The Broad Highway

He bestrode a powerful black charger, and his armor glittered

through the green. And, as he rode beneath the leafy arches of

the wood, he lifted up his voice, and sang, and the song was

mournful, and of a plaintive seeming, and rang loud behind his

visor-bars; therefore, as I sat beside the freshet, I hearkened

to his song: "For her love I carke, and care,

For her love I droop, and dare,

For her love my bliss is bare.

And I wax wan!"

Forth he rode from the shadowy woodland, pacing very solemn and

slow; and thrice he struck his iron hand upon his iron breast.

"For her love, in sleep I slake,

For her love, all night I wake,

For her love, I mourning make

More than any man!"

Now, being come to where I sat beside the brook, he checked his

horse, and gazed full long upon me, and his eyes shone from the

gloom of his helmet.

"Messire," quoth be; "how like you my song?"

"But little, sir--to be plain with you, not a whit," I answered.

"And, beseech you--wherefore?"

"Because it is folly--away with it, for, if your head be full of

such, how shall you achieve any lasting good--Glory, Learning,

Power?" But, sighing, he shook his head; quoth he: "O Blind One!--Glory is but a name, Learning but a yearning

emptiness, and whither leadeth Ambition? Man is a mote dancing

in a sun-ray--the world, a speck hanging in space. All things

vanish and pass utterly away save only True-love, and that

abideth everlastingly; 'tis sweeter than Life, and stronger than

Death, and reacheth up beyond the stars; and thus it is I pray

you tell me--where is she?"

"She?"

"She whom ye love?"

"I love no woman," said I.

"Liar!" cried he, in a terrible voice, and the voice was the

voice of Black George.

"And who are you that says so?" I demanded, and stood upon my

feet.

"Look--behold and know thyself, O Blind and more than blind!"

And, leaning down, he raised his visor so that the moonlight fell

upon his face, and the face I looked upon was my own; and, while

I gazed, he lifted up his voice, and cried: "Ye Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye--who is he that rideth in

the green, dreaming ever of her beauty, and sighing forth his

love everlastingly, Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye?"

And out of the gloom of the wood, from every rustling leaf and

opening bud, came a little voice that rose and blended in a soft,

hushed chorus, crying: "Peter Vibart--Peter Vibart!"