Classic Poem

Orthone

It was the Bastot Maulion
Who told this tale to me,
At Ortaise, by an ingle side,
In gossip frank and free,
At the good hostel of the Moon,
Where I sometime attended
The will of Gaston Earl of Foix,
That potent lord, and splendid.

The Lord Corasse—the Bastot said—
Had taken on his hands
Feud with a Catalonian clerk,
Who sought to tithe his lands;
And dealt so rudely by the priest
That he was fain to fly—
For the lord's wrath had put his life,
He deemed, in jeopardy.

But ere the priest went forth, he came
And yielded to the lord,
In formal wise, the cause of feud;
And then, at parting word,
Quoth he, “Corasse, your greater strength
Has robbed me of my right:
I yield not to your argument,
But only to your might.”

“Ah, Master Martin!” said the lord,
“I care not for your rage;
Free living shall you never have
From my fair heritage.”
“So much I know;” the clerk replied,
“You violate the laws;
But, swift as may be, I will send
A champion of my cause.

“And he shall deal so by your peace,
That you will sorely rue
That you have borne against the right,
And robbed me of my due.”
And, with such words, the angry clerk
Departed on his way:
The baron never saw him more
From forth that summer day.

Three nights thereafter, Lord Corasse
Lay quietly abed,
When, suddenly, the castle rung
With wondrous sounds and dread;
A clatter in the kitchens—
A thunder on the stair—
And shrillest voices screaming
Around it in the air.

The Lord Corasse sate up, and stared,
And seemed in trouble sore;
Then heard unmannered knocking
All at his chamber door.
His lady drew the curtains
In fear about her head,
But to his sword, reached forth the lord,
And, full of courage, said—

“Now who be ye who thunder so?
Pray let your names be shown.”
And at the word, reply he heard,
“They call my name Orthone.”
“Orthone,” replied the baron,
“Who sent you here to me?”
“Your enemy, the Spanish clerk,
Whose work I do”—quoth he.

“Orthone,” said on the baron stout,
“A beggar like the clerk
Will give you little thanks, or wage,
For moiling at his work:
I pray you be my servant!”—
With this the clamour ceased,
And Orthone said, “So let it be—
I weary of the priest.”

Thereafter Orthone served the lord,
Invisible to him;
Would seek his chamber nightly,
When lights were burning dim,
And bring him news of distant lands,
Of battle-field, and court;
Did never post so little cost,
Or bear such swift report.

One day the baron came to join
A banquet at Ortaise,
And some loose speech of his did strike
Earl Gaston with amaze.
“Brother!” quoth he, “how may it be—
This thing thou dost declare—
Unless thou hast a messenger
To fly upon the air?”

And then the baron answer made,
For he was glad with wine,
And told the earl the story—
Who thereof did opine
As of a marvel deep, and said,
“If ever thou hast seen
This messenger, in any shape,
Pray tell me of his mien.”

“I have not seen him,” said Corasse,
“Small use it were to see;
Sufficient that he comes, and goes,
And serves me faithfully.”
Then said the earl, “When next he comes,
I pray thee bid him show
What look he wears—what shape he bears—
So much I fain would know.”

The Lord Corasse is now abed,
And merry Orthone seeks
His side again, and plucks his ear,
And toys upon his cheeks.
“Orthone—Orthone!” said Lord Corasse—
“Good servant, prithee, show
What look you wear—what shape you bear—
So much I fain would know.”

“Sir,” said Orthone, “I plainly see
That you are bent to lose
A willing servant: but, for once,
I grant the thing you choose.
Whatever, when you leave this bed,
Your eyes first rest upon—
Observe it well, for certainly
That thing will be Orthone.”

The sun is shining yellowly,
And dazzles on the bed;
And Lord Corasse laughs loud to see
His lady hide her head.
He sits upright, and laughs, and peers
Around him everywhere,
But he may mark no living thing,
No matter how he stare.

Uprose he then, and placed his foot
Out on the rushes, strewn
So soft upon his chamber floor—
Nor saw he yet Orthone.
But as he puts his foot abroad,
A quick keen tickle goes,
Athwart the sole, and tingles
Betwixt the wincing toes.

And as his foot he lifted,
A single straw fell down,
And rested not, but skipped about,
Over the rushes brown,
With somersets, and other feats—
The like, man never saw,
And Lord Corasse looked on, and said,
“The devil is in the straw.”

But never deemed the Lord Corasse
That he had seen Orthone;
That day went by, he sought his bed
When as its toils were done;
And, at the middle watch of night,
Orthone drew nigh again,
And plucked the baron by the ear,
And plucked the counterpane.

“Orthone—Orthone!” his master said,
“You err in coming here;
You broke that promise made to me—
So much is surely clear.”
“I made a promise,” said Orthone,
“And truly held thereby:
The tumbling straw, whose feats you saw,
That little straw was I.”

“Ah!” quoth the lord, “I deemed the straw
Was surely out of nature:
But prithee take some other form
Of greater bulk and stature.”
And so, again, the voice has said,
“What first you look upon,
Observe it well, for certainly
That thing will be Orthone.”

The baron rose up with the sun,
And looking up and down—
Now here, now there—and everywhere—
Saw but the rushes brown,
And oaken stools, and cabinets—
The room's appurtenances:
No semblance of his servant met
His shrewd and roving glances.

Then to a lattice broad, he stept,
And cast it open wide;
And, looking down upon the court,
He presently espied
A gaunt wild-sow, with ears, I trow,
As long as of a hound,
And bristled back, and loathly dugs
That trailed upon the ground.

The baron shouted to his men—
It moved him so to see
That loathly beast—and bade them loose
His bandogs speedily.
The mastiffs came out ramping,
But eager-eyed and mute,
They snuffed the air, and flew to tear,
And yell around the brute.

The wild-sow never tarried
For bay, or roaring chace,
But gave a cry unearthly,
And vanished from the place.
And then the baron knew the beast
Was certainly Orthone,
And turned within, lamenting
The thing that he had done.

Quoth he, “It would be merely just
If Orthone left me now—
But certainly I deemed the beast
Was but a loathly sow.”
That night Corasse lay long awake,
But lay awake in vain:
Orthone came not, and truly,
He never came again.

So said the Bastot Maulion,
And I have given his story
Fair place amongst my braver tales,
Of policy and glory.
If it be true, or haply false,
So much I cannot say:
But mysteries as great surround
Our life by night and day.English