Section 1 of Tales of a Wayside Inn. One autumn night, in Sudbury town, across the meadows, bare and brown, the windows of the wayside inn, gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves of woodbine, hanging from the eaves, their crimson curtains, rent and thin. As ancient as this hostelry, as any in the land may be, built in the old colonial day, when men lived in a grand away, with ample hospitality, a kind of old hobgoblin hall, now somewhat fallen to decay, with weather stains upon the wall, and stairways worn, and crazy doors, and creaking and uneven floors, and chimneys huge and tiled and tall. A region of repose, it seems, a place of slumber and of dreams, remote among the wooded hills, for there no noisy railway speeds its torch-race scattering smoke and glades, but noon and night the panting teams stop under the great oaks that throw tangles of light and shade below, on roofs and doors and windowsills. Across the road the barns display their lines of stalls, their mows of hay. Through the wide doors the breezes blow, the waddled cocks strut to and fro, and half a-faced by rain and shine the red horse prances on the sign. Round this old-fashioned quaint abode deep silence reigned, save when a gust went rushing down the county road and skeletons of leaves and dust a moment quickened by its breath, shuddered and danced their dance of death, and through the ancient oaks o'erhead mysterious voices moaned and fled. But from the parlour of the inn a pleasant murmur smote the ear, like water rushing through a weir, oft interrupted by the din of laughter and of loud applause, and in each intervening pause the music of a violin, the firelight shedding over all the splendour of its ruddy glow filled the whole parlour large and low. It gleamed on wainscot and on wall. It's touched, with more than wanted grace, fair Princess Mary's pictured face. It bronzed the rafters overhead, on the old spinnets ivory keys it played inaudible melodies. It crowned the somber clock with flame, the hands, the hours, the maker's name, and painted with a livelier red the landlord's coat of arms again, and flashing on the window-pane emblazoned with its light and shade the jovial rhymes that still remain writ nearly a century ago by the great Major Molina whom Hawthorne has immortal made. Before the blazing fire of wood erect the rapt musician stood, and ever and on he bent his head upon his instrument, and seemed to listen till he caught confessions of its secret thought, the joy, the triumph, the lament, the exultation and the pain. Then by the magic of his art he soothed the throbbing of its heart and lulled it into peace again. Around the fireside at their ease there sat a group of friends entranced with the delicious melodies who from the far-off noisy town had to the wayside in come down to rest beneath its old oak trees. The firelight on their faces glanced, their shadows on the wainscot danced, and though of different lands and speech each had his tale to tell, and each was anxious to be pleased and pleased, and while the sweet musician plays let me an outline sketch them all, a chance uncouthly as the blaze with its uncertain touch portrays their shadowy semblance on the wall. But first the landlord will I trace, grave in his aspect and attire, a man of ancient pedigree, a justice of the peace was he, known in all Sudbury as the squire, proud was he of his name and race, of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, and in the parlour full in view his coat of arms well framed and glazed upon the wall in colours blazed. He beareth gulls upon his shield, a chevron argent in the field with three wolf's heads, and for the crest a wyvern part-papail addressed upon a helmet barred. Below the scroll reads by the name of Howe, and over this no longer bright, though glimmering with a latent light, was hung the sword his grand sire bore in the rebellious days of yore down there at Concord in the fight. A youth was there of quiet ways, a student of old books and days to whom all tongues and lands were known, and yet a lover of his own, with many a social virtue graced and yet a friend of solitude, a man of such a genial mood, the heart of all things he embraced and yet of such fastidious taste, he never found the best too good. Books were his passion and delight, and in his upper room at home stood many a rare and sumptuous tome in vellum bound with gold bedite, great volumes garmented in white, recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. He loved the twilight that surrounds the borderland of old romance, where glitter, horberk, helm, and lance, and banner waves and trumpet sounds, and ladies ride with hawk on wrist, and mighty warriors sweep along, magnified by the purple mist, the dust of centuries and of song, the chronicles of Charlemagne, of Merlin, and the mort d'Artur mingled together in his brain with tales of Flores and Blanche Fleur, Sir Ferrum Brass, Sir Eglemore, Sir Lancelot, Sir Morgador, Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. A young Sicilian too was there, in sight of Etna born and bred, some breath of its volcanic air was glowing in his heart and brain, and, being rebellious to his liege, after Palermo's fatal siege across the western seas he fled, in good King Bomba's happy rain. His face was like a summer night, all flooded with a dusky light. His hands were small, his teeth shone white as seashells when he smiled or spoke, his sinews supple and strong as oak. Clean shaven was he as a priest who at the mass on Sunday sings, save that upon his upper lip his beard a good palm's length at least, level and pointed at the tip, shot sideways like a swallow's wings. The poets read he Ur and Ur, and most of all the immortal four of Italy, and next to those the storytelling bard of prose who wrote the joyous tusk and tales of the Decameron, that make Fieselets, green hills and veils, remembered for Boccaccio's sake. Much too of music was his thought, the melodies and measures fraught with sunshine and the open air, of vineyards and the singing sea of his beloved Sicily, and much it pleased him to peruse the songs of the Sicilian muse, bucolic songs by Maley's song, in the familiar peasant tongue, that made men say, behold, once more the pitting gods to earth restore theocratus of Syracuse. A Spanish Jew from Alicante, with aspect grand and grave, was there, near of silks and fabrics rare, and atta of rose from the Levant. Like an old patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac, or at least some later prophet or high priest, with lustrous eyes and olive skin and wildly tossed from cheeks and chin the tumbling cataract of his beard. His garments breathed a spicy scent of cinnamon and sandal blend, like the soft aromatic gales that meet the mariner who sails through the malakas, and the seas that wash the shores of Celebes. All stories that recorded are by Pierre Alphonse, he knew by heart, and it was rumoured he could say the parables of Sanderbar and all the fables of Pilpey, or, if not all, the greater part. Well versed was he in Hebrew books, Talmud and Targum, and the lore of Kabbalah, and evermore there was a mystery in his looks. His eyes seemed gazing far away, as if in vision or in trance, he heard the solemn sack-butt play, and saw the Jewish maidens dance. A theologian from the school of Cambridge on the Charles was there. Skillful alike with tongue and pen, he preached to all men everywhere the Gospel of the Golden Rule, the new commandment given to men, thinking the deed and not the creed would help us in our utmost need. With reverent feet the earth he trod, nor banished nature from his plan, but studied still with deep research to build the universal church. Lofty as is the love of God, and ample as the wants of man. A poet too was there, whose verse was tender, musical and terse, the inspiration, the delight, the gleam, the glory, the swift flight of thoughts so sudden that they seemed the revelations of a dream. All these were his, but with them came no envy of another's fame. He did not find his sleep less sweet for music in some neighbouring street, nor rustling here in every breeze the laurels of Miltiades. Honor and blessings on his head while living, good report when dead, who not too eager for renown accepts, but does not clutch the crown.  He lived in that ideal world whose language is not speech but song, around him evermore the throng of elves and sprites that dance his world. The strong carl sang, the cataract hurled its headlong waters from the height, and mingled in the wild delight the scream of sea-birds in their flight, the rumour of the forest trees, the plunge of the implacable seas, the tumult of the wind at night, voices of eld like trumpets blowing, old ballads and wild melodies through mist and darkness pouring forth, like Elevega's river flowing out of the glaciers of the north. The instrument on which he played was in Cremona's workshops made. By a great master of the past, ere yet was lost the art divine, fashioned of maple and of pine that in Tyrolean forests vast had rocked and wrestled with the blast. Exquisite was it in design, perfect in each minutest part, a marvel of the lootest art, and in its hollow chamber thus the maker from whose hands it came had written his unrivaled name Antonius Stradivarius. And when he played the atmosphere was filled with magic, and the ere caught echoes of that harp of gold whose music had so weird a sound the hunted stag forgot to bound, the leaping rivulet backward rolled, the birds came down from bush and tree, the dead came from beneath the sea, the maiden to the harpers knee. The music ceased, the applause was loud, the pleased musicians smiled and bowed, the wood fire clapped its hands of flame, the shadows on the wainscot stirred, and from the harpsichord there came a ghostly murmur of acclaim, a sound like