The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

Vainly the man protested, tried propitiation, prayer, demand. Oman would pretend to no knowledge concerning the sickness of his wife. But when the stranger asked for food before beginning his arduous homeward journey, Oman could not refuse him, but offered what he had; and, when they had eaten together, the man continually exclaiming that he was not worthy of the honor, he departed, unsatisfied, carrying with him his jade anklet.

Oman was left in a state of great agitation. The single hour of human companionship had brought down on him, in a torrent, all the old desires, fears, worries, hopes, in fine the inevitable emotions of human life; and he was whirled into the stream of the old problem. That day, and the next, and three or four nights, were filled with restlessness. Then, as time passed, and he found himself unmolested, calm returned, and the thoughts of the other life faded again.

Nevertheless, the spell had been broken, and he was not destined to a much longer period of solitude. Less than a month had passed when another visitor appeared upon the Silver Peak, this one with no higher purpose than a desire to look upon the hermit. He also, however, brought with him a gift, and remained and ate with Oman, who conversed with him without much constraint, out of a kind of eager desire to convince himself that the life of men was really as troublous as of old. This fellow departed, carrying with him a glowing report of the tractability of the holy man, and the great wisdom he had gained from conversing with him. And this tale destroyed Oman’s peace; for it brought upon him a perfect deluge of visitors, of every degree, male and female, whom, in the beginning, he helplessly received, and gave of his store of wisdom, replying to their innumerable questions with the patience of a child. Among these pilgrims to his shrine were Poussa and her guardian, who, when they learned that he still dwelt so close above them, lost no time in seeking him. And Poussa, indeed, Oman greeted with real pleasure; providing her with the choicest of his fare, of which he by now had some variety; for many of his visitors brought gifts of food, which, his stock of grain running low under the demand, he perforce accepted. Moreover, he was now clad in a new robe, finer of texture and richer as to border than any he had ever worn. From Poussa, however, he would accept nothing, reminding her that she had long since made him her debtor for what he could never repay. And the girl and her guardian left the mountain top after promising to repeat their visit.

For some weeks, buoyed up by the thought of genuine friendship, Oman continued to let himself be seen, treated his visitors with courtesy, and occasionally accepted some of their gifts. But after another month of it, he grew sick of the servility of his visitors and the transparent curiosity with which they regarded him; and, taking with him only a pouch full of grain from his small store, he disappeared into the forest of the east slope, and remained there for a fortnight, till hunger drove him home again. It was sunset of an October day when he reappeared upon the height, and, arriving at his cave, found it already tenanted. Across the threshold, motionless, unconscious, lay the body of an old man, shrunken and pitiably emaciated, clad in a tattered robe, a much-used staff lying at his side.

Oman’s anger at sight of the intruder quickly melted to pity. Kneeling beside the prostrate body, he lifted one of the limp hands and began to chafe it back to warmth. This being of no avail, he hurried to the spring, returning with a wooden vessel full of water, which he sprinkled upon the worn face and poured down the parched throat. It had its effect. The stranger stirred uneasily, muttered a few words, and suddenly opened his eyes. Oman, with a momentary throb of memory, perceived that one of these eyes was brown, and the other a faded blue.

CHAPTER X
THE WANDERER

For a long moment Oman bent close over the intruder, staring into those strange orbs, his mind groping back, back, into the dim past, wondering where it was that he had known them before. Then, as the old man uttered a faint moan, he started to himself again, asking anxiously:

“You are better? You can speak?”

“I am better. Help me—to rise,” answered the other, feebly.

Oman, newly compassionate, lifted the light form in his arms, carried it farther into the cave, and laid the unbidden guest upon his own grass bed in the far corner. Then he set about the tedious task of making a fire. Before his sticks were ready, however, the newcomer, summoning him, in a high and querulous voice, to the bed, gave him a flint and steel, and a piece of inflammable substance that he carried in his pouch. These Oman thankfully made use of, and presently a fire burned again in the rude habitation. Then, out of his stores, the hermit prepared a meal for both of them: rice and dried fruits, which, with fresh water, formed a repast that seemed luxurious enough in Oman’s eyes. When it was ready he approached the stranger, and asked gently if he desired to be fed. For answer the old man drew himself into a sitting posture, and then, after a moment’s effort, rose to his feet, walked to the fire, and sat down; but before Oman had placed his portion of the meal before him, he looked into the young man’s face, and said, in a harsh and trembling tone: