Chapter XIX: The Tale of the Dun Horse

Now for the tale of the Dun Horse, and Lancaster's great ride from Lyonesse.

There was no electric power for travel either by airship, road, or rail. It was hard without money to buy petrol for a car, or drive one over the broken roads, of districts where there was fighting. A big bay mare brought Lancaster through Cornwall, and fell dead at his farm near Tiverton in Devon, the place where the dun horse lived.

Oregon's colour was like the tawny, sunscorched grass of the great American Desert from whence he came. Such lion-coloured hide had hidden his ancestors from the ranging tigers, three hundred thousand years ago when the world was young. Down the back and across withers and shoulders ran dark brown stripes--the famous endurance lines, making the figure of the cross. This, again was a cast-back to a Zebra-striped ancestry of a hundred thousand generations gone. He stood fifteen hands, a pony like Alexander's Bucephalus or Napoleon's grey Marengo. His eyes were mad, his ears vicious, his hoofs hard as iron, his gait a rolling lope, tail and mane all streaming gold, his neck august, his pride untameable. It stirs one's blood to remember Oregon.

The dawn was breaking when Lancaster saddled the dun stallion; and that was the third day of the gale, and burning of London, the Fifteenth of the Terror.

In all their rainwashed length, the roads showed scarcely any sign of traffic, but Oregon shied at many a car lying abandoned by the wayside, at the skeletons of cattle slaughtered and stripped to the last ounce of meat by bands of starving outlaws from the towns, sometimes at some poor shapeless heap in the ditch which had to be passed at full speed. Trees had been blown down across the causeway, branches and leafage littered by the gale. That which was fallen lay. In the hollow lands the road was washed out or flooded, the newly mown hay lay swamped in the sodden fields, and the young crops beaten flat. The farmers were roughly fortified--every place where there was food had become a stronghold, and the live-stock driven out to pasture went always under an armed guard for fear of marauders. In these days, the folk knew why their old and long-neglected churches had been so built upon high ground, with such defensible towers to carry balefires, and loopholed belfries for alarm bells. The village churches returned to their ancient use as forts of refuge both for body and spirit. That is why Lancaster found the village streets abandoned, and the streets of the market towns a solitude.

The ages had rolled back, from the twentieth century even to the tenth; once again upon the lawless highways the robber bands were out to pillage and burn. Once again all honest men went armed, the farms were strongholds, the churches forts of refuge. Once again an English knight rode a war-horse of the ancient kind, wore the old chain mail, fought with a lone sword, and dared all for a lost cause.

Have the red roses of Lancaster ever failed from the thorns of our gardens? Has the royal blood ceased to throb in English hearts? The ancient roots are still alive to-day, through decades of centuries the time-honoured chivalry of this dear realm flowers perennial from the ancient soil. The English archers, the English mariners, the English engineers--time changes the instruments, not the English hand. And that the heir apparent of the Imperial Throne rode three hundred miles in forty hours, is testimony that England is England still beyond the accident of the centuries.

Lancaster had been badly hurt in the fight with the _Gigantic_, and now, after eleven days of neglect, the wrench and bad contusions on his near shoulder made him delirious with pain.

Ranges of hills to cross, and floods to ford, by dip and curve, by tortuous-winding vales, field, woodland, park, and moor, the road went swinging on. There were cathedral cities by the way, great country seats, commons of golden gorse, old road-side inns, orchard-screened villages. The young Prince saw nothing but the course, felt nothing but his pain, knew nought but his errand, his mission to the Queen. Wet to the skin he felt no cold or any discomfort from the lashing rain, but in his fever and delirium, dreamed, talked to himself, crooned songs, or followed imaginary hounds. He could not remember afterwards how he found the way, where he had baited Oregon, where fed or rested.

It was sunset when he cantered down through Reading, the dun horse reeling--and forty miles to go. Red shone the glare through a gap in the wind-torn clouds, red was the glow on mire-stained horse and man, red on the sky to eastward where London lay. Two hours later he had traversed the outer suburbs and entered Windsor. Still was the red glow lingering in the east. He was passed through the castle gate and in the outer ward he rested Oregon. The Governor held his stirrup when he left, the Governor's wife gave him a stirrup cup, the poor knights of Windsor--seventeen old men, sending their message of love to Margaret.

So Lancaster crossed the Thames and entered London. The dun horse kept his splendid rolling lope, but drooped his head and jarred his rider now--with yet another twenty miles to go. The elms of Eton were swaying overhead, there were the playing fields, yonder the school--and Lancaster's heart was singing. As Oregon splashed by, he waved his helmet--a red gleam caught the silver. He turned into a long, dark avenue, villas on either hand, screened by young plane trees--lightless, desolate. Then followed mile after mile of town more lonely than the fields; street after street, dead, silent, horrible, and always the red glow quickened in the east. Was it the dawn already, the dawn breaking on an abandoned world?

Out of the vague night ahead, massed roofs went up stark to the flushed red jagged driving clouds, when a man started out of the shadows close ahead--an old grey man in a priest's cassock, brandishing a red-edged crucifix. Oregon shied; then, under lash of spurs, reared up pawing the air.

