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_The Lovely Myfanwy_ was written by Walter de la Mare
(1873-1956), and was included in his _Collected Stories for Children_ (1947).

Title: Collected Stories for Children -- The Lovely Myfanwy
Date of first publication: 1947
Author: Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)
Date first posted: 12 August 2007
Date last updated: 12 August 2007
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #19

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones & the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




The Lovely Myfanwy

by Walter de la Mare (from his _Collected Stories for Children_) [1947]




In an old castle under the forested mountains of the Welsh Marches
there lived long ago Owen ap Gwythock, Lord of Eggleyseg. He was a
short, burly, stooping man with thick black hair on head and face,
large ears, and small restless eyes. And he lived in his great castle
alone, except for one only daughter, the lovely Myfanwy.

Lovely indeed was she. Her hair, red as red gold, hung in plaits to
her knees. When she laughed, it was like bells in a faraway steeple.
When she sang, Echo forgot to reply. And her spirit would sit gently
looking out of her blue eyes like cushats out of their nest in an ivy
bush.

Myfanwy was happy, too--in most things. All that her father could give
her for her ease and pleasure was hers--everything indeed but her
freedom. She might sing, dance, think and say; eat, drink, and delight
in whatsoever she wished or willed. Indeed her father loved her so
dearly that he would sit for hours together merely watching her--as you
may watch wind over wheat, reflections in water, or clouds in the
heavens. So long as she was safely and solely his all was well.

But ever since Myfanwy had been a child, a miserable foreboding had
haunted his mind. Supposing she should some day leave him? Supposing
she were lost or decoyed away? Supposing she fell ill and died? What
then? The dread of this haunted his mind day and night. His dark brows
loured at the very thought of it. It made him morose and sullen; it
tied up the tongue in his head.

For this sole reason he had expressly forbidden Myfanwy even to stray
but a few paces beyond the precincts of his castle; with its
battlemented towers, its galleries and corridors and multitudinous
apartments, its high garden and courtyard, its alleys, fountains,
fish-pools and orchards. He could trust nobody. He couldn't bear her
out of his sight. He spied, he watched, he walked in his sleep, he
listened and peeped; and all for fear of losing Myfanwy.

So although she might have for company the doves and swans and
peacocks, the bees and butterflies, the swallows and swifts and
jackdaws and the multitude of birds of every song and flight and
feather that haunted the castle; humans, except her father, she had
none. The birds and butterflies could fly away at will wherever their
wings could carry them. Even the fishes in the fish-pools and in the
fountains had their narrow alleys of marble and alabaster through
which on nimble fin they could win back to the great river at last.
Not so Myfanwy.

She was her father's unransomable prisoner; she was a bird in a cage.
She might feast her longing eyes on the distant horizon beyond whose
forests lay the sea, but knew she could not journey thither. While as
for the neighbouring township, with its busy streets and
marketplace--not more than seven country miles away--she had only
dreamed of its marvels and dreamed in vain. A curious darkness at such
times came into her eyes, and her spirit would look out of them not
like a dove but as might a dumb nightingale out of its nest--a
nightingale that has had its tongue cut out for a delicacy to feed
some greedy prince.

How criss-cross a thing is the heart of man. Solely because this lord
loved his daughter so dearly, if ever she so much as sighed for change
or adventure, like some stubborn beast of burden he would set his feet
together and refuse to budge an inch. Beneath his heavy brows he would
gaze at the brightness of her unringleted hair as if mere looking
could keep that gold secure; as if earth were innocent of moth and
rust and change and chance, and had never had course to dread and
tremble at sound of the unrelenting footfall of Time.

All he could think of that would keep her his own was hers without the
asking: delicate raiment and meats and strange fruits and far-fetched
toys and devices and pastimes, and as many books as would serve a
happy scholar a long life through.

He never tired of telling her how much he loved and treasured her. But
there is a hunger of the heart no _thing_ in the world can ever satisfy.
And Myfanwy listened, and sighed.

Besides which, Myfanwy grew up and grew older as a green-tressed
willow grows from a sapling; and now that she had come to her
eighteenth spring she was lovelier than words could tell. This only
added yet another and sharper dread and foreboding to her father's
mind. It sat like a skeleton at his table whenever he broke bread or
sipped wine. Even the twittering of a happy swallow from distant
Africa reminded him of it like a knell. It was this: that some day a
lover, a suitor, would come and carry her off.

Why, merely to _see_ her, even with her back turned--to catch a glimpse
of her slim shoulders, of her head stooping over a rosebush would be
enough. Let her but laugh--two notes--and you listened! Nobody--prince
nor peasant, knight nor squire--brave, foolish, young or weary, would
be able to resist her. Owen ap Gwythock knew it in his bones. But one
look, and instantly the looker's heart would be stolen out of his
body. He would fall in love with her--fall as deep and irrevocably as
the dark sparkling foaming water crashing over into the gorge of
Modwr-Eggleyseg, scarcely an arrow's flight beyond his walls.

And supposing any such suitor should _tell_ Myfanwy that he loved her,
might she not--forgetting all his own care and loving-kindness--be
persuaded to flee away and leave him to his solitude? Solitude--now
that old age was close upon him! At thought of this, for fear of it,
he would sigh and groan within: and he would bid the locksmiths double
their locks and bolts and bars; and he would sit for hours watching
the highroad that swept up past his walls, and scowling at sight of
every stranger who passed that way.

He even at last forbade Myfanwy to walk in the garden except with an
immense round mushroom hat on her head, a hat so wide in the brim that
it concealed from any trespasser who might be spying over the wall
even the glinting of her hair--everything of her indeed except her two
velvet shoes beneath the hem of her dress as they stepped in turn--and
softly as moles--one after the other from blossoming alley to alley and
from lawn to lawn.

And because Myfanwy loved her father almost as dearly as he loved her,
she tried her utmost to be gay and happy and not to fret or complain
or grow pale and thin and pine. But as a caged bird with a kind
mistress may hop and sing and flutter behind its bars as if it were
felicity itself, and yet be sickening at heart for the wild wood and
its green haunts, so it was with Myfanwy.

If only she might but just once venture into the town, she would think
to herself; but just to see the people in the streets, and the pedlars
in the marketplace, and the cakes and sweetmeats and honey-jars in
the shops, and strangers passing to and fro, and the sunshine in the
high gables, and the talking and the laughing and the bargaining and
the dancing--the horses, the travellers, the bells, the starshine.

Above all, it made her heart ache to think her father should have so
little faith in her duty and love for him that he would not consent to
let her wander even a snail's journey out of his sight. When, supper
over, she leaned over his great chair as he sat there in his
crimson--his black hair dangling on his shoulders, his beard hunched
up on his chest--to kiss him good night, this thought would be in her
eyes even if not on the tip of her tongue. And at such times he
himself--as if he knew in his heart what he would never dare to
confess--invariably shut down his eyelids or looked the other way.

