Passe Rose

XVII.

IT was the harvest month, and the leaves were beginning to strew the windy lanes of the wood. All the day long the hillsides resounded with the baying of hounds, baffled by the water of the marsh where the boar had fled. One could hear the heavy flight of the heron scared from its haunt, and the quick beat of the wild duck’s wings skimming the surface of the pond. The quail, listening with head erect, ran through the thick reeds as the tumult drew near. But their fear was vain; it was not these the hunter sought. Twice the long, monotonous bay of the pack changed to the sharp, quick cry whose meaning the hunter knows so well, — when the trail grows fresh, and more than water to the dripping tongue is the sight of its prey to the eager hound. Twice those foremost in the chase found a spot where the trampled grass was matted with blood and torn from the mould by the struggling feet, — where the flags were pressed into the moist earth, and the boar on its haunches had waited its pursuers ; and here, — ah, poor Brochart, the leader of the pack, slit from breast to flank by the tusk. What, thou canst still lick the hand ? Brave dog! And here another has crawled into the thicket, leaving a red track. Is it thou, Biche, thy mistress’s favorite ? Seigneur, what a struggle was here ! The dog moans pitifully, feeling the hand’s caress. But hark ! the beast is at bay again. The hand strokes the ears gently once more, then lifts the horn to the lips, and the dog is left alone to die.

At last, for the third time, the boar turned. It was at the very spot where, startled from its sleep, it had first heard the distant cry of the pack, and, rising on its forefeet from the moss, had crashed through the reeds bordering the swamp. Hound and hunter were scattered now. The race had been hot, and there were dogs in the wood that never would answer cry again. Its bristles erect on its neck, its small eyes twinkling with rage, blood and foam dripping from its yellow tusks, the boar waited on its haunches. A hound, springing out of the thicket, leaped upon one of these tusks, to receive its death-wound before the cry on its tongue was finished. Its fellow, following close behind, stood at a little distance, howling piteously, its flanks smeared with blood. At the sound of its master breaking through the flags, it began to run to and fro, yelping furiously. The boar paid it no heed, watching the place whence came the sound of breaking stems ; there was the enemy to be feared, — Gui of Tours.

Gui stopped at the edge of the opening to get his breath. His horse had been long since abandoned ; his spear was lost; he had a wooden javelin shod with iron in his hand, and a knife in his belt; the broken cord of his horn hung from its ring. For a moment man and beast confronted each other. Cowed by the silence, the dog began to whine. The boar was still unhurt, though lacerated by the dogs’ teeth. It was an old one, as could be seen by the curved tusks. Gui drew his knife and looked into its eyes. He would have risked death a thousand times to find Passe Rose, but why should he risk life to slay a boar ? When the blood is up one does not think of such things. He wiped the perspiration from his eyes, planted his feet firmly, drew back his arm, and launched his weapon.

A heavy weight had crushed him to the earth. He struck out blindly with his knife : it was in his right hand ; how had he changed it ? His hip burned as with fire : was it the tusk or the hoof ? he wondered. Ah, he had struck the dog! A warm stream ran down his arm, then a shower of sparks danced before his eyes, and the weight on his chest grew heavier. He made an effort with both hands to cast it off; there was nothing there, yet it grew heavier. Was he bound ? He endeavored to cry out. What had he said in that moment of involuntary terror, when the fear, not of death, but of ceasing to think, to feel, to love, seized him ? Passe Rose !

The sun was already low, a cold fog was beginning to rise from the marshes, and the queen had resolved to return to the hunting-seat of Frankenburg to await the king. The day had not passed as had been planned. Everything had been arranged as for a battle ; actor and spectator had each been assigned his post and duty. But the ambuscades had failed ; the would-be actor had heard the noise of the pursuit drift away, and the spectator had found himself in the thick of the fray without warning ; twice the cortége of the queen had been scattered ; the battle had become a mêlée. Followed by a numerous train, the queen advanced slowly through the wood. Where was the king? God only knew. From far away came the cry of baffled dogs, a solitary shout, the echo of a horn. The queen rode in silence, surrounded by her escort ; from time to time she turned her head to listen, or to address some question to those at her side. In advance went the royal equerries, alert, their javelins in their hands. With such a beast it was necessary to be cautious, even though the vine-clad tower of Frankenburg was in sight. The waters of the lake shone through the trees like an amethyst ; it was said that these colors were due to the fires of Fastrade’s magic ring, hidden in its depths. Behind the queen, among the king’s daughters, there were laughter and whispering. All were there, — Rothrude, Bertrade, and the timid Gisèle, their robes double-dyed with purple and sewn with flowers of gold ; and last of all, Rothaïde, the eldest, grave and stately between the young children of Fastrade. In proportion as the distance from the queen increased, the laughter was more merry and the conversation less restrained. They re counted the day’s adventures, conjectured its issue, and discussed what should have been done.

“ Do they chase the boar with thee? ” cried Gesualda to Rothilde, leaning back on her horse.

“ If I had had a net, when the beast halted, perceiving us, and the dogs were upon him " — a page was saying.

“ Thou wouldst have attacked it single-handed,” laughed Heluiz of Hesbaye, patting the blonde head at her stirrup.

“ Ho, there ! ” cried the page to a grayhound, which, leaving the boy’s heel, sniffed in the bushes.

“ It, is a hare,” said Rothilde.

“ Ho ! ” cried the page, tugging at the thong and raising his whip. The dog, straining at the collar, tore the strap from the boy’s hand. " By the King of Heaven ! ” exclaimed the latter, disappearing after the hound in the thicket.

“ He hath the king’s oath by heart,” laughed Heluiz of Hesbaye.

A furious barking, succeeded by a shout, came from the copse. At the sound of this cry Heluiz’s laughter ceased. Two men-at-arms ran into the bush, followed by Gesualda and Rothilde. " What is it ? ” cried those in advance. " A dog hath started a hare,”said one. But a sort of terror spread through the troop. Some ran back ; others waited, listening. Beyond, among the king’s daughters, they turned their heads, asking what had happened. Her heart beating, Heluiz urged her horse in the direction whence the cry had come. At a little distance the copse grew thin : there was an opening, and a crowd about something in its centre. “Water, — run to the lake ! ” cried a voice from its midst.

Heluiz slipped from her horse, and ran forward. Stretched on the ground were a man and a dog. " Agnes ! Agnes ! ” she cried involuntarily. The man’s body was straight, the hands by the side ; but the dog, lying on its back, seemed still defending itself, its mouth full of hair and bristles, and a dagger buried to the hilt in its neck.

