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                           Troubadour Tales

[Illustration]




                           Troubadour Tales

                          _By_ Evaleen Stein

                            [Illustration]

                          With Illustrations
                           By Virginia Keep
                           Maxfield Parrish
                            B. Rosenmeyer &
                            Edward Edwards

                             Indianapolis
                       The Bobbs-Merrill Company
                              Publishers




                            Copyright 1903
                       The Bobbs-Merrill Company

                                 July

               _Printed in the United States of America_

                               PRESS OF
                           BRAUNWORTH & CO.
                          BOOK MANUFACTURERS
                            BROOKLYN, N. Y.




                             To My Mother




                               Contents


  THE PAGE OF COUNT REYNAURD      1

  THE LOST RUNE                  27

  COUNT HUGO’S SWORD             76

  FELIX                         132




                           Troubadour Tales




                      THE PAGE OF COUNT REYNAURD

                 HOW HE EARNED THE FAVOR OF KING RENÉ
                  AND WON A SILVER CUP FOR CLEVERNESS
                          IN THE LATIN TONGUE


“PIERROT! Pierrot! are thy saddle-bags well fastened? And how fare my
lutestrings? Have a care lest some of them snap with jogging over this
rough bit of road. And, Pierrot, next time we pass a fine periwinkle
thou hadst best jump down and pluck a fresh bunch for my Barbo’s ears.”

The speaker, Count Reynaurd of Poitiers, patted the fluffy black mane
of his horse Barbo, and loosened the great nosegay of blue flowers
tucked into his harness and nodding behind his ears. Barbo was gaily
decked out; long sprays of myrtle dangled from his saddle-bow, and a
wreath of periwinkle and violets hung round his neck; for the Count
Reynaurd was not only a noble lord, but also a famous troubadour. That
is to say, he spent his time riding from castle to castle, playing on
his lute or viol, and singing beautiful songs of his own making.

In the days when he lived, which was many hundred years ago, there
were numberless such poet-singers strolling over the sunny land of
France, and especially that part which lies to the south and is called
Provence. Many of the greatest of these kept little pages to wait
upon them and carry their musical instruments; and so it was that
Pierrot rode a little white palfrey by the side of Count Reynaurd, and
carried his lute, and gathered the periwinkle for the gay bouquets that
decorated Barbo’s ears.

It was May-time, and they were journeying through the lovely land of
Provence, which was quite enough to make any one happy, and the count
and Pierrot were fairly brimming over with good humor as they rode
along. They were bound for the old town of Aix, where in those days
stood the palace of the good King René, whom everybody loved.

Now, King René himself was a troubadour, although he could not wander
about over the country as did the others, but was obliged to stay in
Aix and govern his people. Yet he spent hours and hours every day
writing poetry and making up music for it; and he delighted above all
things to gather about him all who could finger a lutestring or sing a
merry song. There were always dozens of fine troubadours staying with
King René, and he was never weary of adding to their number, and of
seeking out the best in France; and so it chanced he had heard much of
the great skill of Pierrot’s master and also of another noble lord, the
Count William of Auvergne. The friends of each of these boasted that
none other in all France was worthy to be called the champion of the
troubadours. So René had sent messages to both, inviting them to come
and visit him, and to hold a contest of song, saying he would give a
beautiful collar of jewels to the one who sang the better.

In response to this invitation, the Count William was already in Aix,
having come the day before, after a long journey from his castle in
Auvergne. He was now resting, awaiting the Count Reynaurd, and pleasing
himself in thinking of the glory of winning the jeweled collar; for he
fully expected by and by to carry it off as his prize.

Meantime, Count Reynaurd and Pierrot trotted gaily along the road to
Aix. The almond-trees were in flower, and from one of them Pierrot had
broken a little switch covered with rosy blossoms, with which he now
and then tapped the flank of his little white palfrey, who would then
kick up her heels and frisk along at a rollicking pace. Pierrot’s own
legs looked lovely in party-colored hose, the right being a beautiful
pearl-gray and the left a delicate robin’s-egg blue; his doublet was of
pink silk embroidered in silver and slashed with white satin; and on
his head he wore a jaunty cap with a long feather. He was a handsome
little fellow, with bright eyes and dark curls, and as gay and lively
as the great black crickets that live in Provence.

His master, Count Reynaurd, looked very stately in a suit of
plum-colored velvet, with a collar of fine lace fastened with a golden
violet, which he often felt, so as to be sure he had not lost it and
that it was still tightly clasped. For the gold violet was a prize
that the count had just won in the town of Toulouse, whither, every
May-time, all the troubadours used to go and hold great contests,
called the Games of Flowers. At these games each one sang a song, and
the most skillful received prizes, a violet of gold and a rose of
silver being the most wished for.

So Count Reynaurd was very proud and happy thinking how finely the
violet would serve to clasp the collar of jewels he expected to win
from King René, and he smiled pleasantly when Pierrot called out to him:

“See, my Lord! are not those the high towers of Aix?”

Count Reynaurd looked ahead, and, sure enough, far in the distance rose
the city of Aix. They set their horses a-galloping, and in a little
while found themselves riding through its quaint, crooked streets, till
they reached the great square where stood the king’s palace. This was a
very beautiful one, strangely built, with two ancient round towers and
a wide porch with many pillars; all about it was a lovely garden full
of orange and acacia trees, and sweet roses and jasmines clambered over
everything.

Count Reynaurd and Pierrot dismounted at the palace gate, and were
led into the great hall where sat King René, wearing a blue robe
embroidered in bright flowers. He was an old man, and his hair and
long beard were quite white, but he was gay and happy-hearted as
Pierrot himself. When he saw the Count Reynaurd enter the hall, he
arose from his throne and came down and embraced and kissed him, and
patted Pierrot kindly. For René was not like most kings, who are very
particular to have everybody about them as stiff and uncomfortable as
possible.

Then presently the Count William, who had been walking in the garden,
hearing of the arrival of Reynaurd, came hurrying in, his own little
page Henri following close upon his heels. He greeted Count Reynaurd
very cordially, for he had often met him at the games of Toulouse, and
the little pages Henri and Pierrot soon became the best of friends also.

As the day was now drawing to a close, the good old king invited them
all into the banquet hall, where were already gathered numbers of
troubadours, and minnesingers who were the troubadours of Germany.
Some were eating and drinking; some were telling stories or making
up poetry; while still others were playing on all sorts of musical
instruments, and were altogether having the jolliest kind of time.

Reynaurd and Pierrot were very hungry after their long ride, and so
were glad to sit down at one of the long tables while the king’s
seneschals brought in roasted boar’s-head and venison pasties, and
large baskets of the fine white bread of Provence and of brown
marchpanes, which were nice little old-time French cookies full of
raisins and covered with nuts and poppy-seeds.

Pierrot waited upon his master very prettily, and then feasted upon
dainties to his heart’s content, all the while listening with delight
to the gay songs of the troubadours and minnesingers. By and by his
curly head began to nod, and he fell asleep while still munching a
marchpane, and slept so soundly that he had to be shaken when it was
time to go upstairs, where a little cot was spread for him close to the
great canopied bed of the Count Reynaurd.

So the days passed merrily on. But when, time after time, King René
fixed a day for the contest between the Counts Reynaurd and William,
they would plead that they were not ready; for they had grown so lazy
and pampered by the life they led in the palace that they dawdled away
their time in idle pleasure.

At last the king grew impatient, and declared that he would shut them
up, each in his own room, where they must stay for ten days composing
their songs; and he commanded that then they should appear before him,
and be judged and rewarded according to their skill.

So Count William and Count Reynaurd were escorted up the palace
stairway to their chamber doors, and each agreed, upon his knightly
honor, which was a very solemn vow indeed, that he would not set foot
beyond his threshold until the day appointed by the good king; and it
became the duty of Pierrot and Henri to bring food and wait upon their
noble masters.

But these two masters fared differently in their song-making. In
the apartments of Henri’s lord, things went far from smoothly; for,
although Count William was really a very accomplished troubadour,
yet when he found himself shut up and obliged to make a song, not a
word could he write. Indeed, poets declare that this is often the way
with them; most beautiful verses will suddenly pop into their heads,
sometimes in the middle of the night, so that they have to jump up in
the dark to get pencil and paper to write them down before they forget;
while, many times, if they have paper and pen ready, so contrary are
their wits that very likely they can not write a word! And so it was
with the Count William.

He fussed and fumed, but not even the least little bit of a rhyme could
he make; and the more he wished it, the more impossible it seemed to
become. He strode up and down the room; he snatched his paper and tore
it into bits; and then he scolded Henri till the poor little fellow
tiptoed out in his little pointed velvet shoes, and fled to the garden,
where he sat down under an orange tree, and consoled himself with some
fresh cookies that one of the kitchen scullions brought out to him. As
he crunched down the sugary morsels he now and then flung a crumb to
the pretty goldfishes in a fountain by his side; and then he wondered
what any one wanted to make up poetry for anyway, especially when it
was May-time and one might sit in King René’s garden, and above all, on
a day when King René’s cooks were making sweetmeats.

Meantime, across the corridor from Henri’s master things were going
on very differently with the noble Reynaurd and Pierrot. As luck
would have it, this count was getting on famously. He had composed a
most beautiful poem, and lovely music by which to sing it, and was
altogether so pleased with himself and all the world that he snapped
his fingers joyously, and fetched Pierrot a playful slap on the
shoulder, crying, “Hey, Pierrot, just listen to this!” And then in a
loud voice he began to sing.

Pierrot was so delighted that he clapped his hands, and declared he was
quite sure his lord would win the prize, and shame the Count William
into everlasting silence. Then he helped himself to a couple of great
golden oranges from a basket he had just brought to Reynaurd, and
strutted out to air himself, and to boast to Henri of his master’s
superior skill.

Meantime, Count Reynaurd sang over and over his new song, each time
roaring it out louder and louder, till his lungs fairly ached.

While all this was going on, the Count William, in a great rage, was
still striding up and down the floor of his chamber, which happened to
be across the corridor and at no great distance from that of the happy
Reynaurd. And, as it happened also, when Pierrot went out he forgot to
close the door behind him—a fact which Count Reynaurd had not noticed.
The door was very thick and heavy, and fitted badly between the stone
walls, so it was not to be wondered at that Pierrot did not manage to
latch it.

As it was, the loud voice of Count Reynaurd came rolling forth, and
suddenly the Count William, angrily pacing the floor, stood stock-still
and pricked up his ears.

Now, the count’s ears were famous for being extraordinarily sharp,
and he was also wonderfully apt at remembering anything to which he
had once carefully listened. He knew in a moment the voice of Count
Reynaurd, and then a broad smile crept over his face, and he listened
harder than ever.

As Reynaurd kept singing over and over again, it was not long till
Count William had the whole song by heart, and then, seizing his own
lute, he began practising it very softly.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed to himself. “Thou great foolish Reynaurd!
Canst thou never learn how to hold thy tongue? But never mind, I will
play such a trick on thee as will teach thee a lesson thou’lt not soon
forget. Ha, ha, ha!” And then he practised longer, till he knew both
the poetry and music as well as Count Reynaurd himself.

The next day, Pierrot, still exulting over his master’s skill, happened
to meet Henri in the garden, and asked how his noble lord was getting
on.

“Oh!” said Henri, “finely. He has just made a lovely new song!” And
with that he hummed a snatch of the melody he had heard Count William
singing, and which he thought his master had composed.

As Pierrot heard the music he could scarce believe his ears; first he
was speechless with astonishment, but at last he sputtered out:

“It is not true—it is stolen! That is my dear master’s, the Count
Reynaurd’s!”

“Pierrot,” burst in Henri, “I would have thee understand that my noble
lord, the Count William, does not steal, and is a far better singer,
anyhow, than thy great Reynaurd!”

From this matters went from bad to worse, till the two little pages
were just on the point of coming to blows; but, fortunately, at
this point one of King René’s seneschals caught sight of them, and,
hastening up, gave each a sound cuff on the ear, crying out as he did
so:

“Ho, ye saucy little knaves! Know ye not the good king will have no
brawlers upon these palace grounds? Take that, sirrahs! and see to it
that ye behave more seemly hereafter.”

The pages being thus forcibly separated, Pierrot ran as fast as his
legs could carry him up the palace stairs, and burst into his master’s
chamber, panting out indignantly:

“Dear Lord Reynaurd, the wicked Count William has stolen thy beautiful
song and will win the prize! And I tried to stop Henri, and—o-o-oh—”
Here poor Pierrot, still smarting under the cuff from the seneschal,
quite broke down, and was obliged to double his fists very hard and
bite his lips to keep back the angry tears.

At first Count Reynaurd gasped with astonishment, and then jumped up
in a towering passion. But by and by his wits came back to him, and he
remembered that Count William had always been a good friend of his; but
then his heart misgave him as he remembered, too, that Count William
was a famous joker, and loved a jest above all things.

The more he thought of it, the more sure he felt that William only
meant in some way to tease him, though he could not understand how
he had learned the song. Just then his eyes fell on the door, that
Pierrot in his haste had left unfastened, as usual; and then it flashed
through Count Reynaurd’s mind how Count William had found out about
the music. Reynaurd, moreover, had no doubt but that, before the king,
William would probably sing the piece as his own,—a thing which he
could easily do, as René had announced that they would be called on
in alphabetical order, according to the names of their domains; and as
Auvergne thus came before Poitiers, Reynaurd knew that Count William
would sing first, and that it would then be hard to make the people
believe that the song was his and not William’s; yet he determined, if
possible, to try in some way to get the better of him.

He thought and thought very hard for a little while, and then suddenly
he said to Pierrot:

“Pierrot, dost thou still remember the Latin tongue that good Father
Ambrose taught thee last winter in our castle in Poitiers?”

The little page assured his lord that he did, for he was really a
clever scholar in the Latin tongue, which both his master and the Count
William understood but indifferently.

Then Count Reynaurd called him close to his side, and whispered a plan
to him that seemed to please them both mightily. Pierrot at once took
the goose-quill pen that Reynaurd handed him, and after screwing up
his face and working very carefully, he wrote these lines:

  Hoc carmen non composui,
  Quod cano, quod cano!

and this he took great pains to teach his master.

The next day Count Reynaurd sang his song over again and again, and
Pierrot purposely left the door ajar. Count William noticed that after
every stanza there were two new lines added in another tongue:

  Hoc carmen non composui,
  Quod cano, quod cano!

At first this puzzled Count William very much indeed.

“Faugh!” he said to himself at length, “that ridiculous Reynaurd is
seeking to give a learned air to his poetry! I dare say he has picked
up those lines out of some old manuscript, and thinks to pass himself
off for a great scholar.”

Then Count William tried to make out the meaning of the words, which
were fitted into the rhyme of the stanzas in such a way that they
could not well be left out. He studied over them till he thought he
understood them, though, as it turned out, he was quite mistaken. But
as it was a common way with the troubadours to end every stanza with
similar lines, which they called the refrain, Count William suspected
nothing, and set himself to work to learn the new words.

The time that the king had allowed the rival noblemen was now almost
up, and in two days more the song-contest took place.

The great banqueting-hall had been beautifully hung with garlands of
flowers and gay banners. At one end of it the king’s throne stood on a
dais, and over it swung a scarlet canopy like an enormous poppy-flower
turned upside down. In the middle of the room were placed long tables,
and in the palace kitchens the cooks were running about busying
themselves preparing the great feast that was to follow.

By and by King René came into the hall and took his seat on the throne.
He wore a rich robe of purple velvet, embroidered all over in the
brightest silks and gold; after him came a great troupe of troubadours
and minnesingers, some carrying their own harps or viols, and some
followed by little pages who bore their masters’ belongings.

