“In peace?”
“If you love your soul.”
“And Igraine—Merlin, what of her?”
“That knight shall lead you to her. Sire, I have said.”
IX
It was early and a clear dewy morning when Uther rode down alone from the palace by a narrow track that curled through the shrubberies clothing the palace hill. A generous sky piled its blue dome with mountainous clouds that billowed up above the horizon. The laurels in the shrubbery flickered their leaves like innumerable scales of silver in the sun; amber sun rays slanted through the dense branches of the yews, and flashed on the red harness that burnt down the winding track. The wind sang, the green larches tossed their ’kerchiefs, in the distance the sea glimmered to the white frescoes of the sky.
Uther—Pelleas once more—tossed his spear to the tall trees, and burst into the brave swing of a chant d’amour. With caracole and flapping mane his horse took his lord’s humour. It was weather to live and love in, weather for red lips and the clouding down of perfumed hair. God and the Saints—what a grand thing to be strong, to have a clean heart to show to a woman’s eyes! What were all the baser fevers of life balanced against the splendid madness of a great passion!
Down through Caerleon’s streets he rode unknown of any on his tall black horse. It was pleasant to be unthroned for once, and to put a kingdom from off his shoulders. With what a swing the good beast carried him, how the towers and turrets danced in the sun, how bright were the eyes of the women who passed him by. All the world seemed greener, the sky bluer, the city merrier; the laughter of the children in the gutter echoed out of heaven; the old hag who sold golden lemons under a beech tree seemed almost a madonna—a being from a better world. Uther laughed in his heart, and blessed God and Merlin.
It is one of the rare reflections of philosophy dear to the contemplative mind, how joy jostles pain in the world, and pleasure in gold and scarlet elbows the grey-cloaked form of grief. Even innocent merriment may throw a rose in the face of one who mourns, innocent indeed of the desire to mock. The throstle sings in the tree while the beggar lies under it dying. So Uther the King flashed hate in the eyes of one who watched,—knowing him only that morning as Pelleas the knight. In an old play the jealous man saw the devil ride by, and promptly followed him on the chance of finding his lost wife, deeming, indeed, the devil’s guidance propitious for such a quest.