Now servants usually have long tongues, and gossip flits from place to
place like seeds of thistledown. Simply because Myfanwy was never seen
abroad, the fame of her beauty had long since spread through all the
countryside. Minstrels sang of it, and had even carried their ballads
to countries and kingdoms and principalities far beyond Wales.

Indeed, however secret and silent men may be concerning rare beauty
and goodness, somehow news of it sows itself over the wide world. A
saint may sit in his cave or his cell, scarcely ever seen by mortal
eye, quiet as sunshine in a dingle of the woods or seabirds in the
hollows of the Atlantic, doing his deeds of pity and loving-kindness,
and praying his silent prayers. And he may live to be a withered-up,
hollow-cheeked old man with a long white beard, and die, and his body
be shut up in a tomb. But nevertheless, little by little, the fame of
his charity, and of the miracles of his compassion will spread abroad,
and at last you may even chance on his image in a shrine thousands of
leagues distant from the hermitage where he lived and died, and
centuries after he has gone on his way.

Like this it was with the loveliness and gentleness of Myfanwy. That
is why, when the Lord of Eggleyseg himself rode through the streets of
the neighbouring town, he perceived out of the corner of his eye
strangers in outlandish disguise who he suspected at once must be
princes and noblemen from foreign climes come thither even if merely
to set eyes on his daughter. That is why the streets were so full of
music and singing that of a summer evening you could scarcely hear the
roar of its cataracts. That is why its townsfolk were entertained with
tumblers and acrobats and fortune-tellers and soothsayers and
tale-tellers almost the whole year long. Ever and again, indeed,
grandees visited it _without_ disguise. They lived for weeks there, with
their retinues of servants, their hawks and hounds and tasselled
horses in some one of its high ancient houses. And their one sole hope
and desire was to catch but a glimpse of the far-famed Myfanwy.

But as they came, so they went away. However they might plot and
scheme to gain a footing in the castle--it was in vain. The portcullis
was always down; there were watchmen perpetually on the look-out in
its turrets; and the gates of the garden were festooned with heavy
chains. There was not in its frowning ancient walls a single window
less than twenty feet above the ground that was not thickly, rustily,
and securely barred.

None the less, Myfanwy occasionally found herself in the garden alone.
Occasionally she stole out if but for one breath of freedom, sweeter
by far to those who pine for it than that of pink, or mint, or
jasmine, or honeysuckle. And one such early evening in May, when her
father--having nodded off to sleep, wearied out after so much watching
and listening and prying and peering--was snoring in an arbour or
summerhouse, she came to its western gates, and having for a moment
lifted the brim of her immense hat to look at the sunset, she gazed
wistfully a while through its bars out into the green woods beyond.

The leafy boughs in the rosy light hung still as pictures in deep
water. The skies resembled a tent of silk, blue as the sea. Deer were
browsing over the dark turf; and a wonderful charm and carolling of
birds was rising out of the glades and coverts of the woods.

But what Myfanwy had now fixed her dark eyes on was none of these, but
the figure of a young man leaning there, erect but fast asleep,
against the bole of a gigantic beech tree, not twenty paces distant
from the gate at which she stood. He must, she fancied, have been
keeping watch there for some little time. His eyelids were dark with
watching; his face pale. Slim and gentle does were treading close
beside him; the birds had clean forgotten his presence; and a squirrel
was cracking the nut it held between its clawed forepaws not a yard
above his head.

Myfanwy had never before set eyes on human stranger in this valley
beyond the gates. Her father's serving men were ancients who had been
in his service in the castle years before she was born. This young man
looked, she imagined, like a woodman, or a forester, or a swine-herd.
She had read of them in a handwritten book of fantastic tales which
she had chanced on among her mother's belongings.

And as Myfanwy, finger on brim of her hat, stood intently gazing, a
voice in her heart told her that whoever and whatever this stranger
might be, he was someone she had been waiting for, and even dreaming
about, ever since she was a child. All else vanished out of her mind
and her memory. It was as if her eyes were intent on some such old
story itself, and one well known to her. This unconscious stranger was
that story. Yet he himself--stiff as a baulk of wood against the
beech-trunk, as if indeed he had been nailed to its bark--slumbered on.

So he might have continued to do, now so blessedly asleep, until she
had vanished as she had come. But at that moment the squirrel there,
tail for parasol immediately above his head, having suddenly espied
Myfanwy beyond the bars of the gate, in sheer astonishment let fall
its nut, and the young man--as if at a tiny knock on the door of his
mind--opened his eyes.

For Myfanwy it was like the opening of a door into a strange and
wonderful house. Her heart all but ceased to beat. She went cold to
her fingertips. And the stranger too continued to gaze at Myfanwy--as
if out of a dream.

And if everything could be expressed in words, that this one quiet
look between them told Myfanwy of things strange that yet seemed more
familiar to her than the pebbles on the path and the thorns on the
rose-bushes and the notes of the birds in the air and the first few
drops of dew that were falling in the evening air, then it would take
a book ten times as long as this in which to print it.

But even as she gazed Myfanwy suddenly remembered her father. She
sighed; her fingers let fall the wide brim of her hat; she turned
away. And oddly enough, by reason of this immense ridiculous hat, her
father who but a few moments before had awakened in his arbour and was
now hastening along the path of the rosery in pursuit of her, caught
not a single glimpse of the stranger under the beech-tree. Indeed,
before the squirrel could scamper off into hiding, the young man had
himself vanished round the trunk of the tree and out of sight like a
serpent into the grass.

In nothing except in this, however, did he resemble a serpent. For
that very evening at supper her father told Myfanwy that yet another
letter had been delivered at the castle, from some accursed Nick
Nobody, asking permission to lay before him his suit for her hand. His
rage was beyond words. He spilt his wine and crumbled his bread--his
face a storm of darkness; his eyes like smouldering coals.

Myfanwy sat pale and trembling. Hitherto, such epistles, though even
from princes of renowned estate and of realms even of the Orient, had
carried much less meaning to her heart than the cuckooing of a cuckoo,
or the whispering of the wind. Indeed, the cuckoo of those Welsh
mountains and the wind from over their seas were voices of a language
which, though secret, was not one past the heart's understanding. Not
so these pompous declarations. Myfanwy would laugh at them--as though
at the clumsy gambollings of a bear. She would touch her father's
hand, and smile into his face, to assure him they had no meaning, that
she was still as safe as safe could be.

But _this_ letter--not for a single moment had the face of the
young stranger been out of her mind. Her one sole longing and despair
was the wonder whether she would ever in this world look upon him
again. She sat like stone.

'Ay, ay, my dear,' said her father at last, laying his thick, square
hand on hers as she sat beside him in her high-backed velvet
chair--'ay, ay, my gentle one. It shows us yet again how full the world
is of insolence and adventurers. This is a _cave_, a warning, an _alarum_,
my dear--maledictions on his bones! We must be ten times more cautious;
we must be wary; we must be lynx and fox and Argus--all eyes! And
remember, my all, my precious one, remember this, that while I, your
father, am alive, no harm, no ill can approach or touch you. Believe
only in my love, beloved, and all is well with us.'

