Chapter 3

When all the leaves were red or brown, Or golden as the summer sun, And now and then came flickering down Upon the grasses hoar and dun, Through which the first faint breath of frost Had as a scorching vapor run, I rode, in solemn fancies lost, To join my troop, whose low tents shone Far vanward to our camping host. Thus as I slowly journeyed on, I was made suddenly aware That I no longer rode alone. Whence came that strange, incongruous pair? Whether to make their presence plain To mortal eyes from earth or air The essence of these spirits twain Had clad itself in human guise, As in a robe, is question vain. I hardly dared to turn my eyes, So faint my heart beat; and my blood, Checked and bewildered with surprise, Within its aching channels stood, And all the soldier in my heart Scarce mustered common hardihood. But as I paused, with lips apart, Strong shame, as with a sturdy arm, Shook me, and made my spirit start, And all my stagnant life grew warm; Till, with my new-found courage wild, Out of my mouth there burst a storm Of song, as if I thus beguiled My way with careless melody: Whereat the silent figures smiled. Then from a haughty, asking eye I scanned the uninvited pair, And waited sternly for reply. One shape was more than mortal fair; He seemed embodied out of light; The sunbeams rippled through his hair; His cheeks were of the color bright That dyes young evening, and his eyes Glowed like twin planets, that to sight Increase in lustre and in size, The more intent and long our gaze. Full on the future's pain and prize, Half seen through hanging cloud and haze, His steady, far, and yearning look Blazed forth beneath his crown of bays. His radiant vesture, as it shook, Dripped with great drops of golden dew; And at each step his white steed took, The sparks beneath his hoof-prints flew, As if a half-cooled lava-flood He trod, each firm step breaking through. This figure seemed so wholly good, That as a moth which reels in light, Unknown till then, nor understood, My dazzled soul swam; and I might Have swooned, and in that presence died, From the mere splendor of the sight, Had not his lips, serene with pride And cold, cruel purpose, made me swerve From aught their fierce curl might deride. A clarion of a single curve Hung at his side by slender bands; And when he blew, with faintest nerve, Life burst throughout those lonely lands; Graves yawned to hear, Time stood aghast, The whole world rose and clapped its hands. Then on the other shape I cast My eyes. I know not how or why He held my spellbound vision fast. Instinctive terror bade me fly, But curious wonder checked my will. The mysteries of his awful eye, So dull, so deep, so dark, so chill, And the calm pity of his brow And massive features hard and still, Lovely, but threatening, and the bow Of his sad neck, as if he told Earth's graves and sorrows as they grow, Cast me in musings manifold Before his pale, unanswering face. A thousand winters might have rolled Above his head. I saw no trace Of youth or age, of time or change, Upon his fixed immortal grace. A smell of new-turned mould, a strange, Dank, earthen odor from him blew, Cold as the icy winds that range The moving hills which sailors view Floating around the Northern Pole, With horrors to the shivering crew. His garments, black as minèd coal, Cast midnight shadows on his way; And as his black steed softly stole, Cat-like and stealthy, jocund day Died out before him, and the grass, Then sear and tawny, turned to gray. The hardy flowers that will not pass For the shrewd autumn's chilling rain Closed their bright eyelids, and, alas! No summer opened them again. The strong trees shuddered at his touch, And shook their foliage to the plain. A sheaf of darts was in his clutch; And wheresoe'er he turned the head Of any dart, its power was such That Nature quailed with mortal dread, And crippling pain and foul disease For sorrowing leagues around him spread. Whene'er he cast o'er lands and seas That fatal shaft, there rose a groan; And borne along on every breeze Came up the church-bell's solemn tone, And cries that swept o'er open graves, And equal sobs from cot and throne. Against the winds she tasks and braves, The tall ship paused, the sailors sighed, And something white slid in the waves. One lamentation, far and wide, Followed behind that flying dart. Things soulless and immortal died, As if they filled the self-same part; The flower, the girl, the oak, the man, Made the same dust from pith or heart, Then spoke I, calmly as one can Who with his purpose curbs his fear, And thus to both my question ran:-- "What two are ye who cross me here, Upon these desolated lands, Whose open fields lie waste and drear Beneath the tramplings of the bands Which two great armies send abroad, With swords and torches in their hands?" To which the bright one, as a god Who slowly speaks the words of fate, Towards his dark comrade gave a nod, And answered:--"I anticipate The thought that is your own reply. You know him, or the fear and hate Upon your pallid features lie. Therefore I need not call him Death: But answer, soldier, who am I?" Thereat, with all his gathered breath, He blew his clarion; and there came, From life above and life beneath, Pale forms of vapor and of flame, Dim likenesses of men who rose Above their fellows by a name. There curved the Roman's eagle-nose, The Greek's fair brows, the Persian's beard, The Punic plume, the Norman bows; There the Crusader's lance was reared; And there, in formal coat and vest, Stood modern chiefs; and one appeared, Whose arms were folded on his breast, And his round forehead bowed in thought, Who shone supreme above the rest. Again the bright one quickly caught His words up, as the martial line Before my eyes dissolved to nought:-- "Soldier, these heroes all are mine; And I am Glory!" As a tomb That groans on opening, "Say, were thine," Cried the dark figure. "I consume Thee and thy splendors utterly. More names have faded in my gloom Than chronicles or poesy Have kept alive for babbling earth To boast of in despite of me." The other cried, in scornful mirth, "Of all that was or is thou curse, Thou dost