Eleanor by Mary Augusta Ward

caked blood still lay upon the ground, the sword fell clashing from his hand, and he flung his two arms to heaven with a hoarse and piercing cry—the cry of him who accuses and arraigns the gods.
    ‘And the boy, shivering, slipped from the tree, with that cry in his ear, and hastily sought for his goats. And when he had found them he drove them home, not staying even to quench his thirst from their swollen udders. And in the shepherd’s hut he found his father Caeculus; and sinking down beside him with tears and sobs he told his tale.
    ‘And Caeculus pondered long. And without chiding, he laid his hand upon the boy’s head and bade him be comforted. “For,” said he, as though he spake with himself—“such is the will of the goddess. And from the furthest times it has happened thus, before the Roman fathers journeyed from the Alban Mount and made them dwellings on the seven hills—before Romulus gave laws,—or any white-robed priest had climbed the Capitol. From blood springs up the sacred office; and to blood it goes! No natural death must waste the priest of Trivia’s tree. The earth is hungry for the blood in its strength—nor shall it be withheld! Thus only do the trees bear, and the fields bring forth.”
    ‘Astonished, the boy looked at his father, and saw upon his face, as he turned it upon the ploughed lands and the vineyards, a secret and a savage joy. And the little goatherd’s mind was filled with terror—nor would his father tell him further what the mystery meant. But when he went to his bed of dried leaves at night, and the moon rose upon the lake, and the great woods murmured in the hollow far beneath him, he tossed restlessly from side to side, thinking of the new priest who kept watch there—of his young limbs and miserable eyes—of that voice which he had flung to heaven. And the child tried to believe that he might yet escape.—But already in his dreams he saw the grove part once more and the slayer leap forth. He saw the watching crowd—and their fierce, steady eyes, waiting thirstily for the spilt blood. And it was as though a mighty hand crushed the boy’s heart, and for the first time he shrank from the gods, and from his father,—so that the joy of his youth was darkened within him.’
* * * * *
    As he read the last word, Manisty flung the sheets down upon the table beside him, and rising, he began to pace the room with his hands upon his sides, frowning and downcast. When he came to Mrs. Burgoyne’s chair he paused beside her—
    ‘I don’t see what it has to do with the book. It is time lost’—he said to her abruptly, almost angrily.
    ‘I think not,’ she said, smiling at him. But her tone wavered a little, and his look grew still more irritable.
    ‘I shall destroy it!’—he said, with energy—‘nothing more intolerable than ornament out of place!’
    ‘Oh don’t!—don’t alter it at all!’ said a quick imploring voice.
    Manisty turned in astonishment.
    Lucy Foster was looking at him steadily. A glow of pleasure was on her cheek, her beautiful eyes were warm and eager. Manisty for the first time observed her, took note also of the loosened hair and Eleanor’s cloak.
    ‘You liked it?’ he said with some embarrassment. He had entirely forgotten that she was in the room.
    She drew a long breath.
    ‘Yes!’—she said softly, looking down.
    He thought that she was too shy to express herself. In reality her feeling was divided between her old enthusiasm and her new disillusion. She would have liked to tell him that his reading had reminded her of the book she loved. But the man, standing beside her, chilled her. She wished she had not spoken. It began to seem to her a piece of forwardness.
    ‘Well, you’re very kind’—he said, rather formally—‘But I’m afraid it won’t do. That lady there won’t pass it.’
    ‘What have I said?’—cried Mrs. Burgoyne, protesting.
    Manisty laughed. ‘Nothing. But you’ll agree with me.’ Then he gathered up his