A House of Pomegranates | Page 3

they had fallen from the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted
ivory bare up the velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich
plumes sprang, like white foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling.
A laughing Narcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its
head. On the table stood a flat bowl of amethyst.
Outside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a
bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and
down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a
nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the
open window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and
taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy eyelids
drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had he felt
so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery of
beautiful things.
When midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and
his pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring
rose-water over his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few
moments after that they had left the room, he fell asleep.
And as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream.
He thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the whir

and clatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in through the
grated windows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers
bending over their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched
on the huge crossbeams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they
lifted up the heavy battens, and when the shuttles stopped they let the
battens fall and pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched
with famine, and their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard
women were seated at a table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place.
The air was foul and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with
damp.
The young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him and
watched him.
And the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, 'Why art thou
watching me? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?'
'Who is thy master?' asked the young King.
'Our master!' cried the weaver, bitterly. 'He is a man like myself. Indeed,
there is but this difference between us--that he wears fine clothes while
I go in rags, and that while I am weak from hunger he suffers not a little
from overfeeding.'
'The land is free,' said the young King, 'and thou art no man's slave.'
'In war,' answered the weaver, 'the strong make slaves of the weak, and
in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and
they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day
long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away
before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil.
We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn,
and our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds
them; and are slaves, though men call us free.'
'Is it so with all?' he asked,
'It is so with all,' answered the weaver, 'with the young as well as with
the old, with the women as well as with the men, with the little children
as well as with those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us
down, and we must needs do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells
his beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps
Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows
close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with
us at night. But what are these things to thee? Thou art not one of us.

Thy face is too happy.' And he turned away scowling, and threw the
shuttle across the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded
with a thread of gold.
And a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver, 'What
robe is this that thou art weaving?'
'It is the robe for the coronation of the young King,' he answered; 'what
is that to thee?'
And the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his
own chamber, and through the window he saw the great
honey-coloured moon hanging in the dusky air.
And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream.
He thought that he was lying on the deck of a