Part 7

When he opened his eyes again, a great open fire was burning before him on a huge hearth; a blue mug of steaming milk lay waiting at one side; and over him there bent anxiously two kindly young folk--a sturdy country-lad in a green smock, and a pretty lass in a dress of homespun brown. These twain were a young husband and wife who lived in a little house in the wood, loving each other dearly, working contentedly at their daily tasks, and dealing hospitably and generously with all. Returning through the storm from a distant sheepfold, the young countryman had found the little minstrel lying in the snow and had carried him on his shoulders to the shelter of his home.

After a few days had passed, and the little minstrel felt quite himself again, he told his generous friends of his search for the notes of the wonderful tune. It was at night that he told of his quest; the supper had been cleared away, the house was still, and the little minstrel and his hosts were gathered by the fire.

“A note of the wonderful tune--bless me, but I think we have one in this house!” exclaimed the young wife. And she went to the mantel and fished about in an ancient brown bowl standing in the gloom. “Yes, here it is, sure enough--a note of the wonderful tune!”

And thus did it come to pass that the little minstrel obtained the first note of the wonderful tune; for the young husband and wife were quick to make a gift of it to their guest.

But now you must hear how he found all the notes save the last.

The second note the little minstrel discovered on a glorious midsummer day. It had lain in an old bird’s-nest in the heart of a great tree, and a chance breeze tumbled nest and note together at the minstrel’s feet.

The third note had been hidden away amid the books of a famous scholar who lived all alone in an ancient tower, gathering the wisdom of the world.

The fourth note was given the minstrel by a little child whose toy it was.

The fifth note was turned up out of the earth, on a spring morning, by a whistling ploughman who saw the minstrel passing by and called to him to come and see the strange thing he had found.

The sixth note the minstrel had of a weaver, who labored in his own house at his own loom and upon it wove fair and beautiful things.

The seventh note a great nobleman possessed; he dwelt in his castle free of little fears and mean rivalries; and truth and courage and honor were his squires.

The eighth note the minstrel had of a young sailor, who chanced to discover it in an old ship that sailed the seas.

Of the ninth and last note, however, there was still no sign; so the little minstrel put the eight others into his pocket that had no hole in it, and turned again to his quest. And presently he walked over a hill into the Kingdom of the Blue Lakes, where reigned the Lady Amoret.

Now the Kingdom of the Blue Lakes was quite the fairest of all the kingdoms of the world, and Amoret the fairest Queen. Her palace stood on an open hill by her kingdom’s eastern bound; of golden-white marble was it made, and from its terrace one looked westward to distant mountains over a woodland bright with lakes. All day long there a gay court of lords and ladies in silks and fine array held festival; the music of lutes and violins was ever to be heard; and scarce an hour there was but had its pleasure, and scarce a pleasure but had its hour.

Clad in a queen’s robe of scarlet and cloth of gold, and seated in a jeweled throne raised upon the terrace, the Lady Amoret received the ragged pilgrim of the tune.

“The last note of the wonderful tune?” said the Lady Amoret. “Seek no more; it is here. Beyond the palace domain, by a lake in the depths of the wildwood, my court fool has built for himself a bower, and upon its wall hangs the last note of the wonderful tune. Tarry with us a while, and you shall have it. I promise you.”

“May I not go this very instant and find it, Your Majesty?” asked the little minstrel anxiously. “Long have I roamed the world in search of it, and I need it so for the tune!”

“Nay, tarry a while,” answered the Queen, unyielding; “for even were I to bid you go, you would never find the bower, so cunningly is it hidden in the wood. You have wandered long and afar, good friend; tarry now a while from your quest. My kingdom is the fairest in the world, and you shall have all you desire.”

And Amoret gave a command that new apparel of the fairest blue cloth be prepared for the little minstrel and that a place be set for him at the royal board.

