"The money's her own," responded Isel shortly.

"It's his too. And you're his mother. You never ought to let her go on as she does."

"Deary me, Anania, as if I hadn't enough to do!"

"Other folks can slice ham and boil cabbage. You've got no call to neglect your duty. I can tell you, Franna's that shocked you don't speak to the girl; and Turguia was saying only the other day, she didn't believe in folks that pretended to care so much for their children, and let other folks run 'em into all sorts of troubles for want of looking after a bit. I'll tell you, Aunt Isel—"

"Anania, I'll tell you," cried Isel, thoroughly put out, for she was hot and tired and not feeling strong, "I'll tell you this once, you're a regular plague and a mischief-maker. You'd make me quarrel with all the friends I have in the world, if I listened to you. Sit you down and rest, if you like to be peaceable; and if you don't, just go home and give other folks a bit of rest for once in your life. I'm just worn out with you, and that's the honest truth."

"Well, to be sure!" gasped the porter's wife, in high dudgeon and much amazement. "I never did—! Dear, dear, to think of it—how ungrateful folks can be! You give them the best advice, and try to help them all you can, and they turn on you like a dog for it! Very well, Aunt Isel; I'll let you alone!—and if you don't rue it one of these days, when your fine lady daughter-in-law has brought you down to beggary for want of a proper word, my name isn't Anania—that's all!"

"Oh, deary weary me!" moaned poor Isel, dropping herself on the form as if she could not stand for another minute. "If this ain't a queer world, I just don't know! Folks never let you have a shred of peace, and come and worrit you that bad till you scarce can tell whether you're on your head or your heels, and you could almost find in your heart to wish 'em safe in Heaven, and then if they don't set to work and abuse you like Noah's wife [Note 1] if you don't thank 'em for it! That girl Anania 'll be the death of me one of these days, if she doesn't mend her ways. Woe worth the day that Osbert brought her here to plague us!"

"I fancy he'd say Amen to that," remarked Haimet.

"I heard him getting it pretty hot last night. But he takes it easier than you, Mother; however she goes on at him, he only whistles a tune. He has three tunes for her, and I always know how she's getting on by the one I hear. So long as it's only the Agnus, I dare lift the latch; but when it come to Salve Regina, things are going awkward."

"I wish she wasn't my niece, I do!" said poor Isel. "Well, folks, come and get your supper."

Supper was over, and the trenchers scraped—for Isel lived in great gentility, seeing that she ate from wooden trenchers, and not on plates made of thick slices of bread—when a rap on the door heralded the visit of a very superior person. Long ago, when a young girl, Isel had been chamberer, or bower-woman, of a lady named Mildred de Hameldun; and she still received occasional visits from Mildred's daughter, whose name was Aliz or Elise de Norton. Next to the Countess of Oxford and her two daughters, Aliz de Norton was the chief lady in the city. Her father, Sir Robert de Hameldun, had been Seneschal of the Castle, and her husband, Sir Ording de Norton, was now filling a similar position. Yet the lofty title of Lady was barely accorded to Aliz de Norton. At that time it was of extreme rarity; less used than in Saxon days, far less than at a subsequent date under the later Plantagenets. The only women who enjoyed it as of right were queens, wives of the king's sons, countesses, and baronesses: for at this period, the sole titles known to the peerage were those of baron and earl. Duke was still a sovereign title, and entirely a foreign one. The epithet of Dame or Lady was also the prerogative of a few abbesses, who held the rank of baroness. Very commonly, however, it was applied to the daughters of the sovereign, to all abbesses, prioresses, and recluses, and to earls' daughters; but this was a matter rather of courtesy than of right. Beyond the general epithet of "my Lord," there was no definite title of address even for the monarch. The appropriation of such terms as Grace, Highness, Excellence, Majesty, or Serenity, belongs to a much later date. Sir, however, was always restricted to knights; and Dame was the most respectful form of address that could be offered to any woman, however exalted might be her rank. The knight was above the peer, even kings receiving additional honour from knighthood; but the equivalent title of Dame does not seem to have been regularly conferred on their wives till about 1230, though it might be given in some cases, as a matter of courtesy, at a rather earlier period.

Perceiving her exalted friend, Isel went forward as quickly as was in her, to receive her with all possible cordiality, and to usher her to the best place in the chimney-corner. Aliz greeted the family pleasantly, but with a shade of constraint towards their German guests. For a few minutes they talked conventional nothings, as is the custom of those who meet only occasionally. Then Aliz said—

"I came to-day, Isel, for two reasons. Have here the first: do you know of any vacant situation for a young woman?"

Isel could do nothing in a hurry,—more especially if any mental process was involved.

"Well, maybe I might," she said slowly. "Who is it, I pray you, and what are her qualifications?"

"It is the daughter of my waiting-woman, and grand-daughter of my old nurse. She is a good girl—rather shy and inexperienced, but she learns quickly. I would have taken her into my own household, but I have no room for her. I wish to find her a good place, not a poor one. Do you know of any?"

As Isel hesitated, Haimet took up the word.

"Would it please you to have her an anchorhold maid?"

"Oh, if she could obtain such a situation as that," said Aliz eagerly, "there would be no more to wish for."

The holiness of an anchoritess was deemed to run over upon her maid, and a young woman who wore the semi-conventual garb of those persons was safe from insult, and sure of help in time of need.

"My youngest sister goes into Saint John's anchorhold next month," said Haimet, "and we have not yet procured a maid for her."

"So that is your destiny?" said Aliz, with a smile to Derette. "Well, it is a blessed calling."

Her manner, however, added that she had no particular desire to be blessed in that fashion.

"That would be the very thing for Leuesa," she pursued. "I will send her down to talk with you. Truly, we should be very thankful to those choice souls to whom is given the rare virtue of such holy self-sacrifice."

Aliz spoke the feeling of her day, which could see no bliss for a woman except in marriage, and set single life on a pinnacle of holiness and misery not to be reached by ordinary men and women. The virtues of those self-denying people who sacrificed themselves by adopting it were supposed to be paid into an ecclesiastical treasury, and to form a kind of set-off against the every-day shortcomings of inferior married folks. Therefore Aliz expressed her gratitude for the prospect, as affording her an extra opportunity of doing her duty by proxy.

Derette was in advance of her age.

"But I am not sacrificing myself," she said. "I am pleasing myself. I should not like to be a wife."

"Oh, what a saintly creature you must be!" cried Aliz, clasping her hands in admiration. "That you can prefer a holy life! It is given to few indeed to attain that height."

"But the holy life does not consist in dwelling in one chamber," suggested Gerhardt, "nor in refraining from matrimony. He that dwelleth in God, in the secret place of the Most High—this is the man that is holy."

"It would be well for you, Gerard, and your friends," observed Aliz freezingly, "not to be quite so ready in offering your strange fancies on religious topics. Are you aware that the priests of the city have sent up a memorial concerning you to my Lord the Bishop, and that it has been laid before King Henry?"

The strawberry which Gerhardt's tool was just then rounding was not quite so perfect a round as its neighbours. He laid the tool down, and the hand which held the carving trembled slightly.

"No, I did not know it," he said in a low voice. "I thank you for the warning."

"I fear there may be some penance inflicted on you," resumed Aliz, not unkindly. "The wisest course for you would be at once to submit, and not even to attempt any excuse."

Gerhardt looked up—a look which struck all who saw it. There was in it a little surface trouble, but under that a look of such perfect peace and sweet acceptance of the Divine will, as they had never before beheld.

"There will be no penance laid on me," he said, "that my Father will not help me to bear. I have only to take the next step, whether it lead into the home at Bethany or the judgment-hall of Pilate. The Garden of God lies beyond them both."

Aliz looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

"Gerard," she said, "I do hope you have no foolish ideas of braving out the censure of the Bishop. Such action would not only be sin, but it would be the worst policy imaginable. Holy Church is always merciful to those who abase themselves before her,—who own their folly, and humbly bow to her rebuke. But she has no mercy on rebels who persist in their rebellion,—stubborn self-opinionated men, who in their incredible folly and presumption imagine themselves capable of correcting her."

"No," answered Gerhardt in that same low voice. "She has no mercy."

"Then I hope you see how very foolish and impossible it would be for you to adopt any other course than that of instant and complete submission?" urged Aliz in a kinder tone.

Gerhardt rose from his seat and faced her.

"Your meaning is kind," he said, "and conscientious also. You desire the glory of your Church, but you also feel pity for the suffering of the human creatures who dissent from her, and are crushed under the wheels of her triumphal car. I thank you for that pity. In the land where one cup of cold water goeth not without its reward, it may be that even a passing impulse of compassion is not forgotten before God. It may at least call down some earthly blessing. But for me—my way is clear before me, and I have but to go straight forward. I thank God that I know my duty. Doubt is worse than pain."