As the good King René looked at his gay company and the brilliantly
lighted hall and the long tables, his eyes sparkled with delight, and
his heart swelled with joy when he thought of the coming contest;
for he was never so pleased as when thus surrounded by his dear
troubadours, whom he loved to make in every way as happy as possible.

Then, when all was ready, a gaily dressed herald came into the hall,
and kneeling before the king, and bowing to the assembled company,
announced the coming of the two counts, William and Reynaurd. All the
other troubadours and minnesingers stood up, and King René smiled
graciously as the two noblemen entered, followed by their pages,
Pierrot and Henri, each of whom carried a viol bedecked with long
silken ribbons.

When the counts had saluted the king and taken their places before him,
he commanded a seneschal to bear in the prize; and so the beautiful
collar of jewels was brought in upon a silver tray and placed on a
carved bench beside the king. Then a herald stepped out, and, lifting
the collar upon the point of a flower-wreathed lance, displayed it to
all the company and announced the terms of the contest of song about to
take place.

This ceremony was a great deal better and prettier than the customs of
most of the other royal courts of that time. In all the lands except
where King René lived, when the people desired entertainment, they used
to gather together to see contests called tournaments, in which noble
lords tried to overthrow one another with real lances on which were no
garlands. But King René could not endure such barbarous displays, and
so in his palace no one fought another except with pretty verses, and
the best poet was champion.

When all the usual ceremonies had been gone through, the king called
Count William to step forth first and sing his song. There was a merry
twinkle in the count’s eyes as he took his viol from Henri, hung the
silken ribbons about his neck, and then, after striking a few soft
notes with the tips of his fingers, began to sing, as his own, the song
made up by Count Reynaurd. He went through the whole piece, although
each time when he came to the Latin lines he mumbled them over so that
the words sounded indistinct, and one could not be certain just what
they were.

When he had finished, the king was delighted, and all the listeners
clapped their hands and wondered how it would be possible for Count
Reynaurd to do better. Indeed, they looked rather pityingly on
Reynaurd, as one already defeated.

Then, when the cheers had somewhat quieted down, King René commanded
Count Reynaurd to stand forth and take his turn for the prize. Reynaurd
quietly stepped out, and, saluting the king, said:

“My royal liege, the song to which you have just listened was not the
work of Count William of Auvergne, but of myself, Reynaurd of Poitiers.”

At this, as Count Reynaurd had expected, every one looked incredulous,
and Count William pretended to be very indignant, and declared that
he had not been outside of his own apartments for the ten days; that
he had not set eyes on Count Reynaurd through all that time; and
altogether he appeared to be terribly angry that Count Reynaurd should
hint that the song belonged to him.

Count Reynaurd, however, asked but one thing of the king, who readily
granted his request. It was that Count William be commanded to sing the
song once more, and that each time he should sing the Latin lines as
plainly as possible.

Count William looked somewhat abashed at this proposal, and began to
suspect that a trap had been laid for him. However, he could not refuse
to do the command of King René, especially when it seemed so simple a
thing; and so he was obliged to sing again, and say the Latin words
plainly, all the while very angry with himself because on the spur of
the moment he could think of no other words to put in place of the
Latin refrain, which was so cleverly woven into each stanza that it
could not be left out without spoiling the rhyme.

The king listened attentively, for, as the Count Reynaurd knew, René
was a good Latin scholar himself; and presently, when the refrain came
into the song:

  Hoc carmen non composui,
  Quod cano, quod cano!

King René began to laugh; and he laughed and laughed till the tears
fairly ran down his cheeks; for what do you think the words really
mean? They mean:

  I did not make this song,
  That I sing, that I sing!

When the king at last managed to stop laughing for a few minutes, he
translated the lines so that every one could hear.

At first Count William looked very blank; then, realizing how cleverly
the tables had been turned upon him and he had been caught in his
own prank, he enjoyed the joke as much as anybody, and laughed the
loudest of all. Indeed, such a “Ha, ha!” as went up through the whole
banquet-hall was never before heard, and the very rafters seemed to
shake with glee.

The good king was so delighted with the entertainment that he called
Count Reynaurd and Count William both before him, and taking a hand
of each, he declared that the jeweled collar must be divided equally
between them. He at once ordered his goldsmiths to set to work to make
it into two collars instead of one; which they could very easily do, as
it was so wide and heavy.

Then the king had a lovely silver cup brought in for Pierrot, because
of his cleverness in the Latin tongue; and afterward the whole company
of troubadours and minnesingers and pages sat down and feasted so
merrily that, years later, when Pierrot himself grew to be a famous
troubadour, he used often to sing, in the castles of the French nobles,
of the gaiety of that great festival.




                             THE LOST RUNE

             THE LEGEND OF A LOST POEM AND THE ADVENTURES
                      OF LITTLE ELSA IN RESTORING
                           IT TO HER PEOPLE


              Eery, airy,
              Elf and fairy,
    Steep me deep in magic dreams!
  Charm from harm of water witches,
  Guide where hide the hoarded riches
    Sunken in Suomi streams!

As the strains of Elsa’s voice floated up and wandered away among
the cottage rafters, “Bravo”! cried her father; “bravo, little one!
Already thou singest like the April cuckoo!” Elsa, the little Finnish
girl thus addressed, smiled with pleasure, and nestled closer to her
father’s reindeer coat as he proudly patted her fair hair and gave her
an approving hug.

The two were sitting on a rude bench drawn out from the cottage wall;
and here they had been all the evening, singing snatches of strange
old songs, and toasting their toes at the turf fire that blazed in the
great fireplace.

It was barely September, but in the far North, the winter begins early
and the winds sweep with a bitter chill across the wide plains of
Suomi, the old name by which the Finnish people love best to call their
land.

Elsa’s father and mother—the mother was now drowsing over her
knitting, on the other side of the hearth—were well-to-do peasant
farmer folk. They owned the land, called from their name the “Sveaborg
farm,” and the cottage, which was large of its kind; that is to say, it
had two rooms besides the great living-room and the loft.

One of these extra rooms, however, was set apart for the use of
occasional travelers; for in Finland, through the country, inns of any
kind are very few, and at that time, as now, certain of the better
farm-houses were set apart as places where travelers might be sure of
entertainment for the night at least. As Elsa’s home lay on one of the
main roads, the cottage now and then sheltered one of the few strangers
who sometimes journey through the land.

The other little chamber belonged to Elsa, who was the only child;
but the main business of living was carried on in the great room with
the hearth. It was a quaint place, broad and low; the walls were
covered with a rough plaster, and overhead the rafters showed brown
with smoke; just below these were fastened two slender poles from one
of which hung festoons of dried herbs, while on the other were strung
a great number of large flat brown rings, which were nothing less
than the family bread for the winter. For the Finnish peasants do not
trouble themselves to bake too often, and they like their bread made
into these curious ring-shaped loaves which they thus hang away until
needed; nor do they mind how hard and dry it becomes.

On one side of the cottage walls were several large presses where
cheeses were making; and opposite these were two little doors that
seemed to open into cupboards; cupboards, however, where no Finnish
child would ever think of looking for jam or sweetmeats, for, as is the
custom of the country, behind the doors were fastened in the thick wall
two shelf-like beds, where Elsa’s father and mother slept.

But the chief feature, the heart of all the room, was the great
fireplace; at one side of it was built a huge brick oven, in which
Elsa’s mother baked the queer flat-bread for the family, and sometimes,
when the nights were very, very cold, she would make for Elsa a little
bed on top of the warm bricks, which was always so cozy that the little
girl did not care that it was a trifle hard.

The broad hearth in front of the oven was also of brick, and this
hearth, as in every peasant’s cottage, was the favorite gathering
place. Here through the long winter evenings, and days when the sun
barely peeped above the horizon, they loved to sit and sing over their
quaint old songs and repeat in verse the strange and beautiful stories
that have been handed down in Finland for hundreds, perhaps thousands,
of years.

Indeed, all Finnish peasants have always been wonderfully fond of music
and poetry, and, to this day, as in Elsa’s time—which was nearly a
hundred years ago—in almost every house may be found at least one
of the curious harps of ancient shape, which the people make for
themselves out of bone or wood. There are but few peasants who can not
sing some old story to the music of this instrument which they call
“kantele.”

Elsa’s father was an especially skilful harper, and Elsa herself seemed
to inherit a large part of his passion for music and poetry. He had
made for her a little kantele of her own, and to the soft weird music
she struck from its strings, she sang her little song,

  Eery, airy,
  Elf and fairy.

These lines, however, were but the beginning of a song intended to
charm and overpower the wicked water-witches; for, as all the world
knows, Finland is the home of all manner of fairy folk, of elves and
gnomes and wizards and witches; at least so all Finnish folk declare;
and innumerable are the charm-songs and incantations and marvelous
tales handed down from generation to generation, telling of the witches
and fairies of Suomi.

Elsa knew a great number of these song-stories and delighted above all
things to learn a new one. But, as she sat by the fire, the warmth at
last made her drowsy; presently the harp fell from her hands, and still
leaning against her father she dropped into a sound sleep.

The next morning was crisp and frosty, but the sun, rising in a strange
slanting ring, tempered the September chill almost to mildness. Indeed
the sun behaves very oddly in Finland; it was then circling round the
sky in its autumn course, never setting, as in our country, but staying
up a little way all night, and all the while weaving its spiral rings
lower and lower down the sky. By and by it would hide altogether and
not show itself for many weeks. So while the light lasted every one was
making the most of it.

Elsa was astir early; breakfast had long been over; she had swept the
house with the broom of birch twigs, and was now outside the cottage
helping her mother churn.

As she pushed the wooden dasher up and down, the wind blew the color
into her cheeks and her hair about her face. She wore a close little
woolen hood, a homespun dress and a long apron embroidered in bright
colors, and on her feet were wooden shoes.

All at once Elsa’s quick ears caught the sound of wheels.

“See, mother!” she exclaimed, “there is Jan of the Ohlsen farm; but
who, thinkest thou, is the stranger beside him?”

Fru Sveaborg shaded her eyes with her hand, and sure enough, saw,
jogging up the road, a pony dragging one of the odd two-wheeled carts
of Finland. As she looked, it turned into the narrow lane of birch
trees leading to the cottage.

Jan drew rein.

“Good morrow, neighbor Sveaborg!” he called out.

Then as the Fru left her churn and came toward them, he said:

“This traveler is Herr Lönnrot, from Helsingfors, who is journeying
through the country. Last night he passed at our farm and to-night he
would spend at thine. He wishes much to speak with peasant Sveaborg
about certain matters he is seeking to learn.” Then catching sight of
Elsa, “Good morrow to thee, Elsa! How comes the churning? It hath made
thy cheeks red as cloud-berries!”

Elsa shyly drew near her mother, as the latter greeted Jan, and,
courtesying to the stranger, assured him of a welcome at their home.

Jan then jumped from the cart to help Herr Lönnrot, who was an old man.
He had a gentle face with kindly blue eyes, and his hair and beard
were gray. He was wrapped in a long traveling cloak, and walked with
a staff. As Fru Sveaborg led the way to the cottage door he coughed
slightly and drew his cloak closer about him.

Within the living-room, the Fru hastened to set before them fresh milk
and bread, and then she and Jan gossiped a while over farm matters,
while the stranger, who seemed weary, went to rest in the little guest
chamber, which was always in readiness for travelers.

In the afternoon, as Elsa sat by the fireplace spinning, Herr Lönnrot
came into the room, and seating himself on the bench, began to talk to
her.

“Art very busy, little one?” he said; “canst thou not sing a song for
an old man? I trow yonder tiny kantele fits thy fingers as if fashioned
for them!”

“Aye, sir,” answered Elsa shyly, “if thou really wishest, I will sing
the little charm-song I have just learned.”

With this she took the kantele, and drawing a wooden stool beside the
bench began to sing. Though her voice rose somewhat timidly at first,
presently she lost herself in the music and poetry, and sang many of
the strange Finnish songs.

As Herr Lönnrot listened to the little girl his eyes brightened and he
smiled with pleasure; and when, by and by, she ceased, he drew her to
his side and stroked her hair.

He then questioned her carefully about the songs that she and her
father knew, and told her that he himself was even then traveling
through Finland for the express purpose of gathering together all the
songs of the peasant folk, though not so much for the music as for the
sake of the words, which he was most anxious to learn. He told her
further, how, for many years, the great scholars of Finland had been
certain that a great and wonderfully beautiful song-story, a story of
heroes and wizards and fairies, had become broken up and scattered
among the people, just as if some beautiful stained-glass window should
come to pieces, and the different fragments fall into the hands of many
different persons, and be scattered about so that no one could make
out the first picture unless all the pieces could be found and fitted
together again.

Now the song-story, Herr Lönnrot said, was made up ages before; long
before people had paper or pens with which to write. So the story had
been handed down from parents to their children, who sang it from year
to year simply from memory; for people had wonderful memories in those
days.

It had begun so very long ago, however, and the whole story was so
long, that the peasant folk had gradually forgotten parts of it; in
some families one part or rune, as the people called it, would be
handed down from generation to generation, and in others, some other
part.

Now Herr Lönnrot was a physician of much learning, and aside from
his work of healing the sick, he had a great fondness for beautiful
stories. He had spent much time among the peasants especially to learn
such parts of the lost song-story as they might happen to know, and was
now devoting his old age to gathering up as many as possible of these
runes.

And then, he told Elsa, he intended to fit them together and write them
down so that none should ever again be forgotten, and so that the
whole world might read this great Finnish story.

“Ah,” said Herr Lönnrot, with kindling eyes, “every one who has love
for old Finland should help save this wonderful song, for ’twill be to
the glory of our nation, even as the songs of Homer have been to the
glory of the Greeks!”

And in this Herr Lönnrot spoke what is perfectly true: for all wise
persons know that to add a beautiful poem or song or story to the
collection that every nation gradually makes up for itself, is rightly
considered a far more glorious thing than to discover a whole mountain
of gold and diamonds. And so the Herr wished greatly to find and
restore this beautiful scattered story to the poetic wealth of Finland
and of the world.

He then went on to explain to Elsa that the scholars found these songs
to cluster about three ancient heroes, and of these, one, the mighty
wizard Wainamoinen, was the most powerful of all.

Here Elsa, who had been listening attentively, smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “I know many songs of Wainamoinen and the rest.”

“Of that I am sure,” said Herr Lönnrot; “but there is one rune that
tells of the birth of the harp: how Wainamoinen fashioned the first
kantele from the bones of a magic fish, and how he sang with such
marvelous sweetness that all living things drew near to harken to him.
Of this rune I have heard many peasant-singers speak, but have sought
in vain for one who can teach me the whole of it. And I must find it
before I can complete the story!”

Here Herr Lönnrot sighed, and dropping his head upon his breast seemed
lost in thought. Presently a fit of coughing seized him; and then he
continued:

“Dost think, little one, that thy father knows aught of this rune?”

[Illustration]

Elsa thought very hard trying to recall the rune; she was obliged to
answer:

“Nay, sir; in truth he hath taught me many runes about Wainamoinen and
the others, but I know not how the harp was born. But,” she added,
“my father will be home at supper-time; he is helping thatch neighbor
Friedvic’s new barn, and perhaps he can tell thee!”

“Perhaps,” said Herr Lönnrot. “Thy neighbor Jan told me he thought thy
father knew something of this rune I seek.”

Even as they talked, a whistle sounded without, and Elsa clapped her
hands joyously.

