As he sat in the waning firelight, for the first time in many a month a profound loneliness had stolen over him. Harun had prowled away into the forest. Presently Jerome arose, cast a fresh branch on the fire, and stole into the hut. “I must see if she is safe and warm.”
Through the doorway crept a silver-sandalled moonbeam. It touched on something round and white,—the face of the little maid. All Jerome’s veins seemed turned to fire, yet all that fire was ineffably sweet. He knew the glow and ecstasy of the soul born into highest heaven. A power not sprung of self compelled him. He could not resist; he would not if he could. Bending across that face, he kissed it with his bearded lips. Once,—and the fire leaped into more exquisite heat; twice, thrice, four times,—but at the fourth his soul fell down from its high heaven, like Lucifer, son of the Morning. He rushed from the hut, his heart torn by demons, its fire a maddening pain.
“He, he—Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale—had bestowed a kiss on a maid!”
Jerome had resolved not to sleep that night. He must battle back the fiends, as became a holy soldier. The terror lest he had fallen utterly; lest by this one lapse the credit laid up with God by years of austerity was forfeit,—this was omnipresent. He would have scourged himself, but the whip lay under the bed of the little maid, and now he was most certain that in approaching Agnes he approached a form of Satan. So he knelt and thought that he prayed; but his head was heavy. Thrice he shook the stupor off: but strive as he would, unholy dreams rose uppermost. Women were rising before him, foul and pure, hideous and beautiful. Was it the Blessed Virgin enringed by a host of glittering spirits who was beckoning, who was calling him? No; he knew her now,—it was the Norse King’s daughter, the golden-haired Trolfreda, and the wind that hummed about blew not from the crystal river but from the blue breast of the wild North Sea. Again she was changed,—she was Ada of the Silver Belt, and he rode into Orleans at her palfrey’s side, whilst bright tabarded heralds cried him the stoutest knight of the Loire; but his fairest glory was in the lady’s eyes. Yet again the heralds wore crimson turbans, their faces were black, in their hands boomed paynim atabals. The church spires were spindling minarets. The air was sweet with the musky breath of desert sands. It was not Orleans, but Al-Cairo by the Nile. Obaëdah was leaning down from the swaying camel. He could see the gemmed bracelets twinkling upon her smooth brown arms, the gold upon her raven hair, the rosy lips which parted in the snaring smile. And then back to the tourney at Naples: Kaiser Frederick, crowds, plaudits, crowns,—and Mathilde,—the walk with Mathilde by the sea.
He woke from the vision with a scream of mortal pain. The black woods rang; a frightened bird whirred from her nest. Jerome never knew it. He was in cold sweat from foot to crown, and trembling. So far from praying he had given place to sinful lusts. All the passions of the old life surged back in one fierce wave. The repression of years had gone for nothing. His sins stared him tenfold blacker than the night. Again on his knees he prayed out loudly:—
“O Lord Jesus Christ, if Thou hast any mercy, take far from me this maid, or my soul and the soul of Sigismund my son are lost forever! Thou knowest how I am tempted past endurance. For surely Beelzebub, Sifter of Souls, has sent this child to bring back every ungodly wish and thought. Her power on me is grown so strong! Away with her, Lord! in Thy Blessed Mother’s name,—away with her! or I know not what to do!”
So he prayed long and loud, never heeding whether any ears save those of the wood-birds heard him. He never recked a single, soft, sobbing cry, and the noise of feet receding in the forest. Then came sleep,—as wicked as before. He sank away with a godless song of Walter von der Vogelweide trolling in his ear,—a minne-song in praise of love and laughter in springtime. When he awoke, lo! the ruddy dawn was tinting the greensward. The fire was dead. By instinct he ran to the hut. Empty. He called the girl.
“Agnes! Agnes! Where?”
No answer came. The shouts died down the avenues of trees. He hunted near. He hunted far. The maid had vanished in the night. He should have thanked our Lord his prayer was so swiftly granted. He did nothing of the kind. He was almost cursing Heaven for making his petition good. With eyes aflame, with heart nigh leaping in his throat, he ran toward the Dragon’s Dale. He must find the maid,—yes, though to find her he bartered his own soul and his son’s.