"Indeed, I am thankful too," said Aliz, as she rose to take leave. "That you should do your duty is the thing I desire.—Well, Isel, our Lady keep you! I will send Leuesa down to-morrow or the next day."

Aliz departed, and the rest began to think of bedtime. Isel sent the girls upstairs, then Haimet followed, and Agnes went at last. But Gerhardt sat on, his eyes fixed on the cold hearth. It was evident that he regarded the news which he had heard as of no slight import. He rose at length, and walked to the window. It was only a wooden shutter, fastened by a button, and now closed for the night. Looking round to make sure that all had left the lower room, he threw the casement open. But he did not see Isel, who at the moment was concealed by the red curtain drawn half-way across the house-place, at the other end where the ladder went up.

"Father!" he said, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky, "is the way to Thy holy hill through this thorny path? Wheresoever Thou shalt guide, I go with Thee. But 'these are in the world!' Keep them through Thy name, and let us meet in the Garden of God, if we may not go together. O blessed Jesu Christ! the forget-me-nots which bloom around Thy cross are fairer than all the flowers of the world's gardens."

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. In the medieval mystery plays, Noah's wife was always represented as a scolding vixen.



CHAPTER SIX.

TAKEN IN THE NET.

"There is no time so miserable But a man may be true."

Shakespeare.

"Berthold, hast thou heard the news?"

"I have, Pastor. I was coming to ask if you had heard it."

"Ah, it was told me last night, by one that meant it kindly. I knew it would come sooner or later."

"What will they do, think you?" Gerhardt hesitated. It was not so easy to guess in 1165 the awful depths to which religious hatred could descend, as it would have been some two centuries later. They knew something then of the fury of the Church against open unbelievers or political enemies; but persecution of Christians by Christians on account of nothing but their belief and the confession of it, was something new at that time.

"They will impose penance on us, I suppose," suggested old Berthold.

"Doubtless, if we stand firm. And we must stand firm, Berthold,—every one of us."

"Oh, of course," replied Berthold calmly. "They won't touch the women?—what think you?"

"I know not what to think. But I imagine—not."

"Fine and scourging, perchance. Well, we can stand that."

"We can stand any thing with God to aid us: without Him we can bear nothing. Thanks be to the Lord, that last they that trust Him will never be called upon to do."

"I heard there was a council of the bishops to be held upon us," suggested Berthold a little doubtfully.

"I hope not. That were worse for us than a summons before the King. Howbeit, the will of the Lord be done. It may be that the hotter the furnace is heated, the more glory shall be His by the song of His servants in the fires."

"Ay, there'll be four," said old Berthold, bowing reverently. "Sure enough, Pastor, whatever we are called upon to bear, there will be One more than our number, and His form shall be that of the Son of God. Well! the children will be safe, no question. But I am afraid the hottest corner of the furnace may be kept for you, dear Teacher."

"Be it so," answered Gerhardt quietly. "Let my Lord do with me what is good in His sight; only let me bring glory to Him, and show forth His name among the people."

"Ay, but it does seem strange," was the response, "that the work should be stopped, and the cause suffer, and eloquent lips be silenced, just when all seemed most needed! Can you understand it, Pastor?"

"No," said Gerhardt calmly. "Why should I? He understands who has it all to do. But the cause, Berthold! The cause will not suffer. It is God's custom to bring good out of evil—to give honey to His Samsons out of the carcases of lions, and to bring His Davids through the cave of Adullam to the throne of Israel. It is for Him to see that the cause prospers, in His own time and way. We have only to do each our little handful of duty, to take the next step as He brings it before us. Sometimes the next step is a steep pull, sometimes it is only an easy level progress. We have but to take it as it comes. Never two steps at once; never one step, without the Lord at our right hand. Never a cry of 'Lord, save me!' from a sinking soul, that the hand which holds up all the worlds is not immediately stretched forth to hold him up."

"One can't always feel it, though," said the old man wistfully.

"It is enough to know it."

"Ay, when we two stand talking together in Overee Lane [Overee Lane ran out of Grandpont Street, just below the South Gate], so it may be: but when the furnace door stands open, an King Nebuchadnezzar's mighty men are hauling you towards it, how then, good Pastor?"

"Berthold, what kind of a father would he be who, in carrying his child over a bridge, should hold it so carelessly that he let it slip from his arms into the torrent beneath, and be drowned?"

"Couldn't believe such a tale, Pastor, unless the father were either drunk or mad. Why, he wouldn't be a man—he'd be a monster."

"And is that the character that thou deemest it fair and true to give to Him who laid down His life for thee?"

"Pastor!—Oh! I see now what you mean. Well—ay, of course—"

"Depend upon it, Berthold, the Lord shall see that thou hast grace sufficient for the evil day, if thy trust be laid on Him. He shall not give thee half enough for thy need out of His royal treasure, and leave thee to make up the other half out of thy poor empty coffer. 'My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory'—'that ye, always having all-sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.' Is that too small an alner [Note 1] to hold the wealth thou wouldst have? How many things needest thou beyond 'all things'?"

"True enough," said Berthold. "But I was not thinking so much of myself, Pastor—I've had my life: I'm two-and-fourscore this day; and if I am called on to lay it down for the Lord, it will only be a few months at the furthest that I have to give Him. It wouldn't take so much to kill me, neither. An old man dies maybe easier than one in the full vigour of life. But you, my dear Pastor!—and the young fellows among us—Guelph, and Conrad, and Dietbold, and Wilhelm—it'll be harder work for the young saplings to stand the blast, than for the old oak whose boughs have bent before a thousand storms. There would most likely be a long term of suffering before you, when my rest was won."

"Then our rest would be the sweeter," replied Gerhardt softly. "'He knoweth the way that we take; when He hath tried us, we shall come forth as gold.' He is faithful, who will not suffer us to be tried above that we are able to bear. And He can make us able to bear any thing."

Gerhardt was just turning into Kepeharme Lane, when a voice at his elbow made him pause and look back.

"Did you want me, friend?"

"No," answered a hoarse voice, in a significant tone. "You want me."

Gerhardt smiled. "I thank you, then, for coming to my help. I almost think I know your voice. Are you not Rubi, the brother of Countess, who made such a pet of my little child?"

An affirmative grunt was the response.

"Well, friend?"

"If an open pit lay just across this street, between you and the Walnut Tree, what would you do?" asked the hoarse voice.

"That would depend on how necessary it was that I should pass it, would it not?"

"Life this way—death that way," said Rubi shortly.

"And what way honour?"

"Pshaw! 'All that a man hath will he give for his life.'"

"Truth: yet even life, sometimes, will a man give for glory, patriotism, or love. There is a life beyond this, friend Rubi; and for that, no price were too high to pay."

"Men may weigh gold, but not clouds," answered Rubi in a rather scornful tone.

"Yet how much gold would purchase the life-giving water that comes from the clouds?" was Gerhardt's ready response.

"At how much do you value your life?" asked Rubi without answering the question.

"Truly, friend, I know not how to respond to that. Do you count my life to be in danger, that you ask me?"

"Not if the morning light come to you in Aylesbury or Cricklade—at least, perchance not. But if it dawn on you where you can hear the bell from yon tower—ay, I do."

"I perceive your meaning. You would have me to fly."

In the evening twilight, now fast darkening, Gerhardt could see a nod of Rubi's black head.

"'Should such a man as I flee?' Friend, I am the leader of this band of my countrymen—"

"Just so. That's the reason."

"Were I to flee, would they stand firm?" said Gerhardt thoughtfully, rather to himself than to the young Jew.

"Firm—to what?"

"To God," replied Gerhardt reverently, "and to His truth."

"What does a Gentile care for truth? They want you to worship one dead man, and you prefer to worship another dead man. What's the odds to you? Can't you mutter your Latin, and play with your beads, before both, and have done with it?"

"I worship no saints, and have no beads."

"Father Jacob! You must be a new sort of a Gentile. Never came across a reptile of your pattern before. Is that why Countess took to you?"

"I cannot say. It was the child, I think, that attracted her. Well, friend, I am thankful for your warning. But how come you to know?"

A smothered laugh, as hoarse as the voice, replied—

"Folks have ways and means, sometimes, that other folks can't always guess."

"If you know more than others," said Gerhardt boldly, "suffer me to question you a moment."

"Question away. I don't promise to answer."

"Are we all to be taken and examined?"

"All."

"Before the King?"

"And the creeping creatures called Bishops."

"Will any thing be done to the women and children?"

"Does the lion discriminate between a kid and a goat? 'Let your little ones also go with you.' Even Pharaoh could say that—when he could not help allowing it."

"I think I understand you, Friend Rubi, and I thank you."

"You are not so badly off for brains," said Rubi approvingly.

"But how far to act upon your warning I know not, until I lay it before the Lord, and receive His guidance."

