He thought of his father, and of the Frenchman, the Sieur de Fievrault, whose place and even name he was to assume. Once he thought he saw the figure of the slain Gaul before him, but he breathed a prayer and it disappeared.

How he welcomed the morning light. The sun breaks forth, the light streams in, Hence, hence, ye shades, away!

Imagine our Hubert's joy, when, the following morning, Earl Simon quite unexpectedly arrived at the castle, and with him the Bishop of Hereford; come together to confer on important business of state with the Earl of Hereford, whom they had first sought at his own city, then followed to this outpost, where they learned from his people he had come to confer knighthood on some valiant squire.

The reader may also imagine how Earl Simon hoped that that valiant squire might prove to be Hubert. And lo! so it turned out.

Early in the morning our young friend was led to the bath, where he put off forever the garb of a squire, then laved himself in token of purification, after which he was vested in the garb and arms of knighthood. The under dress given to him was a close jacket of chamois leather, over which he put a mail shirt, composed of rings deftly fitted into each other, and very flexible. A breastplate had to be put on over this. And as each weapon or piece of armour was given, strange parallels were found between the temporal and spiritual warfare, which, save when knighthood was assumed with a distinctly religious purpose, would seem almost profane.

Thus with the breastplate: "Stand—having on the breastplate of righteousness."

And with the shield: "Take the shield of faith, wherewith thou shalt be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked."

We will not follow the parallel farther: had all the customs of chivalry been indeed performed in accordance with this high ideal, how different the medieval world would have been.

Thus accoutred, but as yet without helmet, sword, or spurs, our young friend was led to the castle chapel, between two (so-called) godfathers—two sons of the Earl of Hereford—in solemn procession, amidst the plaudits of the crowd. There the Earl of Leicester awaited him, and Hubert's heart beat wildly with joy and excitement, as he saw him in all his panoply, awaiting the ward whom he had received ten years earlier as a little boy from the hands of his father, then setting out for his eventful crusade.

The bishop was at the altar. The High Mass was then said; and after the service the young knight, advancing to the sanctuary, received from the good earl, whom he loved so dearly, as the flower of English chivalry, the accolade or knightly embrace.

The Bishop of Hereford belted on the young knight's own sword, which he took from the altar, and the spurs were fastened on by the Lady Alicia, wife of Lord Walter of Hereford, and dame of the castle.

Hubert then took the oath to be faithful to God, to the king, and to the ladies, after which he was enjoined to war down the proud and all who did wickedly, to spare the humble, to redress all wrongs within his power, to succour the miserable, to avenge the oppressed, to help the poor and fatherless unto their right, to do this and that; in short, to do all that a good Christian warrior ought to do.

Then he was led forth from the church, amidst the cheers and acclamations of all the population of the district, with whom the action which hastened his knighthood had won him popularity. Alms to the poor, largesse to the harpers and minstrels: all had to be given; and the reader may guess whose liberality supplied the gifts.

Then—the banquet was spread in the castle hall.



Chapter 13: How Martin Gained His Desire.

While one of the two friends was thus hewing his way to knighthood by deeds of "dering do," the other was no less steadily persevering in the path which led to the object of his desire. The less ambitious object, as the world would say.

He was ever indefatigable in his work of love amidst the poor and sick, and gained the approbation of his superiors most thoroughly, although in the stern coldness which they thought an essential part of true discipline, they were scant of their encomiums. Men ought to work, they said, simply from a sense of duty to God, and earthly praise was the "dead fly which makes the apothecary's ointment to stink." So they allowed their younger brethren to toil on without any such mundane reward, only they cheered them by their brotherly love, shown in a hundred different ways.

One long-remembered day in the summer of the year 1259, Martin strolled down the river's banks, to indulge in meditation and prayer. But the banks were too crowded for him that day. He marked the boats as they came up from Abingdon, drawn by horses, laden with commodities; or shot down the swift stream without such adventitious aid. Pleasure wherries darted about impelled by the young scholars of Oxford, as in these modern days. Fishermen plied their trade or sport. The river was the great highway; no, there was no solitude there.

