Chapter 9

Guy came at once to the point. Would Simon repeat his story for Alan's enlightenment? Simon would. He related how, when returning from pilgrimage, he had lost his way in the Harz valley and come upon a hermitage where a very old monk lay near death. In gratitude (Simon said) for services to him in his extremity, the hermit had revealed the secret of a rich mine of gold in the mountains. Simon had gone to the mine, secured nuggets of the precious metal, but most unfortunately had shown them to Gregory of Hildesheim, a Templar said to be wise in the arts of alchemy and metal-working. Gregory had seemed interested at first, but afterward had told him that the ore was not gold at all, but a cunning counterfeit devised by Satan. He had not even returned the specimens, but had railed upon Simon for trying to pass them off as gold. That night a heavy snowfall, the first of many, made it impossible to visit the mine again. Now that Gregory was in England Simon wished to go again and secure more of the gold secretly. It was scarcely possible to find the place without direction, but one man, Simon solemnly declared, could, with pick and shovel and leathern bag, bring away a fortune.

“It would be necessary,” said Guy, “to purify the gold so far as to make it into rude ingots, if it is, as you say, in the rocks and not in free lumps and particles washed down a stream. You need a companion who understands such work. Now, I cannot take up the matter myself, but my friend here knows enough of metals, though he is no goldsmith, to do that part of the work. Some sort of makeshift laboratory might be arranged for that. Then, if it is really a rich mine, we will see what can be done next. But you will understand that I cannot be expected to undertake any work involving great expense unless I have some other proof than you can give me now. If you will take my friend to this mine, so that he may secure ore enough to make his experiments, and I see the gold for myself, I will pay the cost of the expedition. More than this, it seems to me, you cannot expect.”

With this Simon effusively agreed. Alan had been watching Guy's face with interest during the interview. The Londoner's usual debonair manner had become the cool decision of a man with whom it is unsafe to deal slyly.

When Simon's back had vanished in the crowd of Chepe, Guy began rolling up papers and closing books. “That may save you some time and trouble,” he said, “if you can stomach his company. I do not believe, you know, that there is any gold in the ledges. Simon knows no more of the nature of metals than Saint Anthony's Pig.”

“What is the truth of the matter, do you think?” asked Alan.

“I thought at first that he had invented the whole story. But in that case he would hardly have agreed to my plan so eagerly. It is just possible, of course, that gold is there--it has been found in the Harz. He says that the stuff is not brittle, and can be hammered and cut, which does not sound like an iron ore. And his description of the rocks is too good to be his own fancy. Again, the ore may be 'fool's gold',--a mixture of copper and sulphur. In that case you will know it right enough when you come to the roasting of it. In any case I am interested enough in the tale to take a little trouble, and you and your private treasure-hunt happen to alloy very happily with my curiosity.”

“Guy,” said Alan, “you may laugh, but your aid means more to me than you know. If the clerk's tale is false you shall be repaid for your outlay.”

“Pshaw!” laughed Guy, “a copper mine is good enough to repay me. And then, I take a certain interest in the manuscripts you are after. After all, if you should find them it would be no stranger than those parchments coming to us as they did, through the very hands of both Gregory and Simon. That was a golden jest--but we must keep it hid for awhile. And now, what I know of metals and their ways is at your service.”

Behold Alan then, after no more than the usual adventures of a journey, busied with a small furnace in a small stone-floored room over an archway in the walled city of Goslar. It was a late spring and bitterly cold, and the heat of the fire was grateful. Simon had thus far put off taking his companion to see the mine, and Alan had been occupied with fitting up a place in which the ore should be tested when the time came.