"You—a Gentile—receive guidance from the Holy One (blessed be He)!" Rubi's tone was not precisely scornful; it seemed rather a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and perplexity.

"Ay, friend, I assure you, however strange it may seem to you, the good Lord deigns to guide even us Gentiles. And why not? Is it not written, 'Even them will I bring to My holy mountain, and make them joyful in My house of prayer'? and, 'O Thou that hearest prayer, unto Thee shall all flesh come'?"

"Those promises belong to the reign of the Messiah. He is not come yet. Do you new sort of Gentiles believe He is?"

It was a most difficult question to answer. "Yes" would probably drive Rubi away in anger—perhaps with a torrent of blasphemy on his lips. "No" would be false and cowardly.

"I believe," said Gerhardt softly, "that He shall yet come to Zion, and turn away iniquity from Jacob. May thou and I, Rubi, be ready to welcome Him when He cometh!"

"You are better than yonder lot," answered Rubi, with a scornful wave of his hand towards Carfax behind them. "Ay, I suppose the Blessed One has some mercies even for Gentiles—decent ones such as you. Well, remember you've been warned. Good night!"

"Good night, Rubi, and God go with thee!"

As Gerhardt stepped into the Walnut Tree, Isel's voice greeted him from the top of the ladder leading to the upper chamber.

"Who is that—Gerard or Haimet?"

"It is I, Isel," said the German pastor.

"Well, now, don't put out your lantern, but do, like a good man, take this girl back to the Castle. I've been on thorns how to get her back, for I've kept her talking a bit too long, and there hasn't a creature come near that I could ask. It's Leuesa, that Aliz de Norton spoke about, and we've settled she's to be Derette's maid. It's a mercy you've come just in time!"

"The next step!" said Gerhardt to himself with a smile. "Well, this at least is no hard one."

The girl who came down the ladder and entrusted herself to Gerhardt's escort, was very young-looking for an anchorhold: slim, fair, and frail in appearance, with some timidity of manner. They set out for the Castle.

"You know the girl who is to be my mistress?" asked Leuesa. "Will she be easy or hard to serve?"

"Very easy, I think, so long as you obey her. She has a will of her own, as you will find, if you do not."

"Oh dear, I don't want to disobey her! But I don't like to be scolded at from morning to night, whether I do right or wrong."

"Derette will not treat you in that fashion. She has a good temper, and is bright and cheerful."

"I am so glad to hear it! I get so tired—"

Leuesa suddenly broke off her sentence.

"You look young for the work," said Gerhardt.

"I am older than I look. At least, people say so. I am twenty-one."

"Dear! I should not have thought you eighteen."

"Oh yes, I am twenty-one," replied Leuesa, with a bright little laugh; adding with sudden gravity, "I think I am much older than that in some ways."

"Hast thou found life hard, poor child?" asked Gerhardt sympathisingly.

"Well, one gets tired, you know," replied the girl vaguely. "I suppose it has to be, if one's sins are to be expiated. So many sins, so many sufferings. That's what Mother says. It will be counted up some time, maybe. Only, sometimes, it does seem as if there were more sufferings than sins."

"Is that thy religion, Maiden?" responded Gerhardt with a pitying smile.

"It's about all I know. Why?—isn't it good?"

"Friend, if thou wert to suffer for ten thousand years, without a moment's intermission, thy sins could never be balanced by thy sufferings. Suffering is finite; sin is infinite. It is not only what thou hast done, or hast left undone. The sin of thy whole nature requires atonement. Thou art sin! The love of sin which is in thee is worse than any act of sin thou couldst commit. What then is to be done with thy sins?"

Leuesa looked up with an expression of wistful simplicity in her blue eyes.

She might be older than her years in some respects, thought Gerhardt, but there were some others in which she was a very child.

"I don't know!" she said blankly, with a frightened accent. "Can't you tell me?"

"Thank God, I can tell thee. Thou must get rid of this load of sin, by laying it on Him who came down from Heaven that He might bear it for thee. Tell me whom I mean."

The flaxen head was shaken. "I can't—not certainly. Perhaps it's a saint I don't know."

"Dost thou not know Jesu Christ?"

"Oh, of course. He's to judge us at the last day."

"If He save thee not before He judge thee, thou wilt never be saved. Dost thou not know He is the Saviour of men?"

"Well, I've heard say so, but I never thought it meant any thing."

"It means every thing to sinners. Now, how art thou about to come by the salvation that Christ has wrought for thee?"

"The priest will give me some, won't he?"

"He hath it not to give thee. Thou must go straight to the Lord Himself."

"But I can't go save through the Church. And oh dear, but I should be frightened to have aught to do with Him! Except when He's a baby, and then we've got our Lady to intercede for us."

"Art thou, then, very much afraid of me?"

"You? Oh no! You're coming with me to take care of me—aren't you?"

"I am. But what am I doing for thee, in comparison of Him who died for thee? Afraid of the Lord that laid down His life for thine! Why, Maiden, there is nought in His heart for thee save love and pity and strength to help. He loved thee—get it into thy mind, grave it deep in thy soul—He loved thee, and gave His life for thee."

"Me?" Leuesa had come to a sudden stand. "You don't mean me?"

"I mean thee, and none other."

"Mother always says I'm so stupid, nobody will ever care for me. I thought—I never heard any body talk like that. I thought it was only the very greatest saints that could get near Him, and then only through the Church."

"Thou and I are the Church, if Christ saves us."

"Oh, what do you mean? The priests and bishops are the Church. At least they say so."

"Ay, they do say so, the hirelings that foul with their feet the water whence the flock should drink: 'we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!' 'The Temple of the Lord are we!' But the Temple of the Lord is larger, and wider, and higher, than their poor narrow souls. Maiden, listen to me, for I speak to thee words from God. The Church of God consists of the elect of God from the beginning to the end of the world, by the grace of God, through the merits of Christ, gathered together by the Holy Ghost, and fore-ordained to eternal life. They that hear and understand the Word of God, receiving it to their souls' health, and being justified by Christ—these are the Church; these go into life eternal. Hast thou understood me, Maiden?"

"I don't—exactly—know," she said slowly. "I should like to understand. But how can I know whether I am one of them or not?"

"Of the elect of God? If thou hast chosen God rather than the world, that is the strongest evidence thou canst have that He has chosen thee out of the world."

"But I sha'n't be in the world—just exactly. You see I'm going to live in the anchorhold. That isn't the world."

It was not easy to teach one who spoke a different dialect from the teacher. To Gerhardt, the world was the opposite of God; to Leuesa, it was merely the opposite of the cloister.

"Put 'sin' for 'the world,' Maiden," said Gerhardt, "and thou wilt understand me better."

"But what must I do to keep out of sin?"

"'If thou wilt love Christ and follow His teaching,'" said Gerhardt, quoting from his confession of faith, "'thou must watch, and read the Scriptures. Spiritual poverty of heart must thou have, and love purity, and serve God in humility.'"

"I can't read!" exclaimed Leuesa, in a tone which showed that she would have deemed it a very extraordinary thing if she could.

"Thou canst hear. Ermine will repeat them to thee, if thou ask her—so long as we are here."

"Osbert says you won't be for long. He thinks you are bad people; I don't know why."

"Nor do I, seeing we serve God—save that the enemy of God and men spreads abroad falsehoods against us."

They had reached the little postern of the Castle. Gerhardt rapped at the door, and after two or three repetitions, it was opened.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Stephen's voice behind it. "Get you in quickly, Leuesa, for Hagena's in a terrible tantrum. She declares you've run away."

"I'm late, I know," answered Leuesa humbly; "but I could not help it, Stephen."

"Well, you'll catch it, I can tell you; and the longer you stay, the more you'll catch: so best get it over.—Gerard, will you come in? I want a word with you."

Gerhardt stepped inside the postern, and Stephen beckoned him into an outhouse, at the moment untenanted.

"What are you going to do?"

"About what?"

"What! Don't you know you are to be haled before the Bishops? Every body else does."

"Yes, I have been told so."

"Are you going to wait for them?" demanded Stephen, with several notes of astonishment in his voice.

"I am going to wait for the Lord."

"You'll be a fool if you do!" The tone was compassionate, though the words were rough.

"Never. 'They shall not be ashamed that wait for Him.'"

"Do you expect Him to come down from Heaven to save you from the Bishops?"

"As He pleases," said Gerhardt quietly.

"But, man!—if you are a man, and not a stone—don't you know that the Church has authority from God to bind and loose—that her sentence is His also?"

"Your Church has no jurisdiction over mine."

"My Church, forsooth! I am speaking of the Catholic Church, which has authority over every Christian on earth."

"Where is it?"

"Every where."

"The Church that is every where consists of faithful souls, elect of God. That Church will not condemn me for being faithful to the Word of God."

