The Dreamer Of Dreams Part 7

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 rushing 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 shine 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 sunshine, 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.

He felt he must cross these enormous heights before he could reach what he was seeking; that as yet his road had been too easy, and that it would be needed of him to make some great effort before he was worthy of attaining his goal.

He looked back in thoughts upon the way he had come, and there seemed to him a great difference between the Eric of yesterday and to-day.

Dense clouds were enfolding the peaks of the mountains and creeping like soft monsters along the sides, filling the deep precipices with damp moving ma.s.ses which were all coming towards him ready to swallow him up.

Steeper and steeper became the road, the air rarer, whilst the clouds lay thick and impenetrable over all.

Eric toiled on; only seldom could he look down upon what lay beneath because of the vapours that were wrapping themselves around him.

He knew not where he was going, but he stolidly continued his way in spite of the hard rocks and stones that wounded his feet, in spite of the path becoming always more irksome and dangerous.

Often he had but a narrow ledge to walk on, with a chasm on one side, a high wall of rock on the other; and as the clouds lay over everything he was in constant peril of life.

There were moments when a straying sun-ray would break through the clouds, casting a sudden light upon them, transforming them into mother-of-pearl; and sometimes the shaft of light ran straight along the white mist as if a finger of a G.o.d were pointing downwards to the dwellings of men.

Then out of the wall of mist a shadow rose and stood before him. It was faintly outlined against the whiteness that was about him, and the shadow was that of a man. And as he looked, full of surprise, another was at his side, and then a third, and these three shades pointed down the road he had been ascending.

Eric turned, and there, behind him, was a whole procession of diaphanous figures all following his footsteps.

They seemed transparent, yet all of them had personality; their faces although blurred and indistinct were full of different expressions.

Some were old and bent, others strong, stalwart, upright. Several of the female figures were young and fair; there were even small children amongst them, and all appeared waiting for him to lead the way.

He moved on, pa.s.sing the three forms he had first seen, and with a shudder he realized that when he tried to touch them his fingers met nothing but s.p.a.ce--his hand pa.s.sed right through!

And each time he turned his head there they were, all of them, pressing close on his heels, silent, persistent. Truly it was a gruesome company to be wandering with in this wilderness of rocks and clouds.

Eric wondered how long it would last, and if they meant to go with him all the way.

Who were they? And what did they want of him?

Although many of them were beautiful, Eric thought them horrible and uncanny, and kept wondering in what way he could relieve himself of their presence; indeed he had not reckoned with such companions on his road.

Should he turn back? But if he did he would have to pa.s.s them all, and he remembered with a shudder how his hand had gone right through those bodiless shapes when he had tried to touch them, so it was better to go forward instead of retracing his footsteps.

Eric came now to a turn of the path where a great rock jutted out, barring his way in such a fashion that to pa.s.s it he would have to put one foot before the other on a ledge so narrow that the sight alone made him feel giddy and faint.

Beneath him gaped the great sea of clouds covering unknown depths he could not penetrate; but forwards he must go! Was he not like a hunted animal with this procession of ghosts so remorselessly tracking him?

He bravely set his face to the dangerous pa.s.s, and very carefully, his hands clutching at the rough surface of the rock, he managed to turn the dreaded corner; as he did so, there, right in the middle of his path, blocking his way, was a very old man.

He sat with head bent, his long grey beard dragging on the ground; within his clasped hands he grasped a thick stick against which he was leaning.

He looked sad and weary, and yet he was full of quiet dignity; a surprising figure to meet in a lonely place. His grey clothing hung loosely over his emaciated body, his wide mantle fell in thin folds about him; on his head he wore a broad-brimmed, weather-beaten hat.

At the young man's exclamation of surprise he raised his head and looked keenly at him, but spoke not a word. Yet this old man was not a spectre like the others, but in verity a living human creature, and for that reason welcome to our lonely wanderer.