"Who is that young Gentile?" he demanded.

"Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Gloucester."

"What hast thou against him?" asked old Hamon.

"That is the youth that threw my cap into a pool, a year ago, and called me a Jew cur," said Delecresse, between his teeth.

"Pooh, pooh!" said old Hamon. "We all have to put up with those little amenities. Never mind it, child."

"I'll never mind it—till the time come!" answered Delecresse, in an undertone. "Then—I think I see how to wipe it off."

Belasez found her mother returned from Lincoln. She received a warm welcome from Abraham, a much cooler one from Licorice, and was very glad, having arrived at home late, to go to bed in her own little chamber, which was inside that of her parents. She soon dropped asleep, but was awoke ere long by voices in the adjoining room, distinctly audible through the curtain which alone separated the chambers. They spoke in Spanish, the language usually employed amongst themselves by the English Sephardim.

"Ay de mi, ['Woe is me!'] that it ever should have been so!" said the voice of Licorice. "What did the shiksah [Note 1] want with her?"

"I told thee, wife," answered Abraham, in a slightly injured tone, "she wanted the child to embroider a scarf."

"And I suppose thou wert too anxious to fill thy saddle-bags to care for the danger to her?"

"There was no danger at all, wife. The Countess promised all I asked her. And I made thirteen gold pennies clear profit. Thou canst see the child is no worse—they have been very kind to her: she said as much."

"Abraham, son of Ursel, thou art a very wise man!"

"What canst thou mean, Licorice?"

"'Kind to her!' If they had starved her and beaten her, there might have been no harm done. Canst thou not see that the girl's heart is with her Christian friends? Why, she had been crying behind her veil, quietly, all the journey."

"Well, wife? What then?"

"'What then?' Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! 'What then?' Why, then—she will do like Anegay."

"The God of our fathers forbid it!" cried Abraham, in tones of horror and distress.

"It is too late for that," said Licorice, with a short, contemptuous laugh. "Thou shouldst have said that a year ago, and have kept the child at home."

"We had better marry her at once," suggested Abraham, still in a voice of deep pain.

"'There are no birds in last year's nest,' old man," was the response. "Marry her or let it alone, the child's heart is gone from us. She has left behind her in yonder Castle those for whom she cares more than for us, and, I should not wonder also, a faith dearer to her than ours. It will be Anegay over again. Ah, well! Like to like! What else could we expect?"

"Can she hear us, Licorice?"

"Not she! She was fast asleep an hour ago."

"Wife, if it be so, have we not deserved it?"

"Abraham, don't be a fool!" cried Licorice, so very snappishly that it sounded as if her conscience might have responded a little to the accusation.

"I cannot but think thou didst evil, Licorice,—thou knowest how and when."

"I understand thee, of course. It was the only thing to do."

"I know thou saidst so," answered Abraham in an unconvinced tone. "Yet it went to my heart to hear the poor child's sorrowful moan."

"Thy heart is stuffed with feathers."

"I would rather it were so than with stones."

"Thanks for the compliment!"

"Nay, I said nothing about thee. But, Licorice, if it be as thou thinkest, do not let us repeat that mistake."

"I shall repeat no mistakes, I warrant thee."

The conversation ceased rather suddenly, except for one mournful exclamation from Abraham,—"Poor Anegay!"

Anegay! where had Belasez heard that name before? It belonged to no friend or relative, so far as she knew. Yet that she had heard it before, and that in interesting connection with something, she was absolutely certain.

Belasez dropped asleep while she was thinking. It seemed to her that hardly a minute passed before she woke again, to hear her mother moving in the next room, and to see full daylight streaming in at the window.

And suddenly, just as she awoke, it rushed upon her when and how she had heard of Anegay.

She saw herself, a little child, standing by the side of Licorice. With them was old Belya, the mother of Hamon, and before them stood an enormous illuminated volume at which they were looking. Belasez found it impossible to remember what had been said by Belya; but her mother's response was as vivid in her mind as if the whole scene were of yesterday.

"Hush! The child must not know. Yes, Belya, thou art right. That was taken from Anegay's face."

What was it that was taken? And dimly before Belasez's mental eyes a picture seemed to grow, in which a king upon his throne, and a woman fainting, were the principal figures. Esther before Ahasuerus!

That was it, of course. And Belasez sprang up, with a determination to search through her father's books, and to find the picture which had been taken from Anegay's face.

But, after all, who was Anegay?

Licorice was in full tide of business and porridge-making, in her little kitchen, when Belasez presented herself with an apology for being late.

"Nay, folks that go to bed at nine may well not rise till five," said Licorice, graciously. "Throw more salt in here, child, and fetch the porringers whilst I stir it. Call thy father and Delecresse,—breakfast will be ready by the time they are."

Breakfast was half over when Licorice inquired of her daughter whom she had seen at Bury Castle.

"Oh! to speak to, only the Countess and her daughter, Damsel Margaret, and the other young damsels, Doucebelle, Eva, and Marie; and Levina, the Lady's dresser. They showed me some others through the window, so that I knew their names and faces."

Belasez quietly left out the priests.

"And what knights didst thou see there?"

"Through the window? Sir Hubert the Earl, and Sir Richard of Gloucester, and Sir John the Earl's son, and Sir John de Averenches. Oh! I forgot Dame Hawise, Sir John's wife; but I never saw much of her."

"There was no such there as one named Bruno de Malpas, I suppose?" asked Licorice, with assumed carelessness. "No, there was no knight of that name." But in her heart Belasez felt that the name belonged to the priest, Father Bruno.

A few more questions were asked her, of no import, and then they rose. When Licorice set her free from household duties, Belasez took her way to the little closet over the porch which served as her father's library. He was the happy possessor of eleven volumes,—a goodly number at that date. Eight she passed by, knowing them to contain no pictures. The ninth was an illuminated copy of the Brut, which of course began, as all chronicles then did, with the creation; but Belasez looked through it twice without finding any thing to satisfy her. Next came the Chronicle of Benoit, but the illuminations in this were merely initials and tail-pieces in arabesque. There was only one left, and it was the largest volume in the collection. Belasez could not remember having ever opened it. She pulled it down now, just missing a sprained wrist in the process, and found it to be a splendid copy of the Hagiographa, with full-page pictures, glowing with colours and gold. Of course, the illuminations had been executed by Christian hands; but all these books had come to Abraham in exchange for bad debts, and he was not so consistent as to refuse to look at the representations of created things, however wicked he might account it to produce them. Belasez turned over the stiff leaves, one after another, till she reached the Book of Esther. Yes, surely that was the picture she remembered. There sat the King Ahasuerus on a curule chair, wearing a floriated crown and a mantle clasped at the neck with a golden fibula; and there fainted Queen Esther in the arms of her ladies, arrayed in the tight gown, the pocketing sleeve, the wimple, and all other monstrosities of the early Plantagenet era. A Persian satrap, enclosed in a coat of mail and a surcoat with a silver shield, whereon an exceedingly rampant red lion was disporting itself, appeared to be coming to the help of his liege lady; while a tall white lily, in a flower-pot about twice the size of the throne, occupied one side of the picture. To all these details Belasez paid no attention. The one thing at which she looked was the face of the fainting Queen, which was turned full towards the spectator. It was a very lovely face of a decidedly Jewish type. But what made Belasez glance from it to the brazen mirror fixed to the wall opposite? Was it Anegay of whom Bruno had been thinking when he murmured that she was so like some one? Undoubtedly there was a likeness. The same pure oval face, the smooth calm brow, the dark glossy hair: but it struck Belasez that her own features, as seen in the mirror, were the less prominently Jewish.

And, once more, who was Anegay?

How little it is possible to know of the innermost heart of our nearest friends! Belasez went through all her duties that day, without rousing the faintest suspicion in the mind of her mother that she had heard a syllable of the conversation between her parents the night before. Yet she thought of little else. Her household work was finished, and she sat in the deep recess of the window at her embroidery, when Delecresse came and stood beside her.

"Belasez, who was that damsel that sat talking with my Lord of Gloucester in the hall when we passed through?"

"That was the Damsel Margaret, daughter of Sir Hubert the Earl."

"What sort of a maiden is she?"

"Very sweet and gentle. I liked her extremely. She was always most kind to me."

"Is she attached to my Lord of Gloucester?"

It was a new idea to Belasez.

"Really, I never thought of that, Cress. But I should not at all wonder if she be. She is constantly talking of him."

"Does he care for her?"

"I fancy he does, by the way I have seen him look up at her windows."

"Yes, I could tell that from his face."

The tone of her brother's voice struck Belasez unpleasantly.

"Cress! what dost thou mean?"

"It is a pity that the innocent need suffer with the guilty," answered Delecresse, contemptuously. "But it mostly turns out so in this world."

Belasez grasped her brother's wrists.

"Cress, thou hast no thought of revenging thyself on Sir Richard of Gloucester for that boyish trick he once played on thee?"

"I'll be even with him, Belasez. No man—least of all a Christian dog— shall insult me with impunity."

"O Cress, Cress! Thou must not do it. Hast thou forgotten that vengeance belongeth to the Holy One, to whom be glory? And for such a mere nothing as that!"

"Nothing! Dost thou call it nothing for a son of Abraham to be termed a Jew cur by one of those creeping things of Gentiles? Is not the day at hand when they shall be our ploughmen and vine-dressers?"

"Well, then," answered Belasez, assuming a playfulness which she was far from feeling, "when Sir Richard is thy ploughman, thou canst knock his cap off."

"Pish! They like high interest, these Christians. I'll let them have it, the other way about."

"Cress, what dost thou mean to do?"

"I mean that he shall pay me every farthing that he owes," said Delecresse through his clenched teeth. "I cannot have it in gold coins, perhaps. It will suit me as well in drops of blood,—either from his veins or from his heart."