Now it came to pass that, as the Lady Amoret and her court beheld how brave a youth the little minstrel appeared in his new apparel, and hearkened to the thousand wonderful tales he had to tell of his quest, they found him the best company in the world and determined to hold him in the realm. To this end, therefore, they strove to drown the memory of his quest in a tide of gayest merriments; but, in spite of feasts and festivals, the little minstrel never once forgot the last note of the wonderful tune.

Try as he might, the little minstrel could never find the note. Again and again he had tried to make his way to the fool’s bower, only to lose himself in the tangled paths of the wildwood; again and again he had questioned the court fool, only to be met with a mocking courtesy, a finger to the lips, and a jesting wink of the eye. One day he even ventured to remind the Lady Amoret of her promise, but she only laughed at him for his impatience and swept him off in her golden boat to a pageant on the lakes.

Now it happened on the following morning that the Lady Amoret, taking counsel with her court, determined to destroy the note, lest the minstrel should discover it, and go. Summoning the captain of the palace guard before her, she said to him:--

“Go to-night to the bower of the court fool; take the last note of the wonderful tune, and fling it into the depths of the lake.”

* * * * *

And now it was night, and the lords and ladies of the court, strolling forth from dinner, walked through the palace to the terrace of the west. A storm was gathering afar, an approaching thunder growled, and lightning, flashing in the sky, was mirrored in the waters of the lakes. Presently there came wind and a patter of rain, and soldiers of the palace guard entered to close the windows and the doors.

The little minstrel stood apart by a great window, gazing forth into the darkness and the storm. His fine new clothes weighed like lead upon his shoulders; his jeweled neckcloth scarce left him free to breathe; and with all his heart he longed for his rags, his liberty, and the cool rain on his eyes.

But the last note--he could not leave that behind. Suddenly he heard one soldier say to another:--

“Our companions will be caught in the storm; they have ridden forth with the captain to the fool’s bower, to destroy the last note of the wonderful tune.”

“Oh, the note, the note, my note! Oh, what shall I do?” cried the minstrel, his heart sinking into depths of despair. “Even now it may be lost to the world--this time forever! I must find the court fool; he shall tell me where the bower lies!” And he looked about in the splendid throng for the fantastic motley of the fool; but he saw only many in rich garments, and the gleam of jewels reflecting many lights.

Suddenly he chanced to recall that the court fool dwelt in the garret of the palace, so up great and little stairs he fled to the fool’s chamber in the eaves. The rain was now falling in torrents on the roof close overhead, and all at once a terrible peal of thunder shook the palace to its depths. Never pausing to knock, the little minstrel burst in at the door.

Candles were burning within the humble chamber, lightning flared at an oval window, and the court fool stood in the centre of the floor, still in his motley clad.

“My friend,” said the court fool, with a low bow and a mocking smile, “allow me to present you with the last note of the wonderful tune.” And with those words he handed the note to the very much astonished youth.

“I feared lest mishap destroy it,” continued the court fool, “so yestereve I took it from my bower. You see, I believe in the wonderful tune; and without my note, this last note, your tune would scarce be worth the playing. And now, your hand, little minstrel, for you must hurry away at once through the wind and rain.”

So the minstrel pressed the hand of the court fool and, hastening down a tiny corner staircase, went forth into the storm. And as he fled, he cried aloud to the thunder and the rain and the wild wind:--

“The wonderful tune, the wonderful tune! I have it, I have it--the wonderful tune!”

And now the storm wore itself away, the summer stars shone forth in the clearest of blue skies, and the only sound to be heard was the rain drip-dripping from the trees. Drenched to the skin, but with a fire of joy in his heart, the minstrel hurried through the night toward the Kingdom of Music far away.

When he arrived there, on a summer’s morning, he found the people of the palace assembled in the hall of state, and the King upon his throne.

“I have it, Your Majesty!” cried out the little minstrel breathlessly; “I have it, every note; here is the wonderful tune!”

“What! The wonderful tune?” cried the King, leaping to his feet. “Quick, somebody, ring all the bells, send trumpeters through the streets, assemble the orchestra, and call hither the Violinist-in-Chief, the Lord Organist, and the Grand Harper. We shall play it over at once!”

