Part 11

Borne back by the gentle but resistless force of the sacred band, and secretly abashed at the recollection of his own conduct, Antiphates stood spell-bound, devouring with hungry eyes the peerless beauty of the maid, whom too late, he knew to be the one golden hope of his life. They arrayed her in bridal robes of exceeding splendour. They placed a coronal of blooming orange flowers upon her faultless head.

When all was completed Fidunia, turning to Domenichino, pleaded with him to convey what remained of her devoted servant to the little thymy knoll beneath the olive trees, and there within easy reach of her convent walls, to lay to rest the still beautiful form of the faithful Fido.

Then, stepping aside as if to bid him farewell, she raised and kissed the silent Prince's hand, murmuring in tones that he alone could hear, "while life lasts I shall pray for thee." Ere he could respond the procession slowly re-formed, and descending the broad palace-stairs, swept onwards along the avenue of grassy sward, and through the orange-scented gardens of Xylina to the hallowed precincts of Saint Sebastian on the Hill.

Within the chapel where the holy fathers waited, many had collected to witness the ceremony, but the King and his cortége occupied the places nearest to the sisters and the young aspirant.

Through his intervention her meditations were yet again disturbed, as he besought her once more to turn from her purpose, and to remain amid the outer world as his loved and honoured bride. She steadfastly refused to listen to his entreaties. The service proceeded, and the novice at length prepared to pass through the iron gateway that should now close to all eternity between her and the world without. A ray from heaven fell on her beautiful figure, and illumined her devout features, as she stood waiting to receive the white consecrated veil of the sisterhood.

The long enveloping folds shrouded her from head to foot, and as Fidunia's golden head disappeared for ever from the sight of man, the whole air became filled with the celestial voices of the choir, singing these glorious words,

"She is not dead, but liveth."

EUDÆMON:

OR

_THE ENCHANTER OF THE NORTH_.

On the eastern side of the Isle of Raasay there still stands a lonely ruin known as Castle Brochel. Perched upon precipitous rocks at the very verge of the ocean, it is easy to imagine how, armed and provisioned, this fortress held its own amid the perpetual warfare of early Celtic times.

Castle Brochel has always borne a doubtful reputation. According to tradition, it was originally built with the price of blood, for the ancient legend runs somewhat after this fashion.

Shiel Torquil went forth with his dogs one morning to hunt the red deer on the wild mountains Blaven and Glamaig, in the neighbouring Island of Skye. Shiel Torquil had with him only one retainer, but he was a host in himself, being surnamed, from his immense size and strength, the Gillie More. After some time they sighted a stag. In the ardour of the chase the dogs soon ran out of sight, pursuing their quarry towards the shore at Sligachan.

Now it so happened that the young Kreshinish in his galley was anchored on that side of the island within sight of the beach. He saw the hunted animal about to take to the water, and swim, as deer are often known to do, across the narrow strait which lies between Skye and Raasay. Kreshinish and his men at once landed and took possession, not only of the stag itself, but of the dogs which, panting and exhausted, were unable to offer any resistance.

Shiel Torquil presently appeared on the scene and angrily asked for his deer and his hounds. Kreshinish refused to deliver them up. A bloody struggle ensued, during which the Gillie More inflicted a fatal wound upon the ill-fated young chieftain who unwittingly (at first) had interfered with the sports of another. This brought the affray to a speedy conclusion, and Shiel Torquil with his follower carried off deer and dogs in triumph.

Not long after this the poor old father of Kreshinish came to Skye to seek for the murderer of his son, and publicly offered the reward of a bag of silver to any one who would show him the guilty man. The Gillie More, hearing of the promised guerdon, boldly entered the presence of the elder Kreshinish. Confessing that he himself had slain the youthful chieftain, he urged in self-defence the young man's overbearing conduct in attempting to carry off Shiel Torquil's stag-hounds and game.

