University of Virginia Library

But scarce was she upon the road
Ere news unto the King was brought
That Peter, the old Abbot, sought
To see him, having newly come
From the wild place that was his home
Across the forest; so the King
Bade him to enter, well willing
To hear what he might have to say;
Who, entering the great hall straightway,
Had with him an old, reverend man,
The sub-prior, Father Adrian,
And five monks more, and therewithal
Ten of his folk, stout men and tall,
Who bore armed staves and coats of fence.

So when he came to audience,
He prayed the King of this or that,
Whereof my tale-teller forgat,
And graciously the King heard all
And said at last: “Well, what may fall,
Thou go'st not hence, fair lord, to-day;
Unless in vain a king must pray,
Thou and thy monks shall eat with me;
While feast thine axe-men merrily.”

Withal, he eyed the Abbot's folk,
In careless mood, then once more spoke:
“Tall men thou feedest, by the rood,
Lord Abbot! come they from the wood?
Dwell many more such thereabout?
Fain were I such should swell the shout
When I am armed and rank meets rank.”

But as he spoke his loud voice sank
Wavering, nor heard he aught at all
Of the faint noises of the hall,
Or what the monk in answer said;
For, looking from a steel-clad head,
Those eyes again did he behold,
That erst from 'neath the locks of gold
Kindly and bold, but soft with awe,
Beneath the apple-boughs he saw.

But when thereof he surely knew,
Pale to the very lips he grew;
Till gathering heart within a while,
With the faint semblance of a smile
He seemed to note the Abbot's words
That he heard not; then from the lords
He turned, and facing Michael said:
“Raise up the steel cap from thine head,
That I may see if thou look'st bold;
Methinks, I know thy face of old;
Whence com'st thou?”

Michael lifted straight
From off his brow the steel cap's weight,
And showed the bright locks curling round
His fresh and ruddy face, sun-browned,
And in a voice clear as a bell
Told all his story, till he fell
Sore wounded in that dismal vale;
And said withal: “My lord, the tale
Of what came after, none knoweth
Better than he who, from ill death
Saved me that tide, and made me man,
My lord, the sub-prior Adrian.”

“Speak on then, father,” quoth the King,
Making as he was hearkening.

“My lord,” said Adrian, “I, who then
Was but a server of poor men,
Outside our Abbey walls, one day
Was called by one in poor array,
A charcoal-burner's lad, who said
That soon his father would be dead,
And that of all things he would have
His rights, that he his soul might save.
I made no tarrying at that word,
But took between mine hands the Lord,
And bade the boy bear forth the bell;
For though few folk there were to tell
Who passed that way, nathless, I trow
The beasts were glad that news to know.

“Well, by the pinewood's skirts we went
While through its twilight the bell sent
A heavenly tinkling; but the lad
'Gan telling me of fears he had
Of elves who dwell within the wood.
I chid him thereat, as was good,
Bidding him note Whom in mine hands
I held, The Ransom of all lands.
But as the firwood's dim twilight
Waxed into day, and fair and bright
The evening sun showed through the trees,
Our ears fanned by the evening breeze
The galloping of horse-hoofs heard,
Wherewith my page hung back, afeard
Of elves and such-like; but I said:
‘Wilt thou thy father should be dead
Ere we can reach him? O my son,
Fear not that aught can stay This One.’

“Therewith I smote my mule, and he
Ran forward with me hastily
As fearing to be left behind.
Well, as we went, what should we find
Down by the stream, but this my son,
Who seemed as though his days were done;
For in his side a knife there stood
Wherefrom ran out a stream of blood,
Soaking the grass and water-mint;
Then, I dismounting, we by dint
Of all our strength the poor youth laid
Upon my mule, and down a glade
Of oaks and hollies then we passed,
And reached the woodman's home at last;
A poor hut, built of wattled wood,
And by its crooked gable stood
A ruinous shed, unroofed and old,
That beasts of burden once did hold:
—Thyself, my lord, mayst know it well,
Since thereabout the wild swine dwell;
And hart and hind and roe are there—
So the lad's wounds I staunched with care
Forthwith, and then the man I shrived,
Who none the less got well and lived
For many a day: then back I went
And the next day our leech I sent
With drugs to tend upon the lad,
Who soon was as he ne'er had had
A hurt at all: and he being well,
We took him in our house to dwell,
And taught him letters, and indeed
Before long, Latin could he read
As well as I; but hath no will
To turn unto religion still.
Yet is he good and doth no wrong;
And being thereto both hale and strong,
My lord the Abbot sayeth of him:
‘He shall serve God with heart and limb,
Not heart and voice.’ Therefore, my lord,
Thou seest him armed with spear and sword
For their defence who feed him still,
Teach him and guard his soul from ill.
Ho, Michael! hast thou there with thee
The fair-wrought knife I first did see
Deep in thy side? there, show it now
Unto the King, that he may know
Our tale is not a thing of nought.”

Withal the King, with eyes distraught
Amidst his anxious face and pale,
Sat leaning forward through this tale,
Scarce noting here and there a word.
But all being told, at last he heard
His own voice changed and harsh and low,
That said: “Fair lord, I fain would know,
Since this your man-at-arms seems true,
What thing will he be worth to you;
For better had he wear my rose
Than loiter in your Abbey-close,
Poring o'er books no man can read.”

“O sire!” the monk said, “if thy need
Be great of such men, let him go;
My men-at-arms need make no show
Of fairness, nor should ladies miss,
E'en as thou say'st, such men as this.”

Laughing he spoke; the King the while
His pale face puckering to a smile;
Then, as in some confusèd dream,
In Michael's hand he saw the gleam
Of that same steel remembered well,
The gift he gave to Samuel;
Drawn from his father's ancient chest
To do that morn his own behest.
And as he now beheld its sheen,
The twining stem of gold and green,
The white scroll with the letters black,
Strike! for no dead man cometh back!
He hardened yet his heart once more,
And grown unhappy as before
When last he had that face in sight,
Now for the third time come to light,
Once more was treacherous, fierce and fell.

Now was the Abbot feasted well
With all his folk, then went away;
But Michael clad in rich array
Became the King's man and was thought
By all most happy, to be brought
Unto such hopeful fair estate.