Part 12 (2/2)

”My lady,” I answered, ”I beg that ye will rest awhile, and eat of the food that I have here. Alack! I have no drink to set before you! We brought mead, but in the heat an hour agone it burst our bottles; and there is no water near at hand--we have but lately sought it.”

The lady raised her hands to her brows in most weary wise.

”Good Odda,” she said, notwithstanding, ”I thank thee much for thy kindness in thus coming, and for all the pains that thou hast taken.

And since thy mead was lost on my behalf, I thank thee for it also. Let us sit here awhile and eat, as thou sayest; we are sore anhungered, that is sure. And later we will go find my reeve at Stoke over yonder.

He will doubtless have one drop of somewhat for us each to drink. We also emptied our flasks an hour ago, silly souls that we were!”

She had with her her ma.s.s-priest, her women, her men-at-arms, her thralls. We sat down upon the ground, and broke the pasty into portions, and dealt out my fine wheaten bread.

As she talked with me of the old days in her own home, suddenly we heard a noise in the woodland upon our right--a child's voice wailing--the voices of two children. Far away at first, then somewhat nearer. Two wandering children, crying fit to burst their bosoms. Great breathless, thirsty sobs, swelling every now and then to a despairing roar.

The lady had sprung to her feet, and had broken through the nearest bushes into the thicket beyond.

”Hither! hither!” she cried. ”Come! Come! But where are ye? Weep no more--here is help!”

We all followed her. She walked onward, calling; they shouted still, and drew nearer and yet more near: at last they came forth, the little mites, upon a bare plot whereon we had halted. Boy and girl they were; five and seven years old they seemed: hand clasped in hand, cheeks grimy with dust which their tears had furrowed, faces flushed and seared by the mighty heat.

She ran to meet them, with outstretched arms. They ran to her, and caught at her skirts. The girl, the younger, cried, ”We were lost!” and the boy said hoa.r.s.ely, ”Mother!... O mother, the world looks black....

Oh, my head, I cannot see!” and he had fallen flat at her feet before she could stay him.

The girl said, ”Lady, my head--great smart have I also!” and her breath came thick and loud.

The Lady Edith gathered sorrel-leaves, and bound them about the heads of the bairns.

”It is not enough,” said she then. ”They must have water.”

”There is no water here,” Anflete my servant answered. ”We sought it high and low before my lady's coming.”

She wrung her hands in sharp woe.

”O Christ, have mercy!” she said. ”O Mary, that art our mother, hasten--help!”

Then her pa.s.sion seemed to leave her, and she knelt, and began to speak in still, low tones; but I heard her words.

”Father of all goodness,” she prayed, ”save these twain alive, who are more to Thee than the wild sparrows! Strengthen then, Lord, I beseech thee, the gift that Thou hast bestowed upon Thine handmaid!”

Having so said, she arose, and quickly bade her folk bear the children with them, and shade the little ones' heads. It was high noon now, but she flung her hood back, and her wimple fell away and hung down with the hood, so that her bright hair was laid bare, and her shapely neck and breast of ivory. Many a woman would have seemed light-minded, even wanton, so; but our Edith was queen in everything she did. Although the soil was burning, and scorched the feet through riding-boots, she began to walk swiftly, glidingly, around and about. She held her riding-switch, a toy with handle of gold and amber, bent bow-wise between her two hands. Her lips were parted, as those of one who breathes-in freshest air.

And we followed, a great awe upon us. We were once more in the lane where we had rested, when a gleam awoke in her eyes, which had become dark and shut off from earthly sight, and she sped ahead of us even faster than at first. She came to where the bank overhung, and was covered with sagging ferns, shrivelled and caked with dust. A s.h.i.+ver shot through her whole body, and the switch that she carried started and writhed as it had been a live snake.

”G.o.d be praised!” she exclaimed. ”Here is water for them!” She stamped her foot. ”Dig! dig! Bring spades--Oh, dig! Quick! Would ye see them die before your eyes?”

”Sebbe the charcoal-burner!” said Anflete. ”I will fetch his spade.”

Edith had s.n.a.t.c.hed his war-axe from one of her men-at-arms and was hewing at the bank whereunder she stood; I hacked away with my broad knife; some of the others scratched with their hands. In a little while Anflete was back from the charcoal-burner's with spade and pick, and we got more skilfully to work. A homely croon was heard in the heart of the earth. A spot of moisture darkened the bottom of the hollow that we had made. One spadeful more, and up it bubbled--a little spring, but a strong one. There were stones still within the hollow, and we put back more to keep up the s.h.i.+fting sides; and into the bowl so made the water flowed, thick and clotted, truly, with the dust and flakes of sandstone, but how sweet to touch and taste! Oh, the happy noise of water in a thirsty land!

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