Hearing the blare of trumpets, he craned his head out of window, and caught a glimpse of the imperial banner flaunting and snapping in the chill wind. He caught up cap and cloak and ran down the winding stone stairs, coming out upon the market-square just as the guards entered it. So close that Alan could have touched him, there went by a humped and twisted figure with a jester's bells and bauble--a man with a maliciously smiling mouth and wicked, observant, tired eyes. The white pointed beard and worn, lined face belonged to an older man than Alan had expected to see. The eyes met his for a second, he flung his cloak over the left shoulder with the gesture Giovanni had taught him, and a few minutes later an impudent small page pulled his sleeve and whispered that Master Stefano desired to see him.

The boy led him through ancient streets to the entrance of a tall house near the wall, and went off whistling. An old woman opened the door and showed him into a little ante-room where, the jester sat, perched upon the corner of a table. Alan bowed, and waited in silence.

“Very well,” said the jester with a laugh. “And now, since we are quite alone, why do you, an honest man, pretend to be the fellow of that rascally clerk?”

Alan always met an emergency coolly. “I did not know the country or the language,” he said, “and I took this way of reaching Goslar in the hope of learning the truth about one Archiater of Byzantium.”

The jester's high cackling laughter broke in. “Truth from a fool!” he shrilled. “Oh, the wisdom of those who are not fools is past understanding! Why do you rake those ashes?”

“I have read some of his writings,” Alan went on undisturbed, “and if there should be more--anywhere--I would risk much for the sake of them.”

Stefano shook his head mockingly, and the bells mocked with him. “You English are mad after gold. They say here that Archiater sold his soul for his knowledge.”

“That is child's prattle,” said the young man a little impatiently. “Gold is all very well, but a man's life is in his work, not his wages. If you can tell me nothing of what I seek, I will not trouble you.”

The fool clasped one knee in his long crooked white fingers. “You have no wife, I take it.”

“I have not thought about it. But that has nothing to do with secrets of the laboratory.”

“Heh-heh! Little you know of women. They have everything to do with a secret. But suppose the manuscrips are worthless?”

“That is not possible,” Alan returned. “The lightest memorandum of such a man has value. It is like a finger-post pointing to treasure. There are writings, then?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” retorted Stefano. “I know all about your search for treasure. Your clerk is digging the hills up this very day for fool's gold. It has the look of gold--yes--but it is copper and brimstone mixed in Satan's crucible--fool's gold and no more. Neither you nor he will get any true gold out of that mine.”

“I tell you,” said Alan in sharp earnest, “that I came here with him for convenience, not for treasure. A friend to whom I owe much desired to know whether the clerk's story were true or false. For myself I seek only to know what remains of the work of Archiater, because he was a master whose work should not be lost. There must be those--somewhere--who could go on with it,--if we but knew.”

“Aye,” chuckled the jester, “if we but knew!” Then leaning forward he caught Alan by the shoulder. “Listen, you young chaser of dreams--what would you give to see what Archiater left? Eh? Would you guard the secret with your life? Eh? They burned the books in the public square--yes--but if there was something that was not a book, what would you do for a sight of that?”

Alan's heart was pounding with excitement, but his face was unmoved. “I am not good at fencing, Master Stefano. I have been frank with you because I am assured that you are to be trusted, and I think that you trust me or you would not thus play with me. When you are ready to ask a pledge,--ask it.”

“Well and straightly spoken,” nodded the jester. “If I reveal to you what I know of this philosopher and his work, you shall pledge yourself to betray nothing, to say nothing--not so much as a hint that I knew him--whether I am alive or dead.”

Now and then in his life Alan had acted from pure blind instinct. This was the blindest, blackest place it had ever led him to. He did not hesitate. “I promise,” he said.

“Very good,” said the jester, and drummed thoughtfully upon the table. “We will begin with matters which are not bound up in your promise--for they concern your friend who desires to sift out the clerk's tale about his mine. This is the true story. Archiater found many metals and minerals in these hills, and made some of his experiments in the ruins of an old pagan temple close to the spot where he discovered a vein of copper. He was half a winter trying out what he found, from arsenic to zircon. Simon watched him by stealth, tracked him like a beagle, and finally went to one high in authority with the report that he was making secret poisons. This would have been no crime had the poisons been available for practical use. As it was, they felt it safest to have Archiater seized when he came back to the city, and tried as a wizard.

