“’Tis luck to have moonlight!” exclaimed Farmer Short, as they emerged upon the country-road.
Margery looked back towards the city they had left, over which hung a dull red glow from the torchlights which still streamed and flickered there; and as she looked she drew a long sigh.
“She’s tired!” said her mother; but Margery indignantly denied the fact.
“I was thinking what a lovely day it’s been,” she declared; “and about all the plays they will be acting to-morrow and the next day. But Master Gyseburn says they will be sad plays. So perhaps I shouldn’t like to see them after all. I didn’t like it when the babies were killed!”
“Yes,” said a neighbour; “there are about twenty still to come. They’ll need two days more at least. The saddest plays will come last, when the Tapestry-weavers act the Trial of Christ; and the Tile-makers and Painters The Crucifixion.”
“’Twas a mercy it was fine,” exclaimed Mistress Short. “And likely to be fine to-morrow,” she added, with a glance at the clear sky, in which a full moon sailed.
Both the children grew silent as they jogged towards home along the white road, upon which fell their shadows and the shadows of the horses and of overhanging trees. It was very quiet and peaceful in the country, and they were both sleepy. All the curious and novel things they had seen during the day began to appear like a dream, in which the three kings passed and re-passed; and Herod, with his flashing sword, stamped and raved; and beautiful angels, with golden wings, hovered above a stable in Bethlehem; and the serpent talked to Adam and Eve. But more frequently than any of the other figures in the plays Margery saw the little white-robed Isaac begging for his life; and, when the cottage was reached at last, and she was in bed and really asleep, it was of him she dreamt.
X
Everyman
As some of you may have noticed, the miracle plays to which long ago Colin and Margery listened were for the most part badly written, in such rough, uncouth verse, that a great deal of each play may be described as mere doggerel. Very few of them have any claim to be called literature. They are just rhyming stories, often very badly rhymed, to be acted before uncritical people, thousands of whom were poor and simple folk who, if the stories were sufficiently exciting and the actors well enough dressed, neither knew nor cared that the words were poor. Every now and then, indeed, in these old plays a fragment of verse is charming. For instance, in the Nativity scene, which used to be acted at Coventry, there are some delightful words. Here are a few lines from the prophets’ speeches about the new-born King.
Second prophet: