“I wonder—?” said she.
She lighted four wax candles and set them before a mirror that was in the room. Mélite stood among them and looked into the mirror. She seemed very tall and very slender, and her loosened hair hung heavily about her beautiful shallow face and fell like a cloak around her black-robed body, showing against the black gown like melting gold; and about her were the tall, white candles tipped with still flames of gold. Mélite laughed—her laughter was high and delicate, with the resonance of thin glass—and raised her arms above her, head, stretching tensely like a cat before a fire, and laughed yet again.
“After all,” said she, “I do not wonder.”
Mélite sat before the mirror, and braided her hair, and sang to herself in a sweet, low voice, brooding with unfathomable eyes upon her image in the glass, while the October rain beat about Puysange, and Adhelmar rode forth to save Hugues that must else be hanged.
Sang Mélite:
“Rustling leaves of the willow-tree
Peering downward at you and me,
And no man else in the world to see,“Only the birds, whose dusty coats
Show dark in the green—whose throbbing throats
Turn joy to music and love to notes.“Lean your body against the tree,
Lifting your red lips up to me,
Mélite, and kiss, with no man to see!“And let us laugh for a little:—Yea,
Let love and laughter herald the day
When laughter and love will be put away.“Then you will remember the willow-tree
And this very hour, and remember me,
Mélite—whose face you will no more see!“So swift, so swift the glad time goes,
And Eld and Death with their countless woes
Draw near, and the end thereof no man knows,“Lean your body against the tree,
Lifting your red lips up to me,
Mélite, and kiss, with no man to see!”
Mélite smiled as she sang; for this was a song that Adhelmar had made for her upon a May morning at Nointel, before he was a knight, when both were very young. So now she smiled to remember the making of the verses which she sang while the October rain was beating about Puysange.
V
Night-Work
It was not long before they came upon d’Andreghen and his men camped about a great oak, with One-eyed Peire a-swing over their heads for a lamentable banner. A shrill sentinel, somewhere in the dark, demanded the newcomers’ business, but without receiving any adequate answer, for at that moment Adhelmar gave the word to charge.
Then it was as if all the devils in Pandemonium had chosen Normandy for their playground; and what took place in the night no man saw for the darkness, so that I cannot tell you of it. Let it suffice that Adhelmar rode away before d’Andreghen had rubbed sleep well out of his eyes; and with Adhelmar were Hugues d’Arques and some half of Adhelmar’s men. The rest were dead, and Adhelmar was badly hurt, for he had burst open his old wound and it was bleeding under his armor. Of this he said nothing.
“Hugues,” said he, “do you and these fellows ride to the coast; thence take ship for England.”
He would have none of Hugues’ thanks; instead, he turned and left Hugues to whimper out his gratitude to the skies, which spat a warm, gusty rain at him. Adhelmar rode again to Puysange, and as he went he sang.
Sang Adhelmar:
“D’Andreghen in Normandy
Went forth to slay mine enemy;
But as he went
Lord God for me wrought marvellously;“Wherefore, I may call and cry
That am now about to die,
‘I am content!’“Domine! Domine!
Gratias accipe!
Et meum animum
Recipe in coelum!”
VI
They Kiss at Parting
When he had come to Puysange, Adhelmar climbed the stairs of the White Turret—slowly, for he was growing very feeble now—and so came again to Mélite crouching among the burned-out candles in the slate-colored twilight which heralded dawn.
“He is safe,” said Adhelmar. He told Mélite how Hugues was rescued and shipped to England, and how, if she would, she might straightway follow him in a fishing-boat. “For there is likely to be ugly work at Puysange,” Adhelmar said, “when the marshal comes. And he will come.”
“But what will you do now, my cousin?” asked Mélite.
“Holy Ouen!” said Adhelmar; “since I needs must die, I will die in France, not in the cold land of England.”
“Die!” cried Mélite. “Are you hurt so sorely, then?”
He grinned like a death’s-head. “My injuries are not incurable,” said he, “yet must I die very quickly, for all that. The English King will hang me if I go thither, as he has sworn to do these eight years, because of that matter of Almerigo di Pavia: and if I stay in France, I must hang because of this night’s work.”
Mélite wept. “O God! O God!” she quavered, two or three times, like one hurt in the throat. “And you have done this for me! Is there no way to save you, Adhelmar?” she pleaded, with wide, frightened eyes that were like a child’s.
“None,” said Adhelmar. He took both her hands in his, very tenderly. “Ah, my sweet,” said he, “must I, whose grave is already digged, waste breath upon this idle talk of kingdoms and the squabbling men who rule them? I have but a brief while to live, and I wish to forget that there is aught else in the world save you, and that I love you. Do not weep, Mélite! In a little time you will forget me and be happy with this Hugues whom you love; and I?—ah, my sweet, I think that even in my grave I shall dream of you and of your great beauty and of the
