"Six stories told! We must have seven, A cluster like the Pleiades, And lo! it happens, as with these, That one is missing from our heaven.
Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear."
Thus the Sicilian cried, and went Forthwith to seek his missing star, But did not find him in the bar, A place that landlords most frequent, Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;It was in vain to ask or call, There were no tidings of the Squire.
So he came back with downcast head, Exclaiming: "Well, our bashful host Hath surely given up the ghost.
Another proverb says the dead Can tell no tales; and that is true.
It follows, then, that one of you Must tell a story in his stead.
You must," he to the Student said, "Who know so many of the best, And tell them better than the rest."Straight by these flattering words beguiled, The Student, happy as a child When he is called a little man, Assumed the double task imposed, And without more ado unclosed His smiling lips, and thus began.
THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE
THE BARON OF ST.CASTINE
Baron Castine of St.Castine Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, And sailed across the western seas.
When he went away from his fair demesne The birds were building, the woods were green;And now the winds of winter blow Round the turrets of the old chateau, The birds are silent and unseen, The leaves lie dead in the ravine, And the Pyrenees are white with snow.
His father, lonely, old, and gray, Sits by the fireside day by day, Thinking ever one thought of care;Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, The sun shines into the ancient hall, And makes a glory round his hair.
The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, Groans in his sleep as if in pain Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, So silent is it everywhere,--So silent you can hear the mouse Run and rummage along the beams Behind the wainscot of the wall;And the old man rouses from his dreams, And wanders restless through the house, As if he heard strange voices call.
His footsteps echo along the floor Of a distant passage, and pause awhile;He is standing by an open door Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, Into the room of his absent son.
There is the bed on which he lay, There are the pictures bright and gay, Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;There are his powder-flask and gun, And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan;The chair by the window where he sat, With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, Looking out on the Pyrenees, Looking out on Mount Marbore And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.
Ah me! he turns away and sighs;
There is a mist before his eyes.
At night whatever the weather be, Wind or rain or starry heaven, Just as the clock is striking seven, Those who look from the windows see The village Curate, with lantern and maid, Come through the gateway from the park And cross the courtyard damp and dark,--A ring of light in a ring of shade.
And now at the old man's side he stands, His voice is cheery, his heart expands, He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze Of the fire of fagots, about old days, And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, And what they did, and what they said, When they heard his Eminence was dead.
And after a pause the old man says, His mind still coming back again To the one sad thought that haunts his brain, "Are there any tidings from over sea?
Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?"
And the Curate answers, looking down, Harmless and docile as a lamb, "Young blood! young blood! It must so be!"And draws from the pocket of his gown A handkerchief like an oriflamb, And wipes his spectacles, and they play Their little game of lansquenet In silence for an hour or so, Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear From the village lying asleep below, And across the courtyard, into the dark Of the winding pathway in the park, Curate and lantern disappear, And darkness reigns in the old chateau.
The ship has come back from over sea, She has been signalled from below, And into the harbor of Bordeaux She sails with her gallant company.
But among them is nowhere seen The brave young Baron of St.Castine;He hath tarried behind, I ween, In the beautiful land of Acadie!
And the father paces to and fro Through the chambers of the old chateau, Waiting, waiting to hear the hum Of wheels on the road that runs below, Of servants hurrying here and there, The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, Waiting for some one who doth not come!
But letters there are, which the old man reads To the Curate, when he comes at night Word by word, as an acolyte Repeats his prayers and tells his beads;Letters full of the rolling sea, Full of a young man's joy to be Abroad in the world, alone and free;Full of adventures and wonderful scenes Of hunting the deer through forests vast In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast;Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines;Of Madocawando the Indian chief, And his daughters, glorious as queens, And beautiful beyond belief;And so soft the tones of their native tongue, The words are not spoken, they are sung!
And the Curate listens, and smiling says:
"Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days We should have liked to hunt the deer All day amid those forest scenes, And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines;But now it is better sitting here Within four walls, and without the fear Of losing our hearts to Indian queens;For man is fire and woman is tow, And the Somebody comes and begins to blow."Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise Shines in the father's gentle eyes, As fire-light on a window-pane Glimmers and vanishes again;But naught he answers; he only sighs, And for a moment bows his head;Then, as their custom is, they play Their little gain of lansquenet, And another day is with the dead.
Another day, and many a day And many a week and month depart, When a fatal letter wings its way Across the sea, like a bird of prey, And strikes and tears the old man's heart.
Lo! the young Baron of St.Castine, Swift as the wind is, and as wild, Has married a dusky Tarratine, Has married Madocawando's child!