Her cold lips refused to speak. Myfanwy could find no words with which
to answer him. With face averted she sat in a woeful daydream,
clutching her father's thumb, and only vaguely listening to his
transports of fury and affection, revenge and adoration. For her mind
and heart now welled over with such a medley of thoughts and hopes and
fears and sorrows that she could find no other way but this dumb
clutch of expressing that she loved her father too.

At length, his rage not one whit abated, he rose from his chair, and
having torn the insolent letter into thirty-two tiny pieces he flung
them into the huge log fire burning in the stone chimney. 'Let me but
lay a finger on the shameless popinjay,' he muttered to himself;
'I'll--I'll cut his tongue out!'

Now the first thing Myfanwy did when the chance offered was to hasten
off towards the Western Gate if only to warn the stranger of her
father's rage and menaces, and bid him go hide himself away and never,
never, never come back again.

But when once more she approached its bars the deer were still grazing
in the forest, the squirrel was nibbling another nut, the beech had
unfolded yet a few more of its needle-pointed leaves into the calm
evening light; but of the stranger--not a sign. Where he had stood was
now only the assurance that he was indeed gone for ever. And Myfanwy
turned from the quiet scene, from the forest, its sunlight faded, all
its beauty made forlorn. Try as she might in the days that followed to
keep her mind and her thoughts fixed on her needle and her silks, her
lute and her psalter, she could see nothing else but that long look of
his.

And now indeed she began to pine and languish in body, haunted by the
constant fear that her stranger might have met with some disaster. And
simply because her father loved her so jealously, he knew at once what
worm was in her mind, and he never ceased to watch and spy upon her,
and to follow her every movement.

Now Myfanwy's bedchamber was in the southern tower of this lord's
castle, beneath which a road from the town to the eastward wound round
towards the forests and distant mountains. And it being set so high
above the ground beneath, there was no need for bars to its windows.
While then, from these window-slits Myfanwy could see little more than
the tops of the wayfarers' heads on the turf below, they were wide and
lofty enough to let the setting sun in its due hour pour in its beams
upon her walls and pictures and curtained Arabian bed. But the stone
walls being so thick, in order to see out of her chamber at all, she
must needs lie along a little on the cold inward sill, and peer out
over the wide verdant countryside as if through the port-hole of a
ship.

And one evening, as Myfanwy sat sewing a seam--and singing the while a
soft tune to herself, if only to keep her thoughts from pining--she
heard the murmur of many voices. And, though at first she knew not
why, her heart for an instant or two stopped beating. Laying her slip
of linen down, she rose, stole over the mats on the flagstones, and
gently pushing her narrow shoulders onwards, peeped out and down at
last through the window to look at the world below. And this was what
she saw. In an old velvet cloak, his black hair dangling low upon his
shoulders, there in the evening light beneath her window was a juggler
standing, and in a circle round and about him was gathered a throng of
gaping country-folk and idlers and children, some of whom must even
have followed him out of the town. And one and all they were lost in
wonder at his grace and skill.

Myfanwy herself indeed could not have imagined such things could be,
and so engrossed did she become in watching him that she did not catch
the whisper of a long-drawn secret sigh at her keyhole; nor did she
hear her father as he turned away on tip-toe to descend the staircase
again into the room below.

Indeed one swift glance from Myfanwy's no longer sorrowful eyes had
pierced the disguise--wig, cloak, hat, and hose--of the juggler. And as
she watched him she all but laughed aloud. Who would have imagined
that the young stranger, whom she had seen for the first time leaning
dumb, blind, and fast asleep against the trunk of a beech-tree could
be possessed of such courage and craft and cunning as this!

His head was at the moment surrounded by a halo of glittering steel--so
fast the daggers with which he was juggling whisked on from hand to
hand. And suddenly the throng around him broke into a roar, for in
glancing up and aside he had missed a dagger. It was falling--falling:
but no, in a flash he had twisted back the sole of his shoe, and the
point had stuck quivering in his heel, while he continued to whirl its
companions into the golden air.

In that instant, however, his upward glance had detected the one thing
in the world he had come out in hope to see--Myfanwy. He flung his
daggers aside and fetched out of his travelling box a netful of
coloured balls. Holloing out a string of outlandish gibberish to the
people, he straightaway began to juggle with these. Higher and higher
the seven of them soared into the mellow air, but one of the colour of
gold soared on ever higher and higher than any. So high, indeed, that
at last the people could watch it no longer because of the dazzle of
the setting sun in their eyes. Presently, indeed, it swooped so
loftily into the air that Myfanwy need but thrust out her hand to
catch it as it paused for a breath of an instant before falling, and
hung within reach of her stone window-sill.

And even as she watched, enthralled, a whispering voice within her
cried, 'Take it!' She breathed a deep breath, shut her eyes, paused,
and the next instant she had stretched out her hand into the air. The
ball was hers.

Once more she peeped down and over, and once more the juggler was at
his tricks. This time with what appeared to be a medley of all kinds
of varieties of fruits; pomegranates, quinces, citrons, lemons,
oranges and nectarines, and soaring high above them, nothing more
unusual than an English apple. Once again the whisperer in Myfanwy's
mind cried, 'Take it!' And she put out her hand and took the apple
too.

Yet again she peeped and peered over, and this time it seemed that the
juggler was flinging serpents into the air, for they writhed and
looped and coiled around him as they whirled whiffling on from hand to
hand. There was a hissing, too, and the people drew back a little, and
a few of the timider children ran off to the other side of the
highroad. And now, yet again, one of the serpents was soaring higher
and higher above the rest. And Myfanwy could see from her coign of
vantage that it was no live serpent but a strand of silken rope. And
yet again and for the third time the whisperer whispered, 'Take it!'
And Myfanwy put out her hand and took that too.

And, it happening that a little cloud was straying across the sun at
this moment, the throng below had actually seen the highestmost of the
serpents thus mysteriously disappear and they cried out as if with one
voice, 'Gone!' 'Vanished!' 'Vanished!' 'Gone!' 'Magician, magician!'
And the coins that came dancing into the juggler's tambourine in the
moments that followed were enough to make him for that one minute the
richest man in the world.

And now the juggler was solemnly doffing his hat to the people. He
gathered his cloak around him more closely, put away his daggers, his
balls, his fruits, his serpents, and all that was his, into a long
green narrow box. Then he hoisted its strap over his shoulder, and
doffing his cap once more, he clasped his tambourine under his elbow
and seizing his staff, turned straight from the castle tower towards
the hazy sun-bathed mountains. And, it beginning to be towards
nightfall, the throng of people soon dispersed and melted away; the
maids and scullions, wooed out by this spectacle from the castle,
returned to their work; and the children ran off home to tell their
mothers of these marvels and to mimic the juggler's tricks as they
gobbled up their supper-crusts and were packed off to bed.

