early on the morning of the second day, after a good breakfast of oatmeal porridge and skewered beef, he arranged himself on the oaken settle by the hall fire and soon was fast asleep. Sabia's father, who was now at home and of higher spirits and brighter countenance than he had been for some time past, looked at him with a smile, whistled to the dogs and took his way out of doors. A while afterwards, Sabia, coming down from an upper chamber, found the hall empty and deserted. She too was passing out without observing the man on the settle, when a slight sound, something of the nature of a snore, caused her to turn round.
There lay Estercel, a happy man, a smile on his face and himself floating away in some delicious dream of riding or fighting, or swimming, or what not. His right arm was under his head, his left lay carelessly along. Fascinated, she crept nearer and nearer to him. She looked troubled: her eyes had dark rings below them, as though she had not slept. She gazed upon him. The smiling mouth was a little open; she saw the strong jaws and teeth, the young golden beard, the even peaceful breath.
“Ah me!” she thought, “well for the men that they can be so lazy. What would be thought of me if I were to do the like? His labour has been severe, and it may be that his strength is not yet quite recovered since the fever. How great he is in his sleep! He should act of his own free will.”
Fearfully and delicately stretching out her arms with an even motion, her two hands lit like butterflies on the left hand of Estercel. Certainly, he had put on flesh since the day before. The ring stuck in its place. Her heart leaped as she pulled. She looked in his face: no change passed over it, he still smiled on. Gently, she worked the ring round about, and off it came at last: still Estercel smiled on. With a backward glance over her shoulder, the young woman skimmed across the hall and out at the door; but there was a dark look of trouble on her face as she went away with her prize through the heavy sultry air of a clouded August morning.
There is no law in the church to prevent a good priest from catching his own dinner of fish if he chose. Father Machen knew that all things were given to him richly to enjoy: and rich was his enjoyment as he stood by the side of the silver river and watched the fish jump as though in delight at the cloudy morning. He was after the trout. He had some fine ones in his basket already, but there was a big fellow, the king of them all, nose down under a stone in a pool below that he sorely wanted to get. While he was considering whether he should tuck up his cassock and go into the water after him, a faint muttering overhead caused him to look up skyward. From the south, an ugly yellowish whirligig of a cloud was coming up fast, although no wind was stirring: it seemed to be just working along on a wind of its own making. Father Machen glanced up and down the river at the first muttering of the thunder, the fish ceased their jumping. A little witch-wind from nowhere sprang up and ruffled the river's face.
Father Machen cast one look upwards at the ugly sky, another into the water just at the spot where the big trout's tail, inclined upwards, wagged lazily with the motion of the stream. With a sigh, he rolled up his rod and glanced up and down the river bank, trying to make up his mind whether to take shelter from the storm in a copse by the water-side or go up to the castle. He decided to make for the copse, and slinging his basket on his back, he followed the river path along. As he neared the trees, he was surprised to see a small shining object turn and twist through the air and fall with a tiny splash in the river. A moment after, a flash of red light ran thrilling by, and a clap of thunder broke over his head. The father caught up his cassock and ran till he got among the bushes, then he looked about him for a safe harbour from the rain.
Before him at a little distance was the round spreading roof of an old thorn: not so high as to be a mark for the lightning and solid enough for shelter. The rain had already begun to splash and sing upon the leaves. The father bolted, head down, underneath the thorn-tree shelter, disturbing a small brown girl who sat upon the ground. It was Sabia. She rose up in astonishment to greet the father, who saw at once that her eyes were red, and the tears were running upon her cheeks.
“Good-morning to you, daughter,” said the father kindly, and she bowed before him while he extended his hand to her in blessing. “Bound for Ardhoroe I am,” he said, “and bringing my meat with me as usual,” and he showed her his basket. A fresh flash of lightning lit up the dark circle of shade beneath the tree roof, and they both started as the thunder rattled overhead.