o'errate thy frightful worth! Between the cradle and the hearse, What one of mine has lived unknown, Whether through triumph or reverse? For them the regal jewels shone, For them the battled line was spread; Victorious or overthrown, My splendor on their path was shed. They lived their life, they ruled their day: I hold no commerce with the dead. Mistake me not, and falsely say, 'Lo, this is slow, laborious Fame, Who cares for what has passed away,'-- My twin-born brother, meek and tame, Who troops along with crippled Time, And shrinks at every cry of shame, And halts at every stain and crime; While I, through tears and blood and guilt, Stride on, remorseless and sublime. War with his offspring as thou wilt; Lay thy cold lips against their cheek. The poison or the dagger-hilt Is what my desperate children seek. Their dust is rubbish on the hills; Beyond the grave they would not speak. Shall man surround his days with ills, And live as if his only care Were how to die, while full life thrills His bounding blood? To plan and dare, To use life is life's proper end: Let death come when it will, and where!"-- "You prattle on, as babes that spend Their morning half within the brink Of the bright heaven from which they wend; But what I am you dare not think. Thick, brooding shadow round me lies; You stare till terror makes you wink; I go not, though you shut your eyes. Unclose again the loathful lid, And lo, I sit beneath the skies, As Sphinx beside the pyramid!" So Death, with solemn rise and fall Of voice, his sombre mind undid. He paused; resuming,--"I am all; I am the refuge and the rest; The heart aches not beneath my pall. O soldier, thou art young, unpressed By snarling grief's increasing swarm; While joy is dancing in thy breast, Fly from the future's fated harm; Rush where the fronts of battle meet, And let me take thee on my arm!" Said Glory,--"Warrior, fear deceit, Where Death gives counsel. Run thy race; Bring the world cringing to thy feet! Surely no better time nor place Than this, where all the Nation calls For help, and weakness and disgrace Lag in her tents and council-halls, And down on aching heart and brain Blow after blow unbroken falls. Her strength flows out through every vein; Mere time consumes her to the core; Her stubborn pride becomes her bane. In vain she names her children o'er; They fail her in her hour of need; She mourns at desperation's door. Be thine the hand to do the deed, To seize the sword, to mount the throne, And wear the purple as thy meed! No heart shall grudge it; not a groan Shall shame thee. Ponder what it were To save a land thus twice thy own!" Use gave a more familiar air To my companions; and I spoke My heart out to the ethereal pair:-- "When in her wrath the Nation broke Her easy rest of love and peace, I was the latest who awoke. I sighed at passion's mad increase. I strained the traitors to my heart. I said, 'We vex them; let us cease.' I would not play the common part. Tamely I heard the Southrons' brag: I said, 'Their wrongs have made them smart.' At length they struck our ancient flag,-- Their flag as ours, the traitors damned!-- And braved it with their patchwork-rag. I rose, when other men had calmed Their anger in the marching throng; I rose, as might a corpse embalmed, Who hears God's mandate, 'Right my wrong!' I rose and set me to His deed, With His great Spirit fixed and strong. I swear, that, when I drew this sword, And joined the ranks, and sought the strife, I drew it in Thy name, O Lord! I drew against my brother's life, Even as Abraham on his child Drew slowly forth his priestly knife. No thought of selfish ends defiled The holy fire that burned in me; No gnawing care was thus beguiled. My children clustered at my knee; Upon my braided soldier's coat My wife looked,--ah, so wearily!-- It made her tender blue eyes float. And when my wheeling rowels rang, Or on the floor my sabre smote, The sound went through her like a pang. I saw this; and the days to come Forewarned me with an iron clang, That drowned the music of the drum, That made the rousing bugle faint; And yet I sternly left my home,-- Haply to fall by noisome taint Of foul disease, without a deed To sound in rhyme or shine in paint; But, oh, at least, to drop a seed, Humble, but faithful to the last, Sown by my Country in her need! O Death, come to me, slow or fast; I'll do my duty while I may! Though sorrow burdens every blast, And want and hardship on me lay Their bony gripes, my life is pledged, And to my Country given away! Nor feel I any hope, new-fledged, Arise, strong Glory, at thy voice. Our sword the people's will has edged, Our rule stands on the people's choice. This land would mourn beneath a crown, Where born slaves only could rejoice. How should the Nation keep it down? What would a despot's fortunes be, After his days of strength had flown, Amidst this people, proud and free, Whose histories from such sources run? The thought is its own mockery. I pity the audacious one Who may ascend that thorny throne, And bide a single setting sun. Day dies; my shadow's length has grown; The sun is sliding down the west. That trumpet in my camp was blown. From yonder high and wooded crest I shall behold my squadron's camp, Prepared to sleep its guarded rest In the low, misty, poisoned damp That wears the strength, and saps the heart, And drains the surgeon's watching lamp. Hence, phantoms! in God's peace depart! I was not fashioned for your will: I scorn the trump, and brave the dart!" They grinned defiance, lingering still. "I charge ye quit me, in His name Who bore His cross against the hill!-- By Him who died a death of shame, That I might live, and ye might die,-- By Christ the Martyr!"--As a flame Leaps sideways when the wind is high, The bright one bounded from my side, At that dread name, without reply; And Death drew in his mantle wide, And shuddered, and grew ghastly pale, As if his dart had pricked his side. There came a breath, a lonely wail, Out of the silence o'er the land; Whether from souls of bliss or bale, What mortal brain may understand? Only I marked the phantoms went Closely together, hand in hand, As if upon one errand bent.