The bereaved father, obliged by the stringent laws of Highland honour to fulfil his solemn promise, reluctantly bestowed the bag of silver on the very man who had cut off his only child in the early bloom of manhood. The Gillie More, however, haunted by remorse, and still fearing the avenger's footstep, entreated his master to accept the money and build therewith a retreat for them both.

Shiel Torquil granted his henchman's request. After some time spent in searching for a suitable site, they at last selected the wild easterly shore of Raasay. Here were speedily raised the frowning walls of Castle Brochel. Secured from sudden attack by the inaccessible situation of their refuge, the Gillie More and his master lived in peace for many years.

Their retired habits, and their dislike to intruders, coupled with this strange tale of robbery and murder, caused the Castle, though newly-built, to be regarded with no friendly eye. When they died, it was left untenanted for a considerable time. Many reports were circulated concerning the strange sights and sounds to be seen and heard at the eerie hour of twilight, or amid the silent watches of the night, by the belated traveller who chanced to pass that way by sea or by land.

At the period of which we speak, Castle Brochel had however for some time been inhabited by a being whose origin was partially shrouded in mystery, the gloomy Eudæmon, known as the "Enchanter of the North."

Long years ago, Valbiorn, the wild sea-king, persuaded the lovely Bragela, Sorglan's fair-haired daughter, to fly with him from her home. Terrible was Sorglan's wrath when he discovered that his hereditary enemy had deprived him of his only child, and undying was his resentment. But filial disobedience brought its own punishment. Before very long the restless Valbiorn was once more roaming alone on the high seas, spreading war and confusion in his wake.

It was next rumoured that the gentle Bragela, heart-broken and deserted, had, with her little babe and an old and faithful attendant, one-eyed Donald, taken up her abode in the lonely Castle Brochel. Here she reared her son, within whose infant mind the powers of good and evil seemed to struggle with unwonted energy.

Unceasing were the prayers that the loving mother offered up over her child, for his strange nature caused her many tears. At times he would sit contented by her side, and fixing on her his large dark eyes, listen attentively to her words of instruction and wisdom. Or wandering with her, as soon as he could run alone, over the hills near at hand, he learnt the names and properties of various medicinal herbs, and the hours when they should be gathered to render their use efficacious. Wondrously effectual was the healing touch he inherited from his fair young mother and brought to light in future years.

On other days a mad spirit of wild wantonness seemed to possess the boy. He would destroy everything upon which he could lay his hand, or tear along recklessly over the rugged walls and dangerous precipices on which the Castle stood, where a single false step would have dashed him to pieces on the rocks beneath. If his mother tearfully besought him to return to her, he would burst into loud fits of laughter, and shriek until the very sea-birds flew affrighted from the spot.

When these strange paroxysms seized him, Bragela found that nothing had the least effect upon her wayward child save music. It was wholly by accident she first discovered the soothing charm of melody on his turbulent nature.

One day, after watching his wild antics till her very heart grew sick within her, she re-entered the hall wearied and discouraged. Gradually consoling herself as she remembered how often the young rebel had come down in safety from his perilous haunts, she drew to her the harp, her father's gift in days of yore, which in all her wanderings she had carried with her. Striking chord after chord on its well-worn strings, she at length began to mingle her sweet voice with its thrilling tones. She sang of her childhood's happy home, and her tenderly-loved father, of the still beloved though faithless Valbiorn, of the perils they had together undergone, of the blissful hours she had once enjoyed when the fierce warrior forgot everything save her gentle strains, and lay entranced at her feet drinking in every word, and whispering in ardent tones that "her voice was as that of the angels in heaven."

She would have sung on of sorrow and forlorn solitude, but voice and heart alike failed her. Clasping her arms around her cold harp, the forsaken Bragela bowed her head on its shoulder and wept aloud.

But a little rough hand was laid upon her neck. "Mother, mother," whispered her boy; "you must not weep, you are not forlorn or lonely, for I am here to care for you, and to protect you."