“ Ho, here ! the boar! the boar !" cried one from the edge of the opening. Those on the skirts of the group ran to see.

Heluiz pressed forward to where Gui lay. “ Is he dead ?”

“ Nay, a scratch,” said the page, unfastening the tunic, and wishing it were he who was thus watched by such eyes and lifted by such hands. For Heluiz. had taken Gui’s head in her lap.

She tore the wet moss from its roots to lay it on his brow ; it was wet indeed, but with blood. “ Loosen the belt.” she said to the page.

As he obeyed, Rothilde, leaning over the captain, uttered a cry of terror. Between the leather pleatings, next his heart, she saw the sealed packet of papers she had given the monk at Immaburg for the prior. They were those which Passe Rose had gotten from Brother Dominic, together with that other she had found in the road by the abbey, the night of her last visit to Friedgis. They had fallen from her bosom when the captain bore her in his arms from the chapel at Immaburg to the wagon, and he had thrust them in his tunic, where they had remained to this day. Rothilde, paler than Gui, reached forth her hand to take them, when a rough arm pushed her aside, and a voice of command said, —

“ Away with these women ! Mere, you fellows, think ye a dead boar will run away ? Make a litter of lances and boughs.” And the speaker lifted Gui in his vigorous arms.

On every side they were discussing, questioning. Each related how the affair had taken place. Gui must have closed with the boar knife in hand. There were six thrusts behind the shoulder within the space of two palms, from below upward, — therefore the beast was above ; the dog had leaped on its back, and received the knife by hazard.

' I would I had been there,” said the page.

Rothilde was not listening. She wished to follow the litter, but dared not. At the sight of the papers, a multitude of pictures, hitherto distinct in her mind, blended into one : Passe Rose wearing her collar in the supperroom at Immaburg, with Friedgis’ name on her lips ; her whisperings with the monk at the chapel porch; and Gui’s defense of her on the terrace and at supper. ” Cursed girl! ” she muttered, following at a little distance her companions.

Heluiz thought only of Agnes, who, vexed with her lover, had refused to join in the chase. “ In the morning one pouts, and at night sheds bitter tears,”Heluiz said to herself. “ My heart bleeds for her,” she whispered to Gesualda, as they left the place together.

“ Nay,” answered Gesualda, knowing well of whom Heluiz spoke, “the wound is not deep ; only when blood is lost ” —

“ I would some one told her gently.” interrupted Heluiz.

Rothilde, walking behind the two, stooped suddenly to the page’s ear. “ Wilt thou ride with me to Aix tonight ? ”

Aye, truly, mistress,” said the boy wonderingly.

“ Run, then, quickly to the queen, and say that I have gone to soften the tidings to Agnes of Solier. Here, take my horse ; I will find another.”

The night was near when the two left the wood. On reaching the road Rothilde gave her horse the rein.

“ Hold firm,” she said. The boy laughed scornfully to think a woman should so address him, and drove his horse to her side. But the girl was mounted on a long limbed mare she had gotten from one of the escort, while he had but her palfrey ; and stride by stride, to his rage and mortification, she drew away, till naught but a cloud of dust was before him, and a distant beat of hoofs borne backward by the wind.

Fleet as her own shadow, leaping from stone to hedge, and from hedge to meadow, leaped the girl’s thought from conjecture to plan. She was ignorant of the contents of the papers. A clerk from Beneventum — one of those sent by the Pope to teach the plain chant — had given them to her at Immaburg for the prior, and the latter had bidden her send such by the hand of Brother Dominic. “Cursed monk!" she repeated under her breath, as the lights of Aix came in view. The strings of the net had been in her grasp, the life of the king in her hand, wherewith to buy of his gratitude her heart’s desires. A few days more— and now, perhaps, the sword and the cord. She did not fear them, but to lose her soul’s desires. And with her rage mingled a fierce indignation, — the indignation of a virtue balked. For was she not purposing to save the king’s life ? — and this lovesick monk would ruin all. The distance was scarce two thousand paces, but the steed breathed hard and hung its head as the girl drew up before the abbot of Fontenelle’s. Sliding from her seat, she patted the warm neck, bidding the mare stand, and went boldly in the gate. Her mind was made up. She would know the contents of the papers ; and if it proved as she feared, she would go that very night to Frankenburg and tell the king. By the fountain on the side of the stables men were watering horses, and among them she saw with joy the prior’s asses. Raising one hand to her lips, she uttered a low, peculiar cry. Instantly one of the men turned and ran towards her. It was Friedgis.

“ Hush! ” she whispered, laying hold of his hand. “ Is thy master, the prior, within ? ”

Seeing her white face, he nodded, speechless.

“Go to him and say, ‘To-night, this very hour, at the ford of the Wurm, without fail.’ Repeat the words after me.” He repeated them. " Aye, without fail. And do thou,” —she pressed his hand and drew nearer to him, — " do thou take the horse thou wilt find without, and wait for me at the west gate, the gate by which thou camest.” She raised herself on her feet till her lips touched his. ” Go,” she said.

She stroked the mare’s neck again as she passed in the street, hurrying to the palace on foot. The square was crowded with those waiting to see the king’s return. She threaded the throng as a young quail threads the rye, slipped between the pillars under the gallery, and ran up the stairs. At the threshold of Agnes’ room she hesitated. It was not for this she had come, and words failed her. Agnes was sitting before her toilet-table, preparing for the supper awaiting the king’s return. She would not ride that day with her lover to the chase, but she was making ready, nevertheless, for his coming, and was looking at herself in the metal disk when she saw there the face of Rothilde. She turned, penetrated with a sudden fear.

“ He is not much hurt,” stammered Rothilde.

“ Who? ” said Agnes, striving to conceal her own wound, but seeing the walls reel.

“ A mere scratch,” said Rothilde, remembering what some one had said in the wood. Then she saw Agnes put out her hands and totter. She sprang to the table for the cruet, and there beside the flask of rose-water lay her pearls ! For a moment she stood aghast; then, grasping them in her hand, ran out, calling aid. “ Thy mistress is ill,” she said to the women who answered her cry. “ Gui of Tours is hurt by the boar. Go to her; and you, Marcent, run for the king’s leech,” saying which, she disappeared down the stair.