So into the forest which lay between Oxford and Abingdon, now only surviving in Bagley Wood, plunged our novice. As the poet says:

Into the forest, darker, deeper, grayer, His lips moving as if in prayer, Walked the monk Martin, all alone: Around him the tops of the forest trees Waving, made the sign of the Cross And muttered their benedicites.

The woods were God's first temples; and even now where does one feel so alone with one's Maker? How sweet the solemn silence! where the freed spirit, freed from external influences, can hold communion with its heavenly Father. So felt Martin. The very birds seemed to him to be singing carols; and the insects to join, with their hum, the universal hymn of praise.

Oh how the serpent lurks in Eden—beneath earthly beauty lies the mystery of pain and suffering.

A wail struck on Martin's ears—the voice of a little child, and soon he brushed aside the branches in the direction of the cry, until he struck upon a faintly trodden path, which led to the cottage of one of the foresters, or as we should say "keepers."

At the gate of the little enclosure, which surrounded the patch of cultivated ground attached to the house, a young child stood weeping. When she saw Martin her eyes lighted up with joy.

"Oh, God has sent thee, good brother. Come and help my poor mother. She is so ill," and she tripped back towards the house; "and father can't help her, nor brother either. Father lies cold and still, and brother frightens me."

What did it mean?

Martin saw it at once—the plague! That terrible oriental disease, probably a malignant form of typhus, bred of foul drainage, and cultivated as if in some satanic hot bed, until it had reached the perfection of its deadly growth, by its transmission from bodily frame to frame. It was terribly infectious, but what then? It had to be faced, and if one died of it, one died doing God's work—thought Martin.

So as Hubert faced his Welshmen, did Martin face his foe—"typhus" or plague, call it which we please.

Which required the greater courage, my younger readers? But there was no more faltering in Martin's step than in Hubert's, as he went to that pallet in an inner room, where a human being tossed in all the heat of fever, and the incessant cry, "I thirst," pierced the heart.

"So did HE thirst on the Cross," thought Martin, "and He thirsts again in the suffering members of His mystical body—for in all their affliction He is afflicted."

There was no water close by in the chamber, but Martin had noticed a clear spring outside, and taking a cup he went to the fount and filled it. He administered it sparingly to the parched lips, fearing its effect in larger quantities, but oh! the eagerness with which the sufferer received it—those blanched lips, that dry parched palate.

"Canst thou hear me, art thou conscious?"

"An angel of God?"

"No, a sinner like thyself."

"Go, thou wilt catch the plague."

"I am in God's hands. HE has sent me to thee. Tell me sister—hast thou thrown thyself upon His mercy, and united thy sufferings with those of the Slain, the Crucified, who thirsted for thee?"

And Martin spoke of the life of love, and the death of shame, as an angel might have done, his features lighted up with love and faith. And the living word was blessed by the Giver of Life.

Then he felt the poor child pulling him gently to another room, whence faint moans were now heard. There lay the brother, a fine lad of some fourteen summers, in the death agony, the face black already; and on another pallet the dead body of the forester, the father of the family.

Martin could not leave them. The night came on. He kindled a fire, both for warmth and to purify the air. He found some cakes and very soon roasted a morsel for the poor girl, the only one yet untouched, partaking of it sparingly himself. He went from sufferer to sufferer; moistening the lips, assuaging the agony of the body, and striving to save the soul.

The poor boy passed into unconsciousness and died while Martin prayed by his side. The widow lingered till the morning light, when she, too, passed away into peace, her last hours soothed by the message of the Gospel.

Then Martin took the child and led her towards the city, meditating sadly on the strange mystery of death and pain. The woods were as beautiful as before, but not in the eyes of one whose mind was full of the remembrance of the ravages of the fell destroyer.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the good sisters of Saint Clare, who will take care of thee for Christ's sake."

So he strove to wipe away the tears from the orphan's eyes.

He reached Oxford, gave up his charge to the charitable sisterhood, then reported himself to his academical and ecclesiastical superiors, who were pleased to express their approval of all that he had done. But as a measure of precaution they bade him change and destroy his infected raiment, to take a certain electuary supposed to render a person less disposed to infection, and to retire early to his couch.