In the stillness that followed after the juggler's departure, Myfanwy
found herself kneeling in her chamber in the tranquil golden twilight
beside a wooden chair, her hands folded in her lap and her dark eyes
fixed in wonderment and anxiety on the ball, and the apple and the
rope; while in another such narrow stone chamber only ten or twelve
stone steps beneath, her father was crouching at his window shaken
with fury, and seeing in his imagination these strange gifts from the
air almost as clearly as Myfanwy could see them with her naked eye.

For though the sun had been as much a dazzle to himself as to the
common people in the highway, he had kept them fastened on the
juggler's trickeries none the less, and had counted every coloured
ball and every fruit and every serpent as they rose and fell in their
rhythmical maze-like network of circlings in the air. And when each
marvellous piece of juggling in turn was over, he knew that in the
first place a golden ball was missing, and that in the second place a
fruit like an English apple was missing, and that in the third place a
silken cord with a buckle-hook to it like the head of a serpent had
been flung into the air but had never come down to earth again. And at
the cries and the laughter and the applause of the roaring common
people and children beneath his walls, tears of rage and despair had
burst from his eyes. Myfanwy was deceiving him. His dreaded hour was
come.

But there again he was wrong. The truth is, his eyes were so green
with jealousy and his heart so black with rage that his wits had
become almost useless. Not only his wits either, but his courtesy and
his spirit; for the next moment he was actually creeping up again like
a thief from stair to stair, and presently had fallen once more on to
his knees outside his beloved Myfanwy's chamber door and had fixed on
her one of those green dark eyes of his at its little gaping cut-out
pin-hole. And there he saw a strange sight indeed.

The evening being now well advanced, and the light of the afterglow
too feeble to make more than a glimmer through her narrow stone
window-slits, Myfanwy had lit with her tinder box (for of all things
she loved light) no less than seven wax candles on a seven-branched
candlestick. This she had stood on a table beside a high narrow
mirror. And at the moment when the Baron fixed his eye to the
pin-hole, she was standing, a little astoop, the apple in her hand,
looking first at it, and then into the glass at the bright-lit
reflected picture of herself holding the apple in her hand.

So now there were two Myfanwys to be seen--herself and her image in the
glass. And which was the lovelier not even the juggler could have
declared. Crouching there at the door-crack, her father could all but
catch the words she was softly repeating to herself as she gazed at
the reflected apple: 'Shall I, shan't I? Shall I, shan't I?' And then
suddenly--and he dared not stir or cry out--she had raised the fruit to
her lips and had nibbled its rind.

What happened then he could not tell, for the secret and sovereign
part of that was deep in Myfanwy herself. The sharp juice of the fruit
seemed to dart about in her veins like flashing fishes in her father's
crystal fountains and water-conduits. It was as if happiness had begun
gently to fall out of the skies around her, like dazzling flakes of
snow. They rested on her hair, on her shoulders, on her hands, all
over her. And yet not snow, for there was no coldness, but a scent as
it were of shadowed woods at noonday, or of a garden when a shower has
fallen. Even her bright eyes grew brighter; a radiance lit her cheek;
her lips parted in a smile.

And it is quite certain if Myfanwy had been the Princess of
Anywhere-in-the-World-at-All, she would then and there--like Narcissus
stooping over his lilied water-pool--have fallen head over ears in love
with herself! 'Wonder of wonders!' cried she in the quiet; 'but if
this is what a mere nibble of my brave juggler's apple can do, then it
were wiser indeed to nibble no more.' So she laid the apple down.

The Baron gloated on through the pin-hole--watching her as she stood
transfixed like some lovely flower growing in the inmost silent
solitude of a forest and blossoming before his very eyes.

And then, as if at a sudden thought, Myfanwy turned and took up the
golden ball, which--as she had suspected and now discovered--was no
ball, but a small orb-shaped box of rare inlaid woods, covered with
golden thread. At touch of the tiny spring that showed itself in the
midst, its lid at once sprang open, and Myfanwy put in finger and
thumb and drew out into the crystal light a silken veil--but of a
gossamer silk so finely spun that when its exquisite meshes had
wreathed themselves downward to the floor the veil looked to be
nothing more than a silvery grey mist in the candlelight.

It filmed down from her fingers to the flagstones beneath, almost as
light as the air in which it floated. Marvellous that what would
easily cover her, head to heel, could have been packed into so close a
room as that two-inch ball! She gazed in admiration of this exquisite
handiwork. Then, with a flick of her thumb, she had cast its cloudlike
folds over her shoulders.

And lo!--as the jealous lord gloated on--of a sudden there was nothing
to be seen where Myfanwy had stood but seven candles burning in their
stick, and seven more in the mirror. She had vanished.

She was not gone very far, however. For presently he heard--as if out
of nowhere--a low chuckling childlike peal of laughter which
willy-nilly had broken from her lips at seeing that this Veil of
Invisibility had blanked her very glass. She gazed steadily on into
its clear vacancy, lost in wonder. Nothing at all of her whatsoever
was now reflected there!--not the tip of her nose, not a thumb, not so
much as a button or a silver tag. Myfanwy had vanished; and yet, as
she well knew, here she truly was in her own body and no other, though
tented in beneath the folds of the veil, as happy as flocks on April
hills, or mermaids in the deep blue sea. It was a magic thing indeed,
to be there and yet not there; to hear herself and yet remain
transparent as water.

Motionless though she stood, her thoughts were at the same time
flitting about like quick and nimble birds in her mind. This veil,
too, was the gift of the juggler; her young sleeping stranger of the
beech-tree in a strange disguise. And she could guess in her heart
what use he intended her to make of it, even though at thought of it
that heart misgave her. A moment after and as swiftly as she had gone,
she had come back again--the veil in her fingers. Laughing softly to
herself she folded and refolded it and replaced it in its narrow box.
Then turning, she took up from the chair the silken cord, and as if in
idle fancy twined it twice about her slender neck. And it seemed the
cord took life into itself, for lo, showing there in the mirror, calm
now as a statue of coloured ivory, stood Myfanwy; and couched over her
left temple the swaying head of the Serpent of Wisdom, whispering in
her ear.

Owen ap Gwythock could watch no more. Groping his way with trembling
fingers through the thick gloom of the staircase he crept down to the
Banqueting Hall where already his Chief Steward awaited his coming to
announce that supper was prepared.

To think that his Lovely One, his pearl of price, his gentle innocent,
_his_ Myfanwy--the one thing on earth he treasured most, and renowned
for her gentleness and beauty in all countries of the world--had even
for an instant forgotten their loves, forgotten her service and duty,
was in danger of leaving and forsaking him for ever! In his jealousy
and despair tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks as he ground his
teeth together, thinking of the crafty enemy that was decoying her
away.

Worse still; he knew in his mind's mind that in certain things in this
world even the most powerful are powerless. He knew that against true
love all resistance, all craft, all cunning at last prove of no avail.
But in this grief and despair the bitterest of all the thoughts that
were now busy in his brain was the thought that Myfanwy should be
cheating and deceiving him, wantonly beguiling him; keeping things
secret that should at once be told.

