Chapter III: Part 3

His host had not returned at the hour of midday dinner, but certain elderly and dignified persons of both sexes joined Sir Jasper at the meal. He found Father Lazarus, the priest, to be of the party, together with Nicholas Warrender, the seneschal, a grey-haired dame or two, and an old but venerable man whom the others addressed as “Sir Claude.” There were also present Amory Doncaster, the Lavender Dragon’s doctor, and Lilian Lovenot, who, radiant in a gown of azure blue, decorated with pearls as large as filberts, sat beside the newcomer.

Conversation proved by no means parochial and his new friends manifested great interest in Sir Jasper’s professional experiences and the doings of the outer world. The old people expressed a hope that life ran in more gracious channels than of yore, and that he found an increase of prosperity and happiness upon his travels; while, when he confessed that new wars were in the making and new discontents battering and bruising humanity on every side, the younger men and women present declared their impatience and indignation at the slow progress of the race.

“I cannot but think,” said Lilian Lovenot, “that a time is near when the rising generation of Dragonsville will be called to abandon this life of ease and happiness, and go forth to carry the principles and theories of L.D. into the outer darkness.”

“A tremendous opinion,” replied a youth by the name of Howard Harris. “But it may come to that. We have all made one another as happy as it is possible to be at Dragonsville, and, for my own part, I sometimes sigh for other fields wherein to conquer.”

“Or be conquered,” said Sir Claude, and looking upon him, the younger knight observed the first face in this city which betokened a mind not wholly at rest.

After the meal was ended, Sir Jasper, his fellow knight and Lilian walked to the grave of the Lavender Dragon’s wife and sat upon it under the shadow of the flowering shrubs. Then Sir Claude, having found that his own adventures in chivalry belonged to a period far anterior to the visitor’s, explained the reason of that settled melancholy which appeared upon his grey and wrinkled countenance.

“I am Sir Claude Pontifex Fortescue, of the Strong Shield,” he said, “and it was I, Sir Jasper, who, sixty years ago, laid lance in rest against L.D. That awful error of judgment has haunted me and cast the sour shadow of remorse upon my long, and, I hope, subsequently blameless career.”

“I did no less in thought,” confessed Sir Jasper. “My one desire was to slaughter this prodigious person and cut his head off. Surely he is the last to blame you, or harbour any suspicion of resentment. It is summed in a word, Sir Knight; you and I knew no better. I will go further and declare that there was no reason why we should.”

“Exactly; and he has told you so a dozen times, Sir Claude,” added Lilian. “It is irrational of you to harbour this sorrow for more than half a century. You merely scratched his side and did not shorten his precious life by an hour.”

The ancient knight only shook his head.

“I deserved death, for he strove to address me before I charged, and I would not listen.”

“But he spared you to be useful; and no doubt you have been useful,” suggested Sir Jasper.

“He has,” vowed Lilian. “L.D. himself declares that Sir Claude has been his right paw for sixty years.”

But Sir Claude dwelt morbidly on the details of that far-away disaster.

“He merely thumped me; then he brought me here, healed my bruises and exalted me into a position of trust and honour. Would that I had been worthy of such forgiveness, my friends.”

He refused to be comforted, and presently Sir Jasper and Lilian left him still sighing to himself, and went their way through the gardens of the castle.

“Come and look at our carpet bedding,” suggested the beautiful maiden, and her companion soon stood where five-and-twenty gardeners were busy arranging a little horticultural surprise for the dragon on his return. Sir Jasper, however, was no authority on these subjects and he turned the conversation into more personal channels. Lilian, at his entreaty, related the brief particulars of her own career as far as she remembered it; but she shared the dragon’s opinion concerning her advent into the world and agreed with the inhabitants of Pongley-in-the-Marsh that the excellent Lovenots were not her parents.

“I loved them dearly,” she said, “but I never felt towards them as a daughter, and when L.D. discovered me weeping at the well, he knew, by a marvellous intuition peculiar to him and doubtless the result of his vast experience, that I was no true child of the hamlet.”

“Here you are happier?” inquired the knight.

“It may sound ungrateful, but I am. I do love comfort and cleanliness and, I am afraid, luxury,” confessed Lilian. “Silk next the skin, swansdown to sleep upon, crystal to drink out of, instead of cloam, and so on--weak--very weak, Sir Jasper.”

“Doubtless the blood in your veins demands these modest additions to life,” he declared. “There can be no sort of doubt that the fairies, after their somewhat malicious custom, played a trick upon your foster-mother and your real one; and now the daughter of the Lovenots probably occupies a position of high estate and has usurped your connections and your lawful style and title.”

“It may be so, but I am perfectly happy here,” said Lilian. “In the fragrant atmosphere of the Lavender Dragon, we live a life of such fine quality that no distinction could better it. I naturally mourn my own dear parents sometimes, and wonder what they make of the girl who bears my name, whatever that may be; but I daresay they have found a better daughter than I should have been to them.”

“That is quite impossible,” he asserted, and was lost in thought for the space of twenty minutes.

Sir Jasper then spoke again and put a question.

“Is it beyond reason that I should be permitted to gaze at your left elbow?” he inquired, and the lady started at a request so unusual.

“Who told you about that, Sir Jasper?” she asked in her turn.