In the court the page was dismounting from her palfrey. She laughed at his rueful face.

“ Give me thy knee,” she said.

“ Where art thou going ? ” he asked, aiding her to the saddle.

“ To meet the queen.”

“Another time, mistress.” said the boy, clenching his fist, “ I will ride with thee ” —

She laughed over her shoulder as she went out of the gate, and put the palfrey to a gallop on the road to Immaburg.

XVIII.

On leaping from the wagon at the edge of the ford, Passe Rose fell ; but, springing quickly to her feet, ran with all her speed, giving no backward glance till she came to the waters. Every eddy and muddy cloud which the wheels had made was gone, and the stars shone placid in the smooth-flowing current; but so deep were they set, and so forbidding was the stream, that for all her haste she turned along the bank, still running, nor stopped for breath till the wood had hidden the distant glare of the torches. The moon was behind the trees, but she saw by the narrow lane of stars overhead that another road branched from the ford, and this she took without debate; now running, now walking, and so pressed by the fear of pursuit that all her thought was fixed on the sounds she could scarce separate from her own flying footsteps. Suddenly the star-track above widened, and a dark mass, distinguishable only by reason of its denser blackness, detached itself from the gloom of the forest. She stopped, spent and terrified, when a low, familiar sound of cooing doves, crowding each other on their perch, came as it were from the tree-tops. Reassured, she advanced step by step till the thatch of a roof stood out against the sky-line; then stopped again, listening. Heated by her long run, the night air made her shiver. As she debated whether to seek shelter in this hut, thinking how those within might receive her, and whether, if any pursued, to tarry here were not certain discovery, a distant shout caused her to start forward again ; but being out of the road she stumbled and fell, and on regaining her feet found her passage blocked by a low out-building. Her outstretched hand touched the door-post; an odor of trodden hay and steaming bodies came from within. Stooping to avoid the thatch, she stepped over the threshold, groping in the darkness. It was the sheepfold. " So, so,” she said softly, for the sheep, huddled together, began to press toward the opening. " So, so,” she repeated. But the flock crowded the more, and knowing well that to argue or threaten were folly, she dropped on the floor among them. The space was small, and they pressed about her, she lying still, as if one of them, till their alarm had subsided. One had its nose against her neck, and the murmur of its breathing filled her ear. She lifted her head and listened, — without, also, all was still ; then she rested her cheek on the soft shoulder next her, her face deep in the fleece, the smell of the wool in her nostrils, the hot breath on her throat. The warmth and shelter of the place filled her with a sense of safety and comfort, and, no longer shivering, she closed her eyes.

It is strange that the mind, having such power to torture us, should be so readily set aside by a little bodily discomfort. The scratch of a pin or an aching nerve is enough to make it loose its hold ; the lesser pain routs the greater, and thought and feeling must wait till the body hath ease again. But no sooner did Passe Rose close her eyes in warmth and safety than thick-coming thoughts forced them open; and there they stared in the dark, as if the fold were lighted by a thousand candles, and her mind’s pictures painted on its clay walls. Little the sheep knew what splendors and miseries of love and passion God and the Devil there showed her; and it would have puzzled the abbot, or even Alcuin, the king’s chief scholar, to separate on the right hand and on the left the motives which kept her to her first resolve. Mixed with the clay and dross as they were, they filled the secret deeps of her heart with a sweet satisfaction, like the calm below a windtossed ocean. Often she was ready to rise up and go to claim her own. Was it not hers by right ? What if she should possess it for but a moment, — that moment of possession in the eyes of them all, of Agnes? O Mother of God! Was this not hers in justice ? Why should she hide like a felon in a sheep-pen while another laughed in the sun? Her blood boiled, and, lying the while motionless among the sheep, she braved, in thought, the guards at the king’s gate, and stood before them all. Jewels and dresses were not her quest, but he, her lover. The king would frown, the women stare, and Agnes of Solier, — there she stood, insolent, as in the supper-hall of Immaburg. What mattered it ? She would put her hand in her lover’s : its grasp was like iron ; it was hers, and none other’s. If the king smote her—nay, let God himself smite her, — the greater the despoiler, the greater the wrong. He was hers by right. The world might grind her to dust — what mattered it ? — and him also — ah, no ! And like the river, the rush of whose waters the rock, midstream, hurls back and scatters, her thought recoiled, and she began to tremble. Why throw away everything just to lie on his breast ? She could wait, oh, for ages ; and a vision of some faraway place rose before her. When ? Where ? She did not ask, but some time, somewhere, — God would not permit it to be otherwise, — her lover would come. She saw him afar, — at every step she quivered ; now he was come, and stood above her; his touch made her cry out; then she lay still in his arms, trembling. Cramped between the sheep, she slid down lower, at full length. Her foot pained her. She must have hurt it when she leaped. What had he thought when he looked in the wagon and found her gone ? By this time they must have reached the city. Would he turn back to find her? If he came, she would lie still ; and if he found her. that would be a sign that God would have it so. She would arise ; they would go forth together ; and a sudden childish memory of a blue sea shimmering in the sunlight passed before her eyes. She recollected the Greek jeweler whom she had met when she was with the merchants. He had told her of isles in a sea where no rain fell. Bah, how she loathed him and his jewels ! “Oh, my Gui, my Gui!” she whispered. Her thought grew more confused. The murmur of the breathing sheep sounded louder. Now it was the oft-heard roar of the river next the wall at Maestricht, of the leaves in the wood of Hesbaye, and now the lapping of the blue sea waves on isles where no rain falls. Her eyes struggled to open. It was true! Nightingales were, indeed, singing in the myrtles, and she had thought herself pursued and hiding in a sheep-pen ! She opened her eyes wide now. The ugly dream was over. Her lover bent over her; above his head was the sky. “ Oh, my Gui, my Gui ! ” she murmured, and so fell asleep.

It was fortunate for Passe Rose that the master of the grange was with Pepin in the marshes of the Theiss, for his soul was small with the greed of gain ; and another mouth to fill, though it were that of the babe that came the last Easter night, made him cry out against God’s injustice. But the wife was tender of every living thing, even to the hare which fled from the kite to her door. The children had found the girl still asleep in the gray of the dawn, and had brought her within, gaping with wonder at her strange dress, the tinkling bells, and the anklets about her feet. “ Give me only shelter from the wolves,” had said Passe Rose, “ till my foot is at ease,” — for she limped with pain, — “and I will gather thy fagots and grind thy wheat.”