"Oh, I can't split straws like you, nor preach like a doctor of the schools either. But one thing I can do, and that is to say, Gerard, you are in danger—much more danger than the rest. Get away while you can, and leave them to meet it. They won't do half so much to them as to you."

"'He that is an hireling, when he seeth the wolf coming, leaveth the sheep and fleeth; and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep.' Is that conduct you recommend, Stephen?"

"I recommend you to get outside of Oxford as fast as you can, and take your womankind with you; and if you don't, you'll be sorry, that's all. Now be off, and don't forget that you've been warned. Good night!"

"I have been warned thrice, friend. But where God has need of me, there is my post, and there am I. There are penalties for desertion in the army of the Lord. I thank you for your kindly meaning. Good night!"

"Poor fool!" said Stephen to himself as he fastened the postern behind Gerhardt. "Yet—'penalties for desertion'—I don't know. Which is the fool, I wonder? If I could have saved her!"

Gerhardt went back to the Walnut Tree, where they were sitting down to the last meal. It consisted of "fat fish," apple turnovers, and spiced ale.

"Eh dear!" said Isel, with a sigh. "To think that this is pretty nigh the last supper you'll ever eat in this house, Derette! I could cry with the best when I think of it."

"You can come to see me whenever you wish, Mother—much better than if I were at Godstowe."

"So I can, child; but you can't come to me."

"I can send Leuesa to say that I want to see you."

"Well, and if so be that I've broken my leg that very morning, and am lying groaning up atop of that ladder, with never a daughter to serve me—how then? Thou gone, and Flemild gone, and not a creature near!"

"You'll have Ermine. But you are not going to break your leg, Mother, I hope."

"You hope! Oh ay, hope's a fine trimming, but it's poor stuff for a gown. And how long shall I have Ermine? She'll go and wed somebody or other—you see if she doesn't."

Ermine smiled and shook her head.

"Well, then, you'll have Agnes."

"I shall have trouble—that's what I shall have: it's the only thing sure in this world: and it's that loving it sticks to you all the tighter if you've got nothing else. There's nought else does in this world—without it's dogs."

"'There's a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother,'" quoted Gerhardt softly.

"There's precious few of them," returned Isel, who naturally did not understand the allusion. "You'll not find one of that sort more than once in a—Mercy on us! here's a soldier walking straight in!—whatever does the man want?"

Gerhardt's quick eyes had caught the foreign texture of the soldier's mantle—the bronzed face with its likeness to Derette—the white cross of the English Crusader.

"He wants his wife and children, I should think," he answered calmly; and at the same moment the soldier said—

"Isel! Wife! Dost thou not know me?"

Nobody in the room could have given a clear and connected account of what happened after that. Isel cried and laughed by turns, the majority all talked at once, and little Rudolph, divided between fear and admiration, clung to his mother, and cast furtive glances at the new-comer. Manning was naturally astonished to see how his family had grown, and much had to be explained to him—the presence of the Germans, the approaching marriage of Flemild, the past marriage of Romund, and the profession of Derette. The first and third he accepted with bluff good-humour. As to the second, he said he would have a talk with Raven Soclin—very likely he was all right now, though he remembered him a troublesome lad. But Derette's fate did not appear quite to please him. She had been his pet, and he had pictured her future differently and more according to his own notion of happiness.

"Well, she seems to like it best herself," said Isel, "and I don't see but you have to leave folks to be happy their own way, though the way some folks choose is mighty queer. Father Dolfin says we must always give God the best, and if we grudge it to Him, it wipes out the merit of the sacrifice."

"Ay, Father Dolfin knows how they do things up yonder," answered Manning. "Do thy duty, and leave the priest to see thou comest safe— that's my way of thinking."

"But suppose he fails to 'see'?" suggested Gerhardt.

Manning eyed him rather suspiciously.

"I hope you aren't one of that new lot that talk against the priests," said he. "I've heard something of them as I came through Almayne and Guienne: saw one fellow flogged at the market-cross, that had let his tongue run too freely. And I can tell you, I'm not one of that sort. You're welcome to stay while you behave decently, as I see you've been a help and comfort to my women here: but one word against the priests, or one wag of your head in irreverence to the holy mass, and out you go, bag and baggage!—ay, down to that child."

Rudolph seemed frightened by the harsh tones and loud words, and when Manning ended by striking his hand upon his thigh with a resounding slap to enforce his threat, the child began to whimper.

"I trust, friend, you will never see any irreverence in me towards aught to which reverence is due," replied Gerhardt; "but if you do, fulfil your words, and I shall not trouble you longer."

"Well, look out!" said Manning. "I don't much like your long prayers just now: they're a bad sign. As to Haimet's Latin grace, I suppose he's learnt that in the schools; and praying in Latin isn't so bad. But a cross over the supper-table is plenty good enough for me. I never did believe in folks that are always saying their prayers, and reckoning to be better than their neighbours."

"I believe in being as good as I can be," said Gerhardt with a smile. "If that should make me better than my neighbours, it would hardly be my fault, would it? But in truth, Friend Manning, I do not think myself any better, for I know too much of the evil of mine own heart."

"Ay, that's the lingo of the pestilent vipers in Guienne! I could find in my heart to lay a silver penny you'll turn out to be one of that brood. Girls, I hope you haven't caught the infection? We'll wait a few days and see—what we shall see."

"Eh, Manning, they're the peaceablest set ever came in a house!" exclaimed Isel. "Helped me over and over, they have, and never one of 'em gave me an ill word. And Gerard's made a pretty penny with weaving and wood-carving, and every farthing he's given me, save what they wanted for clothes. Do, for mercy's sake, let 'em be! Flemild married, and Derette away to the anchorhold—I shall be a lost woman without Agnes and Ermine! Nigh on seven years they've been here, and I haven't been so comfortable in all my life afore. They may have some queer notions in their heads—that I can't say; most folks have one way or another—but they're downright good for help and quietness. They are, so!"

"What says Father Dolfin about them?"

"Well, he don't say much of no sort," answered Isel doubtfully, with an uneasy recollection of one or two things he had lately said. "But I say they're as good folks as ever walked in shoe-leather, and you'll not find their match in Oxford, let be Kepeharme Lane."

"Well," said Manning, "let them bide a few days: we shall see. But I shall brook no heresy, and so I give you fair warning. No heretic, known to me, shall ever darken the doors of a soldier of the cross!"

"I pray you, hold to that!" was Gerhardt's answer.

The next morning dawned a fair autumn day. Manning seemed somewhat more inclined to be friendly than on the previous evening, and matters went on pleasantly enough until the hour of dinner. They had just risen from table when a rap came on the door. Flemild went to open it.

"Holy saints!" they heard her cry.

Then the door opened, and in walked two men in red and white livery, with four golden crosses patee embroidered on the left arm. With a glance round, they addressed themselves to Manning.

"Are you the owner of this house?"

Manning knew in a moment who his visitors were—official sumners of the Bishop of Lincoln.

"I am," he said. "What would you have?"

One of the sumners unrolled a parchment deed.

"We have here a writ to take the bodies of certain persons believed to be in your house, and we bid you, in the name of holy Church, that you aid us in the execution of our office."

Isel, terribly frightened, was muttering Ave Marias by the dozen. To Gerhardt's forehead the blood had surged in one sudden flush, and then subsiding, left him calm and pale.

"When holy Church bids, I am her lowly servant," was Manning's answer. "Do your duty."

"You say well," replied the sumner. "I demand the body of one Gerard, a stranger of Almayne, of Agnes his wife, of Rudolph their son, and of Ermine, the man's sister."

"Of what stand they accused?"

"Of the worst that could be—heresy."

"Then will I give them no shelter. I pray you to note, Master Sumner, that I returned but last night from over seas, whither I have followed the cross, and have not hitherto had any opportunity to judge of these whom I found here."

"You will have opportunity to clear yourself before the Council," said the sumner. "Find me a rope, good woman. Is this your son?" he added, appealing to Gerhardt.

"This is my son," answered Gerhardt, with a tremulous smile. "He is scarcely yet old enough to commit crime."

"Eh, dear, good gentlemen, you'll never take the little child!" pleaded Isel. "Why, he is but a babe. I'll swear to you by every saint in the Calendar, if you will, to bring him up the very best of Catholic Christians, under Father Dolfin's eye. What can he have done?"

"He believes what has been taught him, probably," said the sumner grimly. "But I cannot help it, good wife—the boy's name is in the writ. The only favour in my power to show is to tie him with his mother. Come now, the rope—quick!"

"No rope of mine shall tie them!" said Isel, with sudden determination which no one had expected from her. "You may go buy your own ropes for such innocent lambs, for I'll not find you one!"

"But a rope of mine shall!" thundered Manning. "Sit down, silly woman, and hold thy tongue.—I beseech you, my masters, to pardon this foolish creature; women are always making simpletons of themselves."

