A frantic Gracedieu messenger started half a night
behind him, but was stopped on Two Manors Waste by
a party of outlaws, robbed of his letters, and hanged.
Prosper’s dream visited him for two nights of
his journey back, and four nights at High March; but
as no word or other warning came from Gracedieu to
give it point, he grew to have some strange liking
for it, since he knew that it meant nothing. It
gave him new thoughts of Isoult; it convinced him,
for instance, that since the girl was so good she
must be affectionate when you came to know her.
His own share in the nightly performance he could now
set in humorous comparison with his waking state.
He found it difficult to believe in the self of his
dream, and was almost curious to see Isoult that he
might pursue his juxtapositions. At this rate
she filled his waking thoughts as well as his nights.
The Countess was not slow to perceive that Prosper
was changed, and she affected. His songs came
less willingly from him, his sallies were either languid
or too polite to be from the heart of the youth, who
could make hers beat so fast. Thinking that he
wanted work, she devised an expedition for him which
might involve some danger and the lives of a dozen
men. But she counted that lightly. He went
on the fourth day after his return from Gracedieu,
and the expedition proved effectual in more ways than
one.
The dream stopped, and he forgot it.
CHAPTER XV
THREE AT TORTSENTIER
At Tortsentier there was very little daylight, because
the trees about it formed a thick wall. The branches
of the pines tapped at the windows on one side; on
the other they linked arms with their comrades, and
so stood for a mile on all sides of the tower.
Paths there were none, nor ways to come by unless
you were free of the place. The winter storms
moaned, lashed themselves above it, yet below were
hushed down to a long sighing. The quiet visitations
of the snow, the dripping of the autumn rains, the
sun’s force, the trap-bite of the frost, or
that new breath that comes stealing through woodlands
in spring, were all strangers alike to the carpet
of brown needles about Maulfry’s hold.
No birds ever sang there. Death and a great mystery,
the dark, air like a lake’s at noon, kept fur
and feather from Tortsentier, and left Maulfry alone
with what she had.
Within, it was a spacious place. A great hall
ran the whole height (although not the whole area)
of it, having a gallery midway up whence you gained
what other chambers there were. Below the gallery
were deep alcoves hung with tapestry (of which Maulfry
was a diligent worker), and thickened with curtains;
between every alcove hung trophies of shields and
arms. Mossy carpets, skins, and piled cushions
were on the floor; the place smelt of musk: it
was lighted by coloured torches and lamps, and warmed
with braziers. It was by a spiral stair that you
Copyrights
The Forest Lovers from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
