[253] HERE begins the tale and tells of a man of good kin hight Kilian of the Closes who lived alone in his house save that he was served therein by an old man and his wife, hight Thomas Twiner and his wife Bridget, who had entered the said house ere the birth of this their master, and had served his father all their lives, and now served the son more for love, and it maybe for use and wont, than for hire. Now the cause why Kilian dwelt alone, was that he was bone-poor, and made but a sorry show beside the lords and knights of that countryside, so that he had no list to mingle with them more than he needs must; and in his own house he dwelt, because he lacked not of pride, and would not serve another save he were riding to battle with him, and in those days there was no strife toward in the land whereby he might win fame, and further himself.

This Kilian, though he had seen more than thirty winters, had been belike more to many women's minds than many a younger man; tall and broad-shouldered was he, his hair brown and curling close to his head, little beard and thin, and that daintily clipped to a point; straight nose and red lips, his skin clear brown because of the tanning of the sun; his cheek-bones somewhat high, his eyes well asunder from each other, great and grey; a strong body and well-knit. He was seen to be deft in many knightly games whenso he played, which was not oft: and once or twice he had handled his sword as well as most. Some said of him that though he rode not to tilts and tourneys, he was abroad at whiles on moonless nights, and by hook or by crook had learned the way into the wild-wood. Whereof it came, deemed some, that he was able despite his poverty to give some pretty keepsakes to a fair maid or two of the thorp or the field of Middlestead, which was the township wherein stood the House of the Closes. For the rest, though some of the ladies of the knighthood had not been ill-pleased to have had him to sit in their chambers at whiles, or would have gladly [254] ridden afield with him at whiles, he would none of them by way of lightness, nor had he set eyes on any of them who had drawn the heart out of his body by a look or a word as [oft may betide] betwixt a man and a maid. Yet in the very days whereof I tell, some looking on him might have said that there was a look of lacking about him which whiles befals them who love.

As for the House of the Closes, it was a strong and well-built house, and whereas it stood on the topmost of the bent which looked down on the thorp of Middlestead, it had been a house defensible were it well furnished of men and victuals. On the bent-side were vineyards fair and good, whence came all the wine that was drunk within the house, and somewhat more, which the chapmen had away with them for money; and down in the bottom either side of the little river, which hight Waverwell, were fair meadows whereon fed a leash of kine that the lord held, and two garths of acre-land for his corn. Nor was there much else for the lord of the Closes to live upon now save such venison as he or Thomas his man might take in field or wood; all had been sold and pledged and lost, and the mill had bought itself free, and the blossoming-days of the house were done.

Forsooth, folk bore in mind that the old lord, Kilian's father, and his father also, were in their good days good lords and upright, and kept well to all customs, and had no deeds forged for them by cunning scriveners whereby to steal away poor people's livelihoods, but were open-handed with what they had even to the last of their wealth: so that both the father of Kilian whiles he lived and Kilian himself were well beloved, and had there been trouble in the land the now lord had not lacked a following though he had but little to wage them withal.

All things considered then ye may say that the master of the Closes was not so ill off, might he but thought so; whereas he no more lacked meat and drink than any peasant of the thorp, and the lead of the hall-roof yet kept out rain; and there were yet four beds in the house, amongst them the [255] good one yet hung with Saracen silk, wherein the good old lord had died. Withal two good horses had Kilian and a bad one, which was indeed less by half a horse so to say, than Ralph Miller had, but more by a half horse than Geoffrey Wheeler owned. Withal he had the silver hanaps that his father and mother used to drink out of, and his father's armour, and another of his own, for that he was taller than his father and slimmer than the old man had been for a two score years. Wherefore having all this, why should he have grudged it that all the hangings and fair chairs and stools and goodly beds, and the silver and gilded cups and candlesticks and basins had been sold to the chapmen, and that the house was as bare as a November garden?

Yet so it is that men of his years are more apt to desire what they have not than they who be younger or older, and that this man Kilian longed for wealth and for what he might gain therewith, as merry days and fame and the good liking of fair and dainty damsels, and the thronged porches and well-peopled hall, and the talk of goodly men and wise elders and well-famed warriors: and the days seemed to slip past him empty of all things save his wasted youth, and be like that longing whereof his eyes bore token.

And on a day when the sun was just set, he sat in his hall by the fire under the luffer, turning over uncheery thoughts in his mind. It was midmost March, and the wind swept up the bent and clattered on the hall-windows and moaned in the wall-nook, and the night drew on and seemed entering the wall from the grey world without as if it would presently tell him that there should never be another day.

But his thoughts softened somewhat as the hall dusked more and more, and he fell to thinking of his father who had been dead but a month, and had once been a fell fighter, a man doughty, trusty, wise in council, well befriended, hopeful and high-hearted: and at first he thought how differently it had fared with him, and how sore to be desired were the worst of his father's early days to those wherein he himself now lived. But presently his thought softened yet more, and [256] his mind conceived his father in the days when fortune began to fail him, and he wondered how it had gone with him when day by day some loss befel him, when mishaps thickened about him, and all his doughtiness availed him nought; when his wisdom betrayed him, and none would use his trustiness, and the days of strife overthrew him and thrust him aside at last and left him ruined and undone in the House which his fathers had built in the days of goodhap. And he thought of the grizzled man with old age coming down upon him, amidst his failing hopes, and his grief that he might not get his hands up in the strife, and all the weariness of the past days of eager struggle that had brought him nothing save unhap. And as he thought of all this, sorrow for his father's life pierced the hardness of heart which his own grudging and discontent had engendered in him; but even therewith came the picture of him as he had mind of him some half score years ago, and he fell to doubting if in very sooth ill hap had so overwhelmed him and cast him into all sorrow, for nought such he looked or spake or did; but was a man hale and hearty, kind of heart, and gleeful speech, who played his part in the day of small things wherein he dwelt at the Closes now without any seeming bitterness or grudging, and called neither on shame to forget him or death to set him free.

And it was this picture of the latter days as they really were that touched Kilian's heart to the quick at last, and he felt as if he verily shared in the life of his father who was gone and was indeed a part of him, and of all the fathers of the kindred before him, and their doughty trustiness and their hot blood and wise hearts; and him seemed almost that he could see the images of them as they had lived upon the earth, and wended to battle and sat in the mote under the hoar apple-tree. Then he arose and fell to pacing the hall endlong up and down, and thinking of all this, and the deeds he had heard tell of, and the little years of his own life, wherein were no deeds that might be told of, and as his bitterness. told him, few joys to bethink him of: though sooth to say he [257] had been a fair and merry boy, and a youth frank and kind: but said he to himself that the days of his boyhood and youth were gone by, and the days of his manhood were come, and were beginning to go by wasted, and the one thing which he desired and might have had he had now missed.

So he strode from dark end to dark end of the hall, passing the light which the ever lessening flicker of the mid-hearth threw round about; for night was black now on the outside of the hall; and there was no moon and the wind was rising still as night grew.

But amidst his walking he heard through the whistle of the wind the voice of a horn not far aloof, and he stayed his feet and hearkened, and heard it again, and in the same place, and deemed it came from the foot of the bent, and that some man was hailing the house, and joy befel him thereat that belike some tidings were at hand that drear lonely evening, and he went to the screen-door to call on Thomas Twiner his man, that he might bid him see what was toward. Even therewith came a man in through the screen-door, and Kilian turned back to the hearth, and stirred the logs to a blaze and then turned about to meet his man.

Thomas was old and white-headed but straight and tall and stark, long-chinned, long-lipped, and long-nosed, a face not given to show mirth outwardly; a man few-spoken but trusty, and of good conditions, helpful and friendly.

Now Kilian spake to him and said: "I have heard the horn; what is it?" Quoth Thomas: "Men in need of guesting, Master, as I deem."

"Well" said Kilian, "do thine office; set a candle in the shot-window of the gate that they may come up: hearken, there is the horn again."

"And if they be victual-wasters?"

"What then?" said his master. "How many of them shall there be? "

"Who can say in the dark?" said Thomas.

"Sooth is that," said Kilian; "it is as dark as the morn before the earth was made; wherefore now set the candle in [258] the gate window, and then take thy lantern, and go down to them and lead them up.”

"Nay, but if they should be foes?" said the old man.

"Alas, fosterer," said the master, "what foes hath the House now? But in any case here is fire, a whole roof, and victuals and drink some little; so I tell thee that if they were deadly foes indeed, I would guest them tonight, even if point and edge should be bare in the castle-garth tomorrow-hearest thou? They blow again."

Said Thomas, "I would let them blow till they be weary, and then go on to the thorp and find guesting with some carle like John Honeyburn, in whose house it might well snow of meat and drink if so be John were to pull the string of the sky of Cockaine."

"Now fosterer, my dear," said Kilian smiling yet half in despite, "it comes to this, either go with thy lantern or let me go. And bid Bridget hither, and bid her set on water to wash the feet of these wayfarers, and look to it that wine and flesh and bread be ready presently. Hasten, old friend, I lust to feast tonight even if I must fast tomorrow."