“Nobody told me anything, fair mistress; but, as they say, the world is small, and I have in my mind a noble West-country family, who lost a daughter and found a changeling under somewhat distressing circumstances about sixteen years ago. The changeling ran away with a wine-drawer when she was fifteen, and no great search was made to find either of them. The noble family of the Traceys, who are always said to have the wind in their faces, happen to be neighbours of my own kin, and we are therefore familiar with a tradition among them. The eldest son always exhibits a birthmark on his left shoulder-blade in the shape of a poignard; while the eldest daughter’s left elbow never fails to reveal an auburn mole in shape of a cuddy wren.”

Lilian’s aquamarine eyes shone like ocean pools when the tide is out, and she exhibited the wildest astonishment.

“But I have a little wren upon my left elbow,” she cried.

“Then you are the vanished daughter of the far-famed Lord Meavybrook, of the family of Tracey in the West country, whose manor adjoins our lands of Pomeroy. I salute Mistress Lovenot no longer, but the Honourable Camilla Petronell Thomasin Tracey and kiss her hand!”

At this dramatic moment a shadow fell upon the carpet bedding, and the aerial music of the Lavender Dragon’s wings announced his return. In a few moments he had descended, whereupon George Pipkin and his roan charger reached the ground together. Instantly George perceived his master and, rushing to him, praised God and flung himself at Sir Jasper’s feet. The knight raised his squire, cheered him heartily, bade him rejoice, assured him that all was well, and presently surrendered him to the good offices of half a dozen friendly spirits, who hastened to pleasure the new arrival.

The translated maiden meantime attended upon the dragon, and, after L.D. had enjoyed a mighty meal of hay and fine oats, informed him of the amazing discovery concerning herself. He was gratified but by no means surprised, and when Sir Jasper returned from a talk with George, all particulars were demanded.

The knight, however, could add no more to the story than he had already told. He was permitted to study the white elbow of the lady and there, exquisitely fashioned by Nature’s self, appeared a wee cuddy wren, that, upon the milky purity of the skin, suggested an agate cameo carved by a master’s hand.

“One takes these happenings in a large spirit,” said the dragon. “I am well-pleased to have my intuition proved correct, and for the moment only a single thought occurs to me. We have now a choice of three names for Mistress Tracey, and what I want to know is this: does she desire that we call her henceforth Camilla, Petronell, or Thomasin?”

The girl looked at Sir Jasper and smiled so radiantly that a mavis on a bough burst into music and added certain notes to his repertory that have been in every grey bird’s song since then.

“It is Sir Jasper, after my gossips, who has given me these pleasant names,” she said, “he shall, therefore, determine by which I must henceforth be addressed.”

“Let L.D. choose,” begged the knight, but the dragon declined.

“Then let it be Camilla on Sundays and Petronell through the week, save upon Fridays, when she shall be called Thomasin.”

It was decided so, and in high good humour the Lavender Dragon retired to sleep, and the knight and the lady were again left in each other’s company.

Strange emotions already agitated Sir Jasper and he found in his mind a new sensation, which left him a little bemused. Bitter-sweet under-currents of thought possessed him and led to some slight loss of manners; for so occupied was he with his own reflections, that more than once he forgot to reply when Petronell questioned him, and thrice he permitted himself to gaze upon her with a direct glare of his blue eyes that cast her into maidenly confusion.

For these lapses he apologised in stumbling words, and he had no sooner done so when he committed the like errors again. Anon she left him and walked pensively to the castle, while he returned to George. Pipkin was now well fed and had changed his travel-stained jerkin of leather and oft mended boots for a murry-coloured velvet tunic and small clothes of orange-tawny laced with black. He had entirely recovered from the shock of the morning, and having related how the dragon had snapped him, as he was about to plunge into the Woods of Blore, he dismissed the subject and declared his great satisfaction at the turn of events.

“I have never had such a fuss made about me since I was short-coated,” declared the squire, “and I am well content to enjoy a long respite and rest from our tedious life among these delightful people. May I venture to hope, Sir Jasper, that you design to remain here at least until the autumn?”

But his master thought differently.

“This is no place for us, George,” he replied. “A month I have undertaken to remain, that I may study a society from which we can both learn much to our profit; but that done, we take the road. We are men of war, and there is nothing that we can accomplish to add to the perfection of this peaceful community. We will, therefore, glean what wisdom we may and, fortified thereby, return to our own good work.”

Pipkin, however, secretly hoped their visit might be prolonged; and then a curious accident brought the squire face to face with one whom he had known in the outer world.

They were strolling down a little street together, wherein every house seemed to smile an invitation upon them from its open door and cheerful countenance, when, out of a cot, in whose garden towered purple columbines above a bed of rosemary, there tripped a young woman and two children. She was dark and comely, with black hair, brown eyes and a skin as ruddy as a burn in spate. The youngsters were like her--a pair of bright-eyed boys with laughing eyes.

“Odds bodikins!” cried George. “Here is Sally Slater, the widow of West Fell. What chance has brought her to this happy valley?”

The woman’s eyes now fell on George and she recognised him.

“’Tis Master Pipkin!” she cried.

“By our Lady I command you tell me how you came hither,” demanded George, and Sally Slater related her strange story.

