But Euphemia replied; “Nay, my father. Am I no better than other girls that I should care for the glance of the young man’s eye? Have I not sat at your feet since I was but as high as your knee? Teach me still as Plato taught.”
But Alasco said; “Love will still be lord of all.”
“He shall never be lord of me,” said Euphemia.
II
“And from the platform spare ye not
Scott
To fire a noble salvo shot—
Lord Marmion waits below.”
And in those days there was the rinderpest in the land among the cattle, and the swine were plagued with a sore disease, and there had gone forth an edict and a command from the Queen’s Councillors that no beeves or swine should be driven on the Queen’s highways. So there came upon the lord of Mountfidget men armed with authority from the Queen, and they slew his beeves and his swine, and buried their carcases twenty fathom deep beneath the ground.
And the young lord was angered much, for he loved his beeves and his swine, and he said to himself, “What will my lord, the Count Grandnostrel, say unto me, if I visit him with empty hands? Will the blood-red wine be poured, or shall I see the gentle Euphemia?” For the Count Grandnostrel was a hard man, and loved a bargain well. “But I have much money in many banks,” said the lord of Mountfidget, in council with himself. “And though my beeves and my swine are slain and buried, yet will he receive me; for the rich are ever welcome, though their hands be empty.” So he went up the slopes which led to the Castle of Grandnostrel.
And at the portal, within the safeguard of the drawbridge, there were huge heaps of dried fruits, and mountains of olives. And there came out to him the Count Grandnostrel, and demanded of him where were his beeves and his swine. And the lord told the count how men in authority from the Queen had come upon him on the road, and had slain the beasts, and buried them twenty fathom beneath the earth—because of the rinderpest which raged in the land, and because of the disease among the swine. Then said the Count Grandnostrel: “And art thou come empty-handed to drink the blood-red wine; and hast thou never a horn or a tusk? If my butler draw but a sorry pint for thee, I’ll butler him with a bastinado! No;—not a cork! Get thee gone to thy Grange.” So he drew up the drawbridge, and the sweet scent of the olives and of the dried fruits were borne aloft by the zephyrs, and struck upon the envious senses of the young lord.
“And shall I not see thy daughter, the gentle Euphemia?” said he.
Then the Count Grandnostrel called to his archers and bade them twang their bows; and the archers twanged their bows, and seven arrows struck the Lord Mountfidget full upon his breast. But their points availed nought against his steel cuirass; so he smiled and turned away.
“Nay, my lord, Count Grandnostrel,” said he, “thou shalt rue the day when thou treated thus one who has ready money in many banks; I will set the lawyers at thee, and ruin thee with many costs.”
Then, as he walked away, the archers twanged again, and struck him on the back. The good steel turned the points, and the arrows of Grandnostrel fell blunted to the ground. But I fear there was one arrow which entered just above the joint of the knight’s harness, and galled the neck of the young lord.
But as he went down the slopes there waved a kerchief from the oriel window over the eastern parapet.
III
“Oh coz, coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz,
Shakespeare
Dost know how many fathom deep I am in love?”
’Twas midnight, and there came a soft knock at the door of Alasco the Wise. But Alasco heard it not, for he was drinking in the wisdom of the ancients with all his senses, and his ears were deaf to all earthly sounds.
“Sleepest thou, my father?” said the gentle Euphemia, as she opened the door, “or is thy soul buried amidst thy books?”
“Daughter,” said Alasco the Wise, “my soul is buried among my books. The hour is short, and the night cometh, and he who maketh not his hay while the sun of life shineth, shall hardly garner his crop beneath the cold, damp hand of death. But for thee, my child, and thy needs, all other things shall give way.” Then he wiped his pen, and put a mark in his book, and closed his lexicon.
“My father,” said the girl, “didst thou hear my father’s archers, how their bows twanged this morn?”
“I heard a rattling as of dried peas against a windowpane,” said the sage.
“It was the noise, father, of the arrows as they fell upon the breast of the Lord Mountfidget. And they fell upon his back, also, and alack! one has struck him on the nape of his neck! And then he rode away. Oh, father!”
“And is it thus with thee, my child?” said Alasco.
“Thus, father,” said Euphemia. And she hid her face upon the serge of his mantle.
“Did I not say that love should still be lord of all?” said the sage.
“Spare me, father,” said the damsel. “Spare the child that has stood at thy footstool since she was as high as thy knee. Spare me, and aid me to save my lord!”
Then they sallied forth from the small wicket which opens into the forest from beneath the west barbican.
IV
“Come back! come back! he cried in grief,
Campbell
My daughter, oh, my daughter!”
“When he found she’d levanted, the Count of Alsace
Barham
At first turned remarkably red in the face.”
And in the morning the Count of Grandnostrel called for his daughter. And his eyes were red