"Don't put yourself out, good man," answered the sumner with a smile of superiority; "I have a wife and four daughters."

Haimet now appeared with a rope which he handed to the sumner, who proceeded to tie together first Gerhardt and Ermine, then Agnes and Rudolph. The child was thoroughly frightened, and sobbing piteously.

"Oh deary, deary me!" wailed poor Isel. "That ever such a day should come to my house! Dame Mary, and all the blessed Saints in Heaven, have mercy on us! Haven't I always said there was nought but trouble in this world?"

"It's no good vexing, Mother; it has to be," said Flemild, but there were tears in her eyes. "I'm glad Derette's not here."

Derette had gone to see her cousins at the Castle,—a sort of farewell visit before entering the anchorhold.

"Then I'm sorry," said Isel. "She might have given those rascals a lick with the rough side of her tongue—much if she wouldn't, too. I'd like to have heard it, I would!"

The prisoners were marched out, with much show of righteous indignation against them from Manning, and stolid assistance to the sumners on the part of Haimet. When the door was shut and all quiet again, Manning came up to Isel.

"Come, Wife, don't take on!" he said, in a much more gentle tone than before. "We must not let ourselves be suspected, you know. Perhaps they'll be acquitted—they seem decent, peaceable folk, and it may be found to be a false accusation. So long as holy Church does not condemn them, we need not: but you know we must not set ourselves against her officers, nor get ourselves suspected and into trouble. Hush, children! the fewer words the better. They may turn out to be all wrong, and then it would be sin to pity them. We can but wait and see."

"Saints alive! but I'm in a whole sea of trouble already!" cried Isel. "We've lost six hands for work; and good workers too; and here had I reckoned on Ermine tarrying with me, and being like a daughter to me, when my own were gone: and what am I to do now, never speak of them?"

"There are plenty more girls in the city," said Manning.

"Maybe: but not another Ermine."

"Perhaps not; but it's no good crying over spilt milk, Isel. Do the best you can with what you have; and keep your mouth shut about what you have not."

Haimet was seen no more till nearly bedtime, when he came in with the information that all the Germans had been committed to the Castle dungeon, to await the arrival of King Henry, who had summoned a Council of Bishops to sit on the question, the Sunday after Christmas. That untried prisoners should be kept nearly four months in a dark, damp, unhealthy cellar, termed a dungeon, was much too common an occurrence to excite surprise. Isel, as usual, lamented over it, and Derette, who had seen the prisoners marched into the Castle yard, was as warm in her sympathy as even her mother could have wished. Manning tried, not unkindly, to silence them both, and succeeded only when they had worn themselves out.

About ten days later, Derette made her profession, and was installed in the anchorhold, with Leuesa as her maid. The anchorhold consisted of two small chambers, some ten feet square, with a doorway of communication that could be closed by a curtain. The inner room, which was the bedchamber, was furnished with two bundles of straw, two rough woollen rugs, a tin basin, a wooden coffer, a form, and some hooks for hanging garments at one end. The outer room was kitchen and parlour; it held a tiny hearth for a wood-fire (no chimney), another form, a small pair of trestles and boards to form a table, which were piled in a corner when not wanted for immediate use; sundry shelves were put up around the walls, and from hooks in the low ceiling hung a lamp, a water-bucket, a pair of bellows, a bunch of candles, a rope of onions, a string of dried salt fish, and several bundles of medical herbs. The scent of the apartment, as may be imagined, was somewhat less fragrant than that of roses. In one corner stood the Virgin Mary, newly-painted and gilt; in the opposite one, Saint John the Baptist, whom the imager had made with such patent whites to his eyes, set in a bronzed complexion, that the effect was rather startling. A very small selection of primitive culinary utensils lay on a shelf close to the hearth. Much was not wanted, when the most sumptuous meal to be had was boiled fish or roasted onions.

Derette was extremely tired, and it was no cause for wonder. From early morning she had been kept on the strain by most exciting incidents. Her childhood's home, though it was scarcely more than a stone's throw from her, she was never to see again. Father or brother might not even touch her hand any more. Her mother and sister could still enter her tiny abode; but she might never go out to them, no matter what necessity required it. Derette was bright, and sensible, and strong: but she was tired that night. And there was no better repose to be had than sitting on a hard form, and leaning her head against the chimney-corner.

"Shut the window, Leuesa," she said, "and come in. I am very weary, and I must sleep a little, if I can, before compline."

"No marvel, Lady," replied Leuesa, doing as she was requested. "I am sure you have had a tiring day. But your profession was lovely! I never saw a prettier scene in my life."

"Ay, marriages and funerals are both sights for the world. Which was it most like, thinkest thou?"

"O Lady! a marriage, of course. Has it not made you the bride of Jesu Christ?"

Leuesa fancied she heard a faint sigh from the chimney-corner; but Derette gave no answer.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The alner, or alms-bag, was the largest sort of purse used in the Middle Ages.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

VIA DOLOROSA.

"We bless Thee for the quiet rest Thy servant taketh now, We bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crowned brow; For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee, And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly."

The Church of Saint Mary the Virgin was filled to overflowing, but it was not the church we know as such now. That more ancient edifice had been built in the days of Alfred, and its nave was closely packed with the clergy of Oxford and the neighbourhood, save a circle of curule chairs reserved for the members of the Council. Into the midst of the excited crowd of clergy—among whom were sprinkled as many laymen, chiefly of the upper class, as could find room to squeeze in—filed an imposing procession of dignitaries—priests, archdeacons, bishops—all robed in full canonicals; the Bishop of the diocese being preceded by his crucifer. There was as yet no bishopric of Oxford, and the diocese was that of Lincoln. It was a point of the most rigid ecclesiastical etiquette that no prelate should have his official cross borne before him in the diocese of another: and the standing quarrel between the two archbishops on that point was acute and long lasting. The clerical procession was closed by the Dean of Saint Mary's—John de Oxineford—a warm opponent of Becket, the exiled and absent Primate. After the clergy came a number of the chief officers of state, and lastly, King Henry the Second, who took his seat in the highest of the curule chairs, midmost among the others.

The first of the Plantagenets was no common man. Like most of his race, he was a born statesman; and also like most of them, he allowed his evil passions and natural corruption such free scope that his talents were smothered under their weight. In person he was of middle stature, somewhat thickly built, with a large round head covered by curly hair, cut square upon the forehead. Long arms ended in large hands, the care of which he entirely neglected, never wearing gloves save when he carried a hawk. His complexion was slightly florid, his eyes small but clear and sparkling, dove-like when he was pleased, but flashing fire in his anger. Though his voice was tremulous, yet he could be an eloquent speaker. He rarely sat down, but commonly stood, whether at mass, council, or meals. Except on ceremonial occasions, he was extremely careless in his attire, wearing short clothes of a homely cut, and requiring some persuasion to renew them. He detested every thing that came in the way of his convenience, whether long skirts, hanging sleeves, royal mantles, or boots with folding tops. He was (for his time) a great reader, a "huge lover of the woods" and of all sylvan sports, fond of travelling, a very small eater, a generous almsgiver, a faithful friend—and a good hater. The model example which he set before him as a statesman was that of his grandfather, Henry First. The Empress Maud, his mother, was above all things Norman, and was now living in Normandy in peaceful old age. Perhaps her stormy and eventful life had made her feel weary of storms, for she rarely emerged from her retirement except in the character of a peacemaker. Certainly she had learnt wisdom by adversity. Her former supercilious sternness was gone, and a meek and quiet spirit, which earned the respect of all, had taken its place. She may have owed that change, and her quiet close of life, instrumentally, in some measure to the prayers of the good Queen Maud, that sweet and saintly mother to whom Maud the Empress had in her childhood and maturity been so complete a contrast, and whom she now resembled in her old age. Her son was unhappily not of her later tone, but rather of the earlier, though he rarely reached those passionate depths of pride and bitterness through which his aged mother had struggled into calm. He did not share her Norman proclivities, but looked back—as the mass of his people did with him—to the old Saxon laws of Alfred and of Athelstan, which he called the customs of his grandfather. In a matter of trial for heresy, or a question of doctrine, he was the obedient servant of Rome; but when the Pope laid officious hands on the venerable customs of England, and strove to dictate in points of state law, he found no obedient servant in Henry of Anjou.

This morning, being a ceremonial occasion, His Majesty's attire had risen to it. He wore a white silken tunic, the border richly embroidered in gold; a crimson dalmatic covered with golden stars; a mantle of blue samite, fastened on the right shoulder with a golden fermail set with a large ruby; and red hose, crossed by golden bands all up the leg. The mantle was lined with grey fur; golden lioncels decorated the fronts of the black boots; and a white samite cap, adorned with ostrich feathers, and rising out of a golden fillet, reposed on the King's head.

