white
and faint. And thou wouldst not have me falling sick on thine hands now,
wouldst thou?

Nay, surely, lady, said Sir Aymeris; this very day I will ride out with thee;
and two score or more of weaponed men shall ride with us for fear of mishaps.
Said Birdalone, knitting her brows: Nay, knight, I need not thy men-at-arms; I
would fain go free and alone. For hast thou not heard how that the Red Knight
is hurt and keepeth his bed? So what peril is there? Said Sir Aymeris: Yea,
lady; but the Red Knight is not the only foe, though he be the worst: but it
may well be that the story is but feigned, for the said enemy hath many wiles.
And look you, kind lady, it is most like that by now he hath heard how in my
poor castle is kept a jewel, a pearl of great price, that hath not its like in
the world, and will encompass the stealing of it if he may.

Laughed Birdalone, and said: But how if the said jewel hath a will, and legs
and feet thereto, and is ready to take the peril on her, and will wend
out-a-gates if she will? What wilt thou do then, lord? Then, said the
castellan, I shall fetch thee back, and, though it be a grief to me, shall have
thee borne back perforce if nought else may do. For so the oath sworn to my
lords compelleth me.

Again laughed Birdalone, and said: Hearken, whereto cometh all this kneeling
and hand-kissing! But bear in mind, fair lord, how once on a time thou wouldst
have me out-a-gates, would I, would I not, and now, will I, will I not, thou
wouldst keep me within; so have times changed, and mayhappen they may change
yet again. But tell me, am I mistress over my women to bid them what I will?
Certes, said he, and over all of us. Said she: If then I bade them, some two or
three, come with me into the meadows and woods a half day’s journey for our
disport, how then? For that once, said Sir Aymeris, I should bid them disobey
their lady. Said Birdalone: And how if they disobeyed thee, and obeyed me?
Quoth Sir Aymeris: If they bring thee back safe, they may chance to sing to the
twiggen fiddle-bow, that they may be warned from such folly; but if they come
back without thee, by All-hallows the wind of wrath shall sweep their heads off
them!

Birdalone flushed red at his word, and was silent a while; then she said,
making cheerful countenance again: Thou art a hard master, lord castellan; but
I must needs obey thee. Therefore I will take thy bidding, and ride abroad in
such wise that I shall scare the land with an army, since no otherwise may I
look on the summer land. But to-day I will not go, nor to-morrow belike; but
some day soon. And in good sooth I thank thee for thy heedful care of me, and
wish I were better worth it. Nay, nay, thou shalt not kneel to me, but I to
thee: for thou art verily the master.

Therewith she rose from beside him, and knelt down before him and took his hand
and kissed it, and went her ways, leaving him ravished with love of her. But
now she had no scorn of him, but deemed, as was true, that he was both valiant
and trusty and kind, and she thanked him in her heart as well as in words.

CHAPTER IV.

OF BIRDALONE’S FARING ABROAD.

Indeed Birdalone longed on any terms to be out-a-gates and to have some joy of
the summer; for now she began to see that she might have to abide some while
ere her friends should come to her in the Castle of the Quest; and she was
angry with herself that her longing was thus wasting her, and she rebuked
herself and said: Where is now that Birdalone who let but few days go by
without some joyance of the earth and its creatures? she who bore lightly the
toil of a thrall, and gibes and mocking and stripes? Surely this is grievous
folly, that I should be worsened since I have come to be the friend of gentle
ladies, and noble champions, and mighty warriors. Had it not been better to
have abided under the witch-wife’s hand? For not every day nor most days did
she torment me. But now for many days there has been pain and grief and
heart-sickness hour by hour; and every hour have I dreaded the coming of the
next hour, till I know not how to bear it.

So she strove with herself, and became of better heart, and set herself
strongly to the learning of the clerkly lore; she gathered her wits together,
and no longer looked for every day and every hour to bring about the return of
the Champions, nor blamed the day and the hour because they failed therein, and
in all wise she strove to get through the day unworn by vain longing.

Wherefore, on a day when three whole weeks were gone since the day of
departure, she was glad when the castellan came to her and said: Lady, these
two days I have had men out to spy the land, and their word goes that nought is
stirring which a score of us well-armed might have cause to fear; wherefore
to-morrow, if it be thy will, we shall bring thee out-a-gates, and so please
thee, shall be in no haste to come back, but may lie out in the wildwood one
night, and come back at our leisure on the morrow of to-morrow. How sayest thou
of thy pleasure herein?

She thanked him, and yeasaid it eagerly, and next morning they set forth; and
Birdalone had with her three of the women, and they had sumpter-beasts with
them, and tents for Birdalone and her maids.

So they rode by pleasant ways and fair meadows, and the weather was good, for
it was now the first days of July, and all was as lovely as might be; and for
that while Birdalone cast off all her cares, and was merry, and of many words
and sweet; and all the folk rejoiced thereat, for all loved her in the Castle
of the Quest, besides those one or two that loved her overmuch.

Rode they thus a twelve miles or more, and then they came, as their purpose
was, to the beginning of a woodland plenteous of venison, and they hunted here,
and Birdalone took her part therein, and all praised her woodcraft; albeit
because of her went a head or two free that had fallen else, whereas of the
carle hunters were some who deemed the body of her better worth looking on than
the quarry.

Howsoever, they slew of hind and roe and other wood-cattle what they would,
some deal for their supper in the wilderness, some to bear home to the castle.
But when night was nigh at hand they made stay in a fair wood-lawn about which
ran a clear stream, whereby they pitched the ladies’ tent; and Birdalone and
hers went down into the water and washed the weariness off them; and her ladies
wondered at the deftness of Birdalone’s swimming; for they bathed in a pool
somewhat great into which the stream widened, so that there was space enough
for her therein.

By then they were washen and clad goodly in raiment which they had brought on
the sumpters, the men had lighted fires and were cooking the venison, and anon
there was supper and banquet in the wildwood, with drinking of wine and
pleasant talk and the telling of tales and singing of minstrelsy; and so at
last, when night was well worn, and out in the open meadows the eastern sky was
waxing grey, then Birdalone and her ladies went to bed in their fair tents, and
the men-at-arms lay down on the greensward under the bare heaven.

CHAPTER V.

SIR AYMERIS SHOWETH BIRDALONE THE MOUNTAINS AFAR OFF.

When it was morning and they arose, the day was as fair as yesterday, and folk
were even as joyous as they had been then, all but Birdalone, and she was
silent and downcast, even when she came forth from the fresh water into the
sweetness of the midsummer wood. She had dreamed in the night that she was all
alone in the Castle of the Quest, and that her old mistress came to her from
out of the Sending Boat to fetch her away, and brought her aboard, and stripped
her of her rich garments and sat facing her, drawing ugsome grimaces at her;
and she thought she knew that her friends were all dead and gone, and she had
none to pity or defend her. Then somehow were they two, the witch and she,
amidmost of the Isle of Nothing, and the witch drew close anigh her, and was
just going to whisper into her ear something of measureless horror, when she
awoke; and the sun was bright outside the shaded whiteness of her tent; the
shadows of the leaves were dancing on the ground of it; the morning wind was
rustling the tree-boughs, and the ripple of the stream was tinkling hard by. At
first was Birdalone joyous that what she had awakened from was but a dream; but
presently she felt the burden of her longing, and she said to herself that when
they came back to the castle they should find tidings, and that she should know
either that her friends were indeed dead, or that they were come back again
alive and well. And then she thought within herself, suppose the three
Champions and their loves were dead and gone, how would she do with those that
were left her, as Sir Aymeris, and Leonard the priest, and her women? and her
soul turned with loathing from a life so empty as that would be; and yet she
blamed herself that she was so little friendly to these lesser friends, whom
forsooth she loved because of her love for the greater ones. So, as abovesaid,
she was troubled and silent amongst the joy of the others.

That saw Sir Aymeris the castellan; and when they had broken fast and were
getting to horse, he came to her and said: Lady, the day is yet young, and if
we fetch a compass by a way that I wot of we shall see places new to thee, and
mayhappen somewhat wonderful, and yet come home timely to the castle. Wilt
thou?

Birdalone was still somewhat distraught, but she knew not how to naysay him,
though at heart she would liefer have gone back to the castle by the shortest
way. So folk brought her her palfrey, and they rode their ways, the castellan
ever by her side. And by fair ways indeed they went, and so joyous was all
about them, that little by little Birdalone’s gladness came back to her, and
she made the most of it to be as merry of seeming as she might be.

Now they rode fair and softly by thicket and copse and glade of the woodland,
following up the stream aforesaid for the more part, till at last the trees
failed them suddenly, and they came forth on to a wide green plain, all
unbuilded, so far as their eyes could see, and beyond it the ridges of the
hills and blue mountains rising high beyond them.

When Birdalone’s eyes beheld this new thing, of a sudden all care left her, and
she dropped her rein, and smote her palms together, and cried out: Oh! but thou
art beautiful, O earth, thou art beautiful! Then she sat gazing on it, while
the greyhead turned and smiled on her, well pleased of her pleasure.

After a while she said: And might we go nigher? Yea, certes, said he, yet I
doubt if thou wilt like it the better, the nigher thou art. Ah! she said, but
if I were only amidst it, and a part of it, as once I was of the woodland!