All this he did; but after his first sleep he woke up with an aching head and intolerable sense of heat—feverish heat. He understood it all too well, and lost no time in commending himself to his heavenly Father, for he felt that he might soon lose consciousness and be unable to do so.

A purer spirit never commended itself to its Maker and Redeemer. But it was not in this he put his trust. It was in Him of whom Saint Francis sang so sweetly:

To Him my heart He drew While hanging on the tree, From whence He said to me I am the Shepherd true; Love sets my heart on fire— Love of the Crucified.

And ere his delirium set in, Martin made a full resignation of his will to God. He had hoped to do much for love of his Lord, to carry the message of the Gospel into the Andredsweald, where the kindred of his mother yet lived, and the thought that he should never see their forest glades again was painful. And the blankness of unconsciousness, the fearful nature of the black death, was in itself repulsive; but it had all been ordered and settled by Infinite Love before ever he was born, probably before the worlds were framed, and Martin said with all his heart the words breathed by the Incarnate God, when groaning beneath the olive tree in mysterious agony:

"Not my will, but thine, be done."

And then he lapsed into delirium.

The next sensation of which he was conscious, and which he afterwards remembered, for we have not done with our Martin yet, was one of a singular character. A glorious light, but intensely painful, seemed before his eyes. It burnt, it dazzled, it confounded him; yet he admired and adored it, for it seemed to him the glory of God thus fashioning itself before him. And on that brilliant orb, glowing like a sun, was a black spot which seemed to Martin to be himself, a blot on God's glory, and he cried, "Oh, let me perish, if but Thy glory be unstained," when a voice seemed to reply, "My glory shall be shown in thy redemption, not in thy destruction."

Probably this took place at the crisis of the disease, and the physical and spiritual sensations were in union throughout the illness. For now Martin was delirious with joy—sweet strains of music were ever about him. The angels gathered in his cell and sang carols, songs of love to the Crucified. One stormy night, when gentle but heavy rain descended, patter, patter, on the roof above his head, he thought Gabriel and all the angelic choir were there, singing the Gloria in Excelsis, poising themselves on wings without the window, and the strain:

Pax in terra hominibus bonoe voluntatis,

Was so ineffably sweet that the tears rolled down his cheeks in streams.

This was the end of the imaginary music. The next morning he woke up conscious—himself again. His first return to consciousness was an impression of a voice:

"Dearest brother, thou art better, art thou not?"

"I am quite free from pain, only a hungered."

"What food dost thou desire to enter thy lips first?"

"The Bread of Life."

"But not as the Viaticum {20}, thank God. Wait awhile, I go to fetch it from the altar."

And the successor of Adam de Maresco, the new head of the Oxford House, left the youth and went into their plainly-furnished chapel, where, in a silver dove, the only silver about the church, the reserved sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ was always kept for the sick in case of need. It hung from the beams of the chancel, before the high altar.

First the prior knelt and thanked God for having preserved the life of the youth they all loved.

"Thou hast yet great things for him to do on earth ere it come to his turn to rest," he murmured. "To Thee be all the glory."

Then he returned and gave the young novice his communion. Martin received it, and said, "I have found Him whom my soul loveth. I will hold Him and will not let Him go."

From that time the patient was able to take solid nourishment, and grew rapidly better, until at last he could leave his room and sit in the sunny cloisters:

Restored to life, and power, and thought.

And one day he sat there, dreamily watching old Father Thames, as he murmured and bubbled along, outside the stone boundary.

"Onward till he lose himself in the ocean, so do flow our lives till they merge into eternity," said the prior. "Now with impetuous flow, now in gentler ripple, but ever onward as God hath ordained; so may our souls, when the work of life is accomplished, lose themselves in God."

Martin moved his lips in silent acquiescence.

It was intense, the enjoyment of that sweet spring day, a day when all the birds seemed singing songs of gladness, and the air was balmy beyond description. Life seemed worth living.

"My son, when thou art better thou must travel for change of air."

"Whither?" said Martin.

"Where wouldst thou like to go?"

"Oh, may I go to my kindred and teach them the holy truths of the Gospel?"

"Thou shalt. Brother Ginepro shall go with thee, and ere thou startest thou shalt be admitted to the privileges and duties of the second order, and be Brother Martin."