“Whence art thou ?” asked the woman, astonished at her beauty.

“ I am from the south,” said Passe Rose; and seeing the woman observing her hair, “ In my country a girl may braid her hair, if she will.”

“ Hast thou no kin ? ”

“ Aye,” said Passe Rose, thinking how Agnes of Solier had asked her the same question at Immaburg. “ I have a mother who loves me well.”

“ Poor soul,” replied the woman, “ thy foot is bruised.”

“ Give me the babe while thou stirrest the stew,” said Passe Rose. The woman hesitated. Her babe was christened, yet if by chance the girl were a witch — “I will guard the pot myself,” laughed Passe Rose.

If the mother feared, as well she might, her doubts scarce lived till night. Never in the prime of her strength, before her children taxed her care, had she accomplished what Passe Rose did that day; and when they were all together in bed Passe Rose had the babe in her arms, while the wife was planning what she should say to her husband that he should grant the girl to stay; for, if by God’s grace the Huns had not slain him, he must now be well on his way home.

Within a week’s time Passe Rose was no more to be spared than the thumb of one’s hand. She drew the water from the spring which ran into the Wurm, and made a cape of lamb’s wool for the boy who watched the sheep in the meadow below the spring; she ground the corn and gathered the wood, and put such savor into the pot that to smell the steam was to long for what was within. Her foot was wellnigh healed, though she spared it not, and the goodwife feared each day to see her go.

“ How happens it,” she asked, “ that thou leavest thy mother, if she loves thee well ? ”

“ Never fear,” replied Passe Rose, whose hand was on the mill; “ it is as I say.”

Then once again : “Is thy father in the expedition with the king’s son? ”

“ I have no father,” said Passe Rose, winding the yarn.

At another time : “ Is thy mother far ? Perchance thou returnest where she is ? ”

“ Between them that love there is no space,” said Passe Rose.

So the woman bridled her tongue, lest her questions should drive the girl away.

Behind the house a path led to the spring, for all the world like the fay’s pool in the wood of Hesbaye. Overrunning the hollow whence it flowed, it slid between the stones to the river just below the ford, and where it left the stones for the rushes stood a black tower which the Romans had built before the ford shifted its place. Its stones were still firm, and a stairway led to the top, whence one could see the river up and down, and a glint from its surface across the meadow beyond the bend till the wood barred the view. The woman of the grange, indeed, had no desire to climb its stair, for the walls of her hut, or at most the circling forest, bounded her world, and little she cared to see what was beyond. Her husband would come soon enough without spying him out from afar. Moreover, the tower was of heathen construction, and the children were warned against looking even in its door, for fear of some evil imp that might dwell within. But all the thoughts of Passe Rose were of that beyond the wood horizon, and it eased her heart to stand on the tower’s top and follow the river’s flow as far as she could see.

Having filled, one evening, her jar at the pool, she followed the rill to the stream, and entered the door, dark as a wolf’s mouth; for the arch was low, and, because of the winding stair, no light came from above. The sun was behind the trees, shooting beams of red light, like the fingers of a mighty hand, through the openings, and a thin mist lay on the water beneath. As she looked a company of travelers came to the ford, and halted on the farther side. Presently one pricked his horse forward into the Wurm and passed over, but the second, a monk, following after on his mule, got no farther than mid-stream; for there the beast stopped, and neither blows nor coaxings would prevail upon it to advance or retreat. The robe of its rider trailed in the water, the current foamed about its legs, when a third person strode into the stream, and lifting the monk in his arms bore him safely over. Passe Rose, watching this scene, sprang suddenly to her feet. If the arms which grasped so fat a monk thus easily were not those which had borne her from the press at the exposure of the relics, then her eyes deceived her. Descending the stairs in leaps, she ran along the bank, and reached the ford in time to see Friedgis wading the river with the beasts of burden, the monk of Immaburg mounting his mule, and the prior of St. Servais chafing at the delay. Then the three resumed their journey. Passe Rose waited till they had gone, then stole from her hiding-place. There they were, on the road to Aix, already indistinct in the shadows, and now beyond sight and hearing. An overwhelming desire to follow them seized her. She walked slowly along the road, under the mastery of a presentiment she could not resist. Why try to? What had she to do with those behind, — with the water-jar at the pool? Her business was with these, at the end of that road stretching before her. It were better to go on; nay, she must. The very certainty of it was a satisfaction. She stopped suddenly, and ran back with all her speed. The time was not yet come. Some day she should follow that road to its end. When that time came it would be in vain to resist. “ Yes, certainly, it will come,” she said, lifting the jar to her shoulder.

After this encounter an uneasy feeling harassed her. Death itself was not so certain as this something near at hand. The sense of it made her heart stand still and the spindle drop from her fingers ; it struck her like a chill in the middle of the night, in broad day. " Oh, my Gui ! ” she repeated under her breath, terrified. Yet never once did she imagine that her lover had forgotten her. There were times when she was happier than she had ever been before. The bitterness with which she had thrown down the holy image in her chamber and cursed the altar in the chapel of Immaburg had left her ; sometimes it seemed as if God were in her heart. She went now often to the ford, to gaze at that road she was one day so sure to follow. She stopped midway in the wood-path, as often, too, she started from her sleep. Did any one call her? No, the time was not yet come.

One day she sat in the doorway combing the washed wool. Behind her the woman of the house was hanging the rovings on a stick suspended at either end from the rafters. The odor of the fleece filled the room, so that Passe Rose had seated herself where the air was fresh. The woman was talking of the approaching fête at Aix. " Of what use to us are all these treasures,” she was saying, “ since they serve only to increase the price of everything? It were better to leave them to the Huns. More than a thousand horses, they say, were left down there in the marshes. My husband was forced to furnish one, a fine colt that is now doubtless food for vultures, and he will come back emptyhanded, for this treasure is not for us. They will make pictures of little stones in the church the king is building. Hast thou seen these pictures ? I saw one in the church of St. Marcellus. The mantle of the martyr is of little stones, of gold and silver and red garnet. But what avails it to shed blood for treasures if a silver sou is worth no more than twenty deniers ? Let us keep our husbands and our horses, and leave the Huns their gold.”

In my country they have many such pictures,” said Passe Rose, with an air of superiority.

“ And all the young girls in thy country wear collars of gold,” rejoined the woman, vexed.