So thitherward they rode over the unharvested mead, and saw hart and hind
thereon, and wild kine, and of smaller deer great plenty, but of tame beasts
none; and the hills were before them like a wall. But as they drew nigher, they
saw where the said wall of the hills was cloven by a valley narrow and
steep-sided, that went right athwart the lie of the hills; the said valley was
but little grassed, and the bare rocks were crow-black. When they had gone a
little further, they could see that the ground near the foot of the hills rose
in little knolls and ridges, but these were lower and fewer about the entry
into that valley. Also presently they came upon a stream which ran out of the
said valley, and Sir Aymeris said that this was the water whereby they had lain
last night; albeit here it was little indeed.

Now when they had ridden some five miles over the plain, they came amongst
those knolls at the mouth of the valley, and Sir Aymeris led Birdalone up to
the top of one of the highest of them, and thence they could look into that
dale and see how it winded away up toward the mountains, like to a dismal
street; for not only was it but little grassed, but withal there was neither
tree nor bush therein. Moreover, scattered all about the bottom of the dale
were great stones, which looked as if they had once been set in some kind of
order; and that the more whereas they were not black like the rocks of the
dale-side, but pale grey of hue, so that they looked even as huge sheep of the
giants feeding down the dale.

Then spake Birdalone: Verily, sir knight, thou saidst but sooth that I should
see things new and strange. But shall we go a little way into this valley
to-day? Nay, lady, said Sir Aymeris, nor to-morrow, nor any day uncompelled;
neither shall we go nigher unto it than now we be. Wherefore not? said
Birdalone, for meseemeth it is as the gate of the mountains; and fain were I in
the mountains.

Lady, said the castellan, overmuch perilous it were to ride the valley, which,
as thou sayest, is the very gate of the mountains. For the said dale, which
hight the Black Valley of the Greywethers, hath a bad name for the haunting of
unmanlike wights, against which even our men-at-arms might make no defence. And
if any might escape them, and win through the gates and up into the mountains,
I wot not if suchlike devils and things unkent be there in the mountain-land,
but of a sooth there be fierce and wild men, like enough to devils, who know no
peace, and slay whatsoever cometh unto them, but if they themselves be slain of
them.

Well, said Birdalone, then to-day, at least, we go not into the dale; but
knowest thou any tales of these wild places? Many have I heard, said he, but I
am an ill minstrel and should spoil them in the telling. Ask them of Sir
Leonard our priest, he knoweth of them better than others, and hath a tongue
duly shapen for telling them.

Birdalone answered nought thereto; she but turned her horse’s head and rode
down the knoll; and so they came unto their company, and all went their ways
toward the Castle of the Quest.

Nought befell them on their way home; but the nigher they came to the castle
the more pensive waxed Birdalone, and, though she hid it, when they were come
to the gate she scarce had her wit; for it was as if she thought to have one
rushing out and crying: Tidings, tidings! they are come.

Nowise it so befell; they were no more come than was the Day of Doom. And a
little after they were within gates; it was night, and Birdalone crept wearily
up to her chamber, and gat to bed, and so tired was she that she fell asleep at
once and dreamed not.

CHAPTER VI.

BIRDALONE HEARETH TELL TALES OF THE BLACK VALLEY OF THE GREYWETHERS.

On the morrow was Birdalone heavier of heart than ever yet, and wearier for
tidings; and she wondered how she could have been so joyous that day in the
wildwood. Yet she thought much of the Valley of the Greywethers, and that
solaced her somewhat after a while, so sore she longed to go thither; and, as
’tis said, one nail knocks out the other. So that morning, when she had had her
lesson of priest Leonard, she spake thereof to him, and told him what Sir
Aymeris had said concerning his knowledge thereof; and she asked him what he
knew.

I have been there, said he. She started at that word and said: Did aught of
evil befall thee?

Nay, said he, but a great fear and dread hung about me; and ’tis said that they
try their luck overmuch who go thither twice.

Birdalone said: Tell me now of the tales that be told of that valley. Quoth
Leonard: They be many; but the main of them is this: that those Greywethers be
giants of yore agone, or landwights, carles, and queans, who have been turned
into stone by I wot not what deed; but that whiles they come alive again, and
can walk and talk as erst they did; and that if any man may be so bold as to
abide the time of their awakening, and in the first moment of their change may
frame words that crave the fulfilment of his desire, and if therewith he be
both wise and constant, then shall he have his desire fulfilled of these
wights, and bear his life back again from out the dale. And thus must he speak
and no otherwise: O Earth, thou and thy first children, I crave of you such and
such a thing, whatsoever it may be. And if he speak more than this, then is he
undone. He shall answer no question of them; and if they threaten him he shall
not pray them mercy, nor quail before their uplifted weapons; nor, to be short,
shall he heed them more than if they still were stones unchanged. Moreover,
when he hath said his say, then shall these wights throng about him and offer
him gold and gems, and all the wealth of the earth; and if that be not enough,
they shall bring him the goodliest of women, with nought lacking in her shape,
but lacking all raiment, so that he shall see her as she is verily shapen. But
whoso shall take any one of all these gifts is lost for ever, and shall become
one of that Stony People; and whoso naysayeth them all until the cock crow, and
abideth steady by his one craving, shall win fulfilment thereof, and, as some
say, all those gifts aforesaid; for that the Stony People may not abide the day
to take them back again.

He was silent therewith, and nought spake Birdalone, but looked down on the
ground, and longing encompassed her soul. Then the priest spake again: This
were a fair adventure, lady, for a hapless one, but for the happy it were a
fool’s errand. She answered not, and they parted for that time.

But the next week, there being yet no tidings come to hand, Birdalone prayed
the castellan to take her out-a-gates again, that she might once more behold
the mountains, and the gates thereof; and he yeasaid her asking, and went with
her, well accompanied, as before; but this time, by Birdalone’s will, they rode
straight to the plain aforesaid, and again she looked into that dale of the
Greywethers from the knoll. Somewhat belated they were, so that they might not
get back to the castle before dusk, wherefore again they lay out in the
wildwood, but there lacked somewhat of the triumph and joyance which they had
had that other day. They came back to the castle on the morrow somewhat after
noon, and found no news there; nor, to say sooth, did Birdalone look for any;
and her heart was heavy.

CHAPTER VII.

BIRDALONE BEGUILETH THE PRIEST TO HELP HER TO OUTGOING.

Now had the time so worn that the season was in the first days of August, and
weariness and heartsickness increased on Birdalone again, and she began to look
pined and pale. Yet when she spake of the tarrying of the Champions both to the
castellan and Sir Leonard the priest (who was the wiser man of the two), each
said the same thing, to wit, that it was no marvel if they were not yet come,
seeing whatlike the adventure was; and neither of those two seemed in anywise
to have lost hope.

Thrice in these last days did Birdalone go out-a-gates with Sir Aymeris and his
company; and the last of the three times the journey was to the knoll that
looked into the Black Valley; but now was Birdalone’s pleasure of the sight of
it afar off marred by her longing to be amidst thereof; yet she did not show
that she was irked by the refraining of her desire to enter therein, and they
turned, and came home safely to the castle.

On the morrow she sat with Sir Leonard the priest over the writing lesson, and
she let it be long, and oft he touched her hand, so that the sweetness of
unfulfilled desire went deep to his heart.

At last Birdalone looked up and said: Friend, I would ask thee if thou seest
any peril in my entering the Black Valley of the Greywethers by daylight if I
leave it by daylight? Alone? quoth he. Yea, she said, alone. He pondered a
little, and then said: Sooth to say I deem the peril little in the valley
itself, if thou be not overcome by terror there. Yea, for my part I am not all
so sure that thou shalt see the wonder of the Stony Folk coming alive; for ’tis
not said that they quicken save on certain nights, and chiefly on Midsummer
Night; unless it be that the trier of the adventure is some one fated above
others thereto; as forsooth thou mayst be. And as for peril of evil men, there
are few who be like to be as venturesome as thou or I. They durst not enter
that black street, save sore need compel them. But forsooth, going thither, and
coming back again, some peril there may be therein. And yet for weeks past
there has been no word of any unpeace; and the Red Knight it is said for
certain is not riding.

Birdalone was silent a while; then she said: Fair and kind friend, I am eating
my heart out in longing for the coming back of my friends, and it is like, that
unless I take to some remedy, I shall fall sick thereby, and then when they
come back there shall be in me but sorry cheer for them. Now the remedy I know,
and it is that I betake me alone to this adventure of the Black Valley; for
meseemeth that I shall gain health and strength by my going thither. Wherefore,
to be short, if thou wilt help me, I will go to-morrow. What sayest thou, wilt
thou help me?

He turned very red and spake: Lady, why shouldest thou go, as thy name is,
birdalone? Thou hast called me just now thy kind friend, so kind as it was of
thee; now therefore why should not thy friend go with thee?

