LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“ ‘To-day, my lord, I go back to my cows’ ”

“The Roman rides to death”

“Wiglaf’s mighty hand plucked him back”

“The King’s hand pounced on the jewel”

“Friar and mailed Knight together strove”

“ ‘Good friend,’ she whispered, ‘thou’rt kin to—him I do love’ ”

“. . . held him to peer into his sombre eyes”

“ ‘How then, Wat, man, is’t murder?’ ”

“. . . espied her among that howling press”

“Whisked it deftly from the astonished Captain’s head”

“In that instant Robin dashed out the candles”

“ ‘Oh, death . . . death . . . death!’ she cried”

“. . . let fall her skimmer and stood motionless”

“ ‘Oh, Hugh,’ she sighed, ‘do run away, we’re busy’ ”

I

Few are there of all the hurrying thousands passing daily who ever trouble to glance at this Stone of London Town in its dark and dusty corner, this relic of long-forgotten peoples and illimitable years, whose origin is lost in the dust of speeding centuries. Whence came it? What was it? Who shall say? The fetish, mayhap, of paleolithic man: a stone of sacrifice: a pagan altar? But we know it, lastly, as the measuring-stone for a Roman province.

To-day it lies, dim and grim, behind its rusting iron bars, waiting, as it has always done, for the end of Time,—history concrete for such as possess the eye of imagination, and which having no tongue may yet speak to such few as may hear.

As thus:

It is a day of early summer, and the genial sun sparkles on bright mail and crested helmet, it twinkles on broad spearhead and gleams upon spade and mattock where men labour upon a road that, piercing thicket, swamp, and dense-tangled forest, shall join this hard-won province of Britain with the glory of imperial Rome.

And these soldier-labourers, being also Romans, do not scamp the business, for see now!

They drive two parallel furrows the proposed width of the road: they scoop out the earth between, they pack and ram this excavation with fine earth,—and this is the pavimentum. Upon this they now lay small squared stones precisely arranged and mortared,—and this is the statumen. Upon this again they spread lime, chalk, and broken tiles pounded hard,—and this is the nucleus. Lastly and with extreme care they set large flat stones cut square or polygon-shaped,—and this is the summa crusta.

What wonder that such roads have been enduring marvels ever since?

Now, as these Roman legionaries bend to their travail or march upon their wards, come two men, young officers by their mien and look, for, though their bright armour is very plain, their helmets bear lofty crests.

“Barbarians, I tell thee, Metellus,” cried the younger with a gesture of youthful scorn. “Yet must we go ever on watch and ward, day and night—Why? Why?”

“Thou’rt new to Britain, Honorius, but shalt see for thyself anon!” answered Metellus, smiling grimly. “When hast fronted the wild rush of their war-chariots, seen their murderous scythe-blades dripping blood, ’twill suffice thee, Honorius, thou’lt know!”

“Nay, I’ve heard o’ them, man.”

“And shalt doubtless see, anon.”

“A barbarian rabblement!” snorted the young Honorius.

“Yet Britons!” nodded his comrade, “and I ne’er saw Briton yet that loved not fight. Ay, barbarians are they . . . and yet——” Metellus glanced away to the distant, thick-wooded heights, and the dreamy eyes beneath his glittering helmet seemed suddenly at odds with his hawk-nose and grim mouth.

“Thou hast lived among them, Metellus, I hear.”

“Three months among the Regni, to exchange hostages. I have their speech and——” Metellus stiffened suddenly, his eye grew keen as from the camp away down the road a trumpet blared instant hoarse alarm.

“What is it?” cried Honorius, clapping hand to sword.

“Battle!” answered Metellus, and turned to order his company, where now, in place of spade and mattock, shield and pilum glittered and swayed. For, suddenly, from those wooded heights came a vague stir, a hum that swelled to clamour, to wild and fierce uproar: and forth of those gloomy woods leapt horses and chariots sweeping down with ever-increasing speed, hoofs thundering, and wheels rumbling—rattling wheels whose creaking hubs bore long, curved blades flashing evilly. So down roared these chariots of death, driven by men who laughed and shouted amain, brandishing spears, axes, or long bronze swords.