“ Nay,” said Passe Rose, the color mounting to her cheeks. “The collar is not mine own. But if thou wilt, thou mayst have my anklet,” unfastening it as she spoke, and offering it to the woman ; for in divesting herself of all Werdric had given her, she had forgotten her anklets. “ It is of beaten gold ; my father gave it me.”

“ If thy father gave it thee,” said the latter, ashamed, but weighing it in her hand, “it were certainly dear to thee.”

“Thou mayst have it and welcome,” replied Passe Rose.

“Nay,”said the woman, giving it back ; “ if thou lovest it ” —

“I love it not,” said Passe Rose.

The woman looked at her curiously. The anklet shone in the wool where she had placed it. “ If thou wilt not wear it, I will put it in my chest; the daws are such thieves,”she said, opening the lid. “ The key is at my girdle, and thou mayst have it when thou wilt.”

Passe Rose made no reply. The daws peeped from the rabbit-burrows in the hedge, their gray ear-coverts and black plumage shining in the sun. The comb flashed back and forth in the white wool. Suddenly it fell from Passe Rose’s hand to the floor, and she rose to her feet with a suppressed cry. Over the hedge, far down the road, the form of a woman appeared. Passe Rose stood still, only trembling, the wool about her feet. A fire seemed burning in her breast. She walked slowly down the slope to the hedge; then she began to run, her eyes fixed on the short, thick figure advancing with the uncertain gait she knew so well. As she approached, the woman stopped, gazing at her suspiciously. Passe Rose ceased running and began to walk again ; then stopped, also. The fire in her breast had become like ice. It was Jeanne, — yet it was not Jeanne. The latter still eyed her uneasily. Passe Rose advanced a step ; she endeavored to speak, but could not.

“Hail, little dove,” said Jeanne timidly.

At the sound of this voice Passe Rose trembled again. One would say these two feared each other. “Mother, — little mother,” whispered Passe Rose.

A momentary gleam of recollection flashed in Jeanne’s sunken eyes.

“ Hush ! ” she said, glancing nervously about her; “ I am no mother. If I were a mother, I should find my child, —my bowels yearn for her; but being no mother. I cannot see where she is. She was of thy height. They say that if a string be stretched before the door at nightfall — I have the string here in my wallet,” — her fingers fumbled at the pouch, — “ but the door is lost.”

“ Come,” said Passe Rose, drawing her by the hand which still held hers. Some stranger soul which knew her not seemed to tenant this body so familiar and so dear to her. She wished to clasp it against her breast, but dared not. “ Come,” she repeated irresolutely.

“ Willingly. Thou hast a good face,” said Jeanne, looking wistfully into her eyes. “ Is there perchance a little cake in the oven ? ”

Passe Rose did not reply; the words filled her throat. Her mother was hungry.

They walked together side by side, Passe Rose looking straight before her. Jeanne, who had not withdrawn her hand, stole from time to time a timid glance at the girl’s face. It seemed as if the hand lying so passive in that of Passe Rose recognized what the spirit could not; as if the touch of the girl’s fingers awakened sense-impressions to which the mind could not respond, yet which soothed it, producing a feeling of contentment and ease.

“ It is my mother,” said Passe Rose to the woman, who stood in the doorway watching them.

Jeanne’s face shone with pleasure. “ Foolish little one,” she said in a supplicating voice, “ let her think so if she will; it can do no harm.” She hesitated. “ I am no beggar. If ever thou shouldst pass by Maestricht, ask for the goldsmith of St. Servais. I will give thee a little cheese, such as the abbot loves. Four every year I send to the abbot, and six to the king.”

“ Enter,” said Passe Rose. It was more humiliating to her to see Jeanne receiving succor than to have asked for it herself. She drew her to the table, and set before her some wheaten cakes and a cup of goat’s milk, of which Jeanne partook eagerly. In the satisfaction of her hunger she lost all sense of the presence of others, bending over the platter, and munching the dry cakes from which she could not take her eyes. When she had finished, she glanced nervously about the room till she found Passe Rose ; then she smiled.

“ Come,” said Passe Rose, " it is time to rest.”

Forcing her gently to the bed, she made her lie down, and threw over her a coverlet of wool. Jeanne submitted without remonstrance, but kept her eyes fixed upon Passe Rose, who sat down beside her.

“To sleep one must close one’s eyes,” said the latter. Jeanne shut her eyes. Presently she opened them again, and, reaching out her hand, drew Passe Rose’s face to hers.

“ To-morrow we will search — for her — together,” she whispered.

“Aye, to-morrow,” replied Passe Rose.

Satisfied, Jeanne closed her eyes again, holding the girl’s dress fast in her hand. Gradually the tired body asserted its claims; the mouth opened, the lids parted and ceased to tremble, the smile disappeared from the face. Sleep seemed to increase its age and despair. But Passe Rose saw in it only the work of her own hand : she had furrowed those wrinkles and filled them with tears ; she had blanched those cheeks and driven recollection from those eyes. Releasing herself from the hand which still held her, she crossed the room on tiptoe to the woman, who looked in silent wonder.

“ She shall have my place this night in the bed,” said Passe Rose, pointing to Jeanne. “ To-morrow we will go hence.”

“Thy mother is”— The woman tapped her forehead with her finger.

A gleam of anger shone in Passe Rose’s eyes. “ Nay,” she replied, struggling with her tears, “ her heart grieves her.”

“ Be at ease,” said the woman assuringly. “ She shall rest here till my husband comes.”

“ Thou shalt keep the anklet, and I will give thee its mate.”

“ Nay,” remonstrated the woman indignantly, “ that were ” —

“ ’Sh! ” said Passe Rose ; and she went to the bedside and sat down again. She thought no more of the road to Aix. All those forms which had filled her imagination — Gui, Agnes of Solier, the prior, Friedgis, and the rest — had become as dreams. She saw nothing but Jeanne.

All the afternoon Jeanne slept, and Passe Rose sat motionless beside her. Night came, the firelight danced on the smoke-stained rafters, and she had not moved. “ I have brewed for thy mother some wine of mulberry,”whispered the woman. " Do thou hold my babe while I fetch the water from the spring.” Passe Rose started. Her thoughts were far away in the garden at Maestricht. It seemed to her that once within its walls Jeanne would be well again.