that sent down at night by birds of passage in their flight from the remotest distance heard. Then silence followed, then began a clamour for the landlord's tale. The story promised them of old, they said, but always left untold, and he, although a bashful man, and all his courage seemed to fail, finding excuse of no avail, yielded, and thus the story ran. The Landlord's Tale. Paul Revere's Ride Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere on the eighteenth of April in seventy-five. Hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, if the British march by land or sea from the town tonight hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the North Church Tower as a signal light, one if by land and two if by sea, and I on the opposite shore will be ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm. Then he said good night, and with muffled oar silently rode to the Charlestown shore. Just as the moon rose over the bay, where swinging wide at her moorings lay the Somerset, British man of war, a phantom ship with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison-bar, and a huge black bulk that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend threw alley and street, wanders and watches with eager ears, till in the silence around him he hears the muster of men at the barrack door, the sound of arms and the tramp of feet, and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, to the belfry chamber overhead, and startled the pigeons from their perch on the somber rafters that round him made masses and moving shapes of shade, up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, to the highest window in the wall where he paused to listen and look down a moment on the roofs of the town and the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath in the churchyard lay the dead in their night encampment on the hill, wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, the watchful night wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent and seeming to whisper, all is well. A moment only he feels the spell of the place and the hour and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead, for suddenly all his thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away where the river widens to meet the bay, a line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile impatient to mount and ride booted and spurred with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walked Paul Revere, now he patted his horse's side, now gazed at the landscape far and near, then impetuous stamped the earth and turned and tightened his saddle girth, but mostly he watched with eager search the belfry tower of the Old North Church as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely and spectral and somber and still and low as he looks on the belfry's height a glimmer and then a gleam of light he springs to the saddle the bridle he turns, but lingers and gazes till full on his sight a second lamp in the belfry burns, a hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark and beneath from the pebbles in passing a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet that was all and yet through the gloom and the light the fate of a nation was riding that night and the spark struck out by that steed in his flight kindled the land into flame with its heat he has left the village and mounted the steep and beneath him tranquil and broad and deep is the mystic meeting the ocean tides and under the alders that skirt its edge now soft on the sand now loud on the ledge is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides it was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into medford town he heard the crowing of the cock and the barking of the farmer's dog and felt the damp of the river fog that rises after the sun goes down it was one by the village clock when he galloped into Lexington he saw the gilded weather cock swim in the moonlight as he passed and the meeting house windows blank and bare gazed him with a spectral glare as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon it was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in concord town he heard the bleeding of the flock and the twitter of birds among the trees and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadows brown and one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall who that day would be lying dead pierced by a british musket ball you know the rest in the books you have read how the british regulars fired and fled how the farmers gave them ball for ball from behind each fence and farmyard wall chasing the redcoats down the lane then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road and only pausing to fire and load so through the night road Paul Revere and so through the night when his cry of alarm to every middle sex village and farm a cry of defiance and not of fear a voice in the darkness a knock at the door and a word that shall echo forevermore for born on the night wind of the past through all our history to the last in the hour of darkness and peril and need the people were waken and listened to hear the hurrying hoof beats of that steed and the midnight message of Paul Revere interlude the landlord ended thus his tale then rising took down from its nail the sword that hung there dim with dust and cleaving to its sheath with rust and said this sword was in the fight the poet seized it and exclaimed it is the sword of a good night though homespun was his coat of mail what matter if it be not named shewires collada durindale excalibur or arondite or other name the books record your ancestor who bore this sword as colonel of the volunteers mounted upon his old grey mare seen here and there and everywhere to me a grander shape appears than old sir William or what not clinking about in foreign lands with iron gauntlets on his hands and on his head and iron pot all laughed the landlord's face grew red as his escutcheon on the wall he could not comprehend at all the drift of what the poet said for those who had been longest dead were always greatest in his eyes and he was speechless with surprise to see sir Williams plumed head brought to a level with the rest and made the subject of a jest and this perceiving to appease the landlord's wrath the others fears the students said with careless ease the ladies on the cavaliers the arms the loves the courtesies the deeds of high and preys I sing thus Ariosto says in words that have the stately stride and ring of armed nights and clashing swords now listen to the tale I bring listen though not to me belong the flowing draperies of his song the words that rouse the voice that charms the landlord's tale was one of arms only a tale of love is mine blending the human and divine a tale of the Decameron told in Palmieri's garden old by fear meta Laurel crowned while her companions lay around and heard the intermingled sound of airs that on their errands sped and wild birds gossiping overhead and lisp of leaves and fountains fall and her own voice more sweeps than all telling the tale which wanting these perchance may lose its power to please end of section one section two of tales of a wayside in this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley tales of a wayside in by Henry Woodsworth Longfellow section two the students tale the falcon of Sierra Federico one summer morning when the sun was hot weary with labor in his garden plot on a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves Sierra Federico sat among the leaves of a huge vine that with its arms outspread hung its delicious clusters overhead below him through the lovely valley flowed the river Arno like a winding road and from its banks were lifted high in air the spires and roofs of Florence called the fair to him a marble tomb that rose above his wasted fortunes and his buried love for there in banquet and in tournament his wealth had lavished bean his substance spent to woo and lose since ill his wooing sped Mona Giovanna who his rival wed yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme the ideal woman of a young man's dream then he withdrew in poverty and pain to this small farm the last of his domain his only comfort and his only care to prune his vines and plant the fig and pear his only forester and only guest his falcon faithful to him when the rest whose willing hands had found so light of your the brazen knocker of his palace door had now no strength to lift the wooden latch that entrance cave beneath a roof of thatch companion of his solitary ways purveyor of his feasts on holidays on him this melancholy man bestowed the love with which his nature overflowed and so the empty-handed years went round vacant so voiceful with prophetic sound and so that summer morn he sat and mused with folded patient hands as he was used and dreamily before his half closed sight floated the vision of his lost delight beside him motionless the drowsy bird dreamed of the chase and in his slumber heard the sudden size like sweep of wings that dare the headlong plunge through eddy engulfs of air then starting broad awake upon his perch tinkled his bells like mass bells in a church and looking at his master seemed to say Sir Federico shall we hunt today Sir Federico thought not of the chase the tender vision of her lovely face I will not say he seems to see he sees in the leaf shadows of the trellises herself yet not herself a lovely child with flowing tresses and eyes wide and wild coming undaunted up the garden walk and looking not at him but at the hawk beautiful falcon said he would that I might hold the on my wrist or see the fly the voice was hers and made strange echoes start through all the haunted chambers of his heart as an aeolian harp through gusty doors of some old ruin its wild music pours who is thy mother my fair boy he said his hand laid softly on that shining