* * * * *

THE TRUE STORY OF LUIGI.

A white dove flew down into the market-place one summer morning, and, undisturbed among all the wheels and hoofs, followed the footsteps of Luigi.

He carried in one hand a sunflower, and thoughtlessly, while it hung there, with nervous fingers scattered the seeds as he went his way. So that the dove cooed in her little swelling throat, gathered what Luigi spilled, and, startled at last by a frisking hound, flew up and alighted on the tray which Luigi's other hand poised airily on his head, and was borne along with all the company of fair white things there in the sunshine.

The street-urchins warned Luigi of the intruder among his wares, and then, slyly putting up his hand, the boy tossed the seeds in a shower about the tray. Off flew the dove, and back with the returning gust she fluttered, and, pausing only to catch her seed, she came and went, wheeling in flashing circles round his head as he pursued his path.

It was at the pretty picture he thus presented, as, having left the market-place, he came upon the higher streets of the town, that a lady, looking from her window, made exclaim. The kind face, the pleasant voice, attracted him; in a moment after, while she was yet thinking of it, the door was pushed partly open, a dark boy, smiling, appeared, followed by the unslung tray, and a voice like a flute said,--

"_Sono io_,--it is I. Will the lady buy?"

And then the image-vender showed his wares.

The lady chaffered with him a moment, and at its close he was evidently paying no attention to what she said, but was listening to a voice from the adjoining room, the clear voice of a girl singing her Italian exercises.

His face was in a glow, he bent to catch the words with signalling finger and glittering eyes; it was plainly neither the deftly sweet accompaniment nor the melody that charmed him, but the language: the language was his own.

With the cadence of the measure the sound was broken capriciously, the book had been thrown down, and the singer herself stood balancing in the doorway between the rooms, a hand on either side,--still lightly trilling her scales, smiling, beaming, blue-eyed, rosy. The sunbeam that entered behind the shade swinging in the wind fell upon the beautiful masses of her light-brown hair, and illumined all the shifting color that played with such delicate suffusion upon her cheek and chin; her face was a deep, innocent smile of joy; she would have been dazzling but for the blushes that seemed to go and come with her breath and make her human; and so much did she embody one's ideal of the first woman that no one wondered when all called her Eve, although her name was Rosamond, and she was the Rose of the World.

Directly Eve saw the boy kneeling there over his tray, the cast suspended in his hand, as he leaned intently forward with the rich carmine deepening the golden tint of his brow and with that yellow fire in his wine-dark eyes, she ceased singing, and, not hesitating to mimic the well-known call, cried,--

"Images?"

Then Luigi remembered where he was, and answered the question asked five minutes since.

"Signora, seven shillings."

"That is reasonable, now," said the lady. "I will have it for that sum. Do you cast these things yourself?"

"My master and I."

"Have you been long here?"

"Alas! much, much time," said he, with melancholy earnestness.

"And from what part of Italy did you come?" she kindly asked.

"_Vengo da Roma_" replied the boy, drawing himself up proudly.

"The Roman peasant is a prince, mamma," said Eve quickly, in an undertone.

Luigi glanced up instantly and smiled, and offered to her a little plaster cherub, silver-gilt, just spreading wings for flight.

"It is for her," said he, with an appealing look at the mother. "For her,--_la principessina_. I myself made it."

No one perceived his adroit under-meaning; but Eva bethought herself of her school-phrases, and venturously selected one.