“ I will fetch the water, lest the child cry,” she replied, taking the jar and lifting it to her shoulder. The night was soft and clear. As she went down the path she calculated the distance to Maestricht. " If her strength does not fail her, we will go to-morrow,” she said to herself, thinking of Jeanne. She dipped the jar to its brim in the pool. " Tomorrow, to-morrow,” the gurgling water repeated. Would the day be fine ? She set the jar on the moss, ran to the river and up the tower stair. Above the forest the sky glittered with stars. " Tomorrow,” she said, half aloud.

Passe Rose had scarcely crossed the threshold with her jar when Jeanne opened her eyes. She looked straight upward, vacantly, for a moment, then raised herself on her elbow. The woman, seeing her awake, laid her babe on the bed, and brought the wine. " Drink,” she said; “ it will refresh thee. Art thou better?”

Jeanne, sitting on the edge of the bed, took the bowl in both hands and drank. The child, alone on the bed, began to cry. At this cry Jeanne seemed to recollect. " Where is she, — thy daughter ? ” she asked, looking about the room anxiously.

“ She hath gone to the spring for water,” replied the woman. " In a moment she will come.”

Jeanne eyed her suspiciously. The woman took the bowl from her hand ; then, loosening her robe, gave the child her breast. This sight seemed to affect Jeanne profoundly. Her hand wandered over her bosom, and her lips trembled.

“ Lie down; she will come presently.”

Jeanne obeyed, but, only half closing her eyes, watched through the lashes. The child, satisfied, slept in its mother’s arms. The latter rose gently, and laid it on the bed. “ She sleeps again,” thought she, looking at Jeanne. No sooner was her back turned than Jeanne arose softly, stealing to the door.

“ Where art thou going? ” exclaimed the woman, hearing her footsteps, and hastening to intercept her.

“ Stand aside!” cried Jeanne. Her eyes gleamed, and her hands were hooked like a tiger’s claws.

“ Saints of God ! ” gasped the woman, recoiling, terrified. Whether by chance or instinct, Jeanne, spying the path from the door into the wood, followed it without question. " Saints of God ! ” cried the woman as she disappeared.

Passe Rose was issuing from the tower’s arch when she heard the sound of some one coming through the wood, and suddenly Jeanne stood before her. A look so glad greeted her from Jeanne’s eyes that she reached out both her hands. " Mother, my mother ! ” she cried, straining the trembling form to her bosom and searching the eyes passionately. It seemed to her that Jeanne made a mighty effort; she pressed her closer. " O God, a little help for my mother ! ” No. the task was too great. She felt the body in her arms relax, as one who, straining at a burden he may not lift, gives over exhausted, and, burying her face in Jeanne’s neck, she gave way to uncontrollable sobbings.

“ Hush,” said Jeanne, shaken with their violence. " Hush,” she repeated, caressing the girl’s hair and striving to lift her face. " I had just now a dream. Listen while I tell it thee.” She raised the head from her shoulder, and kissed the eyes as she spoke. Passe Rose experienced a strange sensation in contemplating Jeanne’s pale face, its eyes so bright but haggard, its cheeks so sunken ; in feeling herself the object of such pity from a creature so pitiful. “ I dreamed that I returned to my garden in Maestric-ht. I went in by the little door close to the square, and there, under the plum-trees which hug the wall, was my daughter.” Passe Rose began to smile ; that was her dream also. " She rose up to meet me. Come, let us go back. I will show her to thee. She is like thee. When thou seest her, thou wilt love her, also.”

“ Yes, let us go.” murmured Passe Rose.

“ I am strong,” continued Jeanne eagerly, “ if only thou knowest the way ” —

“ I know it. Is there not a little walk in thy garden between the grass and the shallot ? ”

“True,” said Jeanne, listening intently ; “ the grass is on the left hand.”

“ Set with wild-cherry trees, and on the right the plums ” —

“ It is there she sat,” interrupted Jeanne. “ Come. But how knowest thou the place so well ? ”

“Hear me,” said Passe Rose earnestly. “ I will lead thee to the very place. Trust me, for I know it well. But the night is now come, and thou hast need of more rest. See, how thy limbs tremble ! To-morrow " —

Jeanne was troubled. “ Show me the way. since thou knowest it so well.” she said.

“How can I tell it thee? But tomorrow ” —

“Nay, if thou knowest it. surely ” —

“And if I show it thee, wilt thou waittill the morrow ? ” cried Passe Rose.

“ Aye, if thou showest it truly.”

“ Come,” said Passe Rose. She took Jeanne by the hand and led her within the arch. “ Hold fast to my hand — now — there is a stair — so, I will help thee; it is not far. There, dost thou see the river where the stones make the ripple ? The ford is there. Beyond the ford is the road we shall take. Art thou satisfied ? ”

“ Truly,” said Jeanne, following with her eyes Passe Rose’s outstretched finger, “ I believe thee.”

Passe Rose threw her arms about her and drew her close. “ Thou mayst indeed. I know the way well. We will start with the sun. We shall find her. She will rise to greet thee, for she loves thee.”

“ Nay, it is I who loved.”

“ Did not thy daughter love thee ? ” stammered Passe Rose.

“ Aye, but a fay bewitched her.”

“ The spell is broken,” said Passe Rose. " She will love thee, — I swear to thee she will love thee. She will hold thee as I do in her arms ; she will leave thee no more ; the birds will sing in the garden ; we will sit there in the sun, and listen to the chant in the church of St. Sebastian. Dost thou not remember that she loved thee ? Though she said it not, yet she loved thee; when thou findest her again, she will tell thee, — her tongue will he loosed.”

Jeanne, feeling the heart beating next her cheek and the arms fast about her, watching now the eyes, now the stars bending above her. listened in silent delight to the words murmured in her ear. Dim recollections came back like the snatches of familiar songs. As a child lulled to slumber, she sighed from time to time, and when Passe Rose ceased, and stooped to kiss her, she was asleep.

And when the child sleeps on its mother’s breast, does not the mother dream of the stature to which those tiny limbs shall grow, of the deeds they shall do ? Oh, of so many things ! So Passe Rose began to dream, to merge her life in that of the old mother in her arms, returning to all she had cast away, and casting from her all she had yearned to possess.

Look ! a flask of light on the edge of the wood. Along the bank, between the trees and the river, it shines, and vanishes, and shines again. Making a pillow of her cloak, Passe Rose laid Jeanne’s head gently upon it, and stood up, shuddering. The light came nearer. She watched it glimmering under the branches, fascinated. Something told her that the hour had come.

XIX.

