Chapter XVII The Haunted Circle
The July sun of 1354 was shining warm and bright on the broad stream of the Loire, and lighting up the hard, wooden, sun-browned faces of a group of peasants who sat talking on a bench at the door of a tiny wayside inn, on the high-road leading inland from Nantes along the river.
“Ill times, brothers,” said one older than the rest. “These ‘Free Companies,’ as men call them, are the bane of France. Luckily they have not come thus far yet; but who knows when they may? And if they do we are lost, one and all. Robbers in bands of twenty and thirty be ill enough, I trow; but when there come robbers enow for a whole army, with horse and foot, generals and captains, who take castles and put towns to ransom, what then?”
“Thou’rt right, Jacques. Wherever they have passed, ’tis as a flight of yon locusts whereof pilgrims tell. The whole face of the land is blasted!”
“Marry, thou say’st it, Paul; rich man’s hall or poor man’s hut, ’tis all one to them. Hath a peasant but one liard (halfpenny) sewn up in the lining of his hose, they will find and seize it!”
“There be worse things in the land than they, howbeit,” said another man.
“What, what?” cried several voices at once. “What worse can there be, lad?”
“Demons,” said Pierre, in a hoarse whisper, “such as he of the Haunted Circle.”
“Is the Phantom Knight abroad again, then?” asked Jacques, in an awe-stricken tone, while a visible shudder ran through the whole group.
“Ay, that is he. But three nights agone, Jean Roquard came home pale and fainting, having met the Phantom Knight in the moonlight; nor hath he been his own man since.”
“What is this tale, then, of the Haunted Circle and the Phantom Knight?” asked a stout, ruddy man—shown by the pack beside him to be a travelling pedlar—whose air of good-humoured impudence might have served Shakespeare as a model for his Autolycus.
“Thou must needs be a stranger here, not to know it!” cried Paul. “But if thou wouldst hear the tale, here is one can tell it thee. Sing us the lay, Gilles. I fear it not by day, though I would not care to hear it at night.”
The young fellow addressed—whose tawdry finery, and the light rebeck (lute) at his back, showed him to be one of the strolling minstrels who then swarmed in every part of Europe—sang as follows—
“The vesper-bell was sounding sweet,
’Twas nigh the close of day,
When the Baron hied him forth alone,
But he hied him not to pray.
“He had thought upon an evil deed,
He had vowed an evil vow;
And he hied him to the darksome wood,
That had ne’er seemed dark as now.
“Amid that wood an altar stood,
With moss and weeds o’ergrown;
But they strove in vain to hide the stain
Of slaughter on the stone.
“For there of old had Pagan rites
Profaned the guiltless sod,
And blood had flowed in sacrifice
To many a heathen god.
“And legends told that he who durst
At nightfall stand alone,
And strike three blows with naked sword
Upon that gory stone,
“Should see the Prince of Evil Powers
Before his eyes displayed,
And claim, whate’er his purpose were,
The Demon’s ready aid.
“The first stroke rang upon the stone—
A moaning wind swept by,
And a raven from a sapless oak
Sent forth its boding cry.
“At the second stroke, a sigh there broke
More deep than tongue can tell;
Therein his guardian angel breathed
A sad and last farewell.
“The sweat stood cold on the Baron’s brow,
His heart it trembled sore;
But he clenched his teeth with a muttered curse,
And he reared his blade once more.
“The third stroke fell—o’er the haunted dell
There sank a chillness dread;
And a creeping horror o’er him stole,
And his heart grew dull as lead.
“And deeper blackness gathered round,
And tree and rock did hide;
But ’mid the gloom a shadowy form
Loomed dimly at his side.
“A shadowy form with wings of storm
And eyes of lurid blaze,
Like baleful stars that gleam to mock
The drowning seaman’s gaze.
“‘What seek’st thou here?’ the Demon said
In voice of hollow tone,
As sounds among the leafless trees
The rising tempest’s moan.
“Quoth the Baron, ‘I seek revenge on one
Who long hath mocked my hate;
But vengeance is a dainty draught
That never comes too late.’
“The phantom laughed a fiendish laugh
That chilled the listening ear:
‘Of all the gifts I can bestow,
Revenge is still most dear.
“‘’Tis a dainty draught when first ’tis quaffed,
And they who love it well,
What care they if, when the cup be drained,
It burn like the fire of hell?
“‘Hear then my words: this night thy foe
Hath ta’en a pious thought,
And whines repentance for the deeds
Of ill that he hath wrought;
“’And he is gone to kneel in prayer
Within yon chapel grey
That from its frowning crag looks o’er
The torrent’s restless spray.