"And when shall I be ordained?"

"That may not be, yet. Thou art not twenty years of age. Thou mayst win many souls to Christ while a lay brother, as did Francis himself, our great master. He did not seek the priesthood also, too great a burden for a humble soul like his, and certes, if men understood what a priest is and what he should be, there would be fewer but perchance holier priests than there are now."

The reader must remember that nearly all the friars were laymen; lay preachers, as we would say; preaching was not then considered a special clerical function.

Martin could not speak for joy, but soon tears were seen to start down his cheeks.

"I was thinking of my poor mother. Oh, that she had lived to see this day," he exclaimed, as he saw the prior observe his emotion.

The reader will remember that news of her death had reached Martin soon after his arrival at Kenilworth, without which he could not have remained all these years away from the Andredsweald. Her death had partially (only partially) snapped the link which bound him to his kindred, the love of whom now began to revive in the breast of the convalescent.



Chapter 14: May Day In Lewes.

It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the calendar. The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had arrayed themselves in their brightest robe of green; the hedges were white and fragrant with may; the anemone, the primrose, the cowslip, and blue bell carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the oaks and poplars were already putting on their summer garb. The butterflies settled upon flower after flower; the bees were rejoicing in their labour; their work glowed, and the sweet honey was fragrant with thyme.

Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as from village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex poured out from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and James; the children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred fantastic hues, the May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of May chosen by lot from amongst the village maidens.

Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our tale betakes itself again—around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye, Alfristun, Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like—not, as now, accessible by rail and surrounded by arable lands; but settlements in the forest, with the mighty oaks and beeches which had perchance seen the coming of Ella and Cissa, long ere the Norman set foot in Angleland; and with solemn glades where the wind made music in the tree tops, and the graceful deer bounded athwart the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled brake and inaccessible morass.

Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it might be never to return.

"It is a fair land; God keep it till I return."

The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.

"Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell."

Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.

"And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never leaves the convent's boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.

"If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a warrior."

He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer guest at the noontide meal, the "nuncheon" of Earl Warrenne of Lewes, the lord of the castle.

It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely to endanger his life.

A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael's Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael's shrine enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.

But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries:

"Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!"

And it is very probable that he would have been "done to death" had not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.

Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered the square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was immediate. The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which made way for them as if a superior being had commanded their reverence, and one of the two mounted on a cart, and took for his text, in a clear piercing voice which was heard everywhere, "Christ, and Him crucified."

The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," said he. "He is the prisoner of the Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and his light be extinguished in darkness."

All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but radiant with emotion, began to speak.

And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of the day.

"The object of the Crucifixion," he said, "had yet to be attained amongst them."

A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one had desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a thousand desecrated forms before him who ought to be living crucifixes, for were they not told to crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts, to remain upon their voluntary crosses till Christ said, "Come down. Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord"? And were they doing this? Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as for instance the saints of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done; giving heart for heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread and ghastly idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to be companions of the angels—God's holy ones? Or the slaves and sport of the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?

The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men of the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were scarce as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work which the public press does now, as well as its own, and the preacher was a power. But those medieval sermons were full of quaint illustrations.

Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn and love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over one repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the Lord afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a ringing, when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the Lord—one repentant sinner.

"They are waiting now," he said. "Will you keep them waiting up there with their hands on the ropes?"

Cries of "No! no!" broke from several.

"And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their claws, hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire are the worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of men. Now, on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of God, where be many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to the rule of Saint Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the chapel, methought it was full of devils whispering all sorts of temptations, as they did to Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks from their prayers and meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and methought one devil only sat on the gate, and swayed the hearts of all the men in the town. He had little to do. The world and the flesh were helping him, and just now it was the devil of cruelty."

The men looked down.

"'A Jew! only a Jew!' you say; 'the wicked Jews crucified our Lord.'

"And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians crucify our Lord afresh."

And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept aloud. In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted Martin to the priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries of joy.

"Thou hast begun well, brother Martin," said Ginepro, when they could first speak to each other in the hospitium.

"I! No, not I. God gave me strength," and he sank on the bench exhausted and pale.