"Delecresse, thou shalt not touch the Damsel Margaret, if that be the meaning of those terrible words."

"I am not going to touch her," replied Delecresse, scornfully, "even with the tongs he took to my cap. I would not touch one of the vile insects for all the gold at Norwich!"

"But what dost thou mean?"

"Hold thou thy peace. I was a fool to tell thee."

"What art thou going to do?" persisted Belasez.

"What thou wilt hear when it is done," said Delecresse, walking away.

He left poor Belasez in grief and terror. Some misery, of what sort she could not even guess, was impending over her poor friend Margaret. How was it possible to warn her?—and of what was she to be warned?

A few minutes were spent in reflection, and then Belasez's work was hastily folded, and she went in search of her father. Abraham listened with a perplexed and annoyed face.

"That boy always lets his hands go before his head! But what can I do, daughter? In good sooth, I would not willingly see any injury done to the Christians that have been so kind to thee. Where is Cress?"

"He went into the kitchen," said Belasez. Abraham shuffled off in that direction, in the loose yellow slippers which were one of the recognised signs of a Jew.

"Delecresse is just gone out," he said, coming back directly. "I will talk to him when he comes in."

But twelve days elapsed before Delecresse returned.

"Cress, thou wilt not do anything to Sir Richard of Gloucester?" earnestly pleaded Belasez, when she found him alone.

"No," said Delecresse, with a glitter in his eyes which was not promising.

"Hast thou done any thing?"

"All I mean to do."

"O Cress, what hast thou done?"

"Go to bed!" was the most lucid explanation which all the eager entreaties of Belasez could obtain from her brother.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The feminine singular of the Hebrew word rendered, in the A.V., "creeping things." Dr Edersheim tells us that this flattering term is commonly employed in speaking of a Gentile.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN THE DARK.

"I trust Thee, though I cannot see Thy light upon my pathway shine; However dark, Lord, let it be Thy way, not mine!"

"If it stand with your good liking, may a man have speech of Sir Piers de Rievaulx?"

It was a tall youth who asked the question, and he stood under the porch of a large Gothic house, on the banks of the Thames near Westminster. The night was wet and dark, and it was the second of April 1236.

"And who art thou, that would speak with the knight my master?"

"What I have to say to him is of consequence. Who I may be does not so much matter."

"Well said, my young cockerel! Thou crowest fairly." The porter laughed as he set down the lantern which he had been holding up to the youth's face, and took down a large key from the peg on which it hung. "What shall I say to my master touching thee?"

"Say, if it please you, that one would speak with him that hath important tidings, which closely concern the King's welfare."

"They were rash folks that trusted a slip like thee with important tidings."

"None trusted me."

"Eavesdropping, eh? Well, thou canst keep thine own counsel, lad as thou art. I will come back to thee shortly."

It was nearly half an hour before the porter returned; but the youth never changed his position, as he stood leaning against the side of the porch.

"Come in," said the porter, holding the wicket open. "Sir Piers will see thee. I told him, being sent of none, thou wert like to have no token."

The unknown visitor followed the porter in silence through the paved courtyard, up a flight of stone steps, and into a small chamber, hung with blue. Here, at a table covered with parchments, sat one of King Henry's ministers, Sir Piers de Rievaulx, son of the Bishop of Winchester, the worst living foe of Earl Hubert of Kent. He was on the younger side of middle age, and was only not quite so bad a man as the father from whom he inherited his dark gleaming eyes, lithe quick motions, intense prejudices, and profound artfulness of character.

"Christ save you! Come forward," said Sir Piers. "Shut the door, Oliver, and let none enter till I bid it.—Now, who art thou, and what wouldst thou with me?"

"I am Delecresse, son of Abraham of Norwich."

"Ha! A Jew, of course. Thy face matches thy name. Now, thy news?"

"Will my noble knight be pleased to tell his unworthy servant if he likes the taste of revenge?"

Delecresse despised himself for the words he used. A son of Israel to humble himself thus to one of the Goyim! But it was expedient that the "creeping thing" should be flattered and gratified, in order to induce him to act as a tool.

"Decidedly!" replied Sir Piers, looking fixedly at Delecresse.

"Your Honour hates Sir Hubert of Kent, or I am mistaken?"

"Ha, pure foy! Worse than I hate the Devil."

The Devil was very near to both at that moment.

"If I help you to be revenged on him, will you pay me by giving me my revenge on another?"

Delecresse had dropped alike his respectful words and subservient manner, and spoke up now, as man to man.

"'Turn about is fair play,' I suppose," said Sir Piers. "If thou seek not revenge on any friend of mine, I will."

"I seek it on Sir Richard de Clare, the young Earl of Gloucester."

"He is no friend of mine!" said Sir Piers, between his teeth. "His father married the woman I wanted. I should rather enjoy it than otherwise."

"The Lady his mother yet lives."

"What is that to me? She is an old hag. What do I care for her now?"

Delecresse felt staggered for a moment. Bad as he was in one respect, he was capable of personal attachment as well as of hatred; and Sir Piers' delicate notions of love rather astonished him. But Sir Piers was very far from being the only man who was—or is—incapable of entertaining any others. Delecresse soon recovered himself. He was too anxious to get his work done, to quarrel with his tools. It was gratifying, too, to discover that Sir Piers was not a likely man to be troubled by any romantic scruples about breaking the heart of the young Margaret. Delecresse himself had been unpleasantly haunted by those, and had with some difficulty succeeded in crushing them down and turning the key on them. Belasez's pleading looks, and Margaret's bright, pretty face, persisted in recurring to his memory in a very provoking manner. Sir Piers was evidently the man who would help him to forget them.

"Well!—go on," said the Minister, when Delecresse hesitated.

"I have good reason to believe that Sir Richard is on the point of wedding the Damsel Margaret de Burgh; nay, I am not sure if they are not married clandestinely. Could not this be used as a handle to ruin both of them?"

The two pairs of eyes met, and a smile which was anything but angelic broke over the handsome countenance of Sir Piers.

"Not a bad idea for one so young," he remarked. "Is it thine own?"

"My own," answered Delecresse, shortly.

"I could make some use of thee in the Kings service."

"Thank you," said Delecresse, rather drily. "I do not wish to have more to do with the Devil and his angels than I find necessary."

Sir Piers broke into a laugh. "Neat, that! I suppose I am one of the angels? But I am surprised to hear such a sentiment from a Jew."

Nothing is more inconsistent than sin. In his anxiety to gratify his revenge, Delecresse was enduring patiently at the hands of Sir Piers far worse insults than that over which he had so long brooded from Richard de Clare. He kept silence.

"It really is a pity," observed Sir Piers, complacently surveying Delecresse, "that such budding talent as thine should be cast away upon trade. Thou wouldst make far more money in secret service. It would be easy to change thy name. Keep thy descent quiet, and be ready to eat humble-pie for a short time. There is no saying to what thou mightest rise in this world."

"And the other?" Delecresse felt himself an unfledged cherub by the side of Sir Piers.

"Bah!" Sir Piers snapped his fingers. "What do such as we know about that? There is no other world. If there were, the chances are that both of us would find ourselves very uncomfortable there. We had better stay in this as long as we can."

"As you please, Sir Knight. I am not ready to sell my soul for gold."

"Only for revenge, eh? Well, that's not much better. There are a few scruples about thee, my promising lad, which thou wouldst find it necessary to sacrifice in the service. Some soft-hearted mother or sister, I imagine, hath instilled them into thee. Women are always after some mischief. I wish there were none."

What did Delecresse know of the momentary pang of sensation which had pricked that hard, seared heart, as for one second memory brought before him the loving face of a little child, over whose fair head for thirty years the churchyard daisies had been blooming? Could he hear the tender, pleading voice of the baby sister, begging dear Piers not to hurt her pet kitten, and she would give him all the sweetmeats Aunt Theffania sent her? Such moments do come to the hardest hearts: and they usually leave them harder. Before Delecresse had found an answer, Sir Piers was himself again.

"Thou hast done me a service, boy: and I will take care that thy friend Sir Richard feels the goad as well as my beloved Earl Hubert. Take this piece of gold. Nay, it will not burn thee. 'Tis only earthly metal. Thou wilt not? As thou list. The saints keep thee! Ah,—I forgot! Thou dost not believe in the saints. Bah! no more do I. Only words, lad,—all words. Fare thee well."

A few minutes later Delecresse found himself in the street. He was conscious of a very peculiar and highly uncomfortable mixture of feelings, as if one part of his nature were purely angelic, and the other absolutely diabolical. He felt almost as if he had come direct from a personal interview with Satan, and his spirit had been soiled and degraded by the contact. Yet was he any better than Sir Piers, except in lack of experience and opportunity? He leaned over the parapet as he passed, and watched the dark river flowing silently below.

"I wish I had not done it!" came in muttered accents from his lips at last. "I do almost, really, wish I had not done it!"

And then, as the reader knows, he went home and snubbed his sister.

Abraham could get nothing out of his son except some scornful platitudes concerning the "creeping creatures." Not a shred of information would Delecresse give. He was almost rude to his father—a very high crime in the eyes of a Jew: but it was because he was so intensely dissatisfied with himself.

"O my son, light of mine eyes, what hast thou done!" mournfully ejaculated old Abraham, as he resigned the attempt to influence or reason with Delecresse.

"Done?—made those vile Gentiles wince, I hope!" retorted Licorice. "I hate every man, woman, and child among them. I should like to bake them all in the oven!"

And she shut the door of that culinary locality with a bang. Belasez looked up with saddened eyes, and her mother noticed them.