Therewith the old man turned about and went his ways speedily; and Kilian left alone fell to quickening the fire on the hearth and lighting the three candles that hung in sconces on the wall, and then again went walking up and down the hall from dark to dark, till came in Bridget to set out the board: a round little old woman she was, apple-faced, with sleek scanty hair which once had been flaxen, but was snow white now, but in the flickering light and the dusk of the huge hall might well have been flaxen yet.

Kilian bade her set the board nigh the firelight and the candle-light, and bore a hand thereat and stood by on the further side of the board, for he heard footsteps coming to the porch not a many, and he looked anxiously toward the screen-door. In comes Thomas therewith leading in but one man hooded and wrapped in a furred cloak, and a voice came from him sweet and clear, and said: "Lord, thy vassal came to me as I sat on my horse at the bottom of the bent, and [259] bade me to thy house. And if I have troubled thee I pray thy pardon that I hailed the hearth with the horn, and stirred up thy people: but the miles behind me were many today by [w]hen I came to the bent at night-fall, and saw the roofs and towers against the sky, and I was weary, and deemed so stately a house would have no fellow anigh, so I winded my horn to crave guesting. Am I pardoned, fair Sir, or shall I go further?"

Spake Kilian: "Thou art welcome, lord, and thrice welcome, and this house is thine for as long a while as thou mayst bear dwelling therein. And I bid thee to deem me no ghost nor land-wight, because I dwell alone in its hugeness. I am but my father's son (God rest his soul), once a valiant man but never a wealth-getter. My lord, I have no people but Thomas my man, and Bridget his wife: but there is a little deal of meat and drink in the house, such as we keep our souls in our bodies withal; and if thou wilt suffer me to lead thee into the solar, thou shalt see thy chamber what it is, and that sleeping there thou shalt have more shelter than under the lea of a hayrick this March night."

Quoth the newcomer: "I thank thee, lord, for thy good welcome, and meseemeth that the guesting of this ancient house doth me all honour."

Therewith Kilian led him to the solar-door, and there was Bridget to help him do off his rough-weather raiment and wash his feet; so Kilian went back to the hearthside, and abode him there till he was duly dight.

In a while he comes out from the solar and wends towards the hearth, and Kilian greeted him kindly, and was wondering at him for his goodliness. He was not right great; but exceeding trim and well fashioned of all his members: young of years he seemed, as it might be of two and twenty winters; beardless and smooth-cheeked; golden haired, not long but curling fairly; his face as shapely as might be with broad forehead, straight nose, and lips and chin as the carving of the goodliest of images: grey eyes and great, and the beginning of a smile forever on his face, and his head set upon [260] his shoulders as lovely as a flower on its stem. Daintily was he clad in a green kirtle with golden boughs done upon the breast thereof, and a girdle of the fairest of goldsmith's work was about his loins.

Now he spake frankly and sweetly to Kilian and stood and warmed himself at the blaze of the logs, and he said: "This is better than the greenwood in the March-tide. Praise to thy fathers, fair Sir, who built this house so strong and trim for us: he was no fool who first built a house of stone and lime." Kilian was merry of heart of his new-come guest, and the bareness of his house no longer grieved him, and he said laughing: "Nay, fair Sir, praise be to the long travel, and the rough ways and the dark night, and the March wind which hath made this grim hold of men-at-arms seem fair and goodly to thee."

"What matters the plenishing," said the Guest, "when a house is builded as fairly as this? Better is the greenwood adorned and more curious of halling than ever this great chamber hath had: but the good greenwood itself for all its rocks and caves can show nought such as these walls and roofs which thy fathers have builded for thee here."

"Yea," said Kilian, " yet goodly was the handicraft of men which I myself have seen herein after much was gone: and I doubt me if the sun and trees of the greenwood were fairer. And the last big work which went into the maw of the chapmen was the halling of this hall, and therein was wrought stories of King Arthur and the Faery. Fifteen years it is since I saw the last of it: and I doubt if the Faery themselves might have wrought it better than the websters of Whatham.”

The Guest laughed and his eyes glittered. Said he: "Such is not of the Faery's craft: yet whiles they worked well. But is it so that thine House have had to do with the Faery?"

"Yea forsooth," said Kilian," and if thou wilt pleasure me so much, and can so hardily endure the dearth of my house, as to abide with me a three days, I may mind me of tales concerning their dealings together, the Faery and my kindred.”

[261] "That shall not be hard to me," said the Guest. "But in good time here comes a part of the said dearth and it looks good to eat and drink; bid me to table, lord: for I hunger and thirst."

Forsooth therewith entered Thomas and Bridget with the service, and Kilian prayed the Guest to sit to meat, and he himself sat by him. Nor was the victual so evil, for plenteous was the land in those days, but nought far-fetched or dear-bought was there but even such as the working carles would feast on, save it were the venison which Kilian's bow had gotten him.

And the Guest was merry and debonaire, and praised all that came to his mouth, yet ate not a great deal nor drank much either. But as for Kilian he ate and drank stoutly; for joy of his guest had stirred up desire for meat and the wine was of the best which the closes bore, such as he gat not every day.

Amidst their eating and drinking the Guest spake pleasantly and sweetly concerning the tidings of the countryside and the lands which lay no great way west thereof, and some of it Kilian knew already and some was new to him; and that which he laid most to heart was concerning the good town of Whatham which lay some fifty miles to the westward, and the Guest told of it that they had unpeace on their hands, whereas being a place of good resort to chapmen, and having right good gilds of craft, and above all of the clothiers, they were oppressed by a proud young lord, who being newly come to his heritage, had laid new tolls on ways to the town both by land and by water, such as were not to be borne, instead of the old reasonable and light dues whereby his fathers before him had thriven.

Somewhat hereof had Kilian heard, and that very morning it had come into his head that be like the townsmen might be ready to wage men-at-arms for their quarrel, and that it might do to ride thither and show them his inches and his sword: but when he turned it over there were certain [262] things against it; and this chief of all that he knew not how he might ride and leave his father's house behind him, and he all penniless. But now what with some fresh courage which had come into his heart, whether the souls of his fathers had sent it him, or how so it were, or whether the joy of new converse with a young and thriving and merry man had enheartened him, again his mind turned to the hope of deeds to be done in Whatham and he spake and said: "Fair Guest, tell me some more of this matter, and of what right and wrong lieth betwixt the lord and the townsmen, and what is the demeanour of these last."

"Sir," said the Guest, " I rode through Whatham and I abode there two nights and spake with many of the townsmen, both high and low, and if all be true which is upcast, this is a great matter, and the said lord, who hight the Baron of the Seven Towers, is stuffed full of pride and bobance, and is minded to do all unright, and to rejoice in all wrong doing. So told me an Alderman of the town and said moreover that he was one of twelve men chosen from the Porte and the Crafts to bear the word and petition of the town to this tyrant. And when they came before him in his chief house, which is but a five miles from the west gate of the town, they set before him the case as it was, to wit, that if he held to the oppression of his tolls and taxes they were all undone, for that there would be no more recourse of chapmen thither, and no buying and selling in the market, that the crafts would wane and perish, and therewith all his fair and honourable dues which they were always ready to pay according to custom and right. Now he heard them, snorting and sniffing and drawing at beard which is long and red; and when they had done he said: “Churls, make no more words! Pay, or it shall be the worse for you; and as for your town, what care I? This house of mine is all too strait for me and I shall make your town my house after I have cast you forth: and your cloth-hall shall be my stable; and of your gild-halls shall I make kennels for my hounds, and mews for my falcons. Go ye and look to it. Yet first, what do ye to wear [263] fine cloth, and furred gowns, and gilded girdles and silken pouches that have not paid toll? Off with them, my men!”

"Then did he do strip them to shirt and breech, and when he saw them huddling together in that plight and dreading death or his prison, he laughed till his head was on his knees and cried out: 'Ho ye men! these masters will be cold riding home, do on them some of our coats!' And his men understood him, and brought forth coats of his livery old and fusty and tattered but on all his badge of the seven towers, and they did them on these worshipful men with jeers and buffets, and again the Baron laughed till the tears ran, and he said: ‘Now then, ye wear my badge, and are invested with my service, look to it that ye rebel not against me. Go! while your hides are yet whole!’

“Therewith they were hustled out of the hall with yet more gibes and buffets, and somehow got out of gates and on to their horses, and rode back not looking behind them, and but too glad to bear away life and limb. This is the tale of the Alderman to me, and none hath gainsaid, for it is in every townsman's mouth. "

"A proud fool!" quoth Kilian, "such words and deeds cast down ancient houses." Then he looked about the hall and said: "Nevertheless ruin is in the hollow of God's hand, and he doth it to fly whereso he will. God help us!" And he crossed himself, and the Guest paled somewhat. But Kilian heeded it not and said: "I pray thee, Guest, be kind to me and play the minstrel yet more; for thou hast in thee the very gold of tale-telling."