Kindly indeed she smiled on him, but shook her head: I call thee trusty and
dear friend again, said she; but what I would do I must do myself. Moreover to
what end shouldst thou go? If I fall in with ghosts, a score of men would help
me nought; and if I happen on weaponed men who would do me scathe, of what
avail were one man against them? And look thou, Sir Leonard, there is this
avail in thine abiding behind; if I come not back in two days’ space, or three
at the most, thou wilt wot that I have fared amiss, and then mayst thou let it
be known whither I went, and men will seek me and deliver me maybe.

Therewith she stayed her words suddenly, and turned very pale, and laid her
hand on her bosom, and said faintly: But O my heart, my heart! If they should
come while I am away! And she seemed like to swoon.

Leonard was afraid thereat, and knew not what to do; but presently the colour
came into her face again, and in a little while she smiled, and said: Seest
thou not, friend, how weak I am gotten to be, and that I must now beyond doubt
have the remedy? Wilt thou not help me do it?

Yea verily, said he; but in what wise wilt thou have it? He spake as a man
distraught and redeless; but she smiled on him pleasantly, and said: Now by
this time shouldst thou have devised what was to do, and spared me the pain
thereof. Two things I need of thee: the first and most, to be put out of the
castle privily betimes in the morning when nought is stirring; the second, to
have my palfrey awaiting me somewhat anigh the gate, so that I may not have to
go afoot: for I am become soft and feeble with all this house-life.

Leonard seemed to wake up with that word, and said: I have the key of the
priest’s door of the chapel, and the postern beyond it; that shall be thine
out-gate, lady. I will come and scratch at thy chamber-door much betimes, and I
will see to it that thy palfrey is bestowed in the bower wherein thou didst
rest the first night thou camest amongst us. She said: I trust thee, friend.
And she thanked him sweetly, and then rose up and fell to pacing the hall up
and down. Leonard hung about watching her a while, she nought forbidding him,
for her thoughts were elsewhere, and she had forgotten him; and at last he went
his ways to set about doing what she would.

CHAPTER VIII.

BIRDALONE FARES ON HER ADVENTURE.

Dawn was but just beginning when Birdalone awoke, and though she had not heard
Leonard at the door, she sprang out of bed and clad herself, doing on her black
gown; and she had a scrip with some bread therein, and a sharp knife at her
girdle. Then even as she had done she heard the priest’s nail on the door, and
she turned thereto; but as she went, her eye caught her bow and quiver of
arrows where they hung on the wall, so she took the bow in her hand and slung
the quiver over her shoulder ere she opened the door and found Leonard standing
there. Neither of them spake aught, but they stole downstairs, and so to the
chapel and out by the priest’s door and the postern in the wall-nook, and were
presently out in the fresh morning air; and Birdalone was joyous and lightfoot,
and scarce felt the earth beneath her soles for pleasure of her hope, whereas
she deemed she had a thing to crave of the Stony Folk, if they should come
alive before her. Fain were she, if she might withal, to give a joy to some
other; so that when they were gone but a little way from the castle she reached
out her hand to Leonard and took his, and said: Hand in hand we walked when
first I went this way, and I deemed thee kind and friendly then, and even so
hast thou been sithence.

He was dumbfoundered at first for joy of the touch of her hand and the
sweetness of her words; but presently he spake to her confused and stammering,
and praised her that she had thought to take her bow and arrows; for, said he,
that they might stand her in stead for defence or for getting of food, or for
an excuse for wending the woods. She nodded yeasay unto him, and bade him again
to bide three days for her, and if she came not again in that time, to make a
clean breast of it to Sir Aymeris.

Yea, said the priest, and then . . . Why, what then? He can but shove me out by
the shoulders, and then I can seek to the little house of canons that is at
Gate Cross on the road to Greenford.

Ah, my friend! said Birdalone, how we women think of nothing at all but
ourselves! And wilt thou be thrust out of thine home for helping me herein? Why
did I not look to my palfrey myself? And the keys I might have stolen from
thee, always with thy good will. But now I see that I have done thee a hurt.

Said Sir Leonard: Lady, a priest hath a home wheresoever is an house of
religion. There is no harm done, save Sir Aymeris bethink him of hanging me
over the battlements; as I doubt he will not with a priest. Moreover, I pray
thee believe, that wert thou gone from the castle, house and home were none for
me there. And he looked upon her piteously, as if he were beseeching.

But she knew not what to say, and hung her head adown; and presently they were
come to the bower in the copse, which this time was a stable for Birdalone’s
palfrey instead of a chamber for herself. So Leonard went in and fetched out
the comely beast; and Birdalone stood with him just in the cover of the copse
waiting to put her foot in the stirrup; but she might not but abide to look
upon the priest, who stood there as if he were striving with his words.

So she said: Now is need of haste to be gone. Yet one word, my friend: Is there
aught betwixt us wherein I have done thee wrong? If so it be, I pray thee to
say out what it is; for it may be (though I think it not) thou shalt not see me
again from henceforth.

He caught his breath, as if he had much ado to refrain the sobbing; but he
mastered it, and said: Lady and dear friend, if I see thee not again, I heed
not what shall befall me. Thou hast done me no wrong. There is this only
betwixt us, that I love thee, and thou lovest not me.

She looked on him sweetly and pitifully, and said: I may not choose but
understand thy word, to wit, that thy love for me is the desire of a man toward
a woman; and that is unhappy; for I love thee indeed, but not as a woman loveth
a man. It is best to say thus much to thee downright. But I feel in my heart
that when I have said it, it is as much as to say that I cannot help thee, and
therefore am I sorry indeed.

He stood before her abashed, but he said at last: Now art thou so sweet, and so
kind, and so true, that I must perforce love thee yet more; and this maketh me
bold to say that thou mayst help me a little, or so meseemeth. How so? said
Birdalone. Quoth he: If thou wouldst suffer me to kiss thy face this once. She
shook her head, and spake: How may it avail thee, when it is for once, and once
only, as forsooth it must be? Yet it is thy choice, not mine, and I will not
naysay thee.

And therewith she put up her face to him, and he kissed her cheek without
touching her otherwise, and then he kissed her mouth; and she knew that he was
both timorous and sad, and she was ashamed to look on him, or to speak to him
any more, lest she should behold him ashamed; so she but said: Farewell,
friend, till to-morrow at least.

And therewith her foot was in the stirrup, and anon she sat in the saddle, and
her palfrey was ambling briskly on the way she would.

CHAPTER IX.

BIRDALONE COMES TO THE BLACK VALLEY.

Little is to tell of Birdalone’s journey unto the knoll above the Black Valley
of the Greywethers. It was about noon when she came there, and had met but few
folk on the way, and those few were husbandmen, or carlines, or maidens wending
afield betimes not far from the Castle of the Quest.

Now she sat on her horse and looked down into the dale and its stony people
once more, and saw nought stirring save three ravens who, not far off, were
flapping about from stone to stone of the Greywethers, and croaking loud to
each other as if some tidings were toward. She watched their play for a little,
and then gat off her horse, and sat down on the grass of the knoll, and drew
forth her victual, and ate and drank; for she deemed it happier to eat and
drink there than in the very jaws of the Black Valley.

Soon was her dinner done, and then she got to her saddle again, and rode slowly
down to the little stream, and along it toward the valley and the gates of the
mountains, which she had been fain to pass through; but now, as had happed with
her that morning when she was boun for the Sending Boat, somewhat she hung back
from the adventure, and when she lacked but some five score yards from the very
dale itself, she lighted down again, and let her way-beast bite the grass,
while she sat down and watched the rippling water.

In a while she drew off shoon and hosen, and stood in the shallow ripple, and
bathed her hands and face withal, and stooped up-stream and drank from the
hollow of her hands, and so stepped ashore and was waxen hardier; then she
strung her bow and looked to the shafts in her quiver, and did on her
foot-gear, and mounted once more, and so rode a brisk amble right on into the
dale, and was soon come amongst the Greywethers; and she saw that they were a
many, and that all the bottom of the dale was besprinkled with them on either
side of the stream, and some stood in the very stream itself, the ground
whereof was black even as the rest of the valley, although the water ran over
it as clear as glass.

As for the dale, now she was fairly within it, she could see but a little way
up it, for it winded much, and at first away from her left hand, and the sides
of it went up in somewhat steep screes on either side, which were topped with
mere upright staves and burgs of black rock; and these were specially big and
outthrusting on the right hand of her; and but a furlong ahead of where she
was, one of these burgs thrust out past the scree and came down sheer into the
dale, and straitened it so much that there was but little way save by the
stream itself, which ran swift indeed, but not deep, even there where it was
straitened by the sheer rocks.

But up the dale would she go, whatever was before her; and now she told herself
her very purpose, as forsooth she scarce had heretofore; to wit, that she would
abide in the dale the night over and see what should betide, and if those
wights should chance to come alive, then she looked to have valiance enough to
face them and crave the fulfilment of her desire.

So she took the water and rode the stream till she was past the said sheer
rock, and then the valley widened again, and presently was wider than it was in
the beginning; and here again were the Greywethers grown many more and closer
together, and, as she deemed, were set in rings round about one very big one,
which, forsooth, was somewhat in the shape of a man sitting down with his hands
laid on his knees.