“Dirty weather,” said the father cheerfully. “We had better make ourselves comfortable while we may. Sit down, sit down, and I'll do the same. The old bush is thick enough overhead. There are two or three questions I'd like to ask you. First and foremost, what was that you're after throwing in the water?”
“Only an old ring, father,” said Sabia, blushing.
“And what was that old ring made of?” inquired the priest sharply.
“It was gold, father,” said the girl.
“And is the land so rich, and the people so rich, and the church itself so rich that you can afford to throw a gold ring to the fishes?”
The flush on Sabia's face grew deeper. “I don't know,” she stammered, after a long pause, “but there was a sin in the ring. I thought it was best to make away with it.”
“A sin?” said the priest with a suspicious sharpness. “What sin?”
“Out of a little bird's nest it came,” said the girl with a burst of tears.
“That's nonsense,” said the priest, and both of them were so excited now that neither minded the storm. “Sheer folly and nonsense. Talk sense now, or it's the heavy penance I'll put on you, Sabia O'Neill.”
She pulled herself together. “Well, this is all of it,” she said. “There was a body I liked which didn't like me, so I put a ring in a bird's nest for six weeks of the spring and then put it on that person's finger.”
“Well, that's a queer notion,” said the priest. “And what made you see the sin of it at last?”
“I found it was no manner of use, father,” said Sabia, sadly.
“Dear me, dear me,” said the father, considering whether he should pass so flimsy a conviction of sin. “Listen to me now: these sort of heathen enchantments are dangerous to meddle with. God knows what door you may be opening and to what things. The power of the cross is our only safety. Look at that light now, and listen to that awful noise. Can you tell me what's the meaning of that? I'd never be surprised at anything happening myself. But that we have the protection of the church and God's providence, anything might come up out of the water or down with the thunderbolt; and then where would we be?”
A cold trickling from the tree-roof struck the back of Sabia's neck and made her look anxiously about. The river glimmered just as usual through the double veils of leaf and rainfall, and the thunder was moving away to the north. At her feet, a great black snail with a barred brown shell crawled across and lifted suddenly half his length to stare into her face. At sight of that black eyeless countenance, those waving horns, a shudder passed over Sabia, and she buried her face in her hands. She hoped she would not see that snail again grown as big as any horse in her dreams.
“Well, well, daughter,” said the priest more gently, seeing that she was impressed. “You need not trouble yourself over-much. The spell after all was not malignant or dangerous. The ring itself may be purified by devoting it to a holy use, could we only recover it.” He rose up and peered through the branches of the thorn. The rain was leaving off, so he stepped out followed by Sabia. The river had risen already, and the water was swirling and thick.
“Just there it was that it fell, wasn't it?” said the priest. “Ah, well, the water's too dirty now to see anything. I'll send a boy I know and can trust to look for it tomorrow. We'll put a stone to mark the place.” He looked about for a stone, found one whiter than the rest and rolled it up to the edge of the water for a mark. Taking some red clay from the bank, he made a cross upon it to denote that here was property of the church.
Chapter XXXII. A Small Quarrel
On reaching Ardhoroe, Sabia ran straight upstairs. As she passed the narrow window, something bade her look out. Below was a strip of hill, and presently across it went Estercel stooping low over the ground as though he were seeking something. A moment after, he was followed by Owen in the same attitude. Sabia would not have been a girl if she had not laughed; laughed in spite of her sorrow; but silently, for there was no need to attract attention to herself. Changing her mind about remaining in her chamber, she arranged her hair and dress, and then, slipping quietly downstairs into the hall, she drew out her big wool wheel and sat down in a dark corner to spin. On the settle by the fire slumbered the priest. He had been up early that morning, had walked far and fished a good dozen of fine fish. The serving men and women went to and fro setting the tables for the mid-day meal with loaves of wheaten bread, wooden platters and one or two of silver, pitchers of home-brewed ale and mead.
By and by in came Estercel. Discontent was on his face. He looked moodily about the hall never seeing Sabia in her corner or else taking her for one of the maidens. After him followed Owen. Respecting the priest's slumbers, Estercel remained near the door while he talked with Owen. They pitched their voices low, but Sabia's ears were sharp, and she heard them very well.
