Were they wroth with his glory up there at the court? Who can say?
But we saw our beloved commander no more from that day!
A timely ending thus the minstrel made,
Else the fast-coming tears his tale had stayed;
But for the labourers—they sat intent,
Mute all, with parted lips, and forward bent
As if enchanted. Even when he was done,
For a brief space they seemed to hearken on.
“And such were aye the songs,” said the old man,
“Sung in the good old days when Martha span.
Long-winded, maybe, and the tunes were queer.
But, youngsters, what of that? They suit my ear.
Your new French airs mayhap may finer be;
But no one understands the words, you see!”
Whereon the men, somewhat as in a dream,
From table rose, and to the running stream
They led their patient mules, six yoke in all.
The long vine-branches from a trellised wall
Waved o’er them waiting, and, from time to time,
Humming some fragment of the weaver’s rhyme.
Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone.
A social spirit had the little one,
And she and Vincen chatted happily.
Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see
Meeting and parting, coming still and going
Like aster-flowers when merry winds are blowing.
“Now tell me, Vincen,” thus Mirèio,
“If oftentimes as you and Ambrio go
Bearing your burdens the wild country over,
Some haunted castle you do not discover,
Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet,
While the home-nest is evermore our seat.”
“’Tis even so, my lady, as you think.
Why, currants quench the thirst as well as drink!
What though we brave all weathers in our toil?
Sure, we have joys that rain-drops cannot spoil
The sun of noon beats fiercely on the head,
But there are wayside trees unnumberèd.
“And whenso’er return the summer hours,
And olive-trees are all bedecked with flowers,
We hunt the whitening orchards curiously,
Still following the scent, till we descry
In the hot noontide, by its emerald flash,
The tiny cantharis upon the ash.
“The shops will buy the same. Or off we tramp
And gather red-oak apples in the swamp,
Or beat the pond for leeches. Ah, that’s grand!
You need nor bait nor hook, but only stand
And strike the water, and then one by one
They come and seize your legs, and all is done.
“And thou wert never at Li Santo even!
Dear heart! The singing there must be like heaven.
’Tis there they bring the sick from all about
For healing; and the church is small, no doubt:
But, ah, what cries they lift! what vows they pay
To the great saints! We saw it one fête-day.
“It was the year of the great miracle.
My God, that was a sight! I mind it well.
A feeble boy, beautiful as Saint John,
Lay on the pavement, sadly calling on
The saints to give sight to his poor blind eyes,
And promising his pet lamb in sacrifice.
“‘My little lamb, with budding horns!’ he said,
‘Dear saints!’ How we all wept! Then from o’erhead
The blessed reliquaries came down slowly,
Above the throngèd people bending lowly,
And crying, ‘Come, great saints, mighty and good!
Come, save!’ The church was like a wind-swept wood.
“Then the godmother held the child aloft,
Who spread abroad his fingers pale and soft,
And passionately grasped the reliquaries
That held the bones of the three blessed Maries;
Just as a drowning man, who cannot swim,
Will clutch a plank the sea upheaves to him.
“And then, oh! then,—I saw it with these eyes,—
By faith illumined, the blind boy outcries,
‘I see the sacred relics, and I see
Grandmother all in tears! Now haste,’ said he,
‘My lambkin with the budding horns to bring
To the dear saints for a thank-offering!’
“But thou, my lady, God keep thee, I pray,
Handsome and happy as thou art to-day!
Yet if a lizard, wolf, or horrid snake
Ever should wound thee with its fang, betake
Thyself forthwith to the most holy saints,
Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.”
So the hours of the summer evening passed.
Hard-by the big-wheeled cart its shadow cast
On the white yard. Afar arose and fell
The frequent tinkle of a little bell
In the dark marsh: a nightingale sang yonder;
An owl made dreamy, sorrowful rejoinder.
“Now, since the night is moonlit, so the mere
And trees are glorified, wilt thou not hear,”
The boy besought, “the story of a race
In which I hoped to win the prize?”—“Ah, yes!”
The little maiden sighed; and, more than glad,
Still gazed with parted lips upon the lad.
“Well, then, Mirèio, once at Nismes,” he said,
“They had foot-races on the esplanade;
And on a certain day a crowd was there
Collected, thicker than a shock of hair.
Some shoeless, coatless, hatless, were to run:
The others only came to see the fun.
“When all at once upon the scene appears
One Lagalanto, prince of foot-racers.
