OWEN WISTER Ultimate Collection: Western Classics, Adventure & Historical Novels (Including Non-Fiction Historical Works). Owen WisterЧитать онлайн книгу.
Oyster-le-Main the length of a slow procession began to grow. The gray gowns hung to the earth straight with scarce any waving as the men walked. The heavy hoods reached over each face so there was no telling its features. None in the court-yard spoke at all, as the brooding figures passed in under the gateway and proceeded to the door of the bear-pit, singing always. Howlings that seemed born of terror now rose from the imprisoned monster; and many thought, “evidently the evil beast cannot endure the sound of holy words.”
Elaine in her white dress now gazed from an upper window, seeing her lover with his enemies drawing continually closer around him.
Perhaps it was well for him that his death alone would not have served to lock their secret up again; that the white maiden in the window is ready to speak the word and direct instant vengeance on them and their dragon if any ill befall that young man who stands by the iron door.
The song of the monks ended. Sir Godfrey on the steps was wondering why Father Anselm did not stand out from the rest of the gray people and explain his wishes. “Though he shall not interrupt the sport, whatever he says,” thought the Baron, and cast on the group of holy men a less hospitable eye than had beamed on his other guests. Geoffrey over at the iron door, surrounded by the motionless figures, scanned each hood narrowly and soon met the familiar eyes of Hubert. Hubert’s gown, he noticed, bulged out in a manner ungainly and mysterious. “Open the door,” whispered that youth. At once Geoffrey began to turn the key. And at its grinding all held their breath, and a quivering silence hung over the court. The hasty drops pattered down from the eaves from the snow that was melting on the roof. Then some strip of metal inside the lock sprung suddenly, making a sharp song, and ceased. The crowd of monks pressed closer together as the iron door swung open.
What did Geoffrey see? None but the monks could tell. Instantly a single roar more terrible than any burst out, and the huge horrible black head and jaws of the monster reared into the view of Sir Godfrey and his guests. One instant the fearful vision in the door-way swayed with a stiff strange movement over the knot of monks that surrounded it, then sank out of sight among them. There was a sound of jerking and fierce clanking of chains, mingled with loud chanting of pious sentences. Then a plume of spitting flame flared upward with a mighty roar, and the gray figures scattered right and left. There along the ground lay the monster, shrivelled, twisted in dismal coils, and dead. Close beside his black body towered Father Anselm, smoothing the folds of his gray gown. Geoffrey was sheathing his sword and looking at Hubert, whose dress bulged out no longer, but fitted him as usual.
“We have been vouchsafed a miracle,” said Father Anselm quietly, to the gaping spectators.
“There’ll be no burning,” said Geoffrey, pointing to the shrunken skin. But though he spoke so coolly, and repelled all besieging disturbance from the fortress of his calm visage and bearing, as a bold and haughty youth should do, yet he could scarcely hold his finger steady as it pointed to the blackened carcase. Then all at once his eyes met those of Elaine where she watched from her window, and relief and joy rushed through him. He stretched his arms towards her, not caring who saw, and the look she sent him with a smile drove all surrounding things to an immeasurable distance away.
“Here indeed,” Father Anselm repeated, “is a miracle. Lo, the empty shell! The snake hath shed his skin.”
“This is very disappointing,” said Sir Godfrey, bewildered. “Is there no dragon to roast?”
“The roasting,” replied the Abbot, impressively, “is even now begun for all eternity.” He stretched out an arm and pointed downward through the earth. “The evil spirit has fled. The Church hath taken this matter into her own hands, and claims yon barren hide as a relic.”
“Well,—I don’t see why the Church can’t let good sport alone,” retorted Sir Godfrey.
“Hope she’ll not take to breaking up my cock-fights this way,” muttered the Count de Gorgonzola, sulkily.
“The Church cares nothing for such profane frivolities,” observed Father Anselm with cold dignity.
“At all events, friends,” said Sir Godfrey, cheering up, “the country is rid of the Dragon of Wantley, and we’ve got a wedding and a breakfast left.”
Just at this moment a young horseman rode furiously into the court-yard.
It was Roland, Sir Godfrey’s son. “Great news!” he began at once. “Another Crusade has been declared—and I am going. Merry Christmas! Where’s Elaine? Where’s the Dragon?”
Father Anselm’s quick brain seized this chance. He and his monks should make a more stately exit than he had planned.
“See,” he said in a clear voice to his monks, “how all is coming true that was revealed to me this night! My son,” he continued, turning to young Roland, “thy brave resolve reached me ere thou hadst made it. Know it has been through thee that the Dragon has gone!”
Upon this there was profound silence.
“And now,” he added solemnly, “farewell. The monks of Oyster-le-Main go hence to the Holy Land also, to battle for the true Faith. Behold! we have made us ready to meet the toil.”
His haughty tones ceased, and he made a sign. The gray gowns fell to the snow, and revealed a stalwart, fierce-looking crew in black armour. But the Abbot kept his gray gown.
“You’ll stay for the wedding?” inquired Sir Godfrey of him.
“Our duty lies to the sea. Farewell, for I shall never see thy face again.”
He turned. Hubert gathered up the hide of the crocodile and threw a friendly glance back at Geoffrey. Then again raising their song, the black band slowly marched out under the gate and away over the snow until the ridge hid them from sight, and only their singing could be heard in the distant fields.
“Well,” exclaimed Sir Godfrey, “it’s no use to stand staring. Now for the wedding! Mistletoe, go up and tell Miss Elaine. Hucbald, tell the organist to pipe up his music. And as soon as it’s over we’ll drink the bride’s health and health to the bridegroom. ’Tis a lucky thing that between us all the Dragon is gone, for there’s still enough of my Burgundy to last us till midnight. Come, friends, come in, for everything waits your pleasure!”
Reader, if thou hast found thy Way thus far,
Sure then I’ve writ beneath a lucky Star;
And Nothing so becomes all Journeys’ Ends
As that the Travellers should part as Friends.
Lin McLean
THE WINNING OF THE BISCUIT-SHOOTER
DEDICATION
MY DEAR HARRY MERCER: When Lin McLean was only a hero in manuscript, he received his first welcome and chastening beneath your patient roof. By none so much as by you has he in private been helped and affectionately disciplined, an now you must stand godfather to him upon this public page.
Always yours,
OWEN WISTER
Philadelphia,