The Guest smiled kindly on him and said: "This befel in the beginning of the dark days of winter, when there is but little wending of the ways, or work of the husbandman afield. Yet what the Baron might do to vex the good town that he did: some prey his men made of wayfarers, and of work carles, and if the prey bore wealth, he was stripped of all that, and sometimes withal lost a hand, or at least his ears, or was beaten sorely; as to the husbandmen they were haled off to one or other of the Baron's strongholds where none shall re-[264]member or help them. And little or nothing might the town-rulers do herein, save gather weapons; and men-at-arms if they might: but folk say that all the stoutest runagates of that country-side be serving the Baron already, some perforce, some of goodwill, and that other men less hardy who have somewhat to lose, fear the Baron overmuch for their steads and their wives and children. Howbeit now and again some bold men of the Crafts have gathered a little company and gone out of gates well-armed, and slain and taken some of the reivers. But when they brought in a leash of these rascals and looked to see them ride the high horse aloft in the wind before the Great Gild-hall, they were deceived, for the Porte let them go again from fear of the Baron. Yet again when the said Baron sent a herald with a trumpet and bade the Porte give up the strong-thieves who had slain and robbed and mishandled his folk, they durst not consent thereto, else had they had all the Gilds of Craft about their ears, nor say I from what I heard that they were such dastards as they would [have] given up their own men who had fought in their quarrel because of their fear of the Baron. So they naysaid the herald after they had feasted him and given him a gold chain. Hereof came other tidings. Shall I tell thee hereof tomorrow lest I weary thee?"

"Nay nay, my guest," said Kilian, "have I not told thee that thy tale is better to me than the best minstrel's lay? Withal I have a thought in my head."

"Tell it me, fair Sir," said the Guest. “Nay minstrel," said Kilian, "not till thy lay of the town and the Baron is done.”

Said the Guest: "Well the next to be told is this: that for a while the Baron did no great things, till at last it befel that the first spring-market was held in the good town, and all gates were open and but little guarded, and much concourse of people there was in the streets and the gate-ways. When lo! in the forenoon of the day comes an host of men all-armed to the west gate, and rides in in despite of whatever was there, and so, overthrowing and crushing the [265] peaceful folk, comes into the very market--and who but the Baron and his men, and there stand in array all in white armour. Then is there turmoil and trouble enough, and some of the bold ones run for their weapons, and the cry is for bills and bows, and so great is the throng that the folk of peace cannot flee speedily if they would, and there are many women amongst them as the wont is on holidays. The Mayor and a many of the Porte come out on to the perron of the Great Gild-hall, and strive to put a good face on it, while little by little some of the folk get into the churches. Then the Mayor bids blow a horn and raise a white banner, for great is the clamour, and some of the gildsmen have gotten bow and shaft and are dighting them to shoot, and there with the noise is a little lulled: and the Mayor cries out, 'Is the Baron of Seven Towers there to hearken me?' And the Baron answers: 'Speak thou Tomfool and I shall speak after thee.' Saith the Mayor, 'We deem that thou hast come for those men of thine; and we will give them up to thee; but we will ransom them largely. Yea thou shalt take what thou wilt of ours.' Laughs the Baron and says: ‘Thou mayst give up the men if thou wilt; but I heed it not, for when I will Ì will have them: and as for thy ransom, yea all your wealth, let the Devil have it if he can prevent us and have it before we do. How shalt thou pay ransom of my goods, thou fool? Now today I will have something else: for my men are dull and weary in my holds, and need somewhat to cheer them, wherefore today am I come for some of your women, and after that on another day we shall see what is next.' Now when he spake so that many heard him for (the noise in the market-place was fallen) there came a cry in the place and the twanging of bowstrings and clashing of weapons; and the Mayor, he and his went back into the hall and barred the door: and now was there little left in the square save the Baron and his, and the bold men of the Crafts, who alas were not a many: and the booths and the stalls were overthrown and many of them dragged away. Then the Baron roars [266] out: 'Off your horses half of you, and through the place and see what it is that withstands us here? And find out where the women have bestowed them who were here so many a half hour agone.' Even so do his men (and there were fifteen score in all) and they go through the square and through it till nought is left afoot there save themselves, for though the gildsmen had weapons they had no armour, and then they come back and tell the Baron that there are a many women got into the big church there, but the rest are gotten into their houses belike. Then he hallos to have them out straightway: 'And if we may not have what we want in church and they good ones, then will we seek otherwhere; yea we will break down every door till we make up our tale. Forth go we now.' Therewith they all rushed on together horse and foot, for every man would have his share of the prey: soon were the church-doors staved and the reivers pouring in, and all was alike to them, nave and choir, and high altar even. There were men there besides the women and not a few religious amongst them; speedily were all the men slain, lewd and learned, and some few of the women to boot, and the rest haled out perforce and many hurt in the haling, and then would the reivers to horse at once; and some got it done and rode fiercely, the women before them, with but little order through the streets to the west gate, which none had thought to shut, or they might yet have ended the Baron him and his. But now those who had gotten there were enough to hold it awhile till others came: which they did, but not all of them; for while they fumbled over their horses and making fast their prey the gildsmen had drawn to ahead again, and fell on by three ways into the market-place, and many of them now had gotten jack and sallet and were not ill-armed. There then was the hard stour, for the gildsmen were hot with rage, and though they were not so deft in war as the others, yet were they now grown fearless with wrath and despair, and heeded not death or wounds. As to the women they were indeed a burden to the Baron's men, who yet would scarce let them [267] go to die for it; but also they were a hindrance to the towns-men, for many a reiver was spared the shaft because it would be like have reached the woman he held before him, and indeed divers of the said women were slain or hurt between the two of them. Fiercely then they fought but not long, for the end of it was that some of the reivers got to horse, they and their prey, and some failed therein, which last were slain to a man to the number of seventy and six; but the others and the Baron amongst them got down to the gate and rode out into the open fields; and these had with them many of the women. But they stayed in a mead before they were come to the Castle of Seven Towers, and told over their own men, and found out what the lack was. And thereafter they looked to their catch, what it was, and they told up fourscore and two, but five were dead on the road, what for fear, what for wounding: but of the rest they chose out first whatever was young and fair, and next what was young and comely so to say, and the rest which was old and uncomely they turned with their faces to the town and bade them run and see which should get back first to the West Gate, and they wanted no second bidding but ran back at their nimblest. But thirty and three was the tale of those they had away with them alive. And the Baron was ill-content with his bargain and swore he would be avenged on the carle-weavers who had hustled him and his so that they had no leisure to pick and choose but must needs [take] maid or dame or carline just as they came to hand. Thus said the women that escaped. As for the townsmen there, seven score were slain outright, and the next day were these buried amidst a great concourse who scattered flowers over them and praised their valour all they knew how.”

“Came any of the said women back again?" said Kilian.

Said the Guest, “As yet not a soul of them, nor hath one word come of any tidings concerning them. Judge then if the folk of the town were not sick of heart, yea so sick that nought might heal them save the slaughter of men. Now the battle aforetold befel three weeks ago; and two days after it [268] the townsmen went out of gates over twenty hundreds of men all told, and nothing might serve them but they must go against the Baron and get their women back. Forsooth how they thought to pull down the walls of his castle with their finger-nails they said not, for they had no engines of war.

“Well, so it went that they marched forth on till they were come to within a mile of the castle; and there was it seen how little the Baron accounted of them, for he and his were drawn up in array in the very meadow where they had sundered the women that other day; and when the townsmen drew nigh they whooped and mocked them, and cried out to them what they did there, since they had no wives to scold them out to the wars. Well, they heeded that little, and made no jest thereof but fell on grimly enough, and they were many more than the reivers, but most of them but ill armed and worse ordered. What will you? they fought valiantly, but mastery mows the meadow, and so it was here; for the Baron's men who were so armed as it might not be better, and were well ordered and knew their craft well, gave these poor people a great overthrow; so that not more than the half of them came back unhurt into the town. Forsooth few of them would be taken alive, but if they might not run, fought it out to the end; and wise they were therefore, for those who yielded them, the best that befel them was to be gelded and have their right hands sheared off by those butchers, and so be sent back home."

"Yea, yea," said Kilian, "but shall it end there? What did the townsfolk thereafter? Have they lost heart? "

"In no wise, as it seems,” said the Guest; "they have shut their gates and victualled the town, and made them engines for the walls and cleaned their dykes, and as aforesaid are getting together what men they may. But so dight and ordered as they be they will not go out and meet the Baron in the pen field; and therein they be but wise: for they have no chance against [him], more by token that he also is gathering men; and when he is strong enough they may look for him to try what like they be on [269] their walls. But there is this is good for them, Sir, to wit that on their east side, that is the side looking hitherward, they may fare afield with little fear of him, for he durst not scatter his men so wide as to hem them in all round. Now Sir and kind friend, this is my tale; and meseems the last thou shalt have of me tonight. But tell me first, what deemest thou of all this?"