head Mona Giovanna will you let me stay a little while and with your falcon play we live there just beyond your garden wall in the great house behind the poplars tall so he spake on and Federico heard as from afar each softly uttered word and drifted onward through the golden gleams and shadows of the misty sea of dreams as mariners be calmed through vapours drift and feel the sea beneath them sink and lift and hear far off the mournful breakers roar and voices calling faintly from the shore then waking from his pleasant reveries he took the little boy upon his knees and told him stories of his gallant bird till in their friendship he became a third Mona Giovanna widowed in her prime had come with friends to pass the summertime in her grand villa half way up the hill oh looking Florence but retired and still with iron gates that opened through long lines of sacred Ilex and centennial pines and terraced gardens and broad steps of stone and sylvan deities with moss or grown and fountains palpitating in the heat and all Val d'Arnaud stretched beneath its feet here in seclusion as a widow may the lovely lady wild the hours away pacing in sable robes the statute hall herself the stateliest statue among all and seeing more and more with secrets joy her husband risen and living in her boy till the lost sense of life returned again not as delight but as relief from pain meanwhile the boy rejoicing in his strength stormed down the terraces from length to length the screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit and climbed the garden trellises for fruit but his chief pastime was to watch the flight of a gear falcon soaring into sight beyond the trees that fringe the garden wall then downward stooping at some distant call and as he gazed full often wondered he who might the master of the falcon be until that happy morning when he found master and falcon in the cottage ground and now the shadow and a terror fell on the great house as if a passing bell told from the tower and filled each spacious room with secret ore and preternatural gloom the petted boy grew ill and day by day pined with mysterious melody away the mother's heart would not be comforted her darling seemed to her already dead and often sitting by the sufferer's side what can I do to comfort thee she cried at first the silent lips made no reply but moved at length by her importunate cry give me he answered with imploring tone said Federico's Falcon for my own no answer could the astonished mother make how could she ask even for her darling's sake such favor at a luckless lover's hand well knowing that to ask was to command well knowing what all falcon has confessed in all the land that falcon was the best the master's pride and passion and delight and the soul persuivant of this poor night but yet for her child's sake she could no less than give a cent to soothe his restlessness so promised and then promising to keep her promise sacred saw him fall asleep the morrow was a bright September morn the earth was beautiful as if newborn there was that nameless splendor everywhere that wild exhilaration in the air which makes the passes in the city street congratulate each other as they meet two lovely ladies clothed in cloak and hood passed through the garden gate into the wood under the lustrous leaves and through the sheen of dewy sunshine showering down between the one close hooded had the attractive grace which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll from the Gulf stream of passion in the soul the other with her hood thrown back her hair making a golden glory in the air her cheeks suffused with an ororal blush her young heart singing louder than the thrush so walked that morn through mingled light and shade each by the other's presence lovelier made Mona Giovanna and her bosom friend intent upon their errand and its end they found Sir Federico at his toil like banished Adam delving in the soil and when he looked and these fair women spied the garden suddenly was glorified his long lost Eden was restored again and the strange river winding through the plain no longer was the Arno to his eyes but the Euphrates watering paradise Mona Giovanna raised her stately head and with fair words of salutation said Sir Federico we come here as friends hoping in this to make some poor amends for past unkindness I who near before would even cross the threshold of your door I who in happier days such pride maintained refused your banquets and your gifts disdained this morning come a self invited guest to put your generous nature to the test and breakfast with you under your own vine to which he answered poor desert of mine not your unkindness call it for if ought is good in me of feeling or of thought from you it comes and this last grace outweighs all sorrows all regrets of other days and after further compliment and talk among the Dalias in the garden walk he left his guests and to his cottage turned and as he entered for a moment yearned for the lost splendours of the days of old the ruby glass the silver and the gold and felt how piercing is the sting of pride by want embittered and intensified he looked about him for some means or way to keep this unexpected holiday searched every cupboard and then searched again summons the maid who came but came in vain this senior did not hunt today she said there's nothing in the house but wine and bread and suddenly the drowsy falcon shook his little bells with that sagacious look which said as plain as language to the ear if anything is wanting I am here yes everything is wanting gallant bird the master sees thee without further word like thine own lure he whirled the around oh me the pomp and flatter of brave falconry the bells the jesses the bright scarlet hood the flight and the pursuit or field and wood all these forever more are ended now no longer victor but the victim now then on the board a snow white cloth he spread laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot the fragrant peach the juicy bergamot then in the midst a flask of wine he placed and with autumnal flowers the banquet graced Sir Federico would not these suffice without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice when all was ready and the courtly dame with her companion to the cottage came upon Sir Federico's brain there fell the wild enchantment of a magic spell the room they entered mean and low and small was changed into a sumptuous banquet hall with fanfares by aerial trumpets blown the rustic chair she sat on was a throne he ate celestial food and a divine flavor was given to his country wine and the poor falcon fragrant with his spice a peacock was or bird of paradise when the repast was ended they arose and passed again into the garden close then said the lady far too well I know remembering still the days of long ago though you betray it not with what surprise you see me here in this familiar wise you have no children and you cannot guess what anguish what unspeakable distress a mother feels whose child is lying ill nor how her heart anticipates his will and yet for this you see me lay aside all womanly reserve and check of pride and ask the thing most precious in your sight your falcon your soul comfort and delight which if you find it in your heart to give my poor unhappy boy perchance may live sir feather ego listens and replies with tears of love and pity in his eyes alas dear lady there can be no task so sweet to me as giving when you ask one little hour ago if I had known this wish of yours it would have been my own but thinking in what manner I could best do honor to the presence of my guest I deemed that nothing worthier could be than what most dear and precious was to me and so my gallant falcon breathed his last to furnish forth this morning our repast in mute contrition mingled with dismay the gentle lady turned her eyes away grieving that he sacrifice should make and kill his falcon for a woman's sake yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride that nothing she could ask for was denied then took her leave and passed out at the gate with footsteps slow and sold this consulate three days went by and low a passing bell told from the little chapel in the del ten strokes sir feather ego heard and said breathing a prayer alas her child is dead three months went by and low a marry a chime rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time the cottage was deserted and no more sir feather ego sat beside its door but now with servitors to do his will in the grand villa halfway up the hill sat at the Christmas feast and at his side Mona Giovanna his beloved bride never so beautiful so kind so fair enthroned once more in the old rustic chair high perched upon the back of which there stood the image of a falcon carved in wood and underneath the inscription with a date all things come round to him who will but wait interlude soon as the story reached its end one over ego to command crowned it with indudicious praise and then the voice of blame found vent and fanned the embers of descent into a somewhat lively blaze the theologian shook his head these old Italian tales he said from the much praise to Decameron down through all the rabble of best are either trifling dull or lewd the gossip of a neighborhood in some remote provincial town a scandalous chronicle at best they seem to me a stagnant fen grown rank with rushes and with reeds where a white lily now and then blooms in the midst of noxious weeds and deadly nightshade on its banks to this the the students straight replied for the white lily many thanks one should not say with too much pride fountain I will not drink of thee nor were it grateful to forget that from these reservoirs and tanks even Imperial Shakespeare drew his more of Venice and the Jew and Romeo and Juliet and many a famous comedy then along pause till someone said an angel is flying