* * * * *

“H-m,” said the Violinist-in-Chief, after he had put on his huge spectacles and studied the wonderful tune, “Don’t you feel that those last bars ought to be played very fast, like this: tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--tum-diddy-tum--diddy-dum-dum-dum?”

“No, I do _not_ agree with you,” replied the Lord Organist, a huge personage with a majestic air and a bad temper. “Those bars should be played slowly,” here he waved a large, solemn finger, “like this: tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum--tum!”

“You are both entirely wrong,” interrupted the Grand Harper, a short contradictory fellow with long arms and long fingers. “To my way of thinking the entire tune should be played throughout in the same time, in this fashion; listen to my tapping now: da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-dee--da-da--dee-do-dum.”

“Impossible! Absurd! No, never!” cried the Lord Organist and the Violinist-in-Chief in one long indignant breath. “We appeal to the King!”

But the King had ideas of his own on the matter.

And thus it was that the musicians all took to quarreling as to how the wonderful tune should be played, and are quarreling still.

But some day they will make up their minds as to how it should go; the little minstrel will leave the Kingdom of Music and come through the world piping the tune; and then, oh, then, what times there will be!

THE MAN OF THE WILDWOOD

Once upon a time, on a summer’s morning after a night’s rain, a country squire’s son stood within an arched doorway of his father’s house, gazing upon the hedgerows and the fields. The sun was shining after the storm, a high wind was shaking the trees, scurrying gusts fled through the nodding grass, and silvery white clouds sailed the arching sky. And beholding the bright morning and the rain-washed land, a great longing came into the heart of the squire’s son to follow the clouds over hill, over dale, and to see the world. Presently, with his parents’ blessing locked in his heart’s treasury and a purse of gold in his pocket, he leaped to the saddle of his dappled steed, waved his plumed hat, and galloped away.

Long he rode and afar, and presently he found himself in the heart of the deepest and darkest wildwood that was ever to be seen. Before him, behind him, around him all about, were the trunks of numberless trees--trees so tall that they hid the sky, and made of it but patches of cloudy white or speckles of blue; trees--broad trees, slender trees, trees that were like men-at-arms, trees that were shy and aloof as maids, trees that were silent, trees that rustled, everywhere trees. And deep was the wildwood silence and unbroken save for the soft pad of the horse’s hoofs and the rare song of a hidden bird.

At the close of his third day, the squire’s son found himself at the gates of a noble city built of cedar-green glass on an open hill in the heart of the wildwood.

Now as it was late in the day when the youth arrived at the city, it came to pass that he went to an inn for supper and the night. The mistress of the tavern, I must tell you, was a lonely orphan maiden named Miranda. Surely there was never a fairer or a kinder little maid! Beneath her ancient roof the humble wayfarer met with as friendly a greeting as his richer fellow, and with her own hands she gave bread and milk to the unfortunate and poor.

Now it chanced that the youth had been given a chamber overlooking the court of the inn, and presently he heard from below a confused din of voices, laughter, and jeers. In wonder as to what the cause of the hubbub might be, the squire’s son drew open his latticed window and looked down. A great green cage on wheels was to be seen there, surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers who poked fingers at something within it, shrieked catcalls, whistled, and laughed to split their sides.

The youth descended to the court, and made his way into the throng.

Within the cage, clad in a gray wolf’s skin, sat a creature like unto a man. Strong of body was he, and beautiful to behold. His eyes were blue and they were the eyes of a wild thing, and the long hair which fell about his neck was of the strangest tawny gold. Aware of the stir made by a newcomer, the prisoner turned, and fixed the youth with a glance in which lay pride mingled with despair.

Presently the proprietor of the cage, who had been baiting his horse at the stables of the inn, returned and lowered curtains about the cage and the prisoner. Fearful lest they be summoned to pay the showman his penny, the onlookers took to their heels, and soon the youth found himself alone in the courtyard.