But upon the road all was silent where these veteran ranks of Rome, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, shields before and spears advanced, stood grim and silent to stem the wild fury of that thunderous onset.

A still and breathless moment, and then upon the road was raving pandemonium, dust and blood and death. For here are the chariots! Their drivers hurl javelins, they thrust with spear or smite with sword, they leap upon their horses’ backs, they step upon the pole that they may strike and kill the better. The Roman front sways, totters, is riven asunder, and the blood-spattered chariots are through and away. And now, down upon these broken ranks the British horsemen charge. But a trumpet shrills, the men of Rome close up, stand firm, and British horse and rider go down before the levelled spears or recoil before this iron discipline. So stood the Romans, silent, grim, and orderly as before; only now outstretched upon the road were men who wailed dismally or lay very mute and still, with litter of chariots shattered or overturned, and dead or dying horses.

Then Metellus, knowing the attack was sped, wiped and sheathed his sword and looked about for his young comrade Honorius, and presently espied him beneath a broken chariot, his youthful body hatefully mangled. Stooping, he touched his pallid cheek. The dying youth opened dimming eyes and sighed.

“Metellus, thou wert . . . right. These Britons are surely men. As for me . . . ah, well! . . . it is . . . for Rome. . . .”

Thus, then, they fought and laboured upon the road, these men of Rome, in heat and cold, wetting it with their sweat, splashing it with their blood, and dying now and then—but the road went on. For Rome’s mighty fist, having grasped, held fast awhile: before invincible pilum, short sword, and rigid discipline the proud tribes, Regni, Silures, and Bibroci, gave back, slowly, sullenly, and vanished amid their impenetrable country of marsh and forest, beaten yet unconquered, and biding their time.

Thus, upon a summer’s eve, young Bran, son of Cadwallan, King of the Regni, tightened the strings of his bronze war-helm and, leaning upon his sword, peered down through quivering leaves and above dense-tangled thickets to where in the vale below broad and white and straight as arrow ran the great new road.

“Plague seize ’em!” he growled fiercely. “They should be in sight ere now. What shall keep ’em, think ye?” And, from the denser wood behind, came a harsh yet jovial voice in answer, the voice of Tryggan, his foster-father, old in war and accounted wise in counsel:

“Patience, fosterling! They were ordered for Anderida, we know, and, being Romans, come they will.”

“Romans—ha, curse them!” muttered young Bran, lifting his knotted fist. “And in especial do I curse Metellus the centurion!”

“Thy hate for him waxeth ever, Bran?”

“Hourly, since first he plagued my sight. Thrice have we met in battle, and yet he lives. And my cousin Fraya looks on him over-kindly—and he a Roman!”

“Why, he is a comely youngling, Bran.”

“Yet a Roman! And therefore to be hated. So pray I the God o’ the Grove, yea, the Spirit o’ the running water, I meet him in fight this day! Think you my father shall be ready?”

“Yea, verily! Trust Cadwallan. Yonder he lies across the valley with all his powers, yet not so much as a blink of helm or spear! And moreover——Stay! What’s there? Now watch, eyes all—hearken!”

Leaves a-flutter in the gentle wind, a bird carolling joyously against the blue, a stealthy rustling sound amid the underbrush hard by, where armed men crept . . . and then above all this, faint and far, a throb of rhythmic sound drawing nearer, louder, until it grew to the rattle and thud of slung shield and spear, with the short, quick tramp of marching Roman infantry. Young Bran smiled fiercely and, tossing back his long fair hair, glanced down at the eager faces of his crouching followers and drew his sword.

“Be ready, men of the Regni!” he muttered. “This hour shall your thirsty swords drink deep. Where I go, follow and kill!”

“No mercy, then, princeling?” murmured grey-headed Tryggan.

