University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE SUPPLIANT.

The year had by this time worn onward to the last days of
summer, or one might almost say to the earliest days of
autumn, and the lovely scenery of the lake country had begun
to assume its most beautiful and picturesque coloring.

For in the early summer months the hues of the whole
region are too generally green, without any variation except
that produced by the effect of sunshine and shadow. The sides
of the turf-covered mountains, the birch and oak coppices on
their lower slopes, the deep meadows, at their base, are all
overspread with the richest and most intense verdure; even
the reflections in the bosom of the clear lakes preserve the
same general tints, diversified only by the cerulean blue
caught from the deep overhanging heavens, and the not dissimilar
hue of the craggy summits of the loftier hilltops,
where the slaty character of the rocks, partly impregnated
with iron, partly incrusted with gray lichens, “overspread in
many places,” to quote the words of a fine writer and true

lover of nature, “the steep and almost precipitous sides of the
mountains, with an intermixture of colors like the compound
hues of a dove's neck.”

“When, in the heat of advancing summer,” he proceeds
thereafter, “the fresh green tint of the herbage has somewhat
faded, it is again revived by the appearance of the fern profusely
spread every where; and upon this plant, more than
upon any thing else, do the changes, which the seasons make
in the coloring of the mountains depend. About the first
week in October, the rich green, which prevailed through the
whole summer, has usually passed away. The brilliant and
various colors of the fern are then in harmony with the
autumnal woods; bright yellow, or lemon color, at the base
of the mountains, melting gradually, through orange, to a
dark russet brown toward the summits, where the plant,
being more exposed to the weather, is in a more advanced
state of decay. Neither heath nor furze are generally found
upon the sides of the mountains, though in some places they
are richly adorned by them. We may add, that the mountains
are of height sufficient to have the surface toward the
summits softened by distance, and to imbibe the finest aërial
hues. In common also with other mountains, their apparent
forms and colors are perpetually changed by the clouds and
vapors which float round them; the effect indeed of mist or
haze, in a country of this character, is like that of magic. I
have seen six or seven ridges rising above each other, all
created, in a moment, by the vapors upon the side of a
mountain, which, in its ordinary appearance, showed not a
projecting point to furnish even a hint for such an operation.

“I will take this opportunity of observing, that they who

have studied the appearances of nature feel that the superiority,
in point of visual interest, of mountainous over other
countries, is more strikingly displayed in winter than in summer.
This, as must be obvious, is partly owing to the forms
of the mountains, which, of course, are not affected by the
seasons, but also, in no small degree, to the greater variety
that exists in their winter than their summer coloring. This
variety is such, and so harmoniously preserved, that it leaves
little cause of regret when the splendor of the season has
passed away. The oak coppices, upon the sides of the mountains,
retain russet leaves; the birch stands conspicuous with
its silver stems and puce-colored twigs; the hollies, with green
leaves and scarlet berries, have come forth into view from
among the deciduous trees, whose summer foliage had concealed
them; the ivy is now plentifully apparent upon the
stems and boughs of the trees, and among the wooded rocks.
In place of the uniform summer-green of the herbage and
fern, many rich colors play into each other over the surface of
the mountains; turf, the tints of which are interchangeably
tawny-green, olive, and brown, beds of withered fern and gray
rocks being harmoniously blended together. The mosses and
lichens are never so flourishing as in winter, if it be not a
season of frost; and their minute beauties prodigally adorn the
foreground. Wherever we turn, we find these productions of
nature, to which winter is rather favorable than unkindly,
scattered over the walls, banks of earth, rocks and stones, and
upon the trunks of trees, with the intermixture of several
species of small fern, now green and fresh; and, to the
observing passenger, their forms and colors are a source of
inexhaustible admiration.”—Wordsworth.

Thus far have I quoted the accurate and simple language
of the great Poet of the Lakes, since, none other that I can
choose would place before the eyes of my readers so vivid a
reality of the scenery of that loveliest portion of picturesque
England, in its finest aspect.

It was not, indeed, quite so deep in the season, that all the
changes so beautifully depicted above had yet occurred, when,
late in a clear autumnal evening, Kenric and Edith stood together
in the porch of their new home, gazing across the
tranquil bosom of the little mere, and down the pastoral valley
of the Kent, yet the face of the picture was close to that
described in the quotations. The trees, in the level ground
and in the lower valleys, had not lost all their verdure, though
the golden, the russet, and the ruddy-red, had intermingled
largely with the green; the meadows, by the water-edge, had
not changed a tint, a shade of their summer glory, but all
the hill-sides were as they stand painted by the poet-pen of
the child of Nature.

