Part 7 (1/2)

What mattered that the place was a ruin, that holy chants and fervent prayers were no more heard within the skeleton walls! It had been G.o.d's house, and the weary wanderer needed sanctuary.

Motionless as one asleep or dead he lay.

There was no sound around him except the buzzing of bees amongst the sweet-smelling lavender.

They flitted hither and thither, fetching out of each blossom its treasure of honey and sweetness, whilst tiny blue b.u.t.terflies danced in their midst in frivolous useless gaiety. All of a sudden a flight of doves came floating out of the summer sky and settled like white sunlit clouds on every window-sill, where they fluttered their wings, filling the whole place with flashes of light, as the sun gleamed on their snowy feathers.

But still Eric lay without movement, his face among the crushed flowers.

The doves cooed and kissed each other; the bees swarmed around, and from somewhere very far overhead a bird sang a glad song, his voice rising shrill and pure into the warm air.

The sun began to slant his rays through the beautiful high windows, lighting up one of the sides of the building with sheets of gold.

He sent his warm beams to kiss the young man's curls, and to caress the white hands that were clasped before him; then one of the rays fell upon a picture that still kept its place above the altar.

At that very moment Eric, for the first time, raised his head--and there, smiling down upon him in angelic pity, was a face of such perfect sweetness, that he felt the hot tears come rus.h.i.+ng to his tired eyes.

With folded hands he knelt in a posture of adoration, and gazed into the wonderful countenance that looked into his. A long cloak of some indescribable shade flowed down, enfolding the Virgin's ethereal limbs.

Her hands were outstretched in a gesture of blessing; upon her head she wore a high golden crown, and the sun beat upon it making it s.h.i.+ne like real metal; and her eyes, her wonderful eyes, were full of tears.... But in her heart.... Oh! did he rightly see? or was he dreaming the same awful dream over again?... in her heart, too, a dagger had been thrust!

Must all hearts be killed? What was this old world teaching him? Was sorrow everywhere? Were those that blessed treated alike with those who poisoned heart and soul?

How ignorant he had been, singing like a bird in the suns.h.i.+ne, understanding nothing, feeling nothing but his own joy to be alive!

Now all seemed changed; pain and temptation, hard words and sweet smiles, had replaced each other in bewildering confusion, and into the heart of this miraculous Mother of G.o.d, this most pure of all women they had also thrust a cruel blade--and yet she continued to smile, her fair hands extended to his helpless gropings to understand!

His eyes riveted to the Holy Face, he approached the devastated altar around which the sun-rays had concentrated all their brightness, till the picture of the Virgin was no longer a painting, but a living woman, all light and radiance, Divine pity and love.

The weary wanderer sank on his knees, his hands folded, his head bent on the altar, and as he knelt there murmuring old forgotten prayers of his childhood, real warm tears streamed from the eyes of the holy picture and fell drop by drop on his sunny locks.

And it was like a gentle blessing which held within it a sweet promise of peace and comfort.

XII

The lavender-covered waste and the gaunt ruins of the church had been left far behind, and our traveller was now ascending the rocky pa.s.s of the great rugged mountains that rose high and forbidding above his head.

He had felt a longing to climb somewhere very high, with a wish to be as near the blue sky as possible.

Something of the peace that the holy picture had filtered into his heart still remained. Within his clear look there was a dreamy wonder as if he still saw pure visions before him, the warm tears of the Mother of G.o.d having consecrated him to a deeper understanding. But there remained a shadow upon his soul from his dark experiences within the dwelling of the sorceress.

He was no more the gay, flitting, singing bird he had been. He strode forward with a more manly tread; something of the boyish eagerness had gone out of his step, some of the sweet confidence had gone from his eyes when they rested on those he met on his way.

When he played on his flute he marvelled at the new tones it had taken; they seemed deeper, sadder, and his voice vibrated less with the joy of living.

Yet the world was still wonderful and full of promise; these rocky mountains had shapes and colours that made his heart rejoice.

In this he was still the same Eric Gundian whom King Wanda had loved: he was without fear, and not even the sight of these treeless giants of stone daunted his wanderer's spirit.

Each night when he slept, no matter where he rested his head, the vision he was following always appeared to him clear, vivid, unchanged--those great solemn eyes that looked into his without ever a droop of the lids.