"Beware!" shrieked the priest. "Beware! Babylon is fallen--Babylon the Great is fallen--is fallen! The scarlet whore reigns yonder, and vengeance descends from Heaven on her crimes. You're riding headlong to destruction! Back!"

The trooper lashed his horse with the flat of his sword, and far away behind him heard the cry, "Babylon is fallen--is fallen!"

The pools were red, the mire was red, the wide street red as blood under an immensity of glowing, rolling smoke, and ever in front the near horizons lifted against great heaps of flame. Down a bye-street to the left a house burned furiously, but the pavement in front of it was empty. Hollow echoes rang to the horse's tramp, but the vacant silence ahead showed never a sign of man. Was the lost capital wholly abandoned?

Here a row of shops had been sacked, their wares thrown wide across the roadway. Beyond, the street was blocked with acres of ruins, and circling round back ways to find a passage, Lancaster heard gun shots, saw the flicker of torches; then, turning a corner, came suddenly upon a blood-stained drunken mob plundering houses. Spoil was scattered everywhere; dead men and drunk sprawled on the litter; tables were spread upon the pavement; orators were wrangling over their wine--a Republican court in session for the trial of three gentlewomen, who stood in drenched night-robes lashed together with ropes.

Lancaster charged that court, rode the judges under, cut them down, forgot his message to the Queen, forgot the saving of the gentlewomen, vaguely supposed that the fight was a dream to be enjoyed, and went on slaughtering. He was surrounded, he was attacked on all sides; men were firing upon him from the houses on all sides--then something struck off his helmet, blinding his eyes, and Oregon, maddened with the burning pain of a torch against his flank, broke away screaming at a headlong gallop.

* * * * *

The empty street reached away between gaunt, enormous ruins under a sky of flame and roaring thunder, when Lancaster reined Oregon to a walk, borne slowly forward by a hurricane of wind; wiped the blood from his eyes, and, looking about him, knew that this was Knightsbridge. A body of cavalry swung down through the gates of the park, wheeled half-right, and broke to a trot directly athwart his course, their silver armour glowing with ruby light--a squadron of the Guard.

* * * * *

"_Let death seize upon them, and let them go down quick into hell. For wickedness is in their dwellings._"

Miss Temple was reading at our Lady's bedside, and her voice went on slowly, monotonously through the terrible minatory Psalms.

"_Break their teeth, O God, in their mouths. Break out the great teeth of the young lions._"

"Dear me," said Margaret, in her pillows; "how dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Not asleep yet?" asked the old woman, reproachfully.

"Not asleep yet"; Margaret uttered a quivering sigh. "Please, dearest, draw all the curtains back. If I could see the windows, I wouldn't think I was in the grave--that would be better."

Miss Temple laid her Bible reverently aside; then moving slowly across the room, drew back the curtains. The wreck of Whitehall had shattered all the glass, and now the windows were filled with oiled paper. The scarlet glare of the night shone fiercely in, the wind of the fire roared like a storm at sea. Miss Temple came back to her place, and our Lady reached out one shaking hand to feel a little comfort from her touch.

"Dearest," she whispered, "do you believe in ghosts?"

"We are forbidden," answered the governess, "to have any dealings with the departed."

"Hush, dearest; there's no need to be rude to these poor spirits, wrenched so suddenly from their bodies, taken all by surprise, shy at appearing undressed as it were, and they come here to see if their Queen cares. They come and go all night long, my dead; and they would think me so heartless if they found me asleep. I must not speak to them--that would be wrong--but they may hear me telling you that I care--I care--I care, and they will tell all the dead that I care."

"Child," said Miss Temple, fearfully, "don't think of such things. It's horrible."

"That they should die, and I not even mourn? You wouldn't have me a coward, dearest, would you? If I didn't care, if I didn't mourn, why all these millions of the dead would come to haunt me, to accuse me. Am I not guilty of their blood!"

"You saved the honour of England."

"And at what a price! What is the honour of England! It's like some awful heathen god, whose altar runs with blood, the blood of innocent men, and women like you and me, and little children. How can you talk of our honour! I wish--how I wish--if I had only known. If it were all to do again I'd let Ulster sell us body and soul to Russia, drag our honour in the mud, set up our shame where every one could see, and call the shame salvation. Yes, I would rather marry Alexander, or be torn to pieces, or burned at the stake, than pay the price of honour."

When Miss Temple needed guidance, it was her custom to open her Bible, take a passage at random, and then with fiendish ingenuity twist the text into agreement with her own views. From the most unpromising materials she got the most surprising results. Now the pages fell apart in II. Samuel, and when her eye lit upon "_Elhanan the son of Dodo_," with a small local directory to follow, she felt rather ill-used. Turning resentfully, she came upon the pedigree in I. Chronicles. She had to fall back on general principles, and flashed her indignant eyes on Margaret.

