Volume I Part 35 (1/2)
”It is about a three month agone since this same wild man was first seen,” said the old seneschal, whose office, though of little use, was still filled up in the more ancient establishments. ”I saw him myself once, but I shook until the very flesh seemed to crawl over my bones.
They say he neither eats nor drinks, but is kept alive in the body by glamour and witchcraft. He'll stay here until his time is done, and then his tormentors will fetch him to his prison-house again. Ye should not have tarried in the wood after sunset.”
”That would I not,” sharply replied Agnes; ”but the child, poor thing, would look at the daylight as it lingered on the hill-top, and I thought no harm in't.”
”Like enough. He dares not abroad, if so much as the value or size of my thumb-nail of the sun's rim were left above the hill!”
”Come, Gaffer, strike up a merry trowl,” said a thin, squeaking voice, from a personage almost hidden behind a copious supper of broken meat and pastry. But whether the party thus addressed was too much alarmed to let the current of his spirit run bubbling from the spring of either mirth or minstrelsy, or he was too deeply buried in his own thoughts, it were needless to inquire. The request for a while pa.s.sed by unheeded.
Gaffer Gee was the ballad-monger of the whole district. He kept on a comfortable and vagabond sort of existence, by visiting the different mansions where good cheer was to be had, and where he was generally a welcome guest, both in bower and hall. His legendary lore seemed inexhaustible; and, indeed, his memory was like an old chest full of sc.r.a.ps continually rummaged. He knew all the scandal and family secrets throughout the parish, and had a quick eye at detecting either a love affair or a feud. He composed a number of the wild ballads that he sang or recited, or at least put them into that jingling and quaint rhythm, acquired by habitual intercourse with the phraseology peculiar to these popular descants. On hearing a story he could readily shape it into verse, extempore, too, upon occasion; and many were the jokes that rebounded from his theme, whether in hall or kitchen. It was pleasant to watch his little grey eye, and the twinkling lashes, as they rose and fell, varying the expression of his lips. A slight lisp gave an air of simplicity to his ditties, which never failed to charm his auditors. He could throw the simplest expression over his features, which made the keen edge of his rebukes infinitely more cutting and effective. But the prevailing tone of feeling in him was sad and oppressive. These wandering minstrels had, from remote ages, been held as seers, and a peep into futurity was often supposed to accompany their poetical inspirations--a superst.i.tion not confined to any particular locality, but obtaining a widely disseminated belief in all climes and nations where imagination a.s.sumes her sway, and dares to a.s.sert her power.
After a short s.p.a.ce, and without any invitation, the ballad-maker, like some Pythian priestess on her tripod, began to exhibit manifestations of the _afflatus_. The spirit of song seemed to be stealing upon him, and in a moment the listening auditory were still. In substance, he half recited, half sung, the following ballad:--
”'Maiden, braid those tresses bright, Wreathe thy ringlets from the blast; Why those locks of curling light Heedless to the rude winds cast?
”'Maiden, why that darkened brow?
From those eyes, once dimmed with weeping, Lurid gleams are gathering now, O'er their pale wan shadows creeping.'
”Silent still the maid pa.s.sed by, Near nor voice nor footstep came.
Sudden cleaving earth and sky, Flashed a brand of arrowy flame!
”'Maiden, turn that gaze on me, Onwards why so madly bent?'
Still no stay, no pause made she Through that kindling element.
”Now, the midnight chant is stealing, Ma.s.s and requiem breathing near; Hushed the blast, as if revealing Sounds to earth that Heaven might hear.
”From yon pile, soft voices swelling Dirge and anthem for the dead;-- Demon shrieks, their lost doom yelling, Tend Lord Rudolph's dying bed.
”Holy men, with song and prayer, Fain would shrive the pa.s.sing soul; Fiend-like whispers, to his ear.
Winds, in muttering curses, roll.
”Ere his last lone shuddering cry, To his couch the maiden came; On his breast she silently Bent an eye of ravening flame.
”One wild shriek the sufferer sent, Ere life's last frail link might sever; Laughed the maiden, as she leant O'er that form, to cling for ever.
”Closer to his heart she pressed; Scorched, the quivering flesh recoiled; Unconsumed his burning breast, While that grim tormentor smiled.
”'Now revenge!' the maiden cried, 'I have bartered heaven for this; Mine thou art, proud Rudolph's bride, Mine, by this last demon kiss.'
”Tower, and battlement, and hall, Scathed as with the thunder-stroke, Flashed through midnight's dusky pall, Twined in wreaths of livid smoke.
”O'er that gulph of yawning flame Horrid shapes are hovering; Monstrous forms, of hideous name, To the bridal-bed they bring.
”'They come!--they come!' their frantic yell.
On a wave of billowy light Sudden rose (so marvellers tell) The maiden and her traitor knight.
”The moon looks bright on Rudolph's towers, The breeze laughs lightly by, But dark and silent sleep the hours, The lone brook murmuring nigh.