“You must know that after my husband died, I took care of his old mother, and on a day when I made for her a brew of lentils, herbs and milk, an awful fate befell me. I was engaged in my cooking and thinking with tears of my departed spouse, when into my cabin burst half a dozen strange men. There was a witch hunt through West Fell, and seeing me about my pot, the cruel wretches leapt upon me and haled me before a judge. As ill fortune would have it, a black cat with green eyes purred upon my hearth at the time, while in a corner, for I was ever a cleanly woman, there stood a great birch broom. Here was sufficient evidence to endanger my existence, and after I had sworn, by the blood of our Saviour, that I was no witch and had never in all my life held commune with the Fiend, they put me to the torture to make me confess.

“They thrust me into a chair of sharp steel spikes; they dropped boiling oil upon my legs and bosom and held a lighted taper under my armpits. And then, after striving with my poor might to hold to the truth, my body’s grief was too great and even for the brief respite, which I knew was all that remained, I lied and screamed out that I was indeed a witch.”

Sir Jasper regarded poor Sally with sorrow.

“It is even so with thousands,” he said. “For the brief surcease of their agony, tormented flesh cries out a falsehood, and so men and women without number are forced to say what is false and condemn themselves to death; while those who think they do God service, rejoice and cast the unfortunate innocents into the fire. The Popes of Rome swept away that legal justice enjoyed by all accused persons under pagan law, and our most earnest Christians have sent innumerable harmless men and women to the flames on this account. Fear was responsible for these cruelties, and fear makes all men unjust. Fear surely must it have been that caused Elisha to consign the children to the bears, though why he was alarmed at two score noisy youngsters, we shall never know. And the men who have accomplished these dismal feats were the salt of the earth! The good Bishop of Treves burned six thousand, five hundred parishioners and desolated his diocese; Nicholas Remy, a pious and, I believe, a pleasing person in his home, roasted over eight hundred of his poor and powerless fellow creatures. One remembers also that admirable Protestant jurist, Benedict Carpzor, who not only read the Holy Bible from cover to cover fifty-three times, but also passed twenty thousand sentences of death on witches and sorcerers.”

“Did no ghosts ever haunt or distract these accursed wretches?” cried George Pipkin.

“Certainly not,” replied the knight. “They passed to their eternal reward with the blessing and applause of all men, and in consciousness of lives nobly spent on their Maker’s business. In the case of Remy aforesaid, however, it is reported that he was unhappy on his deathbed because, in a moment of human weakness, he had only scourged certain young children naked round the pyres whereon their parents were burning, instead of casting them into the flames also. His conscience pricked him sharply in that matter at the end, for it is well known, and Mother Church is clear upon the subject, that the children of witches have the Devil for their sire and should never be spared the stake.”

“Then how come you and your brave boys to be alive, Sally?” inquired George.

“Thanks entirely to L.D.,” replied the young widow. “By the will of God, he was passing West Fell when I went to the faggots, and scarcely had they been ignited, before he came to earth, sent the people flying in every direction and bore me away. Nor did his mercy end with my rescue. As soon as we had landed here and I learned the truth of him, my mother’s heart cried for my children. I explained that they would certainly be burned alive after our departure, and were probably already beyond salvation. Whereon he instantly set out again, and West Fell, being cast into a great terror by his visit, the children were still in the land of the living. Certain persons had pitied them in secret and bidden them fly before it was too late. Our dragon came upon the little things lying asleep together without the village, and when they wakened from their journey, it was in my arms.”

“All’s well that ends well,” said George, “and now tell me a little about our native place. I often think of West Fell and my family.”

Sally showed some uneasiness.

“I’m very much afraid there will be bad news for you, Master Pipkin, when you gang home again,” she said.

“Let me have it,” he answered, “for as to ganging home, I do not feel in any violent haste to be there,”

“Poor Mistress Pipkin is gathered in,” said Sally sadly. “A year or so before my troubles, she went to pick water-cresses in the owl-light, and ’tis feared she mistook the way. Be that as it will, they found her drowned with a very peaceful expression upon her face.”

“My stars, Jemima gone!” cried George, staring before him with more astonishment than grief. “Are you sure of what you are telling me, Sally?”

“She lies beside the little one took after he was born; and your daughter has married the cordwainer, John Bindle, and your son has gone for a sailor in one of the king’s ships.”

“This would seem to be the day of my life!” murmured Pipkin.

“Accept hearty sympathy in your affliction,” said Sir Jasper. “You will suffer this blow with your usual philosophic fortitude, George.”

“Heaven helping, I shall make shift to face it,” answered the widower, “for what saith the Book? ‘He hath done all things well.’”

VIII

_THREE SONGS AND A STORY_

This being no tale of love, we are not so much concerned with the swift and ingenuous romance of Sir Jasper and his honourable lady, as challenged by the result of their common passion. Nor can we dwell overmuch upon the less emotional love-making of George Pipkin, who, before he had resided a week at Dragonsville, was resolutely courting Sally Slater and winning the affection of her sons.

