The Dryad

Part 1

THE DRYAD

A Novel

BY JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY

AUTHOR OF "THE LADY OF LOYALTY HOUSE" "THE PROUD PRINCE" "MARJORIE" ETC.

NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS :: MCMV

Copyright, 1905, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

All rights reserved. Published March, 1905.

ΕΙΣ ΤΗΝ ΦΙΛΗΝ ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΗΝ

Most dear, most fair, these pages go To you, who watched this story grow Through days of sun and days of snow, A legend of the Long Ago.

Where Wonder-Wood is all aglow With godlike forms, and far below The bland Athenian breezes blow, The faint Athenian fountains flow.

Take up and read, and reading know How much to you these pages owe Since first we bandied to and fro Sweet fancies, swift to come and go.

J. H. McC.

IX. II. MCMV.

CONTENTS

I. IN THE WONDER-WOOD

II. RAINOUART

III. ARGATHONA

IV. THE MYSTIC ROSE

V. THE SONG OF THE FOREST

VI. LIKE UNTO ADONIS

VII. LOVE IS ENOUGH

VIII. SIMON SPIES

IX. THE DUCHESS OF THEBES

X. SIMON BLOWS OUT HIS LANTERN

XI. THE CATALAN GRAND COMPANY

XII. THE WINDING OF THE HORN

XIII. THE KNIGHT OF ELEUSIS

XIV. THE TRIUMPH OF THEBES

Part 2

XV. THE CHALLENGE OF RAINOUART

XVI. THE TOURNAMENT

XVII. THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

XVIII. AN APPLE OF GOLD

XIX. SIMON THE STALWART

XX. THE PROMISE OF RAINOUART

XXI. THE WINE OF ESCLARAMONDE

XXII. REMEMBER THE GREENWOOD

XXIII. SIMON'S CHARGE

XXIV. THE HONOR OF THE ROCK

XXV. CEPHISSUS

XXVI. THE ANCHORITE

XXVII. THE DREAM OF ARGATHONA

XXVIII. LOVER AND LASS

XXIX. WHAT SIMON FOUND IN THE FOREST

XXX. RENUNCIATION

THE DRYAD

IN THE WONDER-WOOD

Simon of Rouen--Simon, the soldier of fortune--trampled the grass of the Eleusinian wood with a heart as light as his wallet. His garments were wrecks of former splendor, degraded now by the tramping of high-road by day and the sleeping beneath hedge by night; but Simon carried himself as if he bobbed on the high tide of prosperity. A great sword clung to his thigh; his right hand brandished a massive oaken cudgel; a rusty iron lantern hung from his girdle, incongruous enough. He whistled as he went a tripping tune, and now and then he shouted some words to it:

"When I was no more than a span, Honey and gingerbread pleased me highly."

That was the beginning of it, and, for much of the journey, was the middle of it and the end of it as well, for it was Simon's own song, and Simon's first adventure in the lyrical, and Simon was but a child at rhyming. He had a grudge against the world, and he wanted to sing his grievance the better to blow it abroad, but he would have given any man his fist in the face who dared to call him poetical.

It was naught to him that the ground he covered was sown with splendid memories. Truly he knew nothing about them, but he would have cared as little for the condition of his journey had he been wiser. To the mind fanciful those memories might seem as many as the leaves that year by year had greened and withered and fattened the forest soil through long generations of men. Greek gods, Greek kings, Greek heroes, beautiful Greek women, had been the children of that magic land. But Simon, the soldier of fortune, whistling as he fared, cared no jot for his lack of knowledge. Though he had left behind him the land of Agamemnon, and was setting his face steadily towards the city of Theseus, for him Peloponnesus was the place where the French noble dwelt who called himself Duke of Corinth, against whom he nursed his grudge; for him the capital of Attica was the city where the French noble reigned who called himself Duke of Athens, from whom he hoped to gain favor. For Simon, the soldier of fortune, flourished in the dusk of the thirteenth and the dawn of the fourteenth centuries of the world's age since the birth of the world's Saviour; and Simon, the soldier of fortune, took it for granted contentedly that from all time titled French adventurers had held by the hard hand the pleasant land of Greece.