A dark and dismal mind was his indeed. To distrust one so
lovely!--_that_ might be forgiven him. But to creep about in pursuit
of her like a weasel; to spy on her like a spy; to believe her guilty
before she could prove her innocence! Could _that_ be forgiven? And
even at this very moment the avenger was at his heels.

For here was Myfanwy herself. Lovely as a convolvulus wreathing a
withered stake, she was looking in at him from the doorpost, searching
his face. For an instant she shut her eyes as if to breathe a prayer,
then she advanced into the room, and, with her own hand, laid before
him on the oak table beside his silver platter, first the nibbled
apple, next the golden ball, and last the silken cord. And looking at
him with all her usual love in her eyes and in her voice, she told him
how these things had chanced into her hands, and whence they had come.

Her father listened; but durst not raise his eyes from his plate. The
scowl on his low forehead grew blacker and blacker; even his beard
seemed to bristle. But he heard her in silence to the end.

'So you see, dear father,' she was saying, 'how can I but be grateful
and with all my heart to one who takes so much thought for me? And if
you had seen the kindness and courtesy of his looks, even you yourself
could not be angry. There never was, as you well know, anybody else in
the whole wide world whom I wished to speak to but to you. And now
there is none other than you except this stranger. I know nothing but
that. Can you suppose indeed he meant these marvellous gifts for me?
And why for me and no other, father dear? And what would you counsel
me to do with them?'

Owen ap Gwythock stooped his head lower. Even the sight of his eyes
had dimmed. The torches faintly crackled in their sconces, the candles
on the table burned unfalteringly on.

He turned his cheek aside at last like a snarling dog. 'My dear,' he
said, 'I have lived long enough in this world to know the perils that
beset the young and fair. I grant you that this low mountebank must be
a creature of infinite cunning. I grant you that his tricks, if
harmless, would be worth a charitable groat. If, that is, he were only
what he seems to be. But that is not so. For this most deadly stranger
is a Deceiver and a Cheat. His lair, as I guess well, is in the cruel
and mysterious East, and his one desire and stratagem is to snare you
into his company. Once within reach of his claws, his infamous slaves
will seize on you and bear you away to some evil felucca moored in the
river. It seems, beloved, that your gentle charms are being whispered
of in this wicked world. Even the beauty of the gentlest of flowers
may be sullied by idle tongues. But once securely in the hands of this
nefarious mountebank, he will put off to Barbary, perchance, or to the
horrid regions of the Turk, perchance, there to set you up in the
scorching marketplace and to sell you for a slave. My child, the
danger, the peril is gross and imminent. Dismiss at once this evil
wretch from your mind and let his vile and dangerous devices be flung
into the fire. The apple is pure delusion; the veil which you describe
is a mere toy; and the cord is a device of the devil.'

Myfanwy looked at her father, stooping there, with sorrow in her eyes,
in spite of the gladness sparkling and dancing in her heart. Why, if
all that he was saying he thought true--why could he not lift his eyes
and meet her face to face?

'Well then, that being so, dear father,' she said softly at last, 'and
you knowing ten thousand times more of God's world than I have ever
had opportunity of knowing, whatever my desire, I must ask you but
this one small thing. Will you promise me not to have these pretty
baubles destroyed at once, before, I mean, you have thought once more
of _me_? If I had deceived you, then indeed I should be grieved beyond
endurance. But try as I may to darken my thoughts of him, the light
slips in, and I see in my very heart that this stranger cannot by any
possibility of nature or heaven be all that you tell me of him. I have
a voice at times that whispers me yes or no: and I obey. And of him it
has said only yes. But I am young, and the walls of this great house
are narrow, and you, dear father, as you have told me so often, are
wise. Do but then invite this young man into your presence! Question
him, test him, gaze on him, hearken to him. And that being done, you
will believe in him as I do. As I know I am happy, I know he is
honest. It would afflict me beyond all telling to swerve by a
hair's-breadth from my dear obedience to you. But, alas, if I never
see him again, I shall wither up and die. And that--would it
not----'she added smilingly--'that would be a worse disobedience yet?
If you love me, then, as from my first hour in the world I _know_ you
have loved me, and I have loved you, I pray you think of me with grace
and kindness--and in compassion too.'

And with that, not attempting to brush away the tears that had sprung
into her eyes, and leaving the juggler's three gifts amid the flowers
and fruit of the long table before him, Myfanwy hastened out of the
room and returned to her chamber, leaving her father alone.

For a while her words lay like a cold refreshing dew on the dark weeds
in his mind. For a while he pondered them, even; while his own gross
fables appeared in all their ugly falseness.

But alas for himself and his pride and stubbornness, these gentler
ruminations soon passed away. At thought once more of the juggler--of
whom his spies had long since brought him far other tidings than he
had expressed--rage, hatred and envy again boiled up in him and drowned
everything else. He forgot his courtesy, his love for Myfanwy, his
desire even to keep her love for him. Instead, on and on he sipped and
sipped, and sat fuming and plotting and scheming with but one notion
in his head--by hook or by crook to defeat this juggler and so murder
the love of his innocent Myfanwy.

'Lo, now,' broke out at last a small shrill voice inside him. 'Lo,
now, if thou taste of the magic apple, may it not be that it will give
thee courage and skill to contend against him, and so bring all his
hopes to ruin? Remember what a marvel but one merest nibble of the
outer rind of it wrought in thy Myfanwy!'

And the foolish creature listened needfully to this crafty voice, not
realizing that the sole virtue of the apple was that of making any
human who tasted it more like himself than ever. He sat there--his fist
over his mouth--staring intently at the harmless-looking fruit. Then he
tiptoed like a humpback across the room and listened at the entry.
Then having poured out, and drained at a draught, yet another cup of
wine, he cautiously picked up the apple by its stalk between finger
and ringed thumb and once more squinted close and steadily at its red
and green, and at the very spot where Myfanwy's small teeth had rasped
away the skin.

It is in a _moment_ that cities fall in earthquake, stars collide in the
wastes of space, and men choose between good and evil. For
suddenly--his mind made up, his face all turned a reddish purple--this
foolish lord lifted the apple to his mouth and, stalk to dried
blossom, bit it clean in half. And he munched and he munched and he
munched.

He had chawed for but a few moments, however, when a dreadful and
continuous change and transformation began to appear upon him. It
seemed to him that his whole body and frame was being kneaded and
twisted and wrung in much the same fashion as dough being made into
bread, or clay in a modeller's fingers. Not knowing what these aches
and stabbings and wrenchings meant, he had dropped as if by instinct
upon his hands and knees, and thus stood munching, while gazing
blankly and blindly, lost in some inward horror, into the great fire
on the hearth.

