So he went back to the house and brought the precious manuscript; and he placed Corydon in the seat of inspiration, and sat beside her and read.
In many ways this was a revolutionary romance. Thyrsis had not spent any of his time delving into other people’s books for “local color”; he was not relying for his effects upon gabardines and hauberks, and a sprinkling of “Yea, sires,” and “prithees.” His castle was but the vaguely outlined background of a stage upon which living hearts wrought out their passions. One saw the banquet-hall, with its tapestries and splendor, and the master of it, the man of force; there were swift scenes that gave one a glimpse of the age-long state of things--
“Right forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.”
There was a quarrel, and a cruel sentence about to be executed; and then the minstrel came. His fame had come before him, and so the despot, in half-drunken playfulness, left the deciding of the quarrel to him. He was brought to the head of the table, and the princess was led in; and so these two met face to face.
Here Thyrsis paused, and asked, “Are you interested?”
So he read about his princess, who was the embodiment of all the virtues of the unknown goddess of his fancy. She was proud yet humble, aloof yet compassionate, and above all ineffably beautiful. And as for the minstrel--
“The minstrel was fair and young. His heart was of love and fire.”
He took his harp, and first he pacified the quarrel, and then he sang to the lady. He sang of love, and the poet’s vision of beauty; but most of all he sang of the free life of the open. He sang of the dreams and the spirit-companions of the minstrel, and of the wondrous magic that he wields--
“Secrets of all future ages Hover in mine ecstasy; Treasures never known to mortals Hath my fancy hid for thee!”
He sang the spells that he would weave for her, the far journeys she should take--
“For thy soul a river flowing Swiftly, over golden sands, With the singing of the steersman Stealing into wonderlands!”
Section 2. This song was as far as Thyrsis had written, and he paused. Corydon was sitting with her hands clasped, and a look of enthrallment upon her face. “Oh, beautiful! beautiful!” she cried.