Part 7 (1/2)

'Give me a token,' pleaded Thomas, 'a token ere thou leavest me, that mortals may know that I have in truth been with thee in Elfland.'

'Take with thee, then,' said the lady, 'take with thee the gift of harp and song, and likewise the power to tell that which will come to pa.s.s in future days. Nor ever shall thy tales be false, Thomas, for I have taken from thee the power to speak aught save only what is true.'

She turned to ride away, away to Elfland. Then Thomas was sad, and tears streamed from his grey eyes, and he cried, 'Tell me, lady fair, shall I never meet thee more?'

'Yea,' said the Elf Queen, 'we shall meet again, Thomas. When thou art in thy castle of Ercildoune and hearest of a hart and hind that come out of the forest and pace unafraid through the village, then come thou down to seek for me here, under the Eildon tree.'

Then loud and clear blew she her horn and rode away. Thus Thomas parted from the Elfin Queen.

On earth seven slow long years had pa.s.sed away since Thomas had been seen in the little village of Ercildoune, and the villagers rubbed their eyes and stared with open mouth as they saw him once again in their midst.

Ofttimes now Thomas was to be seen wandering down from his grim old castle down to the bonny greenwood. Ofttimes was he to be found lying on the bank of the little brook that babbled to itself as it ran through the forest, or under the Eildon tree, where he had met the Elf Queen so long before.

He would be dreaming as he lay there of the songs he would sing to the country folk. So beautiful were these songs that people hearing them knew that Thomas the Rhymer had a gift that had been given to him by no mortal hand.

He would be thinking, too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. And those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of True Thomas never failed to come to pa.s.s.

Seven long years pa.s.sed away since Thomas had parted from the Elfland Queen, and yet another seven.

War had raged here and there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the Scottish army encamped close to the castle of Ercildoune where Thomas the Rhymer dwelt.

It was a time of truce, and Thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country.

Thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet-hall. Merry were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of Ercildoune.

But when the feast was over Thomas himself arose, the harp he had brought from Elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men.

The cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever Thomas ceased to sing. Nor ever in the years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song.

Night fell, those who had feasted had gone to rest, when in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk.

Along the banks of the Leader there paced side by side a hart and a hind, each white, white as newly fallen snow.

Slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrighted by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them.

Then, for True Thomas would know the meaning of so strange a sight, then a messenger was sent in haste to the castle of Ercildoune.

As he listened to the tale the messenger brought, Thomas started up out of bed and in haste he put on his clothes. Pale and red did he grow in turn as he listened to the tale, yet all he said was this: 'My sand is run, my thread is spun, this token is for me.'

Thomas hung his elfin harp around his neck, his minstrel cloak across his shoulders, and out into the pale moonlight he walked.

And as he walked the wind touched the strings of the elfin harp and drew forth a wail so full of dole that those who heard it whispered: 'It is a note of death.'

On walked Thomas, slow and sad, and oft he turned to look again at the grim walls of the castle, which he knew he would never see again.

And the moonbeams fell upon the grey tower, and in the soft light the walls grew less grim, less stern, so thought Thomas.

'Farewell,' he cried, 'farewell. Nor song nor dance shall evermore find place within thy walls. On thy hearthstone shall the wild hare seek a refuge for her young. Farewell to Leader, the stream I love, farewell to Ercildoune, my home.'