“Mercy?” snarled Bran. “Ha, meseemeth you also look too kindly on these accursed Romans! Kill, I charge ye, kill all! Yet stay! Spare only Metellus, for he is mine; him will I give to the priests for our Sacred Fire. So—pass the word! And watch for my signal.”

Far off upon the road there presently appeared a small company of soldiers, crested helmet and spearhead blinking redly in the sunset glow, a serried company, their files trim and orderly, their short, quick stride bringing them rapidly nearer, until these many hidden eyes might descry grim faces and sturdy limbs and one who marched before accoutred like his fellows, except that his helmet bore a loftier crest. Nearer they swung, rank on rank, veterans all by their showing—lean, sinewy fellows with eyes bright as their armour.

“Come!” roared Bran and leaped, long sword aloft—and up from bracken and sheltering thicket sprang his fierce company and followed hot-foot where he led.

From the road a trumpet sounded, shields flashed and spearheads glittered as the Romans wheeled to meet the charge.

Though surrounded and beset on all sides the Roman columns held fast; British long-swords whirled and fell, but the serried Roman spears swayed and thrust, and the short, two-edged swords bit deep, and thrice, for all their desperate courage, the Britons were flung back.

“Metellus!” roared Bran, raging amid the fray. “Ha, Metellus, I’m for you. Come!”

“So ho, Bran!” answered the hated voice of Metellus, rising loud and clear above the din. “Come, then, and taste again of Roman steel.” But between them was a rocking close-locked press, and so they raged for each other in vain.

Then was an added tumult as down from the opposite steep charged Cadwallan with all his following. And presently, hemmed in thus at every point, the Roman ranks swayed, staggered, broke at last and were smitten and trampled into the bloody dust.

Breathless, half-blind with sweat, young Bran beheld a lofty crest that reeled and drooped beneath a hail of blows, and, roaring, he leapt and bestrode Metellus the centurion as he fell.

“Off!” he gasped, beating back his fellows. “ ’Tis the accursed Metellus! Off, I say! He is mine!”

So the fierce British warriors drew sullenly away and stood gazing at conquered and conqueror in a dark and scowling ring.

Coming weakly to an elbow, Metellus peered up at Bran from beneath his battered helmet and, blowing blood from his lips, laughed faintly.

“What, Bran, dost live yet? Then here and now I die. . . . Strike, Briton!”

“Not so!” answered Bran, stooping to glare into that bloody face. “Dog of a Roman, my hate is all too large to slay thee gently so. Thine shall be a death less kindly.”

Then was sudden shout, the ring of warriors parted, and so came Cadwallan the king, trampling and spurning the Roman dead beneath his gold-studded sandals.

“Well sped, my son!” he cried in his great booming voice. “A right noble fray, boy! What have ye there under foot? Why, by the Sacred Oak, ’tis the proud Metellus! How now, Oh noble Roman? What’s the word, Sir Daintiness?”

“Death, Majesty!” answered Metellus, dabbing at the gash above his brow. “Death beyond all doubting.”

“Death indeed since Roman you be.”

“Ay, good my father!” nodded Bran. “But, noble sire, I crave as boon the manner of his dying.”

“Why, verily, boy, so death it be. Yet, for thy deeds this day boon shouldst have, were it—even his life.”

“Life?” cried Bran, spurning his foe with passionate foot. “Nay, father and king, he shall to the Stone of Sacrifice, the Sacred Fire shall lick him, sire, ay, devour him before my eyes.”

“The Fire?” repeated Cadwallan, thumbing his great chin, and glancing askance at his fierce son. “The Fire, boy? ’Tis an evil death and . . . Well, so be it! Take up the prisoner.”

“Ay, lift him, bear him tenderly!” cried young Bran. “Cut withies for a litter that he travel soft. Ha, dog of a Roman, I hate ye so perfectly I’ll cherish ye with loving care lest Death snatch ye from me too soon!”

“Barbarian!” retorted Metellus faintly. “Oh Bran, I despise thee so vastly I had rather die than suffer thy fellowship!”

