The Brethren. Генри Райдер Хаггард

War? Alas! poor son; alas! poor son! Alas! that we must part again forever!” and his voice, too, passed away.

      Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears.

      “How died this child of God?” asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory, a low and awful voice.

      “He died by the sword,” answered the angel.

      “By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of Heaven?”

      Then the angels were silent.

      “What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?” asked the voice again.

      “Let him be spared,” pleaded the guardians, “who was young and brave, and knew not. Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be our charge once more.”

      “So be it,” said the voice. “Knight, live on, but live as a knight of Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven.”

      “Must he then put the woman from him?” asked the angels.

      “It was not said,” answered the voice speaking from the Glory. And all that wild vision vanished.

      Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending over him—a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered—that of his cousin Rosamund. He babbled some questions, but they brought him food, and told him to sleep, so he slept. Thus it went on, waking and sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took them to his home as infants. More, on the trestle bed opposite to him, his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself, somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless, yet at times fierce-faced Wulf.

      “Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?”

      A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin was himself again.

      “Me sure enough,” he answered. “Dream-folk don’t have lame legs; they are the gifts of swords and men.”

      “And Rosamund? What of Rosamund? Did the grey horse swim the creek, and how came we here? Tell me quick—I faint for news!”

      “She shall tell you herself.” And hobbling to the curtained door, he called, “Rosamund, my—nay, our—cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself again. Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!”

      There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the rushes that strewed the floor, and then—Rosamund herself, lovely as ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy. She saw him, the gaunt Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white and sunken face. For Godwin’s eyes were grey, while Wulf’s were blue, the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although in truth Wulf’s lips were fuller than Godwin’s, and his chin more marked; also he was a larger man. She saw him, and with a little cry of delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow.

      “Be careful,” said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, “or, Rosamund, you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has had enough of blood-letting.”

      “Then I will kiss him on the hand—the hand that saved me,” she said, and did so. More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart.

      “Mine had something to do with that business also but I don’t remember that you kissed it, Rosamund. Well, I will kiss him too, and oh! God be praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad, and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can’t recall, who between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved brother.” And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy arms about Godwin embraced him again and again.

      “Be careful,” said Rosamund drily, “or, Wulf, you will disturb the bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting.”

      Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him. His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund. For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

      Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye.

      “So you will live after all, my nephew,” he said, “and for that I thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man—a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D’Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon. Yes, one of the best of them.”

      “Speak not so, my uncle,” said Godwin; “or at least, here is a worthier,”—and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers. “It was Wulf who bore me through. Oh, I remember as much as that—how he lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and pommel. Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of ‘Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!’ and the flashing of swords about us, and after that—nothing.”

      “Would that I had been there to help in that fight,” said Sir Andrew D’Arcy, tossing his white hair. “Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick and old. A log am I—naught but a rotting log. Still, had I only known—”

      “Father, father,” said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck. “You should not speak thus. You have done your share.”

      “Yes, my share; but I should like to do more. Oh, St. Andrew, ask it for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire’s cry upon my lips. Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall. There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you. Why, when I found you lying in each other’s arms I could have wept for rage to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and I not in it.”

      “I know nothing of all that story,” said Godwin.

      “No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more? But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you. Speak on, Rosamund. Lay you back, Godwin, and listen.”

      “The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine,” said Rosamund. “You bade me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank deep, so that the waves closed above my head. Then up we came, I floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore. On it swam, somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could see all that passed upon the mole. I saw them come at you, and men fall before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again. Lastly, after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf lift Godwin into the saddle—I knew it must be Godwin, because he set him on the black horse—and the pair of you galloped down the quay and vanished.

      “By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and sank deep in the water. But I cheered it on with my voice, and although twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing, though a soft one. After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it stood shaking with fear and weariness. So soon as the horse got its breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at the gate. Now, father, do you take up the tale.”

      “There is little more to tell,” said Sir Andrew. “You will remember, nephews, that I was against