Sir Jasper now found himself at odds between love and duty, yet opposed the one against the other with diminishing zest, for as time passed, he could not fail to observe that the maiden of his adoration was by no means impatient of his company. The knight’s cheek grew lean, and his blue eyes became anxious. He had little intelligence, but a conscience of almost morbid activity, and at first he suspected the whole business to be enchantment--a possible wile of the Lavender Dragon to detain him indefinitely, fog his senses and deaden his soul to the clarion of duty. But though enchanting, there was nothing in the attitude of Petronell to suggest that she played a part, endeavoured to enchain Sir Jasper, or come between him and his appointed task. Indeed she delighted to hear of his modest achievements and gave it as her opinion that his career had only just begun. His aspirations were her own, for now she openly longed to be of use in the world and carry the lessons learned at Dragonsville to Devonshire at some future time.

“To do good is an art,” she declared, “and needs as much practising as any other. It is, indeed, because the beginner often makes such a mess of it that many are choked off well-doing altogether and turn to other and easier pursuits.

“It is understood,” she continued, “that so long as L.D. shall live, I do not leave him; and much I wish, dear knight, you found it possible to make the same promise. To think of the world without him, is to think of a very sad thing; but he is rarely mistaken, and in his opinion he will pass during the spring of next year. Then such as desire to stay and proceed with their lives after his fashion, will do so; but not a few of the rising generation propose to explore the world. Whether their discoveries will turn their feet hither again, who can say? For my part I was in a mind to stop among those I love and cherish here; but after your astounding information, it is clearly my duty to go home, reveal my birth-mark and claim my parentage.”

“I agree with you, Camilla,” declared Sir Jasper, for it was a Sunday on which these words were spoken, and the knight and the lady returned, side by side, to the Castle from Morning Prayer.

“It is our Lavender Dragon’s own wish that I should do so,” she continued. “Indeed, since he has learned the truth about me, he has even raised the question whether I do well to tarry at all. But my father and mother have waited so many years that it cannot harm them to bide still longer in ignorance; and I will never leave L.D. while he lives. I owe him the little wisdom I possess, and I shall strive to plan my future life by his precepts wherever I may spend it.”

A vision of amazing beauty stole into the thoughts of Sir Jasper. He pictured himself returning to the West country with a bride; he saw the great houses of Tracey and Pomeroy gloriously united; he pictured the joy of all concerned, the rejoicings, the largesse flying in silver showers, even the red Devon ox, roasted whole, and the morris dances, cudgel play, bull baiting and other delights of Merrie England proper to such an occasion. Incidentally he saw a ring fence round the two manors.

But he kept these dreams to himself. He had reached a stage at which the next step must be a declaration of marriage, or speedy departure, and he suspected that the lady was of the same opinion. But still he hesitated, until it wanted but three days before the month was ended and his undertaking to remain at Dragonsville absolved. He felt in dire need of another opinion at this juncture, for spiritual uneasiness overtook him in the night watches and he doubted whether these earthly ambitions much became him. To consult George Pipkin was idle. The squire had already become affianced to Sally Slater, and the folk congratulated both man and woman, for George, a resourceful person and quick to respond to friendship, became a favourite from the first. He knew Sir Jasper’s plight very well indeed, for his master could not conceal it. In truth everybody was alive to the situation and when, finally, the lovesick fellow determined to lay the matter before L.D. himself, his host showed no surprise. They spoke together after knight and dragon had bathed side by side in the great central fountain, before breakfast on a cloudless morning of July; and while the rising sun glittered over the rose and azure scales of the larger animal and quickly dried them, Sir Jasper, having resumed his garments, explained the problem and humbly invited comments and a solution.

“I, of course, am an ‘intellectual’ and apologise for it,” answered L.D. “It is comparatively easy to write, or lecture, eat hay, drink water and tell everybody else what they ought to do. This rule of life gives those who practise it enormous satisfaction and induces them to suppose that they are the only people who really much matter to the cosmic scheme. But as I find that to devour red meat, drink red wine and do things, instead of telling other people to do them, is much more difficult, my admiration has always been reserved for such as themselves attempt to advance the work of the world. To pull down is easier than to build up, and I am entirely on the side of those who would build, even if their building be faulty; while they who snap and snarl and spew opposition on everybody who is honestly seeking to help distracted humanity, leave me cold--even for the cold-blooded reptile, which I happen to be. In a word it may be said that the heart of man seeks to build, while the brain of him is chiefly concerned to destroy the existing order. Both are right and both are vital; and when they work together in the light of reason, good things must happen. But when will they?

“Now, you are of the thick-headed, but warm-hearted, order of men who want to get on with it. And you have fallen in love with a maiden suited to you in every possible way. She belongs to your own order, though that matters nothing; but what does matter is that she also belongs to your own sort of intelligence. She prays to the same God, as far as it can be said that any two people have the same idea of what their Maker means; she enjoys the same humanist outlook; she resents the same wrongs and evils; she is quite as determined as yourself to leave the world better than she finds it. What more seemly and fitting, then, than that you twain should wed and presently go forth, nerved and heartened each by the other, in the glory of a shared love, a shared trust, and a shared duty to the world? She has already made you happier than she found you, though at present you do not look it; and you have brought into her delightful life a deep and mysterious quickening and wakened her noblest emotions. Thus you have both made the world happier than you found it already, and what is worrying you is a chimera, a vague and futile echo of that melancholy hoot, a vanished order of Christians raised from their burrows, caves and catacombs. The idea of these estimable, but mistaken, cenobites you will recollect. They held no happiness seemly in this life, and accounted human love the invention of the Devil. They did their best to depopulate the earth; but their claim and clamour were alike unavailing in the face of Nature, and to-day we all, I think, admit that it is a very seemly and blessed thing for a healthy man to marry the right woman and to take a hand in the next generation. But that is a subject not likely to interest you for the moment. Therefore place your heart at Petronell’s feet, and if she prove willing to pick it up, wed her, stay with me, as she intends to do, until I go underground--somewhere about the breaking of the leaf next year--and then seek your relations together, and go on doing your duty to the best of your united powers.”