II

Julius Octavius Metellus, centurion of the Seventh, his hurts duly tended, full fed, close prisoned yet well cared for that he might prove hearty and strong to endure the full anguish of his dying, stood looking through the bars of his cell with eyes eager and expectant, yet saw no more than this: a green garth shady with trees, and in the midst an oak, mighty with age, whose gnarled branches shaded a stone something wider and longer than a man; a stone rough-hewn and blotched, here and there, with stains other than those of weather.

Philosophic in adversity and something of a poet, he composed verses of love and life and death, but, being also young, more especially of love and death; and so passed the long hours.

Daily he looked forth of his prison-bars, and always with the same wistful expectancy, only to behold the aged tree and grimly stone, particularly the stone, so that he came to know it very well, its every evil blotch—at which times his Muse led him deathwards.

At last, upon an evening when cow-bells tinkled drowsily from lush meads, he saw her. Tall and proud and gracious as he had dreamed her, radiant in young beauty from red-bronze hair to slim, buskined foot, her slender middle clasped by a jewelled girdle that clung about her loveliness as if it too had sense enough to love her. Against her rounded bosom she bore a sheaf of new-gathered flowers; coming to that stone beneath the oak she there disposed her flowers, hiding those ugly blotches ’neath their beauty and at this moment she turned and gazed up at the prisoner and, seeing the adoration of his eyes, she reached out her hand, her red lips parted in a tender smile—but even then came the distant note of a hunting-horn, the baying of hounds, and with a lingering, eloquent look she sped away, leaving that grimly stone a thing of beauty and in the prisoner’s heart a song of joy.

This night came sturdy, jovial Tryggan, something stealthily, and, closing the massive door behind him, set broad back thereto and nodded. Said he:

“Metellus, thou’rt a Roman and therefore ’tis certain, something of a dog. Yet, being dog of war, I dare to think thee something also of a man, and so it is that one I love would not have thee die awhile, deeming thee fit for kinder things, mayhap.”

“Oh man,” said Metellus, rising to greet him, “Oh Tryggan, what’s your meaning?”

“Our princess! The maid Fraya.”

Now at this Metellus bowed his head, his eyes very bright.

“Fraya!” he whispered. “By all the great gods——”

“Stint thine oaths, Roman, and hearken! She deeming thee worthy sweeter thing than death—and such a death!—I needs must think the like——”

“Ah, generous Tryggan——”

“Nay, Roman, she plagues me, she plagues me unceasing; moreover she is . . . dear to me! So to-night when the moon tops the oak grove yonder, be waking! I command the guard this night—woe’s me.” So saying, Tryggan sighed, nodded, and was gone.

And now Metellus, philosophical no longer, paced his cell with impatient foot, dreaming breathlessly of what was to be, and each time he scanned the climbing moon the name “Fraya” was on his lip. Up, up, in serene, white majesty rose the full-orbed moon, yet slower surely than ever in all the memory of man; up and up in ever-brightening glory until it topped the oaks at last. The great door swung heavily open; a soft voice breathed:

“Metellus . . . Oh Julius!”

“Fraya—dear love!” he whispered, and then she was in his arms, trembling to the passion of his kisses.

“Haste! Oh, haste!” she panted. “Give me thy hand. Now—hush thee!” Thus sped they side by side, and never a sound until they were out beneath the moon, running hand in hand; so she guided him until, within a place of shadow, they came on Tryggan holding a tall white horse.

“Up, Roman!” he whispered fiercely. “Up and away! I see a light where none should be, so here’s danger for us all in tarrying. Away, Fraya!”

“Then will I go with thee, Julius,” she whispered.

“No!” quoth Tryggan. “ ’Twas not so agreed. Away, girl! Nay, little one, he but rides to his death; ay, so—and his death shall be thine——”

“Then shall it be sweetly welcome! Julius, take me, for——”

The stilly night was riven by a sudden wild shout and growing hubbub as the fugitive sprang to saddle.

“Oh!” cried Fraya. “Oh beloved Julius, leave me not to perish alone!”

“Never think it!” he answered, and stooping, caught and swung her up before him.

