BLACK MAGIC. Bowen Marjorie
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would not have believed it possible to find in himself such care over a trivial thing as he now took over this little bird’s grave, for he knew she watched him with judgment in her eyes.
The unholy day-dreams that had vexed and enthralled him were completely forgotten in this new feeling.
The lines of a verse he had not noticed when he read it came back to him, beating in his head.
“Pleasant is she of a fair white favour,
Sweet her caress as the ripe grape’s flavour.
And her lips are like the rose in their savour.
Seeing her my pulses quicken.
I turn from common things and sicken.
For the quiet wood where the May buds thicken.
Hearing her my breath is taken,
My bold heart bowed and shaken,
And I from sloth at last awaken.”
He dug into the soft brown earth with the point of his knife, lined the grave with leaves, and picked up the little bird.
For a moment he held it in his hand as she had done.
And he dared not look at her.
Then he laid it in the ground and replaced the grass and daisies.
When he raised his head, his face flushed from stooping, he saw that she was no longer watching him, but she had turned sideways and was gazing at the distant woods.
He had leisure now to mark the details of her appearance.
Though slender she was of a full make and tall; her brows were very arched and darker than her hair, her mouth dipped at the corners and was firmly set; she seemed of a grave manner and very modest in her bearing.
Theirry rose from his knees; she turned. “I thank you,” she said; then, on a quick breath —“do you often come here?”
He answered foolishly.
“Nay — never before — I did not know the place.”
“That is my home yonder,” said the lady.
“Yours?” and he pointed to the castle walls.
“Yea. I am an orphan, and the Emperor’s ward.”
She looked at the point of her shoe showing beneath her pale crimson robe. “What town do you come from?” she asked.
“Courtrai.”
“I know no town save Frankfort.”
A silence fell between them; the wicked grey cat walked in a stately manner along the edge of the stream.
“I shall lose her,” said the lady. “Good even, gentle clerk. My name is Jacobea of Martzburg. Perhaps I shall see you again.”
He had never felt more desirous of speaking, never less capable; he murmured ——“I do hope it,” and coloured burningly at his awkwardness.
She gave him a half look, a flash from grave grey eyes, instantly veiled, and with an unsmiling mouth bade him again, “Good even.”
Then she was gone after the cat.
He saw her hasten down the side of the stream, her dress bending the grasses and leaves; he saw her stoop and snatch up the creature, and, holding it in her arms, take the path towards those lordly gates. He hoped she might look back and see that he gazed after her, but she did not turn her head, and when the last flutter of pale red had disappeared he moved reluctantly from the place.
The sky was gay with sunset; as he walked through the wood, bars of orange light fell athwart the straight pine trunks and made a glitter on his path; he thought neither of those things that had occupied him when he had passed through these trees before, nor of the lady he had left; in his mind reigned a golden confusion, in which everything was unformed and exquisite; he had no wish and no ability to reduce this to definite schemes, hopes or fears, but walked on, enwrapped with fancies.
On the slopes that adjoined the garden of the college Theirry came upon a little group of students lying on the grass.
Just beyond them the others were standing; Dirk noticeable by his rich dress and elegant bearing, and another youth whom Theirry knew for Joris of Thuringia.
A glance told him there were words between them; even from where he stood he could see Dirk was white and taut, Tons hot and flushed.
He crossed the grass swiftly; he knew that it was their policy to avoid quarrels in the college. “Sirs, what is this?” he asked.
The students looked at him; some seemed amused, some excited; his heart gave a sick throb as he saw that their glances were both unfriendly and doubtful.
One gave him half-scornful information.
“Thy friend was caught with an unholy forbidden book, though he denies it; he cast it into the river sooner than allow us a sight of it, and now he is bitter with Joris’ commentary thereon.” Dirk saw Theirry, and turned his pale face towards him.
“This churl insulted me,” he said; “yea, laid hands on me.”
A burst of half angry, half good-humoured laughter came from Joris.
“I cannot get the little youth to fight — by Christus his Mother! he is afraid because I could break his neck between my finger and thumb!”
Dirk flashed burning eyes over him.
“I am not afraid, never could I fear such as thee; but neither my profession nor my degree permit me to brawl — be silent and begone.”
The tone could not fail to rouse the other.
“Who art thou,” he shouted —“to speak as if thou wert a noble’s son? I did but touch thy arm to get the book —”
The rest joined in.
“Certes, he did no more, and what was the book?”
Dirk held himself very proudly.
“I will no more be questioned than I will be touched.”
“Fine words for a paltry Flemish knave!” jeered one of the students.
“Words I can make good,” flashed Dirk, and turned towards the college.
Joris was springing after him when Theirry caught his arm.
“’Tis but a peevish youth,” he said.
The other shook himself free and stared after the bright figure in silk.
“He called me ‘son of a Thuringian thief!’” he muttered.
A laugh rose from the group.
“How knew he that? — from the unholy book?”
Joris frowned heavily; his wrath flared in another direction.
“Ya! Silence! Son of a British swineherd, thou, red face!”
The group seethed into fisticuffs; Theirry followed Dirk across the gardens.
Chapter 7
Spells
Theirry found Dirk as he was passing under the arched colonnade.
“Prudence!” he quoted. “Where is your prudence now?”
Dirk turned quickly.
“I had to put on a bold front. Certes, I hate that knave. But let him go now. Come with me.” Theirry followed him through the college, up the dark stairway into his chamber.
It was a low arched room, looking on to the