Birdalone reined up for a minute, and looked about her, and then went up on to
the grass, and rode straight to the said big stone, and there lighted down from
off her horse again, and stood by the stone and pondered. Presently she deemed
that she saw something dark moving just beyond the stone, but if it were so, it
was gone in a twinkling; nevertheless she stood affrighted, and stared before
her long, and saw no more, but yet for a while durst not move hand nor foot.

At last her courage came again, and she thought: Yet how if this great
chieftain be inwardly stirring and will come awake? Shall I say the word now,
lest hereafter it be of no avail? Therewith she stretched out her right hand
and laid it on the stone, and spake aloud: O Earth, thou and thy first
children, I crave of you that he may come back now at once and loving me. And
her voice sounded strange and unkent to her in that solitude, and she rued it
that she had spoken.

CHAPTER X.

HOW BIRDALONE FELL IN WITH A MAN IN THE BLACK VALLEY OF THE GREYWETHERS.

Came new tidings therewithal; for the moment after she had spoken, a tall man
drew out from behind the big stone, and stood before her; and at first it was
in her mind that this was the very chieftain come alive for her, and for terror
she was like to swoon this time; but he spake nought a while, but looked on her
eagerly and curiously.

She came to herself presently, so much that she could see him clearly, and was
now growing more shamefast than afraid, when she saw beyond doubt that the man
was of the sons of Adam; but what with her shame that was now, and her fear
that had been, she yet had no might to move, but stood there pale and trembling
like a leaf, and might scarce keep her feet.

Now the new-comer bowed before her smiling, and said: I ask thy pardon, fair
damsel (or indeed I should say fairest damsel), that I have scared thee. But
sooth to say I beheld thee coming riding, and even from a little aloof I could
see that nought which might befall could ever make it up to me for not seeing
thee close at hand and hearing thee speak. Wherefore I hid myself behind the
king’s stone here; and no harm is done thereby I trow; for now I see that the
colour is coming into thy cheeks again, and thy fear is gone. And as for me,
thou hast not fled away from me, as thou wouldst have done had I not hidden and
come on thee suddenly; and then thou being horsed and I unhorsed, thou wouldst
have escaped me, whereas now thou art within reach of my hand. Then he smiled,
and said: Furthermore, thou hast told so little of thy secret to this stony
king here, that I am little the wiser for thy word, and thou the little more
betrayed. Only this I will say, that if He loveth thee not, He is more of a
fool than I be.

He reached out his hand to hers, but she drew it aback, and grew yet more
ashamed, and could find no word for him. His voice was soft and full, and he
spake deftly, but she was not content with it for its kindness, as she had been
with all the other men whom she had met since she left the House under the
Wood, and she durst not trust her hand to him.

As for his aspect, she saw that he was tall and well-knit, and goodly of
fashion; dark-haired, with long hazel eyes, smooth-cheeked and bright-skinned;
his nose long, and a little bent over at the end, and coming down close to his
lips, which were full and red; his face was hairless save for a little
lip-beard. He was so clad, that he had no helm on his head, but a little hat
with a broad gold piece in the front thereof; he was girt to a long sword, and
had an anlace also in his belt, and Birdalone saw the rings of a fine hauberk
at his collar and knees; otherwise he was not armed. Over his hauberk he wore a
black surcoat, without device of any kind, and his foot and leg gear were of
the same hue; wherefore may we call him the Black Knight. Sooth to say, for all
his soft speech, she feared him and rued the meeting of him.

Now he spake to her again: I see that thou art wroth with me, lady; but
mayhappen it is not so ill that I have happened on thee; for this dale hath a
bad name for more than one thing, and is scarce meet for damsels to wander in.
But now since thou hast a weaponed man with thee, and thou, by All-hallows! not
utterly unarmed, thou mayst well go up the valley and see something more
thereof. So come now, mount thine horse again, and I will lead him for thee.

Now Birdalone found speech and said: Knight, for such thou seemest to me, I
deem now that I have no need to fare further in this dale, but I will get me
into the saddle and turn my horse’s head outward again, giving thee good day
first and thanking thee for thy courtesy. And therewith she turned to get to
her palfrey, but sore trembling the while; but he followed her and said, with
brow somewhat knitted: Nay, lady, I have left my horse somewhat further up, and
I must go back to fetch him, that we may wend out of the dale together. For I
will not suffer thee to flee from me and fall into the hands of evil wights, be
they ghosts or living men, and that the less since I have heard the speech in
thy mouth, as of honey and cream and roses. Therefore if thou go out of the
dale, I shall go with thee afoot, leading thine horse. And look to it if it be
courteous to unhorse a knight, who is ready to be thy servant. Moreover, since
thou hast come to this dale of wonder, and mayst leave it safely, pity it were
that thou shouldst see nought thereof, for strange is it forsooth, and belike
thou shalt never seek thither again. Wherefore I crave of thee, once more, to
mount thine horse and let me lead thee up the dale.

He spake these last words rather as one giving a command than making a prayer,
and Birdalone feared him now sorely. Forsooth she had her bended bow in hand;
but let alone that the knight was over-near to her that she might get a shaft
out of her quiver and nock it, ere he should run in on her, and let alone also
that he was byrnied, she scarce deemed that it behoved her to slay or wound the
man because she would be quit of him. Wherefore angrily, and with a flushed
face, she answered him: So shall it be then, Sir Knight; or rather so must it
be, since thou compellest me.

He laughed and said: Nay, now thou art angry. I compel thee not, I but say that
it will not do for thee to compel me to leave thee. Go which way thou wilt, up
the dale, or down it and out of it; it is all one unto me, so long as I am with
thee. Forsooth, damsel, I have said harder words to ladies who have done my
pleasure and not deemed themselves compelled.

She paled but answered nought; then she mounted her palfrey, and the knight
went to her bridle-rein without more words, and so led her on up the valley by
the easiest way amongst the Greywethers.

CHAPTER XI.

BIRDALONE IS LED UP THE BLACK VALLEY.

As they went, the knight fell a-talking to Birdalone, and that without any of
the covert jeering which he had used erewhile; and he showed her places in the
dale, as caverns under the burgs, and little eyots in the stream, and certain
stones amongst the Greywethers whereof stories ran; and how this and the other
one had fared in dealings with the land-wights, and how one had perished, and
another had been made happy, and so forth. Withal he told of the mountain-folk,
and in especial how they of the plains, when he was scarce more than a boy, had
met them in battle in that same dale, and how fierce the fight was; whereas the
mountain-men were fighting for a life of desires accomplished, which hitherto
had been but a dream unto them; and the men of the plain fought for dear life
itself, and for all that made it aught save death in life. Wherefore up and
down the dale they fought, at first in ordered ranks and then in knots, and
lastly sword to sword and man to man, till there was no foot of grass or black
sand there which had not its shower of blood; and the stream was choked with
the dead, and ran red out of the dale; till at last well-nigh all the host of
the mountain-men was fallen, and scarce less of the folk of the plains, but
these men held the field and had the victory.

All this he told her deftly and well, and though he said not so right out, yet
let her wot that, youth as he was, he was of the battle; and his voice was
clear and good, and Birdalone’s wrath ran off her, and she hearkened his tale,
and even asked him a question here and there; and so courteous was this Black
Knight now become, that Birdalone began to think that she had fallen short of
courtesy to him, because of her fear and the weariness of the waiting which so
oppressed her; and that shamed and irked her, for she would fain be of all
courtesy. Wherefore now she deemed that perchance she had erred in deeming him
an evil man; and she looked on him from time to time, and deemed him goodly of
fashion; she thought his eyes were deep, and his face sober and fair of aspect,
but that his nose turned down at the end, and was over thin at the bridge, and
moreover his lips looked over-sweet and licorous.

Now when the knight was silent of his tales, Birdalone fell to asking him
questions sweetly concerning this Stony People which was all about them; and he
told her all he knew, soberly enough at first, yet indeed ended by mocking them
somewhat, but mocked not at her any more. At last he said: Fair lady, that thou
hast not come here all for nought I partly know by those words which I heard
come from thy mouth at the King’s Stone; wherefore I marvelled indeed when I
heard thee say that thou wouldst go straight out of the dale; for I had deemed
thee desirous of trying the adventure of waking this Stony People a-night-tide.
Forsooth was this thy mind when thou soughtest hither to the dale?

She reddened at his word, and yeasaid him shortly. Then said he: Is it not thy
mind still? Sir, said she, as now I have got to fear it. Yea? and that is
strange, said he, for thou wouldst have waked the dale alone; and now thou art
no longer alone, but hast me to watch and ward thy waking, thou art more
afeard.

She looked on his face steadily, to wot if there were no half-hidden smile
therein; but herseemed that he spake in all soberness; and she had nought to
say to him save this: Sir, I am now become afraid of the waking. And he said no
more thereof.

Now they went thus, and Birdalone not without pleasure, since her fear of the
knight was minished, some three hours up the dale, and still were the
Greywethers everywhere about them, so that there were well-nigh as many hours
as miles in their wending.

At last they seemed to be drawing nigh to the head of the dale, and the burgs
and the rocks were before them all round it as a wall, though yet about a mile
aloof at the further end; and this end it was wider than elsewhere.