"Guest," said Kilian," what I have to tell thee hereof might well be long in the telling, and meseems that thou a wayfarer on rough roads hast something else to do than wearying thyself with more talk; so I rede thee drink another cup and so to bed, but tomorrow when thou art rested we may talk more hereof."

"I am all-boun thereto," said the Guest , "and I thank thee; but there is yet one thing for me to say: thou hast not asked me of my name, and thereby dost honour to the custom; but now without more ado I will tell it thee, to wit I am called Michael of Higham, and since my father is but late dead I am called of some the Lord of Higham, for in our land we use not the name of baron. But of my father I will maybe tell thee more tomorrow, when we have done talking of the men of Whatham."

So therewith Kilian brought him into the solar and served him the voidee cup, and bade him good-night and then went and laid himself down in an ingle of the hall and slept the night away. When the morrow morning was early Kilian was afoot to bathe him in a well in the pleasance which forsooth was cold enough on that grey windy morning; but which was little warmer in midsummer, for it was from a deep and pure well which came bubbling up within the defence of the house, and was called the Well of Ward. Then he walked about and around, for he was loth to stir his guest so betimes, and he thought within himself that it was a goodly house to leave behind, if it were not that he had hope to come back and set it blooming again. For now this morn he told himself the very sooth, to wit, that he had a mind to wend his ways to Whatham and make them of the [270] town the offer of his weapons and body and whatso else of him might be of avail to them. And he was now in this morning tide no cooler about it than he had been the night before with Lord Michael's story yet in his ears.

Now he went his ways to a postern there was in the outer wall that led out on to the bent and the little vineyards of the House of the Closes and went amongst the vine-stocks where the new shoots were beginning to show woolly with the spring for all its coldness and the cutting of the wind: and presently he came upon Thomas Twiner who was stooping down pruning a vine-stock, and he gave the old man the sele of the day; and he rose up and looked at his lord and said: “Ah so it is thou, is it? Why hast thou not thine hobby on thy fist? The quails are about this morning and are all cowering down because of this bitter east wind; thou mightest have flown Greyneb to some purpose and got some more meat to feed the fine gentleman yonder, lest he eat us out of house and home."

Kilian laughed and said: "Fosterer, thou art at whiles over kind to me and my house and not kind enough to the rest of the world.” Said Thomas: “Well I have no great mind to be oversweet to this minion with his waxen cheeks and his round limbs; for I guess what he will do with me." "Why, what?" said Kilian. "He will take thee away from me," said the old man: "I heard enough of his talk last night to see the snare he had spread for thee." "He is a fair youth and told me a fair tale," said Kilian."Deemest thou he told me lies? " "Not altogether lies," said Thomas, "since we have heard something of this up in the thorp.' “Well, then, what is amiss with this lord?"  "Nay, Master Kilian," said the elder, "I must needs say that he seemeth to me kenspeckle." Therewith he stooped down again to his pruning: but presently turned about to his master and said in a hard voice: "The short and the long of it is, art thou going?" "Not today, fosterer, at least; so busk thee I pray and do thy best to serve us some good meat in the old house that we may be merry, I and my guest.” "Nay," said Thomas, "I must be busy about dighting thine [271] armour, since thou art going to ride; it has had but little furbishing since thy last riding." "My last riding!" quoth Kilian, fuming somewhat; "and why should this be worse? Came I not back the last time, yea and with some little gain withal? Yet was the stour stiff enow. Why should this be worse, I say?" "Why should it be, if thou wert not going with him." “Thou art somewhat of a fool in thy speech today, Thomas; yet I will tell thee this, that the guest hath done me so little ill hitherto that I am gay and light-hearted today. Doth that not glad thee?" "Yea," said Thomas, "if it might but last." "Well, well, "said Kilian turning away, "thou seemest to grudge me a little joy, but thy grudging shall not mar it. Now do what thou wilt, either go on with thy pruning, or furbish up my armour, or go help Bridget to see that we have somewhat to whet our teeth on today at least." Therewith he went his ways and went back again through the postern into the castle-pleasance.

Thomas kept his head down to his pruning till his lord was fairly out of sight; then he stood upright and began going slowly through the vine-rows toward the castle-gate, and presently fell to muttering to himself: "Well, I suppose my master will be wanting to set some dainties before this fine lad; belike I had best go and see if Bridget hath forgotten how to make marchpoul and galantine: and of the good wine is yet left some ten bottles. As for his armour, forsooth it doth need some furbishing, but that may well wait a little; as if he rides this faring he will not go tomorrow nor the next day be like." Then he held his peace again; but when he was drawn nigh the gate he began at it again: "After all is said, what better may he do than ride to Whatham? There shall be more credit and belike scarce harder strokes than in his riding to the wood. Belike it was not so ill that this new guest came to us last night. I have noted that Kilian is lighter-hearted than he hath been for many a day. Yes, I am glad that the young [man] hath come to us. "By then he was come to the gate and he found the wicket open, for the morning was wearing, and he entered, saying as he put his [272] foot over the threshold: "I would I had wrung his neck as we came up the bent last night! but it would scarce have pleased little Kilian."

As for the master of the Closes, he strayed now no long time in the pleasance but went his ways toward the hall; and the sun was breaking through the hurrying rack as he went, and there was a savour of spring in the air; now were the eyes of Kilian's soul set upon the world without rather than the desolate house of his fathers, and after his fashion he must needs fall a-dreaming of the days wherein he was to do, and the reaping of the harvest of fame, and he made pictures of himself amidst the good days to come, till he had well nigh forgotten the past days.

So came he into the hall and saw there nought to break his dreaming, for his guest who stood in all his beauty by the hearth seemed to him no figure of the past, but an image come to him from out the future days. Fresh and fair in the young morning, he seemed to Kilian even goodlier than in the past night, and yet now he wondered at him no longer, and he seemed to him the familiar promise of his good hap. Kilian greeted the Guest kindly and asked him how he did, and the Guest laughed and said: “Little must I have slept for scarce was my head on the pillow ere it was broad day again."

Therewith comes in Bridget with bowls of milk and good white bread therewith, and at Kilian's bidding, they fell to breakfast. And when they were done Kilian said: "May we hope that thou wilt not depart today, lord?" Said Michael, "It is thou must bid me to go if I sleep not here tonight." Then was Kilian glad, and he said: "Wilt thou come with me to see the empty places of the walls wherein my fathers dwelt?" "With a good will, " said the other. So they went, and Kilian led the Guest into the upper chambers all blank and void save the one wherein the old master had died; and he led out on to the battle-swale, and up on to the tower tops, and the top of the master-tower, and then down they went unto the undercroft below the great hall, which was [273]both strong and goodly with big round pillars and carven chapiters. And when they were in the hall again, and Kilian had spoken little all the while, he said: "I have wearied thee, good guest, so that thou shalt presently rue it that thou hast promised to abide another day with me: but tell me what seemeth thee of mine house? " Said the Guest, "A strong and goodly house, but over big or over little for one man. "Over big," said Kilian," but I wot not how thou mayst call it over little." The Guest smiled: "The world is bigger," said he," yet such men there have been who have well nigh filled it with the fame and noise of their deeds. "Kilian made as if he heard him not, and was silent awhile, and then he said: "Shall I tell thee what I am thinking of?" "It needs not," said the Guest. "This house of thine, thou lovest it because of thy fathers of old time; yet wouldest thou be fain leaving it, because it hath been as a prison to thee and banned thee of deeds and merriment and the love of women. And to speak shortly thou wouldst have me lead thee to Whatham and that we should be fellows in arms to lead the weaver-carles in battle and overcome the tyrant; and thou deemest that new life awaiteth thee there and that I am an image of new luck that hath come to thee. Is it not so that thou hast been thinking?"

"Thou hast told all my thought," said Kilian: "but now moreover--" "Now moreover," said the Guest, “thou knowest not what to deem of me, whether I am a man or some sending from heaven or hell or the home of thy fathers that were. Hearken now; did I not tell thee last night that my father was dead a little while agone at our castle of Higham, high up in the mountains and high up, where one day thou shalt be welcomed if thou wilt? Now a while before my father died he spake to me and said, 'When I am departed I would have thee do me an errand, and that is that thou seek out a man hight Kilian of the Closes who dwelleth nigh such and such a place (and he told me of thy thorp and how to come thereto) and if thou find him wealthy and happy come to him as a stranger guest to a strange welcome, but be [274] pleasant and friendly and so depart from him; but if thou find him poor and in evil case and downcast in heart, then offer thyself to him as a friend in need to better his case and lead him into wealth and good days; and do thine utmost for him in all that he may desire.' And then he told me that he bade me do this because thy father had in time past done well to him at his own proper risks, and saved him from an evil fate, and that he had never yet rewarded him for that same, though it were not by his own fault. Wherefore now see thou to it that whatso I may do to thee of good is thine heritage after thy father, and a gift from him to thee and freely mayst thou take it."

