Children of the Dawn Part 15

At last Admetus looked up.

"My friends," he said, "she is gone. Help me now to carry her in, that the maidens may clothe her in the robes of death."

Gently and reverently, with heads bowed in grief, they carried her in.

The maidens clad her in long white robes, and laid her on the bier, and the mourners stood round and sang a dirge for the dead. On the threshold before the palace Admetus placed the locks he had shorn from his head in token that within one lay dead, and he put on long black robes of mourning, and took off the golden circlet from his brow.

Throughout the city he sent a proclamation to say the queen was dead.

"Men of Thessaly," it said, "all ye who own my sway, come, share with me in sorrow for my wife who is dead. Shave the bright locks from your heads, and don your sable robes. Harness your four-horsed chariots; put the bit in the mouths of your steeds. Cut off the long manes from their necks, and follow with me to her grave. Let not the voice of the flute be heard in your streets, nor the sound of the lyre, till full twelve moons have waxed and waned; for she was the n.o.blest of women, and dearest of all on earth to me. Her life she sacrificed for mine.

Pay her high honours, then, for she is most worthy."

IX

Whilst the preparations for the funeral were being made, anyone who chanced to look along the highroad would have seen a stranger making his way towards the palace. He was a strong man and tall--three cubits and more in height. The muscles of his arms and chest stood out like thongs of cord. In his hand he carried a huge knotted club, and over his shoulders hung a lion's skin. If the wind or the sun were too strong, he would draw the jaws of the beast over his head like a hood, and the great teeth shone out white and terrible over his brows and under his chin. He walked along with great swinging strides, balancing the club upon his shoulder as though it were some light twig, and not heavy as a sapling oak. As he went through the villages the people stood aside from his path in wonder, and even the strongest champion of them all would whisper, "May the G.o.ds deliver me from ever having to stand up against him in single combat. In his little finger is the strength of my right arm."

But he walked on, little heeding what folk thought of him, singing now and again s.n.a.t.c.hes of some drinking-song, and pa.s.sing the time of day, or cracking some joke with those he met upon the way; for, in truth, he had a merry heart, and wished well to all mankind. Those who were frightened when first they saw his club and lion's skin forgot their fears as soon as they could see his face, for his eyes were blue and laughing as the summer sky, and his smile was bright as the sun in spring. And yet there were lines and scars about his features which proved that he was no idler, but one who had looked labour and danger in the face.

So he came to Pherae and went up the steep path to the palace. It chanced that Admetus was standing in the portico on his way in. When the stranger saw him he shouted out,

"Hail to thee, Admetus! Turn back and greet an old friend."

When Admetus heard him, he turned and came towards him.

"Welcome, Heracles," he said, and held out his hand to greet him.

But when Heracles saw his black robes and shorn locks he was troubled.

"I have come at an evil hour, Admetus," he said; "thou art mourning for one who is dear to thee."

"Ay," he answered; "it is true."

"One of thy children, can it be, or thy father?"

"Nay, there is nought amiss with them. It is a woman I am carrying out to burial this day."

"Is she a stranger, or one of the family?"

"She is not one of the family. Yet she is very dear to us, for on her father's death she came and lived with us. She was a fair and n.o.ble woman, and all the house is plunged in grief at her death."

"Then I will leave thee and go elsewhere. A house of mourning is no place for guests."

"Nay," cried Admetus; "I beg of thee, do not go. Never yet have my halls turned away a traveller from the gates. The dead are dead. What more could we do for them? 'Twould do them small good to lack in friends.h.i.+p for the living. Come in, come in, I pray thee."

In spite of all his entreaties, he forced him to come in, and bade his steward take him to a guest-room apart, where he might eat and drink, and hear nothing of the sounds of mourning when the body was carried out to the tomb; and he did all in his power to hide from his guest that it was Alcestis who was dead; for he was ashamed for Heracles to know that he had allowed his wife to die for him.

Meanwhile all had been prepared for the funeral, and a train of citizens stood waiting in the court to follow behind the bier. Their long black robes fell trailing in the dust; their heads were shorn in grief, and with slow steps they followed behind the bier, whilst the mourners sang a dirge for the dead.

