Troubadour Tales 13

Troubadour Tales 13

When this was finished Félix arose, and, as the Père wished, once more

went out to the fold to see how the sheep, especially his little Beppo,

were faring.

 

As he pushed open the swinging door, Ninette, who was lazily dozing

with her toes doubled up under her fleece, blinked her eyes and looked

sleepily around; but Beppo was nowhere to be seen.

 

“Ninette!” demanded Félix, fiercely, “what hast thou done with my

Beppo?”

 

At this Ninette peered about in a dazed sort of way, and gave an

alarmed little “Baa!” For she had not before missed Beppo, who, while

she was asleep, had managed to push open the door of the fold and

scamper off, no one knew just where.

 

Félix gazed around in dismay when he realized that his lamb, the chosen

one, who had brought such pride and honor to him, was gone!

 

“Beppo!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Beppo! Beppo-o!”

 

But no trace could he see of the little bundle of fleece he had

scrubbed and combed so carefully that morning.

 

He stood irresolute a moment; then, thinking that if Beppo really were

running off, not a second was to be lost, he set out at a brisk pace

across the sheep-meadow. He had no idea in what direction the truant

lamb would be likely to stray, but on he went, calling every little

while in a shrill voice, “Beppo!” Now and then he fancied that he

saw in the distance a glimpse of white; but once it proved to be the

Misè Fouchard’s linen hung to dry on a currant-bush, and again it was

a great white stone—but no Beppo; and all the while Félix kept on,

quite forgetting that Beppo’s weak, woolly legs could not possibly have

carried him so great a distance.

 

By and by he had left the village meadows far behind, and was skirting

the great marsh. Sometimes he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked

far across this low wet land to see if perhaps Beppo had strayed into

its uncertain foothold; but nothing could he see but the waving rushes

and the tall bitterns wading about on long, yellow legs.

 

And still he pressed heedlessly on farther and farther, till, after a

while, he found himself thrusting through a thick coppice of willow

boughs.

 

“Oh,” thought Félix, “what if poor Beppo has strayed into this

woodland!” Tired as he was, he urged himself on, searching among the

trees; and it was not until he had wandered on and on, deeper and

deeper into the wood, that he realized that the dusk had fallen, and

that he must be a very, very long way from Sur Varne.

 

Félix then began to grow uneasy. He stood still and looked anxiously

about him; the dark forest trees closed around him on all sides, and he

was quite unable to remember from which direction he had entered the

wood.

 

Now, Félix was really a very brave little fellow, but it must be owned

his heart misgave him, and he fairly quaked as he peered through the

gathering darkness; for in those days the forests of Provence were

known to harbor many dangerous animals, especially wild boars and

wolves. He pricked up his ears, and now and then thought he heard in

the distance the stealthy tread of some four-footed forest prowler, and

once he was sure he caught the deep howl of a wolf.

 

That ended his hesitation. He looked quickly around, and grasping the

low boughs of a slender sapling, managed to swing himself up into a

tall chestnut tree that grew close by; and there he clung, clutching

the thick branches with might and main, feeling very cold and hungry

and miserable, his heart all the while sinking clear down into his

little peasant shoes.

 

And indeed he had cause for fear, for, not a great while after he had

thus hidden himself, a gaunt wolf really did pass close by, sniffing

and peering, till poor Félix gave up all hope of escaping with his

life; but, luckily, the wolf did not see him, and at last slowly crept

on through the underwood.

 

How long the little boy stayed in the perilous shelter of the

chestnut-tree he never knew, but it seemed untold ages to him. After a

while the moon rose, and shed a faint light through the close-lapping

branches; then, by and by, Félix’s ears, strained to listen for every

lightest sound, caught the echo of distant trampling, as of horses’

hoofs, and presently two horsemen came in sight, pricking their way

cautiously along a narrow bridle-path.

 

He did not know whom they might prove to be, but wisely thinking that

anything would be better than staying in a tree all night at the mercy

of hungry wolves, he waited till the first rider came quite close, and

then he plucked up courage to call out faintly:

 

“Oh, sir, stop, I pray thee!”

 

At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of

Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:

 

“Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?”

 

“Nay, my Lord,” answered Brian, who was some paces behind, “naught save

the trampling of our own horses’ hoofs.”