Came they then to a level space of greensward clear of the grey stones, which
were drawn all around it in ordered rings, so that it was as some doom-ring of
an ancient people; and within the said space Birdalone beheld a great black
horse tethered and cropping the grass. The knight led her into the ring, and
said: Now are we come home for the present, my lady, and if it please thee to
light down we shall presently eat and drink, and sithence talk a little. And he
drew nigh to help her off her horse, but she suffered him not, and lighted down
of herself; but if she suffered not his hand, his eyes she must needs suffer,
as he gazed greedily on the trimness of her feet and legs in her sliding from
her horse.

Howsoever, he took her hand, and led her to a little mound on the other side of
the ring, and bade her sit down there, and so did she, and from under the
nighest of the stones he drew forth a pair of saddle-bags, and took victual and
wine thence, and they ate and drank together like old companions. And now
Birdalone told herself that the knight was frank and friendly; yet forsooth she
wotted that her heart scarce trowed what it feigned, and that she yet feared
him.

CHAPTER XII.

HOW THOSE TWAIN GET THEM FROM OUT OF THE BLACK VALLEY OF THE GREYWETHERS.

When they had dined, and had sat a while talking, the knight said: I will ask
thee once more wherefore thou must needs depart from this dale leaving the
Greywethers unwaked? Yet this must I tell thee first, that this ring at the
dale’s end is the only one due place where the Greywethers can be rightly
waked, and that there be few who wot this. Wilt thou not tell me then what is
in thy mind?

Birdalone gazed down on the ground a while; then she lifted up her head and
looked on the Black Knight, and said: Sir Knight, we have been brought so close
together to-day, and as meseemeth I am so wholly in thy power, that I will tell
thee the very truth as it is. My mind it was to wake the dale here to-night,
and take what might befall me. And well indeed might I fear the adventure,
which few, meseemeth, would not fear. But so strong is my longing for that
which I would crave of these wights, that it overmastered my fear, and my
purpose held when I entered the dale. Then I met thee; and here again is the
truth, take it how thou wilt, that presently I feared thee, and yet I fear
thee; for I have noted thee closely all this while, and have seen of thee, that
thou art over heedful of my poor body, and wouldst have it for thine own if
thou mightest. And there is this in thee also, as I deem, though thou thyself
mayst not know it, that thou wouldst have thy pleasure of me whether it
pleasure me or grieve me; and this thy pleasure must I needs gainsay; for
though thou mayest hereafter become my friend, yet are there other friends of
mine, who be such, that my grief would mar any pleasure they might have. Hast
thou heard and understood?

She looked on his face steadily as she spake, and saw that it flushed, and
darkened, and scowled, and that his hands were clenched, and his teeth set hard
together. And again she spake: Sir, thou shalt know that beside these
shot-weapons, I have a thing here in my girdle that may serve either against
thee or against me, if need drive me thereto; wherefore I will pray thee to
forbear. Forsooth, thou shalt presently happen on other women, who shall be
better unto thee than I can be.

By then Birdalone had spoken the word, the knight’s face had cleared, and he
laughed aloud and said: As to thy last words, therein at least thou liest, my
lady. But for the rest, I see that it must all be as thou willest. Yea, if such
be thy will, we shall presently to horse and ride down the dale again, and at
the end thereof I shall leave thee to go home alone at thy will. She said: For
that I can thee thanks with all my heart. But why hast thou not asked me of
whence I am, and whither I would go home?

Again he laughed and said: Because I know already. I have had more than two or
three tales from them who have seen thee, or spoken unto others who have seen
thee, how the gay Champions of the Castle of the Quest had fished up a wondrous
pearl of price from out of the Great Water; and when I set eyes on thy beauty,
I knew that the said pearl could be nowhere else than under mine eyes.

Let that pass, she said, and blushed not; but now tell me the truth as I have
told thee, why thou art so instant with me to wake the Greywethers to-night? He
kept silence a while, and, as she looked on him, she thought she saw confusion
in his face; but at last he said: Thou wert wrong in saying that I heeded not
thy pleasure, and solace, and welfare. Meseemed, and yet doth, that it might be
to thine avail to wake the Greywethers to-night; and never again mayst thou
have a chance of the waking, as erst I said. I say I wish thee to have
fulfilment of thy craving. Nor hast thou aught to fear of them, seeing that it
is but dastards and fools that they undo.

He broke off his speech, and Birdalone yet looked on him, and after a little he
said: Thou drawest the truth out of me; for moreover I would have thee with me
longer than thou wouldst be if we but rode together down the water and out of
the dale, and thou to fare away alone.

Birdalone spake in a while, and that while he gazed upon her eagerly; she said:
I shall now tell thee that I shall abide the adventure of the waking to-night,
whatever befall. And I, said he, will so do that thou mayst fear me the less;
for I will unarm me when the night cometh, and thou thyself shalt keep mine
hauberk and sword and anlace.

She said: It is well; I will take that, lest desire overmaster thee.

They spake no more of it at that time, and it was now five hours after noon.
Birdalone arose, for she found it hard to sit still and abide nightfall: she
went without the two first rings of the Greywethers, which were set in more
open order beyond that, and she looked all about her, to the black rocks on
either side, and to the great black wall at the dale’s ending, and the blue
mountains aloof beyond it; then down toward the plain of the dale came her
eyes, and she looked through the tangle of the grey stones. Now she seemed to
be looking more intently upon some one thing; with that she called to her the
Black Knight, who was hanging about watching her, and she said to him: Fair
sir, art thou clear-seeing and far-seeing? I am not thought to be purblind,
quoth he. Then Birdalone reached out her hand and pointed and said: Canst thou
see aught which thou didst not look to see, there, up the dale as I point? Said
he: All too clear I see the hand and the wrist of thee, and that blinds me to
aught else. I pray thee fool not, she said, but look heedfully, and thou mayst
see what I see, and then tell me what it means. Though forsooth I am exceeding
in far sight.

He looked under the sharp of his hand heedfully, then he turned unto her and
said: By All-hallows! there is in thee every excellency! Thou art right; I see
a bay horse up there feeding on the bites of grass amongst the Greywethers.
Look again! she said; what else canst thou see? Is there aught anigh to the bay
horse which is like to the gleam and glitter of metal. Christ! said he, once
more thou art right. There be weaponed men in the dale. Tarry not, I beseech
thee, but get to horse forthright, and I will do no less.

There goeth the waking of the dale for this time, said Birdalone, laughing. But
art thou not in haste, fair sir? may not these be friends?

The knight laid his hand upon her shoulder, and thrust her on toward her
palfrey, and spake fiercely, but not loud: Thee I pray not to fool now! There
is not a minute to spare. If thou deemest me evil, as I think thou dost, there
are worser than I, I tell thee, there are worser. But we will talk of it when
we be in the saddle, and clear of this accursed dale.

Birdalone knew not what to do save obey him, so she lightly gat into her
saddle, and followed him, for he was mounted in a twinkling, and riding on. He
led out of the ring, and fell to threading the maze of the Greywethers, keeping
ever toward the steep side of the dale, which was on that hand that looked
toward the Castle of the Quest, that is to say, the eastern bent. Birdalone
wondered at this leading, and when she was come up with the knight she spake to
him breathlessly, and said: But, fair sir, why wend we not down the dale? He
answered: First, lady, because we must hide us from them straightway; and next
because they be more than we, many more, and their horses be fresh, while thine
at least is somewhat spent; and if they were to spur down the dale in chase,
they would soon be upon us; for think not that I would escape and leave thee
behind.

Said Birdalone: But thou knowest them, then, what they be? since thou wottest
of their numbers and their riding. Hearken now! Upon thy soul and thy
salvation, be they more friends unto thee than unto me?

He said, as be rode on a little slower than erst: Upon my soul and my salvation
I swear it, that the men yonder be of the worst unfriends to thee that may be
in the world. And now, lady, I promise thee that I will unravel thee the
riddle, and tell thee the whole truth of these haps, whatsoever may come of my
words, when we be in a safer place than this; and meantime I beseech thee to
trust in me thus far, as to believe that I am leading thee out of the very
worst peril that might befall thee. Nay, thou must needs trust me; for I tell
thee, that though I now love thee better than all the world and all that is in
it, I would slay thee here in this dale rather than suffer thee to fall into
the hands of these men.

Birdalone heard him with a sick heart; but such passion went with his words
that she believed what he said; and she spake softly: Sir, I will trust thee
thus far; but I beseech thee to have pity upon a poor maiden who hath had but
little pity shown unto her until these latter days; and then: O woe’s me, to
have fallen out of the kindness and love once more!

The Black Knight spake to her in a little while, and said: What pity I can to
thee, that I will. Once more I tell thee, that if thou but knew it thou wouldst
thank me indeed for what I have done for thee in this hour; and henceforth I
will do and forbear with thee to the uttermost that love will suffer me. But lo
thou! here are we safe for this present; but we must nowise tarry.