“There is my father now!” and bounding to the door she flung it wide
open. As the peasant Sveaborg stepped within, seeing Herr Lönnrot, he
took off his cap and greeted him kindly, for strangers were always
welcome at the Sveaborg farm.

When the Herr told him why he was journeying through the country, and
of the lost rune he was seeking, Elsa’s father grew much interested.

“The birth of the harp! Ah, sir,” said he, “I know not the whole rune
myself, but I know of a peasant who does. I have heard him sing it,
and truly ’tis of marvelous beauty! But he is very aged, and odd,
sir”—here peasant Sveaborg tapped his forehead meaningly “and will
teach it to no one else. Even now, I have been told, he is very ill,
and like to die. I know not if thou canst learn aught from him, but if
thou wishest, I will take thee thither to-morrow.” And while they were
busy arranging the trip for the morrow, Fru Sveaborg came in, and with
Elsa’s help soon set out the evening meal.

As they ate their bowls of _pimea_ or sour milk, which is the chief
part of every Finnish meal, Herr Lönnrot entertained them with
wonderful stories of his travels and news of the outside world,
till all were charmed; and Elsa, especially, thought him the most
delightful traveler their roof had ever sheltered. Her admiration for
him deepened as the evening wore on, for the Herr, though evidently in
feeble health and weary from his journey, yet talked so pleasantly that
all were sorry when by and by he bade them good night.

The next morning at breakfast, Herr Lönnrot did not appear; but the
family did not think it strange, and supposing him still resting, did
not disturb him. Fru Sveaborg placed some breakfast for him in an
earthen dish, which she set in the oven to keep warm. Then she went
about her work.

But as the morning passed on, and still he did not come from his
chamber, she became uneasy, and sent Elsa to tap upon his door. As
Elsa lightly knocked, the door swung open, for there are no locks in
Finland, and there lay Herr Lönnrot, motionless, on the floor of the
room! The aged physician had evidently arisen, and made himself ready
for the day, when, overcome by weakness, he had fallen in a swoon.

Elsa, thoroughly frightened, ran to the living-room, crying out:

“Mother! Mother! Herr Lönnrot is dying!”

At this the Fru hastened in, and with Elsa’s help, raised the frail old
man and placed him on a bench; and while her mother did what she could
to make him comfortable, Elsa hurried to the fields to send her father
for the village doctor.

As it was a long journey to the village it was almost nightfall before
the peasant Sveaborg reached home.

Meantime Herr Lönnrot had passed from the swoon into a high fever, and
all day his mind had wandered, and he had talked strangely; sometimes
of his home and his journey, but more often of the lost rune of the
magic harp, which seemed to trouble him sorely.

At last the doctor came, and after examining his patient, said that he
was suffering from the effects of a serious cold, and that he must be
kept quiet and well cared for.

Then as Herr Lönnrot continued to toss and murmur, the doctor asked
Fru Sveaborg if she knew of aught that troubled him. As the Fru looked
perplexed, Elsa spoke.

“The rune, mother! Hark! even now he is speaking of it!”

And as they listened, the poor Herr, who had not the least notion of
what he was saying, exclaimed:

“The harp! Ah, yes, I must go seek it! the magic harp”—and here he
broke off into low, unintelligible words.

At this the doctor looked grave, and said that it was a pity that
anything seemed to be on the patient’s mind, as it might make the fever
harder to overcome. He then measured out some medicines, and took his
leave, after giving Fru Sveaborg directions for caring for the aged
patient.

The next day, under the faithful nursing of Elsa’s mother, Herr Lönnrot
seemed better, though still very weak, and when the doctor again saw
him, he said that with continued good care he thought all would go
well, but that the Herr must not think of going on with his journey for
a week, at least. After this visit from the doctor, Elsa’s father, who
had been waiting at home in case he should be needed, told Fru Sveaborg
that he must go to finish the work he was doing at a neighboring farm,
and as it would take him a day or two, he would stop on the way and
send the Fru’s sister to help her care for the sick stranger.

When her father was gone, and her mother busy about her work, Elsa drew
out her wheel, and as she sat alone spinning as hard as she could, she
yet found time to think of a great many things. She thought of the
lost rune of the birth of the harp, and of good Herr Lönnrot, lying on
his bed and chafing and worrying with every hour that his journey was
delayed. Then she thought of the peasant Ulricborg, and of what her
father had told of his reported illness.

“Ah”, said she to herself, “what if he die before Herr Lönnrot can
travel thither! Then the rune may be lost forever, and dear Herr
Lönnrot can never, never finish the beautiful song-story!” The more she
thought about it, the more Elsa became convinced that something should
be done, and that without delay.

She turned over in her mind a great many plans, and presently an idea
occurred to her that made her smile happily; and, jumping up, she ran
out to where Fru Sveaborg was arranging her milk-pans in the sun.

“Mother,” said Elsa, “mother, I wish to go to the peasant Ulricborg!”

“Why, child,” exclaimed her mother in amazement, “what dost thou wish
with the peasant Ulricborg?”

“I wish to learn from him the lost rune, so that Herr Lönnrot can
finish the beautiful song-story! He may die before the Herr can see
him!”

“But,” protested her mother, “thou canst not go alone, and thy father
is too busy to go with thee now.”

“But, mother,” said Elsa, “’tis no such great journey; thou knowest I
went thither once with father in the sleigh two years ago, and truly it
seemed not far!” Elsa did not realize how swiftly a sleigh will speed
over many, many miles. “I shall meet carts on the way, and I can stop
at the Ringstrom farm to-night.”

Now Fru Sveaborg was a simple soul who had never been far beyond her
own home, and as the child pleaded so earnestly to go, at last she
consented, although somewhat against her will.

Elsa was overjoyed, and at once made her little preparations to start.
She got a small basket of birch bark and in it her mother placed some
black bread and cheese, a few herrings and a bottle of milk. Then
putting on her thick woolen cloak and hood, and taking her kantele in
one hand and the basket in the other, off she started.

Fru Sveaborg bade her good by. “Be careful, child!” she said; “keep to
the highroad, and be sure to stay to-night at the Ringstrom farm!”

“Good by, mother!” Elsa called back, “and do not fear for me; I know
the way!”

With this she tripped down the lane of birch trees and turned into the
road to the east. By and by she was overtaken by a little Finland pony
trundling along a two-wheeled cart. As the driver of the cart happened
to be a young boy she knew, she was glad to climb in beside him.
They rode thus for a number of miles till they reached a cross-road
where Elsa’s friend told her he must turn off; so she jumped out, and
thanking him for her ride, bade him good by and trudged on along the
highway.

Presently she began to feel hungry, for it was long past noon, and
looking about, she saw a pretty tuft of green moss under a tall birch
tree; and sitting down, she opened her basket and ate some of the
contents. She thought she would rest a little while before going on, so
she wrapped her cloak close about her and leaned back against the birch
tree,—till—by and by—her eyes began to blink and blink, and before
she knew it the little girl was sound asleep.

She did not know how long she slept, but at length, just in the midst
of a beautiful dream about magic fishes and harps and wizards, she gave
a shiver and waked up.

She rubbed her eyes for a minute, and involuntarily drew her cloak
closer, for it had grown chilly.

At first, as Elsa gazed around, she thought she must still be asleep
and dreaming of cloudland! But presently she realized that she was not
in the clouds, but in the midst of a dense fog, such as often comes
up in Finland without warning, and covers up the fields and woods as
completely as any cloud might do.

Now, being a Finnish child, Elsa’s first thought was of the hobgoblins
and prankish fairies of the fog who, as every Finlander knows, float
about in their mantles of mist seeking to do mischief to unwary
travelers.

So Elsa at once began to sing in a high, clear voice a little
charm-song; not the one she had sung in the farm house to Herr Lönnrot,
but a song intended especially to ward off the wicked fairies of the
fog. It began like this:

      Fogs of Finland,
      Floating inland,
  From the fairy-haunted sea,
      Have a care now,
      See ye bear now
  No unfriendly folk to me!

As Elsa sang she cautiously stepped along, she knew not where; till,
faintly through the thick shrouding mist, there came the soft tinkle,
tinkle of a little bell. Listening, she knew at once that it must be
fastened to the collar of some cow, for such bells in Finland are very
sweet-toned and clear.

Sure enough, in a little while she heard the trampling of hoofs, and
the whole herd, drawn by the sound of her voice, was thronging about
her.

But Elsa was used to the herds on her father’s farm, and was really
glad to feel the warm breath of the gentle little Finnish cows. As the
leader came close to her she put up her hand and patted its nose; then
slipping her fingers through the narrow leathern strap from which the
bell hung, she walked along beside the cow.

This proved to be the very best thing she could have done; for the herd
was going home, and the cows seemed to know their way instinctively,
even in spite of the white fog.

They walked thus a long way, till after a while the fog began to lift
somewhat; and though it was growing dusk Elsa could distinguish the
outline of a comfortable-looking farmhouse. It was not the Ringstrom
farm, where she had expected to pass the night, but a strange place
that she had never before seen. The usual lane of birch trees led up to
the house, and behind it was a long, low barn, whither the cows seemed
to be directing their way.

As she walked along beside them she was thinking of what she had best
do, and she found herself very much perplexed. In truth she had set
out upon a very difficult errand for a little girl, and had good Fru
Sveaborg had the least idea of the distance or possible dangers of the
journey she never would have given her consent; while had Elsa’s father
been at home,—but then it is useless thinking things might have been
managed differently. Meanwhile there was Elsa trudging along in the
midst of the herd, wondering much who were the dwellers at the farm,
and, on the whole, not a little frightened.

By this time she had a pretty definite idea that she had started on a
rather reckless undertaking, and she fancied that perhaps the people at
the farm might think so too, and would not allow her to go farther; and
as she was determined at any risk to reach the peasant Ulricborg and
save the rune, she decided at last that she would not go to the house.

So she kept with the herd, and when the cows reached the door of
the great barn, she slipped in between them, unseen in the fog and
gathering dusk; for though the sun would not quite disappear, it hung
low and dim on the horizon and shed but faint light through the misty
air. Within, the barn was arranged much like the one at her home,
though on a far larger scale. In one corner was a large pile of soft
sweet-smelling hay, and going to this Elsa set down her basket and
kantele, and curled herself up for the night.

As she looked about through half-shut, sleepy eyes, she saw in the
center of the wide earthen floor a stone fireplace, and there
over some blazing fagots stood a great iron kettle; beside it two
ruddy-faced girls were hard at work stirring the long marsh grass that
was boiling for the cows’ supper. Elsa would have very much liked to
make herself known to these girls, for she was used to doing things
openly and did not at all enjoy hiding there in the corner; but then
she thought of the precious rune and the possibility that they might
stop her journey, and so she remained quiet. As she nestled down in the
soft, warm hay, however, she thought to herself that they could not
possibly mind having a little girl sleep in it for just one night, and
so reasoning she kept on drowsily watching the movements of the two
girls.

After a while they dipped out the soft food and fed the cows; and then,
when they had milked them, one of the girls poured out a bowlful of new
milk and set it beside the stone hearth, and then they both went off
singing toward the house.

Now Elsa knew, as every little Finnish farm girl knows, that the fresh
milk was set there for the fairies; for should any roving band of elfin
people chance to wander thither, they might be vexed and do mischief
if they did not find a fresh, sweet draft awaiting them. So Elsa felt
quite safe, sure that the fairies would not trouble her; and, by and
by, lulled by the soft breathing of the cows, she fell asleep.

Very early in the morning she awoke, and though at first much
bewildered, she soon remembered everything, and determined to slip away
before any one should find her.

So fastening her cloak and taking her little belongings, she again set
forth. As she stepped out in the early morning light, a white frost
glittered over the fields; and as she gazed around seeking the road,
she saw a faintly-marked path that seemed to lead to the highway. She
made a little breakfast from the things she found in her basket, and
then walked on; but the path, instead of leading to the highroad,
took her farther and farther from it, for she did not know that the
farm whither the cows had led her was a long distance from the way she
wished to follow.

Indeed Elsa was lost; and as she went on the country grew wilder and
more rugged. Before she knew it the path had disappeared altogether and
she could find no trace of it; and as far as she could see, there was
no living being near.

All the while she was becoming more and more frightened, yet still
bravely she went on, vainly seeking the road. Before long she came to a
dense wood of firs, and thinking that perhaps the way lay just beyond,
she slowly entered the forest, stepping timidly between the dark
resinous trees. Once or twice she trembled as a fox crossed her path,
but, by and by, as she looked ahead, her heart fairly stood still with
terror. For there in the distance, where a great ledge of rocks cropped
out of the ground, she saw a large brown something; and the more she
looked the more certain she felt that it was a bear.

And true enough, it was a bear, “honey-paw,” as Elsa would have said,
for so the Finlanders call the brown bear, because of his great liking
for wild honey. Now, as it happened, this particular honey-paw was for
the time so intent upon his own affairs that at first he did not see
Elsa. He was walking carefully round and round the great mass of rock,
hunting a good spot where he might curl up, bear fashion, and sleep
through the coming winter. He had been looking at these rocks for many
days, as is the custom of bears, trying to decide which of the little
caves they offered would suit him best for his long sleep; and he was
still perplexed about it when he happened to look in Elsa’s direction.

The little girl was standing still, frozen with terror, when he saw
her. Perhaps he would not have noticed her had it not been for the red
hood she wore, which, of course, could be seen for a long distance.
When honey-paw realized, however, that some one was looking at him,
he was greatly displeased; for when bears are selecting their winter
hiding places they like to keep the matter as secret as possible. So
with a little growl of resentment he started toward her. At this Elsa
uttered a scream and, dropping her basket, took to her heels, running
as fast as she could, she knew not whither. The bear followed, at an
awkward pace, but when he came up and sniffed at her basket she was
already far in the distance.

As good fortune would have it, in her wild flight Elsa had come to the
edge of one of the great bogs that cover so large a part of Finland,
and her light steps had taken her some distance over its uncertain
surface. On she went, springing lightly from tussock to tussock of the
coarse grass, till at last she reached a little space of firmer ground,
and sank down, exhausted, upon the fallen trunk of a willow tree.

Meantime honey-paw also had come to the edge of the bog, but after
a few cautious steps had found himself too heavy to gain a foothold
on the soft ground, so with another sniff or two he turned about and
trotted off.

When Elsa saw him going away, she was so worn out with fright, and so
very tired, that she did just what any other little girl would have
done: she began to cry, and cried and cried as if her heart would
break. She sat there sobbing a long time, and was quite sure she would
have to stay in that little spot the rest of her life, till the wicked
bog witches found her or the bears ate her up; for she did not think
she could ever venture on alone.

Indeed she cried so hard that she did not notice that she was quite
near the bank of a good-sized river that flowed to the east, nor did
she know that after a while a large flat-boat drifted in sight. It was
laden with a great number of bark-bound barrels, and on the deck a man
stood guiding the boat with a long pole. As it floated slowly along,
the boatman saw Elsa, and called out in surprise.

“Ho, little one! what dost thou in yonder bog? Art lost?” When Elsa
heard him, she quickly looked up, and begged piteously that he take her
away from that dangerous spot!

“That will I do right gladly,” said he; and directing her how to reach
the bank in safety, he guided his boat to land and then helped Elsa
aboard.

He gave her a little box on which to sit, and told her that the heavy
barrels arranged in rows in the boat were filled with turpentine which
he was floating down the river from the pine woods farther inland. Then
looking curiously at Elsa, who sat there still tightly holding her
little kantele, which she had unconsciously kept through her flight
from honey-paw, he said:

“But who art thou, little one?”

The man had a good face and a kindly manner that quite reassured
Elsa, who, now that her fear of the bear was relieved, had begun to
wonder who her companion might be. When she told him her name, “Ah,” he
exclaimed, “I know thy father well! But whither art thou going all by
thyself?”

