The dryad

When Simon had made some little way into the wood he quitted the animal all-fours, irksome to one already stiff and weary, for the natural carriage of man, and made to think things over and to look about him. The latter was difficult to do, at least to any great advantage. More frequent clouds now scumbled the sky and huddled in dull clumps between moon and earth, wherefore in the dense wood the darkness was so thick that Simon felt as if he could pluck pieces out of it as out of a palpable pall or curtain. But Simon was not discomfited, Simon was not at a loss. "Here," he murmured, sagaciously, "comes in the wisdom of your philosophic lantern." Squatting cautiously in the darkness, after assuring himself by preliminary pattings of the absence of any hostile snags, he fumbled in his pouch till he found flint, steel, and tinder-box. Then after the habitual preliminary pains and failures that darkened the lives of those that sought illumination, he succeeded in getting a light and applying it gingerly to the candle in its iron house. When the wick began to burn freely he hasped the door and felt less lonely and astray. Through the thin plates of horn a pale yellow light flowed dimly, showing like some civic lamp of fish-oil seen through a fog. But it was at least bright enough to enable Simon to distinguish where he was for a few paces in any direction, and to protect himself when he started walking again from crashing with unnecessary vehemence into unexpected tree-trunks.

What was less to the purpose was that the flickering wick seemed to stir from slumber all manner of moths and midges, which hustled in their myriads about lantern and lantern-carrier with a wholly unnecessary activity. But if their attentions called for a brave display of philosophy, this was all in the part of one who carried the lantern of Diogenes.

Having looked about him, Simon now proceeded to think things over. All the events that had followed upon the unexpected arrival of the duchess had passed so swiftly that he knew they had taken little time in the happening. He had not the least idea where he was or what he should do next. He wanted, in the second place, the road to Athens, but he did not know where to find it; also he wanted in the first place to see the woodland maid again, but he did not know where to find her. He was still more than three-quarters inclined to think her mad. A lonely life in the forest had no doubt unhinged her pretty wits, and led her to credit all sorts of gossamer nonsense about immortality and forgotten gods. But were she the maddest witch that ever straddled a broomstick she was as fair as fair, and it occurred to the lantern-carrier hopefully that perhaps now that her prince was thus beraped from her she might be more willing to let Master Simon from Corinth play lieutenant.

After a while he decided that the best thing for him to do was to try to find his way back to the glade whence young Athens had been carried, for thither the wood-maid was sure to come with the healing herbs for her lover, and Simon's strongest purpose was the wish to see her again. He groped his way slowly through the trees, oathing free at sundry awkward bumps and stumbles, and endeavoring painfully to retrace his steps over a soil that gave no indication of his passage. But he moved with fair confidence served by occasional glimpses of the moon, and sure that by this time the duchess would have vanished from the goal at which he aimed. Fortune rewarded him. He had not travelled very far when he caught a glimpse of a clearing through the trees, and hastening his speed he soon broke from the wood and found that he had, indeed, returned to the scene of the night's adventure. Here was the glade newly trampled with the coming and going of many feet, here were the marks of horses' hoofs on the grass, here was the slight hollow in the turf where the youth's body had lain. The place seemed strangely deserted now which had so short a while before been populous. Surely the girl would come soon, Simon thought. He lowered his lantern to the ground and humped himself beside it, resolved on waiting, and wishing he had a store of food and drink with him to cheer the waiting-time. He had not long to wait. There came a gleam of whiteness through the trees, the gleam of a white body garmented in white stuff.

Another moment and Argathona emerged from the forest and came running across the grass towards him. She was holding the skirts of her smock in both hands to form a kind of sack, and in this sack she carried herbs. As she came near to Simon she shook what she carried in a heap upon the sward and leaped forward to where her lover had lain. Then she gave a great cry as she saw that Simon sat there alone.

Simon was glad to see the girl again, but sorely against his will he found himself a sharer in her sorrow, and could almost have wished young Athens back again between them to conjure away the pathos of her look. He rose up to answer her, honestly sorry for her flagrant sorrow, painfully conscious that it was not for him to bring her consolation.

"In your absence there came a great lady riding by, the duchess she of Thebes, no less, with a large escort. She saw your young gentleman sprawling on his back in the moonlight, and, seeing him, seemed to know him and to show a fancy for his fair face. So when she had tickled him out of his swoon she persuaded him, as I take it, for her voice carried far and I could catch snatches of her speech in the stillness, that you were no more than the doll of a dream and that it was she, the duchess, who had tended him in his time of peril, she who had changed troth with him, she who had taken his ring which indeed lay on the grass for any chance-by to handle, she who had given him a ring in exchange, for indeed she did thrust a ring on his finger while he slumbered. I suppose in the end he gobbled her story, which seemed, on the face of it, plain and specious. Anyway, she gave him wine to drink which sent him to sleep like a baby, and so without more ado she bundled him off to Athens."

Simon paused after this patter of narrative. To his surprise the girl had mastered her instant grief, and her countenance carried its former air of sweet serenity. The tears had dried from her eyes; the fear had faded from her cheeks; only she seemed to regard Simon now with cold, accusing mien.

"Did you do nothing to stay her?" she asked, and there was that stroke of reproach in her voice which made Simon feel, he knew not exactly why, as if he had betrayed a friend. But he answered bluffly enough, putting a bold face on his conduct, for, after all, maugre her strength, she was only a slip of a she-wizard and he a bearded man little accountable to such jills.

"I am a soldier of fortune," he blustered, "and it is not the way of my trade to take sides in a squabble unless I be paid for it. But if I had been fool enough to thrust my nose into another's quarrel, there was nothing of any purpose to do, for my high-mighty lady the duchess had fifty or so stout fellows with her, more than I could tackle. I was in a kind my lady's prisoner, and if I had not contrived to slip aside into the wood while she was plying him with the wine it is like she would have carried me, too, to Athens, and indeed it was not part of my plans to travel thither in such fashion."

Argathona seemed to be listening to Simon, but in truth she was paying little heed to his surly speech. She was looking steadfastly at the white ribbon of road which skirted the glade and ran, a highway, to Athens, and her face showed only the composure of a noble hope.

"He may live content enough with his bargain," he asserted. "Lady Esclaramonde of Thebes is a great lady and a wealthy and a fair, with broad lands for her dower—a better match, saving your presence, for young Athens than a wood-wench in a wood."

"You do not understand us," she said. "If it were for his welfare to leave me I would not hinder him. If it made for his happiness, now and hereafter, to dwell with this woman I would not hurt his life. But I have looked into his eyes and I know that he loves me as I love him."

Simon resented sharply this harping on a single string. The Athenian prince was not the only man in the world, nor the only man in Greece. There was a stout fellow at that moment, hailing lately from Corinth and earlier from Rouen, well worthy of any maid's eye.

"Be wise," he counselled, jovially, slapping his broad chest. "The boy has gone and there is an end of the adventure. Let by-gones be by-gones, and look more favorably upon one whom war and the world have mellowed to a ripe prime. A green goose makes a sour sweetheart. Here is a trained hawk to your hand. I will abide with you in the woodland cheerfully if you give me the wink of a lid."

Simon felt that he was acting most handsomely, and he beamed. But Argathona surveyed him with very much that show of scorn which an armed and haughty amazon might have vouchsafed to some woosome, presuming satyr who dared to waylay her on a hunting morning.

"I shall find my way to my lover," she cried, and her voice rang in his hearing like the hunter's horn at the find of the deer. "My lover needs me; my lover is in danger; wherever he is my lover is alone without me as I am alone without him. I know that it were better for both of us not to be than to exist apart."