Chapter 9

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred, And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

Sir Stephen's was an angry blade-- I scarce may speak the words he said: "Though Heaven itself were false," cried he, "True is my father of Fontanlee!

"And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong, If this lying baron should lay me along, Strike another blow for our good renown." "Doubt me not," said the young knight John.

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood His spear's point is wet to the wood.

The young knight John hath bent his knee, And speaks his soul right solemnly: "Whatever seemeth good to Thee, The same, O Lord, attend on me.

"What though my brothers lie along, My father's faith is firm and strong: Perchance thy deeply-hid intent Doth need some nobler instrument.

"Let faithless hearts give heed to fear, I will not falter in my prayer: If ever guilty treachery Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,--

"As such an 'if' doth stain my lips, Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,-- Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast, And my soul seek its endless rest."

Never a whit did young John yield When the lance ran through his painted shield; Never a whit debased his crest, When the lance ran into his tender breast.

"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John, That runs so fast from thine armour down?" "Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel, And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."

Sights of sadness many a one A man may meet beneath the sun; But a sadder sight did never man see Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.

There are three corses manly and fair, Each in its armour, and each on its bier; There are three squires weeping and wan, Every one with his head on his hand,

Every one with his hand on his knee, At the foot of his master silently Sitting, and weeping bitterly For the broken honour of Fontanlee.

Who is this at their sides that stands? "Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands; Tell me who these dead men be That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee."

"This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee, Sir Robert's second brother was he; This is Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three.

"For their father's truth did they Freely give their lives away, And till he doth home return, Sadly here we sit and mourn."

These sad words they having said, Every one down sank his head; Till in accents strangely spoken, At their sides was silence broken.

"I do bring you news from far, False was the Fontanlee in war! --Unbend your bright swords from my breast, I that do speak do know it best." Wide he flung his mantle free; Lo, it was the Fontanlee!

Then the squires like stricken men Sank into their seats again, And their cheeks in wet tears steeping Fresh and faster fell a weeping.

He with footsteps soft and slow Round to his sons' heads did go; Sadly he looked on every one, And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.

Then his weary head down bending, "Heart," said he, "too much offending, Break, and let me only be Blotted out of memory."

Thrice with crimson cheek he stood, And thrice he swallowed the salt blood; Then outpoured the torrent red; And the false Fontanlee lay dead.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

Saint Laura, in her sleep of death, Preserves beneath the tomb --'Tis willed where what is willed must be-- In incorruptibility, Her beauty and her bloom.

So pure her maiden life had been, So free from earthly stain, 'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen That till the earth's last closing scene She should unchanged remain.

Within a deep sarcophagus Of alabaster sheen, With sculptured lid of roses white, She slumbered in unbroken night, By mortal eyes unseen.

Above her marble couch was reared A monumental shrine, Where cloistered sisters gathering round, Made night and morn the aisle resound With choristry divine.

The abbess died; and in her pride Her parting mandate said They should her final rest provide, The alabaster couch beside, Where slept the sainted dead.

The abbess came of princely race; The nuns might not gainsay; And sadly passed the timid band, To execute the high command They dared not disobey.

The monument was opened then; It gave to general sight The alabaster couch alone; But all its lucid substance shone With preternatural light.

They laid the corpse within the shrine; They closed its doors again; But nameless terror seemed to fall, Throughout the livelong night, on all Who formed the funeral train.

Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed The monument was found; But in its robes funereal drest, The corse they had consigned to rest Lay on the stony ground.

Fear and amazement seized on all; They called on Mary's aid; And in the tomb, unclosed again, With choral hymn and funeral train, The corse again was laid.

But with the incorruptible Corruption might not rest; The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor Received the ejected corse once more, In robes funereal drest.

So was it found when morning beamed; In solemn suppliant strain The nuns implored all saints in heaven, That rest might to the corse be given, Which they entombed again.

On the third night a watch was kept By many a friar and nun; Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer, Till on the dreary midnight air Rolled the deep bell-toll "One!"

The saint within the opening tomb Like marble statue stood; All fell to earth in deep dismay; And through their ranks she passed away, In calm unchanging mood.

No answering sound her footsteps raised Along the stony floor; Silent as death, severe as fate, She glided through the chapel gate, And none beheld her more.

The alabaster couch was gone; The tomb was void and bare; For the last time, with hasty rite, Even 'mid the terror of the night, They laid the abbess there.

'Tis said the abbess rests not well In that sepulchral pile; But yearly, when the night comes round As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound She flits along the aisle.

But whither passed the virgin saint? To slumber far away, Destined by Mary to endure, Unaltered in her semblance pure, Until the judgment day!