"Abraham, son of Ursel," she said that night, when she supposed her daughter to be safely asleep in the inner chamber, "when dost thou mean to have this maiden wedded?"

"I do not know, wife. Would next week do?"

Next week was always Abraham's time for doing every thing.

"If thou wilt. The gear has all been ready long ago. There is only the feast to provide."

"Then I suppose I had better speak to Hamon," said Abraham, in the tone of a man who would have been thankful if allowed to let it alone. "It is time, I take it?"

"It is far past the time, husband," said Licorice. "That girl's heart, as I told thee, is gone after the creeping things. Didst thou not see the look in her eyes to-night? Like to like—blood to blood! It made mine boil to behold it."

"Forbid it, God of our fathers!" fervently ejaculated Abraham. "Licorice, dost thou think the child has ever guessed—"

"Hush, husband, lest she should chance to awake. Guessed! No, and she never shall."

Belasez's ears, it is unnecessary to say, were strained to catch every sound. What was she not to guess?

"Art thou sure that Genta knows nothing?"

Genta was the daughter of Abraham's brother Moss.

"Nothing that would do much harm," said Licorice, but in rather a doubtful tone. "Beside, Genta can hold her peace."

"Ay, if she choose. But suppose she did not? She knows, does she not, about—Anegay?"

"Hush! Well, yes—something. But not what would do most mischief."

"What, about her marriage with—"

"Man I do, for pity's sake, give over, or thou wilt blurt all out! Do only think, if the child were to hear! Trust me, she would go back to that wasp's nest to-morrow. No, no! Just listen to me, son of Ursel. Get her safely married before she knows anything. Leo may be relied upon to keep her in safe seclusion: and when she has a husband and half-a-dozen children to tie her down, heart and soul, to us, she will give over pining after the Gentiles."

Belasez was conscious of a rising repugnance, which she had never felt before, to this marriage about to be forced upon her. Not personally to Leo, of whom she knew nothing; but to this tie contemplated for her, which was to be an impassable barrier between her and all her Christian friends.

"Well!" sighed Abraham. He evidently did not like it. "I suppose, then, I must let the Cohen [Note 1] know about it."

"If it be not already too late," responded Licorice, dubiously. "If only this second visit had not happened! There was less harm done the first time, and I do not quite understand it. Some stronger feeling has taken possession of her now. Either her faith is shaken—"

"May the All-Merciful defend us from such horror!"

"Well, it is either that, or there is love in her heart—a deeper love than for the Gentile woman, and the girls of whom she talks. She likes them, I do not doubt; but she would never break her heart after them. There is somebody else, old man, of whom we have not heard; and I counsel thee to try and find out him or her. I am sadly afraid it is him."

"But, Licorice, she has not seen any one. The Lady passed her word that not a soul should come near her."

"Pish! Did the shiksah keep it? Even if she meant to do—and who can trust a Gentile?—was she there, day and night? Did Emendant not tell thee that he saw her at the Coronation?"

"Well, yes, he did," admitted Abraham, with evident reluctance.

"And had she Belasez there, tied to her apron-string, with a bandage over her eyes? Son of Ursel, wilt thou never open thine? Who knows how many young gallants may have chattered to her then? 'When the cat is away—' thou knowest. Not that the shiksah was much of a cat when she was there, I'll be bound. Dost thou not care if the child be stolen from us? And when they have stolen her heart and her soul, they may as well take her body. It won't make much difference then."

"Licorice—"

Belasez listened more intently than ever. There was a world of tender regret in Abraham's voice, and she knew that it was not for Licorice.

"Licorice,"—he said, and stopped.

"Go on," responded her mother sharply, "unless thou wert after some foolery, as is most likely."

"Licorice, hast thou forgotten that Sabbath even, when thou broughtest home—"

"I wish thou wouldst keep thy tongue off names. I have as good a memory as thou, though it is not lined like thine with asses' skin."

"And dost thou remember what thou toldest me that she said to thy reproaches?"

"Well, what then?"

"'What then?' O Licorice!"

"I do wish thou wouldst speak sense!—what art thou driving at?"

"Thou art hard to please, wife. If I speak plainly thou wilt not hear me out, and if I only hint thou chidest me for want of plainness. Well! if thou canst not see 'what then,' never mind. I thought those sorrowful words of my poor child might have touched thy heart. I can assure thee, they did mine, when I heard of them. They have never been out of mine ears since."

It seemed plain to Belasez that her mother was being rebuked for want of motherly tenderness, and, as she doubted not, towards Anegay. This mysterious person, then, must have been a sister of whom she had never heard,—probably much older than herself.

"What a lot of soft down must have been used up to make thine heart!" was the cynical reply of Licorice.

"I cannot help it, Licorice. I have her eyes ever before me—hers, and his. It is of no use scolding me—I cannot help it. And if it be as thou thinkest, I cannot break the child's heart. I shall not speak to Hamon, nor the Cohen."

"Faint-hearted Gentile!" blazed forth Licorice.

"Get it over, wife," said Abraham, quietly. "I will try to find out if thou hast guessed rightly; though it were rather work for thee than me, if—well, I will do my best. But suppose I should find that she has given her maiden heart to some Gentile,—what am I to do then?"

"Do! What did Phinehas the son of Eleazar the priest unto Zimri and Cozbi? Hath not the Blessed One commanded, saying, 'Thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son'? What meanest thou? Do! Couldst thou do too much, even if they were offered upon the altar before the God of Sabaoth?"

"Where is it?" responded Abraham, desolately. "But, Licorice,—our daughter?"

"What dost thou mean?" said Licorice, fiercely. "Perhaps we might shed tears first. But they must not pollute the sacrifice. Do not the holy Rabbins say that a tear dropped upon a devoted lamb washeth out all the merit of the offering?"

"I believe they do," said Abraham; "though it is not in the Thorah. But I did not mean exactly that. Dost thou not understand me?"

"I understand that thou art no true son of Abraham!" burst out his wife. "I say she is, and she shall be!"

"Who ever heard of such reckoning in the days of the fathers?" answered Abraham. "Licorice, I am doubtful if we have done well in keeping back the truth so much. Doth not the Holy One love and require truth in all His people? Yet it was thy doing, not mine."

"Oh yes, thou wouldst have told her at once!" sneered Licorice. "She would stay with us meekly then, would she not? Go to sleep, for mercy's sake, I entreat thee, and hold thy tongue, before any worse mischief be done. My doing! yes, it is well it was. Had I listened to thee, that girl would have been worshipping idols at this moment."

"'Blessed is the man that trusteth in Adonai,'" softly said Abraham. "He could have helped it, I suppose."

"Ay, and happy is that woman that hath a wise man to her husband!" responded Licorice, irreverently. "Go to sleep, for the sake of Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite, or I shall get up and chop thy head off, for thou art not a whit better than Sisera!"

Perhaps Abraham thought it the wisest plan to obey his incensed spouse, for no word of response reached Belasez.

That damsel lay awake for a considerable time. She soon made up her mind to get as much as she could out of her cousin Genta. It was evident that a catechising ordeal awaited her, to the end of discovering a supposed Christian lover; but feeling her conscience quite clear on that count, Belasez was only disturbed at the possible revelation of her change of faith. She could, however, honestly satisfy Abraham that she had not received baptism. But two points puzzled and deeply interested her. How much had she better say about Bruno?—and, what was this mysterious point which they were afraid she might guess—which seemed to have some unaccountable reference to herself? If Anegay were her sister, as she could no longer doubt, why should her conduct in some way reflect upon Belasez? Suppose Anegay had married a Christian—as she thought most likely from the allusions, and which she knew would be in her parents' eyes disgrace of the deepest dye—or even if Anegay had herself become a Christian, which was a shade worse still,—yet what had that to do with Belasez, and why should it make her so anxious to go back to the Christians?

Then, as to Bruno,—Belasez was conscious in her heart that she loved him very dearly, though her affection was utterly unmingled with any thoughts of matrimony. She would have thought old Hamon as eligible for a husband, when he patted her on the head with a patriarchal benediction. It was altogether a friendly and daughterly class of feeling with which she regarded Father Bruno. But would Abraham enter into that? Was it wise to tell him?

Thinking and planning, Belasez fell asleep.

The ordeal did not come off immediately. It seemed to Belasez as if her father would gladly have avoided it altogether; but she was tolerably sure that her mother would not allow him much peace till it was done.

"Delecresse," she said, the first time she was alone with her brother, "had we ever a sister?"

"Never, to my knowledge," said Delecresse, looking as if he wondered what had put that notion into her head.

Evidently he knew nothing.

Genta, who was constantly coming in and out, for her home was in the same short street, dropped in during the evening, and Belasez carried her off to her own little bed-chamber, which was really a goodsized closet, on the pretext of showing her some new embroidery.

"Genta," she said, "tell me when my sister died."

"Thy sister, Belasez?" Genta's expression was one of most innocent perplexity. "Hadst thou ever a sister?"

"Had I not?"

"I never heard of one."

"Think, Genta I was she not called Anegay?"

Genta's shake of the head was decided enough to settle any question, but Belasez fancied she caught a momentary flash in her eyes which was by no means a negation.

But Belasez did not hear a few sentences that were uttered before Genta left the house.

"Aunt Licorice, what has Belasez got in her head?"

"Nay, what has she, Genta?"

"I am sure some one has been telling her something. She has asked me to-night if she had not once a sister, and if her name were not Anegay."

The exclamation in reply was more forcible than elegant. But that night, as Belasez lay in bed, through half-closed eyes she saw her mother enter and hold the lantern to her face. I am sorry to add that Belasez instantly counterfeited profound sleep; and Licorice retired with apparent satisfaction.

"Husband!" she heard her mother say, a few minutes later, "either some son of a Philistine has told that child something, or she has overheard our words."