“Princess,” groaned Tryggan in despair, “thou’rt betrayed. The Roman rides to death, and thou——”

“Spur!” cried Fraya, as came a rush of feet, and, turning, Metellus had brief vision of Bran’s hated face, and then the great horse leapt, reared, and was away.

Fast they rode across an open mead, through rustling wood, by forest glades, plunging deep and ever deeper into the leafy wilderness; yet here, dark though it was, Fraya’s white hand directed their going. Even so needs must he stoop oft-times to kiss her eyes, her cheek, her silky hair, murmuring words of adoration and vows of deathless love, until, what with the wonder of their young passion and the glamour of this midsummer night, they clean forgot their peril.

“Wilt love me always?” she pleaded. “Wilt honour me though I am a Briton?”

“To the end of my life, ay, and beyond!” he vowed. “Oh my Fraya, to the end of Time itself!”

“When didst love me first, Metellus?”

“When first I saw thee.”

“ ’Twas when thou didst come in the matter of hostages,” she murmured happily. “Oh, I mind it well—thy bright armour, thy dear, kind eyes! It seems long since.”

“And yet, my Fraya, I do surely think I loved thee in my boyish dreams, long ere I came to Britain, long ere these bodily eyes beheld thy beauty and loveliness.”

“Ah, marvellous strange!” she murmured. “ ’Twas even so I dreamed of thee, thy dear, dark head, these proud, gentle eyes, thy gait—all these were nothing strange to me.”

“So, Fraya, dear, mine Heart, mayhap we have met and loved ere this . . . in some other world, some other age. Who knoweth—who shall say?”

“Hearken!” she cried suddenly, clasping him in the protecting passion of her arms. “Dost hear?”

“Nothing, my Heart.”

“Ay, but I did! Ah—’tis there again!” she cried, as, faint with distance, rose the shrill clamour of a horn. “ ’Tis Bran!” she gasped. “ ’Tis Bran, I know his moot. Now ride amain. Oh Metellus, speed, for death surely follows hard!”

“Fear not, loved soul, they are yet afar.”

“Nay, but Bran knoweth these woodlands, every glade and clearing. . . .”

And now, by reason of her terrors, Fraya misguided him, and going astray, they blundered amid mazy thickets and floundered into perilous slough and, or ever they won free, their pursuers were in full cry.

“Julius, beloved,” she murmured, after some while of furious going, “they are close on us! I fear me ’tis the end. We have found again this great wonder of our love but to lose it awhile.”

“Ha, they ride but three!” cried Metellus, glancing back. “Oh, for a sword! Yet if indeed I must lose thee, Beloved, willingly I’ll die also. Yet would I smite Bran from life first!”

“Ah, Metellus, ’tis a deadly thing, this hate betwixt ye twain!”

“And most strange, my Fraya, for as I seemed born loving thee, so with life came hate for him.”

“Yet hate is vain and empty thing, Metellus; ’tis waste of life.”

“ ’Tis death!” he answered twixt shut teeth. “To him or me.”

“To both!” she sighed. “To both, full oft, till Death at last shall lesson ye, and your hate be changed to love and amity. I see, I know! Life floweth ever like Time itself! . . . And now, ah, my Julius, kiss me farewell awhile, for here must we die . . . yet not for long, since Life is stronger than Death.”

“Why, how meanest thou, my Heart?”

“See! Yonder is chasm no horse may leap, so let us here await Death. Let us go out into the dark together until together we find Life again.”

But Metellus, rising in his stirrups, surveyed that dreadful gulf; then, clasping Fraya to his heart, he set his teeth and, with voice and hand and goading heel, urged the great white horse faster . . . faster yet . . . then, shouting suddenly, he plied hand and heel anew, lifting the mighty stallion with cunning wrist. . . . A rush of wind! A jarring shock! A wild scramble of desperate hoofs, and the brave horse, winning to level ground, gasped and fell. Half-dazed, Metellus staggered to his feet uttering a glad cry to see Fraya already upon her knees.