The sun was setting far away, to the right hand, as they
gazed down the long dale to the southward, behind the mighty
tops of Hawkshed and Blackcomb, which towered against
the gorgeous golden-sky, flecked with a thousand glowing
cloudlets, orange and rosy-red, and glaring crimson, like a
huge perpendicular wall of dusky purple; with the long basin
of Windermere, visible from that elevation over the lower
intervening ridges, lying along their bases as it seemed,
though in truth many miles distant, a sheet of beaten-gold.
The lower hills, to the west of Kentmere, downward to Bowness,
whose chapel-window gleamed like fire in the distance,
were shrouded in soft purple haze, and threw long blue shadows

across the rich vale, broken by the slant golden beams
which streamed through the gaps in their summits, in far-reaching
pencils of misty light. At the same time, the little
lake of Kentmere lay at the feet of the spectators, still, clear,
and transparent as an artificial mirror, giving back a counterfeit
presentment of every thing around and above it, only less
real than the actual reality; while toward the precipitous
and craggy hills, behind them and on their left, the westering
sun sent forth such floods of rosy and golden light as illuminated
all their projections and cavities, bringing them, with all
their accidents of crag or coppice, ivy-bush or silvery birch-tree,
close to the eye of the beholder, blended with an intermixture
of solemn shadows, seen distinctly through the clear
atmosphere.

Over this scene the happy couple gazed with such feelings
as none can gaze, but they who are good and happy. The
sleepy hum of the good mother's wheel came drowsily through
the open doorway; the distant laugh and cry of the hunter's
boys, as they were clearing the kennels and feeding the hounds
for the night, with an occasional bay or whimper of their
impatient charges, rose pleasantly on the night air. Most of
the natural sounds and sights had ceased; the songs of the
birds were silent, for the nightingales visit not those valleys of
the west; the bleat of the flocks was heard no more; the
lowing of the herds had passed homeward; only a few late
swallows skimmed the bosom of the mere, which a leaping
trout would break, now and then, with a loud plash, into a
silvery maze of circling dimples; and the jarring note of the
nighthawk, as his swift wing glanced under the brown shadows
of the oak, in chase of the great evening moths, was heard

in the gloaming; and the pinions of the great golden-eagle
hung like a shadow, leagues up in the burning sky.

Perfect contentment was the breathing spirit of the calm
and gentle scene, with something of that heavenly peace
which induced the friend of Izaac Walton to apostrophize
the Sabbath, as

and perfect were the contentment and peace which the adjuncts
inspired into the hearts of those, who, of late so hopeless and
suffering, now looked over the face of the fair earth, and
thence upward to the boundless sky, as who should say, “Not
in one only, but in both of these, we have our heritage.”

But while they gazed, the sun sunk lower in the west, the
round tops of the vast blue mountains intercepted his lustrous
disk, and heavy twilight fell, like the shadow of a cloud, over
the valley and the steep faces of the north-eastern hills.

Just at this moment, while the girl was whispering something
about entering the house and preparing the evening-meal,
she observed her husband's eye fixed on the declivity of
the hills above the lake shore, and, following the direction of
his glance, she speedily discovered a dark figure making its
way in a crouching attitude among the stunted shrubs, and
evidently avoiding, or striving to avoid, observation.

Something between a shudder and a start seemed to shake
the manly form of Kenric for an instant; and his young wife,
perceiving it as she clung to his arm, looked up to his face for
explanation.

“Something is going wrong up yonder,” said the verdurer;

“some marauder after the roe-deer, I trow. I must up and
after him. Give me my bugle, Edith, my wood-knife, and
my gisarme; I will take the black alan with me; he lies
under the settle, by the hearth. Fetch them, girl.”

And while she went, he stood gazing with his hawk's eye
on the lurking figure, though it was wonderful, in the distance
and gloom, that he could distinguish even the outlines of the
human form. Yet it was evident that he did distinguish
something more than that, for he smote his thigh with his
hand heavily, as he muttered, “It is he, by St. Edward the
Confessor! What new disaster can have brought him hither?”

The next moment Edith stood beside him, bearing the
weapons, and accompanied by the great grizzly deer-grayhound.

“Kenric,” she said, as he was leaving her, “this is something
more than mere marauders. There is danger!”