When Elsa told him of her journey to the peasant Ulricborg, he looked
astonished, but told her to have no fear, as he would see her safely to
the Ulricborg home, which was down the very river on which they were
floating, and at no great distance from the bank.

As the boat glided along Elsa’s new friend beguiled the time by telling
her of the great pine forests whence he had come, and explaining how
the pitch and turpentine were harvested. After a while when he asked
if she would sing him a little song, she gladly assented; and striking
the strings of her little harp, she sang a Finnish boat-song, her voice
ringing out clear and sweet on the frosty air, through which some big
snowflakes were beginning to fall. She had scarcely finished her song
when she noticed that they were no longer in the center of the stream,
but that the boatman was deftly turning his craft sidewise and guiding
it toward the bank.

In a few minutes he had made it fast to a stout oak tree that grew
near the water’s edge, and then helping Elsa out, he took her hand and
led her up a narrow path between tall grasses and yellowing willows;
then turning into a lane they came toward a small weather-beaten house
standing in the midst of a little group of fir trees. The door stood
open, and a short distance from the house they spied a bent old woman
gathering pine cones in the forest close by. She had her apron filled,
and presently, turning around and seeing her visitors, she straightened
herself as best she could and came toward them with greetings. As she
drew near, Elsa saw that her face was withered and wrinkled, and her
hands brown with toil.

“Good morrow, Dame Ulricborg!” said the boatman, “and how fares thy
goodman to-day?”

“Ah,” answered the dame, “he is very weak and grows more feeble every
day. This twelve-month past he hath scarce left his bed, and ’tis weary
work for an old woman to keep the kettle boiling and the thatch mended
over our heads.”

“True,” said the boatman, sympathetically, “thou hast done well, Dame
Ulricborg!” Then looking down at Elsa, he added: “Here is a little girl
come to see thee.”

The old dame looked curiously at Elsa; then, as the latter held up her
little skirt and asked the dame if she might not help carry the cones,
she grew more kindly and led the way to the house. But the boatman,
seeing Elsa thus safe at her journey’s end, bade them good by and
hastened back to his boat.

Now, Dame Ulricborg very much wondered what the little girl could
possibly wish with her; but as it is considered unkind to question a
guest as to his coming, she said nothing, but waited for Elsa to make
known her errand.

[Illustration]

As they drew near the door of the house, Elsa hastened to explain to
her how she had come, and how she hoped to learn the rune from the lips
of the aged peasant Ulricborg. At this the old woman, who had listened
attentively, shook her head.

“Ah, little one,” said she, “thou little knowest how feeble he hath
grown! He hath strange fancies, too, and I doubt if he will wish to let
thee learn it. He hath never been willing to teach it to any one. But,”
she added, “thou canst at least ask, if thou wishest.”

By this time they had reached the threshold of Dame Ulricborg’s home,
and stepped within. The house was bare, but not uncomfortable; some
rings of flat-bread hung from the ceiling; there was a spinning-wheel,
two or three benches, and, on the wall over the fireplace, a kantele.

The dame told Elsa to draw one of the benches near the fire and warm
herself, while she went into the next room to see how her sick husband
fared, as she had been obliged to leave him all alone when she went to
gather the cones.

By and by the dame came back, and shaking her head sadly, said to Elsa:

“Nay, to-day ’tis useless; his thoughts are wandering and he will
notice nothing. ’Tis often so when he grows overweary. But thou must
bide the night with us, and it may be in the morning he will be better.”

So Elsa helped Dame Ulricborg build up the fire till it blazed brightly
with the crackling resinous cones, and then as the afternoon waned, she
made herself useful in many little ways as they set out their simple
evening meal.

Elsa thought no _pimea_ and black bread had ever tasted quite so good,
for she was very hungry after her long day, and Dame Ulricborg smiled
at her enjoyment. Indeed by the time Elsa crept into the queer little
cupboard bed that the dame spread for her, she had so won the latter’s
heart that she bent over and kissed the little girl with a pathetic
tenderness; for it had been a long, long time since poor old Dame
Ulricborg had had any young life about her. Her own little girl had
slept in the village churchyard for many years.

The next morning, after they had breakfasted together, the dame told
Elsa that she might see peasant Ulricborg, who seemed somewhat brighter
with the new day. So taking Elsa by the hand she led her into the room
where lay the sick peasant.

He looked very old and feeble; his hair was white as snow, and his thin
cheeks drawn into innumerable wrinkles. Elsa went timidly over and
stood by his bedside, and in a low quivering voice she made known her
request. She told him of Herr Lönnrot’s labors to save the beautiful
song-story of Wainamoinen, and of his great desire to learn the lost
rune that peasant Ulricborg alone knew; how he wished to write it down,
so that it might never again be forgotten and that all the world might
enjoy its beauty.

As she spoke, the old man looked at her with dim blue eyes, and seemed
to listen as one in a dream. When she ceased, he appeared for a moment
lost in thought; then he said slowly and dreamily:

“Yes, thou shalt learn it, Aino; thou shalt hear of the birth of the
harp, of the magic fish and of the mighty hero Wainamoinen, little
Aino.”

“’Tis our own little maid, Aino, that we lost so long ago!” whispered
the old dame to Elsa, as the tears streamed down her face; “thou art so
like her!”

But she hushed her whisper, as suddenly the old peasant began to sing
in a weak, quavering voice that seemed to grow stronger as he sang,
the beautiful lines telling how the ancient Wainamoinen fashioned the
first harp, and how he sang till all the birds forsook their nests, the
fishes their deep sea homes, and all the creatures of the woods, nay,
the very trees themselves, trooped forth from the forests that they
might listen to his enchanting music.

As Elsa heard, the tears came into her own eyes, for she was a poetic
little soul and quickly touched by anything beautiful. When the peasant
Ulricborg had almost finished the rune, he suddenly broke off and lay
back on his pillow exhausted. He lay for so long a while with closed
eyes, that both the dame and Elsa grew frightened; but presently
he again looked at them, his vision becoming brighter; in a little
while all seemed to grow clear to him. He gazed kindly at Elsa, for
something about the little girl seemed strangely to soften the old man.
He noticed her little kantele, and it seemed to interest him, as he
motioned her to lay it beside him. He looked at it a while, and tried
once or twice to touch its strings to music, but his strength failed
him.

Presently, he said feebly:

“Ah, I thought thou wert Aino come back for me!—but never mind—the
rune thou wishest, I can not show thee its music now,”—here he looked
sadly at his stiffened fingers, “but the rune itself, yes, thou shalt
have it, little one!” Then he added slowly, as he gazed dreamily into
Elsa’s shining eyes:

“For thou, too, wilt love it truly!”

Here, as he paused a while, Dame Ulricborg could scarcely hide her
amazement, knowing how often before he had wilfully refused the same
request from others. Indeed, the peasant Ulricborg had all his life
loved poetry with a singular passion; and this particular rune, which
had come down in his family, he seemed to set apart as something almost
sacred; he treasured its verses as misers hoard gold pieces. Whether he
thought it too beautiful to be made overcommon, or for what reason, no
one knew; that was his oddity. So, while he sang it sometimes to those
he considered worthy, he would teach it to none.

And now at last, as he promised it to Elsa, Dame Ulricborg thought
sadly that the promise came too late; for how could he teach it to the
little girl, when every breath was such weary effort? And she knew he
was unable to write readily even if he had the strength.

But having rested a little, he motioned her to bend down, and then he
whispered something to her. She listened with a look of surprise, and
then hastened into the living room, and opening a little cupboard,
searched, till in the farthest corner she found a small box, and this
she brought to the bedside. As she opened it, out fluttered some thin
old sheets of paper, closely written over and yellow with age.

The old man’s eyes kindled as he saw these, and as he marked the utter
surprise of his wife.

“Ah, dear heart,” he said, “thou didst not know—the priest wrote down
the words for me—long ago—I loved it—and wished to keep it—and I
hid it away”—but here the dying peasant, too exhausted for further
speech, paused, and then, turning to Elsa the blue eyes from which the
light was swiftly fading, murmured to her:

“Take it, little one; ’tis the rune—do with it as thou wilt.”

Elsa was so overcome that she fell to crying bitterly, and neither she
nor Dame Ulricborg noticed the sound of sleighbells, for the ground
was covered with a light snow. In a few minutes, however, the cottage
door opened, and in came Elsa’s father, all anxiety for the safety of
his little girl. When Elsa, hearing him, came into the living room, he
caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, for he had been
greatly alarmed on learning of her journey, and had set off in hot
haste to find her.

Herr Lönnrot, too, who had grown much better, had insisted on coming
with him, and was even then slowly walking toward the cottage door,
for he was still feeble from his illness. He, too, was delighted to
find Elsa safely cared for; but both he and Elsa’s father hushed their
voices when she told them of the peasant Ulricborg. They stepped
softly into the other room, and Herr Lönnrot’s practised eye, for
you remember he was a physician, at once saw that his skill could do
nothing to help the old man. As the Herr gently smoothed the coverlid
the sick peasant gave a faint smile to the faithful old wife who still
bent over him, and then, as Elsa stood reverently holding the yellow
papers between her little palms, he turned to her a long lingering look
that seemed to say:

“Farewell, little one! and farewell to the beloved song, that I have
cherished so jealously all these years. I must leave thee now, but I
leave thee in loving hands—farewell.” And then peacefully, as the wife
laid her withered cheek close to his, his spirit passed away to find
their little Aino.

Afterward, when Elsa gave to Herr Lönnrot the precious papers on which
the rune was written, at first he looked at them in amazement; but his
heart filled with delight when he learned what the papers contained. He
drew Elsa to him, and kissing her forehead declared that she had not
only pleased him beyond measure, but had done honor to old Finland in
helping complete the immortal poem he was striving to save.

When, some weeks later, Herr Lönnrot went away, after providing for
the comfort of Dame Ulricborg, he journeyed back to Helsingfors, the
capital city of Finland; and told the scholars who were studying the
poetry of the land how the little girl had been the means of bringing
to light one of the most beautiful of the runes. Then the scholars
had a little silver medal made which they sent to Elsa, and which she
took great pride in keeping through all her life; and no doubt her
great-grandchildren still keep it to this day.

As for Herr Lönnrot, he lived to put together the runes he had
collected, and when he had finished he called the poem “Kalevala,”
which in our language means “Land of Heroes,” because it tells the
wonderful story of the heroes of that ancient land.

And some day, perhaps, you will read this “Kalevala,” for it is one of
the noblest and most beautiful poems in all the world. And then when
you come to the rune which tells of the birth of the harp, you too will
be glad that the little Finnish girl was the means of saving it from
being lost forever.




                          COUNT HUGO’S SWORD

                  HOW THE PEASANT BOY GEOFFREY BY HIS
                    BRAVERY AND DEVOTION PREVENTED
                      A DUEL OF GREAT NOBLES AND
                          BECAME PAGE TO THE
                            GOOD KING LOUIS


“Tee dee, deedle de de!” shrieked the cockatoo, from his perch high up
in the gabled window of the old inn. “Tee de!” He was a pink and white
cockatoo, with a beautiful tuft on top of his head; one of his legs was
chained to a carved wooden perch that projected from the window-sill,
while with his free claw he carefully balanced a large silver spoon, of
antique pattern, from the contents of which he was very deliberately
dining. For he was no common bird. Monsieur Jean the landlord of
this “Guillaume-le-Conquérant” inn, of the ancient town of Dives,
being something of a bird fancier, had but lately bought him, and for
fear he might fly away, was thus keeping him chained to the window of
monsieur’s own apartment until he should grow used to his new home. As
he now slowly picked from his spoon the last morsel, and swallowed it
with a great ruffling of feathers all the way down his throat, again he
shrilled out in a high-pitched mimicking tone, “Tee deedle!” and this
time a little boy looked up quickly from the courtyard below.

The boy was seated on a bench under a plane-tree, and held in his hands
a sheet of yellow parchment on which was written a musical score, whose
large black notes he was trying to hum over.

“Fie, Cockie!” he cried, as he looked up, “dost thou not know ’tis a
wicked sin to mock me when I am learning the holy mass music?”

But Cockie only screwed his head to one side, shook his empty spoon,
and peered down with an impudent stare, as with a sigh the little boy
once more applied himself to his task. In a few moments, however, he
was again interrupted, this time by a call from beyond the kitchen:

“Geoffrey! Geoffrey! come hither and help catch this fowl for the Count
Hugo’s soup to-morrow!”

After a hot chase, Geoffrey succeeded in catching the fat hen and
handing her over to the white-capped cook of the inn kitchen, and then
he once more sat down and took up his parchment; for though a serving
boy through the week, on Sunday he took his place with the little
choristers of the Dives cathedral, and Father Anselm had allowed him to
take the score home with him, so that he might practise in his leisure
moments.

But as he now tried to go over the black notes, there was a mournful
cadence to every tone, for Geoffrey was very unhappy. Usually he was
gay as a bird, and indeed sang very like one; but to-day he had a
weight on his mind, as he sat there in the courtyard of the quaint old
inn.

It was long, long ago that Geoffrey lived—nearly six hundred years.
The inn in which he served had been built in the Norman town of Dives
nearly three centuries earlier by the great Duke of Normandy, William
the Conqueror, whose name, which in French (for Normandy is a part of
France) is Guillaume-le-Conquérant, the inn still bore in Geoffrey’s
time as it bears to this day. The Duke William had built the house
because he wished to have some safe and pleasant stopping place during
the time he was overseeing the finishing and freighting of the fleet of
boats which lay near by in the river Dives, and in which he meant to
sail to the conquest of England.

And so, with such illustrious beginning, the inn had become very
famous among the nobles of Normandy, and grown larger and larger, till,
in the days when Geoffrey lived, it was a very beautiful place indeed.
The courtyard, which one entered through an arched gateway covered with
guelder roses, was surrounded by ancient wooden buildings; their dark
mossy beams were put together with white plaster, and their innumerable
picturesque peaks and gables and wooden galleries and winding stairways
were richly overhung with masses of the most lovely vines; for roses,
wistarias, clematis, and jasmines clambered everywhere. There were two
gardens also; one for the kitchen, the other full of lilies and clove
pinks and French daisies, and numberless sweet old-fashioned flowers;
for Monsieur Jean, the innkeeper, had much taste and loved both flowers
and birds. Indeed, besides several cockatoos, he always kept dozens of
peacocks that trailed about the courtyard squawking and spreading their
gorgeous tails every time a new guest entered the gateway. There were
fine pigeons, too, and rabbits and chickens, and no end of interesting
things.

Geoffrey thought it a charming place to live, and he did not in the
least mind the work he had to do; for all were kind to him, and
moreover, he was happy in being able to give some of his earnings to
his family at home, who were very poor. His father was a peasant living
on the estate of the young Count Boni, of Château Beauvais, and had it
not been for the kind-heartedness of this count, the poor peasant would
have had hard shift to keep his little children in bread; for in those
days the country had been so wasted by wars that the peasant folk had
almost nothing left on which to live. But the Count Boni had always
been most generous and considerate to the people on his estate, and
especially to Geoffrey’s father, who was honest, and intelligent above
his class. The count it was who had secured for Geoffrey the place at
the inn, and it was he also who had spoken to the monks of Dives of
the boy’s sweet voice, so that the good Fathers had become interested,
and were taking much pains in teaching him music.

And now we come to the reason that Geoffrey was so unhappy as he sat
under the plane-tree, vainly trying to practise his lesson; for he was
thinking all the while of a deadly peril that threatened this good
Count Boni, to whom he was deeply grateful for so many things, and whom
he truly loved next to his own father.