The time of the year was May-time; the time of the day was hard on to sunset. Simon had tramped sturdily since morning and had not broken his fast since noon--his stomach was crying cupboard. There were onions in his wallet, there was nothing in his gourd; he must hope for a spring in the forest to moisten his provender--little cheer. This was why he looked about him so closely as he followed the dubious way between the trees, for his thoughts paid no reverence to the evening glories of the ancient wood.

The young knight whom he had passed on the road an hour or two before saw the forest with other eyes, being a poet and a reader of poets. When Simon, tramping the white highway, had come up with him he was reclining beside his tethered horse in the shade of the trees on the edge of the little wood, reading in a little book. Simon first questioned the young knight if there might be a short cut for him if he quitted the highway and went through the wood. The young knight, laying down his book, answered him that there very well might be such a short cut. But he added that he could not tell him for sure, as he was himself but newly come to Greece. Simon thanked him and decided to try for the short cut. But he saw that the book which the knight held had little painted pictures in it. Simon, ever curious, asked him what he read. The youth answered him civilly that he read what a rhymer had written of a dreamer who became a lover because of his great love for the mystic rose. Whereat Simon grunted his disgust that any one should be fool enough to waste his life in reading of other folk's love-affairs when he might be making love for himself briskly.

"'Tis all one," he averred, "with thinking of tables spread with dainties while the hunger-belt nips your middle."

He had spoken feelingly, for he fasted, and, fasting, fretted. But the young knight carried no provant to temper Simon's edge of appetite, and the young knight smiled at Simon's view of life, and returned to his reading of Good-Greeting and Sweet-Looking and the kiss given to the mystic rose-bud. Whereat Simon rattled angrily the lantern that hung at his girdle and took to his journey again, climbing up the slope into the fringe of the forest, and telling himself as he did so that no man deserved to be called honest who squandered his manhood over love-tales. And so, hot with his scorn, Simon strode into the coolness and the twilight of the wood. If Simon had been travelling from Athens instead of travelling towards Athens he might not have chosen to journey through the wood, at least when night was near. The Athenians believed the wood to be haunted. They knew not why they believed this; they had the tale from their mothers, who had it from their mothers before them; and so the Athenians skirted the forest by day and shunned it by night. The French masters of Attica, taking everything they could take from their Athenian subjects, took their superstitions as well and gave the wood a wide berth. Simon did not know that the forest was haunted; he did think that it made a short cut to go through its avenues instead of following the main road that wound in a great loop below. Others before him that day, ignorant as he, had done as he did--gentles of an ancient guild, devotees of St. Nicholas. If Simon had known of his predecessors it would not have changed his purpose; he still would have chosen to travel by the woodland way.

If Simon had been a poet, like his disdained acquaintance of the road-side, he would have been delighted with the May-day graces of the place--with the new-green livery of the ancient trees; with the deep glades and dim aisles, down which the dying sunlight lingered; with the fantastic shapes that bole and bough put on under the enchantment of the waning day; with all the mystery and piety of the wood. But to Simon a wood, in the main, was a place where enemies love to lurk in ambush, and though Greece was for the hour at peace, custom made Simon look about him as warily as if he walked in time of war. Custom, to his surprise though no whit to his alarm, was justified of her pains. Something glittered in that clump of bushes; something stirred behind that mighty tree. Simon swung his staff to his right hand, and those who waited, guessing themselves detected, came leaping from concealment, left and right, and faced him--two men with drawn swords, ruffians of the kind that follow camps, soldiers in name, robbers in fact and act, never fighters unless the odds were hot on their party. Simon knew the kind well enough and despised them highly, not because they were plunderers, but because they were skulkers, shufflers, fluffers, mean moths in a rich coat. The jack-rascals were clad in habits fitted to their forest play of trap and catch--dull greens and sullen tawnies, good for lurking in, easily commingled, for the unwary, with the green and tawny of a wood. The rogues would have rushed Simon, but he stood so steady and made so mighty a mill-wheel with his monstrous cudgel that they were daunted, and bayed at him.

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