She curled over the guitar, felt along its strings with a sensuous gesture, and raised her face, filling her lungs deep. The guitar uttered one shuddering chord, and that was all. She began in the story-teller’s level, lilting voice:
“Gil Morrice was an Erle’s son.
His name it waxed wide;
It was not for his great riches
Nor for his mickle pride.
But it was for a lady gay
That lived on Carron side.”
So much for the introduction, and straight into the story. The guitar took up a thin, fine line of melody, low beneath the clear voice, that had as yet no passion in it, but remained a story-teller, uninvolved, unwrung:
“ ‘Where shall I find a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoon.
That will go to Lord Barnard’s hall
And bid his lady come?
‘And you must run my errand, Willie.
And you may run with pride.
When other boys gae on their feet
On horseback ye shall ride.’
‘Oh, no, oh, no, my master dear.
I darena for my life
I’ll not go to the bold baron’s
For to tryst forth his wife.
‘But oh, my master dear,’ he cried.
“In greenwood ye’re your lane.
Give o’er such thoughts, I would you rede.
For fear ye should be ta’en.’ ”
The guitar had enlarged its low comment, the thick chords came in rising anger. A stillness began to bud in the centre of the audience, and opened monstrous petals in the gloom. A little more, and she would know she had them; but whether she had Audrey she had no way of knowing. The pulsing excitement of the telling took her like a trance. She heard her own voice deepen and grow harsh, and she had done nothing at all, issued no orders:
“ ‘My bird Willie, my boy Willie.
My dear Willie,’ he said.
“How can ye strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyed.
‘Haste, haste, I say, go to the hall.
Bid her come here with speed.
If ye refuse my high command
I’ll gar your body bleed.’
‘Yes, I will go your black errand.
Though it be to your cost.
Since you by me will not be warned.
In it ye shall find frost.
‘And since I must your errand run
So sore against my will.
I’ll make a vow, and keep it true.
It shall be done for ill.’ ”
The guitar came crashing in now with the dark themes of the page’s hate and love, and the rapid, rushing narrative of his ride to Lord Barnard’s castle. He swam the river and leaped the wall, and burst in upon the household at table. She had them in her hand, and the instrument sang for her, passionate and enraged beneath the far-pitched thread of her voice stringing in the words like pearls. Oh, God, let her understand what’s coming before
The page was in the hall now, striding in upon the assembled company. The voice sang full and clear, almost strident to ride over the meal-time talk:
“Hail, hail, my gentle sire and dame.
My message will not wait.