"It is too much for thee."

"No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase."

"What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee, but couldn't get near thee for the press," cried an exultant voice.

"My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?"

"Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to the Holy Land.

"But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin."

"You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your spurs."

Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are acquainted.

Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.

They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting was made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the past brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which all, monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned through the vast pile.

Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from the rule—where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him with those aged eyes.

"God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be trials and difficulties."

"I am prepared for them."

"But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled; and my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy duty. Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek of the old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it thee freely when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name. But be sure thou dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the place is haunted. Then thou must take the nearest route to Jerusalem."

"But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen."

"Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they allow pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst a victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not allowed as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy Sepulchre, to deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou mayst return."

"But will there be no fighting?"

"This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one campaign, not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and remember that but to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee to all the indulgences and privileges of a crusader—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary, Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by reason of the truce, although the infidels be very treacherous, and thou wilt need constant vigilance."

So they talked until the midnight hour.

No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on the floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was absolute, and so they slept.

On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the last farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished his grasp of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the purpose of many years had come at last. Martin and his brother and companion Ginepro were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to act as a guard of honour to the young knight in his passage through the forest to the castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel together as long as their different objects permitted.

"My men will be a protection," said Hubert.

The young friars laughed.

"We need no protection," said Ginepro. "If we want arms, these bulrushes will serve for spears."

"Nay, do not jest," said Martin.

"We have other arms, my Hubert."

"What are they?"

"Only faith and prayer, but they never fail."

Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek and carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till he had dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin told his plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to reclaim the outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to reunite the lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together in one common love.

"Shall you visit Walderne Castle?" inquired Hubert.

"It may fall to my lot to do so."

"Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both."

"He may have mended."

Hubert shook his head.

A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.

At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.

"They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis," said Ginepro, "which my father witnessed."

"Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way."

"Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their songs of gladness, whereupon he said:

"'My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung your sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.'

"And the birds were silent."

"I can quite believe it."

"His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was brought in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they were just going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and pitied it.

"'Little brother leveret,' he said. 'How didst thou let thyself be taken?'

"The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took refuge in the robe of the father.

"'Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught again,' he said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go."

Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged from the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children playing at seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.

Instantly he cried, "Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and have a turn."

"Are we not too old for such sport?" said Martin.

"Not a bit. I feel quite like a child," and off he ran to join the children amidst the laughter of a few older people.

But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless as he related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy Innocents, stories which came quite fresh to them in those days, when there were few books, and fewer readers. And these little Sussex children drank in the touching story with all their little ears and hearts. In all Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness. And that same evening, when the woodmen came home from work, Martin preached to the whole village from the steps of the churchyard cross.

It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on those of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.

Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and without that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the parochial flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin at last stopped, exhausted:

"Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night."

And they willingly consented.

But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.



Chapter 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.

The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were men-at-arms of Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls (churls) of Saxon lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young lord, and acknowledge him as their liege, ere he left them for the treacherous and burning East to accomplish his father's vow.

The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those days of slow locomotion.

A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the length of the hall. At the end another "board," raised a foot higher, formed the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre, just opposite the junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state, surmounted by a canopy; on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his left the hero of the night, our Hubert.

The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved; and hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely dinted; with tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those who had borne them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There were the horns of enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars; war against man and beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life then.

And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare?

First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises—a goodly number.

Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season didn't matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons, ducks, et id genus omne.

Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves.

Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels of last autumn's apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England.

In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.

As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).

All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:

Sometimes in the night watch, Half seen in the gloaming, Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating All into the darkness.

And the harps responded in deep minor chords: All into the darkness.

We dream that we clasp them, The forms of our dear ones. When, lo, as we touch them, They leave us and vanish On wings that beat lightly The still paths of slumber.

Very softly the harps: The still paths of slumber.

They left in high valour The land of their boyhood, And sorrowful patience Awaits their returning While love holds expectant Their homes in our bosoms.

Sweetly the harps: Their homes in our bosoms.

In high hope they left us In sorrow with weeping Their loved ones await them. For lo, to their greeting Instead of our heroes Come only their phantoms.

The harps deep and low: Come only their phantoms.