“You have greatly heartened me, my noble friend,” answered Sir Jasper. “It is almost beyond the dreams of ambition that such a maiden can stoop to such a man; but I will at least summon courage to approach her; and if the answer doom me to everlasting sorrow, you will not take it amiss that I mount my steed, don my armour and go hence.”

“Certainly not,” replied the devious dragon, who already knew that Petronell loved the lad with devotion. “If she say you nay, I shall be the first to speed the parting guest.”

Within a week, however, the young people were betrothed, much to their own delight and the satisfaction of the entire community. The Lavender Dragon, who never lost an occasion to bring his friends together, proclaimed a banquet and entertainment of unexampled splendour to celebrate this engagement, and it was swiftly planned that both Sir Jasper and his squire should be wedded in the same hour, upon a day after the harvest had been reaped.

Nicholas Warrender, the dragon’s old seneschal, was master of the ceremonies on the occasion of this public entertainment; all Dragonsville came to L.D.’s revel, and features of the joyful event were certain performances which followed a great midday meal. There was dancing; there was singing; there were athletic sports and trials of strength and dexterity. But the special attraction, and that most vividly remembered, remained to the credit of Sir Jasper and his bride, George Pipkin and the Lavender Dragon himself.

The knight, his lady and his squire each obliged with a song; while L.D. told the people a new story.

Sir Jasper’s betrothed sang first, and accompanied herself upon a lute. The lyric had been composed for that instrument, and Petronell sang with great charm and natural feeling, though, as she confessed, there was nothing to admire in either the words, or the music. Yet it happened that this was the only song she knew: her foster-mother had taught it to her in childhood.

_SONG FOR A LUTE_

“Margery, Merle and Aveline--
And rarest, fairest Aveline,
Loveliest maids that ever were seen--
Loveliest ever seen,
Wandered beneath the hunter’s moon--
The red, uprising hunter’s moon,
For to find the fairies and beg a boon--
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Beg for a pixy boon.

“There came a boy along the way--
A pretty boy along the way,
And Margery stopped with him to play--
Margery stopped to play.
Her sisters went through dimpsy light,
By dingles dim through dimpsy light,
And tears of one were falling bright--
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Tears, they were falling bright.

“A convent by the way they trod--
The dark and dusky path they trod,
Drew weeping Merle at the will of God--
Merle by the will of God.
She entered, and she bides there yet--
A sainted nun she bides there yet,
For love of the boy that Margery met--
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling!
Boy that Margery met.

“But Aveline by beck and glen--
By starry beck and moony glen
Won to the holt of the pixy men--
Haunt of the pixy men.
And thus spake they to Aveline--
To rarest, fairest Aveline,
‘When the King sees you, he’ll forget the Queen!’
Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!
Ting! Ting! Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!
‘King shall forget the Queen!’”

Everybody applauded Petronell’s singing and refrained from criticising the song; but Sir Jasper held the accompaniment to be very beautiful, and the dragon, who used an ear-trumpet on special occasions, declared the melody tuneful, and hoped that the lady would sing it many times to him, so that he might better appreciate it; for of music he knew nothing.

Then Sir Jasper, having indicated to Petronell the tune which she must play upon her lute to accompany his song, made ready.

“I will give you ‘The Charm,’” he said, “and, though it is long since I had occasion to sing and I am much out of practice, I will do my best.”

He proceeded in a not unmusical baritone.

_THE CHARM_

“When chafers drone their litany
And pray, ‘Oh, Father, grant that we
From airy-mouse delivered be,’
Go seek--go seek the Charm.

“Under the sky, when a star shoots,
Beneath an oak, when owlet hoots,
Gather ye simples, dig ye roots
To build--to build the Charm.

“That glassy ghost upon a thorn--
The raiment of a snake outworn--
Must backward through the dark be borne
To feed--to feed the Charm.

“A glow-worm--she whose gentle light
Glimmers green-gold upon the night,
Beside yon churchyard aconite--
Shall help--shall help the Charm.

“One willow from the cradle take,
Where a boy baby lies awake,
And splinters off a coffin break
To fortify the Charm.

“A tarnished silver chalice bring
Dead gossips gave at christening,
And dip the moonlight from a spring
To crown--to crown the Charm.

“This much, God wot, a child might do,
Yet all must fail if haply you
Lack a child’s faith, so trusting, true
To bless--to bless the Charm.

“Many the spells of high degree
And fruitful happiness, we see
All lost for faith to set them free
And work--and work the Charm.”

“An excellent song with an excellent moral,” declared Nicholas Warrender. “But rather monotonous.”

“That is my fault,” confessed Sir Jasper. “If I had sung it better, I think that you would have liked it better.”

“Or if I had played it better,” added the musician.

Then spoke Sally Slater, who was going to marry Master Pipkin.

“If you please, dear L.D., I don’t think you will like George’s song, and it may be better if he is silent.”

