tales of two people 53

tales of two people 53

“Seven days and seven nights you may abide here,” she said, “but on

condition that at the end of that time my officers deliver you to your

King again. If by then you have read the riddle, it will be good for the

King and for you. But if you have not read it, let it be evil for you

as for him--evil unto death. How say you?”

 

“I accept the condition, and I will abide,” said the stranger.

 

Runa signed that he should be led forth. “And leave me alone, all of

you,” she said.

 

 

 

 

IV

 

 

Seven days and seven nights, then, the stranger abode in the city. Every

day he held speech with Runa, both in the great hall, with the ladies

and the knights, and privately. Much he told her concerning the kingdom

and the King, and she showed him all the wealth and power of her city.

But when she bade him speak of himself, he would answer, “I am nothing

without the King,” and would say no more of himself, so that she was

full of wonder about him, and pondered more and more as to who he was

and whence he came. And meanwhile the King’s army lay idle in its tents

and made no assault on the ramparts.

 

At last, on the third day, she said to him: “Tell me why the King your

master leaves all his great kingdom and makes war on my poor city?”

 

“The King,” he answered, “makes war that peace may come, and union, and

power. In three years he has brought peace to all the kingdom. This city

alone is left, a foe set among friends, disobedient among the obedient,

a weakness amidst that which is strong. Without the kingdom the city is

nothing, and without the city the kingdom is feeble.”

 

Runa knit her brows and heard him in silence. But after a while she

said:

 

“Had the King sent an embassy to me with these words, it may be that I

should have listened. But he sent me only a summons to surrender.”

 

The next day she sent for him again and said: “If I give up my city and

submit myself to the King, what am I then--I who was Runa of Or?”

 

“You will be high in the King’s counsel and in his love,” he answered.

 

“I do not covet the King’s love,” said Runa, knitting her brows again.

 

“You do not know what it is, madam,” he said softly.

 

On the fifth day she sent for him again, and privately, and said to him:

 

“If I give up my city and submit myself to the King, and there is peace

in the kingdom such as there has not been since the day my father Count

Theobald ruled in Or, what will the King do?”

 

“He will enrich the kingdom, and make it fair and secure it against all

foes.”

 

“And what will you do?” she asked.

 

“I shall be by the King’s side,” he answered, “if by chance I can give

him good counsel.”

 

“And he will reward you with high honour?”

 

“All honour is at once mine if I read the riddle,” he replied.

 

“You have not read it?”

 

“I seek to read it in your eyes,” he answered boldly, and Runa turned

her glance away from him, lest he should read the riddle there.

 

On the seventh day, in the evening, she sent for him again in secret,

unknown to any of her knights or ladies. The great hall in which she sat

alone was dimly lighted; only her face, her fair hair, and her rich robe

of white gleamed from the gloom. He came and stood before her.

 

“To-morrow at sunrise,” she said, “I must deliver you to the King your

master according to our agreement. What gift do you carry in your hand

to turn his wrath into favour?”

 

“If I do not bear in my hand the keys of the citadel, I bear nothing,”

he answered.

 

There fell a long silence between them, and the great hall was

marvellously still. The stranger drew very near to Countess Runa and

stood by the arm of her high chair.

 

“Madam, farewell,” he said.

 

She looked up at him and murmured softly: “Farewell.”

 

“Yet we shall meet again.”

 

“When?” she asked, with lips just parted and eyes that strained to see

his face.

 

“In a day’s time, outside the ramparts.”

 

“Outside the ramparts?”

 

“Yes.” He knelt before her and kissed her hand. “The citadel of the city

is the heart of its mistress,” he said.

 

She rose suddenly to her feet and would have spoken, but he raised his

hand to impose silence on her. With one long look he turned away and

left her alone, standing under the emblazoned window, through which one

ray of moonlight caught her fair hair and illumined it.

 

She stood with clasped hands, her eyes still set on the door by which he

had gone out.

 

“My heart knows its lord,” she whispered. “I have been speaking with my

King.”

 

 

 

 

V

 

 

On the morrow, in the afternoon, King Stanislas, being returned from a

journey on which affairs of State had called him, and having assumed

again the command of his army, led it forth in battle array, and took up

his position in the plain before the southern gate, not far from the

ramparts of the city.

 

“We are going to assault the ramparts again,” said an old soldier to

Friar Nicholas, who was there to see what passed and to exercise his

sacred functions in case need arose.

 

“Nay, I think the King is going to carry the citadel,” answered the

Friar, with a laugh. And all of them laughed, thinking that he jested at

the King’s expense.

 

As the clock struck four the King rode forth, magnificently appointed,

and bestriding a black war-horse of great strength and spirit. When he

was two hundred yards from the walls, he halted all his army and rode

forward alone, save for the herald by his side. Coming close under the

ramparts, which were thronged with Countess Runa’s knights and

men-at-arms, to say nothing of those who were ready to pour down stones

and molten pitch and heavy bars of iron on the assaulters, he bade the

herald cry that King Stanislas would speak with her Highness the

Countess Runa.

 

Much stir arose on the ramparts at this message, but the King sat calm

and motionless on his great black horse. So passed half-an-hour or so.

Then the city gate rolled open, and Runa rode forth, in a robe of

scarlet, seated on a white palfrey, and with all her knights and ladies

round about her.

 

“This is no assault on the ramparts,” said the old soldier to Friar

Nicholas, grumbling because there was danger that he should be balked of

a fight.

 

“I think you will soon pass them, though,” said Nicholas.

 

When the King saw Countess Runa he touched his horse with the spur and

rode up to her where she awaited his coming. When she saw him, her eyes

brightened to a new brilliance. Yet she showed no wonder.

 

“My heart knew,” she said, when her ladies and her knights marvelled.

 

King Stanislas saluted her.

 

“Whither, my King?” she asked.

 

He leant down, put his arm about her waist, and lifted her from her

palfrey. A great shout went up from the army in the plain and from the

defenders on the walls. The King set her in front of him on his great

horse.

 

“I carry the citadel,” he said. “And now I will pass the ramparts”; and

they two rode together into the city amidst mighty rejoicings.

 

 

 

 

VI

 

 

To which story there are a number of morals quite out of proportion to

its size.

 

This for Kings and Rulers: That they should state their objects

openly--provided that they wish to have them known.

 

This for Children: That what their fathers did for fifty years, it may

be wise for them to cease from doing immediately--especially if they

wish to make good marriages.

 

This for Men: That though it be impossible that a woman should mean what

she says, yet she means something by what she says--at any rate, if she

says it three times.

 

This for Women: That though the ramparts protect the citadel, the

citadel may often betray the ramparts.

 

And this for Everybody: That he who devotes a good intelligence to

enlightening others is like unto a man who cooks his neighbour’s dinner

without being invited to table. For when once the citadel was carried, the ramparts passed, and the lovers happy, neither King nor Countess nor anybody else gave another thought to poor Friar Nicholas!