Now this prisoner, I must tell you, was known as the Man of the Wildwood, for some hunters had found him in a net which they had spread in the wildwood a year before. To some an animal-like man, to others a man-like animal, the Man of the Wildwood remained a mystery in the land. As for the prisoner, never a word said he, and none knew whether he would not or could not talk.

Securely locked in his cage, the Man of the Wildwood was shown to all at a penny a head.

And now, as the youth mused alone in the silence, the maid Miranda came forth to light the great lantern in the court. A white apron she wore, a great white cap, and there were red ribbons on her gown. The squire’s son thought he never beheld a maid so fair.

Catching sight of the squire’s son, standing idly by, Miranda said to him, “Pray, good sir, what may there be in yon cage?”

“The Man of the Wildwood,” replied the youth. And he told Miranda what he had overheard amid the throng.

“Alas, poor creature,” said the gentle maiden, “how bitter must be such a cage to one who has known the freedom of the wildwood! I surely must bring him some honey and bread!”

And away she sped to the larder of the inn to fetch the good cheer. The twilight deepened. When Miranda returned again, the youth and the maid walked to the green cage and offered the gift to the Man of the Wildwood.

For a little space the prisoner, crouched in a dark corner of the cage, made neither sign nor sound. Then slowly, very slowly, he approached the gift of the kind maiden and ate of it hungrily. And because he had met with so little pity and compassion, the Man of the Wildwood was moved to his heart’s deep, and gazed upon the young folk with strange eyes.

All evening long the squire’s son mused on the Man of the Wildwood. Suddenly a great pity possessed him, and going to the showman, he purchased the prisoner for fifty golden crowns.

And now it was midnight; and the green cage, drawn by the showman’s horse, rolled down a deserted road to the edge of the wildwood. A moon almost at the full sailed the high heavens, now vanishing under thin, black clouds, now floating forth through silvery rifts and isles. Side by side, saying little to each other, sat the showman and the youth.

Suddenly a high wall of rustling darkness loomed before them at the verge of a moonlit field; the cage had reached the gate of the forest. With a key given him by the showman--who was a little afraid--the squire’s son unlocked the cage, and freed the Man of the Wildwood. And even as he did so, a summer breeze went singing through the wildwood with a great cry of joy.

Free at last, the Man of the Wildwood said naught, but lifted his head to the stars. Then raising his right arm high above his head, he made a stately sign of salutation to the youth, and walked like a king into the darkness of the trees.

The next morning the youth rose early and set forth once more upon his travels. Cities he saw, and nations, and kingdoms, but no one in them whom he thought fairer than Miranda. As for Miranda, scarce had the squire’s son ridden away, than she began to hope for his return.

Little by little the tide of summer rose to its full, and ebbing, left the gifts of golden autumn in the fields.

But now you must hear of the three merchants, the moonstone, and the misfortunes of Miranda.

It was a harvest eve, and presently Miranda, watching by the tavern door, beheld three men habited as merchants making their way along the city street to the inn. Somewhat to her surprise, they came afoot. Two of these merchants, I must tell you, were tall and lean, whilst the third was short and fat and had green eyes. Unwilling to refuse, yet somewhat against her better judgment, Miranda granted the request of these merchants for lodgment at the inn.

Now these three merchants, alas, were not merchants at all but three famous thieves, who had come to the city to steal a certain celebrated gem belonging to the king. This gem was a moonstone--a moonstone of such rare loveliness that men fabled that it had tumbled to earth from the moon, and been found in a forest glade at the end of a ray of summer moonshine. In all the world nothing there was more fair.

And now it was another midnight, and the three thieves, quitting their rooms in the inn, stole as quietly as three cats down the oaken stairway to the empty street. Unknown to them, however, Miranda--wakened by their whispers--followed close behind, now retreating into shadowy doorways, now leaning against a wall lest she be seen.

Presently the rogues approached the huge darkened mass of the palace, and made their way into the grounds through the dreaming gardens. A little fountain splashed somewhere in the night. The moon had set, and a thin layer of cloud dimmed the wheeling stars.