overhead at these words spake the Spanish Jew and murmured with an inward breath God grant if what you say is true it may not be the angel of death and then another pause and then stroking his beard he said again this brings back to my memory a story in the Talmud told that book of gems that book of gold of wonders many and manifold a tale that often comes to me and fills my heart and haunts my brain and never worries nor grows old the Spanish Jews tale the legend of Rabbi Ben Levi Rabbi Ben Levi on the Sabbath read a volume of the law in which it said no man shall look upon my face and live and as he read he prayed that God would give his faithful servant grace with mortal eye to look upon his face and yet not die then fell a sudden shadow on the page and lifting up his eyes grown dim with age he saw the angel of death before him stand holding a naked sword in his right hand Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man yet through his veins a chill of terror ran with trembling voice he said what wilt there here the angel answered low the time draws near when now must die yet first by God's decree what air thou askest shall be granted to thee replied the Rabbi let these living eyes first look upon my place in paradise then said the angel come with me and look Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book and rising and uplifting his gray head give me thy sword he to the angel said lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way the angel smiled and hastened to obey then led him forth to the celestial town and set him on the wall whence gazing down Rabbi Ben Levi with his living eyes might look upon his place in paradise then straight into the city of the Lord the rabbi leaped with the death angel's sword and through the streets there swept a sudden breath of something there unknown which men call death meanwhile the angel stayed without and cried come back to which the rabbi's voice replied no in the name of God whom I adore I swear that hence I will depart no more then all the angels cried oh holy one see what the son of Levi here has done the kingdom of heaven he takes by violence and in thy name refuses to go hence the Lord replied my angels be not Ross did air the son of Levi break his oath let him remain for he with mortal eye shall look upon my face and yet not die beyond the outer wall the angel of death heard the great voice and said with panting breath give me back the sword and let me go my way where at the rabbi paused and answered nay anguish enough already has it caused among the sons of men and while he paused he heard the awful mandate of the Lord resounding through the air give back the sword the rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer then said he to the dreadful angel swear no human eye shall look on it again but when thou takeest away the souls of men thy self unseen and with an unseen sword thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord the angel took the sword again and swore and walks on earth unseen forevermore interlude he ended and a kind of spell upon the silent listeners fell his solemn manner and his words had touched the deep mysterious cords that vibrate in each human breast alike that's not alike confessed the spiritual world seemed near and close above them full of fear it's awful at impression past a luminous shadow vague and fast they almost feared to look best there embodied from the impalpable air they might behold the angel stand holding the sword in his right hand at last but in a voice subdued not to disturb their dreamy mood said the Sicilian while you spoke telling your legend marvelous suddenly in my memory woke the thought of one now gone from us an older buddy meek and mild my friend and teacher when a child who sometimes in those days of old the legend of an angel told which ran if I remember thus end of section two section three of tales of a wayside in this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley tales of a wayside in by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow section three the Sicilians tale King Robert of Sicily Robert of Sicily brother of Pope Urbain and Valmond Emperor of Alamain apparelled in magnificent attire with retinue of many a night and squire on St. John's Eve at Vespers proudly sat and heard the priests chant the Magnificat and as he listened or and or again repeated like a burden or refrain he caught the words deposuit patentes de seide et exaltavit humiles and slowly lifting up his kingly head he to a learned clerk beside him said what mean these words the clerk made answer meet he has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted them of low degree there at King Robert muttered scornfully it is well that such seditious words are sung only by priests and in the Latin tongue for unto priests and people be it known there is no power can push me from my throne and leaning back he yawned and fell asleep lulled by the chant monotonous and deep when he awoke it was already night the church was empty and there was no light save where the lamps that glimmered few and faint lighted a little space before some saint he started from his seat and gazed around but saw no living thing and heard no sound he groped towards the door but it was locked he cried aloud and listened and then knocked and uttered awful threatenings and complaints and implications upon men and saints the sounds re echoed from the roof and walls as if dead priests were laughing in their stalls at length the sexton hearing from without the tumult of the knocking and the shout and thinking thieves were in the house of prayer came with his lantern asking who is there half choked with rage King Robert fiercely said open dis eye the king are they afraid the frightened sexton muttering with a curse this is some drunken vagabond or worse turned the great key and flung the portal wide a man rushed by him at a single stride haggard half naked without hat or cloak who neither turned nor looked at him nor spoke but leaped into the blackness of the night and vanished like a specter from his sight Robert of Sicily brother of Pope Urbain and Valmond Emperor of Alamain despoiled of his magnificent attire bareheaded breathless and besprint with Maya with sense of wrong and outrage desperate strode on and thundered at the palace gate rushed through the courtyard thrusting in his rage to right and left each Seneschal and Paige and hurried up the broad and sounding stair his white face ghastly in the torches glare from hall to hall he passed with breathless speed voices and cries he heard but did not heed until at last he reached the banquet room blazing with light and breathing with perfume there on the dais sat another king wearing his robes his crown his signet ring king Robert's self in features form and height but all transfigured with angelic light it was an angel and his presence there with a divine effulgence filled the air an exultation piercing the disguise though none the hidden angel recognize a moment speechless motionless amazed the throne list monarch on the angel gazed who met his looks of anger and surprise with the divine compassion of his eyes then said what's there and why comes there here to which King Robert answered with a sneer I am the king and come to claim my own from an imposter who usurps my throne and suddenly at these audacious words up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords the angel answered with unruffled brow may not the king but the king's jester thou henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape and for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape thou shalt obey my servants when they call and wait upon my henchmen in the hall deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers they thrust him from the hall and down the stairs a group of tittering pages rang before and as they opened wide to the folding door his heart failed for he heard with strange alarms the boisterous laughter of the men at arms and all the vaulted chamber roar and ring with the mock plaudits of long live the king next morning waking with the day's first beam he said within himself it was a dream but the straw rustled as he turned his head there were the cap and bells beside his bed around him rose the bare discoloured walls close by the steeds were chomping in their stalls and in the corner a revolting shape shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape it was no dream the world he loved so much had turned to dust and ashes at his touch days came and went and now returned again to Sicily the old Saturnian rain under the angels governance benign the happy island danced with corn and wine and deep within the mountains burning breast Enkeledus the giant was at rest meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate sullen and silent and disconsolate dressed in the motley garb that gestures were with looks bewildered and a vacant stare close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn by courtiers mocked by pages laughed to scorn his only friend the ape his only food what others left he still was unsubdued and when the angel met him on his way and half in earnest half in jest would say sternly though tenderly that he might feel the velvet scabbard hell the sword of steel art thou the king the passion of his woe burst from him in resistless overflow and lifting high his forehead he would fling the haughty answer back I am I am the king almost three years were ended when there came ambassadors of great repute and name from Valmond Emperor of Alamein unto King Robert saying that Pope of Bain by letter summons them forthwith to come on Holy Thursday to his city of Rome the angel with great joy received his guests and gave them presents of embroidered vests and velvet mantles with rich ermine lined and rings and jewels of the rarest kind then he departed with