“I trust not, girl,” he answered, kindly; “but if there be,
I and Black Balder here, are men enough to brunt it. But
hark you, girl, get supper over as quickly as you may, and
have our mother to her chamber, and the varlets to their
quarter in the kennels; and do you sit up, without a light,
mark me, and, whatever shall fall out, be silent. I may bring
some one with me.”

“I knew it,” she murmured to herself, as she turned away
to do his bidding. “It is Eadwulf. What brings him hither?
No good, I warrant me.”

Meanwhile Kenric scaled the crags rapidly, with the hound
at his heels, and, when he reached the spot where he had
seen the figure, halted, and whistled a bar or two of an old
Saxon ballad of Sherwood. It was answered, and from out

of the brushwood Eadwulf came, cringing, travel-soiled,
weary, and disaster-stricken, to the knees almost of his
brother.

“So. This is thou, Eadwulf? I thought as much. What
brings thee hither?”

“Almost as fair cause as I find fair welcome.”

“I looked for no other. Thou art a runaway, then, and
pursued? Come, speak out, man, if thou wouldst have me
aid thee.”

“Thou dost not seem overly glad to see me, brother.”

“How should I be glad? When did thy presence ever bring
joy, or aught else than disaster and disgrace? But speak,
what brings thee hither? How hast thou escaped? Art
thou pursued? What dost thou require?”

“Last asked, first answered. Rest, refuge, clothing, food,
asylum. Last Monday is a week, I was pursued; pursuit has
ceased, but I misdoubt me I am tracked. By strong hand I
escaped, and fleet foot—”

“By red hand?” asked Kenric.

“Ay! red, with the blood of deer!”

“And of man, Eadwulf? Nay! man, lie not to me. Dark
as it is, I read it in thy black brow and sullen eye.”

“Well, then, man's blood, if you will. And now, will you
yield your own brother's life a forfeit to the man-hunter, or
the hunter of blood?”

“No,” answered Kenric, sadly; “that must not be. For
you are my brother. But I must know all, or I will do
nothing. You can tell me as we go; my home is in the
valley yonder. There you can rest to-night; to-morrow you
must away to the wilderness, there to be safe, if you may,

without bringing ruin upon those who, doing all for you, look
for nothing from you but wrong and ingratitude.”

“To-morrow! True brotherly affection! Right Saxon
hospitality. Our fathers would have called this nidering!”

“Never heed thou that. Tell me all that has passed, or
thou goest not to my house, even for this night only. For
myself, I care nothing, and fear nothing. My wife, and my
mother—these, thy blind selfishness and brute instincts, at
least, shall not ruin.”

And thereupon, finding farther evasion useless, as they
went homeward by a circuitous path among the rocks and
dingles, he revealed all that the reader knows already, and
this farther, which it is probable he has suspected, that Eadwulf,
lying concealed in the forest in pursuance of some petty
depredation, had been a witness of the dastardly murder of
Sir Philip de Morville by the hands of Sir Foulke d'Oilly and
his train, among whom most active was the black seneschal,
who had perished so fearfully in the quicksands.

“Terrible, terrible indeed!” said Kenric, as he ended his
tale, doggedly told, with many sullen interruptions. “Terrible
his deed, and terrible thy deeds, Eadwulf; and, of all,
most terrible the deeds of Him who worked out his will by
storm, and darkness, and the terror of the mighty waters.
And of a surety, terrible will be the vengeance of Foulke
d'Oilly. He is not the man to forget, nor are thy deeds,
deeds to be forgotten. But what shall I say to thee, obstinate,
obdurate, ill-doer, senseless, rash, ungrateful, selfish? Already,
in this little time, had Edith and I laid by, out of our humble
gains, enough to purchase two thirds of thy freedom. Ere
Yule-tide, thou hadst been as free a man as stands on English

earth, and now thou art an outlaw, under ban forever, and
blood-guiltiness not to be pardoned; and upon us—us, who
would have coined our hearts' blood into gold, to win thy
liberty—thou hast brought the odor, and the burden, and, I
scarce doubt it, the punishment, of thy wicked wilfullness. It
were better thou hadst perished fifty-fold in the accursed sands
of Lancaster, or ere thou hadst done this thing. It were better
a hundred-fold that thou hadst never been born.”

“Why dost not add, `better a thousand-fold thou wert delivered
up to the avenger of blood,' and then go deliver
me?”

