A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Mark Twain [little readers .TXT] 📗

“Wherefore, fair sir and Boss?”

“We want to take them to their home, don’t we?”

“La, but list to him!  They be of all the regions of the earth! Each must hie to her own home; wend you we might do all these journeys in one so brief life as He hath appointed that created life, and thereto death likewise with help of Adam, who by sin done through persuasion of his helpmeet, she being wrought upon and bewrayed by the beguilements of the great enemy of man, that serpent hight Satan, aforetime consecrated and set apart unto that evil work by overmastering spite and envy begotten in his heart through fell ambitions that did blight and mildew a nature erst so white and pure whenso it hove with the shining multitudes its brethren-born in glade and shade of that fair heaven wherein all such as native be to that rich estate and—”

“Great Scott!”

“My lord?”

“Well, you know we haven’t got time for this sort of thing.  Don’t you see, we could distribute these people around the earth in less time than it is going to take you to explain that we can’t.  We mustn’t talk now, we must act.  You want to be careful; you mustn’t let your mill get the start of you that way, at a time like this. To business now—and sharp’s the word.  Who is to take the aristocracy home?”

“Even their friends.  These will come for them from the far parts of the earth.”

This was lightning from a clear sky, for unexpectedness; and the relief of it was like pardon to a prisoner.  She would remain to deliver the goods, of course.

“Well, then, Sandy, as our enterprise is handsomely and successfully ended, I will go home and report; and if ever another one—”

“I also am ready; I will go with thee.”

This was recalling the pardon.

“How?  You will go with me?  Why should you?”

“Will I be traitor to my knight, dost think?  That were dishonor. I may not part from thee until in knightly encounter in the field some overmatching champion shall fairly win and fairly wear me. I were to blame an I thought that that might ever hap.”

“Elected for the long term,” I sighed to myself.  "I may as well make the best of it.”  So then I spoke up and said:

“All right; let us make a start.”

While she was gone to cry her farewells over the pork, I gave that whole peerage away to the servants.  And I asked them to take a duster and dust around a little where the nobilities had mainly lodged and promenaded; but they considered that that would be hardly worth while, and would moreover be a rather grave departure from custom, and therefore likely to make talk.  A departure from custom—that settled it; it was a nation capable of committing any crime but that.  The servants said they would follow the fashion, a fashion grown sacred through immemorial observance; they would scatter fresh rushes in all the rooms and halls, and then the evidence of the aristocratic visitation would be no longer visible. It was a kind of satire on Nature:  it was the scientific method, the geologic method; it deposited the history of the family in a stratified record; and the antiquary could dig through it and tell by the remains of each period what changes of diet the family had introduced successively for a hundred years.

The first thing we struck that day was a procession of pilgrims. It was not going our way, but we joined it, nevertheless; for it was hourly being borne in upon me now, that if I would govern this country wisely, I must be posted in the details of its life, and not at second hand, but by personal observation and scrutiny.

This company of pilgrims resembled Chaucer’s in this:  that it had in it a sample of about all the upper occupations and professions the country could show, and a corresponding variety of costume. There were young men and old men, young women and old women, lively folk and grave folk.  They rode upon mules and horses, and there was not a side-saddle in the party; for this specialty was to remain unknown in England for nine hundred years yet.

It was a pleasant, friendly, sociable herd; pious, happy, merry and full of unconscious coarsenesses and innocent indecencies.  What they regarded as the merry tale went the continual round and caused no more embarrassment than it would have caused in the best English society twelve centuries later.  Practical jokes worthy of the English wits of the first quarter of the far-off nineteenth century were sprung here and there and yonder along the line, and compelled the delightedest applause; and sometimes when a bright remark was made at one end of the procession and started on its travels toward the other, you could note its progress all the way by the sparkling spray of laughter it threw off from its bows as it plowed along; and also by the blushes of the mules in its wake.

Sandy knew the goal and purpose of this pilgrimage, and she posted me.  She said:

“They journey to the Valley of Holiness, for to be blessed of the godly hermits and drink of the miraculous waters and be cleansed from sin.”

“Where is this watering place?”

“It lieth a two-day journey hence, by the borders of the land that hight the Cuckoo Kingdom.”

“Tell me about it.  Is it a celebrated place?”

“Oh, of a truth, yes.  There be none more so.  Of old time there lived there an abbot and his monks.  Belike were none in the world more holy than these; for they gave themselves to study of pious books, and spoke not the one to the other, or indeed to any, and ate decayed herbs and naught thereto, and slept hard, and prayed much, and washed never; also they wore the same garment until it fell from their bodies through age and decay.  Right so came they to be known of all the world by reason of these holy austerities, and visited by rich and poor, and reverenced.”

“Proceed.”

“But always there was lack of water there.  Whereas, upon a time, the holy abbot prayed, and for answer a great stream of clear water burst forth by miracle in a desert place.  Now were the fickle monks tempted of the Fiend, and they wrought with their abbot unceasingly by beggings and beseechings that he would construct a bath; and when he was become aweary and might not resist more, he said have ye your will, then, and granted that they asked. Now mark thou what ’tis to forsake the ways of purity the which He loveth, and wanton with such as be worldly and an offense. These monks did enter into the bath and come thence washed as white as snow; and lo, in that moment His sign appeared, in miraculous