them over the sea into the lovely land of Italy whose loveliness was more resplendent made by the mere passing of that cavalcade with plumes and cloaks and housings and the stir of jeweled bridle and of golden spur and low among the menials in mox state upon a piebald steed with shambling gate his cloak of fox tails flapping in the wind the solemn ape demurely perched behind King Robert road making huge merriment in all the country towns through which they went the Pope received them with great pomp and Blair of bannered trumpets on St. Peter's Square giving his benediction and embrace fervent and full of apostolic grace while with congratulations and with prayers he entertained the angel unawares Robert the jester bursting through the crowd into their presence rushed and cried aloud I am the king look and behold in me Robert your brother king of Sicily this man who wears my semblance to your eyes is an imposter in a king's disguise do you not know me does no voice within answer my cry and say we are akin the pope in silence but with troubled mean gazed at the angels countenance serene the emperor laughing said it is strange sport to keep a madman for thy fall at court and the poor baffled jester in disgrace was hustled back among the populace in solemn state the holy week went by and Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky the presence of the angel with its light before the sun rose made the city bright and with new fervour filled the hearts of men who felt that Christ indeed had risen again even the jester on his bed of straw with haggard eyes the unwanted splendor saw he felt within a power unfelt before and kneeling humbly on his chamber floor he heard the rushing garments of the Lord sweep through the silent air ascending heavenward and now the visit ending and once more valmond returning to the danube's shore homeward the angel journeyed and again the land was made resplendent with his train flashing along the towns of Italy unto Salerno and from there by sea and when once more within Palermo's wall and seated on the throne in his great hall he heard the angeles from convent towers as if the better world converse with ours he beckoned to King Robert to draw Nya and with a gesture bad the rest retire and when they were alone the angel said art thou the king then bowing down his head King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast and meekly answered him thou knowest best my sins as scarlet are let me go hence and in some cloister's school of penitence across those stones that pave the way to heaven walk barefoot till my guilty soul is shriven the angel smiled and from his radiant face a holy light illumined all the place and through the open window loud and clear they heard the monks chant in the chapel near above the stir and tumult of the street he has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted them of low degree and through the chant a second melody rose like the throbbing of a single string I am an angel and thou art the king King Robert who was standing near the throne lifted his eyes and low he was alone but all appareled as in days of old with Irmind Mantle and with cloth of gold and when his courtiers came they found him there kneeling upon the floor absorbed in silent prayer interlude and then the blue eyed Norseman told the saga of the days of old there is said he a wondrous book of legends in the old Norse tongue of the dead kings of Norway legends that once were told or sung in many a smoky fireside nook of Iceland in the ancient day by wandering Saga man or scald Hems Grimler is the volume called and he who looks may find therein the story that I now begin and in each pause the story made upon his violin he played as an appropriate interlude fragments of old Norwegian tunes that sound in one the separate runes and held the mind in perfect mood in twining and encircling all the strange and antiquated rhymes with melodies of olden times as over some half ruined wall disjointed and about to fall fresh wood binds climb and interlace and keep the loose and stones in place of section three section four of tales of a wayside in this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley tales of a wayside in by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow section four the musicians tale the saga of King Olaf one the challenge of Thor I am the God Thor I am the war God I am the thunderer here in my Northland my fastness and fortress rain I for ever here amid icebergs rule I the nations this is my hammer mule near the mighty giants and sorcerers cannot withstand it these are the gauntlets where with I wield it and hurl it afar off this is my girdle whenever I brace it strength is redoubled the light they'll beholdest stream through the heavens in flashes of crimson is but my red beard blown by the night wind a frisking the nations Jove is my brother mine eyes are the lightning the wheels of my chariot roll in the thunder the blows of my hammer ring in the earthquake force rules the world still has ruled it shall rule it meekness is weakness strength is triumphant over the whole earth still is it Thor's day thou art a God too O Galilean and thus single handed unto the combat gauntlet or gospel here I defy thee to King Olaf's return and King Olaf heard the cry saw the red light in the sky laid his hand upon his sword as he leaned upon the railing and his ships went sailing sailing northward into Drontheim Fjord there he stood as one who dreamed and the red light glanced and gleamed on the armor that he wore and he shouted as the rifted streamers or him shook and shifted I accept thy challenge Thor to avenge his father slain and reconquer realm and rain came the youthful Olaf home through the midnight sailing sailing listening to the wild winds wailing and the dashing of the foam to his thoughts the sacred name of his mother Astrid came and the tale she oft had told of her flight by secret passes through the mountains and morasses to the home of Hacon old then strange memories crowded back of Queen Gunnhill's Roth and Rack and a hurried flight by sea of grim Vikings and their rapture in the sea fight and the capture and the life of slavery how a stranger watched his face in the Estonian marketplace scanned his features one by one saying we should know each other I am Sigurd Astrid's brother thou art Olaf Astrid's son then as Queen Alogia's page old in honors young in age chief of all her men at arms till vague whispers and mysterious reached King Voldemort the Imperius filling him with strange alarms then his cruisings or the seas westward to the Hebrides and to Silly's rocky shore and the hermit's cavern dismal Christ's great name and rights baptismal in the oceans rush and raw all these thoughts of love and strife glimmered through his lurid life as the stars in tensor light through the red flames or him trailing as his ships went sailing sailing northward in the summer night trained for either camp or court skillful in each manly sport young and beautiful and tall art of warfare craft of chases swimming skating snowshoe races excellent alike in all when at sea with all his rowers he along the bending oars outside of his ship could run he the smell sore horn ascended and his shining shields suspended on its summit like a sun on the ship rails he could stand wield his sword with either hand and at once to Javelin's throw at all feasts where ale was strongest sat the merry monarch longest first to come and last to go Norway never yet had seen one so beautiful of mean one so royal in attire when in arms completely furnished harness gold inlaid and burnished mantel like a flame of fire thus came Olaf to his own when upon the night wind blown past that cry along the shore and he answered while the rifted streamers or him shook and shifted I accept I challenge Thor 3. Thora of Rimmel Thora of Rimmel hide me hide me danger and shame and death betide me for Olaf the king is hunting me down through field and forest through Thorp and town thus cried Jaal Hakon to Thora the fairest of women Hakon Jaal for the love I bear neither shall shame nor death come near thee but the hiding place where in thou must lie is the cave underneath the swine in the style thus to Jaal Hakon said Thora the fairest of women so Hakon Jaal and his base thrall karka crouched in the cave than a dungeon darker as Olaf came riding with men in mail through the forest roads into Orcadale demanding Jaal Hakon of Thora the fairest of women rich and honored shall be whoever the head of Hakon Jaal shall dissever Hakon heard him and karka the slave through the breathing holes of the dark some cave alone in her chamber wept Thora the fairest of women said karka the crafty I will not slay thee for all the king's gold I will never betray thee then why does thou turn so pale oh Churl and then again black as the earth said the earl more pale and more faithful was Thora the fairest of women from a dream in the night the thrall started saying round my neck a gold ring King Olaf was laying and Hakon answered beware of the king he will lay round thy neck a blood-red ring at the ring on her finger gazed Thora the fairest of women at daybreak slept Hakon with sorrows encumbered but screamed and drew up his feet as he slumbered the thrall in the darkness plunged with his knife and the earl awakened no more in this life but wakeful and weeping sat Thora the fairest of women at Nidaholm the priests are all singing two ghastly heads on the gibbet are swinging one is Jal Hakon's and one is his thralls and the people are shouting from windows and walls while alone in her chamber swoones Thora the fairest of women 4. Queen Sigrid the Horty Queen Sigrid the Horty sat proud and aloft in her chamber that looked over meadow and croft hearts dearest why dust thou sorrow so the floor with tassels of fur was besprint filling the room with their