In all Provence, and even in Italy,
The fleetest-footed far behind left he.
Yes: Lagalanto, the great Marseillais,—
Thou wilt have heard his name before to-day.
“A leg, a thigh, he had would not look small
By John of Cossa’s, the great seneschal;
And in his dresser many a pewter plate,
With all his victories carved thereon in state;
And you’d have said, to see his scarfs, my lady,
A wainscot all festooned with rainbows had he.
“The other runners, of whate’er condition,
Threw on their clothes at this dread apparition:
The game was up when Lagalanto came.
Only one stout-limbed lad, Lou Cri by name,
Who into Nismes had driven cows that day,
Durst challenge the victorious Marseillais.
“Whereon, ‘Oh, bah!’ cried foolish little I
(Just think!—I only chanced to stand thereby),
‘I can run too!’ Forthwith they all surround me:
‘Run, then!’ Alas! my foolish words confound me;
For I had run with partridges alone,
And only the old oaks for lookers-on.
“But now was no escape. ‘My poor boy, hasten,’
Says Lagalanto, ‘and your latchets fasten.’
Well, so I did. And the great man meanwhile
Drew o’er his mighty muscles, with a smile,
A pair of silken hose, whereto were sewn
Ten tiny golden bells of sweetest tone.
“So ’twas we three. Each set between his teeth
A bit of willow, thus to save his breath;
Shook hands all round; then, one foot on the line,
Trembling and eager we await the sign
For starting. It is given. Off we fly;
We scour the plain like mad,—’tis you! ’tis I!
“Wrapped in a cloud of dust, with smoking hair,
We strain each nerve. Ah, what a race was there!
They thought we should have won the goal abreast,
Till I, presumptuous, sprang before the rest:
And that was my undoing; for I dropped
Pale, dying as it seemed. But never stopped
“The others. On, on, on, with steady gait,
Just like the pasteboard horses at Aix fête.
The famous Marseillais thought he must win
(They used to say of him he had no spleen);
But, ah! my lady, on that day of days,
He found his man,—Lou Cri of Mouriès.
“For now they pass beyond the gazing line,
And almost touch the goal. O beauty mine!
Couldst thou have seen Lou Cri leap forward then!
Never, I think, in mountain, park, or glen,
A stag, a hare, so fleet of foot you’d find.
Howled like a wolf the other, just behind.
“Lou Cri is victor!—hugs the post for joy.
Then all of Nismes comes flocking round the boy,
To learn the birthplace of this wondrous one.
The pewter plate is flashing in the sun,
The hautboys flourish, cymbals clang apace,
As he receives the guerdon of the race.”
“And Lagalanto?” asks Mirèio.
“Why, he upon the ground was sitting low,
Powdered with dust, the shifting folk among,
Clasping his knees. With shame his soul was wrung
And, with the drops that from his forehead fell,
Came tears of bitterness unspeakable.
“Lou Cri approached, and made a modest bow.
‘Brother, let’s to the ale-house arbour now,
Behind the amphitheatre. Why borrow,
Upon this festive day, tears for the morrow?
The money left we’ll drink together thus:
There’s sunshine yet enough for both of us.’
“Then trembling rose the runner of Marseilles,
And from his limbs made haste to tear away
The silken hose, the golden bells. ‘Here, lad’
Raising his pallid face, ‘take them!’ he said.
‘I am grown old; youth decks thee like a swan;
So put the strong man’s gear with honour on.’
“He turned, stricken like an ash the storm bereaves
In summer-time of all its tower of leaves.
The king of runners vanished from the place;
And never more ran he in any race,
Nor even leaped on the inflated hide,
In games at Saint John’s or St. Peter’s tide.”
So Vincen told the story, waxing warm,
Of all he’d seen, before the Lotus Farm.
His cheeks grew red, his eyes were full of light;
He waved his hand to point his speech aright,—
Abundant was the same as showers in May
That fall upon a field of new-mown hay.
The crickets, chirruping amid the dew,
Paused more than once to listen. Often, too,
The bird of evening, the sweet nightingale,
Kept silence; thrilling so at Vincen’s tale,
As aye she harked her leafy perch upon,
She might have kept awake until the dawn.
“Oh, mother!” cried Mirèio, “surely never
Was weaver-lad so marvellously clever!
I love to sleep, dear, on a winter night;
But now I cannot,—it is all too light.
Ah, just one story more before we go,
For I could pass a lifetime listening so!”