hardly had an hour passed, and fra balthasar was still touching the study he had made of yeoland's face, when a company of spears flashed out by the northern ride into the clearing. at their head rode a knight in harness of burnished steel, a splendid figure flashing chivalry in the eyes of the sun. on his shield he bore "a castle, argent, with ports voided of the field, on a field vert," the arms of the house of gambrevault. his surcoat was diapered azure and green with three gold suns blazoned thereon. his baldric, a splendid streak of scarlet silk, slashed his surcoat as with blood. his troop, men in half armour, rode under the pavon vert of the demesne of avalon.

they thundered into the open stretch of grass with a clangorous rattle of steel. flavian, bare-headed, for his salade hung at his saddle-bow and he wore no camail, scanned the glade with a keen stare. seeing fra balthasar seated under a tree, he turned his horse towards him, and smiled as the churchman put his tools aside and gave him a benediction. the man made a fine figure; judged by the flesh, balthasar might have stood for an ambrose or a leo.

"herald of heaven, how goes the work?"

"sire, we emulate pericles."

"what have you there, a woman's head, some rare madonna?"

balthasar showed his white teeth.

"a pretty pastoral, messire. the study of a lady who had lost her way hunting, and craved my guidance this morning. a woman with the face and figure of a dian."

"ha, rogue of the brush, let us see it."

balthasar passed the parchment into the other's hand. flavian stared at it, flushed to the temples, rapped out an ejaculation in ecclesiastic latin. his eyes devoured the sketch with the insatiable enthusiasm of a lover; words came hot off his tongue.

"quick, man, quick, is this true to life?"

"as ruby to ruby."

"none of your idealisations?"

"messire, but an hour ago that girl was sitting her horse where your destrier now stands."

"and you sketched this at her desire?"

"at my own, sire; it was courtesy for courtesy: i had shown her our handiwork here."

"you showed her this tower and chapel?"

"certainly, sire."

"she seemed sad?"

"nay, merry."

"this is romance!" he lifted the little picture at arm's length to the sun, kissed it, and put it in his bosom. his face was radiant; he laughed as though some golden joy rang and resounded in his heart.

"a hundred golden angels for this face!"

fra balthasar was in great measure mystified. the lord of avalon seemed an inflammable gentleman.

"messire, you are ever generous."

"man, man, you have caught the one woman in the world."

"sire----"

"the madonna of the pine forest, the madonna of mercy; she whose kinsfolk were put to the sword by my men; even the daughter of rual whose tower stands yonder."

the priest comprehended the whole in a moment. the dramatic quaintness of the adventure had made him echo flavian's humour. he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"romance, romance! by all the lovers who ever loved, by tristan and the dark iseult, by launcelot and guinivere, follow that picture."

"which way went she?"

"by the southern ride, towards gilderoy."

the man was in heroic humour; his sword flashed out and shook in the sun.

"by god, i'll see her face again, and yet again, though i burn in hell for it. roland, godamar, come, men, come, throw away your spears. ride, ride, we chase the sunset. life and desire!"

he sprang away on his great bay horse, a shimmering shaft of youth--youth that flashed forth chivalry into the burgeoning green of spring. the sunlight webbed his hair with gold; his face glowed like a martyr's. balthasar watched him with much poetic zest, as he swept away with his thundering knights into the woods.

the friar settled to his work again, but it was fated that he was to have no lasting peace that morning. he was painting in a background, a landscape, to a small crucifixion. his hand was out of touch, however; the subject was not congenial. a pale face and a pair of dusky eyes had deepened a different stream of thought in the man. themes hypersensuous held his allegiance; from prim catholic ethics, he reverted to his glorious paganism with an ever-broadening sense of satisfaction.

he was interrupted once more, and not unpleasantly, by a lady, with two armed servants at her back, riding in from the forest by the northern ride. the woman was clad in a cloak of damask red, and a jupon of dark green, broidered with azure scroll work. her hood, fallen back, showed her purple black hair bound up in a net of gold. her large dark eyes flashed and smouldered under their long lashes. she had high cheek-bones, a big nose, lips full as an over-ripe rose. she was big of body, voluptuous to look upon, as an eastern odalisque, a woman of great passions, great appetites.

fra balthasar tumbled his brushes and paints aside, and went to meet her as she rode over the grass. there was a smile on the man's lips, a flush upon his sleek face, as he walked with a courtly and debonair vanity. the woman caught sight of him and wheeled her horse in his direction. the autumn splendour of her cheeks told of hard riding, and her horse dropped foam from his black muzzle.

fra balthasar crossed himself with much meekness.

"good greeting, madame duessa," were his words, as he kept his eyes on the ground.

the woman scanned the glade with the strenuous spirit of a boadicea.

"my lord flavian?"

"madame?"

"he has been here."

"but is here no longer."

"these buildings?"

"are the lord flavian's."

"and you?"

"i am his architect."

"morally, messire monk?"

"madame, i do not edificate souls."

the woman stared him over with a critical comprehensiveness.

"balthasar."

the man half glanced at her.

"look me in the face."

he gave a sigh, made a gesture with his hands, looked melancholy and over-ecstasied to the point of despair.

"madame, there are thoughts beyond one's liberty."

"well?"

"there are women, a woman, one dares not look upon. there are eyes, well--well, that are too bright. pardon me, i would serve you."

she took a deep breath, held out her hand to him, a big, warm hand, soft and white. the man's lips burnt upon it. she touched his cheek and saw him colour.

"well?"

"my lord flavian is not here."

"but has been. where now?"

"away hunting."