Birdalone looked and saw that they were come to the wall of the dale, and that
there it went down sheer to the plain thereof, and that before them was a cleft
that narrowed speedily, and over which the rocks well-nigh met, so that it was
indeed almost a cave. They rode into it straightway, and when that they had
gone but a little, and because it had winded somewhat, they could but see the
main valley as a star of light behind them, then it narrowed no more, but was
as a dismal street of the straitest, whiles lighter and whiles darker,
according as the rocks roofed it in overhead or drew away from it. Long they
rode, and whiles came trickles of water from out the rocks on one hand or the
other; and now and again they met a stream which covered all the ground of the
pass from side to side for the depth of a foot or more. Great rocks also were
strewn over their path every here and there, so that whiles must they needs
dismount and toil afoot over the rugged stones; and in most places the way was
toilsome and difficult. The knight spake little to Birdalone, save to tell her
of the way, and warn her where it was perilous; and she, for her part, was
silent, partly for fear of the strange man, or, it might be, even for hatred of
him, who had thus brought her into such sore trouble, and partly for grief.
For, with all torment of sorrow, she kept turning over and over in her mind
whether her friends had yet come home to the Castle of the Quest, and whether
they would go seek her to deliver her. And such shame took hold of her when she
thought of their grief and confusion of soul when they should come home and
find her gone, that she set her mind to asking if it had not been better had
she never met them. Yet in good sooth her mind would not shape the thought,
howsoever she bade it.

CHAPTER XIII.

NOW THEY REST FOR THE NIGHT IN THE STRAIT PASS.

At last, when they had been going a long while, it might be some six hours, and
it had long been night in the world without, but moon-lit, and they had rested
but seldom, and then but for short whiles, the knight drew rein and spake to
Birdalone, and asked her was she not weary. O yea, she said; I was at point to
pray thee suffer me to get off and lie down on the bare rock. To say sooth, I
am now too weary to think of any peril, or what thou art, or whither we be
going. He said: By my deeming we be now half through this mountain highway, and
belike there is little peril in our resting; for I think not that any one of
them knoweth of this pass, or would dare it if he did; and they doubtless came
into the dale by the upper pass, which is strait enough, but light and open.

As he spoke, Birdalone bowed forward on her horse’s neck, and would have fallen
but that he stayed her. Then he lifted her off her horse, and laid her down in
the seemliest place he might find; and the pass there was much widened, and
such light as there was in the outer world came down freely into it, though it
were but of the moon and the stars; and the ground was rather sandy than rocky.
So he dight Birdalone’s bed as well as he might, and did off his surcoat and
laid it over her; and then stood aloof, and gazed on her; and he muttered: It
is an evil chance; yet the pleasure of it, the pleasure of it! Yea, said he
again, she might well be wearied; I myself am ready to drop, and I am not the
least tough of the band. And therewith he laid him down on the further side of
the pass, and fell asleep straightway.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BLACK KNIGHT TELLS THE TRUTH OF HIMSELF.

When the morning was come down into the straitness of their secret road,
Birdalone opened her eyes and saw the Black Knight busy over dighting their
horses: so she arose and thrust her grief back into her heart, and gave her
fellow-farer the sele of the day, and he brought her victual, and they ate a
morsel, and gat to horse thereafter and departed; and the way became smoother,
and it was lighter overhead everywhere now, and the rocks never again met
overhead athwart the way; and it seemed to Birdalone that now they were wending
somewhat downward.

The knight was courteous unto Birdalone, and no longer for the present thrust
his love upon her, so that now she had some solace of his fellowship, though he
was but few-spoken to her.

It was betimes when they arose, and they rode all the morning till it was noon,
which they might well wot of, because the way was much wider, and the
cliff-walls of the pass much lower, so that the sun shone in upon them and
cheered them.

Now the Black Knight drew rein and said: Shall we rest, lady, and eat? And
thereafter, if thou wilt, I shall tell thee my tale. Or rather, if thou wilt
suffer me, I shall speak first and eat afterwards, or else the morsel might
stick in my throat. Knight, said Birdalone, smiling, I hope thou hast no lie to
swallow down before the meat. Nay, lady, said he; no lie that is of moment at
least.

So they lighted down, and Birdalone sat on the wayside under a birch-bush that
came thrusting out from the rock, and the knight stood before her, hanging his
head, as though he were one accused who would plead his cause; and he began:

Lady, I must tell thee first of all, that to-day I have done as an unfaithful
servant and a traitor to my lord. Said Birdalone simply: Shall I tell thee the
truth, and say that from the first I seemed to see in thee that thou wert
scarce trusty? He said: Well, that mind I saw in thee, and it went to my heart
that thou shouldest think it, and that it should be no less than true. But now
I must tell thee, that it is for thy sake that I have been untrusty to my lord.
How so? said she. Quoth he: Heardest thou ever of the Red Knight? Yea, said
Birdalone, I have heard of him ever as a tyrant and oppressor. Then she grew
pale, and said: Art thou he? Nay, said the knight, I am but a kinsman of his,
and his best-trusted man; nor have I failed him ever till yesterday.

He kept silence a while, and then said: This is the true tale: that we have had
tidings of thee and of thy ridings abroad with that old fool, Sir Aymeris, and
how thou hadst been twice to look into the Black Valley. This I say hath the
Red One heard, and the heart of him was touched by the mere hearsay of thee;
and moreover ’tis blessed bread to him the doing of any grief to the knights of
Quest Castle; wherefore he hath sent me to hang about the dale, to lay hands on
thee if I might for; he knew being wise, that thou wouldst hanker after it; and
moreover he let one of his wise women sit out in spells on thee. So I espied,
and happened on thee all alone; and mine errand it was, since I came upon thee
thus, to draw thee till I had thee safe at home in the Red Hold. Forsooth I
began mine errand duly, and fell to beguiling thee, so that thou mayst well
have seen the traitor in me. But then, and then my heart failed me, because I
fell, not to desiring thee as coveting my master’s chattel, but to loving thee
and longing for thee as my fellow and speech-friend. And I said to myself: Into
the Red Hold she shall not go if I may hinder it.

Birdalone was very pale, but she refrained her from grief and fear, and said:
But those horsed and weaponed men up the dale, who were they? He said: I will
not lie now, not even a little; they came into the dale by that upper pass
whereof I told thee; they were of our men; I brought them. I was never all
alone in the dale; I was to have fetched thee to them, so that thou mightest
not see a rout of folk and flee away; and then would we all have gone home
together by the upper pass. But we two must have gone on unto them in the
dale’s head, whereas for all that I could say I might not bring them down into
that doom-ring where we ate and talked yesterday. We two have been valianter
than thou mayst have deemed, to have done the deed of dining there; for all men
fear it. But as for me, I have been there more than twice or thrice, and thence
have I wandered, and found this pass wherein now we be; concerning which I have
held my tongue, deeming that it might one day serve my turn; as it hath done
now abundantly, since it hath been a refuge unto thee.

Yea, but whither are we going now? said Birdalone; is it perchance to the Red
Hold? Nay, never, said the knight, so help me God and All-hallows!

Whither then? said Birdalone; tell me, that I may at least trust thee, even
though I owe thee for all the pain and grief which thou hast wrought me. He
reddened and said: Wait a while; I bring thee to no ill place; there shall no
harm befall thee. And he fretted and fumed, and was confused of speech and
look, and then he said: When we come there I shall belike crave a boon of thee.

O, but I crave a boon of thee here and now, said Birdalone. Wipe away thine
offence to me and take me back to my friends and the Castle of the Quest! So
mayst thou yet be dear unto me, though maybe not wholly as thou wouldst have
it. And she reached out her two hands toward him.

His breast heaved, and he seemed nigh to weeping; but he said: Nay, lady, ask
me not here and now, but there and to-morrow. But again I swear to thee by
thine hands that to the Red Hold I will not bring thee, nor suffer thee to be
brought, if I may hinder it; nay, not though I give my life therefor.

Birdalone was silent awhile; then she said: And what shall befall me if I come
to the Red Hold? What is the Red Knight, and what would he do with me? Said he:
The Red Knight is terrible and fierce and wise; and I fear him, I. He held his
peace, and said: I must needs say it, that to thee he would have been as Death
and the Devil. He would have bedded thee first. She broke in: Nay, never! and
flushed very red. But the knight went on: And after, I wot not; that were
according to his mood. And as to thy never, lady, thou wottest not the like of
him or of the folk he hath about him. Such as thou? she said angrily. Nay, he
said, far worse than me; men who fare little afield, and are not sweetened by
adventures and war-perils; and women worser yet; and far worser were they
dealing with a woman. She was silent again awhile, and paled once more; then
her colour came back to her, and she held out her hand to him and said kindly:
Thou being what thou art, I thank thee for thy dealings with me; and now until
to-morrow, when I shall ask thee of that again, I am friends with thee; so come
now, and let us eat and drink together.

He took her hand and kissed it, and then came and sat down meekly beside her,
and they ate and drank in that wild place as though they had been friends of
long acquaintance.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BLACK KNIGHT BRINGS BIRDALONE TO THE BOWER IN THE DALE.

When they had made an end of their meal, they gat to horse again and rode on
their ways; and every mile now was their road the easier, the pass wider, and
its walls lower and now also more broken; till at last they began to go down
hill swiftly, and after a little their road seemed to be swallowed in a great
thicket of hornbeam and holly; but the knight rode on and entered the said
thicket, and ever found some way amidst the branches, though they were
presently in the very thick of the trees, and saw no daylight between the
trunks for well-nigh an hour, whereas the wood was thick and tangled, and they
had to thread their way betwixt its mazes.

