The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie

said Dirk quickly. “They would not meddle with me just because I do not preach the laws of the Church. I teach my scholars rhetoric, logic and philosophy . . . they are well pleased.”

      “I have heard it,” answered Theirry, looking out of the window at the red roses dazzling in the sunshine; Dirk could not guess how it rankled with his friend that he obtained no pupils, that no one cared to listen to his teaching; that while Dirk was becoming famous as the professor of rhetoric at Frankfort college, he remained utterly unknown.

      “To-day I disclosed to them Procopius,” said Dirk, “and propounded a hundred proposition out of Priscianus — should improve their Latin — there were some nobles from the Court. One submitted that my teaching was heretical — asked if I was a Gnostic or an Arian — aaid I should be condemned by the Council of Saragossa — as Avila was, and for as good reasons . . . ”

      “Meanwhile . . . ”

      Dirk interrupted.

      “Meanwhile — we know almost all the wise woman can teach us, and are on the eve of great power . . . ”

      Theirry pushed wider the shutters so that the strong sunlight fell over the knee of his dark gown.

      “You perhaps,” he said heavily. “Not I— the spirits will not listen to me . . . only with great difficulty can I compel them . . . well I wot that I am bound to evil, but I wot also that it doth little for me.”

      At this complaint a look of apprehension came into Dirk’s eyes.

      “My fortune is your fortune,” he said.

      “Nay,” answered Theirry, half fiercely, “it is not . . . you have been successful . . . so have not I . . . old Nathalie loves you — she cares nothing for me — you have already a name in Frankfort — I have none, nor money either . . . Saint Ambrose’s gold is gone, and I live on your charity.”

      While he was speaking Dirk gazed at him with a strengthening expression of trouble and dismay; with large distracted eyes full of tenderness, while his cheeks paled and his mouth quivered.

      “No — no.” He spoke in protest, but his distress was too deep and too genuine to allow of much speech.

      “I am going away from here,” said Theirry firmly.

      Dirk gasped as if he had been wounded.

      “From Frankfort?” he ejaculated.

      “Nay . . . from this place.”

      There was a little silence while the last traces of light and colour seemed to be drained from Dirk’s face.

      “You do not mean that,” he said at length. “After we have been . . . Oh, after all of it — you cannot mean . . . ”

      Theirry turned and faced the room.

      “You need not fear that I shall break the bond that unites us,” he cried. “I have gone too far yea, and still I hope to attain by the Devil’s aid my desires. But I will not stay here.” “Where will you go?”

      Theirry’s hazel eyes again sought the crimson roses in the witch’s garden.

      “To-day as I wandered outside the walls I met a hawking party. Jacobea of Martzburg was among them.”

      “They had been in Frankfort many weeks, and so had she, yet this was the first time that he had mentioned her name.”

      “Oh!” cried Dirk.

      “She knew me,” continued Theirry; “and spoke to me. She asked, out of her graciousness, if I had aught to do in Frankfort . . . thinking, I wot, I looked not like it.” He blushed and smiled. “Then she offered me a post at Court. Her cousin is Chamberlain to the Queen — nay, Empress, I should say — and he will take me as his secretary. I shall accept.”

      Dirk was miserably, hopelessly silent; all the radiance, the triumph that had adorned him when Theirry eutered were utterly quenched; he stood like one under the lash, with agonised eyes. “Are you not glad?” asked Theirry, with a swell in his voice. “I shall be near her . . . ” “Is that a vast consideration?” said Dirk faintly. “That you should be near her?”

      “Did you think that I had forgotten her because I spoke not?” answered Theirry. “Also there are chances that by your arts I may strengthen —”

      Through the heavy golden shadows of the room Dirk moved slowly towards the window where Theirry stood.

      “I shall lose you,” he said.

      Theirry was half startled by the note in his voice.

      “Nay . . . shall I not come here . . . often? Are you not my comrade?”

      “So you speak,” answered Dirk, his brow drawn, his lips pale even for one of his pallor. “But you leave me . . . You choose another path from mine.” He wrung his frail hands together. “I had not thought of this.”

      “It need not grieve you that I go,” answered Theirry, half sullen, half wondering. “I wot I am pledged deeply enough to thy Master.” His eyes flashed wildly. “Is there not sin on my soul? —— Have I not awakened in the night to see Saint Ambrose smile at me? Am I not outside the Church and in league with Hell?”

      “Hush! hush!” warned Dirk.

      Theirry flung himself into the window-seat, his elbows on his knees, his palms pressed into his cheeks; the sunlight fell through the open window behind him and shone richly in his dark brown hair.

      Dirk leant against the wall and stared down at him; in his poor pale face were yearning and tenderness beyond expression.

      At last Theirry rose and turned to the door.

      “Are you going?” questioned Dirk fearfully.

      “Yea.”

      Dirk braced himself.

      “Do not go,” he said. “There is everything before us if we stay together . . . if you . . . ” His words choked him, and he was silent.

      “All your reasoning cannot stay me,” answered Theirry, his hand on the door. “She smiled at me and I saw her yellow hair . . . and I am stifled here and useless.”

      He opened the door and went out.

      Dirk sank on the brilliant gold cushions and twisted his fingers together; through the half-closed shutters he could see that marvellous blaze of red roses and their sharp green leaves, the garden wall and the blue August sky; he could hear a bird singing, far away and pleasantly, and after a while he heard Theirry sing, too, as he moved about in an upper chamber. Dirk had not known him sing before, and now, as the little wordless song fell on his cars, he winced and writhed.

      “He sings because he is going away.”

      He sprang up and crossed to the calendar; a year ago today he and Theirry had first met; he had marked the day with red — and now —

      Presently Theirry entered again; he was no longer singing, and he had his things in a bundle on his back.

      “I will come tomorrow and take leave of Nathalie,” he said; “or perhaps this evening. But I must see the Chamberlain now.”

      Dirk nodded; he was still standing by the calendar, and for the second time Theirry passed out. “Oh! oh!” whispered Dirk. “He is gone — gone —— gone — gone.”

      He remained motionless, picturing the Court Theirry would join, picturing Jacobea of Martzburg; the other influences that would be brought to bear on his companion —

      Then he crept to the window and pushed the shutter wide, so that half the dark room was flooded with gold.

      The great burning roses nodded in unison, heavy bees humming among them. Dirk leant from the window and flung out his arms with sudden passion.

      “Satan! Satan!” he shrieked. “Give him back to me! Everything else you have promised