Yet others declare, more simply, that Dom Manuel was so constituted as to value more cheaply every desire after he had attained it. And these say he noted that—again in the inexplicable way these things fall out—now Manuel possessed the unearthly Queen she had become, precisely as Alianora had become, a not extraordinary person, who in all commerce with her lover dealt as such.
“But do you really love me, O man of all men?” Freydis would say, “and, this damned Niafer apart, do you love me a little more than you love any other woman?”
“Why, are there any other women?” says Manuel, in fine surprise. “Oh, to be sure, I suppose there are, but I had forgotten about them. I have not heard or seen or thought of those petticoated creatures since my dear Freydis came.”
The sorceress purred at this sort of talk, and she rested her head where there seemed a place especially made for it. “I wish I could believe your words, king of my heart. I have to strive so hard, nowadays, to goad you into saying these idiotic suitable dear things: and even when at last you do say them your voice is light and high, and makes them sound as though you were joking.”
He kissed the thick coil of hair which lay fragrant against his lips. “Do you know, in spite of my joking, I do love you a great deal?”
“I would practice saying that over to myself,” observed Freydis critically. “You should let your voice break a little after the first three words.”
“I speak as I feel. I love you, Freydis, and I tell you so.”
“Yes, but you are no longer a perpetual nuisance about it.”
“Alas, my dear, you are no longer the unattainable Queen of the country on the other side of the fire, and that makes a difference, certainly. It is equally certain that I love you over and above all living women.”
“Ah, but, my dearest, who loves you more than any human tongue can tell?”
“A peculiarly obstinate and lovely imbecile,” says Manuel; and he did that which seemed suitable.
Later Freydis sighed luxuriously. “That saves you the trouble of talking, does it not? And you talked so madly and handsomely that first night, when you wanted to get around me on account of the image, but now you do not make me any pretty speeches at all.”
“Oh, heavens!” said Manuel, “but I am embracing a monomaniac. Dear Freydis, whatever I might say would be perforce the same old words that have been whispered by millions of men to many more millions of women, and my love for you is a quite unparalleled thing which ought not to be travestied by any such shopworn apparel.”
“Now again you must be putting me off with solemn joking in that light high voice, and there is no faithfulness in that voice, and its talking troubles me.”
“I speak as I feel. I love you, Freydis, and I tell you so, but I cannot be telling it over and over again every quarter of the hour.”
“Oh, but very certainly this big squinting boy is the most unloquacious and the most stubborn brute that ever lived!”
“And would you have me otherwise?”
“No, that is the queer part of it. But it is a grief to me to wonder if you foresaw as much.”
“I!” says Manuel, jovially. “But what would I be doing with any such finespun policies? My dear, until you comprehend I am the most frank and downright creature that ever lived you do not begin to appreciate me.”
“I know you are, big boy. But still, I wonder,” Freydis said, “and the wondering is a thin little far-off grief.”
XVII
Magic of the Image-Makers
It was presently noised abroad that Queen Freydis of Audela had become a human woman; and thereafter certain enchanters came to Upper Morven, to seek her counsel and her favor and the aid of Schamir. These were the enchanters, Manuel was told, who made images, to which they now and then contrived—nobody seemed to know quite how, and least of all did the thaumaturgists themselves—to impart life.
Once Manuel went with Freydis into a dark place where some of these magic-workers were at labor. By the light of a charcoal fire, clay images were ruddily discernible; before these the enchanters moved unhumanly clad, and doing things which, mercifully perhaps, were veiled from Manuel by the peculiarly perfumed obscurity.
As Manuel entered the gallery one of the magic-workers was chanting shrilly in the darkness below. “It is the unfinished Rune of the Blackbirds,” says Freydis, in a whisper.
Below them the troubled wailing continued:
“—Crammed and squeezed, so entombed (on some wager I hazard), in spite of scared squawking and mutter, after the fashion that lean-faced Rajah dealt with trapped heroes, once, in Calcutta. Dared you break the crust and bullyrag ’em—hot, fierce and angry, what wide beaks buzz plain Saxon as ever spoke Witenagemot! Yet, singing, they sing as no white bird does (where none rears phoenix) as near perfection as nature gets, or, if scowls bar platitude, notes for which there is no rejection in banks whose coinage—oh, neat!—is gratitude.”
Said, in the darkness, another enchanter:
“But far from their choiring the high King sat, in a gold-faced vest and a gold-laced hat, counting heaped monies, and dreaming of more francs and sequins and Louis d’or. Meanwhile the Queen on that fateful night, though avowing her lack of all appetite, was still at table, where, rumor said, she was smearing her seventh slice of bread (thus each turgescible