“They ransacked his house and got his books, of course, but Simon had stolen some stray manuscripts he found in the old ruin and sold them. Nothing, however, was gained by the person who paid the money, because the writings were partly in cipher, and the key to the cipher had been burned in the public square.”

“Then the Templars may still have the manuscripts,” mused Alan disconsolately.

“Maybe,” the fool said with a little laugh, “but I said there might be something that was not a manuscript. Come you with me.”

Taking a rushlight from a shelf the jester toiled slowly up two flights of winding stairs, and then a short, straight flight of wooden steps,--opened a door, and stood aside to let Alan pass. The young man paused on the threshold in silent wonder.

The room within was not large, but it glowed from floor to ceiling like some rare work in mosaic or Limoges enamel. The walls were hung with such tapestries as Alan had seen on rare holidays in a cathedral, or in the palace of duke or bishop. They were covered with needlework of silk in all the colors of the rainbow, wrought into graceful interwoven garlands and figures. The cushions of chair and settle, the panels of a screen, the curtains of the latticed windows, displayed still more of this marvelous embroidery, subtly contrasted and harmonized with the coloring of a rich Persian rug upon the floor. The heart of all this glowing, exquisite beauty was a young girl in straight-hanging robes of fine silk and wool, her gleaming bronze hair falling free over her shoulders from a gold fillet, her deep eyes meeting the stranger's with the sweet frankness of a sheltered, beloved child.

The jester bowed low, his gay fantastic cap in hand, all his fleering, mocking manner changed to a gentle deference.

“Josian, my dear,” he said, “this is the young man of whom I sent you word. He has traveled many weary miles to see and speak with Archiater's daughter.”

TO JOSIAN FROM PRISON

I

Sweetheart my daughter: These three days and nights (Stephen has told me) thou dost grieve for me Silently, hour by hour. Yet do not so, My little one, but think what happiness We shared together, and attend thy tasks Diligently as thou 'rt ever wont to do. When thou dost add thy mite of joyous life To the great world, thou art a giver too, Like to the birds who make us glad in spring. Be happy therefore, little bird, and stay Warm in thy nest upon the housetop high, Where may God keep thee safe. And so, good-night.

II

Dearest my little one: It hath been ruled That I shall go away to that far land Which I have told thee of. Men call it Death. Thou knowest that our souls cannot be free Dwelling within these houses of the flesh, Yet for love's sake we do endure this bondage, As would I gladly if God willed it so. Stephen will care for thee as for a daughter,-- Be to him then a daughter; he has none Save thee to love him. For the rest, remember That in the quiet mind the soul sees truth, And I shall speak to thee in our loved books, As in the sunshine and the sound of music, The beauty and the sweetness of the world.

Three kisses give I thee,--brow, eyes, and lips. Think wisely, and see clearly, and speak gently. Thy little bed at night shall hold thee safe As mine own arms,--thine elfin needle make Thy little room a bright and lovely bower. Thy household fairies Rainbow, Lodestone, Flint, Shall do thy will. Thy stars have said to me That thou wilt see far lands and many cities. Await thy Prince from that enchanted shore Beyond the rainbow's end, and read with him Thy magic runes. This charge I lay on him That he shall love thee--more than I--farewell! Thy father, ARCHIATER

To Josian my daughter and sole heiress.

XI

ARCHIATER'S DAUGHTER

Alan was gathering his French for some sort of greeting, when the young girl spoke in a sweet clear voice and in English.

“I am glad that you have come,” she said. “Father Stephen says that you desire to hear of my father.”

“I came from England in the hope that I might,” Alan answered simply.