“Words are lost upon thee,” replied his brother, shaking
his head mournfully, “as are actions likewise. Follow me;
thou must have 'tendance and rest above all things, and to-morrow
must bring forth the things of to-morrow.”

Nothing more passed between them until they reached the
threshold of Kenric's humble dwelling, where, in silence and
darkness, with the door ajar, listening to every distant sound
of the fitful breeze or passing water, the fair young wife sat
awaiting them.

She arose, as they entered. “Ah! it is thou, Eadwulf; I
thought so, from the first. Enter, and sit. Wilt eat or bathe
first? thou art worn and weary, brother, as I can see by this
gloaming light. There is a good bed ready for thee, under
the rafters, and in the morning thou wilt awake, refreshed
and strong—”

“Thou thoughtst so from the first. I warrant me thou
didst—mayhap thy husband told thee so. Brother, too! he
hath not greeted me as brother. Eat, bathe, sleep? neither
of the three, girl. I'll drink first of all; and, if that please

thee, then eat, then sleep; and bathe when I may, perhaps
not at all.”

“Bring him the mead-pitcher, Edith, and the big horn,
and then avoid ye. There is blood on his hand, and worse
than blood on his soul. Leave the meat on the board. I 'll
see to him.”

And when his wishes were fulfilled, they were left alone,
and a long, gloomy conversation followed; and, if the dark,
sullen, and unthankful heart of the younger brother was in
no sort touched, or his better feelings—if he had any—awakened,
at least his fears were aroused, and, casting aside all his
moroseness, he became a humble, I had almost said a craven,
suppliant for protection.

“Protection!” said Kenric, “I have it not to give, nor can
I ask those who could. I know not, in truth, whether in
sheltering you, even now, I do not risk the safety of all that
is dear to me. What I can do, I will. This night, and all
the day to-morrow, I will conceal thee here, come of it what
come may; and, at the dead of the next night, will guide
thee, through the passes, to the upper hill country, where thou
wilt soon find men, like thyself, of desperate lives and fortunes.
Money, so much as I have, I will give thee, and food
for thy present need; but arms, save thy wood-knife, thou
shalt take none hence. I will not break faith nor betray duty
to my lord, let what may come of it; and, if I find thee trespassing
on his chase, or hunting of his deer, I will deal with
thee as a stranger, not as a kinsman. No thanks, Eadwulf;
nor no promises. I have no faith in thee, nor any hope, save
that we two may never meet again. And so, good-night.”

And with the word, he led him to a low room under the

rafters, furnished with a tolerable bed, but remote from all
observation, where he was tended all the following day, and
watched by Edith, or by himself in person, until the next night
settled dark and moonless over wild fell and mountain tarn;
when he conducted him up the tremendous passes which
lead to the desolate but magnificent wilderness, stretching, in
those days, untrodden save by the deer, the roebuck, the
tusky boar, the gray wolf, or the grizzly outlaw, for countless
leagues around the mighty masses of Helvellyn, Saddleback,
and Skiddaw, the misty mountain refuge of all conquered
races—of the grim Celts from the polished Romans, of the
effete Britons from the sturdy Saxons, of the vanquished
Anglo-Saxons, from the last victorious Normans.

They parted, with oaths of fidelity and vows of gratitude
never to be fulfilled on the part of Eadwulf, with scarce concealed
distrust on the part of Kenric.

It was broad day when the latter returned to his happy
home by Kentmere; and the first object he beheld was his
wife, gazing despondingly on his own crossbow and bolts,
each branded with his name—“Kenric, born thrall of Philip
de Morville,” of which, unwittingly he had disarmed his
brother on the night of his arrival.

His heart fell as he looked upon the well-known weapons;
and thought that probably it was one of those marked and
easily-recognized bolts which had quivered in the heart of the
bailiff of Waltheofstow; but his wife knew not the dark tale,
and he was not the man to disturb her peace of mind, however
his own might be distracted, by any dubious or uncertain
fear.

“It is my old arbalast,” he said, “which Eadwulf brought

with him from our ancient home. Lay it aside. I will never
use it more; but it will be as a memento of what we once
were, but, thanks to God and our good lords, are no longer.
And now give me my breakfast, Edith; I must be at the
castle, to speak of all this with Sir Yvo, ere noon; I will be
back to-night, girl; but not, I trow, until the northern bear
has sunk behind the hills. Till then, may He keep thee!

And he was grave and abstracted during all the morning
meal, and only kissed her in silence, and blessed her inwardly,
in his own true heart, as he departed.