“Why, Sally?” asked the dragon kindly. “I do not think that George would sing anything unfit for our ears.”

“That’s just what he’s going to do,” declared Sally, whose face was red and whose eyes were anxious.

“Explain before you proceed, George,” suggested Sir Jasper.

“It’s like this,” said the squire. “I’m not wishful to sing if none is wishful to hear. To be honest, the song is about a louse--and why not?”

“There’s not a louse in Dragonsville,” declared the seneschal with conviction.

“Nevertheless, there are many elsewhere,” replied George, “and God made them for His own dark purposes.”

The dragon spoke.

“Numerous creatures are quite familiar to us,” he said, “and not a few seek the hospitality of our homes and persons, whether we cold-shoulder them or no. They have their own methods of circumventing our hostility, and the black-beetle persists from generation to generation; the rat survives, with a determined resistance, despite all that we do against him; the wolf still makes shift to rear his family and trouble our shepherds; while many lesser things cling closer than a brother and will not be denied. Let us by all means pursue our warfare against them; but let us be just to our enemies, and if some human poet has struck his lyre to the body-louse, that is his affair. I see no objection to hearing what he has to say upon the subject with an open mind.”

Thus encouraged, George stood forth; but Petronell did not offer to accompany him.

“The song is in two parts, if you please,” explained Pipkin. “The first part is the louse talking to his Maker.”

He then sang these words in a deep and sonorous bass, which the dragon had no difficulty in hearing.

_A CHAT_

_Pediculus_

“Almighty One, I grieve to find
That in your everlasting nous,
For reasons hidden from my mind,
Your servant you have made a louse.

“It was your parasitic whim
All creatures that on earth do dwell,
Whether they walk, or fly, or swim,
Should each one give some brother hell.

“From royal lion to agile flea,
Your all-embracing scheme was laid;
From genus homo down to me
The case is thus I am afraid.

“But man’s the super-louse of earth;
He crawls its face, deflowers, defames,
Devours, destroys, brings rapine, dearth,
Deliriums and deaths and shames.

“So what were meaner, viler, worse
Than my hard fate--a louse of lice!
Oh, Father of the Universe,
It isn’t nice; it isn’t nice!”

The singer here broke off and addressed the Lavender Dragon. He felt conscious that the audience was against him.

“That’s what the creature said to the Creator, your honour; and now, whether they like it or no, I’m going to sing what he got for his answer.”

“Certainly, George; one side is only good till we hear the other,” answered L.D. courteously, and Pipkin finished thus:

_Omnipotence_

“My humble friend, take heart of grace;
There’s many a miracle of Mine
Compared with which your homely race
May honestly be said to shine.

“You are a polished gem beside
The micrococcus I have made;
Your shapely stature, easy stride
Put bacillus quite in the shade.

“But they, and you, and such small fry
Of matter fashioned to assail
Humanity, stand fairly high
In your Creator’s social scale.

“My master-piece and prime device--
My highest flight and true top-hole
Of loathsome horror--are the lice
I send to bite the human soul.

“Could them you see, your heart would freeze
Such loathly spectacles to view.
Be of good cheer: compared with these,
A little gentleman are you!”

There was an ominous silence and nobody applauded.

“I told you they’d hate it,” said Sally.

“A painful theme, George,” declared the dragon. “Nevertheless I am glad to have heard the song. There is truth in it; but like so many other true things---- You might write the words from George’s dictation, Petronell, then I will consider them in private. Do not, however, sing it again. Sally will teach you some sunnier ditties. Your voice is admirable.”

After further conversation upon this subject, during which George found the sense of the company against him and learned, to his confusion, from Father Lazarus, that his performance approached, if it did not actually attain blasphemy, the seneschal called for silence and the dragon made a few remarks before telling his story.

“As you know,” he said, “all my stories have a moral, and the story that dares to convey a moral must be extra good, or young people naturally scorn it and grown-up people decline to hear it. A time is fast coming when no story will be permitted any moral whatever, and those who attempt stories with morals will be derided for their pains; but I belong to the old guard in this matter, and the adventure of a mighty monarch I am now about to relate, cannot be denied its conclusions. Understand, however, that I do not draw them. I leave them entirely to the listener, who shall apply or ignore them as he may prefer.”

The dragon then told his tale, slowly and solemnly. He was himself so impressed by its moral implications, that he quite failed to see the funny side, or if he did see it, he pretended not to do so.

SESOSTRIS

This was the name given by the Greeks to that very distinguished King of Egypt, more generally known as Rameses II, and I shall tell you a pleasing incident in his career, which reveals this great man to have possessed an element of common sense rarely met with among early potentates, who possessed supreme power and held life and death in their hands. Sesostris enjoyed a plenitude of might and glory sufficient to turn the head of any lesser king, nor did he deny himself a certain amount of barbaric licence, or decline to accept what passed for pleasure in those remote times.

For example, consider the chariot that he used upon great occasions of State, and, what is still more wonderful to tell, the animals that drew it. The vehicle itself was constructed of gold and ivory and composed entirely of the fruits won from victorious invasions. It had been encrusted with magnificent gems--ruby, sapphire, and diamond--and cunningly wrought to flash its splendour even on a dull day. Sesostris himself drove his coach and four and he never failed to attract a multitude of shouting admirers, for not horse or ass, zebu or zebra, ostrich or cameleopard drew him. Four captive kings strained at the harness; and though Sesostris swung and cracked a formidable whip behind these fallen rulers, in justice to a great man we record that he never touched his team with it. Such an equipage was not contrived for speed, but arrogant pomp alone.