“I cannot tell you very much of his work,” the girl went on, motioning him to a seat, with a quaint grace of gesture. “I was so very tiny, you see, when he went away. He used to tell me stories and sing little songs to me, and teach me to know the flowers and the birds. My mother would have done so, he said, and he wished so far as he could to be both father and mother to me. It seemed to me that he was so, and I loved him--not as dearly as he loved me, because I was so small, but as much as I possibly could. Oh, much more than my nurse, although Maddalena is very dear to me.

“We lived almost always in the city, so that we had not any garden, but we had pots of flowers in the windows, and I used to tend them. Sometimes, when my father went into the woods and the fields, he would take me, and then I was happy; no bird could have been happier. I would weave garlands of flowers, singing my rhymes about colors, and he taught me how to arrange them to make every blossom beautiful in its place.

“When he sat writing at his table he called me his mouse, and if I kept still I had cheese for my dinner with the bread and fruit. But when I forgot and made a noise he would say that the mouse must be caught in a trap, and he would take me in his arms and call Maddalena to carry me away. And sometimes he went out alone, or shut himself in his own room for days and days. Once he came out in the twilight and found me asleep with my head on his threshold. After that he said that I must have work to do while he did his work, and he would have Maddalena teach me the use of the needle. He dyed the silks for me himself in beautiful colors, and when I had done my task he would teach me to read in the big books and the small, and to draw pictures of what I read. Here is one of the very books I used to read with him.”

Alan would have thought what he saw was impossible if anything had seemed unbelievable in this elfin girl. She laid open upon the table a finely illuminated copy, in Greek, of Aesop's Fables, written on vellum in a precise beautiful hand.

“He himself wrote books for me--not many, for he said there were books enough in the world. One was on the nature of herbs, and another was about the stars and their houses in the heavens. But they were lost, those books. Father Stephen brought me others, but they are not the same; my father wrote those only for me.”

“Had your father no friends?” Alan asked, with a great compassion for the lonely man bending his genius to make a world for his motherless baby.

“Not many, and none here except Father Stephen, who knew my mother when she was a child, in Ravenna. People came sometimes, but they were not friends; their eyes were cold and their voices hard. Since my father went away two old friends of his have been here with Father Stephen, but they came only once. They were not of this people; they came from Byzantium.”

“And you have lived here always?”

The maiden laughed, a merry laughter like the lilt of a woodlark. “Oh, no--o! Father Stephen has taken me to many places--to Venice once, and to Rome, and when I was little we lived in Cordova. That is how I learned to speak in different languages. I learned a new one every year for four years. But for three years I have stayed in Goslar, and Father Stephen says that no one must know I am here. That is queer, is it not, to live in a city where not even the people in the next house know that you are alive? Perhaps some day I shall go away, and live as others do. I wonder very much what it will be like.”

The jester's face was shadowed by a sad tenderness. “May you never wish yourself back in your cage, my child,” he said. “But it grows late, and I think that you have told this guest all that you can of your father's work.”

“All that I know,” the young girl said, regretfully. “I really know so little of it--and the books were lost.”

In a maze Alan followed the jester down the darkening stairway. At the foot Stefano turned and faced him. “You see what she is,” he said. “She is Archiater's only child--she has his signet ring and his letters written her from prison--only two, but I risked my own life to get them for her. When they took him away they did not know that such a little creature existed. She was but seven years old, and her nurse, Maddalena, hid with her in a chest in the garret, telling her that it was a game. That night I took them to a place of safety.”

“And you have taken care of her ever since?” the young man asked. The jester nodded his big head. Then, as a group of courtiers came around the corner, with a mocking gesture, Stefano limped away. Alan heard their shout of laughter at his words of greeting, and went home in a dream.

During the following days Stefano treated him with every appearance of confidence. By the jester's invitation he spent many hours at the tall ancient house, in that enchanted room with its latticed windows looking out over street and wall to the mountains. Stefano spent the time lounging on the divan or in the great chair, or watching the street far below. He said very little and often seemed scarcely to hear the talk of the youth and the maiden.