"O daughter of Pelias, farewell, farewell for evermore! Mayest thou have peace in the world below and such joy as may be in those sunless places! O thou black-haired G.o.d of Death, never has one more n.o.ble come down to dwell in thy halls; never, O Charon, thou grim ferryman of souls--never hast thou carried a burden more precious across the dark and dreadful stream! Oft shall thy praises be sung, lady, by minstrels of music in every land. On the seven-stringed mountain-lute shall they sing thee, and in hymns, without lyre or lute, in Sparta, when the circling seasons bring round the summer feast-time, and all night long the moon rides high in heaven. In bright and s.h.i.+ning Athens shall they praise thee, too; for thou alone, O brightest and best, hast dared to die for thy lord, and give up thy young life for him. O dark Necessity, who shroudest all men about with death, how heavy is thy hand upon this house! From thee none can flee, and Zeus himself bows down before thee. Thou alone, O G.o.ddess, hast no temple, no images to which men turn in prayer, neither hearest thou the voice of victims slain. Alcestis is gone--gone for ever. Our eyes shall see her no more. Light may the earth lie above thee, lady. Dear wast thou when thou wast among us; dear shalt thou be, too, in death. No mere mound of the dead shall thy tomb be, but honoured of every pa.s.ser-by, as some shrine of the Immortals. The stranger toiling up the winding way shall bow his head before it and say, 'Here lieth one who died for her lord; now she is a blessed spirit. O lady, have mercy upon me!' So great shall be thy glory among men for ever. Fare thee well, fare thee well, most beautiful."

So they laid her in the polished tomb, and placed rich gifts about her, and sacrifices of blood to the grim G.o.d of Death. When all the rites were accomplished, they went away sorrowful.

X

Meanwhile Heracles had been led to a guest-chamber apart, and the servants ministered to all his wants, and brought him water to wash with, and change of raiment. As they waited on him, he talked gaily to them of his adventures on the way, and made them laugh in spite of their grief for their mistress. Only the old serving-man stood aloof, and looked darkly at the stranger who dared to make merry in a house of mourning.

When he had washed and dressed, he sat down to meat. They placed an ample meal before him, and brought him wine to drink. But in his eyes their bounty was dearth, and he kept calling for more till they could scarce contain their astonishment at his appet.i.te. At length, when he had eaten his fill, he crowned his head with vine-leaves, and fell to drinking long and deep. The wine warmed his heart, and sent a cheerful glow through all his veins. So happy was he that he could not sit in silence, but raised his voice and sang, and his singing was like the roaring of a bull.

"Great Zeus, preserve us!" sighed the old waiting-man; "never have I heard anything more discordant and unseemly."

But the guest grew merrier and merrier, and the face of the serving-man, as he watched, grew longer and longer. At length Heracles himself noticed his disapproving countenance.

"Ho, there!" cried he; "why so dark and gloomy, my friend? I had as soon be welcomed by an iceberg as by thee, old sour-face."

The serving-man answered him never a word, but only scowled the more.

"What!" cried Heracles, "is this the sort of welcome thou art wont to give thy master's guests? Come hither, and I will teach thee better ways."

And he took hold of the old man and set him down beside him at the table.

"Alack! What a countenance! And all for a strange girl who has chanced to die. How wilt thou look when one of thy masters is laid in the grave? I like not this mask of hypocrisy, my friend. Thou carest not for her who is dead, but pullest a long face, and strikest a chill to the hearts of all beholders, because, forsooth, it is seemly to mourn for the dead. Why, we must all pay our tribute to death, every man of us, and no one knoweth whether he shall ever see the next day's light; then count the present as thine own, and eat and drink with me and make merry. A frowning face profits not the dead--nay, it serves but to blacken the suns.h.i.+ne of this life that we can live but once. Up, man, drink and wash away thy frowns! Believe me, life is no life at all--only labour and misfortune to those who walk through it with pompous steps and sour faces."

And he poured out a br.i.m.m.i.n.g goblet.

"All this I know full well, master," answered the old man, "but the shadow that has fallen on this house is too heavy for me to join in thy revelry."

"Thou makest too much of death. Thou canst not grieve for a stranger as thou wouldst for one of the household. Thy master and mistress live. Let that suffice thee."

"What! My master and mistress live? Alas! my master is too kind a host."

"Must I starve, then, because a strange girl is dead?"

"It is no stranger, I tell thee, but one most near and dear."

"Have I been deceived? Has he hidden some misfortune from me?"

"Ask no more, but go in peace. My master's sorrows are for me to bear, not for thee. And he bade me not speak of it."

"Speak, speak, man! I see he has hidden some great sorrow from me. Who is the woman who is dead?"

"Ask me not. My master told me not to say."

"And I forbid thee not to say. Tell me forthwith!"

So fierce and terrible did he look that the old man trembled before him.

"May my lord forgive me!" said he. "It is Alcestis, his wife."