When the members of the Council had taken their seats, and the Bishop of Lichfield had offered up sundry Latin prayers which about one in ten of the assembled company understood, the King rose to open the Council.

"It is not unknown to you, venerable Fathers," he said, "for what purpose I have convened this Council. There have come into my kingdom certain persons, foreigners, from the dominions of the Emperor, who have gone about the country preaching strange doctrines, and who appear to belong to some new foreign sect. I am unwilling to do injustice, either by punishing them without investigation, or by dismissing them as harmless if they are contaminating the faith and morals of the people. But inasmuch as it appertains to holy Church to judge questions of that nature, I have here summoned you, my Fathers in God, and your clergy, that you may examine these persons, and report to me how far they are innocent or guilty of the false doctrines whereof they are suspected. I pray you therefore so to do: and as you shall report, so shall I know how to deal with them."

His Majesty reseated himself, and the Bishop of the diocese rose, to deliver a long diatribe upon the wickedness of heresy, the infallibility of the Church, and the necessity for the amputation of diseased limbs of the body politic. As nobody disagreed with any of his sentiments, the harangue was scarcely necessary; but time was of small value in the twelfth century. Two other Bishops followed, with long speeches: and then the Council adjourned for dinner, the Earl of Oxford being their host.

On re-assembling about eleven o'clock, the King commanded the prisoners to be brought up. Up they came, the company of thirty—men, women, and children, Gerhardt the foremost at the bar.

"Who are thou?" he was asked.

"I am a German named Gerhardt, born in the dominions of the Duke of Francia, an elector of the Empire."

"Art thou the leader of this company?"

"I am."

"Wherefore earnest thou to this land?"

"Long ago, in my childhood, I had read of the blessed Boniface, who, being an Englishman, travelled into Almayne to teach our people the faith of Christ. I desired to pay back to your land something of the debt we owed her, by bringing back to her the faith of Christ."

"Didst thou ignorantly imagine us without it?"

"I thought," replied Gerhardt in his quiet manner, "that you could scarcely have too much of it."

"What is thy calling?"

"While in this country, I have followed the weaver's craft."

"Art thou a lettered man?"

"I am."

"Try him," said one of the Bishops. A Latin book was handed up to Gerhardt, from which he readily construed some sentences, until the Council declared itself satisfied on that point. This man before them, whatever else he might be, was no mere ignorant peasant.

"Are the rest of thy company lettered men?"

"No. They are mostly peasants."

"Have they gone about preaching, as thou hast?"

"The men have done so."

"And how can ignorant peasants teach abstruse doctrines?"

"I do not think they attempted that. They kept to the simple doctrines."

"What understandest thou by that?" Gerhardt was beginning to answer, when the Bishop of Winchester interposed with another question. He was Prince Henry of Blois, the brother of King Stephen, and a better warrior than a cleric. "Art thou a priest?"

"I am not."

"Go on," said the Bishop of Lincoln, who led the examination. "What meanest thou by the faith of Christ? What dost thou believe about Christ?"

Gerhardt's reply on this head was so satisfactory that the Bishop of Worcester—not long appointed—whispered to his brother of Winchester, "The man is all right!"

"Wait," returned the more experienced and pugnacious prelate. "We have not come to the crux yet."

"You call yourselves Christians, then?" resumed Lincoln.

"Certainly we are Christians, and revere the doctrines of the Apostles."

"What say you of the remedies for sin?"

"I know of one only, which is the blood of Christ our Lord."

"How!—are the sacraments no remedies?"

"Certainly not."

"Is sin not remitted in baptism?"

"No."

"Is not the blood of Christ applied to sinners in the holy Eucharist?"

"I utterly refuse such a doctrine."

"What say you of marriage? is that a sacrament?"

"I do not believe it."

"Ha! the man is all right, is he?" whispered old Winchester satirically to his young neighbour, Worcester.

"Doth not Saint Paul term marriage 'sacramentum magnum'?"

"He did not write in Latin."

This was awkward. The heretic knew rather too much.

"Are you aware that all the holy doctors are against you?"

"I am not responsible for their opinions."

"Do you not accept the interpretation of the Church?"

What his Lordship meant by this well-sounding term was a certain bundle of ideas—some of them very illiterate, some very delicate hair-splitting, some curious even to comicality,—gathered out of the writings of a certain number of men, who assuredly were not inspired, since they often travesty Scripture, and at times diametrically contradict it. Having lived in the darkest times of the Church, they were extremely ignorant and superstitious, even the best of them being enslaved by fancies as untrue in fact as they were unspiritual in tone. It might well have been asked as the response, Where is it?—for no Church, not even that of Rome herself, has ever put forward an authorised commentary explanatory of holy Scripture. Her "interpretation of the Church" has to be gathered here and there by abstruse study, and so far as her lay members are concerned, is practically received from the lips of the nearest priest. Gerhardt, however, did not take this line in replying, but preferred to answer the Bishop's inaccurate use of the word Church, which Rome impudently denies to all save her corrupt self. He replied—

"Of the true Church, which is the elect of God throughout all ages, fore-ordained to eternal life? I see no reason to refuse it."

The Scriptural doctrine of predestination has been compared to "a red rag" offered to a bull, in respect of its effect on those—whether votaries of idols or latitudinarianism—who are conscious that they are not the subjects of saving grace. To none is it more offensive than to a devout servant of the Church of Rome. The Bishop took up the offence at once.

"You hold that heresy—that men are fore-ordained to eternal life?"

"I follow therein the Apostle Paul and Saint Austin."

This was becoming intolerable.

"Doth not the Apostle command his hearers to 'work out their own salvation'?"

"Would it please my Lord to finish the verse?"

It did not please my Lord to finish the verse, as that would have put an extinguisher on his interpretation of it.

"These heretics refuse to be corrected by Scripture!" he cried instead, as a much more satisfactory thing to say.

Gerhardt's quiet answer was only heard by those near him—"I have not been so yet."

This aggravating man must be put down. The Bishop raised his voice.

"Speak, ye that are behind this man. Do ye accept the interpretation of Scripture taught by the Church our mother, to whom God hath committed the teaching of all her children?"

Old Berthold replied. "We believe as we have been taught, but we do not wish to dispute."

"Ye are obstinate in your heresy! Will ye do penance for the same?"

"No," answered Gerhardt.

"Let them have one more chance," said King Henry in a low voice. "If they are unsound on one point only, there might yet be hope of their conversion."

"They are unsound on every point, my Lord," replied Lincoln irascibly; "but at your desire I will test them on one or two more.—Tell me, do ye believe that the souls of the dead pass into Purgatory?"

"We do not."

"Do you pray for the dead?"

"No."

"Do you invocate the blessed Mary and the saints, and trust to their merits and intercession?"

"Never. We worship God, not men."

At this point Winchester beckoned to Lincoln, and whispered something in his ear.

"I am told," pursued the latter, addressing Gerhardt, "that you hold the priests of holy Church not to be validly consecrated, and have so said in public. Is it so?"

"It is so. The temporal power of the Pope has deprived the Church of the true consecration. You have only the shadow of sacraments, and the traditions of men."

"You reject the holy sacraments entirely, then?"

"Not so. We observe the Eucharist at our daily meals. Our Lord bade us 'as oft as we should drink,' to take that wine in remembrance of Him. We do His bidding."

"Ye presume to profane the Eucharist thus!" cried Lichfield in pious horror. "Ye administer to yourselves—"

"As Saint Basil held lawful," interposed Gerhardt.

"Saint Basil spoke of extraordinary occasions when no priest could be had."

"But if it be lawful at any time to receive without priestly consecration, it cannot be unlawful, at every time."

It did not occur to the Bishop to ask the pertinent question, in what passage of Scripture priestly consecration of the Eucharist was required,—nay, in what passage any consecration at all is ever mentioned. For at the original institution of the rite, our Lord consecrated nothing, but merely gave thanks to God [Note 1], as it was customary for the master of the house to do at the Passover feast; and seeing that "if He were on earth, He should not be a priest." [Note 2.] He cannot have acted as a priest when He was on earth. We have even distinct evidence that He declined so to act [Note 3]. And in any subsequent allusions to this Sacrament in the New Testament [Note 4], there is no mention of either priests or consecration. It did not, however, suit the Bishop to pursue this inconvenient point. He passed at once to another item.

"Ye dare to touch the sacred cup reserved to the priests—"

"When did Christ so reserve it? His command was, 'Drink ye all of it.'"

"To the Apostles, thou foolish man!"

"Were they priests at that time?"

This was the last straw. The question could not be answered except in the negative, for if the ordination of the Apostles be not recorded after the Resurrection [John twenty 21-23], then there is no record of their having been ordained at all. To be put in a corner in this manner was more than a Bishop could stand.