“I'm fairly beat,” said Estercel. “The ring was on my finger as I left the house. I saw it as plain as I see you. I did but walk down to the river and sit on the bridge, when the lightning fell all around me, and the most fearful and ear-splitting and desperate clap of thunder well-nigh burst my ears, and that very moment the ring was gone!”
Owen shook his head gravely. “I do not like the look of it at all,” he said. “I wish there may be no ill-luck coming this way. That was no natural storm. It came up so quick and was so quick in passing. A nasty, ugly, and unnatural look it had. I wish someone we know be not at the bottom of this. For take notice that storm came up out of the south. Come here, Dermot,” said he, beckoning to a tall lad who came in with a pitcher. “I think there have been none of those appearances we know of while we were down south?”
The lad came over, his eyes starting out of his head. “Not one at all. We've been as comfortable as crows in a nest all the time you've been away, thanks be to God for that same. But you'll scarcely believe what I'm telling when I say that old Ronnat is now in the kitchen talking at a hard gallop of what she seen a while back. Will I bring her up, and you can hear for yourselves?”
While the lad was gone to fetch Ronnat, Estercel and Owen talked in low tones by the door. Sabia from her dark corner behind her humming wheel looked across at Father Machen. His eyes were apparently closed, his hands folded. But even as she looked, one eyelid lifted and disclosed half an eye so expressive of peace, good counsel, and holy innocence, that Sabia was thankful to dive once more behind her wheel.
The old woman came hobbling in, her hair flying in grey wisps from under the hood of her scarlet cloak.
“Ah, dear, ah, dear! and so the ring is lost? Well, and it will be herself that has got it, sure enough. Am I not after seeing her in the broad daylight? Up the hill she came, looking and peering for someone or something, and I saw the lightning flying round her head, and her hair as bright as the lightning itself. Like this she held out her arms — and with a wild gesture the old woman flung out her hands — and, oh, but she had the sad seeking face upon her.”
“Did you know her again?” asked Estercel.
“Ay, well I know her,” cried Ronnat. “Many's the time I've sat at her father's hearth and seen her they called Meraud dancing out on the floor, yes, and backing the wildest horse in stall. Ay, she was the grandest woman in Erin, as you, Estercel, are the grandest man. Much I fear I'll never set eyes on her again. Those that leave and go away in youth and strength and beauty do hardly ever come back. But wherever she is, she's in need of help this minute, and though she were in a queen's palace, my voices tell me she's wanting him,” and she pointed with her finger at Estercel.
Ronnat was well known to have the gift of second sight: so wild and so convinced were her words and her gestures, that all who heard her felt the cold thrill of supernatural fear. Though Sabia and the priest knew right well where was the ring, they were both distressed. Both were equally convinced that the spirit of the red-haired woman was out seeking Estercel. If she had not found the ring, well, she might do so yet.
The priest sat up straight upon the settle. Sabia in her corner trembled with strange fears. What if this woman were really coming for Estercel? What if he obeyed and followed the beckoning spirit till he came before her very face, and home and country knew him no more? Her wheel stopped and her head sank low.
Then the master of the house appeared in the door. There was a great stir and racket. Men and maids hurried in carrying steaming dishes of fish and meat. Soon, thirty souls were seated round the great table, the dogs waited behind, and the heads of children bobbed about the door.
O'Neill sat with Sabia on one side of him and the priest on the other. He was cheerful, nearly gay. Though he had little room in his head for anything save the ordering of the war, yet it pleased him that the people spoke daily more and more of the discretion and even of the wisdom of his daughter. He glanced sideways more than once at her during the meal and was pleased to remark, as he had never done before, the fine small lines of beauty and the strength and directness of the brows and eyes when they faced him. The inevitable thought occurred to him, “A thousand pities she was not a boy,” followed by the thought, “Ah, well, she makes no bad lieutenant here at home: better than a wild lad at any rate.” Being in fine spirits himself, he never remarked the oppression that hung over every one at the table: an oppression that drove Sabia out of doors the first moment she could decently escape, leaving dogs, children, and servants to dispute the remains of the meal.