And meanwhile, though he knew it not in full, there had been sprouting
upon him grey coarse hairs--a full thick coat and hide of them--in
abundance. There had come a tail to him with a sleek, dangling tassel;
long hairy ears had jutted out upon his temples; the purple face
turned grey, lengthening as it did so until it was at least full
eighteen inches long, with a great jawful of large teeth. Hoofs for
his hands, hoofs where his feet used to be, and behold!--standing there
in his own banqueting hall--this poor deluded Owen ap Gwythock, Lord
of Eggleyseg, transmogrified into an ass!

For minutes together the dazed creature stood in utter dismay--the
self within unable to realize the change that had come over its outer
shape. But, happening to stretch his shaggy and unfamiliar neck a
little outward, he perceived his own image in a scoured and polished
suit of armour that stood on one side of the great chimney. He shook
his head, the ass's head replied. He shook himself, the long ears
flapped together like a wood-pigeon's wings. He lifted his hand--a hoof
clawed at nowhere!

At this the poor creature's very flesh seemed to creep upon his bones
as he turned in horror and dismay in search of an escape from the fate
that had overtaken him. That ass _he_? he _himself_? His poor wits in vain
endeavoured to remain calm and cool. A panic of fear all but swept him
away. And at this moment his full, lustrous, long-lashed, asinine eyes
fell by chance upon the golden ball lying ajar on the table beside his
wine-cup--the Veil of Invisibility glinting like money-spider's web
from within.

Now no ass is quite such a donkey as he looks. And this Owen ap
Gwythock, though now completely shut up in this uncouth hairy body,
was in his_ mind_ no more (though as much) of a donkey than he had
ever been. His one thought, then, was to conceal his dreadful
condition from any servant that might at any moment come that way,
while he himself could seek out a quiet secluded corner in the dark
wherein to consider how to rid himself of his ass's frame and to
regain his own usual shape. And there lay the veil! What thing sweeter
could there be than to defeat the juggler with his own devices.

Seizing the veil with his huge front teeth, he jerked it out of the
ball and flung it as far as he could over his shaggy shoulders. But
alas, his donkey's muzzle was far from being as deft as Myfanwy's
delicate fingers. The veil but half concealed him. Tail, rump and back
legs were now vanished from view; head, neck, shoulders and forelegs
remained in sight. In vain he tugged; in vain he wriggled and
wrenched; his hard hoofs thumping on the hollow flagstones beneath.
One half of him stubbornly remained in sight; the rest had vanished.
For the time being he was no more even than half an ass.

At last, breathless and wearied out with these exertions, trembling
and shuddering, and with not a vestige of sense left in his poor
donkey's noddle, he wheeled himself about once more and caught up with
his teeth the silken cord. It was his last hope.

But this having been woven of wisdom--it being indeed itself the
Serpent of Wisdom in disguise--at touch of his teeth it at once
converted itself into a strong hempen halter, and, before he could so
much as rear out of the way to escape its noose or even bray for help,
it had tethered him to a large steel hook in his own chimneypiece.

Bray he did, none the less: 'Hee-haw! Hee-haw!! Hee-ee-ee-ee
Haw-aw-aw!!!' His prolonged, see-saw, dismal lamentations shattered
the silence so harshly and so hoarsely that the sound rose up through
the echoing stone walls and even pierced into Myfanwy's own
bedchamber, where she sat in the darkness at her window, looking out
half in sorrow, half in unspeakable happiness, at the stars.

Filled with alarm at this dreadful summons, in an instant or two she
had descended the winding stone steps; and a strange scene met her
eyes.

There, before her, in the full red light of the flaming brands in the
hearth and the torches on the walls, stood the forelegs, the neck,
head, and ears of a fine, full-grown ass, and a yard or so behind them
just nothing at all. Only vacancy!

Poor Myfanwy--she could but wring her hands in grief and despair; for
there could be no doubt in her mind of who it was in truth now stood
before her--her own dear father. And on his face such a look of rage,
entreaty, shame and stupefaction as never man has seen on ass's
countenance before. At sight of her the creature tugged even more
furiously at his halter, and shook his shaggy shoulders; but still in
vain. His mouth opened and a voice beyond words to describe, brayed
out upon the silence these words: 'Oh, Myfanwy, see into what a pass
your sorceries and deceits have reduced me!'

'Oh, my dear father,' she cried in horror, 'speak no more, I beseech
you--not one syllable--or we shall be discovered. Or, if you utter a
sound, let it be but in a whisper.'

She was at the creature's side in an instant, had flung her arms about
his neck, and was whispering into his long hairy ear all the comfort
and endearments and assurances that loving and tender heart could
conceive. 'Listen, listen, dear father,' she was entreating him, 'I
see indeed that you have been meddling with the apple, and the ball,
and the cord. And I do assure you, with all my heart and soul, that I
am thinking of nothing else but how to help you in this calamity that
has overtaken us. Have patience. Struggle no more. All will be well.
But oh, beloved, was it quite just to me to speak of my deceits?'

Her bright eyes melted with compassion as she looked upon one whom she
had loved ever since she could remember, so dismally transmogrified.

'How can you hesitate, ungrateful creature?' the see-saw voice once
more broke out. 'Relieve me of this awful shape, or I shall be
strangled on my own hearthstone in this pestilent halter.'

But now, alas, footsteps were sounding outside the door. Without an
instant's hesitation Myfanwy drew the delicate veil completely over
the trembling creature's head, neck and fore-quarters and thus
altogether concealed him from view. So--though it was not an instant
too soon--when the Lord of Eggleyseg's Chief Steward appeared in the
doorway, nothing whatever was changed within, except that his master
no longer sat in his customary chair, Myfanwy stood solitary at the
table, and a mysterious cord was stretched out between her hand and
the hook in the chimneypiece.

'My father,' said Myfanwy, 'has withdrawn for a while. He is
indisposed, and bids me tell you that not even a whisper must disturb
his rest. Have a hot posset prepared at once, and see that the room
beneath is left vacant.'

The moment the Steward had gone to do her bidding Myfanwy turned at
once to her father, and lifting the veil, whispered into the long
hairy ear again that he must be of good cheer. 'For you see, dear
father, the only thing now to be done is that we set out together at
once in search of the juggler who, meaning no unkindness, presented
me with these strange gifts. He alone can and will, I am assured,
restore you to your own dear natural shape. So I pray you to be
utterly silent--not a word, not a murmur--while I lead you gently forth
into the forest. Once there I have no doubt I shall be able to find
our way to where he is. Indeed he may be already expectant of my
coming.'

Stubborn and foolish though the Baron might be, he realized, even in
his present shape, that this was his only wisdom. Whereupon,
withdrawing the end of the bridle from the hook to which it was
tethered, Myfanwy softly led the now invisible creature to the door,
and so, gently onward down the winding stone staircase, on the stones
of which his shambling hoofs sounded like the hollow beating of a
drum.

The vast room beneath was already deserted by its usual occupants, and
without more ado the two of them, father and daughter, were soon
abroad in the faint moonlight that now by good fortune bathed the
narrow bridle-path that led into the forest.

