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Page 38
But best she loved them when there came a transient peace to both; and
looking upon them laid embraced in the shadow-casting moonbeam, not
even she could undoubtingly touch the brow of each beneath their
likened hair, and say this is the elder, and this the dreamless
younger of the boys.
Seeing, too, my eyes cast upon the undecipherable letters of the tomb
by which we sat, she told me how that once, near before dawn, she had
awoke in the twilight to find their places empty where the children
had lain at her side, and had sought on, at last to find them even
here, weeping and quarrelling, and red with anger. Little by little,
and with many tears, she had gleaned the cause of their quarrel--how
that, like very children, they had run a race at cockcrow, and all
these stones and the slender bones and ashes beneath to be the prize;
and how that, running, both had come together to the goal set, and
both had claimed the victory.
"Yet both seem happy now to share it," I said, "or how else were they
comforted?" Nor did I consider before she told me that they will run
again when they be grown men, Sleep and Death, in just such a thick
darkness before dawn; and one called Love will then run with them, who
is very vehement and fleet of foot, and never turns aside, nor
falters. He who then shall win may ask a different prize. For truth to
tell, she said, only children can find delight for long in dust and
ruin.
At that moment Death himself came hastening to his mother, and, taking
her hand, turned to the enormous picture of the skies as if in some
faint apprehension. But Sleep saw nothing amiss, lay at full length
among the "cool-rooted flowers," while Rosinante grazed beside him.
I told her also, in turn, of my journey; and that although transient,
or everlasting, solace of all restlessness and sorrow and too-wild
happiness may be found in them, yet men think not often on these
divine children.
"As for this one," I said, looking down into the pathless beauty of
Death's grey eyes, "some fear, some mock, some despise him; some
violently, some without complaint pursue; most men would altogether
dismiss, and forget him. He is but a child, no older than the sea, no
stranger than the mountains, pure and cold as the water-springs. Yet
to the bolster of fever his vision flits; and pain drags a heavy net
to snare him; and silence is his echoing gallery; and the gold of
Sleep his final veil. They shall play on; and see, lady, flame has
left the clouds; the birds are at rest. The earth breathes in, and it
is day; and exhales her breath, and it is night. Let them then play
secret and innocent between her breasts, comfort her with silence
above the tempest of her heart.... But I!--what am I?--a traveller,
footsore and far."
And then it was that I became conscious of a warm, sly, youthful hand
in mine, and turned, half in dread, to see only happy Sleep laughing
under his glistening hair into my eyes. I strove in vain against his
sorcery; rolled foolish orbs on that pure, starry face; and then I
smelled as it were rain, and heard as it were tempestuous
forest-trees--fell asleep among the tombs.
XIII
_I warmed both hands before the fire of life._
--WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
Surely some hueless poppy blossomed in the darkness of those ruins, or
the soulless ashes of the dead breathe out a drowsy influence. Never
have I slept so heavily, yet never perhaps beneath so cold a tester.
Sunbeams streaming between the crests of the cypresses awoke me. I
leapt up as if a hundred sentinels had shouted--where none kept
visible watch.
An odour of a languid sweetness pervaded the air. There was no wind to
stir the dew-besprinkled trees. The old, scarred gravestones stood in
a thick sunshine, afloat with bees. But Rosinante had preferred to
survey sunshine out of shade. In lush grass I found her, the picture
of age, foot crook'd, and head dejected.
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