Now Kilian sat musing a little, and then he said: “But what was the good deed which my father did to thine, that so great a reward shall come thereof?"

"Trust me," said Michael, "that it was great, and well worthy of reward: but what it was I may not tell thee as now.”

Again spake Kilian after a while: "Guest, what I was going to crave of thee seemeth to me something quite other than what thou offerest. For I would have prayed of thee to lead me to Whatham and bring me to the Porte that I might enter into the service of the good town, and thou to be my fellow, as thou saidst. But now to hearken thee thou offerest me great things and marvelous, such as a wise man might do. Wherefore first I fear to take thine offer lest I do what might be against my soul's health: and I pray thee pardon me my fear. And again thou seemest to promise me such great things, that I scarce know how thou mayst bring them to pass, and I doubt that thy good will hath made the words big in thy mouth. Wherefore I pray thee pardon my doubt, for it is ungracious."

The Guest smiled, but he reddened also and said: “Once more, fair Sir, whatever I may do for thee is no gift but a debt which my father left unpaid to thy father. Take it if it may avail thee aught as thou wouldst any other. And as to whether I can pay it or no, herein is no wonder; I am a rich man, and in mine own land I am of mickle might. Yea and [275] withal think not that I do herein against my will, for I tell thee of a verity that I am become as thy brother, and that if I leave thee unhappy, it will be a sore grief to me, and I pray cast not that grief upon me.

Again was Kilian silent, and Michael spake once more: "At least I may do for thee what thou hast said thou wouldst have craved of me-to wit I will lead thee unto Whatham and will bring thee to the Porte, and they shall take to thee joyfully and we shall ride to battle together, and despite my seeming, I shall tell thee that I am no weakling in a stour. What sayest thou?" Said Kilian, "This at least I will take with a whole heart, and something more yet if thou wilt do it for me." "Yea," said Michael, "even so will I; but what is it?" Said Kilian: "More welcome shall we be at Whatham if we come there with some fellowship: now meseems there be some dozen of men down in the thorp that be not very fast tied to their craft here, and above all there is one good fellow of mine who hight Winnoc the Weapon-smith; he indeed would follow me at a word, and take all chances with me, but the others--how may I wage them?" "Heed it not,' said the Guest, "that shall be seen to and shall be a little matter. All the more as the good town shall wage them gladly."

They fell silent now, and the sun had broken the March clouds and a beam fell through the windows on to the walls while the wind yet rattled the window lights. Spake the Guest then: "So far is all well, and in three days meseemeth we may gather thy folk and begone. So now let us leave that awhile; for I would that thou wouldst tell me what lieth on thine heart; for already I deem I know thee well enough to wot that there is an unspoken word there." Kilian answered not.

Said the Guest: "Thou wilt not speak! Shall I question thee? " "Thou mayst do that," said Kilian. “Well,” said Michael, "thou wouldst have deeds to do whereof men may tell even if thou die in the stour: but this thou art in a fair way to get thee. What else is there?"

"Thou must ask me closer thereof, " said Kilian. "Even [276] so will I," said Michael: "Are there fair women here about? I mean not maidens of the field or the thorp, who might scarce dare to naysay thee, for all thy lack of thriving, but damsels and dames high-born and dainty, whom thou wouldst scarce dare to crave because of their wealth and high place; and with whom thou wouldst be shy and proud because of their pride and thine high heart, which durst not let thee foregather with the scorners. But yet is pride but a frail shield against love when he shooteth, and the eye hath seen and the ear heard, and maybe the hand touched." "Thou needest not go further on that road," said Kilian, "thou shalt not find me there."

“Yea,” "said Michael; "but mightest thou not have some longing for some one whom thou hast not seen? or put it thus, mightest thou not long to see one who should make thee sore with longing and hapless with lack?"

"Nay, nay, " said Kilian, "what are all these but pretty words: no man longeth to love until he loveth and longeth; and then forsooth he knoweth the lack and the hollow heart, and the bitterness, and the dullness of the world, that will not fulfil his desire or do away with it or lull it. Isay the minstrels have said fair words hereof, like as thou hast. But little is their meaning to him who hath been stricken with the longing for one woman."

Laughed Michael again now, and said: "Hah fair friend, did I set the springe well? Now is there nought for thee to do save to tell me all the tale as speedily and as clearly as thou mayest." Kilian laughed not, yet he smiled faintly and said: "Forsooth thou hast caught me, so I will tell thee the tale, and thou wilt deem it dull; for I am few spoken and no wise glib: So here is my tale, since thou must needs draw the heart out of my body. But moreover I am not so sorry to tell it thee; for though thou hast divined rightly as to my mind concerning the rich damsels and the unrich, yet I would not have thee deem me a womanhater, and like other men I have oft been confounded by the sight of a fair face and lovesome body; nay, what will you, by a lithe wrist or [277] firm-wrought ancle shown at due time and place. But this that I have to tell thee is all unlike that. Thus it is: It was no longer agone than last May in the early days thereof that I had an errand up in the wild-wood, it matters not what; and mine errand done, I was going homeward slowly (for it was midmorning, and I was but a score of miles hence) when as I rode a long slade of the wood, I deemed I heard some cry or shriek, and then certainly the howling of hounds. This was no great ferly forsooth, but I drew rein and hearkened; and thou shalt know that I was armed, in so far as to have on me hawberk and sallet, my sword by my side and a short boar-spear in my hand.

"No long while I had to abide ere I knew the meaning of that noise; for ere I could have told up two score came running forth from the thicket a woman in woful plight, for she was naked in her smock, and cried out no longer for she was breathless, though even yet she seemed fleet-foot enough. But hard at heel followed her two great sleuthhounds open-mouthed and eager, and I saw that it was but a matter of a minute or two ere they would pull her down; they were coming on across the slade well nigh heading toward me, wherefore I lost no time in thinking but stood up in my stirrups and cast my boar-spear at the foremost hound just as he had gotten a hold of a lap of the lady's garment. I smote the beast in the side and he rolled over dead but still kept a hold of the linen, and pulled the lady back thereby while she strained hard against his dragging, her smock rending from her, till the other hound made a snap at her thigh, but missed it, and meanwhile I had ridden at him sword in hand; and I smote him on the reins and sheared his hind quarters from his loins. Then I leapt off my horse that I might help the lady; but I had scarce time to note of her as she stood panting there and gathering the rags of her smock about her, that in spite of her disarray she was wondrous of beauty, when I heard the noise of horse hoofs and clattering of weapons and armour, and a weaponed man came down on me from the same place of the thicket whence the lady had [278] come. He cried out, ‘Thou man -at-arms, what hast thou to do to slay my hounds? keep thee, for I shall teach thee handier ways.'  I turned to him and spake: 'Thou art mad, fair Sir! When are knights used to chase ladies with sleuthhounds? They would have pulled her down and torn her if I had been a moment later with spear and sword.' 'It is thou art mad, great fool,' said the newcomer, ‘what lady was there? I was but chasing a hind that I fell in with, and laid my dogs on her: she was whiter and ruddier than most hinds but it is all one now, for the hind is gone and the hounds are slain; and there is nought but the fool before me. So come heave up the sword which thou hast in thy fist, and make the best of it, or thou art but dead.' Therewith he lighted down from his horse, and came toward me; he was a tall and big man and was better armed than I, for he bore his leg and arm wards. Now I trowed no whit in his words, but I looked over my shoulder to where the lady had been and saw nought of her; but I said to myself, Tush, she has gotten into the thicket being ashamed of her disarray; when the fight is done I shall find her and help her."

But therewith was the knight standing before me and he said: 'Fair Sir, if thou wilt but confess it that thou wert but gabbing about the lady and that thou sawest nought save the wan red hind that I was hunting, then may we thrust our swords in our sheaths, and depart better friends than we met, and thou shalt forgive me that I called thee fool, and I will forgive the death of my dogs.'

"I was wrath and I said: 'If I confess to thy lie then am I as big a fool as thou wouldst have me. I tell thee once again I saw nought but a woman naked in her smock, and thy two hounds at point to have hold of her; and I slew the hounds that the woman might live.'

"Then waxed the knight wood-wroth, and he cried out: 'Thou liest, fool!' "`Thou liest,' quoth I; and straightway we fell to, and I found him both strong and deft; but as it seems I was then and there stronger and defter, for in a while I had stricken [279] his sword out of his hand, and beaten him to his knees. Then I stood over him and asked him if he deemed the quarrel mortal, for that then I would give him his sword again and let him stand up to fight it out; else he should have his sword again and stand up to depart, and this he chose. So he arose and I reached him his sword, and each of us put up his blade in the sheath, and he did off his basnet to ease him somewhat, and now that his fury was departed, and he was no longer wroth, I deemed him no evil man of aspect, though he was not very goodly of face, a snub-nosed man with blue eyes and light brown hair cut very close to his head: so that I deemed it scarce like that he would have laid his hounds on a woman wittingly.

