Then, after a moment’s consideration of this tall gray stranger, Niafer also looked graver and older. Niafer asked for a mirror: and Manuel had none.
“Now but certainly I must know at once just how faithfully you have remembered me,” says Niafer.
He led the way into the naked and desolate November forest, and they came to the steel-colored Wolflake hard by the gray hut: and Niafer found she was limping, for Manuel had not got her legs quite right, so that for the rest of her second life she was lame. Then Niafer gazed for a minute, or it might be for two minutes, at her reflection in the deep cold waters of the Wolflake.
“Is this as near as you have come to remembering me, my dearest!” she said, dejectedly, as she looked down at Manuel’s notion of her face. For the appearance which Niafer now wore she found to be very little like that which Niafer remembered as having been hers, in days wherein she had been tolerably familiar with the Lady Gisèle’s mirrors; and it was a grief to Niafer to see how utterly the dearest dead go out of mind in no long while.
“I have forgotten not one line or curve of your features,” says Manuel, stoutly, “in all these months, nor in any of these last days that have passed as years. And when my love spurred me to make your image, Niafer, my love loaned me unwonted cunning. Even by ordinary, they tell me, I have some skill at making images: and while not for a moment would I seem to boast of that skill, and not for worlds would I annoy you by repeating any of the complimentary things which have been said about my images—by persons somewhat more appreciative, my dear, of the toil and care that goes to work of this sort—I certainly think that in this instance nobody has fair reason to complain.”
She looked at his face now: and she noted what the month of living with Béda, with whom a day is as a year, had done to the boy’s face which she remembered. Count Manuel’s face was of remodeled stuff: youth had gone out of it, and the month of years had etched wrinkles in it, success had hardened and caution had pinched and self-complacency had kissed it. And Niafer sighed again, as they sat reunited under leafless trees by the steel-colored Wolflake.
“There is no circumventing time and death, then, after all,” said Niafer, “for neither of us is now the person that ascended Vraidex. No matter: I love you, Manuel, and I am content with what remains of you: and if the body you have given me is to your will it is to my will.”
But now three rascally tall ragged fellows, each blind in one eye, and each having a thin peaked beard, came into the opening before the gray hut, trampling the dead leaves there as they shouted for Mimir. “Come out!” they cried: “come out, you miserable Mirmir, and face those three whom you have wronged!”
Dom Manuel rose from the bank of the Wolflake, and went toward the shouters. “There is no Mimir,” he told them, “in Dun Vlechlan, or not at least in this peculiarly irrational part of the forest.”
“You lie,” they said, “for even though you have hitched a body to your head we recognize you.” They looked at Niafer, and all three laughed cruelly. “Was it for this hunched, draggled, mud-faced wench that you left us, you squinting old villain? And have you so soon forgotten the vintner’s parlor at Neogréant, and what you did with the gold plates?”
“No, I have not forgotten these things, for I never knew anything about them,” said Manuel.
Said one of the knaves, twirling fiercely his moustachios: “Hah, shameless Mimir, do you look at me, who have known you and your blind son Oriander, too, to be unblushing knaves for these nine centuries! Now, I suppose, you will be denying the affair of the squirrel also?”
“Oh, be off with your nonsense!” says Manuel, “for I have not yet had twenty-two years of living, and I never saw you before, and I hope never to see you again.”
But they all set upon him with cutlasses, so there was nothing remaining save to have out his sword and fight. And when each of these one-eyed persons had vanished curiously under his death-wound, Manuel told Niafer it was a comfort to find that the month of years had left him a fair swordsman for all that his youth was gone; and that he thought they had better be leaving this part of the high woods of Dun Vlechlan, wherein unaccountable things took place, and all persons behaved unreasonably.
“Were these wood-spirits unreasonable,” asks Niafer, “in saying that the countenance and the body you have given me are ugly?”
“My dear,” replied Manuel, “it was their saying that which made me try to avoid the conflict, because it does not look well, not even in dealing with demons, to injure the insane.”
“Manuel, and can it be you who are considering appearances?”
Dom Manuel said gravely: “My dealings with Misery and with Misery’s kindred have taught me many things which I shall never forget nor very willingly talk about. One of these teachings, though, is that in most affairs there is a middle road on which there is little traffic and comparatively easy going. I must tell you that the company I have been in required a great deal of humoring, for of course it is not safe to trifle with any evil principle. No, no, one need not absolutely and openly defy convention,