"What makes thee think so?" Abraham's tone was one of great distress, if not terror.

"She has been asking questions of Genta. But she has got hold of the wrong pattern—she fancies Anegay was her sister."

"Does she?" replied Abraham, in a tone of sorrowful tenderness.

"There's less harm in her thinking that, than if she knew the truth. Genta showed great good sense: she professed to know nothing at all about it."

"Dissimulation again, Licorice!" came, with a heavy sigh, from Abraham.

"Hold thy tongue! Where should we be without it?"

Abraham made no answer. But early on the following morning he summoned Belasez to the little porch-chamber, and she went with her heart beating.

As she suspected, the catechism was now to be gone through. But poor Abraham was the more timid of the two. He was so evidently unwilling to speak, and so regretfully tender, that Belasez's heart warmed, and she lost all her shyness. Of course, she told him more than she otherwise would have done.

Belasez denied the existence of any Christian lover, or indeed of any lover at all, with such clear, honest eyes, that Abraham could not but believe her. But, he urged, had she ever seen any man in the Castle, to speak to him?

"Yes," said Belasez frankly. "Not while the Lady was there. But during her absence, Sir Richard de Clare had been three times in the bower, and the priests had given lessons to the damsels in the ante-chamber."

"Did any of these ever speak to thee?"

"Sir Richard never spoke to me but twice, further than to say 'Good morrow.' Once he admired a pattern I was working, and once he asked me, when I came in from the leads, if it were raining."

"Didst thou care for him, my daughter?"

"Not in the least," said Belasez, "nor he for me. I rather think Damsel Margaret was his attraction." Her father seemed satisfied on that point. "And these priests? How many were there?" Belasez told him. "Master Aristoteles the physician, and Father Nicholas, and Father Warner, chaplains of my Lord the Earl; and the chaplain of the Lady."

She hardly knew what instinct made her unwilling to utter Father Bruno's name; and, most unintentionally, she blushed.

"Oh!" said Abraham to himself, "the Lady's chaplain is the dangerous person.—Are they old men, my child?"

"None of them is either very old or very young, Father."

"Describe them to me, I pray thee."

"Master Aristoteles I cannot describe, for I have only heard his voice. Father Nicholas is about fifty, I should think: a kindly sort of man, but immersed in his books, and caring for little beside. Father Warner is not pleasant; all the girls were very much afraid of him."

"And the chaplain of the Lady?"

"He is forty or more, I should suppose: tall and slender, eyes and hair dark; a very pleasant man to speak with."

"I am afraid so!" was Abraham's internal comment.—"And his name, daughter?"

"Father Bruno."

"What?" Abraham had risen, with outspread hands, as though he would fain push away some unwelcome and horrible thing.

Belasez repeated the name.

"Bruno!—de Malpas?"

"I never heard of any name but Bruno."

"Has he talked with thee?" Abraham's whole manner showed agitation.

"Much."

"Upon what subjects?"

Belasez would gladly have avoided that question.

"Different subjects," she said, evasively.

"Tell me what he said when he first met thee."

"He seemed much distressed, I knew not at what, and murmured that my face painfully reminded him of somebody."

"Ah!—Belasez, didst thou know whom?"

"Not till I came home," she said in a low tone.

"Ay de mi! What hast thou heard since thy coming home?"

Belasez resolved to speak the truth. She had been struck by her father's hints that some terrible mischief had come from not speaking it; and she thought that perhaps open confession on her part might lead to confidence on his.

"I overheard you and my mother talking at night," she said. "I gathered that the somebody whom I was like was my sister, and that her name was Anegay; and I thought she had either become a Christian, or had wedded a Christian. Father, may I know?"

"My little Belasez," he said, with deep feeling, "thou knowest all but the one thing thou must not know. There was one called Anegay. But she was not thy sister. Let the rest be silence to thee."

It seemed to cost Abraham immense pain to say even so much as this. He sat quiet for a moment, his face working pitifully.

"Little Belasez," he said again, "didst thou like that man?"

"I think I loved him," was her soft answer.

Abraham's gesture, which she thought indicated despair and anguish, roused her to explain.

"Father," she said hastily, "I do not mean anything wrong or foolish. I loved Father Bruno with a deep, reverential love—such as I give you."

"Such as thou givest me—O Belasez!"

Belasez thought he was hurt by her comparison of her love for him to that of her love for a mere stranger.

"Father, how shall I explain? I meant—"

"My poor child, I need no explanation. Thou hast been more righteous than we. Belasez, the truth is hidden from thee because thou art too near it to behold it. My poor, poor child!" And suddenly rising, Abraham lifted up his arms in the attitude of prayer. "O Thou that doest wonders, Thou hast made the wrath of man to praise Thee. How unsearchable are Thy judgments, and Thy ways past finding out!" Then he laid his hand upon Belasez's head.

"It is Adonai," he said. "Let Him do what seemeth Him good. He said unto Shimei, Curse David. Methinks He hath said to thee, Love Bruno. The Holy One forbid that I should grudge the love of—of our child, to the desolate heart which we made desolate. Adonai knows, and He only, whether we did good or bad. Pray to Him, my Belasez, to forgive that one among us who truly needs His forgiveness!"

And Abraham hurried from the room, as if he were afraid to trust himself, lest if he stayed he should say something which he might afterwards regret bitterly.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Priest. All Jews named Cohen are sons of Aaron.



CHAPTER NINE.

PAYING THE BILL.

"'Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow, Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow."

Leigh Hunt.

Father Bruno was walking slowly, with his hands one in the other behind him, about a mile from Bury Castle. It was a lovely morning in April, and, though alone, he had no fear of highwaymen; for he would have been a bold sinner indeed who, in 1236, meddled with a priest for his harm. An absent-minded man was Father Bruno, at all times when he was free to indulge in meditation. For to him:—

"The future was all dark, And the past a troubled sea, And Memory sat in his heart Wailing where Hope should be."

He was given to murmuring his thoughts half aloud when in solitude; and he was doing it now. They oscillated from one to the other of two subjects, closely associated in his mind. One was Belasez: the other was a memory of his sorrowful past, a fair girl-face, the likeness to which had struck him so distressingly in hers, and which would never fade from his memory "till God's love set her at his side again."

"What will become of the maiden?" he whispered to himself. "So like, so like!—just what my Beatrice might have been, if—nay, Thou art wise, O Lord! It is I who am blind and ignorant. Ay, and just the same age! She must be the infant of whom Licorice spoke: she was then in the cradle, I remember. She said that if Beatrice had lived, they might have been like twin sisters. Well, well! Ay, and it is well. For Anegay has found her in Heaven, safe from sin and sorrow, from tempest and temptation, with Christ for evermore.

"'O mea, spes mea, O Syon aurea, ut clarior oro!'

"And what does it matter for me, during these few and evil days that are left of this lower life? True, the wilderness is painful: but it will be over soon. True, my spirit is worn and weary: but the rest of the New Jerusalem will soon restore me. True, I am weak, poor, blind, ignorant, lonely, sorrowful: but my Lord is strength, wealth, light, wisdom, love, and joyfulness. Never canst thou be loveless, Bruno de Malpas, while the deathless love of Christ endureth; never canst thou be lonely and forlorn, whilst thou hast His company who is the sunlight of Heaven. Perhaps it would not have been good for me, had my beloved stayed with me. Nay, since He saw it good, it can be no perhaps, but a certainty. I suppose I should have valued Him less, had my jewel-casket remained full. Ay, Thou hast done well, my Lord! Pardon Thy servant if at times the journey grows very weary to his weak human feet, and he longs for a draught of the sweet waters of earthly love which Thou hast permitted to dry up. Grant him fresh draughts of that Living Water whereof he that drinketh shall thirst no more. Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe!

"Was I right in refusing to baptise the maiden? Verily, it would have been rich revenge on Licorice. I had no right, as I told her, to suffer the innocence of her chrism to be soiled with the evil passions which were sin in me. Yet had I any right to deny her the grace of holy baptism, because I was not free from evil passions? Oh, how hard it is to find the straight road!

"Poor little maiden! What will become of her now? I fear the impressions that have been made on her will soon be stifled in the poisonous atmosphere into which she is gone. And I cannot bear to think of her as a lost soul, with that face so like my Anegay, and that voice—

"Now, shame upon thee, Bruno de Malpas! Is Belasez more to thee than to Him that died for her? Canst thou not trust Him who giveth unto His sheep eternal life, not to allow this white lamb to be plucked out of His hand? O Lord, increase my faith!—for it is very low. I am one of the very weakest of Thy disciples. Yet I am Thine. Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!"

During the time occupied by these reflections, Bruno had been instinctively approaching the Castle, and he looked up suddenly as he was conscious of a clang of arms and a confused medley of voices, not in very peaceful tones, breaking in upon his meditations. He now perceived that the drawbridge was thronged with armed men, the portcullis drawn up, and the courtyard beyond full of soldiers in mail.

"What is the matter, friend William?" asked Bruno of the porter at the outer gate.

"Nay, the saints wot, good Father, not I: but of this am I very sure, that some mischance is come to my Lord. You were a wise man if you kept away."

"Not so," was Bruno's answer, as he passed on: "it is the hireling, not the shepherd, that fleeth from the wolf, and leaveth the sheep to be scattered."

He made his way easily into the hall, for no one thought of staying a priest. The lower end was thronged with soldiers. On the dais stood Sir Piers de Rievaulx and half-a-dozen more, confronting Earl Hubert, who wore an expression of baffled amazement. Just behind him stood the Countess, evidently possessed by fear and anguish; Sir John de Burgh, with his hand upon his sword; Doucebelle, very white and frightened; and furthest in the background, Sir Richard de Clare, who clasped in his arms the fainting form of Margaret, and bent his head over her with a look of agonised tenderness.