 

The count looked all around, and seeing nothing, thought himself

mistaken in the sound, and began to pace on. Then Félix in terror gave

another shout, this time louder, and at the same moment a little twig

he was pressing with his elbow broke away and dropped, striking against

the count’s stirrup; for the bridle-path wound directly under the tree

where Félix was perched.

 

The count instantly checked his horse again, and, peering up into the

boughs overhead, he caught sight of Félix, his yellow hair wet with dew

and shining in the moonlight, and his dark eyes wide with fear.

 

[Illustration]

 

“Heigh-ho!” exclaimed the count, in blank amazement. “Upon my word,

now! what art thou—boy or goblin?”

 

At this Félix gave a little sob, for he was very tired and very cold.

He hugged the tree tightly, and steadying himself against the boughs,

at last managed to falter out:

 

“Please thee, sir, I am Félix Michaud, and my lamb Beppo, who was to

ride in the Christmas procession, ran off to-day, and—and—I have been

hunting him, I think, ever since—since yesterday!” Here poor Félix

grew a trifle bewildered; it seemed to him so very long ago since he

had set out in search of Beppo. “And I live in Sur Varne.”

 

At this the count gave a long whistle.

 

“At Sur Varne!” he exclaimed. “If thou speakest truly, my little man,

thou hast indeed a sturdy pair of legs to carry thee thus far.” And

he eyed curiously Félix’s dusty little feet and leathern leggings,

dangling limply from the bough above him.

 

“Dost thou know how far distant is Sur Varne from this forest?”

 

“Nay, sir,” answered Félix; “but I trow ’tis a great way.”

 

“There thou art right,” said the count; “’tis a good two leagues, if it

is a pace. But how now? Thou canst not bide here to become the prey of

hungry wolves, my little night-owl of the yellow hair!”

 

And thereupon Count Bernard dexterously raised himself in his stirrups,

and, reaching upward, caught Félix in his arms and swung him down plump

on the saddle-bow in front of him; then, showing him how to steady

himself by holding the pommel, he turned to Brian, his squire, who

while all this was going on had stood by in silent astonishment, and

giving the order to move, the little cavalcade hastened on at a rapid

pace in order to get clear of the forest as quickly as possible.

 

Meantime the Count Bernard, who was really a very kind and noble lord,

and who lived in a beautiful castle on the farther verge of the

forest, quite reassured Félix by talking to him kindly, and telling him

of the six days’ journey from which he and his squire, Brian, were just

returning, and how they had been delayed on the way until nightfall.

 

“And, by my faith!” said Count Bernard, “’twas a lucky hour for thee

that snapped my horse’s saddle-girth! else we should have passed this

wood by midday—and then, little popinjay, what wouldst thou have done

had we not chanced along to pluck thee from out thy chilly nest? Hey?

Wolves had been but poor comrades for such as thee!”

 

At this Félix began to shiver, and the count hastened to add:

 

“Nay, my little man, I did but jest with thee! Thou shalt sleep this

night in the strong castle of Bois Varne, with not even a mouse to fret

thy yellow head; and, what is more, thou shalt see the fairest little

maid that ever thou hast set eyes on!”

 

And then he told him of his little daughter, the Lady Elinor, and how

she would play with Félix and show him the castle, and how on the

morrow they would see about sending him home to Sur Varne.

 

And all the while the count was talking they were trotting briskly

onward, till by and by they emerged from the forest and saw towering

near at hand the castle of Bois Varne. The tall turrets shone and

shimmered in the moonlight, and over the gateway of the drawbridge hung

a lighted cresset—that is, a beautiful wrought-iron basket, in which

blazed a ruddy torch of oil to light them on their way.

 

At sight of this the count and Brian spurred on their horses, and were

soon clattering across the bridge and into the great paved courtyard.

The count flung his bridle to a little page who hastened out to meet

him, and then, springing from his saddle, lightly lifted Félix and

swung him to the ground. He then took the boy by the hand and led him

into the great hall of the castle.

 

To Félix this looked marvelously beautiful. Christmas garlands of

myrtle hung on the walls, and a great pile of freshly cut laurel boughs

lay on a bench, ready for the morrow’s arranging. But that which took

his eyes most of all was the lovely carving everywhere to be seen. The