Margaret was asleep. All curled up, her dear head resting on one outstretched arm, fairily delicate she lay at peace. The lines of sorrow were smoothed away, her eyes--a moment ago so big, so dark with horror--were veiled now with the eyelids of a child. Down through the lurid shadow of the room, flamelight played and flickered, glowed on the ivory pallor of her skin, and made a dainty mimicry of health. She seemed the Margaret of other days, Queen of the May, our Lady of the Spring, before love kindled and grief aged her heart.

Hush! The child sleeps, and the woman must wake to pain.

If you would know the measure of a woman, judge not by her virtues, neither by her sins--God will judge these. How much did she love? How much did men worship her? The love that men bore to Helen, Cleopatra, Guinevere, illumine the history of nations, as it changed the rhythm of their times. How have men worshipped Elizabeth, and Victoria, and Margaret, each in her time, the Queen of all men's love? The conquerors laid Empires at their feet. The holy ideal of chivalric worship inspired the noblest literature, the highest art and the profoundest learning. Whole eras are illuminated by the glamour and the glory of such unselfish homage, that could bind men together, sweeten the common life, sanctify duty, and make death a rite.

Hush! England sleeps! The spirits of the slain, hovering in the flamelight and the lurid green-grey shadows, are pleading to God that He will have compassion on the Queen.

With savage satisfaction, Miss Temple watched. Margaret asleep at last! For a minute, for two minutes, then our Lady's voice rang loud through the room.

"Lyonesse!" she cried. "Lyonesse!" And starting broad awake, lifted herself in the bed, her gaunt face beaded with sweat, her dark eyes staring broad awake. Then she fell back with a moan, and clutched at Miss Temple's hands, and held them fast.

"Oh, why did you let me sleep?" she whispered. "I fought so hard to keep awake."

"You must have sleep or you'll lose your senses, child."

"I dared not sleep," said Margaret, trembling, "lest I should see him dead!"

"Margaret, these fancies are dangerous."

"This is the fourth time, dearest. He was in a little ship, so small you could have put it in this room, and far down underneath, river, and lake, and forest streaming past. He was all alone, the blood-stained bandage loose about his head, and he lay in his harness dead, except for his eyes. Only his eyes were alive watching me, speaking to me."

Miss Temple read the rest in Margaret's eyes, and turned her face away lest the Queen should see.

Even as the desert hungers for the rain, so Margaret craved for Brand. She could not tell Miss Temple that she loved him; the wise old governess pretended not to know, and thus the secret was shared by two sweet women with delicate reticence and understanding, marred by no words while every word would hurt.

"Dearest," our Lady whispered, "did you ever love?"

"Love!" Miss Temple's eyes went red. "What's love to me? Is this a time to think of love--to talk of love? Get to your prayers, child, this is no time for love."

But our Lady urged her again. "Dearest, were you ever in love?"

"In Heaven," Miss Temple was angry, "there's neither marrying nor giving in marriage. _The sun will be darkened, the moon shall not give her light, the powers of Heaven shall be shaken, the earth shall quake, the mountains shall fall, the heavens shall roll away like a scroll before the great and terrible day of the Lord_. This is a time for fasting, vigils, humiliation, prayer, not for profane thoughts of love."

Margaret lay back among the pillows, releasing Miss Temple's hand.

"I'm tired," she said, "so tired."

Then of a sudden she started up alert, listening intently, her eyes upon the door, at which the old lady grumbled, asking what was the matter.

"Don't you hear?"

"The roar of fire, child, there's nothing else."

"But I hear somebody coming--hush--listen."

"The fall of some building perhaps."

"There's somebody coming for me. I tell you somebody is coming--from Lyonesse--from him. Hark! There are footsteps."

"Trooper Browne in the corridor. Be still, child; lie down and rest."

But indeed there were footsteps, sounds of scuffling, of men disputing, and then the throwing open of a door. Through the length of the suite of rooms, Browne's voice rang out in warning.

"Madam," he shouted, "I could not hold him back!"

Men were trampling heavily through the rooms; even as her Majesty came down from the bed, the door of her chamber burst open--a man came reeling in, a trooper of the Guard, although his silver armour, rusted black, was drenched and stained with rain and mire, his face a mask of blood. He shouted hoarsely at the sight of her, then two Guardsmen following caught him in their arms, but he, struggling violently, broke away from them and fell at her very feet insensible.

Her Majesty knelt down beside the man, and full of pity lifted his bleeding head.

Sergeant Branscombe, standing at the salute, begged for the Queen's forgiveness.

"Madam," he pleaded, "we could not hold him back."

But she, in her white robe kneeling beside the man, pressed her small hands upon the spurting wound.

"Who is he?" she asked, "Oh, surely not--my cousin, Lancaster! He will die! He will die!"

"He is alive," Miss Temple's hands pressed hard upon his breast. "Quick, Sergeant Branscombe, water. You, trooper, bring the surgeon. What's this?" She found a strip of paper under the gorget. "A letter! Margaret, this is from Lyonesse!"

And Margaret read the message.

"In five days more I'll come with my ships.
"JOHN BRAND."