"Words are fine things, my Lord of Kent," was the first sentence distinguishable to Father Bruno, and the spokesman was Sir Piers. "But I beg you to remember that it is of no earthly use talking to me in this strain. If you can succeed in convincing my Lord the King that you had no hand in this business, well!"—and Sir Piers' shoulders went up towards his ears, in a manner which indicated that result to be far from what he expected. "But those two young fools don't attempt to deny it, and their faces would give them the lie if they did. As for my Lady—"

The Countess sprang forward and threw herself on her knees, clinging to the arm of her husband, while she passionately addressed herself to both.

"Sir Piers, on my life and honour, my Lord knew nothing of this! It was done while he was away with the Lord King at Merton.—It was my doing, my Lord, mine! And it is true, what Sir Piers tells you. My daughter has gone too far with Sir Richard de Clare, ever to be married to another." [Note 1.]

Sir Piers stood listening with a rather amused set of the lips, as if he thought the scene very effective. To him, the human agony before his eyes was no more than a play enacted for his entertainment. Of course it was in the way of business; but Sir Piers' principle was to get as much diversion out of his business as he could.

"Very good indeed, Lady," said that worthy Minister. "Your confession may spare you some annoyance. But as to your Lord, it will do nothing. You hardly expect us to swallow this pretty little fiction, I suppose? If you do, I beg you will undeceive yourself.—Officers, do your duty." The officers had evidently received previous instructions, for they at once laid their hands on the shoulders of Earl Hubert and Sir Richard. The half-insensible Margaret was roused into life by the attempt to take her bridegroom from her. With a cry that might have touched any heart but that of Sir Piers de Rievaulx, she flung her arms around him and held him close.

Apparently the officers were touched, for they stopped and looked at their chief for further orders.

"Coward loons as ye are!—are ye frightened of a girl?" said Sir Piers with a harsh laugh, and he came forward himself. "Lady Margaret, there is no need to injure you unless you choose. Please yourself. I am going to arrest this young knight."

But for one second, Sir Piers waited himself. Those around mistook it for that knightly courtesy of which there was none in him. They did not know that suddenly, to him, out of Margaret's pleading eyes looked the eyes of the dead sister, Serena de Rievaulx, and it seemed to him as though soft child-fingers held him off for an instant. He had never loved any mortal thing but that dead child.

With one passionate, pleading gaze at Sir Piers, Margaret laid her head on the breast of Sir Richard, and sobbed as though her heart were breaking.

"My Lord, my Lord!" came, painfully mixed with long-drawn sobs, from the lips of the young bride. "My own, own Richard! And only two months since we were married!—Have you the heart to part us?" she cried, suddenly turning to Sir Piers. "Did you never love any one?"

"Never, Madam." For once in his life, Sir Piers spoke truth, Never— except Serena: and not much then.

"Brute!" And with this calumnious epithet—for brutes can love dearly— Margaret resumed her former attitude.

"Lady Margaret, I must trouble you," said Sir Piers, in tones of hardness veneered with civility.

"My darling, you must let me go," interposed the young Earl of Gloucester, who seemed scarcely less miserable than his bride.

"Magot, my child, we may not stay justice," said the distressed tones of her father.

Yet she held tight until Sir Piers tore her away.

"Look to the damsel," he condescended to say, with a glance at Doucebelle and Bruno. "Oh, ha!—where is the priest that blessed this wedding? I must have him."

"There was no priest," sobbed the Countess, lifting her head from her husband's arm, where she had let it sink: "it was per verba depresenti."

"That we will see," was the cool response of Sir Piers. "Take all the priests, Sir Drew.—Now, my Lady!"

"Fare thee well, my jewel," said Earl Hubert, kissing the brow of the Countess. "Poor little Magot!—farewell, too."

"Sir Hubert, my Lord, forgive me! I meant no ill."

"Forgive thee?" said the Earl, with a smile, and again kissing his wife's brow. "I could not do otherwise, my Margaret.—Now, Sir Piers, we are your prisoners."

"These little amenities being disposed of," sneered Sir Piers. "I suppose women must cry over something:—kind, I should think, to give them something to cry about.—March out the prisoners."

Father Nicholas had been discovered in his study, engaged in the deepest meditation on a grammatical crux; and had received the news of his arrest with a blank horror and amazement very laughable in the eyes of Sir Piers. Master Aristoteles was pounding rhubarb with his sleeves turned up, and required some convincing that he was not wanted professionally. Father Warner was no where to be found. The three priests were spared fetters in consideration of their sacred character: both the Earls were heavily ironed. And so the armed band, with their prisoners, marched away from the Castle.

The feelings of the prisoners were diverse. Father Nicholas was simply astonished beyond any power of words to convey. Master Aristoteles was convinced that the recent physical disturbances in the atmosphere were more than enough to account for the whole affair. Earl Hubert felt sure that his old enemy, the Bishop of Winchester, was at the bottom of it. Earl Richard was disposed to think the same Father Bruno alone looked upwards, and saw God.

But assuredly no one of them saw the moving cause in that tall, stern, silent Jewish youth, and the last idea that ever entered the mind of Richard de Clare was to associate this great grief of his life with the boyish trick he had played on Delecresse two years before.

For the great grief of Richard's life this sorrow was. Through the six-and-twenty years which remained of his mortal span, he never forgot it, and he never forgave it.

It proved the easiest thing in the world to convince King Henry that he had not intended Richard to marry Margaret. Had his dearly-beloved uncle, the Bishop of Valentia, held up before him a black cloth, and said, "This is white," His Majesty would merely have wondered what could be the matter with his eyes.

The next point was to persuade that royal and most deceivable individual that he had entertained an earnest desire to see Richard married to a Princess of Savoy, a cousin of the Queen. This, also, was not difficult. The third lesson instilled into him was that, Richard having thought proper to render this impossible by choosing for himself, he, King Henry, was a cruelly-injured and unpardonably insulted man. His Majesty swallowed them all as glibly as possible. The metal being thus fused to the proper state, the prisoners were brought before their affronted Sovereign in person.

They were tried in inverse order, according to importance. Father Bruno could prove, without much difficulty, that the obnoxious marriage had taken place, on the showing of the prosecution itself, before he had entered the household. His penalty was the light one of discharge from the Countess's service. That he deserved no penalty at all was not taken into consideration. The Crown could not so far err as to bring a charge against an entirely innocent man. The verdict, therefore, in Father Bruno's case resembled that of the famous jury who returned as theirs, "Not Guilty, but we hope he won't do it again."

Master Aristoteles was next placed in the dock, and had the honour of amusing the Court. His asseverations of innocent ignorance were so mixed up with dissertations on the virtues of savin and betony, and lamenting references to the last eclipse which might have warned him of what was coming on him, that the Court condescended to relax into a smile, and let the simple man go with the light sentence of six months' imprisonment. At a subsequent period in his life, Master Aristoteles was wont to say that this sentence was the best thing that ever happened to him, since the enforced meditation and idleness had enabled him to think out his grand discovery that the dust which gathered on beams of chestnut wood was an infallible specific for fever. He had since treated three fever patients in this manner, and not one of them had died. Whether the patients would have recovered without the dust, and with being so much let alone, Master Aristoteles did not concern himself.

Next came Father Nicholas. A light sentence also sufficed for him, not on account of his innocence, but because his friend the Abbot of Ham was a friend of the Bishop of Winchester.

Earl Hubert of Kent was then tried. The animus of his accusers was plainly shown, for they brought up again all the old hackneyed charges on account of which he had been pardoned years before—for some of them more than once. The affront offered to the King by the Earl's marriage with Margaret of Scotland, the fact that she and his third wife were within the forbidden degrees, and that no dispensation had been obtained; these were renewed, with all the other disproved and spiteful accusations of old time. But the head and front of the offending, in this instance, was of course the marriage of his daughter. It did not make much difference that Hubert calmly swore that he had never known of the marriage, either before or after, except what he had learned from the simple statement of the Countess his wife, to the effect that it had been contracted at Bury Saint Edmund's, during his absence at Merton. The fervent intercession of Hubert's friends, moved by the passionate entreaties of the Countess, did not make much difference either; but what did make a good deal was that the Earl (who knew his royal master) offered a heavy golden bribe for pardon of the crime he had not committed. King Henry thereupon condescended to announce that in consideration of the effect produced upon his compassionate heart by the piteous intercession of the prisoner's friends,—

"His fury should abate, and he The crowns would take."

Earl Hubert therefore received a most gracious pardon, and was permitted to return (minus the money) to the bosom of his distracted family.

But the heaviest vengeance fell on the young head of Richard de Clare, and through him on the fair girl with the cedar hair, whose worst crime was that she had loved him. It was not vengeance that could be weighed like Hubert's coins, or told on the clock like the imprisonment of his physician. It was counted out, throb by throb, in the agony of two human hearts, one fiercely stabbed and artificially healed, and the other left to bleed to death like a wounded doe.

The King's first step was to procure a solemn Papal sentence of divorce between Richard and Margaret. Their consent, of course, was neither asked nor thought needful. His Majesty's advisers allowed him—and Richard—a little rest then, before they thought it necessary to do any thing more.

The result of the trial was to leave Father Bruno homeless. He returned to his monastery at Lincoln, and sought the leave of his Superior to be transferred to the Convent of the Order at Norwich. His heart still yearned over Belasez, with a tenderness which was half of Heaven and half of earth. Yet he knew that in all probability he would never find it possible to cross her path. Well! let him do what he could, and leave the rest with God. If He meant them to meet, meet they must, though Satan and all his angels combined to bar the way.

"Wife!"