"How darest thou beard me thus?" he roared. "Dost thou not know what may follow? Is not the King here, who has the power of life and death, and is he not an obedient son of holy Church?"

The slight smile on Gerhardt's lips said, "Not very!" But his only words were—

"Ay, I know that ye have power. 'This is your hour, and the power of darkness.' We are not afraid. We have had our message of consolation. 'Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"

"Incredible folly!" exclaimed Lincoln. "That was said to the early Christians, who suffered persecution from the heathen: not to heretics, smarting under the deserved correction of the Church. How dare you so misapply it?"

"All the Lord's martyrs were not in the early Church. 'We are the circumcision, who worship God in spirit, and glory in Christ Jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh.' Do to us what ye will. 'Whether we live, we live unto the Lord; or whether we die, we die unto the Lord. Living or dying, we are the Lord's.'"

"We solemnly adjudge you false heretics," was the stern reply, "and deliver you up to our Catholic Prince for punishment. Depart in peace!"

Gerhardt looked up. "'My peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you!' Be it so. We go in peace; we go to peace. Our suffering will soon be over. Already we behold Jesus our Lord at the right hand of God, and we are ready to partake of His sufferings, that we may reign with Him."

King Henry now rose to pronounce sentence. The condemned criminals before him were to be branded on the forehead with a mark of ignominy, to be scourged, and cast forth out of the city. No man might receive them under his roof, relieve them with food, nor administer to them consolation of any sort. And this was the sentence of the King and of holy Church, to the honour and laud of God, and of Mary, His most glorious Mother!

The sentence was carried out even more barbarously than it was pronounced. The foreheads of all were branded with hot irons, they were whipped through the city, and their clothes having been cut short to the girdle [John twenty 21-23], they were turned into the snow-covered fields. One of the men appointed to use the branding-irons had just lost a daughter, and moved by a momentary impulse of pity (for which he afterwards blamed himself and did penance), he passed two or three of the younger women—Ermine among them—with a lighter brand than the rest. No such mercy was shown to the men or the elder women, nor would it have been to Ermine, had it not been the case that her extreme fairness made her look much younger than she really was.

Gerhardt, being regarded as the ringleader, was also branded on the chin.

"Courage, my children!" he said to the shivering, trembling little company, as they were marched down High Street. "We are counted worthy—worthy to suffer shame for Him who suffered dire shame for us. Let us praise God."

And to the amazement, alike of the officials and the crowd of spectators, the song was set up, and echoed into the side streets—"Blessed are ye, when men shall persecute you, for the Son of Man's sake!" varied every now and then by a joyous chorus of "Glory to God in the highest! on earth peace, goodwill towards men!"

The song was heard clearly enough in the Walnut Tree: so clearly, that Flemild even fancied she could distinguish Ermine's voice from the rest.

"Mother, will you go and look?" she asked, tears running down her face.

"I'll not go near," said Isel, in a tone of defiance very unusual with her. "I'll not get your father and you into trouble. And if I were to go, much if I didn't tear somebody a-pieces."

"O Mother! you wouldn't touch our old friends? They've enough to bear, surely."

"I said somebody! child!" was the growl in answer: and Flemild did not venture to reply.

Fainter and fainter grew the sounds; only strengthened for a minute when the higher notes of the chorus supervened. Then came a great roar of applause from the crowd, as the East Gate was reached, and the heretics were cast out from the priest-ridden city. But they scarcely heard that in Kepeharme Lane.

At the window of the anchorhold stood Derette, having sent Leuesa to bring her word what happened. She could see nothing, yet she heard the joyous chant of "Glory to God in the highest!" as the crowd and the condemned swept down the street just beyond her ken. Leuesa did not even try to hide her tears when she reached the shelter of the anchorhold: before that, it would have been perilous to shed them.

"Oh, it was dreadful, Lady! Gerard never looked at any one: he walked first, and he looked as if he saw nothing but God and Heaven. Agnes I could not see, nor the child; I suppose they were on the other side. But Ermine saw me, and she gave me a smile for you—I am sure she meant it for you—such as an angel might have given who had been a few hours on earth, and was just going back to his place before the Throne."

Manning and Haimet, who had joined the crowd of sightseers, had not returned when the latch of the Walnut Tree was lifted, and Anania walked in.

"What, both stayed at home! O Aunt Isel, you have missed such a sight!"

"Well, you've got it, then, I suppose," muttered Isel.

"I shall never forget it—not if I live to be a hundred."

"Umph! Don't think I shall neither."

"Now, didn't I tell you those foreigners were no good? Osbert always said so. I knew I was right. And I am, you see."

"You're standing in my light, Anania—that's all I can see at present."

Anania moved about two inches. "Oh, but it was grand to see the Council come out of Saint Mary's! All the doctors in their robes, and the Bishops, and last the King—such a lovely shade his mantle was! It's a pity the Queen was not there too; I always think a procession's half spoiled when there are no ladies."

"Oh, that's what you're clucking about, is it? Processions, indeed!"

"Aunt Isel, are you very cross, or what's the matter with you?"

"She's in pain, I fear," said Flemild quickly.

"Where's the pain? I've gathered some splendid fresh betony and holy-thistle."

"Here!" said Isel, laying her hand on her heart.

"Why, then, holy-thistle's just what you want. I'll send you some down by Stephen."

"Thank you. But it'll do me no good."

"Oh, don't you say that, now.—Flemild, I wonder you did not come to see all the sights. You'll find you've not nearly so much time for pleasure after you're married; don't look for it. Have you settled when it's to be?"

"It was to have been last month, you know, but Father wanted it put off."

"Ay, so as he could know Raven a bit better. Well, when is it to be now?"

"March, they say."

"You don't say it as if you enjoyed it much."

"Maybe she takes her pleasure in different ways from you," said Isel. "Can't see any, for my part, in going to see a lot of poor wretches flogged and driven out into the snow. Suppose you could."

"O Aunt!—when they were heretics?"

"No, nor murderers neither—without they'd murdered me, and then I reckon I shouldn't have been there to look at 'em."

"But the priests say they are worse than murderers—they murder men's souls."

"I'm alive, for aught I know. And I don't expect to say my Paternoster any worse than I did seven years gone."

"How do you know they haven't bewitched you?" asked Anania in a solemn tone.

"For the best of all reasons—that I'm not bewitched."

"Aunt Isel, I'm not so sure of that. If those wretches—"

"O Anania, do let Mother be!" pleaded Flemild. "It is her pain that speaks, not herself. I told you she was suffering."

"You did; but I wonder if her soul isn't worse than her body. I'll just give Father Dolfin a hint to look to her soul and body both. They say those creatures only bewitched one maid, and she was but a poor villein belonging to some doctor of the schools: and so frightened was she to see their punishment that she was in a hurry to recant every thing they had taught her. Well! we shall see no more of them, that's one good thing. I shouldn't think any of them would be alive by the end of the week. The proclamation was strict—neither food nor shelter to be given, nor any compassion shown. And branded as they are, every body will know them, you see."

Stephen came in while his sister-in-law was speaking.

"Come, now, haven't you had talk enough?" said he. "You've a tongue as long as from here to Banbury Cross. You'd best be going home, Anania, for Osbert's as cross as two sticks, and he'll be there in a few minutes."

"Oh dear, one never has a bit of peace! I did think I could have sat a while, and had a nice chat."

"It won't be so nice if you keep Osbert waiting, I can tell you."

Anania rose with evident reluctance, and gathered her mantle round her.

"Well, good-day, Aunt Isel! I'll send you down the holy-thistle. Good-day, Flemild. Aren't you coming with me, Stephen?"

"No; I want to wait for Uncle Manning."

"Stephen, I'm obliged to you for ever and ever! If she'd stayed another minute, I should have flown at her!"

"You looked as if you'd come to the end of your patience," said Stephen, smiling, but gravely; "and truly, I don't wonder. But what's this about holy-thistle? Are you sick, Aunt Isel?"

Isel looked searchingly into her nephew's face.

"You look true," she said; "I think you might be trusted, Stephen."

"Oh, if you're grieving over them, don't be afraid to tell me so. I did my best to save Gerard, but he would not be warned. I'd have caught up the child and brought him to you, if I'd had a chance; but I was hemmed in the crowd, a burly priest right afore me, and I couldn't have laid hand on him. Poor souls! I'm sorry for them."

"God bless thee for those words, Stephen! I'm sore for them to the very core of my heart. If they'd been my own father's children or mine, I couldn't feel sadder than I do. And to have to listen to those hard, cold, brutal words from that woman—."

"I know. She is a brute. I guessed somewhat how things were going with you, for I saw her turn in here from the end of Saint Edward's; and I thought you mightn't be so sorry to have her sent off. Her tongue's not so musical as might be."

