The Dreamer Of Dreams Part 26

Indeed, it was with his very life's blood that the painter was now completing his masterpiece; he felt that each day he was giving some of his strength--that little by little his force was going with each fresh stroke of his brush.

At times his face was corpse-like, as one no more of this earth.

Once little Oona had peeped through an opening in the window-curtain, and had then run quickly back, with a feeling that she had seen a ghost.

But the face that Eric was creating upon King Wanda's wall was of a beauty no words can describe.

The woman on the throne, with the golden dress that flowed down like a river seen at sunset, was leaning slightly forward, her eyes looking away over the heads of the crowd that was calling upon her name in praise.

She seemed to see no one; but other visions more beautiful than earthly eyes could conceive filled her gaze. The two palms of her hands were pressed down at her side in a strained att.i.tude, as one who is half afraid, or perhaps awakening to some astounding knowledge.

But her eyes was the spot within which Eric Gundian had concentrated all his inimitable art: they were the most marvellous wells of light and shade that had ever been painted by mortal hand.

They were a mighty realization of his eternal dream--that dream that had led him through distant countries and deadly dangers to the very fount of love. Eric now lived only sustained by his feverish desire to leave those eyes, he had so loved, for ever upon that frieze that would be a living incorporation of his one great aim.

But behind those shut doors he was wasting away; he was but a spirit whose body was an overcome burden, living by the soul alone, only a breath of that human life he had spent in the eternal effort to reach his glorious dream. Near by sat the snow-white hawk, who would never leave his side except for short moments when Eric opened the window, upon the beauties of spring, letting the bird out to search for its daily food.

Eric himself seemed to dread the light of the sun; neither would he eat of the royal dishes that were brought him; he sipped from time to time a little water, otherwise he lived sustained by the love of his work.

Eric Gundian--Eric of the golden locks--was now but a wavering breath, kept alive by the desire to finish his wonderful picture.

One morning, when all had been stiller than usual behind those silent walls, King Wanda, with anxious face, opened the heavy door--and there, upon the ground, stretched all his length before his finished masterpiece, lay Eric Gundian, the dreamer of dreams, his wet brush still clasped in his hand.

Near him, as always, sat the strange white bird watchfully motionless, but this time there were actually tears in its piercing eyes.

The lids of the dreamer were closed for ever, as one, dead-tired, who mercifully has found rest at last....

But on the golden throne of the picture sat a woman more beautiful than any brain can conceive,--within the expression of her eyes lay a world of joy and sorrow, that had blended into a look of unearthly glory impossible to describe.

King Wanda stood staring, unable to move, overcome with a sorrow too deep for words; yet he had the feeling that whoso had been able to accomplish such a miracle could only die at the moment of attainment, because such a marvel must verily be paid for by the life of the one who thus was allowed to create it.

All the courtiers now came trooping together and stood in awe behind their King, staring and whispering, hushed by the dark mystery they could not understand.

Then a murmur went from lip to lip.

"Oh, why has the marvellous woman a crown of thorns upon her head? Why, oh why did he paint the face of Love crowned with a wreath of thorns?"

King Wanda bowed his weary head: then he knelt on the floor and kissed the brow of the favourite he had loved so well--and, looking into that pale and silent face, he thought he understood what the Dreamer had meant when, with the last touch of his brush, he had crowned Love's immaculate visage with a wreath of thorns.

x.x.x

And Beauty, Peace, and Sorrow are dreams within dreams.

FIONA MACLEOD.

In a distant land Spring was also spreading over hill and dale.

But on a bare plain, where nothing grew, a miracle had come to pa.s.s: a peasant, returning home one starry night, had espied, from the road upon which he was slowly sauntering, a strange light in the form of a cross, gleaming far over the barren waste.

Full of astonishment he had run to the spot, and there he had discerned a magic crystal, all charged with radiance, in the shape before which every Christian bends the knee. And the most curious of all, this burning cross was the hilt of a glistening sword which must have dropped from heaven, to remain thus firmly planted in the ground.

Awed and filled with wonder the youth had spread the astounding news from village to village, and all the simple folk had run together, falling down in worship before this miraculous sign, which G.o.d had put in so desert a place, as a blessing on the land.

From far and wide, rich and poor, old and young, men, women, and children came in pilgrimage to that holy site.

None ever knew, except one humble little peasant, from whence the cross had come.

But Radu, the shepherd, held his peace, thanking the Kind Mother of Christ for having thus ordained that so many pious believers should go and pray on the grave where the dreamer of dreams had buried his love.

One morning when the warm rays of the sun were lying like a blessing over the deserted waste, a white bird might have been seen descending out of the blue.

It hovered for a time over the gleaming sword, circling very slowly, so that its outspread wings resembled a snowy cloud floating in the air.

Then down it swooped out of the heavens, there, where Stella lay beneath the dark heavy mould. Within its beak this unknown bird was holding a simple seed, which it dropped on the very spot where the dead girl's heart rested under the sod--a seed it had carried from a distant land of the north from the tenderly tended grave in a great king's garden.

Hardly had the seed touched the barren earth than it sprang up and spread all over the tomb a thick network of rambling thorns covered with countless roses--as crimson as the broken heart of a lover.

And these roses bloomed, even in the winter months, upon the icy covering of snow, red as the reddest blood, till all the simple folk declared that indeed the place was Holy Ground.

And thus it was that G.o.d blessed the Love of him who once had been called Eric Gundian, the Dreamer of Dreams.

THE END