Never before in all her years on earth had Myfanwy strayed beyond the
Castle walls; never before had she stood lost in wonder beneath the
dark emptiness of the starry skies. She breathed in the sweet fresh
night air, her heart blossoming within her like an evening primrose,
refusing to be afraid. For she knew well that the safety of them
both--this poor quaking animal's and her own--depended now solely on her
own courage and resource, and that to be afraid would almost certainly
lead them only from one disaster into another.

Simply, however, because a mere ownerless ass wandering by itself in
the moonlit gloom of the forest would be a spectacle less strange than
that of a solitary damsel like herself, she once more drew down her
father's ear to her lips and whispered into it, explaining to him that
it was she who must now be veiled, and that if he would forgive her
such boldness--for after all, he had frequently carried her pickaback
when she was a child--she would mount upon his back and in this way
they would together make better progress on their journey.

Her father dared not take offence at her words, whatever his secret
feelings might be. 'So long as you hasten, my child,' he gruffed out
in the hush, striving in vain to keep his tones no louder than a human
whisper, 'I will forgive you all.' In a moment then there might be
seen jogging along the bridle-path, now in moonlight, now in shadow, a
sleek and handsome ass, a halter over its nose, making no stay to
browse the dewy grass at the wayside, but apparently obeying its own
whim as it wandered steadily onward.

Now it chanced that night there was a wild band of mountain robbers
encamped within the forest. And when of a sudden this strange and
pompous animal unwittingly turned out of a thicket into the light of
their camp fire, and raised its eyes like glowing balls of emerald to
gaze in horror at its flames, they lifted their voices together in an
uproarious peal of laughter. And one of them at once started up from
where he lay in the bracken, to seize the creature's halter and so
make it his prize.

Their merriment, however, was quickly changed into dismay when the
robbers saw the strange creature being guided, as was evident, by an
invisible and mysterious hand. He turned this way, he turned that,
with an intelligence that was clearly not his own and not natural even
to his kind, and so eluded every effort made by his enemy to get a
hold on his halter, his teeth and eyeballs gleaming in the firelight.

At this, awe and astonishment fell upon these outlaws. Assuredly
sorcery alone could account for such ungainly and un-asslike antics
and manoeuvres. Assuredly some divine being must have the beast in
keeping, and to meddle with it further might only prove their own
undoing.

Fortunate indeed was it that Myfanwy's right foot, which by mischance
remained uncovered by the veil, happened to be on the side of the
animal away from the beams of the camp fire. For certainly had these
malefactors seen the precious stones blazing in its buckle, their
superstitions would have melted away like morning mist, their fears
have given place to cupidity, and they would speedily have made the
ass their own and held its rider to an incalculable ransom.

Before, however, the moon had glided more than a soundless pace or two
on her night journey, Myfanwy and her incomparable ass were safely out
of sight: and the robbers had returned to their carousals. What
impulse bade her turn first this way, then that, in the wandering and
labyrinthine glades and tracks of the forest, she could not tell. But
even though her father--not daring to raise his voice in the deep
silence--ever and again stubbornly tugged upon his halter in the belief
that the travellers had taken a wrong turning and were irrevocably
lost, Myfanwy kept steadily on her way.

With a touch of her heel or a gentle persuasive pat of her hand on his
hairy neck she did her best to reassure and to soothe him. 'Only trust
in me, dear father: I am sure all will be well.'

Yet she was haunted with misgivings. So that when at last a twinkling
light, sprinkling its beams between the boughs, showed in the forest,
it refreshed her heart beyond words to tell. She was reaching her
journey's end. It was as if that familiar voice in the secrecy of her
heart had murmured, 'Hst! He draws near!'

There and then she dismounted from off her father's hairy back and
once more communed with him through that long twitching ear. 'Remain
here in patience a while, dear father,' she besought him, 'without
straying by a hair's-breadth from where you are; for everything tells
me our Stranger is not far distant now, and no human being on earth,
no living creature, even, must see you in this sad and unseemly
disguise. I will hasten on to assure myself that the light which I
perceive beaming through the thicket yonder is his, and no other's.
Meanwhile--and this veil shall go with me in case of
misadventure--meanwhile do you remain quietly beneath this spreading
beech-tree, nor even stir unless you are over-wearied after our long
night journey and you should feel inclined to rest a while on the
softer turf in the shadow there under that bush of fragrant roses, or
to refresh yourself at the brook whose brawling I hear welling up from
that dingle in the hollow. In that case, return here, I pray you;
contain yourself in patience, and be your tongue as dumb as a stone.
For though you may _design_ to speak softly, dearest father, that long
sleek throat and those great handsome teeth will not admit of it.'

And her father, as if not even the thick hairy hide he wore could
endure his troubles longer, opened his mouth as if to groan aloud. But
restraining himself, he only sighed, while an owl out of the quiet
breathed its mellow night-call as if in response. For having passed
the last hour in a profound and afflicted reverie, this poor ass had
now regained in part his natural human sense and sagacity. But pitiful
was the eye, however asinine the grin, which he now bestowed as if in
promise on Myfanwy who, with veil held delicately in her fingers stood
there, radiant as snow, beside him in the moonlight.

And whether it was because of her grief for his own condition or
because of the expectancy in her face at the thought of her meeting
with the Stranger, or because maybe the ass feared in his despair and
dejection that he might never see her again, he could not tell; but
true it was that she had never appeared in a guise so brave and gay
and passionate and tender. It might indeed be a youthful divinity
gently treading the green sward beside this uncouth beast in the
chequered light and shadow of that unearthly moonshine.

Having thus assured herself that all would be well until her return,
Myfanwy kissed her father on his flat hairy brow, and veil in hand
withdrew softly in the direction of the twinkling light.

Alas, though the Baron thirsted indeed for the chill dark waters whose
song rose in the air from the hollow beneath, he could not contain
himself in her absence, but unmindful of his mute promise followed
after his daughter at a distance as she made her way to the light, his
hoofs scarce sounding in the turf. Having come near, by peering
through the dense bushes that encircled the juggler's nocturnal
retreat in the forest, he could see and hear all that passed.

As soon as Myfanwy had made sure that this stranger sitting by his
glowing watch-fire was indeed the juggler and no man else--and one
strange leap of her heart assured her of this even before her eyes
could carry their message--she veiled herself once more, and so, all
her loveliness made thus invisible, she drew stealthily near and a
little behind him, as he crouched over the embers. Then pausing, she
called gently and in a still low voice, 'I beseech you, Stranger, to
take pity on one in great distress.'

The juggler lifted his dreaming face, ruddied and shadowed in the
light of his fire, and peered cautiously but in happy astonishment all
around him.

'I beseech you, Stranger,' cried again the voice from the unseen, 'to
take pity on one in great distress.'

And at this it seemed to the juggler that now ice was running through
his veins and now fire. For he knew well that this was the voice of
one compared with whom all else in the world to him was nought. He
knew also that she must be standing near, though made utterly
invisible to him by the veil of his own enchantments.

