by Owen Wister
CHAPTER III
Reueals the _Dragon_ in his Den
BROTHER HUBERT]
Around the sullen towers of Oyster-le-Main the snow was fallingsteadily. It was slowly banking up in the deep sills of the windows,and Hubert the Sacristan had given up sweeping the steps. Patches ofit, that had collected on the top of the great bell as the slantingdraughts blew it in through the belfry-window, slid down from time totime among the birds which had nestled for shelter in the beams below.From the heavy main outer-gates, the country spread in a whiteunbroken sheet to the woods. Twice, perhaps, through the morning hadwayfarers toiled by along the nearly-obliterated high-road.
"Good luck to the holy men!" each had said to himself as he looked atthe chill and austere walls of the Monastery. "Good luck! and I hopethat within there they be warmer than I am." Then I think it verylikely that as he walked on, blowing the fingers of the hand that heldhis staff, he thought of his fireside and his wife, and blessedProvidence for not making him pious enough to be a monk and abachelor.
This is what was doing in the world outside. Now inside the stonewalls of Oyster-le-Main, whose grim solidity spoke of narrow cells andof pious knees continually bent in prayer, not a monk paced thecorridors, and not a step could be heard above or below in thestaircase that wound up through the round towers. Silence waseverywhere, save that from a remote quarter of the Monastery came afaint sound of music. Upon such a time as Christmas Eve, it might wellbe that carols in plenty would be sung or studied by the saintly men.But this sounded like no carol. At times the humming murmur of thestorm drowned the measure, whatever it was, and again it came alongthe dark, cold entries, clearer than before. Away in a long vaultedroom, whose only approach was a passage in the thickness of the walls,safe from the intrusion of the curious, a company is sitting round acavernous chimney, where roars and crackles a great blazing heap oflogs. Surely, for a monkish song, their melody is most odd; yet monksthey are, for all are clothed in gray, like Father Anselm, and a roperound the waist of each. But what can possibly be in that huge silverrundlet into which they plunge their goblets so often? The song growslouder than ever.
We are the monks of Oyster-le-Main, Hooded and gowned as fools may see; Hooded and gowned though we monks be, Is that a reason we should abstain From cups of the gamesome Burgundie?
Though our garments make it plain That we are Monks of Oyster-le-Main, That is no reason we should abstain From cups of the gamesome Burgundie.
"I'm sweating hot," says one. "How for disrobing, brothers? No dangeron such a day as this, foul luck to the snow!"
Which you see was coarse and vulgar language for any one to be heardto use, and particularly so for a godly celibate. But the words werescarce said, when off fly those monks' hoods, and the waist-ropesrattle as they fall on the floor, and the gray gowns drop down and arekicked away.
Every man jack of them is in black armour, with a long sword buckledto his side.
"Long cheer to the Guild of Go-as-you-Please!" they shouted, hoarsely,and dashed their drinking-horns on the board. Then filled them again.
"Give us a song, Hubert," said one. "The day's a dull one out in theworld."
"Wait a while," replied Hubert, whose nose was hidden in his cup;"this new Wantley tipple is a vastly comfortable brew. What d'ye callthe stuff?"
"Malvoisie, thou oaf?" said another; "and of a delicacy many degreesabove thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thyrefrain without more ado."
"Most unctuous sir," replied Hubert, "in demanding me this favour, youseem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is sweeter than the milk ofHuman Kindness. I'll not sing to give thee an opportunity to outnumberme in thy cups."
And he filled and instantly emptied another sound bumper of theMalvoisie, lurching slightly as he did so. "Health!" he added,preparing to swallow the next.
"A murrain on such pagan thirst!" exclaimed he who had been toasted,snatching the cup away. "Art thou altogether unslakable? Is thy bellya lime-kiln? Nay, shalt taste not a single drop more, Hubert, till wehave a stave. Come, tune up, man!"
"Give me but leave to hold the empty vessel, then," the singerpleaded, falling on one knee in mock supplication.
"Accorded, thou sot!" laughed the other. "Carol away, now!"
They fell into silence, each replenishing his drinking-horn. The snowbeat soft against the window, and from outside, far above them,sounded the melancholy note of the bell ringing in the hour formeditation.
So Hubert began:
When the sable veil of night Over hill and glen is spread, The yeoman bolts his door in fright, And he quakes within his bed. Far away on his ear There strikes a sound of dread: Something comes! it is here! It is passed with awful tread. There's a flash of unholy flame; There is smoke hangs hot in the air: 'Twas the Dragon of Wantley came: Beware of him, beware!
But we beside the fire Sit close to the steaming bowl; We pile the logs up higher, And loud our voices roll.
When the yeoman wakes at dawn To begin his round of toil, His garner's bare, his sheep are gone, And the Dragon holds the spoil. All day long through the earth That yeoman makes his moan; All day long there is mirth Behind these walls of stone. For we are the Lords of Ease, The gaolers of carking Care, The Guild of Go-as-you-Please! Beware of us, beware!
So we beside the fire Sit down to the steaming bowl; We pile the logs up higher, And loud our voices roll.
The roar of twenty lusty throats and the clatter of cups banging onthe table rendered the words of the chorus entirely inaudible.
"Here's Malvoisie for thee, Hubert," said one of the company, dippinginto the rundlet. But his hand struck against the dry bottom. They hadfinished four gallons since breakfast, and it was scarcely eleven goneon the clock!
"Oh, I am betrayed!" Hubert sang out. Then he added, "But there is aplenty where that came from." And with that he reached for his gown,and, fetching out a bunch of great brass keys, proceeded towards atall door in the wall, and turned the lock. The door swung open, andHubert plunged into the dark recess thus disclosed. An exclamation ofchagrin followed, and the empty hide of a huge crocodile, with a pairof trailing wings to it, came bumping out from the closet into thehall, giving out many hollow cracks as it floundered along, fresh froma vigourous kick that the intemperate minstrel had administered in hisrage at having put his hand into the open jaws of the monster insteadof upon the neck of the demijohn that contained the Malvoisie.
"Beshrew thee, Hubert!" said the voice of a new-comer, who stoodeyeing the proceedings from a distance, near where he had entered;"treat the carcase of our patron saint with a more befittingreverence, or I'll have thee caged and put upon bread and water.Remember, that whosoever kicks that skin in some sort kicks me."
"Long life to the Dragon of Wantley!" said Hubert, reappearing, verydusty, but clasping a plump demijohn.
"Hubert, my lad," said the new-comer, "put back that vessel ofinebriation; and, because I like thee well for thy youth and thy sweetvoice, do not therefore presume too far with me."
A somewhat uneasy pause followed upon this; and while Hubert edgedback into the closet with his demijohn, Father Anselm frowned slightlyas his eyes turned upon the scene of late hilarity.
But where is the Dragon in his den? you ask. Are we not coming to himsoon? Ah, but we have come to him. You shall hear the truth. Neverbelieve that sham story about More of More Hall, and how he slew theDragon of Wantley. It is a gross fabrication of some unscrupulous andmediocre literary person, who, I make no doubt, was in the pay of Moreto blow his trumpet so loud that a credulous posterity might hear it.My account of the Dragon is the only true one.