fragrant scent she heard the birds sing she saw the sun shine the air of summer was sweeter than wine like a sword without scabbard the bright river lay between her own kingdom and nor away but Olaf the king had sued for her hand the sword would be sheathed the river be spanned her maidens were seated around her knee working bright figures in tapestry and one was singing the ancient rune of Brunhilde's love and the Roth of Gudrun and threw it and round it and over it all sounded incessant the waterfall the queen in her hand held a ring of gold from the door of Lades temple old King Olaf had sent her this wedding gift but her thoughts as arrows were keen and swift she had given the ring to her goldsmith's twain who smiled as they handed it back again and Sigrid the queen in her haughty way said why do you smile my goldsmiths say and they answered oh queen if the truth must be told the ring is of copper and not of gold the lightning flashed on her forehead and cheek she only murmured she did not speak if in his gifts he can faithless be there will be no gold in his love to me a footstep was heard on the outer stair and in strode King Olaf with royal air he kissed the queen's hand and he whispered of love and swore to be true as the stars are above but she smiled with contempt as she answered oh king will you swear it as Odin once swore on the ring and the king oh speak not of Odin to me the wife of King Olaf a Christian must be looking straight at the king with her level brows she said I keep true to my faith and my vows then the face of King Olaf was darkened with gloom he rose in his anger and strode through the room why then should I care to have thee he said a faded old woman a heathenish jade his zeal was stronger than fear or love and he struck the queen in the face with his glove then forth from the chamber in anger he fled and the wooden stairway shook with his tread Queen Sigrid the haughty said under her breath this insult king Olaf shall be thy death hearts dearest why dost thou sorrow so five the scary of shrieks now from all King Olaf's farms his men at arms gathered on the eve of Easter to his house at Angvaldsness fast they press drinking with the royal feast loudly through the wide flung door came the roar of the sea upon the scary and its thunder loud and near reached the ear mingling with their voices merry Hark said Olaf to his scald Halfred the bald listen to that song and learn it half my kingdom would I give as I live if by such songs you would earn it for of all the runes and rhymes of all times best I like the oceans dirges when the old harper heaves and rocks his hoary locks flowing and flashing in the surges Halfred answered I am called the unappalled nothing hinders me or daunts me Hark unto me then, O king while I sing the great ocean song that haunts me I will hear your song sublime some other time says the drowsy monarch yawning and retires each laughing guest applaud suggest they sleep till day is dawning pacing up and down the yard king Olaf's guard saw the sea mist slowly creeping over the sands and up the hill gathering still round the house where they were sleeping it was not the fog he saw nor misty floor that above the landscape brooded it was Avin Calder's crew of warlocks blue with their caps of darkness hooded round and round the house they go weaving slow magic circles to encumber and imprison in their ring Olaf the king as he helpless lies in slumber then a thwart the vapours done the Easter sun streamed with one broad track of splendor their real forms appeared the warlock's weird awful as the witch of Endor blinded by the light that glared they groped and stared round about with steps unsteady from his window Olaf gazed and amazed who are these strange people? said he Avin Calder and his men answered then from the yard a sturdy farmer while the men at arms apace filled the place busily buckling on their armour from the gates they sallied forth south and north scoured the island coast around them seizing all the warlock band foot and hand on the scary's rocks they bound them and at eve the king again called his train and with all the candles burning silent sat and heard once more the sullen roar of the ocean tides returning shrieks and cries of wild despair filled the air growing fainter as they listened then the bursting surge alone sounded on thus the sorcerers were christened sing oh scald your song sublime your ocean rhyme cried king Olaf it will cheer me said the scald with pallid cheeks the scary of shrieks sings too loud for you to hear me six the wraith of Odin the guests were loud the ale was strong king Olaf feasted late and long the hoary skulls together sang overhead the smoky rafters rang dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang the door swung wide with creak and din the blast of cold night air came in and on the threshold shivering stood oh one eyed guest with cloak and hood dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang the king exclaimed oh grey beard pale come warn thee with this cup of ale the foaming draught the old man quaffed the noisy guests looked on and laughed dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang then spake the king be not afraid sit here by me the guest obeyed and seated at the table told tales of the sea and sagas old dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang and ever when the tale was o'er the king demanded yet one more till sigured the bishop smiling said it is late oh king and time for bed ride Sir Morton of Fogle sang the king retired the stranger guest followed and entered with the rest the lights were out the page is gone but still the garrulous guests spake on dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang as one who from a volume reads he spake of heroes and their deeds of lands and cities he had seen and stormy gulfs that tossed between dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang then from his lips in music rolled the havermal of Odin old with sounds mysterious as the roar of billows on a distant shore dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang do we not learn from runes and rhymes made by the gods in elder times and do not still the great scalds teach that silence better is than speech dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang smiling at this the king replied thy law is by thy tongue belied for never was I so enthralled either by Sarga man or scald dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang the bishop said late hours we keep night wanes o king it is time for sleep then slept the king and when he woke the guest was gone the morning broke dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang they found the doors securely barred they found the watchdog in the yard there was no footprint in the grass and none had seen the stranger pass dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang King Olaf crossed himself and said I know that Odin the Great is dead sure is the triumph of our faith the one eyed stranger was his wraith dead rides Sir Morton of Fogle sang End of Section 4 of Tales of a Wayside Inn Section 5 of Tales of a Wayside Inn this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley Tales of a Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Section 5 The Musician's Tale Parts 7 to 12 Part 7 Iron Beard Olaf the King won Summer Mourne blew a blast on his bugle horn sending his signal through the land of Drontheim and to the husting held at Mere gathered the farmers far and near with their war weapons ready to confront him plowing under the morning star old Iron Beard in Iriar heard the summons chuckling with a low laugh he wiped the sweats drops from his brow unharnessed his horses from the plow and clattering came on horseback to King Olaf he was the churliest of the churls little he cared for king or earls bitter as homebrewed ale were his foaming passions hot and grey was the garb he wore and by the hammer of thaw he swore he hated the narrow town and all its fashions but he loved the freedom of his farm his ale at night by the fireside warm could run his daughter with her flax and tresses he loved his horses and his herds the smell of the earth and the song of birds his well-filled barns his brook with its water-cresses huge and cumbersome was his frame his beard from which he took his name frosty and fierce like that of Heimer the Giant so at the husting he appeared the farmer of Iriar Iron Beard on horseback with an attitude defiant and to King Olaf he cried aloud out of the middle of the crowd that tossed about him like a stormy ocean such sacrifices shall thou bring to Odin and to Thor, O king as other kings have done in their devotion King Olaf answered I command this land to be a Christian land here is my bishop who the folk baptizes but if you ask me to restore your sacrifices stained with gore then will I offer human sacrifices not slaves and peasants shall they be but men of note and high degree such men as a arm of lyre and car of grating then to their temple strode he in and loud behind him heard the din of his men at arms and the peasants fiercely fighting there in the temple carved in wood the image of great Odin stood and other gods with Thor supreme among them King Olaf smote them with the blade of his huge war axe gold inlaid and downward shattered to the pavement flung them at the same moment rose without from the contending crowd a shout a mingled sound of triumph and of wailing and there upon the trampled plain the farmer Iron Beard lay slain midway between the assailed and the assailing King Olaf from the doorway spoke choose ye between two things my folk to be baptized or given up to slaughter and seeing their leader stark and dead the people with a murmur said o king baptize us with thy holy water so all the dron time land became a Christian land in name and fame in the old gods no