"_È grazioso_!" said she.

Luigi's face kindled anew; it seemed as if the sound of his native tongue were like some magic wand that called the blind blood to his cheek or drove it into the pools of his heart; the smile broke all over his face as light dances on burnished gold; he turned to her boldly with outstretched hands, like some one asking an alms.

"Give to me a song," he said.

"_Volontieri_" quoth Eve, in hesitating accent, and flitted back to her piano. Without a thought, he followed.

It was a little song of flowers and sunshine that Eve began to carol over the carolling keys; the words fell into the sweetness of the air, that seemed laden with the morning murmur of bees and blossoms; it was but a verse or two, with a refrain that went repeating all the honeyed burden, till Luigi's face fairly burned with pleasure, where he stood at timid distance in the doorway.

"_Ciò mi fa bene!_ That does me good!" cried he, as she rose. "Ah, Signorina, I am happy here!"

Then he turned and found the elder lady counting out his money. He received the seven shillings quietly, as his due; but when she would have paid him for the cherub, he pushed the silver swiftly back.

"It is a gift!" said he, with spirit.

"No, no," said Eve. "I should like it, but I must pay for it. You will be so kind as to take the price?" she asked, her hand extended, and a winning grace irradiating all her changing rosy countenance.

A shadow fell over the boy's face, like that of a cloud skimming down a sunny landscape.

"_A Lei non posso dar un rifiuto_," said he, meeting her shining eyes; and he gravely gathered the money and slung his tray.

As he raised it, Eve laid along its side a branch of unsullied day-lilies that had been filling the room with their heavy fragrance. The image-boy interested her; he was a visible creature of those foreign fairy-shores of which she had dreamed; that she did anything but show kindness to a vagrant whom she would not see again never crossed her mind; perhaps, too, she liked that Italy, in his person, should admire her,--that was pardonable. But, at the action, the shadow swept away from the boy's face again, all his lights and darks came flashing out, eyes and teeth and color sparkling in his smile, like sunshine after rain; he made his low obeisance, poised the tray upon his head, and, with a wave of his hand, went out.

"_A rivederla_!" he called back to her from the door, and was gone.

And soon far down the street they heard his musical cry again; and perhaps the little distant dove, who had forsaken him on entrance, also caught the sound, and was reminded by it, as he pecked along the dusty thoroughfare, of some remote and pleasant memory of morning and the market-place.

* * * * *

It was a week afterward, that, as Eve and her mother loitered over luncheon, the door again softly opened, and they saw Luigi standing erect on the threshold, and holding with both hands above the brightly bronzed face a tall, slender, white jar of ancient and exquisite shape, carefully painted, and having a glass suspended within, lest any water it might receive should penetrate the porous plaster.

He did not look at Eve, but marched to her mother, and deposited it upon the floor at her feet.

"For the Signora's lilies," said he.

And remembering the silver pieces of the week before, and fearing lest she should really grieve him, the Signora perforce accepted it with admiring words; while Eve ran to fill it from the garden, into which abode of bliss--as gardens always are--the long casement of the music-room opened. Luigi hesitated, his hand upon the door, wistful wishes in his face; then he cast a smiling, deprecating glance at the mother, lightly crossed the floor, was over the sill, and stood beside Eve in the walk.

To right and left the long, straight stems rose in rank, and bore their floral crown of listening lilies, calm, majestic, pure, and only stirring now and then when the wind shook a waft of gold-dust down the shining leaf, or rifled the inmost heart of its delicious wealth of odor; on either side of the path the snowy bloom lay like a fallen cloud.

"It is a company of angels," said Luigi, brokenly, "a cloud of seraphs with their gold harps! If they should sing," hazarded he, "it would be the song the Signorina gave me,--alas, it is long since!"

"It is a week," said she, laughing and lingering.

"Eve!" came a warning voice.

"That is the Signorina's name?" questioned Luigi, as he bent to help her cut the stems.

"Eve,--yes, they call me so."

"Certainly I had not thought it," he repeated to himself.

"Why, what did you suppose it was?" she heedlessly asked.

"_Luigia!_" said he. And his low, rapt tone was indescribably simple, sweet, and intense.

Eve did not know what the boy himself was called.

"I wish it were," said she. "That is a pleasant sound."

And rising with her armful, she went in and heaped the jar with honor, while Luigi, pleased and proud, lifted it to the level of the black-walnut bracket.

"Signora, behold what is beautiful!" said he, stepping back.

The Signora looked at the lilies, but Luigi looked at Eve.

They had lunched. Eve went into the other room to her exercises. Her mother poured out a glass of wine for the unbidden guest. He repulsed it with an angry eye and a disdainful gesture. But then there rose the sound of Eve's voice just beyond;--while he stayed, he could listen. With sudden change from frown to smile, he stepped forward and took the plate.