At last the wood began to grow thinner before them, and the white light to show
between the trunks; and Birdalone deemed that she heard the sound of falling
water, and presently was sure thereof; and the knight spake to her: Patience,
my lady; now are we near home for to-day. She nodded kindly to him, and
therewith they rode on to open ground, and were on the side of a steep bent,
broken on their right hands into a sheer cliff as Birdalone saw when the knight
led her to the edge and bade her look over. Then she saw down into a fair dale
lying far below them, through the which ran a little river, clear and swift,
but not riotous, after it had fallen over a force at the upper end of the dale,
and made the sound of water which she had heard. The said dale was so, that
whatsoever was on the other side thereof was hidden by tall and great trees,
that stood close together some twenty yards aloof from the stream, and betwixt
them and it was fair greensward with a few bushes and thorn-trees thereon.

Quoth the knight: Down there shall we rest till to-morrow, if it please thee,
lady; and since the sun will set in an hour, we were best on our way at once.
It pleases me well, said Birdalone, and I long to tread the turf by the
river-side, for I am weary as weary may be of the saddle and the pass.

So down the bent they rode, and it was but a little ere they had ridden it to
an end, and had met the river as it swept round the cliff-wall of the valley;
and they rode through it, and came on to the pleasant greensward aforesaid
under the trees; and in a bight of the wood was a bower builded of turf and
thatched with reed; and there, by the bidding of the knight, they alighted; and
the knight said: This is thine house for to-night, my lady; and thou mayest lie
there in all safety after thou hast supped, and mayst have my weapons by thy
side if thou wilt, while I lie under the trees yonder. And if thou wilt bathe
thee in the cool water, to comfort thee after the long ride and the weariness,
I swear by thy hand that I will take myself out of eye-shot and abide aloof
till thou call me.

Said Birdalone, smiling somewhat: Fair sir, I will not have my watch and ward
unarmed; keep thou thy weapons; and thou wilt not forget, perchance, that I am
not wholly unarmed, whereas I have my bow and arrows and my knife here. And as
to my bathing, I will take thee at thy word, and bid thee go aloof a while now
at once; for I will go down to the water; and if thou spy upon me, then will it
be thy shame and not mine.

The knight went his ways therewith, and Birdalone went down to the water and
unclad her; but ere she stepped into the river, she laid her bow and three
shafts on the lip thereof. Then she took the water, and disported her merrily
therein; and now, forsooth, she was nowise downcast, for she said to herself,
this man is not all evil and he lovest me well, and I look for it that
to-morrow he will bring me on my way toward the Castle of the Quest, for mere
love of me; and then shall he be a dear friend to me, and I will comfort him
what I can for as long as we both live.

So she came out of the water and clad her, and then called aloud for the
knight, and he came speedily unto her, as if he had been not exceeding far
away, though he swore with a great oath that he had nowise espied her. She
answered him nought, and they went side by side to the bower; and there the
knight dight the victual, and they sat together and ate their meat like old
friends; and Birdalone asked the knight concerning this valley and the bower,
if he had known it for long, and he answered: Yea, lady, I was but a stripling
when I first happened on the dale; and I deem that few know thereof save me; at
least none of our flock knoweth thereof, and I am fain thereof, and keep them
unknowing, for if my lord were to hear of my having a haunt privy unto me he
would like it but ill.

Birdalone turned pale when she heard him speak of his lord; for fear of the Red
Knight had entered into her soul, so that now the flesh crept upon her bones.
But she enforced her to smile, and said: Yea, and what would he do to thee were
he ill-content with thy ways? Forsooth, lady, said he, if he could spare me he
would make an end of me in some miserable way; nay, if he were exceeding
ill-content, he would do as much for me whether he could spare me or not;
otherwise he would watch his occasion, and so grieve me that what he did would
go to my very heart. Woe’s me! said Birdalone, thou servest an evil master. The
knight answered not, and Birdalone went on speaking earnestly: It is a shame to
thee to follow this fiend; why dost thou not sunder thee from him, and become
wholly an honest man? Said he gruffly: It is of no use talking of this, I may
not; to boot, I fear him. Then did Birdalone hold her peace, and the knight
said: Thou dost not know; when I part from thee I must needs go straight to
him, and then must that befall which will befall. Speak we no more of these
matters.

Birdalone flushed with hope and joy as he spake thus, for she took him to mean
that he would lead her, on the morrow, on her way to the Castle of the Quest.
But the knight spake in a voice grown cheerful again: As to this bower, lady,
the tale thereof is soon told; for with mine own hands I builded it some
fifteen years ago; and I have come to this place time and again when my heart
was overmuch oppressed with black burdens of evil and turmoil, and have whiles
prevailed against the evil, and whiles not. Mayst thou prevail this time, then!
said she. He answered her not, but presently fell to talking with her of other
matters, and the two were frank and friendly together, till the August night
grew dark about them; and then spake Birdalone: Now would I rest, for I can no
longer keep mine eyes open. Abide aloof from me to-morrow morning till I call
to thee, as thou didst this evening; and then, before we eat together again,
thou shalt tell me what thou wilt do with me. He stood up to depart, and she
reached out her hand to him in the glimmer, and he saw it, but said: Nay, if I
take thine hand, I shall take thine whole body. And therewith he departed, and
she laid her down in her smock alone, and slept anon, and was dreamless and
forgetting everything till the sun was up in the morning.

CHAPTER XVI.

YET A DAY AND A NIGHT THEY TARRY IN THE DALE.

Birdalone awoke when the sun came into the bower to her, and stood up at once,
and went down to the river and washed the night off her; and then, when she was
clad, called on the knight to come to her; and he came, looking downcast and
troubled; so that Birdalone thought within herself: It is well, he will do my
will.

She stood before him, and gave him the sele of the day, and he looked on her
sorrowfully. Then she said: Now is come the time when I am to ask thee to take
me back to the Castle of the Quest and my own people. He was not hasty to
answer her, and she spake again: This must thou do, or else take me to the Red
Hold and deliver me to the tyrant there; and I have heard it from thine own
mouth that will be nought else than casting me into shame and torment and
death. And I deem thou canst not do it. Nay, she said, staying the words that
were coming from his mouth, I wot that thou canst do it if thine heart can
suffer it; for thou art stronger than I, and thou mayst break my bow, and wrest
this knife out of mine hand; and thou canst bind me and make me fast to the
saddle, and so lead my helpless body into thraldom and death. But thou hast
said that thou lovest me, and I believe thee herein. Therefore I know that thou
canst not will to do this.

He answered in his surly voice: Thou art right, lady, I cannot. Nay, hearken
thou this time. I have been turning over night-long what thou didst say about
leaving my lord, that is, betraying him, for it comes to that; and now I have
made up my mind to do it, and I will betray him for thy sake. Wherefore there
is a third way to take which thou hast not seen; we will ride out of this dale
in an hour’s time, and I will bring thee to them who are only less the mortal
foes of the Red Knight than are thy fellows of the Quest, to wit, to the
captain and burgesses of the good town of Greenford by the Water; and I will do
them to wit that I have rescued thee from the hands of the Red Knight, and am
become his foe; and will show them all his incomings and outgoings, and every
whit of rede, and entrap him, so that he fall into their hands. Now, though
were I to be taken in battle by them, I should be speedily brought to the
halter, or may be to the bale-fire (for we be wizards all in the Red Hold); yet
with this word in my mouth, if they trow in it, I shall be made their captain,
and presently their master. Trow in my tale they will, if thou bear me out
therein, and they will honour thee, and suffer thee to give thyself to me in
marriage; and then I know thee, and myself also, and that ere long we shall be
both mighty and wealthy and beloved, and fair will be the days before us.

His voice had grown softer as he spake, and toward the end of his words he
faltered, and at last brake out a-weeping, and cast himself wordless on the
grass before her.

She was pale, and her brow was knitted, and her face quivered; but she spake
coldly to him and said: This way I cannot take; and I wonder at thee that thou
hast shown it unto me, for thyself thou knowest that I cannot go with thee. I
will go nowhere hence save to the Castle of the Quest. If thou wilt not lead me
thereto, or put me on the road, I ask thee straight, Wilt thou stay me if I go
seek the way thither myself?

He rose up from the ground with a pale face full of anger as well as grief, and
caught her by the wrists and said, scowling the while: Tell me now which of
them it is; is it the stupid oaf Baudoin, or the light fool Hugh, or the dull
pedant Arthur? But it matters not; for I know, and all the country-side knows,
that they be vowed, each man of them, to his own woman; and if they find not
the women themselves, such dolts they are, that they will ever be worshipping
the mere shadows of them, and turn away from flesh and blood, were it the
fairest in the world, as thou art, as thou art.

She shrank away from him what she might, but he still held her wrists; then she
spake in a quivering voice, her very lips pale with fear and wrath: It is well
seen that thou art a man of the Red Knight; and belike thou wouldst do with me
as he would. But one thing I crave of thee, if there is any grain of mercy in
thee, that thou wilt draw thy sword and thrust me through; thou mayst leave
thine hold of me to get at the blade, I will not stir from where I stand. O! to
think that I deemed thee well-nigh a true man.