As she looked, two forms emerged into the starlight, approaching the tower from the ford. One was slender, with a long robe, whose hood concealed the face ; the other wore a casque rimmed with metal. It was this casque which flashed in the starbeams.

“ This should be the place,” said one, as they passed out of sight under the tower wall. Passe Rose knew the voice well, — the prior of St. Servais. " Look within,” she heard him say.

The answer came up the stair :

“ Bah ! a rat’s hole. But thy maid is not here.”

“ I would I were as sure of the Greek,” rejoined the prior.

“ He will come, he will come,” replied the other.

“ If he left Pavia the same day with thee, he should be here now.”

“ He will not fail, he will not fail,” said the soldier confidently.

“ What vexes me,” pursued the prior, “ is that. I have no message from the duke. He promised to send me tidings by one of the clerks the Pope sent the king. All is ready. Beyond the Elbe a spark will kindle the fire, and once lighted it will spread throughout Saxony. At its signal the Emir will cross the Ebro. Pepin should be here now, and in his absence the Lombards will join the duke. The fleet has set sail for Tarentum, if only thy Greek ” —

“ By Heaven,” retorted the other hotly, “ if he fails, I will take his place myself.”

“ And taste the girl’s knife? " sneered the prior.

His companion laughed. “ Believest thou she will have the courage to strike ? ” he asked.

“ If she but scratch him, it is enough,” said the prior. “ I have a poison for the blade. The plan is simple. Bid the Greek not to strike her till after the king is slain, till he is about to leave her. She must have time to use her own weapon. Though she strike not first, she will defend herself. If thy Greek can kill a king, he can stab a girl in the dark; and if she scratch him not before he is done, then a wildcat hath no use for its claws.”

“ By the gods,” said the soldier, laughing, ” it is well conceived. They will destroy each other. I laugh whenever I think of it. So she hath claws, thy wildcat. Hath she whiskers also on her chin ? ”

“ One would say an angel of God, a toy to play with, her face hath such sweetness in it,” replied the prior.

“ Wait, thou shalt see.” There was a moment of silence, and Passe Rose slid softly to her knees, holding her breath. Reinforced by the echoing walls, every word seemed uttered in her ear. “ I would I knew the reason of her haste,” muttered the prior. “ She said the third night. Hist! some one comes. It is she.”

Passe Rose raised her head softly above the parapet. Two others were approaching along the hank, a woman and a man. She could hear their footsteps in the dry leaves. At the edge of the wood the woman stopped, whispered something to her companion, then advanced alone from under the trees. Passe Rose heard the prior greeting her.

“ Who is with thee ? ” he asked.

“ I will tell thee later. Come within ; the night grows bright.” was the reply. “ Rothilde ! ” said Passe Rose, recognizing the voice of the Saxon who sat beside Agnes of Solier in the supperroom at Immaburg, and whose conversation she had overheard in the wagon at the ford.

At the entrance of the tower, Rothilde, perceiving the soldier, paused, and drew back.

“ A friend,” said the prior; " enter. What brings thee here ? The Greek is not come.”

“ I thought surely it was he,” murmured Rothilde, her eyes fixed upon the prior’s companion.

“ Truly, the face of a saint,” said the soldier to himself.

Impatient, the prior repeated his question. “ Thou saidst the third night,” he whispered.

Rothilde stepped from the door into the shadow, where she could observe the prior’s face. “ Listen,” she said, watching him. “ Gui of Tours was hurt today by the boar in the wood of — Hark ! ” she exclaimed, turning her head.

“ A bat’s wing,” said the prior, listening also.

“ I was there,” she continued. “ His corselet was loosened to give room to breathe, and within were the papers I sent thee by the monk who brought the missal to Immaburg for the queen.”

The soldier uttered an oath.

“Peace,” said the prior; “what papers ? ”

“How should I know ? ” replied the girl, her eyes riveted on the prior’s face, over which a pallor was spreading. “ A clerk from Beneventum gave them to me, and I sent, them by the monk, as thou badst me. Have they to do with the death of the king?” she asked boldly.

The prior sought in vain to find the girl’s eyes in the darkness. “ Nay,” he answered quickly, “ they were of other matters.”

“Thou liest,” thought Rothilde to herself. But she gave a sigh of relief. “ God be praised ! ” she exclaimed. “ I felt the cord at my throat. When I saw them the seal was unbroken. None gave heed to them, — they were seeking the wound ; a moment more and I had them safe in my hand ; but they bore him away, thrusting the women aside. I remembered them well because of the seal ” —

“ Thou gavest them to the monk ? ” interrupted the prior. She saw that his composure was affected.

“ Aye; but after setting out he returned again, — for what purpose I know not. I saw him after supper, with a dancing-girl. Knowest thou one called Passe Rose ? The captain said she was of Maestricht. When I saw the papers in his bosom, I said to myself, ' The girl got them of the monk and gave them to her lover.' She might well bewitch a monk, having first bewitched a captain. Ask Agnes of Solier, who trembles now for her morning-gift. But if the papers matter nothing— God! I shall sleep sweetly to-night; I thought to be strangled in bed.”

The prior laughed nervously. “ Why shouldst thou fear ? The papers do not concern thee. Thy time is not come.”

“Liar!” thought the girl, watching his face. “ I will give thee this night to the king.”

“ Come, let us go,” said Sergius, raising his hood.

Wait! ” whispered Rothilde, laying hold of his arm. “ Thou sayest the papers put us in no jeopardy ; a stone is lifted from my heart. But I said I would tell thee who is with me.”

“ Who is he ? ” asked the prior, with ill-disguised impatience.

“Fool!” thought Rothilde, “thou art in haste.” Then aloud : “ Dost thou remember the footsteps we heard in the chapel, in the church of St. Marcellus?” The prior, turning back, scrutinized her face. “ There was one listening, thy servant, the Saxon serf. I saw his eyes, like a ferret’s. I watched to see whither he would go. He ran before me to the palace, asking for the king. Blessed be God, the king slept, last night at Frankenburg. But this morning the Saxon came again, asking for the queen. The guard refused him entrance, for he would not tell his errand ” —

“ By hell’s demons ! ” exclaimed the soldier ; " hast thou him here ?”

“ For what reason should I bring him ? ” said the girl significantly.

For a moment the three were silent. The soldier, looking at the prior, drew his sword.

“ Go,” said the latter gently.

“ Be not rash; he is brave,” whispered the girl.