more believing and trusting and as a blood atonement soon King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun and thus in peace ended the dron time husting Part 8 Gudrun on King Olaf's bridal night shines the moon with tender light and across the chamber streams its tide of dreams at the fatal midnight hour when all evil things have power in the glimmer of the moon stands Gudrun close against her heaving breast something in her hand is pressed like an icicle its sheen is cold and keen on the cairn are fixed her eyes where her murdered father lies and a voice remote and drear she seems to hear what a bridal night is this cold will be the daggers kiss even with the chill of death is its breath like the drifting snow she sweeps to the couch where Olaf sleeps suddenly he wakes and stirs his eyes meet hers what is that King Olaf said gleams so bright above thy head wherefore standest thou so white in pale moonlight it is the bodkin that I wear when at night I bind my hair it woke me falling on the floor nothing more forests have ears and fields have eyes often treachery lurking lies underneath the fairest hair Gudrun beware ere the earliest peep of morn blue King Olaf's bugle horn and forever sundered ride bridegroom and bride part nine thangbrand the priest short of stature large of limb burly face and russet beard all the women stared at him when in Iceland he appeared look they said with nodding head there goes thangbrand Olaf's priest all the prayers he knew by rote he could preach like chrissa stone from the fathers he could quote he had even been at Rome a learned clerk a man of mark was this thangbrand Olaf's priest he was quarrelsome and loud and impatient of control boisterous in the market crowd boisterous at the wasale bowl everywhere would drink and swear swaggering thangbrand Olaf's priest in his house this malcontent could the king no longer bear so to Iceland he was sent to convert the heathen there and away one summer day sailed this thangbrand Olaf's priest there in Iceland all their books poured the people day and night but he did not like their looks nor the songs they used to write all this rhyme is waste of time grumbled thangbrand Olaf's priest to the ale house where he sat came the scalds and sarga men is it to be wondered at that they quarrelled now and then when are his beer began to leer drunken thangbrand Olaf's priest all the folk in elterfjord boasted of their island grand saying in a single word Iceland is the finest land that the sun does shine upon loud laughed thangbrand Olaf's priest and he answered what's the use of this bragging up and down when three women and one goose make a market in your town every scald satires scrawled on poor thangbrand Olaf's priest something worse they did than that and what vexed him most of all was a figure in shovel hat drawn in charcoal on the wall with words that goes sprawling below this is thangbrand Olaf's priest hardly knowing what he did then he smote them might and main sorvelled vile and vettelid lay there in the alehouse slain today we are gold tomorrow mould muttered thangbrand Olaf's priest much in fear of axe and rope back to Norway sailed he then oh king Olaf little hope is there of these Iceland men meekly said with bending head pious thangbrand Olaf's priest section 10 rowed the strong all the old gods are dead all the wild warlocks fled but the white Christ lives and reigns and throughout my wild domain his gospel shall be spread on the evangelists thus swore king Olaf but still in dreams of the night beheld he the crimson light and heard the voice that defied him who was crucified and challenged him to the fight to Sigurd the bishop king Olaf confessed it and Sigurd the bishop said the old gods are not dead for the great Thor still reigns and among the jails and thanes the old witchcraft still is spread thus to king Olaf said Sigurd the bishop far north in the Salton Fjord my rapine fire and sword lives the Viking rowed the strong all the god O Isles belonged to him and his heathen horde thus went on speaking Sigurd the bishop a warlock a wizard is he and lord of the wind and the sea and whichever way he sails he has ever favouring gales by his craft in sorcery here the sign of the cross made devoutly king Olaf with rites that we both have whore he worships Odin and Thor so it cannot yet be said that all the old gods are dead and the warlocks are no more flushing with anger said Sigurd the bishop then king Olaf quite allowed I will talk with this mighty rowed and along the Salton Fjord preach the gospel with my sword or be brought back in my shroud so northward from Drontheim sailed king Olaf part 11 bishop Sigurd at Salton Fjord loud the angry wind was wailing as king Olaf's ships came sailing northward out of Drontheim Haven to the mouth of Salton Fjord though the flying sea spray drenches for and after the rowers benches not a single heart is craven of the champions there on board all without the Fjord was quiet but within its storm and riot such as on his Viking cruises rowed the strong was wont to ride and the sea through all its tidways swept the regeling vessels sideways as the leaves are swept through sluices when the floodgates open wide tis the warlock tis the demon rowed cried Sigurd to the seaman but the lord is not affrighted by the witchcraft of his foes tis the warlock tis the demon rowed cried Sigurd to the seaman the witchcraft of his foes to the ship's bow he ascended by his choristers attended round him were the tapers lighted and the sacred incense rose on the bow stood bishop Sigurd in his robes as one transfigured and the crucifix he planted high amid the rain and mist then with holy water sprinkled all the ship the mass-bells tinkled loud the monks around him chanted loud he read the evangelist as into the fjord they darted on each side the water parted down a path like silver molten steadily rode king Olaf's ships steadily burned all night the tapers and the white Christ through the vapours gleamed across the fjord of sultan as through John's apocalypse till at last they reached round dwelling on the little isle of gelling not a guard was at the doorway not a glimmer of light was seen but at anchor carved and gilded lay the dragonship he builded twas the grandest ship in Norway with its crest and scales of green up the stairway softly creeping to the loft where Raoud was sleeping with their fists they burst a sun the bolt and bar that held the door drunken with sleep till they found him dragged him from his bed and bound him while he stared with stupid wonder at the look and garb they wore then king Olaf said oh see king little time have we for speaking choose between the good and evil be baptised or thou shalt die but in scorn the heathen scoffer answered I disdain thine offer neither fear I God nor devil thee and thy gospel then between his jaws distended when his frantic struggles ended through king Olaf's horn an adder touched by fire they forced to glide sharp his tooth was as an arrow as he gnawed through bone and marrow but without a groan or shudder Raoud the strong blaspheming died then baptised they all that region swar thee lap and fair Norwegian far as swims the salmon leaping up the streams of sultan fjord in their temples thaw and odin lay in dust and ashes trodden as king Olaf onward sweeping preached the gospel with his sword then he took the carved and gilded dragonship that Raoud had builded and the tiller single-handed grasping steered into the main southward sailed the bells o'er him southward sailed the ship that bore him till at drontime haven landed Olaf and his crew again part 12 king Olaf's Christmas at drontime Olaf the king heard the bells of yuletide ring as he sat in his banquet hall drinking the nut brown ale with his bearded berserks hail and tall three days his yuletide feasts he held with bishops and priests and his horn filled up to the brim but the ale was never too strong nor the sargar man's tail too long for him o'er his drinking horn the sign he made of the cross divine as he drank and muttered his prayers but the berserks evermore made the sign of the hammer of thaw over theirs the gleams of the firelight dance upon helmet and horberk and lance and laugh in the eyes of the king and he cries to Halfred the scald gray bearded wrinkled and bawled sing sing me a song divine with a sword in every line and this shall be thy reward and he loosened the belt at his waist and in front of the singer placed his sword quernbiter of haik on the good wherewith at a stroke he hewed the millstone through and through and footbreadth of Thoralf the strong were neither so broad nor so long nor so true then the scald took his harp and sang and loud through the music rang the sound of that shining word and the harp strings a clanger made as if they were struck with the blade of a sword and the berserks round about broke forth into a shout that made the rafters ring they smoked with their fists on the board and shouted long live the sword and the king but the king said oh my son I miss the bright word in one of thy measures and thy rhymes and Halfred the scald replied in another it was multiplied three times then King Olaf raised the hilt of iron and said do not refuse count well again and the loss Thor's hammer or Christ's cross choose and Halfred the scald said this in the name of the lord I kiss who on it was crucified and a shout went round the board in the name of Christ the lord who died then over the waste of snows the noonday sun upfroze through the driving mists revealed like the lifting of the host by incense clouds almost concealed on the shiny wall a vast and shadowy cross was cast from the hilt of the lifted sword and in foaming cups of ale the berserks cried was hail to the lord end of section five section six of tales of a wayside inn this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley tales