Surprised and touched, Bragela turned to look upon the child. The wild light had died out of his eyes, and in its place shone through those brilliant orbs the tender protecting instinct of his sex. He drew closer to her, and pressing his little curly head on her soft bosom, he murmured, "I am sorry, mother dear; forgive me this time."

Poor Bragela gladly folded the young truant to her heart. Henceforward she derived unspeakable comfort from this new influence over his boisterous spirit. For his sake she cheerfully resumed the art she had deemed laid aside for ever. When the wild fit again and again returned upon her boy, she would even carry her harp into the outer court. There inuring herself, with all a mother's courage, to behold without shuddering his maddest freaks, by her sweet singing and playing she gradually lured him to her side, and awakened his better self.

These happy days, however, could not continue for ever. Eudæmon's mother had gone through too many trials, and was of too tender a nature to endure such grief with impunity. There came a time when the gentle Bragela laid down her wearied head to rest; her dim eye kindled not with affection when her terrified boy bent over her, her cold hand for the first time gave him no responsive caress. Her sorrows were over, but loud and long were the lamentations of her child; thus left alone with one poor old man and his faithful dog Luachan.

At dead of night strange lights and sounds arose about that rugged dwelling. Watchers at a distance beheld the lonely castle enveloped in fiery smoke. Amid the wreathing vapours a figure of unearthly proportions carried to the sea a white-robed form with long flowing hair. The repentant Valbiorn, too late to save, or even to hold converse with his neglected Bragela, bore to his immortal home her precious remains. There he was able by his magic skill to endow her inanimate body with the semblance of life. He mournfully placed the beautiful image in the vaulted halls of Thuisto, where he could for ever gaze on the fatal beauty that had brought such misfortune on its possessor.

Valbiorn tried every art to persuade his son to accompany him; but before her death Bragela had warned her child of the cruel nature of the sea-kings. She told him of her humble trust that notwithstanding her early disobedience (so heartily repented of), her soul might ascend to heaven, and though the still heathen Valbiorn could take her body, yet she felt her spirit would be safe with Him who gave it.

She explained to Eudæmon that if he came under his dread father's influence, the sea-king and his wild companions would strive their utmost to make him forget and neglect her careful instructions. She entreated him to be steadfast in his resistance to temptation, prophesying that eventually he might even have the great happiness of rescuing his father from the darkness of heathendom; if only he lived on in faith and simplicity, serving his unseen but all-powerful Maker, studying the books she left him, and endeavouring as best he might to help the poor ignorant Highlanders around.

The crafty Valbiorn finding all his endeavours powerless to persuade Eudæmon to quit his abode of safety, resolved to destroy his disobedient son and his refuge at the same time. But here the loving mother's foresight helped in the preservation of her child. Among the other treasures carried by the fugitive Bragela to Castle Brochel, were some fowls of the famous breed first reared by the witch Fantunina, which by their watchfulness are able to protect their possessors from the powers of evil.

Night after night, therefore, when the emissaries of the baffled sea-king strove to destroy the Castle by fire, the magic cock, ever on the alert, flapped his wings and loudly proclaimed the approach of danger. Then Eudæmon arising from his lonely couch, wrestled in silent prayer until the first faint streaks of daylight in the eastern sky showed him that night's dominion was over. Thus baulked of his prey, Valbiorn withdrew in a terrible tempest to Thuisto, nor did his son again hear of him for many and many a long day.

A considerable period elapsed, during which Eudæmon grew apace in stature and in knowledge. He not only studied the many books of magic lore left to him, but he also learnt marvellous lessons from Nature herself. In his lonely isolation he had leisure to attend to what our common mother is ready to teach us all, would we but tarry awhile in our busy lives and hearken to her still small voice.

Separated by his birth and dwelling-place from mankind in general, Eudæmon strove to benefit the few he could befriend. The island people, as a rule, rarely beheld him. But in sickness or trouble they ever turned (tremblingly, it is true) to the Castle gate, where they waited while the trusty Donald apprised his master of the presence of the suppliants without.