Chuckling softly at their success in having thus far eluded the palace watch, the thieves now pressed open a little window and crawled into the tower of jewels. Hurrying as fast as ever she could, Miranda ran to wake the yeomen of the guard.

Suddenly there was a great outcry, a light appeared in a window, there were shouts and a clash of arms, and the thieves came tumbling out of the window with the moonstone and vanished, all three, into the starry dark. A moment later flaming torches moved amid the trees, a throng of men-at-arms poured into the gardens, and Miranda found herself a prisoner.

Accused of having harbored the thieves and of having had a hand in the robbery, the maiden of the inn was the next morning brought to trial. Shaken to the heart, yet protesting her innocence to the last, the poor maiden made but a confused defense, and presently was condemned to suffer the sternest judgment of the law.

When this was pronounced, however, the friends and neighbors who loved Miranda made such a tumult in the court that the judgment was altered, and Miranda was sentenced to be carried in the gaoler’s cart into the very depths of the great wildwood, and there abandoned to live or perish as she might.

And now it was twilight, a golden harvest twilight; and Miranda, standing with her hands tied behind her by the wrists and her head bowed low, was drawn in a two-wheeled cart through the darkening streets of the glass city, and carried far out into the pathless regions of the wildwood. Once there, the gaoler--who pitied her--loosed her from her bonds, gave her a crust of prison bread, and drove away. Fainter and fainter grew the noise of the homeward-faring cart.

The night was moonless, the stars were bright, and a wild wind from some far waste of the world was roaring through the trees, now dying away to a faint and vagrant murmur, now rising to a great wailing rustling cry that arose and broke and ebbed like a wave of the sea. And the swaying branches tossed their clots of darkness against the stars, whilst underfoot so dark it lay that naught was to be seen.

For some moments the unhappy maiden, trembling with dread, stood motionless in the dark of the wildwood. Strange sounds drifted to her ears--the moan of rival branches, the laughter of running water, and the far cry of some hunter of the night. Suddenly she felt herself grow icy cold, and her eyes closing, she sank to the earth and knew no more.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, that very eve, in the distant city, the squire’s son was riding joyously to the inn. Presently he reached his long-awaited goal, and to his great surprise found the windows darkened and the doorway sealed and barred. Seeing him thus wandering about, a neighboring goodwife came forth from her dwelling, and told him, with tears in her eyes, the cruel fate of the good Miranda.

“Oh, wicked judgment!” cried the youth. “Quick--tell me whither in the wildwood have they taken her; for I must find her, come what may!”

“Alas, who can say?” replied the goodwife. “All that I can tell thee is that the cart vanished through the eastern gate, adown the eastern way.”

And now the youth cried to his dappled steed to press on as he had never done before, and galloped through the night to the wildwood. Darker it grew and darker still.

Arriving at length in a little clearing, the squire’s son bade his horse stand halted, and plunged into the wildwood, loudly calling and hallooing for the lost maiden. On and on through briery thicket and stony mire he blundered forward in the gloom. Suddenly an unseen ravine opened beneath him; his feet trod forward into nothingness; his hands caught at the air; and with a cry, he fell. And now as he lay there stunned, strong arms caught him gently up and carried him away.

When he woke to life again, he found himself lying on a bed of skins piled near a fire on a cavern floor. By his side, the torment of his human prison fallen from him like an evil garment, noble and beautiful and strong, stood the Man of the Wildwood.

Lifting himself up and turning toward his rescuer, the youth poured forth his story and sought the eyes of the Man of the Wildwood for a token that he had understood. For a moment, however, the Man of the Wildwood made no sign. Then, of a sudden, with a gesture at once gentle and commanding, he touched the youth by the hand, and going to the cave mouth, opened his arms to the dark wildwood, and called upon it in its secret speech.

And he bade the things of the wild--the brethren who go afoot, the kindred of the air, and the humble folk who crawl upon the earth--to go forth through the wildwood and find the maiden and guard her well. And he called upon them, too, to follow the thieves, and make them prisoners of the wood.