"Now I also did off my headpiece, and he said: 'Well, man-at-arms, thou hast had the best of it this time, and slain my hounds without paying for it; but now I look on thee I deem thee not a liar or a madman, wherefore to say sooth I scarce know what has betid, saving these knocks. But I am free to tell thee my name if thou wilt tell me thine.' Even so I did, and he said: 'I have heard of thy father and know that he was a valiant man; wherefore now, since thou tellest thee to be a poor one, if thou come any time to my castle which hight One-tree Burg and ask for Sir Gildard the Baron of One-tree, thou wilt find me there, and I will do somewhat for thee.'

"I thanked him for his word though somewhat against the grain, for methought he meant that I should serve him for wage, and I was not eager thereto: then he said: 'Well, now, will I depart home to my house, and meseems that thou wert best to go unto thy dwelling also: but I think not that thou wilt be so wise, but wilt go prowling around to see if thou canst find aught of the lady which my luckless hounds were at point to pull down according to thee. Now I wish thee well through thy dreams, and that I may see thee again well cured of them.' "Therewith he went slowly toward his horse and mounted and rode his ways. And I stood a little, only thinking of him [280] so far as I wished him well gone; and then when he had been out of sight so long as I thought he would by no means come back on my hands, I turned away into the thicket where I looked to find the chased lady or some signs of her; but of the lady I saw nought, nor was I sure for a while that I could see any token of her going, though I deemed I saw something like foot-prints; but the ground was hard and covered with dead leaves and the mast of last year, for it was a beechwood, and the floor thereof would show little any marks of naked feet passing lightly thereover. Now I had tied my horse to a tree ere I set out on my search, so I doubted not to go on a little. And I followed as the track seemed to me to lead, up a little rising of the ground, and when I had got to the top thereof, before me was a little dale well nigh clear of trees, wherethrough ran a brook, in one bight whereof was a flat space of white sand that led on, as I thought, to a pool under the rise of the further bank. But down on the grass anigh to where it met the sand aforesaid I saw a white thing lying, and lingered not, but ran down the bent thereto straightway, and had it in my hand in a minute, for it was nought else save the smock which the chased lady had borne, all ragged with the tearing of the hound; but a fair garment it had been, and was all flowered about the hems and collar with gold and silken threads. Great prize I deemed it, and set it in my pouch carefully, and then betook me to spying out the smooth sand betwixt the grass and the brook, and sure enough I found it trodden with feet both coming and going, and though it were dry yet could I see some of the foot-prints clear enough that they were of bare feet and small. Withal the grass was wet close to the ending of the sand. Then I drew forth that treasure of linen, and spread it out, and found that foot-soles had been upon it that were both wet and sandy. Nought more I found save that the track of the feet seemed to go over the grass and cross the brook lower down but without being in the water, as it was very small there, and who had crossed must have sprung across; and on the other side the ground was stony at first [281] and then hard, and scantily grassed, so that I could see no sign. But I went on as the path seemed to lead, for it was nothing worn; and I went swiftly at first thinking that I might come up with the lady tarrying somewhere about the wood: but it fell not out so, and I came into the thicket again, and went some way in it, and came across neither man nor devil nor lady. Then I made a wide cast about through the wood and came back again to the brook and the sand, and still nothing done. Thereafter I went and fetched up my horse and tethered him nigh to the brook, and went up and down uneasily, till the day began to fail; and then meseemed it would be hard for me to get out of the wood by night and cloud, and that I must make the waste my bedchamber; and I had a piece of bread in my pouch, so I drew it forth and ate it, and drank of the water of the brook, and thereafter when it was quite dark laid me down on the grass, and after I had lain awake a long while in the dark (for the night was moonless) and had fancied the woodland sounds to be voices of men and crying out of shrill women, I fell asleep at last, and dreamed nothing that I could remember. But I was awake but a little after the sunrise, and I stood up and again made a cast about through the wood, and all went as before, that I found nothing. So I came back to my horse and mounted and rode away, my heart full of longing for I could scarce tell what. And when I got back to the builded lands again, all seemed less familiar to me than the wild-wood, and that end of my life which I had passed there was now become all my life.

"So when I got to this house, I sat in this hall here betwixt thinking and not thinking, till the day was worn; and I went to bed and slept for sheer weariness, but when I awoke in the morning there was nought before me save the adventure of that day and the hope of following it up. Through that day I got somehow, and the next also still thinking of nought save my adventure, and how I might have dealt with it better, so as not to have lost sight of the lady amidst of the meeting and the battle betwixt me and the Baron Gildard; [282] though forsooth I scarce see how that might have been, for he pressed me hard enough.”

Quoth the Guest: "Many men have found that, ere now, and have not lived to tell it; and good sooth thou must be stalworth champion to have beat him to earth."

"Yea, and dost thou know him, lord? " said Kilian, wondering, "and art not of this land?"

Lord Michael reddened: "I know many men in divers lands," said he. "But go on with thy tale, fair Sir. Yet first I will say it that there is no marvel that thou missedst of the chased lady. It was little for her to steal away into the thicket when Gildard came on thee, and less yet for her to get clean out of sight while ye two were fighting; and she might well have deemed it meet to depart from two such doughty men as thou art and Gildard, and she in such woeful disarray.'  

"Yea," said Kilian, "but how about his tale of the ruddy white hind; for he seemed not to lie thereover?"

"Nay," said the Guest," perhaps I shall wot better of that when thou hast done all thy tale; for if ye met the lady again, as I doubt not that ye did, it must have been by her own will." Said Kilian (and now it was he that reddened): "On the third day then I took my horse and rode well armed to the woodland, and came to the place where I had slain the hounds. There I lighted down, and wandered about seeking some tokens of the lady a long time, and when I found nought new by daylight and it began to dusk, I must needs lie down by the sandy bight of the brook as I had done before, and as before the night was as fruitless as the day. So on the morrow I rode back home again sadly, saying to myself that I would seek no more. But again this time it went as erst, that I could not keep my mind off those tidings of the woodland; and two days were well nigh passed and I knew well that on the next day I should take my horse and ride off to the wood to be more unhappy than I was here."

But now befel a new thing; for as it drew toward evening on the second day came to me Thomas Twine [283] to wit that there was one at the gate who would see me; so thither I went, and lo! just without was a goodly swain clad in green with a gold chain round his neck and a golden bough broidered across his breast and shoulder, and he was sitting on a dapple grey courser, and led behind him a white horse exceeding fair with his saddle and his gear as goodly as might be. So when he saw me, he saluted me and said: 'Fair Sir, art thou he that had an adventure in the wood the other day, and slew two hounds that were on an ugly errand; and thereafter fought valiantly, as a good squire should do, in a lady's quarrel? And didst thou bear away with thee from the wood somewhat which belonged to the said lady?'

"So I said that I was even that man, and the lad said: 'Then it is to thee that I have an errand from my lady: and she biddeth thee bring her back again to the wood that which is hers, and to her and none other shalt thou deliver it. But whereas thou hast already sought long for her three times and hast not found her, she hath sent thee a horse, which she giveth thee, and he knoweth the woodland ways better than either thine horse or thee; and her will it is that thou ride thither after three days frist, not before nor after. Now fair Sir, wilt thou do her bidding? '

"So I, who scarce felt the ground I trod on, said that I would do according to the lady's bidding closely. 'Then,' said he, 'take the bridle of this horse and give me leave to depart. ' I said, ' I give thee leave, but wilt thou not first drink a cup of wine before thou goest?'

"He made as if he heeded that not, but threw the reins to me, turned about and was gone; and it seemed both to me and Thomas Twiner, who had now come thither, that he went no slower than might have been looked for; and Thomas said: 'Well, Master, if thy new horse is of the same race as yonder dapple-grey, thou shalt ride somewhither fast enough so soon as thou backest him. Forsooth whether it shall be to such a place as thou and thy friends would have thee to dwell there I wot not: for I should deem yonder beast no bad nag whereon to ride to the devil.’ [284]

 "But I bad him hold his peace and lead the beauteous beast to the stable and feed him well. Even so he did but went about it gingerly and as if he feared the horse, who nevertheless was nothing fierce or stubborn. As to me I went up to my chamber and there communed with the lady's garment, and forsooth it seemed hard to me to have to part with it which through these long days had been as a dear friend to me; and now I knew not if she would give me one kind word in reward for my bringing it unto her. And--to be short, my dear Guest, were I to tell thee how I bore myself during those three days tarrying thou wouldst deem me one of the many fools of the world.