Strange cures were wrought by the simple remedies Eudæmon compounded from the various herbs and minerals his mother had shown to him, or with which his studies had rendered him familiar. To seek these herbs at a propitious time, the youth issued from the Castle at dead of night, with his faithful Luachan, and traversed the hills till break of day, when, wearied, and full of sleep, he often, on his return, passed the daylight hours in repose.

He was, moreover, a keen and unerring marksman, swift and sure of foot, and of iron nerve. The shuddering Highlanders sometimes marked his eager pursuit of the wild goats, which at that time abounded in the island. Master and hound seemed alike dauntless and fearless in the chase, and whether from his early love of climbing, or from his mixed descent, it is hard to say, but it is very certain that Eudæmon and his dog were often seen scrambling across the beetling crags that overhung the sea, in places where no human foot has trodden before or since. He and Luachan also knew where the golden eagle built her eyrie. He even caught and tamed a young nestling, which loved Castle Brochel as its home, and would only feed from her master's hand. With Donald's assistance moreover he had constructed a rude boat, in which they went forth occasionally to seek a portion of their subsistence by fishing.

Passionately fond of companionship, and denied that of his own fellows, Eudæmon, by dint of long perseverance, collected around him a motley variety of animals. Tame seals lived on the rocks below his dwelling. In perfect security around and beneath the Castle walls roosted and nested a perfect colony of sea-birds. A little flock of goats amply supplied the three inhabitants with milk; while conies, blue hares, domestic fowls of various kinds, and last, but not least, serpents, from time immemorial the emblems of wisdom, throve and multiplied within the precincts or in close proximity to Eudæmon's home.

In those remote times, it is not surprising that old Donald, with his queer, misshapen figure, and solitary glaring eye, his youthful master, so wise beyond his years, and even the poor collie Luachan, whose sagacity was far above the average, were one and all regarded with some degree of superstitious mistrust.

It was said, that in the little turret chamber, highest in the Castle wall, from which at night streamed forth a ruddy ray of light, Eudæmon held converse with visitants from another world, and that many a storm was concocted and wafted abroad by their dark agency.

While the young student strove anxiously to benefit the cases of sickness brought before him--sometimes, indeed, spending whole nights wrestling face to face with death, by the side of some poor peasant's bed--a few of the people were ungrateful enough to attribute his cures to magic art and to an unholy alliance with the powers of darkness. Some humble hearts, however, throbbed with responsive gratitude at the very mention of his name; and there was one mother who, though the King of Terrors had proved too powerful for his adversary's skill, never forgot the tear of sorrow that fell from the young man's eye, as, after long watching and many unavailing remedies, her bonnie bairn breathed out her innocent life in Eudæmon's arms.

His fame was gradually bruited abroad, and as years rolled on he became widely known as "the Enchanter of the North."

From all the surrounding districts the inhabitants flocked in boats to seek his advice. Fishermen asked for charms, to ensure a successful summer. Ere the sailors put to sea, they deemed themselves lucky if they could secure one of Eudæmon's so-called "amulets" against disaster. These were, in reality, small bags manufactured and sold (in private) by the one-eyed seneschal, whose master would have been sorely displeased, had he discovered the chaffering trade driven in "charms" by the cunning old man, who thus rivalled Gehazi of ancient times!

Now it chanced that about this time there dwelt on the Lowland Borders, a King and Queen of Clutha, whose only daughter was afflicted with a terrible misfortune.

The Princess Miranda was beautiful as the day. Her parents, who had long lived in the bonds of matrimony without possessing any children, felt inexpressible joy as they welcomed their sweet little girl into the world. Bells were rung and bonfires lighted upon all the hills on either side of the river Clutha, which ran through her father's domains. Everything went on propitiously, until, in an hour of woe, it was discovered that the infant Princess could not speak!