His knowledge of the count’s danger had come about in this way. It had
happened that, the day before, Geoffrey had been sent to the Château
Beauvais, which was not far distant from Dives, to carry some rabbits
which Monsieur Jean had promised to Isabeau, the little daughter of
the count. When Geoffrey reached the château and inquired for the
little Lady Isabeau, he had been sent into the garden, and there he
found her crying as if her heart would break! Now this grieved Geoffrey
very much indeed; as he quite worshiped the gracious little girl who
used often to visit their cottage when he lived at home, and who had
sometimes gaily carried him back with her for a day’s happy romp in the
beautiful château grounds.

When he asked her the reason of her tears, she had told him between her
sobs:

“O, Geoffrey! my dear father, the count, is to fight a dreadful duel
with the wicked Count Hugo, who will surely kill him with his evil
sword! I heard nurse Marie talking with the gardener, and they say he
will surely kill him! Oh! Oh! Oh!” and here poor little Isabeau fairly
shook with the violence of her sobbing.

Geoffrey tried as best he could to comfort her, but to no avail; she
could not be induced even to look at the rabbits she had so much
wanted; so at last he was obliged to set them down quietly, and
sorrowfully take his leave, though not until he had questioned some
of the château pages for more particulars of that which the little
girl had told him. He thus learned that Count Boni had indeed been
challenged to a duel by the old Count Hugo, who lived in a castle
beyond the city of Meaux.

Now in those days, when people got into disputes about things, even
a bit of property, instead of settling the matter in courts of law
as we do, it was quite customary to fight a “judicial duel,” as it
was called; that is, the two men disputing appointed a meeting-place
where they tried to wound each other, generally with swords, and the
one who succeeded in disabling, or as sometimes happened, killing his
adversary, was adjudged the better man and the winner of his case.
This was certainly a strange and cruel way of doing, but six hundred
years ago people did many strange and cruel things. Had young Count
Boni merely engaged to fight an ordinary duel, that would have been bad
enough, though it would not perhaps have been a matter of such concern;
for the count was brave and a good swordsman,—and, ah, well! one must
expect a duel now and then.

But that which caused Isabeau, and Geoffrey, too, when he learned of
it, such grief, was that her father was to fight the Count Hugo; for
this nobleman was known to be most wicked and unscrupulous. It was his
custom to pick an unjust quarrel with some noble whose lands he coveted
and falsely claimed; then he would challenge his victim to a “judicial
duel,” which always resulted in the noble being slain, and his estates
being seized by Hugo. For no one had ever been able to stand against
the wicked count, who fought not merely to wound, but to kill, and who
had the reputation of being the most skilful and merciless swordsman
in all France. Indeed, his cruel sword had slain so many noble lords
that people declared it was bewitched; that Count Hugo, who had been
a crusader, had obtained it from the heathen Saracens, who had forged
it under some evil spell. They insisted the more on the unholy power
of this sword, as Count Hugo himself seemed to regard it with great
superstition and always preferred it to any other weapon; though,
indeed, many people even went further in their talk, and asserted also
that the count had got his unhallowed skill from some heathen wizard,
and that any sword would, in his hands, be certain to deal a fatal
thrust.

And so it was that when he chose a victim for one of his duels, it was
considered equal to a death warrant; though he always took care to make
the nobles he challenged so angry that they would not listen to reason,
and would fight him regardless of the fate of all who had crossed
swords with him before. This, too, it was whispered, was a part of his
sorcery—though perhaps really it was because the high-spirited Norman
noblemen were no cowards, and would let no one assail their honor or
seize their property if they could possibly help it.

The more Geoffrey thought of these things, and of the many kindnesses
of Count Boni, and then as he saw in memory the sweet, tear-stained
face of little Isabeau, his singing became more and more melancholy,
till at last he stopped altogether, and gave himself up to thinking. He
knew from the inn servants that the Count Hugo was expected there the
next day, and that the duel was fixed for the following morning just
outside the walls of Dives.

“Oh,” he thought, “if it only, only could in some way be prevented!”
Now Count Boni himself would have been very indignant had he known that
anybody was thinking it should be prevented; for, just as Count Hugo
had desired, he was very angry with his adversary, and had no wish to
avoid the encounter. But that could not prevent Geoffrey from wishing
it might be avoided for him.

Indeed, Geoffrey had learned many things. He had a quick intelligence,
and was very observant, and many travelers came to the inn; so he was
by no means so ignorant of affairs as many little boys of his age. He
had heard it said that the Norman nobles had long sought in vain for
some pretext to rid themselves of the wicked Hugo, who was a rich and
powerful lord and seemed to lead a life charmed against all attack, for
he had been many times openly assailed. As to his shameless dueling,
since that was then within bounds of the law, they could do nothing. So
how, thought Geoffrey sadly, how could he, a poor little peasant boy,
hope to do anything where the great nobles seemed powerless!

But, by and by, he was aroused from his reverie by Monsieur Jean, who
wished his help in the many preparations demanded of the inn folk by
the important guest of the morrow, this hateful Hugo who was coming
to kill his dear Count Boni! Ugh! had it not been bad enough to have
to catch the chicken for his soup? How he wished it might strangle
him! And how poor Geoffrey hated himself now because he was compelled
to assist in this and that arrangement for the entertainment of the
murderous nobleman and his many followers. How he wished they were all
at the bottom of the Red Sea!

But at last, after much labor, that disagreeable day wore to an end
for the little boy, though when he went to bed and tried to forget
his troubles, he dreamed all night of poor little Isabeau, and seemed
to hear her piteous sobs and to see the hot tears streaming down her
pretty pink cheeks.

Early the next morning the inn was astir, and busy with more
preparations for the expected guests. And, sure enough, just before
midday, in through the rose-covered gateway galloped four outriders,
wearing the crimson livery of Count Hugo, and insolently jingling their
bridle reins and clanking their great gilded spurs.

Shortly after their arrival the coach itself dashed into the middle of
the courtyard with a great clatter of hoofs and wheels, followed by a
long train of mounted and liveried servants, and lackeys, and pages,
and men-at-arms; for traveling in those days was none too safe without
a guard of spearmen and lancers. The coach was painted a bright yellow
and richly gilded; on the panels of its doors the count’s crest and
coat of arms were blazoned in blue and crimson; and no sooner had its
wheels stopped than the lackeys jumped from their horses and, running
to its side, flung open the doors, which they respectfully held back as
still others assisted the nobleman to alight.

Count Hugo was a heavily-built man of middle age, with cold, cruel
eyes, and mustachios of grisly gray; he was richly dressed in a green
velvet suit with crimson satin facings and ruffles of the finest lace;
his shoe buckles sparkled with diamonds. Geoffrey, who from a quiet
corner was watching everything, involuntarily clenched his fists as he
saw the evil-omened sword, encased in an elaborately-wrought scabbard,
poking hatefully out from under the tail of the count’s beautiful
velvet coat.

As Hugo, followed by his retinue, crossed the courtyard, there was a
great bowing and scraping from Monsieur Jean and all the inn servants;
the peacocks spread their gorgeous tails and screamed at the tops of
their voices; the pigeons puffed and pouted and strutted about; the
cockatoo shrieked loudly and flourished his silver spoon; and the
rabbits ran away with their ears flat to their heads with fright, and
hid under the cabbage leaves in the garden until the commotion of the
count’s arrival had somewhat subsided.

But at last the great man had been ushered into his rooms, where he had
breakfasted on the most elaborate products of the cooks’ skill; while
on the spits in the great inn kitchen huge haunches of venison and
beef were turning and browning in front of the blazing fire, and the
white-capped and aproned scullions were running about with big ladles
and spoons in their hands making ready the dinner for the large company
of guests.

Geoffrey had, at their bidding, done many errands, and last of all had
brought up from the garden a great basket of vegetables. He had wished,
as he tragically jerked them out of the ground and brandished them in
the air, that each separate carrot, leek and radish might stick in
Count Hugo’s wicked throat, and stay there forever! Now at length tired
out, he sat down to rest on his bench under the plane-tree.

As he sat there, presently through the arched gateway there entered
a man dressed in a frayed waistcoat of ragged satin, knee breeches
of blue plush much the worse for wear, and leather leggings from
which half the buckles were gone. Slung around his neck by a gay
green ribbon hung a viol, and in one hand he grasped a slender little
chain that held in leash a small monkey wearing a tiny red cap. This
motley figure was one of the strolling jongleurs, half juggler,
half troubadour, who flourished at that time in all parts of France,
and managed to eke out a living from the pranks of their monkeys and
the practice of the “gay science,” as it was called; that is, by the
singing of songs which they themselves usually made up and set to music.

As this particular jongleur entered the courtyard, he spied Geoffrey,
and strolling over to the bench amiably seated himself beside the boy
with a friendly “Good morrow, my lad!”

“Good morrow, sir,” answered Geoffrey, rather absently.

The jongleur then caught sight of the coach drawn up by the inn wall.

“Ah,” he said, “small wonder none came forth to welcome us. Other
guests are ahead of me, I perceive.” And, as the monkey climbed upon
his knee, he added: “Had thou and I fared hither in yonder yellow cart,
Pippo, we should have had the whole inn at our feet. And monsieur, the
landlord, would have been down on his knees humbly beseeching to know
when my Lord Pippo would be pleased to dine! Hey! Pippo! is’t not true?”

But Pippo, paying no attention to him, began mischievously to finger
the strings of the viol with his little brown claws, and the jongleur,
with a gay laugh, turning to Geoffrey, inquired:

“To whom does yonder gaud belong?”

“It is the coach of Count Hugo,” said Geoffrey; “he came to-day, and
is to fight a duel with Count Boni, of Château Beauvias, to-morrow
morning.”

“So!” said the jongleur with a short whistle; “well, then, their
countships had better let no grass grow under their noble feet, for the
king hath but just issued an edict forbidding all such dueling from now
on, henceforth and forever.”

“What, sir?” said Geoffrey, suddenly rousing up excitedly; “what is
that thou sayest?”

“Well, well, little man! thou seemest to take this matter somewhat to
heart! I was merely mentioning the new edict of our blessed King Louis
Ninth, God save his soul, which forbids dueling! It seems our sovereign
lord hath grown weary of the foolish practice whereby he hath lost so
many noble subjects, and moreover, being a wise monarch, hath become
convinced that all disputes should be settled in the courts of law,
which he hath been studying much since his return from Constantinople,
where the law is held in high esteem—in short, he will have no more
‘judicial duels’; and yesterday when I and Pippo were in Rouen, we
heard the king’s heralds as they solemnly proclaimed the new edict to
the people.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Geoffrey delightedly, “thank the blessed saints, then,
the duel can not be fought to-morrow!”

“Hold, hold,” said the jongleur, “not so fast, my lad—”

“Nay,” cried Geoffrey, “but how dare they when the king forbids?” and,
dragging the jongleur up by the hand, he added: “Come with me now and
we will seek the wicked Count Hugo, and tell him the news! Come!”

“Nay, nay,” the jongleur replied, “not I!”

“Why, is it not true?” demanded Geoffrey.

“True as gospel,” said the jongleur, “but thou art but a child; dost
thou fancy two noble lords, bent on the sword play, would for one
moment be stayed by the word of a poor strolling jongleur? Nay, I
should but receive a drubbing for my pains if I sought to inform that
cruel Hugo. I prefer, thank you, to keep my bones whole; especially
as I could do no good. Moreover, let them spit each other, if they so
desire! I do not care, youngster, how many duels they fight!”

But when he looked down and saw the grief in Geoffrey’s eyes, he
softened, and added: “But since thou seemest to care so much, little
one, I would risk the drubbing, by my faith, I would! if ’twere to any
purpose. But I am older than thou, and somewhat a man of the world,”
here the jongleur straightened himself up; “and I swear to thee,
’twould work naught but mischief were I to seek out yonder count and
strive to prevent his encounter to-morrow. He would simply be angered,
and would not believe me, or would pretend not to, because he does not
wish to be stopped till he hath killed this Count Boni you tell me
of, and got his lands. Naught but the king’s heralds themselves could
hinder that affair.” And then, as he meditated, he added: “’Tis a
monstrous pity, though! When didst thou say they fight, little one? In
the morning? A monstrous pity! For the heralds will no doubt arrive in
Dives to-morrow afternoon; they were to come hither on leaving Rouen.
Thou knowest they must proclaim the edict through all the cities of the
realm!”

Six hundred years ago printing and newspapers and the telegraph were
unknown; and so when a war was to be undertaken, or peace settled
upon, or a new law made, the king sent his heralds about through all
his dominions, and they made proclamation to the people, with a great
flourish of trumpets and much quaint ceremony.

But here Pippo became engaged in a squabble with a fat peacock, and the
jongleur rising, separated them, and then strolled off toward the inn
kitchen; for he had journeyed far, and the savory smells wafted out
into the courtyard suddenly reminded him that he was very hungry.

Geoffrey, thus left alone, fell to thinking, and he thought and thought
as never before in all his life. So the heralds were on their way to
Dives, if what the jongleur told was true, and he believed it was; and
the jongleur had said, moreover, that these heralds could stop even the
wicked Hugo from carrying out his designs. Geoffrey felt that this was
true also, for he knew that not even noblemen dared openly defy the
king. And then he reasoned, perhaps more wisely than he knew, that
Hugo stirred up and fought these “judicial duels” merely to increase
his property and not to satisfy his personal honor; and that if nothing
were to be gained, Hugo would surely not fight. The king had forbidden
his subjects to acquire property that way; the great thing, therefore,
was to prevent the encounter in the morning, so that the heralds might
have time to come to Dives and make their proclamation, which would
certainly put an end to the whole affair. But how, how could he,
Geoffrey, do this?

At last, however, an idea occurred to him that made his eyes brighten
and his cheeks flush. If he could only get hold of that bewitched
Saracen sword of Count Hugo’s, and hide it, why, probably, as the count
was known superstitiously to prefer it to any other weapon, he might be
delayed hunting for it till the heralds came.

As Geoffrey thought over this plan, he reflected that if he got
possession of the sword it must be that night, as the count wore it
constantly all day long; and though he felt like a highwayman and a
robber even to plan it, for he was an honest little lad, yet he said to
himself there was no other way to save Isabeau’s father.

And so, full of his project, as a preliminary, he got up and sauntered
past that part of the inn where he knew was the count’s sleeping
chamber, and noticed that it had one window opening upon one of the
little wooden galleries which was approached from the outside by a
winding stair. The window was barred with heavy wooden rounds; but as
Geoffrey measured with his eye the distance between these bars, he felt
sure that if he made himself as flat as possible, he could squeeze in
through them. It would not be so easy to get the sword out, but perhaps
he could manage it somehow; he _must_ manage it!

Having thus made up his mind as to what he would do, Geoffrey passed
the rest of the afternoon and evening in a fever of impatience. After
supper was over he hid himself in the garden behind a rose bush, and as
he watched the inn it seemed as if the last of the clatter would never
die away, and people would never settle down and go to sleep! But at
length—after weeks, it seemed to Geoffrey—the last candle flickered
out and the inn became quiet.

He waited, however, an hour or two longer, knowing the habit of the
maids to lie awake and gossip in the dark. But when he heard the Dives
watchman passing the inn gateway and calling out, “Midnight! and all’s
well!” he crept out, and keeping close in the shadow of the wall,
reached the stairway to the gallery by the count’s sleeping room.
The moon had risen and might have betrayed him as he mounted it, but
fortunately the stair was overhung by vines. He made his way along the
gallery to the count’s window. There was no glass in it, and, as it was
summer time, the heavy wooden shutter that guarded it was wide open,
the bars seeming quite enough protection from ordinary intruders. But
they could not keep out this little boy, who drew in his breath and
made his little stomach as flat as possible as he cautiously wriggled
in between them. At last he stood on tiptoe in the count’s chamber.