DAVID SHAW, HERO.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man. So far my text--but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab. Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said; (Jim was his fireman.) "_Make up time!_" On and on they sped;

Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind; The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind; Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead. How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.

Leavenworth--thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race. Now for the hills--keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace. Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back, Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track.

God!--look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train, Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain! What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can. The train is doomed--save your own life! Think of the children, man!

Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death? Grasped the throttle--reversed it--shrieked "_Down brakes!_" in a breath. Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed, Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he--went down with the slide!

Saved?--yes, saved! Ninety people snatched from an awful grave. One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave, Man to the last inch! Hero?--noblest of heroes, yea; Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay!

BROTHERHOOD.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

I am my brother's keeper, And I the duty own; For no man liveth to himself Or to himself alone; And we must bear together A common weal and woe, In all we are, in all we have, In all we feel and know.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can be, Of high and pure example, Of true integrity; A guide to go before him, In darkness and in light; A very cloud of snow by day, A cloud of fire by night.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can say, To help him on his journey To cheer him by the way; To succour him in weakness, To solace him in woe; To strengthen him in conflict, And fit him for the foe.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can do To save him from temptation, To help him to be true; To stay him if he stumble, To lift him if he fall; To stand beside him though his sin Has severed him from all.

I am my brother's keeper, In sickness and in health; In triumph and in failure, In poverty and wealth; His champion in danger, His advocate in blame, The herald of his honour, The hider of his shame.

And though he prove unworthy, He is my brother still, And I must render right for wrong And give him good for ill; My standard must not alter For folly, fault, or whim, And to be true unto myself I must be true to him.

And all men are my brothers Wherever they may be, And he is most my proper care Who most has need of me; Who most may need my counsel, My influence, my pelf, And most of all who needs _my_ strength To save him from _myself_.

For all I have of power Beyond what he can wield, Is not a weapon of offence But a protecting shield, Which _I_ must hold before him To save him from his foe, E'en though _I_ be the enemy That longs to strike the blow.

I am my brother's keeper, And must be to the end-- A neighbour to the neighbourless, And to the friendless, friend; His weakness lays it on me, My strength involves it too, And common love for common life Will bear the burden through.

THE STRAIGHT RIDER.

_(FROM "BLACK AND WHITE?" BY PERMISSION.)_

"My _dear_ Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden--between the dances."

My Lord Saint Sinnes--or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends--shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle.

The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.

Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her--with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl's slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons--mostly _chaperons_.

"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that--the other--was all a mistake."

Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this--and others--are merely heartless.

Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just--in a word--the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.

Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her--his clean-shaven face very grave--with the eye of the steeplechase rider.

"Miss Maddison"--jerk of the chin and pull at collar--"you're in a ghastly fright."

Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.

"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"

Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.

"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."

The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.

"I know that old worn----. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can't help that."

Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her--almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard--just as he does when riding at the water jump.

"A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that."

Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.

"Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?"

After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.

"Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me."

Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.

"Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but--but we know better, eh?"

He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.

Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.

"Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else--I couldn't do that--but--but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know."

H. S. M.

WOMEN AND WORK.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

"Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old; With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold? Timid as hares in danger--weak as a lamb in strife, With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life! Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs, With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs? Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true? It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you.

"We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man, Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best we can. Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the done for do, Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old into new; Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough for us all, Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall; With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle and noise Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all try to be boys.

"You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain wild, _met_ mother and child returning as from the dead There's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span, If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man. And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day, Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away?

"You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of Mumbles Head, Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled, Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end, And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother and friend. Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head, Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them from the dead. There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand, Would be drifting about with the shore lights out and never a chance to land.

"You've read of the noble woman in the midst of a Border fray Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away. For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she loved so well, And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love could quell. Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand, Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from the land. There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day, Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay.

"Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still. We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill. We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan, But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man, You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show, And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and ready to go, For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow, The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's hope to-morrow."

A COUNTRY STORY.

(Founded on an old Legend.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire, There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire. To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed; To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed.

Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town, Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "The Crown;" And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden ride To the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side.

Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there, That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strain Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again.

On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September day She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray; And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wise Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes.

And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher said That even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead; And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin, And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.

'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare, Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's broken prayer That she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight, To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night.

That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled Would gaze in like compassion on an English peasant child: That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed, Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead.

The maiden's small petition, and the choir's grander praise, Reached the shining gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays, And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer, With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there.

And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done, An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun," From the land of lofty praises to which God's elect aspire To the old cathedral city of that famous western shire.

And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sight At the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light; And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene, With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean.

Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace, While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face, But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night, For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into light.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."