The day was cloudy, the road bad. Rainulf rode well ahead, with two or three. The body of his train, loath to leave the town, grumbled, swore, was quarrelsome among its members. Under the grey sky the country wore a desolated look. There was a field in which, earlier that morning, there had been reapers. It lay half cut, and the sickles upon the earth among the corn. Farther on, they came to the reapers themselves, hurrying along the wayside. “Where are you going, you hinds?” A young man answered: “To St. Martin’s shrine. It is the End of the World!”
Farther on were other folk, men and women. A priest harangued these. “Holy Church tells you, it draws nigh to a thousand years since He suffered! If the sky be not rolled back and the earth does not perish it will be because of Church’s prayers. So pray to Church to pray for you! Believe, give, amend your lives! But do not leave your fields and your smithies, your tending of flocks and diking and ditching—”
The country grew wilder and more unkempt. The sky hung leaden grey. Rainulf was well ahead; depression took his followers. One turned in his saddle. “Gerbert there, with your viol! For Holy Virgin’s sake, make us music!”
Gerbert dropped the reins of his horse. The beast plodded on, no fiery war-steed. Gerbert himself was little thought on, of little importance in Red Rainulf’s demesne. The music-maker drew bow across strings. He played well, loving his art. He made the music that he played, and now it was merry and now it was sad. To-day he made a music that was swift and wild. “Gay, gay!” cried the men. “Fast and sweet!”
Gerbert’s bow danced upon the viol strings. Then a string snapped. “Mute—mute!” he said. “The End of the World for this music!”
The old horse that he rode had fallen back, was going with the hindermost. Gerbert found himself beside Gersonde the soothsayer. She had been listening to the music. Now she spoke. “The world ends, the world begins.”
Gerbert said, “To-morrow, doubtless, I shall mend the viol and play again.”
They were riding side by side, and none giving them heed. “Why is it,” said Gerbert, “that I feel greatly at home with you? There is here something strange, that I cannot understand. It is as though a light and warmth went from me to you and you to me.”
“Some strings are stretched alike and give the same sound.—Your name now is Gerbert?”
“Gerbert. And your name is Gersonde.... In the Red Castle if you need help.... But I am only Gerbert who thinks at night, and in the daytime plays before the Baron! As little as if I were a woman can I give help!”