As he gazed about, here and there the moonlight touched some object of
its quaint furnishings, and although Geoffrey, on the inn errands, had
been in the room before, everything now looked strange and unfamiliar
to his wide-open, excited eyes. To his dismay he had not considered
how he should find the sword; but as he stood wondering and groping
about in the dim light, a beam of moonlight fell at the foot of the
high-posted, carved and canopied bed where the count lay asleep, and
showed the scabbard with the sword in it, hanging by its chased metal
hook to a projecting ornament in the heavy carving of the bed. Geoffrey
tiptoed over toward it, all the while listening, with his heart in his
mouth, to the count’s breathing. He seemed to be sound asleep, for
now and then he gave a little snore; but, as with trembling fingers
Geoffrey took down the sword, its tip end struck lightly against a tall
chest of drawers near by, and the count started slightly. Geoffrey
crouched down hopelessly in the shadow of a chair, expecting the count
to pounce upon him at any moment.

But in a few minutes Hugo’s regular breathing told that he was again
deep asleep.

Geoffrey then hastened to make his way back to the window, though he
found the sword in its heavy scabbard rather an awkward burden for a
little boy, and it became still more awkward as he prepared to climb
between the bars. He first thought he would take the sword out of its
sheath; but then how could he drop it to the gallery below without
making a noise? He could not climb out with it in his arms. So, on
second thought, he decided to leave it in the scabbard, whose metal
hook he saw might be useful; then lifting this, which took all his
strength, he carefully thrust it outside between the bars, on one of
which he hung the hook, thus keeping both sword and sheath from falling.

He next turned his attention to getting himself out, and climbing up,
and squeezing and squirming, legs first, at last managed once more to
stand outside on the gallery floor. But it had happened that just as he
was making the last twist through the bars, his foot had accidentally
touched the scabbard, hanging from the window, and it clanked against
the wall. This time the sound seemed to penetrate the ears of the
sleeping Count Hugo, for he started up in earnest, though not entirely
awake; he drowsily arose, however, and crossed over to the window.

Geoffrey, meantime, hearing him coming, drew back into the shadow,
tightly clutching the sword, and was hidden by the curtain of vines.

As the count peered through the bars, he caught sight of the cockatoo,
whose perch was in one of the gable windows near by. Now, as good luck
had it, the cockatoo also had been half aroused from his sleep, and
giving a faint screech, began to shift uneasily in his dreams, from one
leg to the other, his chain clanking against his perch as he did so.
Count Hugo hearing him, at once supposed the cockatoo responsible for
that other clanking sound which had aroused him; he swore a round oath,
and turned from the window, muttering to himself, “A plague on that
jabbering popinjay! What with their everlasting peacocks and monkeys,
and heaven only knows what, a man can not get a wink of sleep in this
accursed tavern!” He then went back to bed and, angrily flinging
himself down, was soon snoring soundly.

After a while, Geoffrey, outside on the gallery, began creeping
cautiously along, and at last managing to get down the stairway, stood
hesitating a moment at its foot; for he had not fully decided what to
do with the sword, now that he had it. He wished as soon as possible to
be rid of the wicked thing; for everybody was superstitious in those
days, and he felt that some fearful evil threatened him so long as he
had hold of the fatal weapon. He would really have very much liked to
take it out and throw it in the river Dives, so it could never kill
any one else; but as he remembered that to do this he would have to
climb over the high wall of the courtyard, for the gate was locked and
the portcullis down, and that then he would have to run the risk of
meeting the town watchman, he concluded the chances for being caught
were too many, and that he must hide the sword elsewhere. Moreover, he
thought that to drop it in the river would be too much like stealing,
anyway, which he did not wish to be guilty of; he merely wished to keep
the count from finding the sword until the heralds came, when he was
willing to restore it.

So quickly making up his mind, he sped down into the garden, where he
carefully hid it, scabbard and all, under a thick tangle of vines and
shrubbery which grew in a secluded corner where the inn people seldom
went. This done, he made his way back to his own little chamber under
one of the gables, and crept into bed, although he was so excited with
his night’s doings that he could not go to sleep.

The next day, as was his custom, Count Hugo lay abed till the sun was
well up, for the duel was not to take place until beyond the middle of
the morning. When at last he arose, and his serving men came in to wait
on him as he made his toilet, they adjusted all his ruffles and laces
with the greatest nicety, freshly curled his wig, tied up his queue
with a crimson ribbon, and smoothed out his velvets and satins; then
everything being ready, they looked about for the sword, without which
Hugo never budged an inch. But when they turned to where he told them
he had left it the night before, to their great consternation, it was
not there! When they timidly ventured to tell the count that he must
have put it somewhere else, Hugo, who was busy arranging a heavy gold
chain about his lace collar, curtly replied, without turning his head:
“Ye blind moles of the earth! I tell you it _is_ there!”

But when again they were obliged to contradict him, the count flew into
a temper, and rushing over to the foot of the bed, put out his hand to
seize the sword and give them a wrathful prick or two all round—but
lo! sure enough, it was _not_ there!

There then followed a tremendous uproar. They searched the room from
end to end; they tore down all the old tapestries; they peered under
all the chairs; they climbed up and crawled all over the high canopy
of the ancient bed; they shook the mattresses; and in their zeal, even
looked in the count’s shaving mug and under the brass candlesticks.

Meantime, Hugo himself, in a towering passion, was striding up and
down the room, cuffing his pages, accusing everybody of robbery, and
threatening right and left to hang every man of them if the sword were
not instantly found!

At last, however, neither threats nor rage proving of the least avail
in bringing to light the lost sword, he descended, followed by his
terrified retinue, to the inn courtyard, and calling out Monsieur
Jean, he stirred up another terrible commotion. He accused everybody
of everything, and finally wound up by insisting that the craven Count
Boni had hired some robber to steal the sword in hopes that the duel
might not be fought. He swore that he would none the less kill poor
Boni, sword or no sword, and meantime ordered the man-at-arms, who had
slept outside his door, to be mercilessly beaten; for Hugo declared the
thief must have entered through the door, as no man could possibly have
come in between the bars of the window.

At this Geoffrey, who had been up for a long while, and had witnessed
all this uproar in the courtyard, felt himself in a very unhappy
position; he had not expected all this. Indeed, he had given very
little thought as to what might happen to himself or anybody else,
when once he had hidden the sword. He knew now that fearful punishment
awaited him if he were found out; but he could not bear to have the
good Count Boni’s honor blackened, or that the poor man-at-arms, who
was entirely innocent of blame, should suffer, because of what he,
Geoffrey, had done.

So biting his lips hard to keep up his courage and tightly clenching
his hands behind him, Geoffrey, who was a brave, manly little fellow,
straightway strode out and, standing in front of the raging Count Hugo,
said:

“Sir, neither Count Boni nor yonder man-at-arms had aught to do with
the loss of your evil sword. I took it away myself!”

[Illustration]

At this Count Hugo stared at the little boy for a moment in speechless
surprise. Then, roaring out a terrible oath in a voice like thunder, he
pounced like a wildcat upon poor Geoffrey, and shook him till his teeth
chattered.

“Thou—thou—miserable varlet!” roared and sputtered the count.
“Thou base-born knave! So thy monkey fingers have dared to meddle
with my precious sword! Faugh! Where hast thou put it? Tell me
instantly,—_parbleu!_—or I will crack every bone in thy worthless
body!”

And here he fell so viciously to shaking and cuffing him again, that
poor Geoffrey could hardly open his mouth to answer; but at length he
managed to gasp out resolutely:

“I will not tell thee till to-morrow. Then I will restore it to thee! I
do not wish to keep the heathenish thing!”

At this the rage of the count knew no bounds, and he doubtless would
have killed the poor little boy then and there, had not Monsieur Jean
and others among the terrified spectators rushed between them and
besought Hugo to be merciful, and give the boy at least till the morrow
to fulfil his word.

Hereupon, the count, who even in his wrath saw reason in what they
said, savagely flung Geoffrey over to one of his men-at-arms,
commanding him to chastise him, chain him, and keep close watch over
him till the morrow. For the count reflected that if he should hang
the boy then, as he fully intended to do by and by, he would cut off
the only possible means of finding out where his sword was hidden. For
while the lad was stubborn as a rock, Hugo had to admit that he seemed
honest, and so perhaps would keep his promise to restore his prized
weapon.

But the more the count thought of Geoffrey’s act, the more it puzzled
him to account for it. As he recalled the disturbance of his sleep
the night before, he began to understand that Geoffrey was the real
cockatoo of the affair.

“Faugh!” he said to himself, “to think ’twas the clanking of my
own good sword that I mistook for the rattling of that chattering
popinjay’s chain!” But he could not account for the boy’s curious
promise to restore the weapon on the morrow. If he meant to return it,
why did he take it at all? And why did he confess and get himself into
trouble, when no one thought of accusing him? The first part of this
question Count Hugo could not answer, because he knew nothing of the
coming of the heralds and Geoffrey’s wish to put off the duel; while
the last part was equally puzzling to him, because he had no sense of
honor, and could not see why one should suffer if an innocent man would
do just as well.

At any rate, he soon tired trying to understand the matter. Having
placed the boy in safe keeping till the morrow, the next thing was to
have his “second”—(for so the friends were called who arranged the
details of duels for those who were to do the fighting)—see Count
Boni’s second, who had arrived some time before, and have the duel
fixed for the following morning, when Count Hugo vowed he would fight
to the death with somebody’s sword,—whether his own or another’s.

These matters settled, he remembered that it was fully noon, and he had
not yet breakfasted; so he haughtily withdrew to the inn parlor, and
commanded Monsieur Jean to have him served instantly.

Meanwhile poor Geoffrey went off with the man-at-arms, who was secretly
sorry for the little boy, and so did not chastise him so cruelly as
the count would have wished; although he was obliged to give him a few
bloody cuts with the lash across his face and hands, for the sake of
appearances, in case Hugo should happen to inspect him.

Poor little boy! Ah! how eagerly he longed for the arrival of the
heralds, as the jongleur had predicted. But then the dreadful thought
would come, what if something should delay their journey! Or worst
of all, what if the jongleur had not spoken the truth, and there were
no heralds anyway! These doubts and fears tormented Geoffrey more and
more as the hours wore on, and still no sign of the longed-for king’s
messengers.

He began to wish dismally that he had set farther off the time for
restoring the sword; though he felt sure that unless prevented by the
king’s edict, Count Hugo would fight on the morrow anyhow, despite the
loss of that particular weapon. It then suddenly occurred to him, that
even if the heralds came and stopped the duel as he wished, how was he
himself to escape from the clutches of Count Hugo? This thought sent
a cold chill through him; but when he thought of his dear Count Boni
and the grief of poor little Isabeau, he was not a whit sorry for what
he had done, and with childish hopefulness looked forward to some good
chance to free him.

Surely, surely, he said to himself, the king’s heralds were persons
in authority, and would not see him killed by the cruel Hugo, even if
he had taken and hidden the heathenish old sword. Did he not mean to
give it back, and had he not done it because of the very law they were
coming to proclaim? Surely they would help him in some way!

And so the afternoon wore wearily on. Count Hugo came once or twice
to see that the man-at-arms had properly beaten him, and even
meditated putting him to some torture to make him disclose at once
the whereabouts of the sword. But he scarcely dared, as he feared an
uprising of the people of the inn, who, he saw, were very fond of
Geoffrey; so he contented himself with cruelly striking the lad once or
twice, and determining to deal summarily with him when he should take
him away from Dives.

For at that time powerful noblemen did very much as they pleased. The
good King Louis had been away fighting in the Holy Land for so long
that affairs in France had for the most part taken care of themselves;
and though since his return the king was striving hard to correct many
abuses, there were many things yet to be looked after. So Count Hugo
thought he should have no trouble in carrying Geoffrey away as his
private prisoner because of the taking of his sword.

After the count’s last visit, when he had informed Geoffrey of some
of the punishments he meant to visit upon him when he got him off in
his own castle, the poor boy began really to despair! It was growing
late, and the sun was almost to its setting, and still not a sound to
tell of any unusual arrival in Dives. The little boy lay back, and
shut his eyes tight, trying to forget his miseries, and the dreadful
things ahead of him; but try as he might, now and then a big tear would
force itself through his closed lids, and trickle down his poor little
blood-stained cheeks.

And so another hour wore on, Geoffrey growing all the while more
despairing and miserable in his gloomy prospects. But at last, just as
he had given up all hope of the heralds, and concluded that the plight
he had got himself into had been all useless after all,—he suddenly
started up, and clutching the sleeve of the man-at-arms, exclaimed,
“Hark! what is that?”

“Hush, hush, little one! ’tis nothing,” said the man, who was a stupid
fellow, half dozing, and merely thought the lad crazed by his fright.

“Nay!” cried Geoffrey, “but listen!”

Here the guard somewhat pricked up his ears.

“By my faith!” he answered, “I believe ’tis a blare of trumpets! Some
noble must be coming to Dives!”

But Geoffrey, with eyes shining, held his breath, and listened to the
sounds, which seemed to be coming nearer. First there was a great
fanfare of trumpets; then a blare of horns; and then he could hear the
clatter as the inn folk hastened across the paved courtyard to the
gateway to see what was going on in the street without. In a little
while some of them seemed to return, and Geoffrey, who was burning to
know, but could not stir for his chains, besought the man-at-arms to
ask some one the cause of the commotion; so going over to the window of
the room, he called out to a passer-by.

“Ho, comrade! what is the meaning of yonder uproar?”

“’Tis the king’s heralds,” answered the voice from without; “he hath
sent them to proclaim a new law forbidding duels!”

Then, before long, the heralds, having made the tour of the Dives
streets, came riding toward the inn, escorted by a train of Dives
people. Geoffrey heard their horses’ hoofs as they pricked in through
the gateway, and also had the great joy of hearing them make the
proclamation itself; for having heard that at that very moment a
nobleman was lodging in the inn, come there for the purpose of a now
unlawful duel, they halted in the middle of the courtyard, and rising
in their stirrups, blew their trumpets, and again elaborately announced
the royal edict,—this time for the express benefit of their two
countships, Hugo and Boni.

Hearing this, Geoffrey was wild with delight; it was all working out
just as he had counted on! That is, all but one fact, which he all
at once ruefully remembered; he himself was at that moment still a
prisoner of the cruel Count Hugo. He had not counted on that at all!

O, he thought, if he could only get out and throw himself on the
mercy of the heralds! They were his only hope; for Count Boni as yet
knew not why he had taken the sword, and was perhaps angry with him
and would not come at once to help him. So he piteously begged and
besought the man-at-arms to take off his chains and let him go only so
far as the courtyard. But the man, though he felt sorry for the boy,
had too hearty a terror of the consequences to himself if he let him
out against Hugo’s orders; so he turned a deaf ear to all Geoffrey’s
entreaties, and gruffly told him he could do nothing for him.

At this the poor little boy fell to sobbing, and sobbed and sobbed most
of the night; for the dark had now fallen, and the little fellow was
quite hopeless for the morrow, when he knew Count Hugo meant to take
him away.

