Children’s Stories From the Poets by M. Dorothy Belgrave & Hilda Hart

Author:M. Dorothy Belgrave & Hilda Hart
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781445505930
Publisher: Pook Press

As soon as the animal saw what was happening, he reared himself from the ground, and began joyfully licking the hands which, so short a time before, had cruelly ill-used him. And when he had shown his happiness and gratitude, he knelt in front of Peter, evidently begging him to mount. “I feel I must go,” said he to himself, “though I’m sure I can’t think why I should trouble. Probably the ass will take me to the dead man’s cottage.”

So off they started, the animal, in spite of his gaunt and starved condition, making stout headway towards the south. During four whole days had the faithful creature watched by his master’s body, and though all around him the grass grew fresh and luscious, he had not chewed a single blade. They had only gone a short distance, when a doleful cry rang through the brake. So mournful a sound had never before struck Peter’s ear—not the call of the moorland plover, nor of the bittern who lives in the fens, nor of the fierce wild cat, nor the dolorous owl. The ass stopped short, and then rapidly changed his course, as though bent on pursuing the cry; while Peter, who had begun to whistle loudly, was silent, and fears again took possession of his heart.

A faith that, for the dead man’s sake

And this poor slave who loved him well,

Vengeance upon his head will fall,

Some visitation worse than all

Which ever till this night befel.

Alas! the pitiful sound came from no spirit or hidden power of vengeance, but from the sad lips of the dead man’s little son, who had been scouring the country-side to find his father, and had now thrown himself wearily down in a cave to weep over his fears and his fruitless search.

The ass had tried to trace the cry, but could not; and the sound growing fainter and fainter, he turned back to the homeward path, which now led into a narrow dell. On either side rugged rocks overgrown with ferns and ivy towered up, and as Peter looked at their fantastic shapes, he saw threatening faces in every shadow, and hands stretching out eagerly to punish him. This night, he thought, some awful fate would befall him, and he sat in terror, waiting for the end.

At last they emerge from the dell and come out into an open space, where no more faces can frown at him from rocks and hedges. But listen! a faint rustling pursues him. His heart stops. This is the footstep of the avenger. He dares to turn his head, and sees only a withered leaf dancing along in the wind. But the sight brings no comfort to his shaken mind.

“Where there is not a bush or tree

The very leaves they follow me,

So huge hath been my wickedness!”

Besides, when he had looked back had he not seen upon the road behind him an ugly stain of blood? And each time he turned he saw it again.

He knows not how the blood comes there,

And Peter is a wicked man.

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