The Hounds of Gabriel racing with the gale,
Baying wild music past the tossing trees,
The Ship of Souls with moonlight-silvered sail
High over storm-swept seas,
The faun-folk scampering to their dim abode,
The goblin elves that haunt the forest road,
With visage of the snake and eft and toad,—
I carve them as I please.

Bertrand’s gray saintly patriarchs of stone,
Angelo the Pisan’s gold-starred sapphire sky,
Marc’s Venice glass, a jeweled rose full-blown,—
Envy of none have I.
Mine be the basilisk with mitered head,
And loup-garou and mermaid, captive led
By little tumbling cherubs who,—’tis said,—
Are all but seen to fly.

Why hold we here these demons in the light
Of the High Altar, by God’s candles cast?
They are the heathen creatures of the night,
In heavenly bonds made fast.
They are set here, that for all time to be,
When God’s own peace broods over earth and sea,
Men may remember, in a world set free,
The terrors that are past.


V
THE BOX THAT QUENTIN CARVED
HOW QUENTIN OF PERONNE LEARNED HIS TRADE WHEN A BOY IN AMIENS

Any one who happened to be in the market-place of Amiens one sunshiny summer morning in the last quarter of the twelfth century, might have seen a slim, dark, dreamy-eyed boy wandering about with teeth set in a ripe golden apricot, looking at all there was to be seen. But the chances were that no one who was there did see him, because people were very busy with their own affairs, and there was much to look at, far more important and interesting than a boy. In fact Quentin, who had come with his father, Jean of Peronne, to town that very morning, was not important to any one except his father and himself.

They had been living in a small village of Northern France, where they had a tiny farm, but when the mother died, Jean left the two older boys to take care of the fields, and with his youngest son, who was most like the mother, started out to find work elsewhere. He was a good mason, and masons were welcome anywhere. In all French cities and many towns cathedrals, castles or churches were a-building, and no one would think of building them of anything but stone.

While Quentin speculated on life as it might be in this new and interesting place, there was a shout of warning, a cry of terror from a woman near by, a dull rumble and crash, and a crowd began to gather in the street beside the cathedral. Before the boy could reach the place, a man in the garb of a Benedictine monk detached himself from the group and came toward him.

“My boy,” he said kindly, “you are Quentin, from Peronne? Yes? Do not be frightened, but I must tell you that your father has been hurt. They are taking him to a house near by, and if you will come with me, I will take care of you.”