"ha, what?"

"madame, what do men hunt and burn for?"

"sometimes a stag, a hare, a standard, a woman."

"sometimes--a woman."

balthasar, looking slantwise under half-closed lids, saw her eyes flash and her lips tighten.

"which way?"

"the southern ride, towards gilderoy."

duessa shook her bridle, and threw one look into balthasar's eyes.

"remember," she said, "remember, a woman loves a friend, a true friend, who can tell a lie, or keep a secret."

balthasar watched her ride away. he stood and smiled to himself, while his long fingers played with the folds of his mantle. red wine was bounding in his blood, and his imagination revelled. he was a poetic person, and a poet's soul is often like tinder, safe enough till the spark falls.

"gloria," he said to himself with a smirk, "here's hunting with a vengeance. two women and a man! the devil is loose. soul of masaccio, that woman has fine eyes."

that day, when the sky was growing red over the woods, flavian and his troop drew close on the heels of yeoland and the harper. the man, for all his heat, had kept his horse-flesh well in hand. once out of cambremont wood, they had met a charcoal-burner, who had seen yeoland and her follower pass towards the west. they had hunted fast over fell and moor. while not two miles behind came duessa of the black hair, biting her lips and giving her brute lash and spur with a woman's viciousness.

yeoland, halting on a slope above the pine woods, looked back and saw something that made her crane her neck and wax vigilant. out of the wine-red east and the twilight gloom came the lightning of harness, the galloping gleam of armed men. jaspar's blear eyes were unequal to the girl's. the men below were riding hard, half under the lea of the midnight pines, whose tops touched the sunset. a half-moon of steel, their crescent closed wood and moor. they had the lead in the west; they were mounting the slope behind.

jaspar saw them at last. he was for galloping. yeoland held him in.

"fool, we are caught. sit still. we shall gain nothing by bolting."

a knight was coming up the slope at a canter. yeoland saw his shield, read it and his name. she went red under her hood, felt her heart beating, wondered at its noise.

youth, aglitter in arms, splendid, triumphant! a face bare to the west, eyes radiant and tender, a great horse reined in on its haunches, a mailed hand that made the sign of the cross!

"madame, your pardon."

he drew balthasar's picture from his bosom and held it before her eyes.

"my torch," he said, "that led me to see your face again."

the girl was silent. her head was thrown back, her slim throat showing, her face turned heavenwards like the face of a woman who is kissed upon the lips.

"you have seen your home?"

"yes, messire."

"god pardon me your sorrow. you see i am no hypocrite. i keep my vows."

"yes, messire."

"madame, let me be forgiven; you have trusted one man, trust another."

she turned her horse suddenly and began to ride towards the black maw of the forest. her lips were tightly closed, and she looked neither to the right nor the left. flavian, a tower of steel, was at her side. armed men ranged in a circle about them. they opened ranks at a sign from their lord, and gave the woman passage.

"madame----"

"messire----"

"am i to be forgiven?"

she was mute a moment, as in thought. then she spoke quietly enough.

"yes, for a vow."

"tell it me."

"if you will never see my face again."

he looked at her with a great smile, drew his sword, and held the point towards her.

"then give me hate."

"messire!"

"hate, not forgiveness, hate, utter and divine, that i may fight and travail, labour and despair."

"messire!"

"hate me, hate me, with all the unreason of your heart. hate me a hundred times, that i may but leap a hundred times into your life. bar me out that i may storm your battlements again and again."

"are you a fool?"

"a glorious, mad, inspired fool."

they were quite near the trees. their black masses threw a great shadow over the pair. higher still the sky burnt.

"madame, whither do you go?"

"where you may not venture, messire."

"god, i know no such region."

she flashed round on him with sudden bitterness.

"go back to your wife. go back to your wife, messire; remember her honour."

it was a home-thrust, but it did not shame or weaken him. he sheathed his sword, and looked at her sadly out of his grey eyes.

"what a world is this," he said, "when heaven comes at last, hell yawns across the path. when summer burns, winter lifts its head. even as a man would grow strong and pure, his own cursed shackles cumber him. to-night i say no more to you. go, madame, pray for me. you shall see my face again."

he let life vanish under the pines, and rode back with the sunset on his armour, his face staring into the rising night. his men came round him, silent statues of steel. he rode slowly, and met his wife.

her eyes were turbulent, her lips red streaks of scorn.

"ha, sire, i have found you."

"madame, i trust you are well?"

they looked at each other askance like angry dogs, as they rode side by side, and the night came down. the men left them to themselves, and went on ahead. a wind grew gusty over the moor.

"messire, i have borne enough from you."

"madame, is it fault of mine?"

his whole soul revolted from her with an immensity of hate. she cumbered, clogged, crushed him. mad brutality leapt in his heart towards her. he could have smitten the woman through with his sword.

"five years ago----" she said.

"you did the wooing. damnation, we have been marvellously happy."

she bit her lip and was white as the moon.

"have a care, messire, have a care."

"threats, threats."

"have a care----"

"look at my shield. have i quartered your arms with mine? god's blood, there is nothing to erase."

"ha!"

"we have no children."

"go on."

"i shall send gold and an embassage to the pope."

she clenched her hands and could not speak for the moment.

"you dare do this?"

"i dare ten thousand greater things than this."

"by god, messire."

"by god, woman, am i going down to hell because you are my wife!"

she grew quiet very suddenly, a dangerous move in a woman.

"very well," she said, "try it, dear lord. i am no fool. try it, i am as strong as you."

and so they rode on towards avalon together.

该作者其它作品

《the red saint》