"May thy beard be shaven! I was just dropping off. Well?"

It had taken Abraham a long while to summon up his courage to make what he felt would be to Licorice an unwelcome communication. He was rather dismayed to find it so badly received at the first step.

"Do go on, thou weariest of old jackdaws! I'm half asleep."

"I have spoken to the child, Licorice."

"As if thou couldst not have said that half an hour ago! Well, how do matters stand?"

"There is one person in particular whom she is sorry to leave."

"Of course there is! I saw that as plain as the barber's pole across the street. Didn't I tell thee so? Is it some young Christian gallant, and who is he? Blessed be the memory of Abraham our father!—why did we ever let that girl go to Bury?"

"It is not as thou art fearing, wife. But—it is worse."

"Worse!" Licorice seemed wide awake enough now. "Why, what could there be worse, unless she had married a Christian, or had abjured her faith?"

"Wife, this is worse. She has seen—him."

"De Malpas?" The name was almost hissed from the lips of Licorice.

"The same. It was to be, Licorice. Adonai knows why! But it is evident they were fated to meet."

"What did the viper tell her?"

"I do not gather that he told her any thing, except that she brought a face to his memory that he had known of old. She fancies—and so of course does he—that it was her sister."

A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez's blood curdle as she lay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than the angel.

"What an ass he must be, never to guess the truth!"

"She wants to know the truth, wife. She asked me if she might not."

"Thou let it alone. I'll cook up a nice little story, that will set her mind at rest."

"O Licorice!—more deception yet?"

"Deception! Why, wouldst thou tell her the truth? Just go to her now, and wake her, and let her know that she is—"

Belasez strained her ears to their utmost, but the words which followed could not be heard from her mother's dropped tones.

"What would follow—eh?" demanded Licorice, raising her voice again.

"Adonai knows!" said Abraham, sadly. "But I suppose we could not keep her long."

"I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what he and his catch-polls will say. Wouldn't there be a pretty ferment? Old man, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talking about lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I'll let thee know when I think there's any danger of it), and show a little spice of prudence, like a craftsman of middle earth as thou art. More deception! Of course there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide to begin with, it he does not want to be carried down it."

"The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that she either became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thing more."

"Who told her Anegay's name?"

"I cannot imagine. It might be Bruno."

"We have always been so careful to keep it from her hearing."

There was a pause.

"Didst thou find the Christian dog had tampered with her faith?"

"I don't know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her."

"Then he has, no doubt. I'll get it out of her."

Belasez trembled at the threat.

"Any thing more, old man? If not, I'll go to sleep again."

"Licorice," said Abraham in a low voice, "the child said she loved him— as she loves me."

"May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to them both?"

"It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not know why."

"Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!"

"I doubt if it do," was Abraham's dry answer.

"Such a rabbit as thou art!—as frightened as a hare, and as soft as a bag of duck's down. I'm going to sleep."

And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, with that uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen, with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It gradually dawned upon her that Licorice was going to "get it out of her," and was likewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She had not heard two sentences which passed between her parents before she woke, or she might have been still more on her guard.

"Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I told her that Anegay was not her sister."

"Just what might have been expected of thee, my paragon of wisdom! Well, never mind. I'll tell her she was her aunt. That will do as well."

When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were duly completed, Licorice made Belasez's heart flutter by a command to attend her in the little porch-chamber.

"Belasez," she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantly have suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing,—for Licorice's character was well known to her—"Belasez, I hear from thy father that thou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was a kinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thou shalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from thee further than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and I have not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abraham thy father, and therefore thine aunt."

Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father's sister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed that Abraham's references to the dead girl were made with far more indication of love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that this might be due to the existence of relationship on his part and not on hers. She now concluded that it was simply a question of character. But who Anegay was, was a point left as much in the dark as ever.

"She was a great friend of mine, daughter, and I loved her very dearly," said Licorice, applying one hand to her perfectly dry eyes—a proceeding which imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her were generally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impression that she had hated her. "And at that time thy father dwelt at Lincoln— it was before we were married, thou knowest—and Anegay, being an only and motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. I cannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, but Anegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name was Beatrice—"

A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feel especially doubtful of the truth of this part of the story.

"And who had a brother," pursued Licorice, "a young Christian squire, but as thou shalt hear, a most wicked and artful man."

Belasez at once set down the unknown squire as a model of all the cardinal virtues.

"Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practise the Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over all unfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within their influence."

There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more charges brought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believed similar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at Bury Castle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken and uprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction that Jews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of the same stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found in both camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom she chose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidence or communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in such different moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any. Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was wholly uncultivated, and whose imagination all ran into cunning and deceit. Belasez was an article of much finer quality, both mentally and morally. The only person in her own family with whom she could exchange thought or feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came the nearest to it.

It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to have so little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold herself into more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheer impossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognition that it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her own fault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness of heart.

"It seems to me," continued Licorice, "that this bad young man, whose name was De Malpas, must have cast a spell on our poor, unhappy Anegay. For how else could a daughter of Israel come to love so vile an insect as one of the accursed Goyim?

"For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it was to all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of a marriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resource was to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forget all about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant of the Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy father were wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay with us."

Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: but how much of it was true? "And did she forget him, Mother?"

"Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty." Belasez privately thought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a duty as this would be extremely hard to do.

"Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?"

"She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and died soon after the birth of her first child," said Licorice, glibly. "And was she really happy, Mother?"

"Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else."

Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced.

"Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits to Bury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to be trusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities avail thee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom a Christian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years she could not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do not mistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee."

And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of the interview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religious question for another time.

"May I ask one other question, Mother?—what became of the maiden Beatrice and her brother?"

Licorice's eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on the principle of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where the road did not lead.

"The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not know what became of the maiden."

Licorice disappeared.

"The squire was not killed, I am sure," said Belasez to herself. "It is Father Bruno."

Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay was not her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno was sure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him was only too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the very existence of Beatrice, were in Belasez's eyes purely fictitious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted the latter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to that gleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she was launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction. Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were not a real person.

But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that something was left behind which had not been told her?

Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment after, she sprang to a sitting posture.

Yes, there was something behind!

What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story? Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,—which Licorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?

There was not much sleep for Belasez that night.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took the whole blame upon herself.



CHAPTER TEN.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

"Guardami ben'! Ben' son', ben' son' Beatrice."

Dante.

"Well, now, this is provoking!"

"What is the matter, wife?" And Abraham looked up from a bale of silk which he was packing.

"Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul but me to go and nurse her."

"There is Esterote, her brother's wife."

"There isn't! Esterote has her baby to look to. Dost thou expect her to carry infection to him?"

"What is to be done?" demanded Abraham, blankly. "Could not Pucella be had, or old Cuntessa?"

"Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich usurer, and Pucella would be no good,—she's as frightened of the fever as a chicken, and she has never had it."

"Well, thou hast had it."

"I? Oh, I'm not frightened a bit—not of that. I am tremendously afraid of thee."

"Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it."

"Ay de mi, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art."

"Bats don't tear their garments, wife."

"They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou."

"Wife, dost thou not think we might speak out honestly like true men, and trust the All-Merciful with the child's future?"

"Well, if ever I did see a lame, wall-eyed, broken-kneed old pack-ass, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!"

And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an attitude of pitying astonishment.

"I do believe, thou moon-cast shadow of a man, if Bruno de Malpas were to walk in and ask for her, thou wouldst just say, 'Here she is, O my Lord: do what thou wilt with thy slave.'"

"I think, Licorice, it would break my heart. But we have let him break his for eighteen years. And if it came to breaking hers—What wicked thing did he do, wife, that we should have used him thus?"

"What! canst thou ask me? Did he not presume to lay unclean hands on a daughter of Israel, of whom saith the Holy One, 'Ye shall not give her unto the heathen'?"

"I do not think De Malpas was a heathen."

"Hast thou been to the creeping thing up yonder and begged to be baptised to-morrow?"

This was a complimentary allusion to that Right Reverend person, the Bishop of Norwich.

"Nay, Licorice, I am as true to the faith as thou."

"Ay de mi! I must have put on my gown wrong side out, to make thee say so." And Licorice pretended to make a close examination of her skirt, as if to discover whether this was the case.

"Licorice, is it not written, 'Cursed be their wrath, for it was cruel?' Thine was, wife."

"Whatever has come to thy conscience? It quietly went to sleep for eighteen years; and now, all at once, it comes alive and awake!"

Abraham winced, as though he felt the taunt true.

"'Better late than never,' wife."

"That is a Christian saying."

"May be. It is true."

"Well!" And Licorice's hands were thrust out from her, as if she were casting off drops of water. "I've done my best. I shall let it alone now. Genta must be nursed: and I cannot bring infection home. And after all, the girl is thine, not mine. Thou must take thine own way. But I shall bid her good-bye for ever: for I have no hope of seeing her again."

Abraham made no answer, unless his troubled eyes and quivering lips did so for him. But the night closed in upon a very quiet chamber, owing to the absence of Licorice. Delecresse sat studying, with a book open before him: Belasez was busied with embroidery. Abraham was idle, so far as his hands were concerned; but any one who had studied him for a minute would have seen that his thoughts were very active, and by no means pleasant.

Ten calm days passed over, and nothing happened. They heard, through neighbours, that Genta was going through all the phases of a tedious illness, and that Licorice was a most attentive and valuable nurse.

At the end of those ten days, Delecresse came in with an order for some of the exquisite broidery which only Belasez could execute. It was wanted for the rich usurer's wife, Rosia: and she wished Belasez to come to her with specimens of various patterns, so that she might select the one she preferred.

A walk through the city was an agreeable and unusual break in the monotony of existence; and Rosia's house was quite at the other end of the Jews' quarter. Belasez prepared to go out with much alacrity. Her father escorted her himself, leaving Delecresse to mind the shop.