He dropped her hands now and stood aloof from her, staring at her, and
presently cast himself on the ground, rolling about and tearing at the grass.
She looked on him a moment or two, and then stepped forward and stooped to him,
and touched his shoulder and said: Rise up, I bid thee, and be a man and not a
wild beast.

So in a while he arose, and stood before her hang-dog-like; then she looked on
him pitifully, and said: Fair sir and valiant knight, thou hast gone out of thy
mind for a while, and thus hast thou shamed both me and thyself; and now thou
wert best forget it, and therewithal my last words to thee.

Therewith she held out her hand to him, and he went on his knees and took it,
sobbing, and kissed it. But she said, and smiled on him: Now I see that thou
wilt do what I prayed of thee, and lead me hence and put me on the road to the
Castle of the Quest. He said: I will lead thee to the Castle of the Quest.

Said Birdalone: Then shall it be as I promised, that I will be thy dear friend
while both we live. And now, if thou canst, be a little merrier, and come and
sit with me, and let us eat our meat, for I hunger.

He smiled, but woefully, and presently they sat down to their meat; and he
strove to be somewhat merry of mood, and to eat as one at a feast; but whiles
his heart failed him, and he set his teeth and tore at the grass, and his face
was fierce and terrible to look on; but Birdalone made as if she heeded it
nought, and was blithe and debonair with him. And when they had done their meat
he sat looking at her a while, and at last he said: Lady, dost thou deem that,
when all is said, I have done somewhat for thee since first we met the day
before yesterday at the lower end of the Black Valley? Yea, she said, as erst I
spake, all things considered I deem that thou hast done much. And now, said he,
I am to do more yet; for I am to lead thee to where henceforth I shall have no
more part or lot in thee than if thou wert in heaven and I in hell. I pray thee
say not so, said Birdalone; have I not said that I will be thy friend? Lady,
said the knight, I wot well that according to the sweetness of thine heart wilt
thou do what thou canst do. And therewith he was silent a while and she also.

Then he said: I would ask thee a grace if I durst. Ask it, said she, and I will
grant it if I may; I have gainsaid thee enough meseemeth.

Lady, he said, I will ask this as a reward of the way-leader, to wit, that thou
abide with me here in this dale, in all honour holden, till to-morrow morning;
and let this place, which has helped me aforetime, be hallowed by thy dwelling
here; and I, I shall have had one happy day at least, if never another. Canst
thou grant me this? If thou canst not, we will depart in an hour.

Her countenance fell at his word, and she was silent a while; for sore she
longed to be speedily whereas her friends should find her if they came back to
the castle. But she thought within herself how wild and fierce the man was, and
doubted if he might not go stark mad on her hands and destroy her if she
thwarted overmuch; and, moreover, frankly she pitied him, and would do what she
might to ease his pain and solace his grief of heart. Wherefore she cleared her
face of its trouble and let it be vexed no longer, but smiled upon the knight
and said: Fair sir, this meseemeth but a little thing for me to do, and I grant
it thee with a good will, and this shall now be the first day of the friendship
if so thou wilt take it; and may it solace thee.

Who then was gleeful but the knight, and strange it was to see all his sorrow
run off him; and he became glad and gamesome as a youth, and yet withal
exceeding courteous and kind with her, as though he were serving a mighty
queen.

So then they wore the day together in all good fellowship; and first they went
up the dale together and right to the foot of that great force, where the
stream came thundering down from the sheer rocks; and long Birdalone stood to
look thereon, and much she marvelled at it, for no such thing had she seen
before.

Thereafter they went afoot into the wood behind the green bower, and when they
had gone some way therein for their pleasure, they fell to seeking venison for
their dinner; and the knight took Birdalone’s bow and shafts to strike the
quarry withal, but he would have her gird his sword to her, that she might not
be weaponless. So they gat them a roe and came back therewith to the bower, and
the knight dight it and cooked it, and again they ate in fellowship and
kindness; and Birdalone had been to the river and fetched thence store of
blue-flowered mouse-ear, and of meadow-sweet, whereof was still some left from
the early days of summer, and had made her garlands for her head and her loins;
and the knight sat and worshipped her, yet he would not so much as touch her
hand, sorely as he hungered for the beauty of her body.

Next, when dinner was done, and they lay in the shadow of the trees, and
hearkened the moor-hen crying from the water, and the moaning of the wood-doves
in the high trees, she turned to him and bade him tell her somewhat of the tale
of his life and deeds; but he said: Nay, lady, I pray thee pardon me, for
little have I to tell thee that is good, and I would not have thee know of me
aught worse than thou knowest of me already. Rather be thou kind to me, and
tell me of thy days that have been, wherein I know full surely shall be nought
but good.

She smiled and blushed, but without more ado fell to telling him of her life in
the House under the Wood, and spared not even to tell him somewhat of the
wood-mother. And he said no word to her thereover, save thanks and praises for
the kindness of her story.

At last the day wore to its ending, and then the knight’s grief strode over him
again, and he was moody and few-spoken; and Birdalone was blithe with him
still, and would have solaced his grief; but he said: Let it be; as for thee,
thou shalt be happy to-morrow, but this happy day of mine is well-nigh worn,
and it is as the wearing of my life. And the dark night came, and he bade her
good-night sorrowfully, and departed to his lair in the wood. Birdalone lay in
the bower, and might not sleep a long while for her joy of the morrow, which
should bring her back to the Castle of the Quest.

But when morning was, and the sun was but just risen, Birdalone awoke, and
stood up and did on her raiment, and called her servant the knight, and he came
at once leading the two horses, and said: Now go we to the Castle of the Quest.
And he was sober and sorrowful, but nought fierce or wild.

So Birdalone thanked him kindly and praised him, and he changed countenance no
whit therefor.

Then they mounted and set forth, and the knight led straight into the wood, and
by roads that he wotted of, so that they went nowise slowly for wenders through
the thick woodland. Thus went they on their way together, he sorry and she
glad.

But now leaves the tale to tell of Birdalone and the knight on whom she
happened in the Black Valley of the Greywethers, and turns to the Castle of the
Quest and the folk thereof, and what they did in this while and thereafter.

Here ends the Fourth Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is called
Of the Days of Abiding, and the Fifth Part now begins, which is called The Tale
of the Quest’s Ending.

THE FIFTH PART:

THE TALE OF THE QUEST’S ENDING.

CHAPTER I.

OF SIR LEONARD’S TROUBLE AND THE COMING OF THE QUEST.

Tells the tale that when the chaplain had departed from Birdalone at the bower
in the copse, he went home to the castle sadly enough, because of his love and
longing for her, which well he wotted might never be satisfied. Moreover when
he was come into the castle again, there fell fear upon him for what might
betide her, and he rued it that he had done her will in getting her forth of
the castle; and in vain now he set before himself all the reasons for deeming
that her peril herein was little or nothing, even as he had laid them before
her, and which he then believed in utterly, whereas now himseemed there was an
answer to every one of them. So he sighed heavily and went into the chapel,
wherein was an altar of St. Leonard; and he knelt thereat, and prayed the
saint, as he had erst delivered folk from captivity, now to deliver both him
and Birdalone from peril and bonds; but though he was long a-praying and made
many words, it lightened his heart little or nothing; so that when he rose up
again, that if anything evil happened to this pearl of women, he wished
heartily that some one might take his life and he be done with it.

Now was the house astir, and the chaplain came from out the chapel, and
thinking all things over, he thought he would go straight to Sir Aymeris and
make a clean breast of it, so that weaponed men might be sent at once to seek
Birdalone. And he said to himself: What matter if he slay me or cast me into
prison, if Birdalone be lost?

So he went his ways to the highest tower, which looked landward and hight the
Open Eye, deeming to find Sir Aymeris; but when he got to the topmost, he found
neither captain nor carle there: wherefore he stayed a little and looked forth
betwixt the battlements, if perchance there were some wild chance of seeing
Birdalone’s coming home again; but his keen eyes beheld nothing more than he
looked to see, as sheep and neat, and the field-folk of thereabouts. So he
turned away and went by the swale toward the next tallest tower, which looked
lakewards, and was called Hearts’ Hope; and as he went he fell to framing in
his mind the words which he should say to the castellan.

Thus came he, haggard and hapless, on the leads of the tower, which were nought
small; and there gathered together in a knot, and all gazing eagerly out over
the lake, he found a dozen of men-at-arms and the castellan amongst them. They
took no heed of him as he came up, though he stumbled as he crossed the
threshold and came clattering over the lead floor, and he saw at once that
there was something unwonted toward; but he had but one thought in his mind, to
wit, the rescuing of Birdalone.

He went up now behind where the castellan was leaning over the battlement, and
pulled his skirt, and when Sir Aymeris turned round, he said: Lord, I have a
word for thine ear. But the old knight did but half turn round, and then spake
peevishly: Tush, man! another time! seest thou not I have got no eyes for aught
save what we see on the lake? Yea, but what then? said the priest. There cometh
a boat, said Sir Aymeris, not looking back at him, and our thought is that
therein be our lords.