"What thing draws you, Red Smith?"

"Steel." And he showed her a fine sword-blade, lacking its hilt. "I was sent for to mend this against the morrow."

"I know that blade," said Maudlin, "it was snapped in my cause. Have you the hilt too?"

"In my pouch," said Harding, his hand upon it.

Hers touched his fingers delicately. "I will see it."

He brushed her hand aside and unb.u.t.toned his pouch; but as he drew out the hilt of the broken sword, she caught a glimpse of that within which held her startled gaze.

"What jewels are those?" she asked quickly.

"Old relics," Harding said with sudden gruffness.

"Show them to me!"

Reluctantly he obeyed, and brought forth a ring, a circlet, and a girdle of surpa.s.sing workmanship, wrought in gold thick-crusted with emeralds. A cry of wonder went up from all the maidens.

"There's something else," said Maudlin; and without waiting thrust her hand into the bottom of the pouch and drew out a mesh of silver. It was so fine that it could be held and hidden in her two hands; yet when it fell apart it was a garment, as supple as rich silk. The four maids touched it softly and looked their longings.

"Are these your handicraft?" said Maudlin.

"Mine?" Harding uttered a short laugh. "Not I or any man can make such things."

"You are right," said Maudlin. "Wayland's self might acknowledge them.

Smith, I will buy them of you."

"You cannot give me my price."

"Gold I know does not tempt you." She smiled and came close beside him.

"Then do not offer it."

"Shall it be steel?"

Harding's eyes swept her flower-like beauty. "Not from Queen Maudlin."

"True. My bid is costlier."

"Name it."

"A kiss from my mouth."

At the sound of his laughter the rose flowed into her cheek.

"What, a bauble for my jewel, too-eager lady?" he said harshly. "Do the women of this land hold themselves so light? In mine men carve their kisses with the sword. Hark ye, young Queen! set a better value on that red mouth if you'd continue to have it valued."

"I could have you whipped for this," said Maudlin.

"I do not think so," Harding answered, and stepped down the river-bank into his waiting boat.

"I keep my clasp," said Clarimond.

Seven men sprang hotly to their feet. "What's your will, Queen?"

"Nothing," said Maudlin slowly, as she watched him row over the water.

"Let the smith go. This test was between him and me and no man's business else. Well, he is of a temper to come through fire unmelted."

She flashed a smile upon the seven that made them tremble. "But he is a mannerless churl, we will not think of him. Which among YOU would spurn my kiss?" She offered her mouth in turn, and seven flames pa.s.sed over its scarlet. Maudlin laughed a little and beckoned her watching maids.

"Well!" she said, taking the path to the castle, "He that had had strength to refuse me might have worn my favor to-morrow and for ever."

And meanwhile by the further river-bank came Rosalind, with mushrooms in her skirt. And as she walked by the water in the evening she looked across to her lost castle-walls, and touched the pennies in her pouch and dreamed, while the sun dressed the running flood in his royalest colors.

"Linen and purple and scarlet and gold," mused she; "and so I might sit there to-morrow among the rest. But linen and purple!" she said in scorn, "what should they profit my fathers' house? It is no silken daughter we lack, but a son of steel."

And as she pondered a shadow crossed her, and out of his boat stepped Harding, new from his encounter with the Queen. He did not glance at her nor she at him; but the gleam of the broken weapon he carried cut for a single instant across her sight, and her hands hungered for it.

"A sword!" thought she. "Ay, but an arm to wield the sword. Nay, if I had the sword it may be I could find an arm to wield it." She dropped her chin on her breast, and brooded on the vanishing shape of the Red Smith. "If I had been my fathers' son--oh!" cried she, shaken with new dreams, "what would I not give to the man who would strike a blow for our house?"

Then she recalled what day it was. A year of miracles and changes had sped over her life; if she desired new miracles, this was the night to ask them.

So close on midnight Proud Rosalind once more crept up to Rewell Wood; and on its beechen skirts the white hart came to her. It came now as to a friend, not to a stranger. And she threw her arm over its neck, and they walked together. As they walked it lowered its n.o.ble antlers so cunningly that not a twig snapped from the boughs; and its antlers were as beautiful as the boughs with their branches and twigs, and to each crown it had added not one, but two more crockets, so that now its points were sixteen. Safe under its guard the maiden ventured into the mysteries of the hour, and when they came to the mere the hart lay down and she knelt beside it with her brow on its soft panting neck, and thought awhile how she would shape her wish. And feeling the strength of its sinews she said aloud, "Oh, champion among stags! were there a champion among men to match you, I think even I could love him. Yet love is not my prayer. I do not pray for myself." And then she stood upright and stretched her hands towards the water and said again, less in supplication than command:

"Spirit, you hear--I do not pray for myself. Of old it may be maidens often came in sport or fear, to make a mid-summer pastime of their love-dreams. Oh, Spirit! of love I ask nothing for myself. But if you will send me a man to strike one blow in my name that is my fathers'

name, he may have of me what he will!"

Never so proudly yet had the Proud Rosalind held herself as when she lifted her radiant face to the moon and sent her low clear call thrice over the mystic waters. Gloriously she stood with arms extended, as though she would give welcome to any hero stepping through the night to consummate her wish. But none came. Only the subdued rustling that had stirred the woods a year ago whispered out of the dark and died to silence.

The arms of the Proud Rosalind dropped to her sides.

"Is the time not yet?" said she, "and will it never be? Why, then, let me belong for ever to the champion that strikes for me to-morrow in the lists. A sorry champion," said she a wan smile, "yet I will hold me bound to him according to my vow. But first I must win him a sword."

Then she kissed the white hart between the eyes and said, "Go where you will. I shall be gone till daylight." And it rose up to run the moonlit hills, and she went down through the trees, and left the Wishing-Pool to its unruffled peace.

Straight down towards sleeping Bury Rosalind went, full of her purpose; and after an hour pa.s.sed through the silent village.

Her errand was not wholly easy to her, but she thought, "I do not go to ask favors, but plain dealings; and it must be done secretly or not at all." As she came near the ferry a red glow broke on her vision.

"Does the water burn?" she said, and quickened her steps. To her surprise she saw that Harding's forge was busy; the light she had seen sprang from it. She had expected to find it locked and silent, but now the little s.p.a.ce it held in the night was lit with fire and resounded with the stroke of the Red Smith's hammer. Proud Rosalind stood fast as though he were fashioning a spell to chain her eyes. And so he was, for he hammered on a sword.

He did not turn his head at her approach; but when at last she stood beside his door, and did not move away, he spoke to her.

"You walk late," said he.

"May not people walk late," said she, "as well as work late?"

Without answering he set himself to his task again and heeded her no more. "Smith!" she cried imperiously.

"What then?"