The embroidery was exhibited, the pattern chosen, and they were nearly half-way at home, when they were overtaken by a sudden hailstorm, and took refuge in the lych-gate of a church. It was growing dusk, and they had not perceived the presence of a third person,—like themselves, a refugee from the storm.

"This is heavy!" said Abraham, as the hailstones came pouring and dancing down.

"I am afraid we shall not get home till late," was the response of his daughter.

"No, not till late," said Abraham, absently.

"Belasez!" came softly from behind her.

She turned round quickly, her hands held out in greeting, her eyes sparkling, delight written on every feature of her face.

"Father Bruno! I never knew you were in Norwich."

"I have not been here long, my child. I wondered if we should ever meet."

Ah, little idea had Belasez how that meeting had been imagined, longed for, prayed for, through all those weary weeks. She glanced at her father, suddenly remembering that her warm welcome to the Christian priest was not likely to be much approved by him. Bruno's eyes followed hers.

"Abraham!" he said, in tones which sounded like a mixture of friendship and deprecation.

Abraham had bent down as though he were cowering from an expected blow. Now he lifted himself up, and held out his hand.

"Bruno de Malpas, thou art welcome, if God hath sent thee."

"God sends all events," answered the priest, accepting the offered hand.

"Ay, I am trying to learn that," replied Abraham, in a voice of great pain. "For at times He sends that which breaks the heart."

"That He may heal it, my father."

The title, from Bruno's lips, surprised and puzzled Belasez.

"It may be so," said Abraham in a rather hopeless tone. "'It is Adonai; let Him do what seemeth Him good.' So thou hast made friends with—my Belasez."

"I did not know she was thine when I made friends with her," said Bruno, with that quiet smile of his which had always seemed to Belasez at once so sweet and so sad.

"'Did not know'? No, I suppose not. Ah, yes, yes! 'Did not know'!"

"Does this child know my history?" was Bruno's next question.

"She knows," said Abraham in a troubled voice, "nearly as much as thou knowest."

"Then she knows all?"

"Nay, she knows nothing."

"You speak in riddles, my father."

"My son, I am about to do that which will break my heart. Nay,—God is about to do it. Let me put it thus, or I shall not know how to bear it."

"I have no wish nor intention to trouble you, my father," said Bruno hastily. "If I might, now and then, see this child,—to tell truth, it would be a great pleasure and solace to me: for I have learned to love her,—just the years of my Beatrice, just what Beatrice might have grown to be. Yet—if I speak I must speak honestly—give me leave to see Belasez, only on the understanding that I may speak to her of Christ. She is dear as any thing in this dreary world, but He is dearer than the world and all that is in it. If I may not do this, let me say farewell, and see her no more."

"Thou hast spoken to her—of the Nazarene?" asked Abraham in a low tone.

"I have," was Bruno's frank reply.

"Thou hast taught her the Christian faith?"

"So far as I could do it."

Belasez stood trembling. Yet Abraham did not seem angry.

"Thou hast baptised her, perhaps?"

"No. That I have not."

"Not?—why not?"

"She was fit for it in my eyes; and—may I say it, Belasez?—she was willing. But my hands were not clean enough. I felt that I could not repress a sensation of triumphing over Licorice, if I baptised her daughter. May the Lord forgive me if I erred, but I did not dare to do it."

"O my son, my son!" broke from Abraham. "Thou hast been more righteous than I. Come home with me, and tell the story to Belasez thyself; and then—Adonai, Thou knowest. Help me to do Thy will!"

Bruno was evidently much astonished, and not a little perplexed at Abraham's speech; but he followed him quietly. The storm was over now, and they gained home and the chamber over the porch without coming in contact with Delecresse. Abraham left Bruno there, while he desired Belasez to take off her wet things and rejoin them. Meantime he changed his coat, and carried up wine and cake to his guest. But when Belasez reappeared, Abraham drew the bolt, and closed the inner baize door which shut out all sound.

"Now, Bruno de Malpas," he said, "tell thy story."

And sitting down at the table, he laid his arms on it, and hid his face upon it.

"But, my father, dost thou wish her to hear it?"

"The Blessed One does, I believe. She has heard as yet but a garbled version. I wish what He wishes."

"Amen!" ejaculated Bruno. And he turned to Belasez.

She, on her part, felt too much astonished for words. If any thing could surprise her more than that Bruno should be actually invited to tell the tapued story, it was the calm way in which Abraham received the intimation that she had all but professed Christianity. Mortal anger and scathing contempt she could have understood and expected; but this was utterly beyond her.

"Belasez," said Bruno, "years ago, before thou wert born, thy father had another daughter, and her name was Anegay."

"Father! you said Anegay was not my sister!" came in surprised accents from Belasez. But a choking sob was the only answer from Abraham.

"She was not the daughter of thy mother, Belasez; but of thy father's first wife, whose name was Fiona. Perhaps he meant that. She was twenty years older than thou. And—I need not make my tale long—we met, Belasez, and we loved each other. I told her of Christ, and she became a Christian, and received holy baptism at my hands. By that time thy father had wedded thy mother. As thou knowest, she is a staunch Jewess; and though she did not by any means discover all, she did find that Anegay had Christian friends, and forbade her to see them again. Time went on, and we could scarcely ever meet, and Anegay was not very happy. At length, one night, a ring was brought to me which was her usual token, praying me to meet her quickly at the house of Isabel de Fulshaw, where we had usually met before. I went, and found her weeping as though her heart would break. She told me that Licorice had been— not very gentle with her, and had threatened to turn her out of the house the next morning unless she would trample on the cross, as a sign that she abjured all her Christian friends and Christ. That, she said, she could not do. 'I could tread on the piece of wood,' she said, 'and that would be nothing: but my mother means it for a sign of abjuring Christ.' And she earnestly implored me to get her into some nunnery, where she might be safe. Perhaps I ought to have done that. But I offered her another choice of safety. And the next morning, as soon as the canonical hours had dawned, Anegay was my wife."

Abraham spoke here, but without lifting his head. "I was on a journey, Belasez," he said. "I never persecuted my darling—never!"

"No, Belasez," echoed Bruno; "he never did. I believe he was bitterly grieved at her becoming a Christian, but he had no hand in her sufferings at that time. A year or more went on, and the Lord gave us a baby daughter. I baptised her by the name of Beatrice, which was also the name that her mother had received in baptism. She was nearly a month old, when a message came to me from the Bishop, requiring me to come to him, which involved a journey, there and back, of about a week. I went: and I returned—to find my home desolate. Wife, child—even the maid-servant,—all were gone. An old woman, who dwelt in my parish, was in the house, but she could tell me nothing save that a message had come to her from Frethesind the maid, begging her to come and take charge of the house until my return, but not giving a word of explanation. I could think of no place to which my wife would be likely to go, unless her mother had been there, and had either forced or over-persuaded her to return with her. I hurried to Norwich with as much speed as possible. To my surprise, Licorice received me with apparent kindliness, and inquired after Anegay as though no quarrel had ever existed."

Belasez thought, with momentary amusement, that Bruno was not so well acquainted with Licorice as herself.

"I asked in great distress if Anegay were not with her. Licorice assured me she knew nothing of her. 'Then you did not fetch her away?' said I. 'How could I?' she answered. 'I have a baby in the cradle only five weeks old.' Well, I could not tell what to think; her words and looks were those of truth. She was apparently as kind as possible. She showed me her baby—thyself, Belasez; and encouraged me to play with Delecresse, who was then a lively child of three years. I came away, baffled, yet unsatisfied. I should have been better pleased had I seen thy father. But he, I was told, was again absent on one of his business journeys."

"True," was the one word interpolated by Abraham, "I went to the house of my friend, Walcheline de Fulshaw. He was an apothecary. I told my story to him and to Isabel his wife, desiring their counsel as to the means whereby I should get at the truth. Walcheline seemed perplexed; but Isabel said, 'Father, I think I see how to find out the truth. Dost thou not remember,' she said, turning to her husband, 'the maiden Rosia, daughter of Aaron, whom thou didst heal of her sickness a year past? Let me inquire of her. These Jews all know each other. The child is bright and shrewd, and I am sure she would do what she could out of gratitude to thee.' Walcheline gave consent at once, and a messenger was sent to the house of Aaron, requesting that his daughter would visit Isabel de Fulshaw, who had need of her. The girl came quickly, and very intelligent she proved. She was about twelve years of age, and was manifestly loving and desirous to oblige Isabel, who had, as I heard afterwards, shown her great kindness. She said she knew Abraham thy father well, and Licorice and Anegay. 'Had Anegay been there of late?' Isabel asked her. 'Certainly,' answered Rosia. 'Was she there now?' The child hesitated. But the truth came out when Isabel pressed her. Licorice had been absent from home, for several weeks, and when she returned, Anegay was with her, and four men were also in her company. Anegay had been very ill: very, very ill indeed, said the child. But— after long hesitation—she was better now. 'What about the baby?' asked Isabel. Rosia looked surprised. She had heard of none, except Licorice's own—thee, Belasez. Had she spoken with Anegay? The girl shook her head. Had she seen her? Yes. How was it, that she had seen her, but not spoken with her? The child replied, she was too ill to speak; she knew no one."

"She did not know me, Belasez," said Abraham sorrowfully, lifting his white, troubled face. "I came home to find her there, to my great surprise. But she did not know me. She took me for some other man, I cannot tell whom. And she kept begging me pitifully to tell Bruno—to let Bruno know the moment he should come home: he would never, never leave her in prison; he would be sure to rescue her. I asked Licorice if Anegay had come of her own will, for I was very much afraid lest some force had been used to bring her. But she assured me that my daughter had returned of her own free will, only a little reluctantly, lest her husband should not approve it. There had been no force whatever, only a little gentle persuasion. And—fool that I was!—I believed it at the time. It was not until all was over that I heard the real truth. What good could come of telling Bruno then? It would be simply to make him miserable to no purpose. And yet—Go on, my son."