“‘But lonely, lonely is the way,
And thou may’st meet him there;
And if he fall unshrived and foul,
In vain were tear and prayer.
“‘Speed then thy task, my trusty slave,
For though fiends around us lurk,
The soul that turns from good to ill
Doth best the Devil’s work.’
“As downward sinks the creeping mist,
The phantom form was gone;
As onward moves the gloom of night,
The Baron grim moved on.
“The golden sun was sinking slow,
And ruddy glowed the sky,
And birds were warbling in the trees,
And brooklets prattled by.
“But he but saw a baleful fire
That scorched the evening air,
And bird and brooklet wailed to him
In accents of despair.
“The soothing breeze, that thro’ the trees
Whispered like angel’s call,
Fell vainly now on his burning brow
As dews on deserts fall.
“And one sweet child its tiny hand
Reached forth his hand to clasp,
But he shrank away from the innocent touch
As from a deadly asp.
“And now he reached the lonely spot
Where he his foe must bide,
And crouched behind a blasted oak
All rent and gaping wide.
“With bended head and flagging tread
The death-doomed foe comes on;
His brow hath lost its haughty frown,
His eye’s fierce fire is gone.
“With bended head and flagging tread
Comes on the death-doomed foe;
His hands are folded on his breast,
And thus he murmurs low:
“‘Though late my penitence, O Lord,
Thy mercies still are sure;
And whether life or death be mine,
My trust shalt rest secure.’
“One rush—one blow—one stifled groan,
And nought but dust is there;
The soul that ever lived in sin
Hath fled at length in prayer.
“The slayer o’er the slaughtered stood,
And wiped his reeking blade,
And on his shoulders painfully
The bleeding corpse he laid.
“And onward to the roaring stream
That load of guilt he bore,
That, plunged beneath its wave, the dead
Might blast his sight no more.
“By this, the sun was sunk in night,
The sky grew black amain,
And cheerless gloom and horror drear
Crept o’er the darkening plain.
“And the clouds did fly o’er the stormy sky,
Driven by the tempest’s power,
Like shadows cast by an evil Past
O’er a sinner’s dying hour.
“And the wild wind’s moan was like the groan
Of a soul at strife within;
And anon it roared like the yell outpoured
By fiends o’er a deed of sin.
“He stood upon the craggy height
That frowned above the wave,
And heard the torrent far below
In unseen fury rave.
“When lo! the fingers of the dead,
That erst hung limp and cold,
Entwined their grasp around his neck
With firm and deadly hold.
“And, fraught with death, the icy breath
Foul on his brow did reek,
And to his shudd’ring cheek was pressed
The corpse’s clammy cheek.
“The thunder roared, but louder still
Was heard the crash below,
As, rent in twain, the mighty rock
Reeled trembling to and fro.
“Then thund’ring downward from its place
The riven fragment sped,
And with it fell, in grim embrace,
The Living and the Dead!
“Be warned, all ye who hear my lay,
And pray to God for grace
To keep your souls from the foul fiend’s snare,
And your feet from his chosen place!”
His hearers tremblingly crossed themselves, and for some moments no one spoke. At last the pedlar said—
“The spot is haunted, then, by the ghost of yon felon knight?”
“Even so; and he is ever seen when evil is in store for France. Just ere Crecy Field was fought, men saw him flitting to and fro in the Haunted Circle, uttering cries that made all hearts fail; and now that he hath shown himself again, no doubt some fresh trouble is at hand. God help us!”
“Of what form is he?” asked the pedlar, his ruddy face paling visibly.
“Like a knight fully armed, but with armour of ancient fashion, and all stained and rusty with lying long in the damp grave. He is ever seen on foot, with visor closed and sword in hand; and, be the moon ever so bright, he hath no shadow!”
Another general shiver attested the force of this realistic touch.
“But two short leagues hence lieth his haunt,” went on Jacques, “and ill it is for us, for none can pass that way by night without meeting him, and if they do——”
A gloomy shake of his head completed the sentence.
“Nay, if it be so,” said the pedlar, with a tremor that he made no attempt to disguise, “though I had thought to sup at St. Barnabé to-night, I will e’en bide here till morn.”
“Right, lad,” cried Pierre. “He who would sup with the Evil One must have a long spoon, and mad indeed must he be who would brave the phantom on his own ground after dark! May God send us speedy deliverance from him, for in man is no help. What man will dare face what is not mortal?”
A deep voice behind the startled group answered, “I will!”