The artist gazed out over the downs. "`The poet says, dear city of Cecrops;'" he said, softly, to himself, "`and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day."
"Who's he?" I inquired.
"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away.
"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like MY city best."
"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know."
"Then we won't invite him," I said, "will we?"
"_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while.
"Do you know," he said, presently, "I've met one or two fellows from time to time who have been to a city like yours,--perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular--and every thing's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose."
"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for;
_I_ wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there."
The artist stared, but without incivility.
"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stones who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"
"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or get bowled over in the melee,--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom,--some of them'll be there, I hope?"
"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."
"What a time we shall have!" said the artist, reflectively; "and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"
The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was flooding the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist began to put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low; we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an equal.
"I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. "That was an interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope."
"Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be any doubt about it.
"In Rome, perhaps?" said he.
"Yes, in Rome," I answered, "or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere."
"Or else," said he, "in that other city,--when we've found the way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and into all the shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house, and we'll live there like princes and good fellows."
"Oh, but you'll stay in my house, won't you?" I cried; "wouldn't ask everybody; but I'll ask YOU."
He affected to consider a moment; then "Right!" he said: "I believe you mean it, and I WILL come and stay with you. I won't go to anybody else, if they ask me ever so much. And I'll stay quite a long time, too, and I won't be any trouble."
Upon this compact we parted, and I went down-heartedly from the man who understood me, back to the house where I never could do anything right. How was it that everything seemed natural and sensible to him, which these uncles, vicars, and other grown-up men took for the merest tomfoolery? Well, he would explain this, and many another thing, when we met again. The Knights' Road!
How it always brought consolation! Was he possibly one of those vanished knights I had been looking for so long? Perhaps he would be in armour next time,--why not? He would look well in armour, I thought. And I would take care to get there first, and see the sunlight flash and play on his helmet and shield, as he rode up the High Street of the Golden City.
Meantime, there only remained the finding it,--an easy matter.