She ran down to hide herself in the margin of the thick deep woods and, sitting on a fallen log, gave herself to thought.
“Now,” she said to herself, “I have thrown my all away. My father doesn't love me; my nurse grows daily more feeble; I cannot abide these two dreadful aunts who are to come and rule over me, since she is grown so weak. In casting away the ring I am like a drowning creature that has loosed hold. I don't care to live unloved in a world where men ride and fight and burn and starve and slay. There is no place for women; no time for learning or civility. I will go back to the dear sisters of my convent at Rouen. I cannot fight a spirit.”
With a shiver, she gazed around her: the air had cleared after the storm; shafts of sunlight pierced between the leaves and fell upon the ground about her in many pretty circles of light and shade and half-shade. Near her, four thrushes, full-grown and full-fledged, fat and lazy, hopped all together in a bunch, crying out in lamentable voices for their parents to come and feed them. And as she watched them idly, while thinking her sad thoughts, the little parents came, smaller than the children, thinned down with hard work, their mouths full of worms and caterpillars which they might not eat. A great noise they made all together.
In a fright, she turned her head: something was moving among the tree-trunks. She thought, “If it is the red-haired one, I shall die.” She sat as close as a mouse, watching and waiting. Something light-coloured was moving along the borders of the wood. In another moment, she guessed it was Estercel, and in that moment her mind was made up that she would question him. Slowly, he came along. Sometimes he looked on the ground: then she laughed to herself and thought, “He is looking for the ring.” Sometimes he stood upright and looked about him, and then she sighed and thought, “He is looking for that other one.”
Slowly he came, looking about him to left and right. Sabia sat so still that he would have passed her, taking her for a brown tree stem, but for the glimmering of her face. Then he came readily forward and seated himself beside her without a word.
“Well, Sabia,” he said at last, looking heavily on the ground; “your ring is gone.”
It was hard for the girl to say anything to this, so she remaine
d silent.
“I ought to have minded it better,” he said presently.
She tried to speak to this, but only brought out a murmur which soon died away.
“I wonder who has it now,” he said, still looking on the ground.
“God knows,” said Sabia, thinking of the fishes. “But I wonder that you trouble yourself about it, a small thing like that.”
“It is not so much the loss of the ring itself,” said Estercel seriously, “as the thought that some person may have obtained power over me by finding it. There is a charm in the ring as you well know.”
“I shall not pretend that I did not hear what old Ronnat said to you,” said Sabia. “She talked so loud that the whole house heard her. I have gone in fear ever since lest I should meet the red-haired individual. Estercel, since she loves you so dear, would it not be well for you to rid the rest of us of an undesired presence by going after her yourself?”
Estercel was thunderstruck. “And is that the way you speak to me?” he said to her; “with the tongue and the look of the enemy, you that I thought were my friend?”
The girl hung her head and was silent. “I am going back to the convent of the White Sisters,” she said at last. “There will be no witches there at least. But I would like to part friends with you, Estercel.”
Estercel's astonishment was very great. He looked at her: there she sat, so meek and small, with a white face and no appearance of a nasty bitter temper upon her. But then, how soft does the dove seem, and yet what an angry fighting bird! Estercel moved nearer to her; he placed his broad hand on her shoulder.
“What is the matter with you?” he said severely. “It appears to me that you are talking great foolishness. Is it any fault of mine if …” and here he paused.
“Take away your hand. I will not be touched,” said she angrily. “And finish your sentence. 'Any fault of yours if …?' There must be strange matter in your heart of hearts, Estercel, for you to be followed by witches. Ay, tell me truly now,” and she turned and faced him straight: “this woman with the red hair that they say loved you, that had you thrown in prison and took you out again as the whole country knows, is not your heart with her and hers with you that she should come here after you?”
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