'Draw near, traveller. Have no fear,' he cried out softly into the
darkness. 'All will be well. Tell me only how I may help you.'

But Myfanwy drew not a hair's-breadth nearer. Far from it. Instead,
she flitted a little across the air of the glade, and now her voice
came to him from up the wind towards the south, and fainter in the
distance.

'There is one with me,' she replied, 'who by an evil stratagem has
been transformed into the shape of a beast, and that beast a poor
patient ass. Tell me this, sorcerer--how I may restore him to his
natural shape, and mine shall be an everlasting gratitude. For it is
my own father of whom I speak.'

Her voice paused and faltered on the word. She longed almost beyond
bearing to reveal herself to this unknown one, trusting without the
least doubt or misgiving that he would serve her faithfully in all she
asked of him.

'But _that_, gentle lady,' replied the juggler, 'is not within my power,
unless he of whom you speak draws near to show himself. Nor--though the
voice with which you speak to me is sweeter than the music of
harp-strings twangling on the air--nor is it within my power to make
promises to a bodiless sound only. For how am I to be assured that
the shape who utters the words I hear is not some dangerous demon
of the darkness who is bent on mocking and deluding me, and who
will bring sorcery on myself?'

There was silence for a while in the glade, and then 'No, no!' cried
the juggler. 'Loveliest and bravest of all that is, I need not see thy
shape to know thee. Thou art most assuredly the lovely Myfanwy, and
all that I am, have ever been, and ever shall be is at thy service.
Tell me, then, where is this poor ass that was once thy noble father?'

And at this, and at one and the same moment, Myfanwy, withdrawing the
veil from her head and shoulders, disclosed her fair self standing
there in the faint rosy glow of the slumbering fire, and there broke
also from the neighbouring thicket so dreadful and hideous a noise of
rage and anguish--through the hoarse and unpractised throat of the
eavesdropper near by--that it might be supposed the clamour was not of
one but of a chorus of demons--though it was merely our poor ass
complaining of his fate.

'Oh, sir,' sighed Myfanwy, 'my dear father, I fear, in his grief and
anxiety has been listening to what has passed between us. See, here he
comes.'

Galloping hoofs were indeed now audible as the Lord of Eggleyseg in
ass's skin and shape drew near to wreak his vengeance on the young
magician. But being at this moment in his stubborn rage and folly more
ass than human, the glaring of the watch-fire dismayed his heavy wits,
and he could do no else but paw with his forelegs, lifting his smooth
nose with its gleaming teeth into the night air, snuffing his rage and
defiance some twenty paces distant from the fire.

The young magician, being of a nature as courteous as he was bold, did
not so much as turn his head to scan the angry shivering creature, but
once more addressed Myfanwy. She stood bowed down a little, tears in
her eyes; in part for grief at her father's broken promise and the
humiliation he had brought upon himself, in part for joy that their
troubles would soon be over and that she was now in the very company
of the stranger who unwittingly had been the cause of them all.

'Have no fear,' he said, 'the magic that has changed the noble
Baron your father into a creature more blest in its docility,
patience, and humbleness than any other in the wide world, can as
swiftly restore him to his natural shape.'

'Ah then, sir,' replied the maid, 'it is very certain that my father
will wish to bear witness to your kindness with any small gift that is
in our power. For, as he well knows, it was not by any design but his
own that he ate of the little green apple of enchantment. I pray you,
sir, moreover, to forgive me for first stealing that apple, and also
the marvellous golden ball, _and_ the silken cord from out of the air.'

The juggler turned and gazed strangely at Myfanwy. 'There is only one
thing I desire in all this starry universe,' he answered. 'But I ask
it not of _him_--for it is not of his giving. It is for your own
forgiveness, lady.'

'_I_ forgive you!' she cried. 'Alas, my poor father!'

But even as she spoke a faint smile was on her face, and her eyes
wandered to the animal standing a few paces beyond the margin of the
glow cast by the watch-fire, sniffing the night air the while, and
twitching dismally the coarse grey mane behind his ears. For now that
her father was so near his deliverance her young heart grew entirely
happy again, and the future seemed as sweet with promise as wild
flowers in May.

Without further word the juggler drew from out of his pouch, as if he
always carried about with him a little privy store of vegetables, a
fine, tapering, ripe, red carrot.

'This, lady,' said he, 'is my only wizardry. I make no bargain. My
love for you will never languish, even if I never more again refresh
my sleepless eyes with the vision of your presence in this solitary
glade. Let your noble father the Lord of Eggleyseg draw near without
distrust. There is but little difference, it might be imagined,
between a wild apple and a carrot. But then, when all is said, there
is little difference in the long sum between any living thing and
another in this strange world. There are creatures in the world whose
destiny it is in spite of their gentleness and humility and lowly duty
and obedience to go upon four legs and to be in service of masters who
deserve far less than _they_ deserve, while there are men in high
places of whom the reverse might truly be said. It is a mystery beyond
my unravelling. But now all I ask is that you bid the ass who you tell
me is hearkening at this moment to all that passes between us to
nibble of this humble but useful and wholesome root. It will instantly
restore him to his proper shape. Meanwhile, if you bid, I will myself
be gone.'

Without further speech between them, Myfanwy accepted the magic
carrot, and returned once more to the ass.

'Dear father,' she cried softly, 'here is a root that seems to be only
a carrot; yet nibble of it and you will be at once restored, and will
forget you were ever an--as you are. For many days to come, I fear, you
will not wish to look upon the daughter that has been the unwilling
cause of this night's woeful experience. There lives, as I have been
told, in a little green arbour of the forest yonder, a hermit. This
young magician will, I am truly certain, place me in his care a while
until all griefs are forgotten between us. You will of your kindness
consent, dear father, will you not?' she pleaded.

A long prodigious bray resounded dolefully in the hollows of the
far-spread forest's dells and thickets. The Lord of Eggleyseg had
spoken.

'Indeed, father,' smiled Myfanwy, 'I have never before heard you say
"Yes" so heartily. What further speech is needed?'

Whereupon the ass, with more dispatch than gratitude, munched up the
carrot, and in a few hours Owen ap Gwythock, once more restored to his
former, though hardly his more appropriate shape, returned in safety
to his Castle. There for many a day he mourned his woeful solitude,
but learned, too, not only how true and faithful a daughter he had
used so ill, but the folly of a love that is fenced about with
mistrust and suspicion and is poisoned with jealousy.

And when May was come again, a prince, no longer in the disguise of a
wandering juggler, drew near with his adored Myfanwy to the Lord of
Eggleyseg's ancient castle. And Owen ap Gwythock, a little older but a
far wiser man, greeted them with such rejoicings and entertainment,
with such feastings and dancing and minstrelsy and jubilations as had
never been heard of before. Indeed he would have been ass
unadulterated if he had done else.

[End of _The Lovely Myfanwy_ by Walter de la Mare]
