The Story of the Heritage

In the year of grace 1399 (Nicolas begins) dwelt in a hut near Caer Dathyl in Arvon, as he had dwelt for some five years, a gaunt hermit, notoriously consecrate, whom neighboring Welshmen revered as the Blessed Evrawc.  There had been a time when people called him Edward Maudelain, but this period he dared not often remember.

For though in macerations of the flesh, in fasting, and in hour-long prayers he spent his days, this holy man was much troubled by devils.  He got little rest because of them.  Sometimes would come into his hut Belphegor in the likeness of a butler, and whisper, “Sire, had you been King, as was your right, you had drunk to-day not water but the wines of Spain and Hungary.”  Or Asmodeus saying, “Sire, had you been King, as was your right, you had lain now not upon the bare earth but on cushions of silk.”

One day in early spring, they say, the spirit called Orvendile sent the likeness of a fair woman with yellow hair and large blue eyes.  She wore a massive crown which seemed too heavy for her frailness to sustain.  Soft tranquil eyes had lifted from her book.  “You are my cousin now, messire,” this phantom had appeared to say.

That was the worst, and Maudelain began to fear he was a little mad because even this he had resisted with many aves.

There came also to his hut, through a sullen snowstorm, upon the afternoon of All Soul’s day, a horseman in a long cloak of black.  He tethered his black horse and he came noiselessly through the doorway of the hut, and upon his breast and shoulders the snow was white as the bleached bones of those women that died in Merlin’s youth.

“Greetings in God’s name, Messire Edward Maudelain,” the stranger said.

Since the new-comer spoke intrepidly of holy things a cheerier Maudelain knew that this at least was no demon.  “Greetings!” he answered.  “But I am Evrawc.  You name a man long dead.”

“But it is from a certain Bohemian woman I come.  What matter, then, if the dead receive me?” And thus speaking, the stranger dropped his cloak.

He was clad, as you now saw, in flame-colored satin, which shimmered with each movement like a high flame.  He had the appearance of a tall, lean youngster, with crisp, curling, very dark red hair.  He now regarded Maudelain.  He displayed peculiarly wide-set brown eyes; and their gaze was tender, and the tears somehow had come to Maudelain’s eyes because of his great love for this tall stranger.  “Eh, from the dead to the dead I travel, as ever,” said the new-comer, “with a message and a token.  My message runs, Time is, O fellow satrap! and my token is this.”

In this packet, wrapped with white parchment and tied with a golden cord, was only a lock of hair.  It lay like a little yellow serpent in Maudelain’s palm.  “And yet five years ago,” he mused, “this hair was turned to dust.  God keep us all!” Then he saw the tall lean emissary puffed out like a candle-flame; and upon the floor he saw the huddled cloak waver and spread like ink, and he saw the white parchment slowly dwindle, as snow melts under the open sun.  But in his hand remained the lock of yellow hair.