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Dreamer of Dreams

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<h2>XXX</h2> And Beauty, Peace, and Sorrow are dreams within dreams. Fiona Macleod. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> In a distant land Spring was also spreading over hill and dale. But on a bare plain, where nothing grew, a miracle had come to pass: a peasant, returning home one starry night, had espied, from the road upon which he was slowly sauntering, a strange light in the form of a cross, gleaming far over the barren waste. Full of astonishment he had run to the spot, and there he had discerned a magic crystal, all charged with radiance, in the shape before which every Christian bends the knee. And the most curious of all, this burning cross was the hilt of a glistening sword which must have dropped from heaven, to remain thus firmly planted in the ground. Awed and filled with wonder the youth had spread the astounding news from village to village, and all the simple folk had run together, falling down in worship before this miraculous sign, which God had put in so desert a place, as a blessing on the land. From far and wide, rich and poor, old and young, men, women, and children came in pilgrimage to that holy site. None ever knew, except one humble little peasant, from whence the cross had come. But Radu, the shepherd, held his peace, thanking the Kind Mother of Christ for having thus ordained that so many pious believers should go and pray on the grave where the dreamer of dreams had buried his love. One morning when the warm rays of the sun were lying like a blessing over the deserted waste, a white bird might have been seen descending out of the blue. It hovered for a time over the gleaming sword, circling very slowly, so that its outspread wings resembled a snowy cloud floating in the air. Then down it swooped out of the heavens, there, where Stella lay beneath the dark heavy mould. Within its beak this unknown bird was holding a simple seed, which it dropped on the very spot where the dead girl's heart rested under the sod—a seed it had carried from a distant land of the north from the tenderly tended grave in a great king's garden. Hardly had the seed touched the barren earth than it sprang up and spread all over the tomb a thick network of rambling thorns covered with countless roses—as crimson as the broken heart of a lover. And these roses bloomed, even in the winter months, upon the icy covering of snow, red as the reddest blood, till all the simple folk declared that indeed the place was Holy Ground. And thus it was that God blessed the Love of him who once had been called Eric Gundian, the Dreamer of Dreams. <h3>THE END</h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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