of a wayside inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow section 13 the building of the long serpent Thorberg scrafting master builder in his shipyard by the sea whistled saying it would bewilder any man but Thorberg scrafting any man but me the dragon stranded built of old by Rowd the strong and King Olaf had commanded he should build another dragon twice as large and long therefore whistled Thorberg scrafting as he sat with half-closed eyes and his head turned sideways drafting that new vessel for King Olaf twice the dragon's size round him busily hewed and hammered let huge and heavy axe workman laughed and sang and clamoured word the wheels that interrigging spun the shining flax all this tumult heard the master it was music to his ear fancy whispered all the faster men shall hear of Thorberg scrafting for a hundred year workman sweating at the forges fashioned iron bolt and bar the warlocks midnight orgies smoked and bubbled the black cauldron with the boiling tar did the warlocks mingle in it Thorberg scrafting any curse could you not be gone a minute but some mischief must be doing turning bad to worse it was an ill wind that came wafting from his homestead words of woe to his farm went Thorberg scrafting to his workman build ye thus and so after long delays returning came the master back by night to his shipyard longing yearning hurried he and did not leave it till the morning's light come and see my ship my darling on the morrow said the king finished now from keel to carling never yet was seen in Norway such a wondrous thing in the shipyard idly talking at the ship the workman stared someone all their labour balking down her sides had cut deep gashes not a plank was spared death be to the evil doer with an oath king Olaf spoke but rewards to his pursuer and with Roth his face grew redder than his scarlet cloak straight the master builder smiling answered thus the angry king ceased blaspheming and reviling Olaf it was Thorberg scrafting who has done this thing then he chipped and smoothed the planking till the king delighted swore with much lording and much thanking hansomer is now my dragon than she was before seventy L's and four extended on the grass the vessel's keel high above it guilt and splendid rose the figurehead ferocious with its crest of steel then they launched her from the trestles in the shipyard by the sea she was the grandest of all vessels never ship was built in Norway half so fine as she the long serpent was she christened mid the roar of cheer on cheer they who to the saga listened heard the name of Thorberg's scrafting for a hundred year section 14 the crew of the long serpent safe at anchor in drontheim bay king Olaf's fleet assembled lay and striped with white and blue downward fluttered sail and banner as a lights the screaming lanner lustily cheered in their wild manner the long serpent's crew little man was alf the red like a wolf's was his shaggy head his teeth as large and white his beard of grey and russet blended round as a swallow's nest descended as standard bearer he defended Olaf's flag in the fight near him colbyorn had his place like the king in garb and face so gallant and so hail every cabin boy and violet at his cloak of scarlet like a river frozen and star-lipped gleamed his coat of mail by the bulkhead tall and dark stood Thrand Reym of Thilemark a figure gaunt and grand on his hairy arm imprinted was an anchor azure tinted like Thor's hammer huge and dinted was his brawny hand Einar timberskelver bare to the winds his golden hair by the main-master stood graceful was his form and slender and his eyes were deep and tender as a woman's in the splendour of her maidenhood in the forehold Bjorn and Bork watched the sailors at their work heavens how they swore thirty men they each commanded iron-synured, horny-handed shoulders broad and chests expanded tugging at the oar these and many more like these with King Olaf sailed the seas till the waters vast filled them with a vague devotion with the freedom and the motion with the royal and raw of ocean and the sounding blast when they landed from the fleet how they roared through Drontheim's street boisterous as the gale soft and stamped and pounded till the tavern roof resounded and the host looked on astounded as they drank the ale never saw the wild North Sea such a gallant company sail its billows blue never while they cruised and quarrelled old King Gorm or Bluetooth Harald owned a ship so well apparelled boasted such a crew section 15 a little bird in the air a little bird in the air is singing of theory the fair the sister of Sven the Dane and the song of the garrulous bird in the streets of the town is heard and repeated again and again hoist up your sails of silk and flee away from each other to King Burislav it is said was the beautiful theory wed and a sorrowful bride went she and after a week and a day she has fled away and away from his town by the stormy sea hoist up your sails of silk and flee away from each other they say that through heat and through cold through wields they say and through wold by day and by night they say and the gossips report she has come to King Olaf's court and the town is all in dismay hoist up your sails of silk and flee away from each other it is whispered King Olaf has seen has talked with the beautiful queen and they wonder how it will end for surely if here she remain it is war with King's Vend the Dane and King Burislav the Vend hoist up your sails of silk and flee away from each other oh greatest wonder of all it is published in Hamlet and Hall it roars like a flame that is fanned the King, yes, Olaf the King has wedded her with his ring and theory is queen in the land hoist up your sails of silk and flee away from each other section 16 Queen Theory and the Angelica Storks Northward over Drontheim flew the clamorous seagulls sang the lark and linnet from the meadows green weeping in her chamber lonely and unhappy sat the drotting theory sat King Olaf's queen in at all the windows streamed the pleasant sunshine on the roof above her softly cooed the dove but the sound she heard not nor the sunshine heeded for the thoughts of theory were not thoughts of love then King Olaf entered beautiful as morning like the sun at Easter shone his happy face in his hand he carried Angelica's uprooted with delicious fragrance filling all the place like a rainy midnight sat the drotting theory even the smile of Olaf could not cheer her gloom nor the storks he gave her with a gracious gesture and with words as pleasant as their own perfume in her hands he placed them and her dueled fingers through the green leaves glistened like the dews of mourn but she cast them from her haughty and indignant on the floor she threw them with a look of scorn richer presence said she to the queen my mother than such worthless weeds when he ravaged Norway laying waste to the kingdom seizing scat and treasure for her royal needs but they are dearest not venture through the sound to Vendland my domains to rescue from King Burislav lest King Sven of Denmark forked beard my brother scatter all thy vessels as the wind the chaff and King Olaf like a reindeer bounding with an oath he answered thus the luckless queen never did Olaf fear King Sven of Denmark this right hand shall hail him by his forked chin then he left the chamber thundering through the doorway loud his steps resounded down the outer stair smarting with the insult through the streets of drontime strode he red and wrathful all his ships he gathered summoned all his forces making his war levy in the region round down the coast of Norway like a flock of seagulls sailed the fleet of Olaf through the Danish sound with his own hand fearless steered he the long serpent strained the creaking cordage bent each boom and gaff till in Vendland landing the domains of theory he redeemed and rescued from King Burislav then said Olaf laughing not ten yoke of oxen have the power to draw us like a woman's hair now will I confess it better things are jewels and angelica stalks are for a queen to wear section 17 King Sven of the forked beard loudly the sailors cheered Sven of the forked beard as with his fleet he steered southward to Vendland where with their courses hauled all were together called under the Isle of Svald near to the mainland after Queen Gunhild's death so the old saga sayeth plighted King Sven his faith to sigrid the haughty and to avenge his bride soothing her wounded pride over the waters wide King Olaf sought he still on her scornful face blushing with deep disgrace bore she the crimson trace of Olaf's gauntlet like a malignant star blazing in heaven afar red shone the angry scar under her frontlet oft to King Sven she spake for thine own honour's sake shelter thou swift vengeance take on the vile coward until the King at last gusty and overcast like a tempestuous blast threatened and lowered soon as the spring appeared Sven of the forked beard hire his red standard reared eager for battle while every warlike dain seizing his arms again left all unsewn the grain unhoused the cattle likewise the Swedish king summoned in haste a ting weapons and men to bring in aid of Denmark Eric the Norseman too as the war tidings flew sailed with a chosen crew from Lapland and Finmark so upon Easter day sailed the three kings away out of the sheltered bay in the bright season with them Earl Sigvald came eager for spoil and fame pity that such a name stooped to such treason safe under s'fold at last now were their anchors cast safe from the sea and blast plotted the three kings while with a base intent southward Earl Sigvald went on a foul errand bent unto the sea kings thence to hold on his course unto King Olaf's force lying within the horse mouths of Stetthaven him to ensnare and bring unto the Danish king who his dead course would fling forth to the raven End of section 6