"Well, the three days passed, and on the fourth morning Thomas Twiner brought my new gift-horse to the door, and I mounted the beast which was kind and peaceable, and therewith Thomas Twiner took my hand, and craved to be allowed to kiss it, and was dreary and woebegone as if he should never see me again. And though I smiled at his folly it was from the lips only, and I had no heart to berate him. For indeed it irked me that I must needs give up that dear linen. Forth then I went, and the goodly way-beast went swiftly beneath me to the wild-wood, yet not so swiftly as one might make a wonder of it in so fair a steed. Scarce I knew whether I guided him, or he bore me the way he would, but in due course he brought me to the wood-glade whereas I had slain the two hounds, and there he stood still; and I sat a little while in the saddle in doubt whether I should get down off my horse.

"But even in that while I heard again that cry of a woman and the howling of the hounds, and I wondered, but drew my sword and made ready; and scarce was the bare blade in my fist before once again came the woman from out of the thicket with two hounds at her heels, and ere I could do aught (for this time I had no javelin) they were close under my eyes, and in a twinkling I could see the touselled smock of the Lady, and the blue veins on her hurrying feet; and the white teeth and red tongues of the hounds, and the sharp [285] staring hairs on their necks--and then the next moment there was nought before me but the grass and flowers of the forest-glade; and thereat I sat struck still by wonder and some deal of fear.

"But straightway ere I had time to come to myself I heard a sweet laugh like the chuckle of the nightingale close beside me, and a clear voice spake: 'Ah, champion, must thou ever be thinking so closely of that deed of thine the other day, that thou canst see nothing ever when thou comest here save a lady chased by hounds? Now put thy sword in his sheath, lest thou lose it, and hearken to me.'

"If I were confused before by the vanishing of the chase in the twinkling of an eye, meseems I was yet more confused now, when I turned in my saddle and saw her standing close to my horse's head, even the very lady whom as it seemed the hounds had been at point to pull down and rend; but now she was no longer disheveled and ragged, her limbs scratched with the thorns and briars, her face writhen with the anguish of the flight from death, but stately and calm and sweet withal and happy-faced, as if she had just stepped out of a perfumed bath and done on her raiment to wend to some feast of honour and joy. Her eyes gleamed and the smiles played about her face as she stood swaying her body, but a very little, like the willow bough when the morning wind is at its lightest.

"As for her attire, she was so clad that she had on but one strait gown over her smock. Green was the said gown, and so embroidered with many colours of gold and silk and gems, that it was like a very piece of a meadow of that Maytide. And I sat silent and stared at her.

"Now she spake again, and the jeering had gone out of her speech, and she spake gravely and kindly, laying her hand on the bridle of my horse, and looking up to me: "Man with the grey eyes and the troubled brow, be more at rest, if thou canst be; for as to the show of the dogs and the chased woman, that I made for thee today, and there were neither dogs nor woman; but it was all otherwise the [286] other day, and I was there of a verity, and hounds over-real were at my heels, so that soon I should not have been save as a torn and mangled carcase had it not been for thee. Therefore fear me not, nor shrink from me. For I am not as the proud dames of the baronage, from whom thou shrinkest because of their folly and lightness lest they scorn thee. Be at peace, for my brother hath told me of thee, what thou art, and how thou art worthy of that which thou desirest. And now sit thou still on thine horse, and I will lead thee to a pleasant place where we may be together unmeddled with; and belike thou mayst be happy there for a little, O man of the quivering lips and the longing heart.'

"Therewith she did in very sooth lead my way-beast on into the beech-wood where I had strayed aforetime; and I must needs tell thee that the sweetness of her voice and her dear wheedling speech so pierced me to the heart's root, that I had much ado to refrain me from tears, and that the more as I saw that she knew my case. But somehow I mastered my rising passion, and I deemed that I was playing a sorry part to sit there mumchance while she led me on; so I spake at last, though I knew that my voice was husky and broken: 'Lady,' I said, 'this is ill and nothing knightly in me that I sit here in my saddle, while thou goest afoot. Suffer me to light down and sit thou here and I will lead the good horse for thee as thou shalt bid me.'

"She looked at me and smiled kindly up into my face, and then she let go the rein and stood a little aloof, and smiled on me again, and said: "Thou sober grey-eyed man, thou tall strong warrior, that lookest so wistfully on me, dost thou not remember then how light-foot I went the wildwood?'

“And therewith, she fell to drawing up the laps of her gown into her girdle till the hem of her skirts cleared her ancles or more, and I saw that her feet and legs were naked under her raiment, and methought that a full fair thing to look on. But she came back, her face blushing rosy-red, to the [287] bridle-rein, and took it and led on and said: 'Now thou wilt not be deeming that I shall trip and stumble in my skirts as I go. And truly my kindred are hard to weary and from their earliest days will gang and run swifter than most.' And she swept back the hair which had strayed about her cheeks and her neck and led on in sooth no slower than might have been looked for; and in a trice we were down in the little dingle of the brook, and had come to the white strand by the water; and there she stayed a little hanging back on the bit, and setting her feet firm on the edge of the green sward. And then she turned her face to me and said: 'That rent smock of mine, hast thou brought it with thee?' Then I set my hand to the scrip which I bore over my shoulder, and said: 'Yea, my sweet lady, I have it here for thee.' She looked hard on me and knitted her brow, as if wondering; then she said: 'Thou man of the troubled face, and the craving eyes, is it so that thou hast treasured up this rag; dost thou hold it dear, and will it hurt thine heart to let it go from out thy keeping?'

Quoth I: "To thee will I give it back without repining.'

She said: ' Is it so? Now I know thy mind, and thou shalt keep the linen if thou wilt; and it shall still be a treasure to thee.

“She looked at me yet a while thereafter, and then brake into sweet laughter, and I also laughed, for joy was growing up within me. But she said: 'Dost thou know why I laugh?’

" Said I: 'Most like because thou deemest me somewhat of a fool.'

"Nay nay nay!' she said, 'it is because thy face has changed so, and because I am glad to see it smoothened of all those troublous lines and wrinkles. But now must we on again, and meseemeth we be now like to be friends good and merry.'

"Forsooth I was indeed happy, and felt that if even I never touched her bare flesh I should be well content to look upon her beauty, and hear the sweetness of her voice; [288] for needs must I say that so besotted was I that I had no thought of ever sundering from her. So she led on up the brook."

"Hold!" said the Guest; "let me ask thee a thing; did it not seem to thee by then that she was of the Faery?”

Said Kilian: "At the first when she came before me after that appearance of the chased lady I did indeed so deem; she so clad and so alone, and with the jest in her mouth; but afterwards, by this time I am telling, I deemed not so."

"Yea," said Michael, "since she fell to wheedling of thee, and saying words to thee that were sweet for the covert praise in them, and because she spake in them what thou wert thinking of thyself?"And he laughed withal. But Kilian reddened, and his countenance lowered; and he kept silence a while; then he said: "Maybe it was so; but it is not that alone. True it is, that she has been more friendly and loving than I deem any such wild thing might be; and I have found neither malice nor guile in her. Moreover we have heard of the Faery that they be over delicate and frail of body, so as to be of air compacted together, and scarce to be touched by a man of Adam's sons, or felt as having a real solid body. But this one is not so but a very woman's body in all wise."

At that word came a change into Lord Michael's face, and he seemed to Kilian to grow older and sterner, and he knitted his brows, and his eyes waxed fierce and he laughed, but scarce merrily, and said: "Yea, belike thou hast found all that out, strong and eager man; and she hath given way before thee, and suffered thee to do what thou wouldst with her, and ye have lain body to body on the greensward of the woodland, thou loving man with the heart unsatisfied with loving?"

Kilian looked on him wondering, but he said with all courtesy: "Lord, it hath not gone in any such way, nor hath this lady suffered this of me. May all the saints bless her! But now I see that my tale hath wearied thee. Let us talk of other matters; or let us go abroad awhile and see [289] how my hobbies will fly this hard March day. And meanwhile, I will send Thomas Twiner to fetch hither Winnoc Weapon-smith that we may talk about our arrayal for the journey to Whatham."

Said Michael: "I am well willing to see Winnoc and to talk about our company with him: yet by thy leave, it shall be after I have heard what thou mayst yet tell me of this fair creature of God; since we shall say now that none other hath made her."

He turned a little pale as he spoke; but said again presently: "First, before ye tell me how it fared with thee afterwards, say somewhat as to what like she is; the fashion of her body I mean." And his voice and his mien was now as it had been before from the first. So Kilian spake in no doubt of him now.

"I shall tell thee that she is little like this fashion reputed of the faery kind, that they be as if wrought of blossoms and sunbeams, having nought to do with the wind and weather, and the rough earth of the woodland, and the raggedness of the thicket. For however she is of slender grace, and all carefully fashioned from head to heel, she is tall and well-knit, her arms strong, her limbs brawny and firm; nor is the skin of her made of snow and rose-leaves by seeming, however sweet and fragrant she may be; for her face is tanned by the sun and wind, so that the grey eyes gleam therefrom, and her lips be full red and sweet; and even so tanned or yet more are the hands of her from the wrists down; and her feet to the ancles not much less. So that again I tell thee that she is more like to a fair and dear lady who haunteth the summer woodland for her health and her pleasure, than any wight of strange fashion that hateth the race of Adam."

