The Broad Highway

"Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye--who is he that walketh to and

fro in the world, and having eyes, seeth not, and ears, heareth

not--a very Fool of Love?"

Once again the voices cried in answer: "Peter Vibart!--Peter Vibart!"

"Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye--who is he that shall love with

a love mightier than most--who shall suffer greatly for love and

because of it--who shall think of it by day, and dream of it o'

nights--who is he that must die to find love and the fulness of

life?--O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!"

And again from out the green came the soft, hushed chorus: "Peter Vibart--Peter Vibart!"

But, even as I laughed, came one from the wood, with a horse and

armor. And the armor he girded on me, and the horse I mounted.

And there, in the moonlit glade, we fought, and strove together,

my Other Self and I. And, sudden and strong he smote me, so that

I fell down from my horse, and lay there dead, with my blood

soaking and soaking into the grass. And, as I watched, there

came a blackbird that perched upon my breast, carolling

gloriously. Yet, little by little, this bird changed, and lo! in

its place was a new Peter Vibart standing upon the old; and the

New trampled the Old down into the grass, and--it was gone.

Then, with his eyes on the stars, the new Peter Vibart fell

a-singing, and the words I sang were these: "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!"

And thus there came into my heart that which had been all

unknown--undreamed of hitherto, yet which, once there, could

never pass away.

"O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye--who is he that counteth

True-love sweeter than Life--greater than Wisdom--stronger than

Death? O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!"

And the hushed voices chorused softly.

"Peter Vibart--Peter Vibart!" And, while I listened, one by one

the voices ceased, till there but one remained--calling, calling,

but ever soft and far away, and when I would have gone toward

this voice--lo! there stood a knife quivering in the ground before

me, that grew and grew until its haft touched heaven, yet still

the voice called upon my name very softly: "Peter!--Peter!--oh, Peter, I want you!--oh, Peter!--wake! wake!"

I sat up in bed, and, as I listened, grew suddenly sick, and a

fit of trembling shook me violently, for the whisper was still

in my ears, and in the whisper was an agony of fear and dread

indescribable.