Their talk ranged over many subjects. The girl could read not only in Latin, the common language of all scholars, but in Greek and Arabian. Many of her books were heavy leatherbound tomes by Avicenna, Averroes, Damascene, Pliny, and other writers whose very names were unfamiliar to Alan's ears. She poised above them like a bee over a garden, gathering what pleased her bright fancy. Sometimes while they talked she would be working upon her tapestry, some rich, delicate or curious design in her many-hued silks.

Alan found that her father had begun teaching her the laws of design and color before she could read. He had told her that colors were like notes in music, and had their loves and hates as people do.

“Is it not so in your work, Al-an?” she asked. “Do not the good colors and the bad contend always until you bring them into agreement?”

Alan had told her of his work, and it seemed to interest her immensely. She was greatly delighted when she learned that he had found memoranda in her father's own handwriting, which had led to the making of wonderful deep blue glass.

“If I had the little books he wrote for me,” she said one day, “you might find something beautiful in them also.”

He watched and wondered at the sure instinct guiding her deft, small fingers in the placing of colors--the purple fruit, the gold-green vine or the scarlet pomegranate flower in her maze-like embroidery. “But how can you make pictures in the windows,” she would say, with her lilting laughter, “if you do not know about color?”

To Alan's secret amusement he perceived that she thought her life very ordinary and natural, while his own adventures on the moorland farm of his boyhood were to her like fairy-tales. She was shyly but intensely curious about his mother. She had never known anything of the ways of mothers except from books and tales.

One bright morning she took from a coffer a prism of rock-crystal. “This is one of the playthings my father gave me,” she said. “Look how it makes the colors dance upon the wall.”

Like a quick silent fairy the little rainbow flitted here and there. “He told me,” she went on, “that seven invisible colors live together in a sunbeam, but when they pass this magic door they must go in single file, and then we may see them. Not all are good colors. Some are bad and quarrelsome, and some are good when they are alone, but not when they are with colors they do not like. But when they live together in peace they make the beautiful clear daylight, and we see the world exactly as it is.”

“As it is--saints protect her,” muttered old Maddalena, and the jester smiled his twisted smile.

That evening Stefano said suddenly, “What are you going to do with your clerk?”

“To-morrow,” said Alan, “I shall go to his mine.”

“You have not been there?”

“No; he has made some silly excuse each time it has been suggested.”

“He will never take you there,” said the jester. “You will see.”

“Simon,” said Alan pleasantly that night, “I am going into the mountains with you to-morrow.”

Suspicion, fear, jealous greed, chased one another over the clerk's mean face. “You are in great haste,” he muttered. “It is not good weather, but we will go of course, if you wish.”

In the morning Simon lay groaning with rheumatism, unable to move. Alan made a fire, covered him warmly, left food within his reach, and went out to think the matter over. Unconsciously his steps tended toward the house of the jester. Stefano, coming out, caught sight of him.

“Hey!” said the fool, “why are you not in the mountains?”

Alan explained. The other gave a dry little laugh. “That need not hinder you,” said he. “I will send some one to show you the place. Come to the market-square an hour hence and look for a youth with two horses. I think you would pass for a wood-cutter if you had an ax.”

Acting on this hint, Alan provided himself with ax and maul, and found in the place appointed a serving boy riding one horse and leading another. He had reason to be glad of the rough life of his boyhood, for he had ridden all over the moors, bareback, on just such wiry half-broken animals, and the road they now took was not an easy one.

At last they left the horses in a dell at the foot of the ledges and scrambled up to a small stone building near the top of the mountain, half hidden among evergreens. Its door was gone and its roof half fallen in, but in it could be seen a stone altar and various tools and utensils, wood cut and ready for burning. Evidently some one had been using the place--in fact, some one was here now. As Alan stood in the doorway a figure rose from a pile of leaves in the corner.

“Vanni!” said Alan under his breath.