We weep as we reckon The deeds of their glory— Of this one the wisdom, Of that one the valour: And they in their beauty Sleep sound in their death shrouds.

The harps dismally: Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.

"Stop! stop!" said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady's eyes. "No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such boding?"

"Let the heir stay with us," cried the guests.

"Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him for his own fair face;" (Hubert blushed), "for the deed of valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.

"One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert, mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the name of 'Radulphus,' or 'Ralph,' in memory of his grandfather.

"Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives."

They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a "maiden" speech, so gracefully—just as you would expect of our Hubert.

"The Holy Land," said Sir Nicholas, "is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives."

"We will, God being our helper."

"And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return."

It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of "a Paynim sultan," and whom the sultan's daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

"No pagan beauty," he seemed to whisper, "shall ever rob me of my heart. I leave it behind in England."

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At Harengod, his mother's demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father's brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.

He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without issue, the other should have both domains.

Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it? Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.

When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil's bower, while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.

Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn't help a tear. But he must go!

"Wilt thou be true to me till death?" the anxious lover cried. "Ay, while this mortal form hath breath," Alicia replied.

"Come, go to bed," said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went: To bed, but not to sleep.

On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for it was an old proverb with them, "mass and meat hinder no man," and then the breakfast table was duly honoured.

And then—the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods, with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and his glory.

Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight's heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.

The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest, which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the district infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an escort. In the depths of these hoary woods were iron works, which had existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.

Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility—the knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.

Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high tide—leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the father of "Roaring Ralph" of that ilk still resided, lord paramount. The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting knight. How tantalising!

Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the Queen's uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king's foreign kindred.

There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in the Rose of Pevensey.

England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.

My native land—Good night.



Chapter 16: Michelham Once More.

It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which encompass Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham Priory.

Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the recreation hour, between vespers and compline.

Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the tower of Hamelsham: the "lowing herd wound slowly o'er the lea" from the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint Francis, and approached the gateway.

"There be some of those 'kittle cattle,' the new brethren," said the old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge. "If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath."

The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.

"Who are ye?"

"Two poor brethren of Saint Francis."

"What do you want?"

"The wayfarer's welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of your hospitable house."

"We like not you grey friars—for we are told you are setters forth of strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk. But natheless the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or simple, lay folk or clerks. So enter, only if you threw those gray cloaks into the moat, you would be more welcome."

They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.

"Look," said one of the monks to his fellow; "they that have turned the world upside down have come hither also."

"Whom the warder hath received."

"They will find scant welcome."

Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings which had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life of old. But the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell rang for supper.

Many guests were there—lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms, Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had good fare, while a monk in nasal voice read:

A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,

Above the clatter of knives and dishes.

Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts did he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence could generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when they settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and moist sedges.

"And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn much from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers and bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:"

Quench thou the fires of hate and strife The wasting fevers of the heart.

At this moment a calf's head was brought in, very tender and succulent, and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter of plates and dishes. At last the voice emerged from the tumult:

"Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do often resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters. And first there be the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the full moon, only never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the demons of sensuality, gluttony and sloth—libera nos Domine, and then there be . . ."

The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine, brought in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into wooden mugs. Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets: glass there was none.

Again the voice rose above the din:

"Affect the fat soils of our marsh land, and there, maybe, find convenient prey amongst the idle and inebriate brethren who forget their vows, or the sottish loony who from the plough tail seek the ale house. And moreover there be your fiends, long and slim, and comely in garb, with tails of graceful curve, and horns like a comely heifer. Natheless their teeth be sharp and their claws fierce. But they hide them, for they would fain appear like angels of light, yet be they the demons of pride and cruelty, first-born of Lucifer, son of the morning . . ."

Here the sweets and pastries came in, fruits of the abbey gardens, skilfully preserved, and cunning devices of the baker: there was a church built of pie crust; a monk, baked brown and crisp, with raisins for his eyes, which, withal, filled his paunch, and, cannibal like, the good brethren ate him. Finally, that they, the brethren, might not be without a memento mori, was a sepulchre or altar tomb, likewise in crust, and when the top was broken, a goodly number of pigeons lurked beneath, lying in state:

"Which mop and mow, and chatter like starlings, but all, either naught in sense or naughty in meaning, oh these chattering goblins. Be not like them, my brethren—libera nos Domine."