“Safe!” he gasped, lifting her in eager arms. “The Gods are with us, Beloved!”

But, speaking no word, she pointed, and, glancing thitherward, he saw Bran rein up his rearing steed upon the opposite brink of the chasm, saw him whirl up his long arm . . . and in that moment Fraya flung herself upon Metellus, clasped him in the shelter of her arms, with words of passionate love ending in an awful, sobbing groan; and looking down he saw her transfixed by the javelin, beheld his hands bedabbled with her innocent blood.

“Die, then, traitorous wanton!” roared Bran and, wheeling his horse, galloped away.

“Ah, Metellus,” she gasped, “Oh Julius! our time of love . . . is not . . . yet. Nay, grieve not, I . . . shall wait for thee . . . shall wait to . . . love thee again . . . at better time. But now . . . kiss me farewell awhile . . . a little . . . little . . . while——”

And so Metellus kissed her and, with her mouth on his, she died.

After some while he gathered bracken-fern and therewith made a bed, and very reverently laid her there, wetting her pale face with his tears.

“Thy bridal couch, Beloved!” he whispered. “And so . . . until we meet again . . . fare thee well!”

And thus he left her with the day-spring bright upon her young loveliness.

III

The circling years rolled, and, despite battle, raid, and deadly ambushment, the great road crept on.

And the proprætor Julius, Octavius Metellus, scarred veteran of the ceaseless wars, minor poet, great soldier, and famous engineer, grey-headed, haggard of face and sterner than of yore, stood in the midst of Augusta, the proud walled city, his officers grouped attentive about him, for he was busied upon many concerns and amongst them the laying out of divers new streets and fortifications.

“Here,” said he, striking heel to ground, “here, as I reckon it, is the very heart of our city as she is and shall be. So here, sirs, will we set up a stone that shall be a notable mark for the measuring of our city to her walls and beyond. So many miles from this stone east or west, north or south, reaching on even unto the very gates of that Rome I shall ne’er see more. Here, then, shall stand yon stone to remain henceforth—ay, long after we are forgot. See to it, sirs, and——”

A trumpet brayed suddenly, armour rang, feet tramped and were still.

“Ah, what’s here? You, Vitellius, go see. Nay, here comes one shall tell us.”

A tall centurion strode up, grimed with battle and dusty from sandal to plume.

“Why, it is Spartacus of the Seventh, I think?”

“The same, sir, with prisoners new taken out o’ the south.”

“Let them approach.”

So came they, a miserable company, battered, bloody, drooping in their bonds, reeling in their gait; one only of whom bore his head proudly aloft, a very tall man he, fair-haired, with fierce blue eyes, who, beholding the grey-headed, lean-faced proprætor, started and glared, his look aflame with sudden, passionate hate.

“Dog of a Roman!” he cried, uplifting chained fists. “I am Bran, King of the Regni, prisoner,—yet unconquered still, scorning Rome and all her works and hating thee, Metellus, in this my death-hour—hating thee in life present and to be! So, thus I spit on and defy thee, Roman dog!”

“Slayer of women!” said Metellus, his haggard brow unruffled, his voice serene. “Truly Death hath found thee. Strike me off his kingly head!”

“Here, sir?” enquired one.

“Indeed! Our stone yonder shall serve, for I must see him die.”

“Watch then, dog!” laughed Bran, turning towards the great stone that lay hard by, a stone something wider and longer than a man. “We Britons die as we live, unfearing. Well, Death taketh us all somewhen, Roman, me to-day, thee hereafter. But somewhere, at some time, we shall live again to hate and fight anew—and next time I’ll watch thee die! So look to it thou Roman dog!”

Then Bran, unclasping from brawny throat his golden torque, cast it aside, glanced up to heaven and round about, laughed defiantly, and falling on his knees before the stone, bowed his unconquered head to the stroke. . . .

And presently they set up the great stone, wet with the blood of the last British King, planting it deep, for the useful purposes of survey: a mark for unborn generations to wonder at, a mark that, broken and battered, stands to-day for each and all to see—the imperishable London Stone.