And Abraham returned to his former position.

"Then," continued Bruno, "Isabel pressed the child Rosia harder. She told her that she felt certain she knew where Anegay was, and she must tell it to her. At last the child burst into tears. 'Oh, don't ask me!' she said, 'for I did love her so much! I cannot believe what Licorice says, that she is gone to Satan because she believed in the Nazarene. I am sure she went to God.' 'But is she dead, Rosia?' cried Isabel. And the child said, 'She is dead. She died yesterday morning.'"

Bruno paused, apparently to recover his composure.

"I went back at once to this house. I saw that Licorice instantly read in my face that I had heard the truth: and she tried to brazen it out no longer. Yes, it was true, she said in answer to my passionate charges: Anegay was dead. I should see her if I would, to convince me. So I passed into an inner chamber, and there I found her lying, my own fair darling, white and still, with the lips sealed for ever which could have told so much—"

Bruno nearly broke down, and he had to wait for a minute before he could proceed.

"I stood up from my dead, and I demanded of Licorice why she had done this cruel thing. And she said, 'Why! How little does a Christian know the heart of a Jew! Canst thou not guess that in our eyes it is a degradation for a daughter of Israel to be looked on by such as you Gentiles—that for one of you so much as to touch her hand is pollution that only blood can wipe away? Why! I wanted to revenge myself on thee, and if it were not too late, to save the child's soul. Thou canst hang me now, if thou wilt: I have had my revenge!' And I said, 'Licorice, my faith teaches me that revenge must be left to God, and that only forgiveness is for the lips of men. I, a sinner as thou art, must have nothing to do with vengeance. But, O Licorice, by all that thou deemest dear and holy, by the love that thou bearest to that babe of thine in the cradle, I conjure thee to tell me what has become of my child. Is she yet living?' She paused a while. Then she said in a low voice, 'No, Bruno. The journey was too much, in such a season, for so young an infant. She died the day after we arrived here. Perhaps,' said Licorice, 'thou wilt not believe me; but I am sorry that the child is dead. I meant to bring her up a strict Jewess, and to wed her to some Jew. That would have been sweet to me. She and my Belasez would have grown together like twin sisters, for they were almost exactly of an age.' I could not refuse credence, for her look and tone were those of truth. It explained, too, if Beatrice had died so soon after arrival, why the child Rosia had not heard of her. So then I knew, Belasez, that the life to which my God called me thenceforward was to be a lonely walk with Him, sweetened by no human love any more, only by the dear hope that Heaven would hold us all, and that when we met in the Golden City we should part no more."

Tears were dimming Belasez's eyes. Bruno turned to Abraham.

"Now, my father, I have done thy will. But suffer me to say that it is no slight perplexity to me, why thou hast thought it meet that this sorrowful story should be told to the child of her that did the wrong."

Abraham made no answer but to rise from the position in which he had been sitting all the time, and to walk straight to the window. He seemed unwilling to speak, and his companions looked at him in doubtful surprise. They had to wait, however, till he turned from the window, and came and stood before Bruno.

"Son," he said, "what saith thy faith to this question?—When a man hath taken the wrong road, and hath wandered far away from right, from truth, and God, is it ever too late, while life lasts, for him to turn and come back?"

"Never," was Bruno's answer.

"And is it, under any circumstances, lawful for a man to lie unto his neighbour?"

Bruno, like many another, was better than his system; and at that time the Church herself had not reached those depths of legalised iniquity wherein she afterwards plunged. So that he had no hesitation in repeating, "Never."

"Then hear the truth, Bruno de Malpas; and if it well-nigh break an old man's heart to tell it, it is better that I should suffer and die for God's sake than that I should live for mine. On one point, Licorice deceived thee to the last. And until now, I, even I, have aided her in duping thee. Yet it is written, 'He that confesseth and forsaketh his sin shall find mercy.' May it not be too late for me!"

"Assuredly not, my father. But what canst thou mean?"

"Bruno, thy child did not die the day after she came hither."

"Father! Thou art not going to tell me—"

Bruno's voice had in it a strange mixture of agony and hope.

"Son, thy Beatrice lives."

Before either could speak further, Belasez had thrown herself on her knees, and flung her arms around Abraham.

"O Father, if it be so, speak quickly, and end his agony! For the sake of the righteous Lord, that loveth righteousness, do, do give Father Bruno back his child!"

Abraham disengaged himself from Belasez's clinging arms with what seemed almost a shudder. He took up his long robe, and tore it from the skirt to the neck. Then, with a voice almost choked with emotion, he laid both hands, as if in blessing, on the head of the kneeling Belasez.

"Beatrice de Malpas," he said, "Thou art that child."

A low cry from Bruno, a more passionate exclamation from Belasez, and the father and daughter were clasped heart to heart.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

"Content to fill Religion's vacant place With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace."

Cowper.

"Nay, my son, it is of no use. I shall never forsake the faith of my fathers. For this child, if she can believe it,—well: she is more thine than mine,—ay Dios! And perhaps there is this much change in me, that I have come to think it just possible that it may not be idolatry to fancy the Nazarene was the Messiah. How can I tell? We know so little, and Adonai knows so much! But the cowslip is easily transplanted: the old oak will take no new rooting. Let the old oak alone. And there are other things in thy faith, my son,—a maiden whom I should deem it sin to worship, images of stone before which no Jew may bow down, a thing you call the Church, which we cannot understand, but which seems to bind you all, hand and foot, soul and body, as a slave is bound by his master. I cannot take up with those."

"Nor I," said Belasez in a low voice.

"Then do not," was the quiet answer of Bruno. "I shall never ask it of either of you."

"But thou believest all these?" said Abraham.

"I believe Jesus Christ my Lord. The rest is all to me a very little matter. I never pray with an image; I need it not. If another man think he does need it, to his own conscience I leave it before God. For Mary, Mother and Maid, I honour her, as you maybe honour your mother. I do not worship her: about other men I say nothing. And as to the Church,—why, what is the Church but a congregation of saved souls, to whom Christ is Lawgiver and Saviour? Her laws are His: or if not, then they have no right to be hers."

"Ah Bruno," said Abraham rather sadly, "thy religion is not that of other Christians."

"It is better," said Belasez softly.

"Father, my Christianity is Christ. I concern not myself with other men, except to save them, so far as it pleases God to work by me."

"Well, well! May Adonai forgive us all!—My son, what dost thou mean to do with the child? It is for thee to decide now."

"My father, I shall endeavour to obtain absolution from my vows, and to become once more a parish priest, so that my Beatrice may dwell with me. Until then, choose thou whether she shall remain with thee, or go back to Bury Castle. I am sure the Lady would gladly receive her."

"Nay, Bruno, do not ask me to choose! If the child be here when Licorice returns, she will never dwell with thee. I believe she would well-nigh stab us both to the heart sooner than permit it. And I fear she may come any day."

"Then she had better come with me to Bury."

"'It is Adonai!' So be it."

"But I shall see thee, my father?" asked Belasez, addressing Abraham.

"Trust me for that, my Belasez! I can come to thee on my trade journeys, so long as it pleases the Holy One that I have strength to take them. And after that—He will provide. My son, wilt thou come for the child to-morrow? I will let thee out at the postern door; for thou hadst better not meet Delecresse."

And Abraham drew back the bolt, and opened the baize door.

"Father Jacob!" they heard him instantly ejaculate, in a very different tone from that of his last words.

"What hast thou been about now?" demanded the shrill voice of Licorice in the passage outside. "When folks are frightened at the sight of their lawful wives, it is a sure sign they have been after some mischief. Is there any one in yon chamber except thyself?—Ah, Belasez, I am glad to see thee; 'tis more than I expected. But, child, thou shouldst have set the porridge on half an hour ago; go down and look to it.—Any body else? Come, I had best see for myself."

And Licorice pushed past her husband, and walked into the room where Bruno was standing. He came forward to meet her, with far more apparent calmness than Abraham seemed to feel.

"Good even, my mother," he said courteously.

"If I were thy mother, I would hang myself from the first gable," hissed Licorice between her closed teeth. "I know thee, Bruno de Malpas, thou vile grandson of a locust! Nay, locust is too good for thee: they are clean beasts, and thou art an unclean. Thou hare, camel, coney, night-hawk, raven, lobster, earwig, hog! I spit on thee seven times,"— and she did it—"I deliver thee over to Satan thy master—"

"That thou canst not," quietly said Bruno.

"I sweep thee out of my house!" And suiting the action to the word, Licorice caught up a broom which stood in the corner, and proceeded to apply it with good will. Bruno retreated, as was but natural he should.

"Licorice, my dear wife!"

"I'll sweep thee out next!" cried Licorice, brandishing her broom in the very face of her lord and master. "I'll have no Christians, nor Christian blood, nor Christian faith, in my house, as I am a living daughter of Abraham! Get you all out hence, ye loathsome creeping things, which whosoever toucheth shall be unclean! Get ye out, I say!— Belasez, bring me soap and water. I'll not sleep till I've washed the floor. I'd wash the air if I could."

"Your pardon, Mother, but if you will have no Christian blood in your house, you must sweep me out," answered Belasez, with a mixture of dignity and irrepressible amusement.

Licorice turned round to Abraham.

"Thou hast told her?"

"It was better she should know, wife."

"I'll chop thy head off, if I hear thee say that again!—And dost thou mean to be a Christian, thou wicked girl?"