The Path of the King

by John Buchan

  Produced by Mary Starr

  THE PATH OF THE KING

  by John Buchan

  TO MY WIFE I DEDICATE THESE CHAPTERS FIRST READ BY A COTSWOLD FIRE

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE 1. HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 2. THE ENGLISHMAN 3. THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 4. EYES OF YOUTH 5. THE MAID 6. THE WOOD OF LIFE 7. EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 8. THE HIDDEN CITY 9. THE REGICIDE 10. THE MARPLOT 11. THE LIT CHAMBER 12. IN THE DARK LAND 13. THE LAST STAGE 14. THE END OF THE ROAD EPILOGUE

  Linum fumigans non exstinguet; in veritate educet judicium. ISA. XLII.3.

  THE PATH OF THE KING

  by John Buchan

  PROLOGUE

  The three of us in that winter camp in the Selkirks were talking theslow aimless talk of wearied men.

  The Soldier, who had seen many campaigns, was riding his hobby ofthe Civil War and descanting on Lee's tactics in the last Wildernessstruggle. I said something about the stark romance of it--of Jeb Stuartflitting like a wraith through the forests; of Sheridan's attack atChattanooga, when the charging troops on the ridge were silhouettedagainst a harvest moon; of Leonidas Polk, last of the warrior Bishops,baptizing his fellow generals by the light of a mess candle. "Romance,"I said, "attended the sombre grey and blue levies as faithfully as sheever rode with knight-errant or crusader."

  The Scholar, who was cutting a raw-hide thong, raised his wise eyes.

  "Does it never occur to you fellows that we are all pretty mixed in ournotions? We look for romance in the well-cultivated garden-plots, andwhen it springs out of virgin soil we are surprised, though any foolmight know it was the natural place for it."

  He picked up a burning stick to relight his pipe.

  "The things we call aristocracies and reigning houses are the lastplaces to look for masterful men. They began strongly, but they havebeen too long in possession. They have been cosseted and comforted andthe devil has gone out of their blood. Don't imagine that I undervaluedescent. It is not for nothing that a great man leaves posterity.But who is more likely to inherit the fire--the elder son with hisflesh-pots or the younger son with his fortune to find? Just think ofit! All the younger sons of younger sons back through the generations!We none of us know our ancestors beyond a little way. We all of usmay have kings' blood in our veins. The dago who blacked my boots atVancouver may be descended by curious byways from Julius Caesar.

  "Think of it!" he cried. "The spark once transmitted may smoulder forgenerations under ashes, but the appointed time will come, and it willflare up to warm the world. God never allows waste. And we fools rub oureyes and wonder, when we see genius come out of the gutter. It didn'tbegin there. We tell ourselves that Shakespeare was the son of awoolpedlar, and Napoleon of a farmer, and Luther of a peasant, and wehold up our hands at the marvel. But who knows what kings and prophetsthey had in their ancestry!"

  After that we turned in, and as I lay looking at the frosty stars afancy wove itself in my brain. I saw the younger sons carry the royalblood far down among the people, down even into the kennels of theoutcast. Generations follow, oblivious of the high beginnings, but thereis that in the stock which is fated to endure. The sons and daughtersblunder and sin and perish, but the race goes on, for there is a fiercestuff of life in it. It sinks and rises again and blossoms at haphazardinto virtue or vice, since the ordinary moral laws do not concern itsmission. Some rags of greatness always cling to it, the dumb faith thatsometime and somehow that blood drawn from kings it never knew will beroyal again. Though nature is wasteful of material things, there is nowaste of spirit. And then after long years there comes, unheralded andunlooked-for, the day of the Appointed Time....

  This is the story which grew out of that talk by the winter fire.