Manning and Haimet came in together. The former went up to Isel, while Haimet began a conversation with his cousin, and after a moment the two young men left the house together. Then Manning spoke.

"Wife and children," said he, "from this day forward, no word is to be uttered in my house concerning these German people. They are heretics, so pronounced by holy Church; and after that, no compassion may be shown to them. Heretics are monsters, demons in human form, who seek the ruin of souls. Remember my words."

Isel looked earnestly in her husband's face.

"No," said Manning, not unkindly, but firmly; "no excuses for them, Isel. I can quite understand that you feel sorry for those whom you have regarded as friends for seven years: but such sorrow is now sin. You must crush and conquer it. It were rebellion against God, who has judged these miscreants by the lips of His Church."

Isel broke down in a very passion of tears.

"I can't help it, Manning; I can't help it!" she said, when she could speak. "It may be sin, but I must do it and do penance for it—it's not a bit of use telling me I must not. I'll try not to talk if you bid me be silent, but you must give me a day or two to get quieted,—till every living creature round has done spitting venom at them. I don't promise to hold my tongue to that ninny of an Anania—she aggravates me while it isn't in human nature to keep your tongue off her; it's all I can do to hold my hands."

"She is very provoking, Father," said Flemild in an unsteady voice; "she wears Mother fairly out."

"You may both quarrel with Anania whenever you please," replied Manning calmly; "I've nothing to say against that. But you are not to make excuses for those heretics, nor to express compassion for them. Now those are my orders: don't let me have to give them twice."

"No, Father; you shall not, to me," said Flemild in a low tone.

"I can't promise you nothing," said Isel, wiping her eyes on her apron, "because I know I shall just go and break it as fast as it's made: but when I can, I'll do your bidding, Manning. And till then, you'll have either to thrash me or forgive me—whichever you think the properest thing to do."

Manning walked away without saying more.

Snow, snow everywhere!—lying several inches deep on the tracks our forefathers called roads, drifted several feet high in corners and clefts of the rocks. Pure, white, untrodden, in the silent fields; but trampled by many feet upon the road to Dorchester, the way taken by the hapless exiles. No voice was raised in pity, no hand outstretched for help; every door was shut against the heretics. Did those who in after years were burned at the stake on the same plea suffer more or less than this little band of pioneers, as one after another sank down, and died in the white snow? The trembling hands of the survivors heaped over each in turn the spotless coverlet, and then they passed on to their own speedy fate.

The snow descended without intermission, driving pitilessly in the scarred faces of the sufferers. Had they not known that it came from the hand of their heavenly Father, they might have fancied that Satan was warring against them by that means, as the utmost and the last thing that he could do. But as the snow descended, the song ascended as unceasingly. Fainter and less full it grew to human ears, as one voice after another was silenced. It may be that the angels heard it richer and louder, as the choristers grew more few and weak.

Of the little family group which we have followed, the first to give way was Agnes. She had taken from her own shivering limbs, to wrap round the child, one of the mutilated garments which alone her tormentors had left her. As they approached Nuneham, she staggered and fell. Guelph and Adelheid ran to lift her up.

"Oh, let me sleep!" she said. "I can sing no more."

"Ay, let her sleep," echoed Gerhardt in a quivering voice; "she will suffer least so. Farewell for a moment, my true beloved! We shall meet again ere the hour be over."

Gerhardt held on but a little longer. Doubly branded, and more brutally scourged than the rest, he was so ill from the first that he had to be helped along by Wilhelm and Conrad, two of the strongest in the little company. How Ermine fared they knew not: they could only tell that when they reached Bensington, she was no longer among them. Most of the children sank early. Little Rudolph fared the best, for a young mother who had lost her baby gave him such poor nourishment as she could from her own bosom. It was just as they came out of Dorchester, that they laid him down tenderly on a bed of leaves in a sheltered corner, to sleep out his little life. Then they passed on, still southwards—still singing "Glory to God in the highest!" and "Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake!" Oh, what exquisite music must have floated up through the gates of pearl, and filled the heavenly places, from that poor faint song, breathed by those trembling voices that could scarcely utter the notes!

A few hours later, and only one dark figure was left tottering through the snow. Old Berthold was alone.

Snow everywhere!—and the night fell, and the frost grew keen; and Bensington had not long been left behind when old Berthold lay down in the ditch at the road-side. He had sung his last song, and could go no further. He could only wait for the chariot of God—for the white-winged angels to come silently over the white snow, and carry him Home.

"The Lord will not forget me, though I am the last left," he said to himself. "His blessings are not mere empty words. 'Glory to God in the highest!'" And Berthold slept.

"Rudolph!" The word was breathed softly, eagerly, by some moving thing closely wrapped up, in the dense darkness of the field outside Dorchester. There was no answer.

"Rudolph!" came eagerly again.

The speaker, who was intently listening, fancied she heard the faintest possible sound. Quickly, quietly, flitting from one point to another, feeling with her hands on the ground, under the bushes, by the walls, she went, till her outstretched hands touched something round and soft, and not quite so chillingly cold as every thing else seemed to be that night.

"Rudolph! art thou here?"

"Yes, it's me," said the faint childish voice. "Where am I?—and who are you?"

"Drink," was the answer; and a bottle of warm broth was held to the boy's blue lips. Then, when he had drunk, he was raised from the ground, clasped close to a woman's warm breast, and a thick fur mantle was hastily wrapped round them both.

"Who are you?" repeated the child. "And where—where's Mother?"

"I am an old friend, my little child. Hast thou ever heard the name of Countess?"

"Yes," murmured the child feebly. He could not remember yet how or where he had heard it; he only knew that it was not strange to him.

"That is well. Glory be to the Blessed that I have found thee in time to save thee!"

They were speeding back now into the lighted town—not lighted, indeed, by out-door lamps, but by many an open door and uncovered window, and the lanterns of passengers going up or down the street. Countess carried the child to a stone house—only Jews built stone houses in towns at that day—and into a ground-floor room, where she laid him down on a white couch beside the fire. There were two men in the room—both old, and with long white beards.

"Countess! what hast thou there?" sternly asked one of the men.

"Father Jacob!—a babe of the Goyim!" exclaimed the other.

"Hush!" said Countess in a whisper, as she bent over the boy. "The life is barely in him. May the Blessed (to whom be praise!) help me to save my darling!"

"Accursed are all the infidels!" said the man who seemed slightly the younger of the two. "Daughter, how earnest thou by such a child, and how darest thou give him such a name?"

Countess made no answer. She was busy feeding little Rudolph with bits of bread sopped in warm broth.

"Where am I?" asked the child, as sense and a degree of strength returned to him. "It isn't Isel's house."

"Wife, dost thou not answer the Cohen?" said the elder man angrily.

"The Cohen can wait for his answer; the child cannot for his life. When I think him safe I will answer all you choose."

At length, after careful feeding and drying, Countess laid down the spoon, and covered the child with a warm woollen coverlet.

"Sleep, my darling!" she said softly. "The God of Israel hush thee under His wings!"

A few moments of perfect quiet left no doubt that little Rudolph was sound asleep. Then Countess stood up, and turned to the Rabbi.

"Now, Cohen, I am ready. Ask me what you will."

"Who and what is this child?"

"An exile, as we are. An orphan, cast on the great heart of the All-Merciful. A trust which was given to me, and I mean to fulfil it."

"That depends on the leave of thy lord."

"It depends on nothing of the sort. I sware to the dead father of this boy that I would protect him from all hurt."

"Sware! Well, then—" said the elder Jew—"an oath must be fulfilled, Cohen?"

"That depends on circumstances," returned the Rabbi in Jesuitical wise. "For instance, if Countess sware by any idol of the Goyim, it is void. If she sware by her troth, or faith, or any such thing, it may be doubtful, and might require a synod of the Rabbins to determine it. But if she sware by the Holy One (blessed be He!) then the oath must stand. But of course, daughter, thou wilt have the boy circumcised, and bring him up as a proselyte of Israel."

The expression in the eyes of Countess did not please the Rabbi.

"Thus I sware," she said: "'God do so to me and more also, if I bring not the child to you unhurt!' How can I meet that man at the day of doom, if I have not kept mine oath—if I deliver not the boy to him unhurt, as he will deem hurting?"

"But that were to teach him the idolatries of the Goyim!" exclaimed the Rabbi in horror.

"I shall teach him no idolatry. Only what his father would have taught him—and I know what that was. I have listened to him many a day on Presthey and Pary's Mead."

"Countess, I shall not suffer it. Such a thing must not be done in my house."

"It has to be done in mine," said Countess doggedly.

"I do not forbid thee to show mercy to the child. If he be, as thou sayest, an orphan and an exile, and thou moreover hast accepted some fashion of trust with regard to him (however foolish it were to do so), I am willing that thou shouldst keep him a day or two, till he has recovered. But then shelter must be sought for him with the Goyim."