Never the stars in all their courses had witnessed any such tremendous sight as these royal slaves dragging Sesostris about the streets of Thebes, or Luxor. Tyrants were they, made prisoners in war, and even their own old subjects would sometimes travel to see this astounding turn-out, and tremble to witness their monarchs transformed into beasts of burden.

Of these four rulers condemned to this appalling penalty for unsuccess, one was a Syrian of ripe age. He occupied the near off position, and upon an occasion when Sesostris proceeded to offer sacrifice for a good Nile at the temple of Apis, the royal driver observed this chieftain cast repeated back glances of extraordinary interest and awe at the golden wheel of the chariot immediately behind him.

“O King,” enquired Sesostris, pulling up, “do you find anything amiss?”

“Not so, Glory of the Earth, and Life of your People,” answered the Syrian humbly.

“Then what are you staring at?” asked the ruler of Egypt.

“Sire,” replied the elder. “It happens that we may live a great part of our lives with some familiar, necessary object and then, suddenly, at chance prompting of the intellect, or flash of intuition, perceive in the everyday thing a fresh meaning, an added significance, that lifts our homely invention to new and notable seriousness, if not solemnity.”

“There is nothing in the least solemn about a chariot wheel, though, seeing that the spokes were fashioned out of the tusks of your late herd of white elephants, they doubtless turn your thoughts to gravity,” replied Sesostris.

“They do indeed,” confessed his royal slave. “But it is the operation rather than construction of these ivory spokes that gives me my great thought. Herein I find a parable of enormous significance, and only wonder how the mightiest brain on the earth at this moment has failed to note it.”

“You refer to me, no doubt,” replied Sesostris, “and you may rest assured that I have not missed the meaning of the wheel in our affairs. Surely the wheel of the potter and the wheel of the vehicle are landmarks in all human history.”

“There is even more than that I have discerned,” answered the Syrian, “for behold, as the wheel turns round, how the spoke now nighest earth slowly ascends until it is above all the other spokes and pointing heavenwards; but even in the moment of its highest ascension, steadily and certainly, as the wheel comes full circle, it sinks and sinks, until it is upon the earth again, while another has taken its pride of place aloft. O, Glory of the Universe and Topmost Spoke in the Wheel of the Children of Men, does not this formidable spectacle appal your heart and chill the purple blood in your most honourable veins?”

Doubtless a lesser man might have resented such a sermon at such a time and commanded the preacher to lay hold and get on with his task; but Sesostris, if his mind was not of that majestic dimension his oriental flatterer pretended, had none the less a very keen wit, and the parable was well calculated to challenge his practical wisdom and sense of reality. For a moment he remained silent, weighing the measure of the thing spoken; and then, with a certain impulsive and honest habit of mind peculiar to him, he spoke.

“Hear us, my people, and you, our steeds, also give ear. The thing that this learned tyrant of the East has imparted to us, we find to be rich with great meaning; and since the grass is never allowed to grow beneath our royal feet, we determine from this moment to change our mode of traction, and travel henceforth in a manner more fitted to human reason and kingly decorum. Greater is that monarch who walks afoot than he who subjects any fellow man to the indignity of the shafts.”

Amazed all listened, and then Sesostris turned to his captives and spoke with a swift and regal generosity.

“Kings,” said he, “we had permitted ourselves to overlook the way of fate and the immutable vicissitude of every human lot. This grey-haired Syrian is exceedingly right, even though he has proved us to be exceedingly wrong. Depart in peace, free men--all four of you! Return to your nations, that you may govern them with justice and mercy; and take along with you from our treasure houses, wondrous gifts for each wife and child, together with rations for your journeys and an escort worthy of the occasion and its demands. And never more, in this, or little and uncertain life, let warfare and hatred arise between us to mar our future friendship.”

He descended from his chariot, embraced each bewildered monarch and kissed the aged Syrian on both cheeks. Then, raising his hand to stay the shout of applause lifted around him by the younger generation of his people, for his counsellors were rather quiet, he spoke again.

“Henceforward, Egypt, when our chariot passes in affairs demanding circumstance and glory, it shall be drawn by two grey donkeys, in token of that common sense which is at the root of all progress honestly to be described as royal. And may they never find any need to talk to us!”

This ended the story of the Lavender Dragon, and the company streamed out over the Castle grounds, to enjoy dancing, archery, quarterstaff and other diversions. L.D. himself presented the prizes--a bunch of flowers for each maiden, a wreath of oak leaves for the men.

IX

_ANOTHER DRAGON GIVES A LOUDER ROAR_

The event of the autumn at Dragonsville was the erection of two dwellings, one for Sir Jasper and his bride, the other for George Pipkin, Sally Slater and her sons. According to the custom of the country, Sir Jasper was allowed no hand in his own habitation; but he worked as diligently as the rest to make his squire’s future home both dignified and comfortable. Petronell, too, lent her aid, and when the walls were raised she painted beautiful pictures inside them; while upon a knoll hard by, overlooking the river, George Pipkin and half a hundred willing workers erected a considerable villa for the knight and his lady.