Meantime, that nobleman had passed into another terrible rage when he
heard the edict of the heralds. He was furious! Furious at the king,
the heralds, at Geoffrey and the world in general; because he saw
himself thwarted in his plans to kill Boni,—as he felt confident he
could do, with his unholy skill with the sword,—and to seize Boni’s
rich estate. All this put him in a frightful temper; although he was
wise enough to know that he dare not defy the king. So he scolded and
swore at everybody in sight, and then sulkily withdrew to his own
apartments, after giving orders to have his coach made ready to leave
early in the morning; for he wished to get off with Geoffrey at least,
before any one could prevent _that_! And on the boy he meant to wreak
full vengeance.

So the next morning Hugo, contrary to his custom, was astir early; he
had breakfasted in his room, and then hastening down to the courtyard,
got into his yellow coach and sent instant orders for the man-at-arms
to bring Geoffrey and mount the coach also; for he wished to keep an
eye on his victim and also to demand fulfilment of his promise to
restore the sword. But just as the man-at-arms was on his way to the
count, with his miserable little prisoner, he was intercepted by the
two heralds, who had been astir earlier even than Hugo.

Indeed, they were up because they had had a word or two put into their
ears the night before by the jongleur, who had sought them out and had
a bit of a talk with them. Now the jongleur was a shrewd fellow, and
recalling his conversation under the plane-tree with Geoffrey, had put
two and two together, and had pretty well understood the boy’s reasons
for carrying off the sword; and admiring him, he had determined to do
the best he could to save him, if explaining things to the heralds
could effect this. And it seemed it could; for now the heralds, laying
hold of the boy, first asked him if he had restored the stolen sword.

“Nay, sirs,” he answered, “but I will right gladly do as I promised, if
ye will let me go and get it!”

So one of the heralds went with him down into the garden, and stood
over Geoffrey as he uncovered the weapon and gathered it up still safe
in its scabbard. Then conducting him back to the courtyard, and to the
door of the count’s coach, the two king’s messengers stood, one on
each side, as the boy, making an obeisance, presented the sword to the
glowering count.

The heralds then solemnly announced to all,—for everyone in the inn
had gathered about by this time,—that they bore witness that the
lad had duly restored the stolen property to its rightful owner; and
that punishment for his taking it must be meted out by his rightful
suzerain, the noble Count Boni, to whose estate the boy’s family
belonged. They demanded this right for Geoffrey, in the name of the
king.

Now Count Hugo knew well enough that every peasant had a right to be
tried for a crime by the nobleman of his own home; but he had trusted
to carry things off with a high hand, thinking no one at the inn would
dare oppose him; as was undoubtedly the case. But with the king’s
heralds it was different; they did not fear him, and so he was obliged
to give up the boy.

This last thwarting of his plans, however, was almost too much for
Hugo! White with rage, he thundered to his driver to whip up the
horses, and off he clattered, disdainfully turning his back on the
Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn and all that it contained; and his swarm
of retainers followed him, all quaking in their boots from fear of
their master’s violent temper.

After the count’s departure, Geoffrey, still in charge of the heralds,
was taken into the great kitchen of the inn, where everybody gathered
about, delighted at the little boy’s escape from Hugo’s clutches. The
cook gave him some nice little cakes fresh from the oven; the peacocks
trailed past the open door proudly spreading their beautiful tails; and
the pink and white cockatoo overhead screamed his “Tee deedle!” and
seemed as pleased as anybody.

After a while the heralds gave Geoffrey over into the charge of Count
Boni’s second, who had meantime arrived to say that the count was
outside the walls of Dives, at the appointed place, and ready to meet
Hugo in the proposed duel. The second was greatly surprised when he
heard how matters had turned out; for he had spent the day before with
Count Boni at the Château Beauvais, and neither he nor his master had
yet heard of the proclamation or the subsequent departure of Count
Hugo. However, he took the little boy with him back to Count Boni, to
whom he delivered the message the heralds had sent: that he, Boni, was
to decide on what punishment Geoffrey was to receive for the taking of
Hugo’s sword; though it really seemed that the child had had punishment
enough already, at the hands of the cruel count himself!

When Count Boni was told all these things, at first he was greatly
displeased; for he was young and high-spirited, and very angry with
Hugo, whom he wished to fight regardless of the danger he ran from
such an unscrupulous antagonist, and he did not like it that a little
peasant boy had interfered.

Though when he understood how much the boy had risked and suffered for
love of himself and little Isabeau, he could not find it in his heart
to wish Geoffrey punished. And indeed, in after years he came heartily
to thank the warm-hearted, devoted little lad, whose impulsive act had
no doubt kept him from losing both life and property to a wicked and
dishonorable man.

Meantime Count Boni felt himself in a very delicate position. As
Geoffrey’s overlord, it was his duty to punish him for taking the
sword, even though it had been restored to its rightful owner; but as
the sword had been taken because the little boy wished to keep Count
Boni himself from the chance of being killed, how could he inflict
severe punishment upon him? Indeed, this question was so difficult that
the count concluded he must take time to think it over, and meantime
he held Geoffrey prisoner at the château. This did not prevent the boy
from having the kindest treatment and the freedom of the grounds, where
he enjoyed many a merry romp with little Isabeau, who was happy as a
bird, and thought Geoffrey the nicest and most wonderful boy in all
the world because he had succeeded in preventing the duel. Nor was
the least cloud cast over their glee when one day they heard that the
wicked Hugo had died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by one of his
terrible rages. In fact, if the truth must be told, they went off by
themselves and had a shamelessly gay extra romp in celebration of the
news.

Thus several weeks had passed, when one day there arrived at the
château a messenger from the king, demanding the custody of a peasant
boy by the name of Geoffrey.

Poor Geoffrey was again badly frightened, thinking that this time
surely he would receive punishment! But his fears were turned to
delight when Count Boni told him that the king had sent, not to
imprison him, but to have him live in the royal household. The
messenger explained to Boni that when the heralds returned to Paris,
they told King Louis the story of the little boy, and that he was
greatly pleased with the lad’s bravery and devotion, and wished to have
him brought to the palace.

[Illustration]

So Geoffrey became a page of King Louis, and was very, very happy. He
was happy, too, because he could now send back to those he loved at
home much more for their comfort than he could as a little serving boy
at the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn. And then, sometimes, when one of
his messengers had an errand to Dives, the good king would let Geoffrey
go along, and he would then make a little visit to his family, and
would see his dear Count Boni and little Isabeau, who never ceased to
take the greatest pride and interest in him.

By and by, King Louis discovered how sweet a voice he possessed, and
that it had been well-trained for church music. This pleased the king
much, as he was very devout in his worship, and did a great deal
during his reign to improve the music in the cathedrals of France. So
Geoffrey was at once placed under masters, and he sang for a number
of years in the king’s own chapel, becoming one of the most famous
little choristers of the realm. Later on, as he grew to manhood, he
passed from being a page, to a squire; and after that, he was appointed
man-at-arms in the bodyguard of the king, who grew to love and trust
him greatly.

Some years later still, when King Louis again set forth for the East,
on the crusade from which he was never to return, Geoffrey was among
the most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when the
poor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, it
was Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the last
days of the stricken monarch.

When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returned
to their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respected
than the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good King
Louis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the little
peasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not only
because of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also because
of the exceeding sweetness and gentleness of his character.




                                 FELIX

              WHO SOUGHT HIS LOST SHEEP AT CHRISTMASTIDE
                       BY A WAY THAT LED TO HIS
                        HEART’S DESIRE AND MADE
                          HIM A FAMOUS CARVER
                            OF OLD PROVENCE


A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little
Provençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the
week before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known better
how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of
Provence.

Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle
and laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs and
ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important
festival.

Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the
blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in
the cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, covered
with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the
edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it,
and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this
particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of
tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling
in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had been
up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no
Provençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds
knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares
were gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly
watering with anticipation.

Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleeves
rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of
holiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth
the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almond
pâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.

Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various
errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where
little Félix Michaud was very busy also.

Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of
vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette!
Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in
a softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost
thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s
weak little “Baa, baa!”

For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a
very little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to know
what a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that,
the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppo
was Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offered
lamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass would
be celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of the
village.

Of the importance of this procession in the eyes of the peasant folk
it is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed the
offered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatest
honor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, and
so little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so it
was, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which he
determined should shine like spun silver on the great night.

He tugged away, scrubbing and brushing and combing the thick fleeces,
now and then stopping to stroke Beppo’s nose, or to box Ninette’s
ears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor,
considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handful
of fresh hay to nibble, he left the fold and trudged into the cottage.

“Well, little one,” said the Misè, “hast thou finished thy work?”

“Yes, mother,” answered Félix; “and I shall scrub them so each day till
the Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shines
like an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altar
in his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him far
handsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the procession
last year?”

“There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, but
run along now and finish thy crèche.”

[Illustration]

Now, in Provence, at the time when Félix lived, no one had ever heard
of such a thing as a Christmas tree; but in its stead every cottage had
a “crèche”; that is, in one corner of the great living-room, the room
of the fireplace, the peasant children and their fathers and mothers
built upon a table a mimic village of Bethlehem, with houses and people
and animals, and, above all, with the manger, where the Christ Child
lay. Every one took the greatest pains to make the crèche as perfect
as possible, and some even went so far as to fasten tiny angels to
the rafters, so that they hovered over the toy houses like a flock of
white butterflies; and sometimes a gold star, hung on a golden thread,
quivered over the little manger, in memory of the wonderful star of the
Magi.

In the Michaud cottage the crèche was already well under way. In the
corner across from the fireplace the Père had built up a mound, and
this Félix had covered with bits of rock and tufts of grass, and little
green boughs for trees, to represent the rocky hillside of Judea;
then, half-way up, he began to place the tiny houses. These he had
cut out of wood and adorned with wonderful carving, in which he was
very skilful. And then, such figures as he had made, such quaint little
men and women, such marvelous animals, camels and oxen and sheep and
horses, were never before seen in Sur Varne. But the figure on which
he had lavished his utmost skill was that of the little Christ Child,
which was not to be placed in the manger until the Holy Night itself.

Félix kept this figure in his blouse pocket, carefully wrapped up
in a bit of wool, and he spent all his spare moments striving to
give it some fresh beauty; for I will tell you a secret: poor little
Félix had a great passion for carving, and the one thing for which he
longed above all others was to be allowed to apprentice himself in the
workshop of Père Videau, who was the master carver of the village,
and whose beautiful work on the portals of the great church was the
admiration of Félix’s heart. He longed, too, for better tools than the
rude little knife he had, and for days and years in which to learn to
use them.

But the Père Michaud had scant patience with these notions of the
little son’s. Once, when Félix had ventured to speak to him about
it, he had insisted rather sharply that he was to stick to his
sheep-tending, so that when the Père himself grew old he could take
charge of the flocks and keep the family in bread; for the Père had
small faith in the art of the carver as being able to supply the big
brown loaves that the Misè baked every week in the great stone oven. So
Félix was obliged to go on minding the flocks; but whenever he had a
moment of his own, he employed it in carving a bit of wood or chipping
at a fragment of soft stone.

But while I have stopped to tell you all this, he had almost finished
the crèche; the little houses were all in place, and the animals
grouped about the holy stable, or else seeming to crop the tufts of
moss on the mimic rocky hillside. Over the manger with its tiny wisp
of hay, twinkled a wonderful star that Félix had made from some golden
beads that the Misè had treasured for years as part of her peasant
bridal finery.

Altogether, the crèche was really very prettily arranged, and after
giving several final touches, Félix stood back and surveyed it with
much satisfaction.

“Well, well!” said the Père Michaud, who had just entered the cottage,
“’tis a fine bit of work thou hast there, my son! Truly ’tis a brave
crèche! But,” he added, “I trow thou hast not forgotten the live sheep
in the fold whilst thou hast been busy with these little wooden images
here?”

“Nay, father,” answered Félix, “that I have not”—but here the Misè
called them both to the midday meal, which she had spread smoking hot
on the shining deal table.

When this was finished Félix arose, and, as the Père wished, once more
went out to the fold to see how the sheep, especially his little Beppo,
were faring.

As he pushed open the swinging door, Ninette, who was lazily dozing
with her toes doubled up under her fleece, blinked her eyes and looked
sleepily around; but Beppo was nowhere to be seen.

“Ninette!” demanded Félix, fiercely, “what hast thou done with my
Beppo?”

At this Ninette peered about in a dazed sort of way, and gave an
alarmed little “Baa!” For she had not before missed Beppo, who, while
she was asleep, had managed to push open the door of the fold and
scamper off, no one knew just where.

Félix gazed around in dismay when he realized that his lamb, the chosen
one, who had brought such pride and honor to him, was gone!

“Beppo!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Beppo! Beppo-o!”

But no trace could he see of the little bundle of fleece he had
scrubbed and combed so carefully that morning.

He stood irresolute a moment; then, thinking that if Beppo really were
running off, not a second was to be lost, he set out at a brisk pace
across the sheep-meadow. He had no idea in what direction the truant
lamb would be likely to stray, but on he went, calling every little
while in a shrill voice, “Beppo!” Now and then he fancied that he
saw in the distance a glimpse of white; but once it proved to be the
Misè Fouchard’s linen hung to dry on a currant-bush, and again it was
a great white stone—but no Beppo; and all the while Félix kept on,
quite forgetting that Beppo’s weak, woolly legs could not possibly have
carried him so great a distance.

By and by he had left the village meadows far behind, and was skirting
the great marsh. Sometimes he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked
far across this low wet land to see if perhaps Beppo had strayed into
its uncertain foothold; but nothing could he see but the waving rushes
and the tall bitterns wading about on long, yellow legs.

And still he pressed heedlessly on farther and farther, till, after a
while, he found himself thrusting through a thick coppice of willow
boughs.

“Oh,” thought Félix, “what if poor Beppo has strayed into this
woodland!” Tired as he was, he urged himself on, searching among the
trees; and it was not until he had wandered on and on, deeper and
deeper into the wood, that he realized that the dusk had fallen, and
that he must be a very, very long way from Sur Varne.

Félix then began to grow uneasy. He stood still and looked anxiously
about him; the dark forest trees closed around him on all sides, and he
was quite unable to remember from which direction he had entered the
wood.

Now, Félix was really a very brave little fellow, but it must be owned
his heart misgave him, and he fairly quaked as he peered through the
gathering darkness; for in those days the forests of Provence were
known to harbor many dangerous animals, especially wild boars and
wolves. He pricked up his ears, and now and then thought he heard in
the distance the stealthy tread of some four-footed forest prowler, and
once he was sure he caught the deep howl of a wolf.

That ended his hesitation. He looked quickly around, and grasping the
low boughs of a slender sapling, managed to swing himself up into a
tall chestnut tree that grew close by; and there he clung, clutching
the thick branches with might and main, feeling very cold and hungry
and miserable, his heart all the while sinking clear down into his
little peasant shoes.

And indeed he had cause for fear, for, not a great while after he had
thus hidden himself, a gaunt wolf really did pass close by, sniffing
and peering, till poor Félix gave up all hope of escaping with his
life; but, luckily, the wolf did not see him, and at last slowly crept
on through the underwood.

How long the little boy stayed in the perilous shelter of the
chestnut-tree he never knew, but it seemed untold ages to him. After a
while the moon rose, and shed a faint light through the close-lapping
branches; then, by and by, Félix’s ears, strained to listen for every
lightest sound, caught the echo of distant trampling, as of horses’
hoofs, and presently two horsemen came in sight, pricking their way
cautiously along a narrow bridle-path.

He did not know whom they might prove to be, but wisely thinking that
anything would be better than staying in a tree all night at the mercy
of hungry wolves, he waited till the first rider came quite close, and
then he plucked up courage to call out faintly:

“Oh, sir, stop, I pray thee!”

At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of
Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:

“Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?”