"So it may well be," said the Guest: "but go on now and tell me what she did with thee that day."

Said Kilian: "She led along swiftly up the brook, and we crossed it where it was little and shallow, and thence we wended a bent not very steep but right long, and beech-[290]grown; and the beech-wood held out for us down into a dell below the crown of the said bent and up another somewhat steeper; but when we came to the top of this one, there was no thick wood below us, but a pleasant slope of green sward besprinkled with thorn-trees and going down into a very fair meadow, wherein were feeding buck and doe, and other smaller deer, as hares and rabbits. And amid most of the said meadow were seven oak-trees tall and straight of some two hundred years' growth.

"The lady stayed at the top of the bent, and looked down into the meadow under the sharp of her hand, for it was now more than three hours after noon, and the sun was aslant the dale; then she turned to me, and asked me what I saw down there, and I told her as I have told thee. Then she laughed and said: 'Fair and kind man, there is yet more to see if thou wilt look aright.' Therewith she took a ring off a finger of her hand, and gave it into mine, and her fingers touched my hand and that made me glad, and I saw that the ring was of gold with a very emerald therein. Then she said: Trusty man, set this ring on the third finger of thy left hand and then look again and tell me what thou seest.'

"Even so I did wondering, and a mist seemed to come between me and the dale so that I could scarce see the trees thereof. This endured but a little, and then I cried out and said: 'Now indeed I can see more; for amidmost the oak trees is a full fair fountain of white stone and it hath imagery thereon and is parcel-painted with blue and with gold, and the water is running clear from the four sides thereof, into a goodly basin of work like to the shaft of the fountain; but I see no outgoing thence of the water, and yet it runs not over the lips of the basin.'

"She nodded her head and said: 'Now thou seest clearly all that thou shouldest see. ' Then she stood looking down with a smile as of one well pleased; and thereafter she said: "This is the Fountain of Thirst; and if thou be not weary of my fellowship we shall leave thine horse here, and go down thereto for our refreshment.'

[291] "Ye may well wot that I naysaid her not, but got off my horse and tied him to a tree and went down beside the Lady in all contentment saving that I had upon me a marvellous thirst for that water which I saw running and sparkling below us. Also presently as I went close beside her, so that her skirts came against me, I put out my hand to take hers, but she gainsaid it me, and I was abashed, and my face changed, and she looked on me and said: 'Strong and fair warrior, it is not meet that thou take my hand, not as yet; evil would come thereof. But I pray thee smoothen out thy face again, and be happy; for it irks me when the anxious grief comes creeping over thy face.'

"And so sweet and kind was her voice, and so friendly the look of her eyes, that I was no more abashed, for it was as if she had herself caressed me.

"Now we came to the fountain and it was no less fair anigh than I had looked to find it; but the Lady bade me make no tarrying to drink thereof, and showed me where was a gold cup standing on the rim of the basin; so I drank, and straightway was my thirst gone, but therewith also my vision of what was there before me, and meseemed I was in a wondrous fair garden beset with roses and flowers of the loveliest, and with apple-trees most goodly whereon were blossom and fruit growing together side by side. Moreover I heard the sound of harps and fiddles and other string-play, and the voices of folk singing in heavenly fashion; and next I saw folk both men and women, but all young and beauteous, and clad in albes of white and sky-colour, and rosy red, and fresh green like to the angels painted on the walls about the high altar in the church of St James by the Water hard by. And my soul was ravished with all those sweet sounds and sights, and meseemed I had never erst been so full of joy. "But amidst this I heard a voice saying close to my ear, 'Trusty man and dear friend, now thou hast refreshed thee with drinking of the water, let us sit down together and dine in the wilderness off such meat as we may.' Straightway then all that garden and folk vanished away, and I saw the [292] fountain before me and was besprinkled with the dash of its waters, and I saw the fair meadow and the ring of the oak trees. Yet felt I none the less happy for the vanishing away of that sweet garden and its people.

"Then I turned about and saw where the Lady stood holding out her two hands to me, and she seemed to me fairer and more lovely than erst, and each thing she did, and every way she moved, more beauteous than the other. So I took her hands and held them in mine and kissed them, either palm. But lo, now another wonder, for all the hot desire I had had toward her was gone, and my heart was altogether at rest; and indeed it seemed to me as if we had both died and entered paradise without pain unwitting.

"Sweetly now she bade me to meat again, and we sat on the green grass and ate of dainty meats and drank of what hillside [wine] I know not nor under what sun its grapes ripened: but dear and dainty it was indeed."

Thereafter she sang unto me in the sweetest of all voices, and so clear I heard the words of her singing and so clear was the mind of me to hearken, that I remember what they were, and ever shall do, and thus it was:

SONG. *  [Not written. Ed.]

"And when that was done we fell a talking together; and she asked me of my life in this lonely hold, and I told her how I lived from day to day: and I told her many things of my father, and tales of the fathers before him; and she hearkened heedfully and sat looking on me kindly. But this was strange that she wotted much of my father that is gone, and not a little of my telling of the kindred was not new unto her."

Said Michael, smiling on him: "That is nought so strange as thou deemest: thy father was a man of deeds, and thy kindred have been far famed and mighty, though thou now be poor and unknown. Keep up thine heart, this shall not long endure." And withal the Guest was gotten all merry again and debonaire and kind and friendly.

Spake Kilian: "Things also she told me of herself, but these she bade me tell no one else, so I hold my peace concerning them. Yet this is to be told that whatever she said made her seem fairer and of better conditions and wiser mind than erst."

The Guest nodded with a friendly smile as if he were well content and there were no need to tell him aught, and Kilian went on. "So sped on through the blissful minutes, till at last the Lady rose up and said: 'Dear and happy man, look how low the sun is gotten, and the hour of parting is at hand; but there will yet be times of meeting, if thou wilt. Hearken therefore. Whenso thine heart bids thee seek to me, back the white steed, and ride by the way he knoweth and which thou knowest now, to the Fountain of Thirst; and when thou comest thither, whether thou see me thereby or see me not, drink straightway of the water even before thou greet me if I be there. But it is like that it shall not be every time thou comest that thou shalt find me there; endure this I pray thee, and if thou have a mind to abide the chance of my coming, then abide it with a good heart; and in any case, whether thou meet me or miss me, I pray thee give me thy blessing when thou goest hence. Furthermore I warn thee of this: if thou fall in with me on thy way hither or elsewhere, greet me if thou wilt and speak to me what words seem good to thee, but save thou be here with me and hast newly drunk of this water keep thee from touching my body, yea so much as a fingertip of me, for evil would come thereof.’”

"Therein she spoke well," said the Guest eagerly; "see thou to it, my friend, as forsooth I hope thou hast." Kilian made as if he took no heed of his word, but went on: "Lastly she said: 'Look thou to it ever to keep the ring I gave thee on thy finger; for if thou come here without it thou wilt see nought of the Fountain of Thirst and wilt miss me. And herewith farewell, dear and friendly man.' 

[294] "Therewith she kissed me on the cheeks and the mouth, and I kissed her face and strained her to my bosom, and yet with no hotness of desire as it seemed. Then I left the fountain and the ring of oak-trees, and went toward where my horse was tied, but when I was gotten half-way thither, I turned back and looked, and the fountain I could see no longer, nor the Lady; but across the clear air of the evening came her voice, as clear as the best of the May-tide, upraised in song, and these are the words she sang:

SONG.* [Not written. Ed.[

"I rode home thence in all content, and with little pain of longing: but the next day when I was in my own house here, it all came back to me, and I must needs saddle my horse and ride to the Fountain of Thirst; and I saw the Fountain and came to it, but saw not the Lady there, so I walked about and about, fretting and fuming, till the Lady's bidding that I should drink of the water came into my head; and I drank, and again had the vision of the goodly garden, and thereafter I became at peace, and was restful again. And I abode there an hour, and then I said to myself, It is too soon after [yesterday], she will not come. So I departed, blessing her, and gat me home again.

"The third day thence I went again, and came there hard on the sunsetting, and she was not there. But I drank of the water straightway and thought that this time I would abide her till the morning. So when night came I laid me down and slept away the night in all peace. I awoke a little before the sunrise, and stood up, and went about the Fountain, and when I came to the east side, I looked toward the sun's rim which was just coming up, and lo the Lady was coming toward me, as it were from out of the very sun. And when she saw me, she lifted up her skirts and came running to me, and took my face between her two hands, and kissed me sweetly [295] and thanked me for coming, and for not grudging it, that she had not met there the last time. So there in all sweetness of delight we wore the day: and when we parted she bade me come henceforward after every three days' absence, and even so I did; and ever it was with me that while I was there I was restful, and longed for no more than she gave me, but afterwards when I was home again, I became the fool of longing, and could have no rest from it.

"Anyhow thus between good and evil wore the May-tide and the Summer, while still I went to the Fountain every three days.