The weddings were arranged for an early date in October; but while yet the sun held strength to make the autumn foliage gay and gild the ripening berries on briar and thorn, there came a remarkable visitor to Dragonsville.

At dawn on a cloudy autumn morning, a strange dragon was seen bathing his mighty limbs in the great central fountain, and while the creature appeared to be smaller than L.D., none could fail to observe a certain family resemblance. The veteran of Dragonsville was now faded by many tones from his adult splendour; though like a weathered cliff face, or ancient building, he had taken on the livery of age, and his rose and lavender were only dimmed to a gracious tenderness; yet one observed in the active newcomer a similar scheme of decoration, albeit in his somewhat stark magnificence he compared with the Lavender Dragon only as a new masterpiece resembles an old.

L.D. was still asleep when the discovery stirred his people; but Nicholas Warrender and Sir Claude Fortescue hastened to his couch with the extraordinary news, and though gouty and suffering some acute rheumatism in his left pinion, the dragon rose, looked out of the window, stared with increasing amazement and then left the Castle and strode out to accost the traveller.

It is to be noticed that the inherent suspicion planted in man against these creatures persisted, for, at sight of an unknown dragon, the people had fled to their homes and were now peeping from upper casements and dormer-windows to see what would come of this invasion. Those of faint heart already turned pale and feared the worst, “for,” they whispered, “if this young and many-toothed dragon falls upon L.D., the issue is determined.” But other parties took a different view. Some, the seneschal and the elders amongst them, believed that L.D. would prevail with fair speech and possibly make a swift convert of the stranger, even if his natural instincts inclined him to the immemorial rule of his kind; Sir Claude, ever a pessimist, thought not; others expected a grave disturbance, but believed that given the forces of Dragonsville behind him, L.D. would deal faithfully with his young relation, if indeed a relation he proved to be. Of this company were Sir Jasper and George Pipkin. Indeed the knight hastily donned his armour and rescued his helmet, which had lately been employed as a workbox for Petronell’s embroideries; while the squire ran to bring in his own steed and the piebald charger of his master. Both animals were far too fat, and George felt ashamed of their circular outlines as he led them under the Castle walls.

But there was no pitched battle, or any sort of disturbance. While the populace awaited with profound anxiety the coming event, L.D. approached his visitor, and though their gigantic preliminary embrace woke screams of terror from the fearful, it was clearly a matter of courtesy alone, for after the huge creatures became again disentangled, they walked up and down side by side in deep and not unfriendly converse. Clearly they argued a difficult problem, and presently they stopped and sat down together; but after two hours of close conference and when, in anticipation of a good understanding, great feasts of hay, cider and sugared kidney beans had been prepared, the lesser dragon with a gesture of impatience and anger leapt to his feet, spat fire, spread his gorgeous wings and soared into the sky. A sensation of relief swept the beholders, but before they had time to surround their friend and learn particulars, he, too, opened glimmering vanes, and, despite his rheumatism, flew heavily away after the other. Like twin clouds of rosy gold they swept eastward towards the risen sun and were soon lost to view.

Nor did L.D. return at nightfall, and many uneasy spirits slept not for thinking about this doubtful event. The seneschal and those who knew the master best, judged that he had not prevailed with his kinsman and followed him in order to do so; but some dreaded a more sinister sequel to the incident and even suspected that the dragons were gone to fight beyond the reach of any interference. In the morning L.D. had not returned and, as day followed day, anxiety increased and despair awakened. A week passed and every face was dark, every heart heavy. The life of Dragonsville appeared to be suspended and the people, slighting good advice to go on with their work and trust Providence, wandered together in melancholy knots about the streets and public places, while every neck ached with straining backwards and every eye sickened at the sight of the empty sky. Father Lazarus did what he might and other leaders of opinion strove to say the word in season and keep hope alive; but all suffered severely and all were gratified when Sir Jasper and George Pipkin prepared to start eastward upon an expedition of search and succour. Everybody applauded this resolve save Sir Claude Fortescue, who declared they should have started far sooner to be of service.

The morning for their departure had actually dawned and they were preparing to leave Dragonsville by its orient gate, when the Lavender Dragon came home alone. A sharp-eyed son of Sally Slater was the first to see him, and when the lad pointed to a tiny speck in the sky and yelled his glad discovery, others cuffed his ears for daring to waken hope; but he had seen truly; the speck darkened, then brightened and, in half an hour, the Lavender Dragon, flying very slowly, sank amidst his people worn out and much dejected. They hastened round him, Doctor Doncaster leading the way. His patient was very lame and so feverish that the physician shook his head.

The dragon returned to his castle, ate a meal of clover hay, drank a hogshead of spring water and then addressed his friends.

“I have endured a bitter disappointment,” he began. “In this younger being of my own race with whom I have fruitlessly spent the last week, I recognised a relation. He is, in fact, my nephew; and after seeing him upon my own territory, great hopes arose in me. I hastened to him, as you will remember, greeted him with large friendship and made him as welcome as I knew how. He had flown all night and was very hungry. He imagined that you dear people were my slaves--a sort of living larder from which I helped myself as appetite demanded. He declared himself to be starving and his first request was that I might send to him a dozen of the fat, prosperous children he had seen scampering from him on his arrival.