“Nay, my Lord,” answered Brian, who was some paces behind, “naught save
the trampling of our own horses’ hoofs.”

The count looked all around, and seeing nothing, thought himself
mistaken in the sound, and began to pace on. Then Félix in terror gave
another shout, this time louder, and at the same moment a little twig
he was pressing with his elbow broke away and dropped, striking against
the count’s stirrup; for the bridle-path wound directly under the tree
where Félix was perched.

The count instantly checked his horse again, and, peering up into the
boughs overhead, he caught sight of Félix, his yellow hair wet with dew
and shining in the moonlight, and his dark eyes wide with fear.

[Illustration]

“Heigh-ho!” exclaimed the count, in blank amazement. “Upon my word,
now! what art thou—boy or goblin?”

At this Félix gave a little sob, for he was very tired and very cold.
He hugged the tree tightly, and steadying himself against the boughs,
at last managed to falter out:

“Please thee, sir, I am Félix Michaud, and my lamb Beppo, who was to
ride in the Christmas procession, ran off to-day, and—and—I have been
hunting him, I think, ever since—since yesterday!” Here poor Félix
grew a trifle bewildered; it seemed to him so very long ago since he
had set out in search of Beppo. “And I live in Sur Varne.”

At this the count gave a long whistle.

“At Sur Varne!” he exclaimed. “If thou speakest truly, my little man,
thou hast indeed a sturdy pair of legs to carry thee thus far.” And
he eyed curiously Félix’s dusty little feet and leathern leggings,
dangling limply from the bough above him.

“Dost thou know how far distant is Sur Varne from this forest?”

“Nay, sir,” answered Félix; “but I trow ’tis a great way.”

“There thou art right,” said the count; “’tis a good two leagues, if it
is a pace. But how now? Thou canst not bide here to become the prey of
hungry wolves, my little night-owl of the yellow hair!”

And thereupon Count Bernard dexterously raised himself in his stirrups,
and, reaching upward, caught Félix in his arms and swung him down plump
on the saddle-bow in front of him; then, showing him how to steady
himself by holding the pommel, he turned to Brian, his squire, who
while all this was going on had stood by in silent astonishment, and
giving the order to move, the little cavalcade hastened on at a rapid
pace in order to get clear of the forest as quickly as possible.

Meantime the Count Bernard, who was really a very kind and noble lord,
and who lived in a beautiful castle on the farther verge of the
forest, quite reassured Félix by talking to him kindly, and telling him
of the six days’ journey from which he and his squire, Brian, were just
returning, and how they had been delayed on the way until nightfall.

“And, by my faith!” said Count Bernard, “’twas a lucky hour for thee
that snapped my horse’s saddle-girth! else we should have passed this
wood by midday—and then, little popinjay, what wouldst thou have done
had we not chanced along to pluck thee from out thy chilly nest? Hey?
Wolves had been but poor comrades for such as thee!”

At this Félix began to shiver, and the count hastened to add:

“Nay, my little man, I did but jest with thee! Thou shalt sleep this
night in the strong castle of Bois Varne, with not even a mouse to fret
thy yellow head; and, what is more, thou shalt see the fairest little
maid that ever thou hast set eyes on!”

And then he told him of his little daughter, the Lady Elinor, and how
she would play with Félix and show him the castle, and how on the
morrow they would see about sending him home to Sur Varne.

And all the while the count was talking they were trotting briskly
onward, till by and by they emerged from the forest and saw towering
near at hand the castle of Bois Varne. The tall turrets shone and
shimmered in the moonlight, and over the gateway of the drawbridge hung
a lighted cresset—that is, a beautiful wrought-iron basket, in which
blazed a ruddy torch of oil to light them on their way.

At sight of this the count and Brian spurred on their horses, and were
soon clattering across the bridge and into the great paved courtyard.
The count flung his bridle to a little page who hastened out to meet
him, and then, springing from his saddle, lightly lifted Félix and
swung him to the ground. He then took the boy by the hand and led him
into the great hall of the castle.

To Félix this looked marvelously beautiful. Christmas garlands of
myrtle hung on the walls, and a great pile of freshly cut laurel boughs
lay on a bench, ready for the morrow’s arranging. But that which took
his eyes most of all was the lovely carving everywhere to be seen. The
benches and tables were covered with it; the wainscot of the spacious
room was richly adorned; and over and about the wide fireplace great
carved dragons of stone curled their long tails and spread their wings
through a maze of intricate traceries. Félix was enchanted, and gazed
around till his eyes almost ached.

Presently in came running a little girl, laughing with delight.
Bounding up into Count Bernard’s arms, she hugged and kissed him in
true Provençal fashion. Then, catching sight of Félix:

“Ah, _mon père_,” she exclaimed, “and where foundest thou thy pretty
new page?”

“Nay, sweetheart,” answered the count, looking down at Félix’s yellow
hair, “’tis no page, but a little goldfinch we found perched in a
chestnut tree as we rode through the forest.”

Then, smiling at the Lady Elinor’s bewilderment, he told her the little
boy’s story, and she at once slipped down and greeted him kindly.
Then, clapping her hands with pleasure at finding a new playmate, she
declared he must come to see the Christmas crèche which she was just
finishing.

“Not so fast, _ma chère_!” interposed the count, “we must sup first,
for we are famished as the wolves we left behind us in the forest.” And
thereupon he called in the steward of the castle, who soon set out a
hearty supper on one of the long tables.

Elinor sat close by, eagerly chattering as they ate, and the moment
Félix had swallowed the last morsel, she seized him by the hand and
hastened across the hall, where her crèche was built upon a carved
bench. The poor little Lady Elinor had no mother, and her father, the
count, had been gone for several days; and although in the castle were
many serving men and women and retainers, yet none of these presumed to
dictate to the little mistress; and so she had put her crèche together
in a very odd fashion.

“There!” said she, “what thinkest thou of it, Félix? Of a truth, I
fancy somewhat is wanting, yet I know not how to better it!”

“Yes,” said Félix, bashfully, “it may be I can help thee.”

And so he set to work rearranging the little houses and figures, till
he succeeded in giving a life-like air to the crèche, and Lady Elinor
danced with delight.

While placing the little manger he happened to remember the figure of
the Christ Child still in his blouse pocket; this he timidly took out
and showed the little girl, who was charmed, and still more so when he
drew forth a small wooden sheep and a dog, which were also in the same
pocket, and which he begged her to keep.

The Lady Elinor was so carried away with joy that she flew to the side
of the count, and, grasping both his hands, dragged him across the room
to show him the crèche and the wonderful figures carved by Félix. Félix
himself was covered with confusion when he saw the count coming, and
would gladly have run from the hall, but that was impossible; so he
stood still, his eyes averted and his face crimson.

“See, _mon père_!” said Elinor, “see this, and this!” And she held up
the carvings for the count’s inspection.

[Illustration]

Count Bernard, who had good-naturedly crossed the room to please his
daughter, now opened his eyes wide with surprise. He took the little
figures she handed him and examined them closely, for he was a good
judge of artistic work of this kind. Then he looked at Félix, and at
length he said:

“Well, little forest bird, who taught thee the carver’s craft?”

“No one, sir,” faltered Félix; “indeed, I wish, above all things, to
learn of the Père Videau, the master carver; but my father says I must
be a shepherd, as he is.”

Here a tear rolled down Félix’s cheek, for he was half frightened and
terribly tired.

“Well, well,” said the count, “never mind! Thou art weary, little one;
we will talk of this more on the morrow. ’Tis high time now that both
of you were sound asleep. Hey, there! Jean! Jacques! Come hither and
take care of this little lad, and see to it that he hath a soft bed and
a feather pillow!”

The next morning the children ate a merry breakfast together, and after
it Count Bernard took Félix aside and asked him many questions of his
life and his home. Then, by and by, knowing how anxious the boy’s
parents would be, he ordered his trusty squire, Brian, to saddle a
horse and conduct Félix back to Sur Varne.

Meantime the little Lady Elinor begged hard that he stay longer in
the castle for her playfellow, and was quite heartbroken when she
saw the horse standing ready in the courtyard. Indeed, she would not
be satisfied until her father, the count, who could not bear to see
her unhappy, had promised to take her over some day to see Félix
in Sur Varne. Then she smiled and made a pretty farewell courtesy,
and suddenly snatching from her dark hair a crimson ribbon of Lyons
taffeta, she tied it about Félix’s sleeve, declaring:

“There! thou must keep this token, and be my little knight!” for the
Lady Elinor had many lofty notions in her small curly head.

Félix could only stammer out an embarrassed good by, for in the
presence of this lively little maid he found himself quaking more than
when he feared the terrible wolves of the forest. In another moment
Brian lifted him to the saddle, and, springing up behind, took the
bridle-rein, and off they went.

When, after several hours’ riding, they drew near Sur Varne, Félix
showed Brian the way to the Michaud cottage, and you can fancy how
overjoyed were the Père and Misè to see the travelers; for they had
been nearly beside themselves with grief, and had searched all night
for their little son.

Of course almost the first question Félix asked was about Beppo, and he
felt a great load taken off his mind when he learned that the little
truant, who really had not strayed very far from the village, had been
found and brought home by one of the shepherds, and was even then
penned up safe and sound in the sheepfold.

After a good night’s sleep Félix was quite rested from his journey. He
was busy the next day in helping to garland the Yule log, in giving
Ninette and Beppo an extra scrubbing and brushing, and in all the final
happy preparations for the great holiday.

And so Christmas Eve came. It was a lovely starlit night, and on all
sides one could hear the beautiful Christmas songs of old Provence,
that all the peasants and the children sing as they troop along the
roads on their way to the great church of the village; for thither
every one flocks as the expected hour draws on.

Within the church all was a blaze of light; hundreds of tall wax tapers
shone and twinkled and shed their golden glow over the altar, and a
wonderful crèche with its manger and almost life-size figures stood on
another special altar of its own.

Then presently the stately service began, and went on with song and
incense, and the sweet chanting of children’s voices, till suddenly
from the upper tower of the church a joyous peal of bells rang in the
midnight! All at once, through the dense throng of worshipers nearest
the door a pathway opened, and in came four peasants playing on pipes
and flutes and flageolets a quaint old air made up nearly three hundred
years before by good King René for just such a ceremony as was to
follow.

After the pipers walked ten shepherds, two by two, each wearing a long
brown cloak, and carrying a staff and lighted candle; that is, all save
the first two, and these bore, one a basket of fruit, melons and grapes
and pears of sunny Provence, while the other held in his hands a pair
of pretty white pigeons with rose-colored eyes and soft, fluttering
wings.

And then, behind the shepherds came—what do you suppose?—Ninette!
Ninette, her fleece shining like snow, a garland of laurel and myrtle
about her neck, and twigs of holly nodding behind her ears; while bound
about her woolly shoulders a little harness of scarlet leather shone
against the white with dazzling effect; and fastened to the harness,
and trundling along at Ninette’s heels, came the gayest of little
wooden carts. It was painted in the brightest colors. Its wheels were
wrapped with garlands, and in it, curled up in a fat fleecy ball, lay
Beppo! Tied about his neck in a huge bow was a crimson ribbon of Lyons
taffeta, with a sprig of holly tucked into its loops.

Beppo lay quite still, looking about him with a bewildered, half-dazed
expression, and just behind his cart came ten more shepherds with
staves and candles, while following them was a great throng of peasant
folk and children, among them Félix, all carrying lighted tapers, and
radiant with delight; for this was the Procession of the Offered Lamb,
and to walk in its train was considered by all the greatest honor and
privilege.

And especially did the shepherd folk love the beautiful old custom
which for centuries the people of Provence had cherished in memory of
the time, long ago, when the real Christ Child lay in the manger of
Bethlehem, and the shepherds of Judea sought him out to worship him,
and to offer him their fruits and lambs as gifts.

And so, on, up the long aisle, the procession slowly moved; the pipers
playing, and Ninette marching solemnly along, only now and then pausing
to thrust her nose between the Père Michaud and his companion, who
walked directly in front of her. Ninette pattered on as if she had trod
the floors of churches all her life; and as for Beppo, only once did he
stir, and then he gave a faint “Baa!” and tried to uncurl himself and
stand up; but just then the queer little cart gave a joggle which quite
upset his shaky lamb legs, and down he sank, and kept quiet throughout
the rest of the time.

When the procession reached the altar the musicians stopped playing,
and the first two shepherds, kneeling, presented the pigeons and the
basket of fruit; and then the little cart was wheeled up so as to bring
Beppo directly in front of all, and the whole company knelt as the
priest blessed the offerings.

After this beautiful ceremony which ended the service, the players
again struck up King René’s tune, and the procession, shepherds,
Ninette, Beppo, peasants, and all, once more moved on, this time down
the outer aisle and toward the great open portal.

It took some time for the last of its followers to reach the doorway,
for the throng was very great; but at length Félix, who had marched
with the children in the last group, came to the threshold and stepped
out into the starry night.

He stood for a moment smiling and gazing aimlessly ahead, overwhelmed
with the glory of all that had passed within the church. Presently he
felt some one pluck his sleeve, and turning round, he met the dancing
eyes of the little Lady Elinor.

She gave a little peal of laughter at his surprise, and exclaimed: “Oh,
I coaxed _mon père_, the count, to fetch me hither for this blessed
night. Thou knowest he promised! I rode my white palfrey all the way by
the side of his big brown horse. And I have seen the procession, and
Beppo with my red ribbon round his neck.” Here she gave another little
gurgle of delight.

“And oh, Félix, my father hath seen thine, and ’tis all settled! Thou
art to be a famous carver with the Père Videau, as thou wishest,”—for
the Lady Elinor had unbounded faith in Félix’s powers, “and, Félix,”
she added, “I trow ’twas the little Christ Child for thy crèche that
did it!”

Then, with a merry smile, she darted off to her father, the Count
Bernard, who was waiting for her down the church path.

For a little while after she had gone Félix did not move, but stood as
one in a dream. Elinor’s sweet words, ringing in his ears, mingled with
the glad songs the peasants were again singing on their homeward way,
till altogether he did not quite know whether he was awake or asleep,
but only felt an indistinct notion that some wonderful fairy, who had
the face of a little maid he knew, had whispered in his ear something
that was to make him happy forever.

Presently a loud bleat close at his side startled him, and looking
down, he saw that Ninette, decked in her gay garlands, and still
dragging the be-ribboned Beppo in the little cart, had broken away from
the Père Michaud and come close up to himself.

Then, with a sudden movement, he stooped over, and, seizing Beppo
in both arms, hugged and squeezed him till poor Beppo squeaked with
surprise, and opened his red mouth and gasped for breath. But Félix
only hugged him the harder, murmuring under his breath, “Bless thy
little heart, Beppo! Bless thy little heart!” For in a vague way he
realized that the truant lamb had somehow brought him his heart’s
desire, and that was quite enough Christmas happiness for one year.

And the little Lady Elinor was right, too. Years after, when Félix grew
to be a man, he did, in very truth, become a “famous carver,” as she
had declared.

Far surpassing his first master, the Père Videau, he traveled and
worked in many cities; yet never, through all his long life, did he
forget that Christmas Eve in the little village of Sur Varne.

Those who knew him best said that among his dearest treasures he always
kept a beautifully carved little box, and in it a bit of faded crimson
ribbon from the looms of Lyons. While, as for Beppo—well, if ever some
happy day you chance to visit the lovely land of Provence, perhaps you
will see a certain grand old cathedral in the ancient city of Arles;
and, if you do, look sharp at the figure of a lamb chiseled in white
stone over the great portal. Look well, I say, for Félix, when he
carved it, would have told you that he was thinking all the while of
Beppo.




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.