Here to those who sat at the upper board were next presented, by the serving brethren, dainty cups of hippocras, medicated against the damps and chills of the low grounds, or perchance the crudities of the stomach, or the cruel pinches of podagra dolorosa—

"Ah! will you say that agues, rheumatics, and all the other afflictions which do befall the brethren be simply bred of stagnant water and foul drinking? Nay, I say these hobgoblins give us them, and that even as Satan was permitted to afflict holy Job, so they afflict you. But we have not the patience of Job; would we had! Oh my brethren, slay me the little foxes which eat the tender grapes; your pride, anger, envy, hatred, gluttony, lust, and sloth, and bring forth worthy fruits of penance; then may you all laugh at Satan and his misshapen offspring until in very shame they fly these fens—libera nos Domine."

Here the leader sang:

"Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis."

And the whole brotherhood replied:

"Deo gratias."

The supper was ended, and the chapel bell began to ring for the final service of the day. The period of silence throughout the dormitories and passages now began, and only stealthy footfalls broke the stillness of the summer night.

But the prior rang a silver bell: "tinkle, tinkle."

"Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the twinkling black eyes and roundish face."

And Martin was brought to him.

"Sit down, my young brother," said Prior Roger, "and tell me where I have seen thy face before. I have gazed upon thee all through the frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a face I have seen in a dream. Not that I doubt that thou art here in flesh and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have just heard."

Martin smiled, and replied:

"My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from the outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a woman, and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years."

"I remember Earl Simon's visit. Art thou that boy?"

"I am, my father."

"Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. Sub sigillo, perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together. Sancte Benedicte ora pro me. So thou hast taken the habit of Saint Francis. Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the world and mortify the flesh?"

Martin was silent.

"And hast thou the gift of preaching? I do not mean of talking."

"My superiors thought so, but they are fallible."

"I should think so, very, but that is nought. I hope I have better sense than to send for thee, poor boy, to teach thee to rebel against thy superiors, and perhaps after all we Augustinians are too hard upon Franciscans and friars of low degree—only we want to get to heaven our own way, with our steady jog trot, and you go frisking, caracolling, curvetting, gambolling along. Well, I hope Saint Peter will let us all in at the last."

Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker.

"Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?"

"An outlaw, long since dead."

"And thy mother?"

"His bride—but I know not of what parentage. There is a secret never disclosed to me, and which I shall never learn now, only I am assured that I was born in holy wedlock, and that a priest blessed the union."

"Did thy mother marry again?"

"She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the 'merrie men' who succeeded my father as their leader."

"Now, my son, I know why I looked at thee—I knew thy father. Nay, I administered the last rites of Holy Church to him. I was travelling through the woods and following a short route to the great abbey of Battle, when a band of the outlaws burst forth from an ambush.

"'Art thou a priest, portly father?' they said irreverently.

"'Good lack,' said I, 'I am, but little of worldly goods have I. Thou wilt not plunder God's ambassadors of their little all?'

"'Nay! But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here till we bring thee back.'

"'You will not harm me?' said I, fearing for my throat. 'It is as thou hearest a hoarse one, and often sore, but it is my only one.'

"They laughed, and one said:

"'Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee safe here again ere sundown.'

"So they led me away, and anon they blindfolded me, and led my horse. What a mercy poor Whitefoot was sure footed, and did not stumble, for the way was parlous difficult.

"And at last they took the bandage from off mine eyes, and I saw I was in their encampment, in the innermost recesses of a swampy tangled wood. There, in a sort of better-most cabin, lay a young man, dying—wounded, as I afterwards learned, in an attack upon the Lord of Herst de Monceux.

"A goodly man of some thirty years was he, and a goodly end he made. He told me his story, and as the lips of dying men speak the truth, I believed him. He was the last representative of that English family which before the Conquest owned this very island and its adjacent woods and fields {24}. He was very like thee—he stands before me again in thee. Didst thou never hear of thy descent before?"