This dire and unexpected calamity threw the whole Court, and indeed the nation at large, into deep distress. All, both high and low, heartily sympathized with the grief-stricken parents. Philosophers, astrologers, physicians, and wise women were each consulted in their turn; but all, alas! in vain. At last, in desperation, the unhappy parents even offered the hand and dowry of their daughter as a reward to any man who should be fortunate enough to set her tongue at liberty.

Years rolled on. The King and Queen were disappointed in their hope of other offspring. Their feelings became more and more bitter, as they reflected on the confusion that would inevitably arise, should they die, and the dumb Miranda be called to the throne. They feared, with reason, that wicked men might take advantage of the Princess's helpless condition, and wrest the crown and kingdom from her hands.

Ambassadors from many surrounding countries were attracted by the beauty of Miranda's portraits, carefully and widely disseminated by her prudent mother. One by one, however, these envoys disappeared, on finding that the beautiful Princess, though possessed of every other charm, was dumb.

The King and Queen, to soften as far as possible their child's misfortune, gave orders that her play-mates and attendants were always to address her in writing. All at court were told to conceal from the Princess as much as possible the difference between her own condition and that of the maidens around her.

The consequence of these ill-judged regulations was that the Court of Clutha became almost as silent as the grave. Even musical instruments--with the exception of the fife and the drum, necessary for military and state occasions--were completely banished from the precincts of the palace, to save the youthful Miranda from discovering what it was to be without a voice for singing or speaking.

Under these circumstances it is not to be wondered at that foreign courtiers found King Murdoch's Court insufferably dull, especially as the lovely Princess, herself a prey to melancholy, spent the greater part of her time amid the wild moors and glens surrounding her father's castle, where at least she could uninterruptedly listen to the sounds of Nature. The sweet singing, or startled calls of the various birds, the rippling and murmuring of the rushing waters, the ceaseless humming of the insects, the sighing of the wind among the leaves and branches of the trees--each and all she heard and learnt to love.

Among the ambassadors referred to there was one representing a Prince, whose ardour could not be checked by the Princess's cruel misfortune.

Some short time before the period of which we speak, the King and Queen of Clutha, accompanied by their daughter, paid a visit to the Queen's sister, a powerful Princess in Ireland.

Left early a widow, Queen Hildegonda had long since forgotten all the softer charms of womanly nature. Forced, when hardly more than a girl herself, to protect her infant son, Prince Eochy, the heir to his father's wide domains, from the continued assaults, not only of neighbouring chieftains, but also of rebellious and usurping subjects, she had become a very amazon. By her wise and judicious regency, she had secured a peaceful rule for her son. But when the time came for him to take his rightful place, the proud mother could not bring herself to resign the reins of power. Eochy, as effeminate and weak as his mother was masculine and daring, willingly yielded to her the responsibilities of government, and passed his life in idle poetical dreams and frivolous amusements.

On Miranda's appearance, however, the susceptible Prince, as might have been expected, was captivated by his fair cousin's matchless beauty. In vain the maiden's parents bestowed upon Eochy their own approval. In vain the enamoured youth besought his mother to favour his suit. Hildegonda, inexorable and unyielding, declared that no dumb Queen should ever reign in Cashel, and commanded her son to retire to a distant province until his relatives had departed.

Murdoch and his spouse lost no time in quitting with their daughter these inhospitable shores. When they once more reached home, they were roused by Hildegonda's insulting behaviour to attempt still more earnestly to unravel the cruel mystery that bound the lips of their beautiful daughter.

In the meantime the hapless Eochy utterly failed to make any deep impression on his cousin's heart. He languished in all the misery of unrequited love, and continually breathed forth his lamentations in odes and poems such as this:--

"What though I be King of the Emerald Isle, And my Court in its Castle with beauty be bright, To me it were brighter by far could the smile Of the one I remember but gladden my sight.

"Ah yes! I remember too faithfully yet That evening and all its enchantment to me, That silvery wreath I shall never forget, That star-spangled Maiden from over the sea.