“ Tut,” said the other, hiding his weapon within his cloak, “ I will bring thee his tongue on my sword’s point. ”

Peering above the parapet, Passe Rose saw him cross the open space and disappear in the wood. Her thoughts whirled in her head like leaves caught in the wind and carried up to vanish no one knows where. The papers,—those she had got from the monk, and the other found on the road by the abbey pond, — she had missed them indeed, but since that night when her love stood revealed she had thought no more of them than of her collar or anklets. They must have fallen from her bosom when she swooned in the chapel at Immaburg, and her lover had taken them. The death of the king ! Had she then unwittingly brought her lover into peril? A fear overspread her thought and dulled her power to reason. She remembered no more Jeanne, the garden by the square of St. Sebastian. " Gui of Tours was hurt to-day by the boar in the wood,” — these words she repeated to herself over and over, as if not understanding them, seeing all the while Gui stretched before her on the trampled grass, his corselet torn open, and within the papers, more to be feared than the boar’s tusk. Forgetting all else, she rose up, trembling in every limb. Jeanne was still sleeping, her head on the cloak. Below, everything was silent. Rothilde, leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, still held the prior’s arm. Then a horse neighed in the wood ; there was a cry, an oath — and silence again. At this cry Rothilde drew a quick breath and opened her eyes. A pleasure so fierce shone in them that the prior recoiled.

“ What ails thee ? " she said. " Thou desirest the life of a king. I wished only for that of a serf. The blood of a slave for that of a king, — that is not much.” Her voice was insolent with joy, as of one drunk with wine. “ Bring me now thy Greek, and I will show him the way to the king’s bed.”

She-devil! ” muttered the prior to himself.

The girl laughed and let go his arm. Without, the soldier was wiping his blade on the grass.

“ Is it done ? ” she asked.

He held up his sword in the light. She made no reply, and entered the wood alone. The horses neighed as she approached. Near by, a black bulk lay in the reeds. She stopped and listened, advanced a step, then, hurrying forward, stooped, searching with her hand. Aye, it was done. Her course was free. Now for the king! Rising to her feet, she loosed the rein from the branch. The trembling horse snorted with terror. “ Peace, peace,” she whispered, laying her cheek to its nostril, and hugging its neck with her arms. " Now, for the king! ”

“ Said I not the duke had messages for thee ? ” the soldier was saying to Sergius. “ Ask her where this captain is to be found.”

“Nay, it will alarm her,” replied the prior. " She said at Frankenburg.” Notwithstanding Rothilde had come to tell him of the miscarriage of the papers, an involuntary mistrust tormented him. Had Friedgis indeed followed him to the church of St. Marcellus ? It was not probable. Some other motive had prompted a vengeance so swift. How her eyes shone when he cried from the wood! “ She has tricked me,” thought the prior. Like the Roman emperor, he feared his own legionaries. As for the papers, doubtless she was right; the captain had got them from Passe Rose. He recollected the captain ’s inquiry for the goldsmith’s daughter at the abbey, and the presence of the latter with Brother Dominic at Immaburg explained everything. " Cursed monk ! ” he muttered, half aloud.

“Waste no words on him,” said his companion ; “ let us seek the captain. There is yet time. She said the seal was unbroken. A wounded man hath always need of a priest. If he knows the content of the letters, which is not probable, and the boar’s work is not well done — a wound often reopens. If he knows nothing, we will have them by fair means. If he hath given them to others, it is already too late to fly. Come, let us go.”

“ Where is she ? ” asked the prior. His natural energy seemed paralyzed.

“ To the devil with her ; time presses.”

“ Hush! she comes.”

Leading her horse by the bridle-rein, Rothilde advanced from the wood. Above, Passe Rose, standing erect in the full starlight, dared not move,

“ Wilt thou go with us ? ” said Sergius. He appeared unwilling to lose sight of her for an instant, and she read his disquietude in his face.

“With thee! Where is thy wit?" she exclaimed. “What! a priest and a girl to be seen entering the gate alone at midnight ? Moreover, I rode from Frankenburg at the queen’s command, to tell Agnes of Solier of her lover’s hurt. I had a page for company,” she laughed, “ and left him on the way. Perchance I shall find him again, for I must join the queen.”

“ Come,” whispered the soldier impatiently.

“ Thou dost not fear to ride alone ? ” said the prior, reluctant to leave her, and eying her suspiciously. She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “ Have a care, then, to thy face,” he said. “ Farewell.”

When they were gone, Rothilde led the horse to the tower, sitting down on a stone near the door, while the horse browsed beside her among the reeds. She could scarce wait to hear the hoofs on the distant road. She proposed to take the other, the one skirting the city through the wood. “ Robert of Tours returns from Hungary to-morrow with Pepin. In an hour I will tell the king.” This was all her thought. She stroked the horse’s ears, and smiled.

Suddenly, above her head, something stirred. It was Jeanne turning in her dreams. “ Aye, I believe thee,” said a voice; “only show me first the way.” Passe Rose, dumb with terror, knelt down and pressed Jeanne’s hand. She heard a noise below, then on the stair, but before she could get from her knees, or even think what she would do, Rothilde stood before her.

Afterwards she could remember nothing, only that she heard a cry as of a wild beast, and saw the flash of a knife in the girl’s hand. Now she was alone, on the edge of the parapet, panting, and below in the river something struggled. She had grappled with the girl; the knife was now in her own hand, and her fingers were cut. Seigneur ! what had she done ?

“ Mother, little mother,”she whispered, stooping to Jeanne’s ear. Jeanne opened her eyes. “ The time is come, — the time is come.”

Jeanne, sitting up, smiled. “ The sun is not yet up,” she said.

“ It is time,” urged Passe Rose, pulling her by the hand to her feet. Her mouth was set and her eyes were fixed, like those of the statue in the porch of St. Sebastian indeed. Down the stair, along the river, dragging Jeanne after her, she hurried. “ Oh, my Gui ! ” she murmured.

“Thou art in haste,” said Jeanne, half awake. “ But it is well to start before the sun, the way is so long.” “Aye, long,” murmured Passe Rose.

At the ford Jeanne paused. “ Thou saidst this way.”

“Nay, I swear to thee, this is best.”

“ I believe thee,” Jeanne answered calmly. “ Thou hast a good face, — lead on.” And the two, close together, disappeared between the tall trees hemming, like a giant hedge, the road to Aix.

Arthur Sherburne Hardy.