The Hater took the silver pipe out of its sheath. The tune began—a choppy, weird progression of half tones.

The sleeping giant stirred and placed his massive hands upon his temples. In fever hot the Hater played and just as rapidly the Madman stumbled to his feet.

The Singer never had beheld so great a man as he. Some unseen, unheard agony rippled through his bleeding soul. He growled, then screamed and tried to tear the chains that held him to the wall.

“Stop, Hater!” cried the Singer.

But the Hater played more loudly than before. At that precise and ugly moment, the pinion on the left gave way. The chain fell loose. Then with his one free hand the monster tore the other chain away. In but a second he stood unchained before them. The Hater took his pipe and fled into the trees. The Singer then began to sing and continued on until the Madman stood directly in his path. With love that knew no fear, the Singer caught his torment, wrapped it all in song and gave it back to him as peace.

And soon the two men held each other. In their long embrace of soul, the spirits cried and left. They stood at last alone.

“What year is it?” the giant asked with some perplexity.

“It is the year of the Troubadour,” the Singer said. “How long have you hung upon the wall and writhed in madness?”

“I cannot tell the years.”

“Will you come with me into the ancient city?”

“Yes.” said the Madman, and then remembering, he added, “I cannot, for I am naked.”

“Not if you love me. He whom Earthmaker loves,” replied the Troubadour, “is hidden from his shame forevermore.”

“I love you more than life,” the Madman then confessed.

And when they turned to leave the two of them were dressed.

XV

Humanity is fickle. They may dress for a morning coronation and never feel the need to change clothes to attend an execution in the afternoon.

So Triumphal Sundays and Good Fridays always fit comfortably into the same April week.

The way through the gates was full. The Holiday had come and the eagerness of all the citizens for tradition and festivity had charged the air with expectation. The Singer and the Madman felt the strain of something dread but pending, threatening but unannounced.

Within the press of people the Singer felt a mixing of compassion and revulsion. He pitied them for emptiness but resented their contentment in it. He knew that what they needed was the Song.

When they approached the gates, a woman in the crowd came to the Madman, then shuddering fell back in fright. They stopped and the congestion moved around them.

“You are the Madman,” she said. Then changing her mind she denied it, “No you are clothed and sane.”

“I am the Madman,” he said, “but the Troubadour has come and I am full and whole.”

“Who is this Troubadour?” she asked.

“He is the Son of Earthmaker!”