"That he was of the blood of the old English thanes I knew, but fallen from their once high estate. Had he lived he might have possessed me with the like feelings which prompted him: hatred of the foreigner, rebellion to God's dispensation, which gave the land to others. Even now as I speak, Christian though I am, I feel that such things might be, but I count them now as dross, and seek a goodlier heritage than Michelham."

"Poor lad! What has brought thee here again?"

"The desire to do my Master's will, and to preach the gospel to my kindred. For if Christ shall make them free, then shall they be free indeed."

"Hast thou heard of thy mother?"

"That she was dead. The message came through Michelham."

"I remember an outlaw came here one day and sought me. He bade me send word to the boy we had (he said) stolen from them, that his mother was no more. We did so; but who was thy mother by birth?"

"I know not."

"But I know."

"Tell me, father."

"It is a sad story."

"Let me hear it."

"Not yet. Go forth tomorrow. Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest thou shalt know. Tell me, what is thine age?"

"I have seen twenty years."

"When thou hast attained thy twenty-first birthday, I may reveal this secret—not before. Until then my lips are sealed; such was the will of thy father."

"Shall I find the outlaws easily?"

"I know not; they have been much reduced both in numbers and in power, and give small trouble now to the nobles and men of high degree. Many have been hanged."

"Does Grimbeard yet live?"

"I know not."

"Father, I start on my search tomorrow; give me thy blessing and pray for me."

Martin could not sleep. He stood long at the window of his cell in a dreamy reverie. The story of the last Thane of Michelham, as related in the Andredsweald, had often been told around the camp fires, and although he was only in his thirteenth year when he left them, it was all distinctly imprinted in his memory. Oh! how strange it seemed to him to be there on the spot, which but for the conquest of two centuries agone would perhaps have still been the home of his race! But he did not indulge in sentimental sorrow. He believed in the Fatherhood of God, and that all things work for good to them that love Him.

What a dawn it was! A reddening of the eastern sky; a low band of crimson; then rays like an aurora shooting upwards into the mid heavens; then such tints of transparent opal and heavenly azure overspread the skies all around, that Martin drank in the beauty with all his soul, and almost wept for joy, as he thought it a foretaste of the new heavens and the new earth, wherein he hoped to dwell, and whereon his heart was already surely fixed. And as he gazed upon the distant woods, wherein dwelt the kindred he came to seek, he prayed in the words of an old antiphon:

"O Day Spring, brightness of the Eternal Light and Sun of Righteousness, come and lighten those that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death."



Chapter 17: The Castle Of Fievrault.

It was the province of Auvergne in France. Through the forest, deep and gloomy, rode our Hubert and his squire, with the six men-at-arms, a few days after their departure from England. They had gained the soil of France, and had found the town in Auvergne which bore the name of the De Fievrault family, and early in the following morning they started for the old chateau, which they were forewarned they would find in ruins, to seek the fated sword.

It was added that the place was haunted, and that they would do well to return before nightfall.

The road which led thither was evidently but seldom trodden. It abounded in sunken ruts, wherein lurked the adder. It led by sullen pools, where the bittern boomed and the pike swam, his silver side glittering like a streak of light beneath the dark surface, as he sought his finny prey. Now it was marshy and muddy, now it was tangled with thorns, now impeded by fallen trees. So thick was the verdure that the sky could not often be seen.

"I should be sorry, Almeric," said the young knight to his squire, "to traverse this route by night. Yet unless we make better use of our legs it will happen to us to have the choice either of encountering the wolves of the forest or the phantoms of the castle."

"Are not those the towers?" said the young squire, pointing to some extinguisher-like turrets which just then came in sight.

"Verily they be, and if we make haste we may reach them by noontide."

But between them and the object of their journey lay a deep fosse or moat, and the rusty drawbridge was suspended by its chains to the walls of the towers.

"Blow thine horn, Almeric."

It was long blown in vain, but at length an old man in squalid attire, with long dishevelled gray locks and matted beard, appeared at the window of the watch tower above.

"Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?"

"The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in his name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord."

"Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the bridge, and thou mayst enter."

"What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?" said Almeric in a whisper.

The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed place, and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up with a grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard through the gateway in the tower.

A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the great hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew around the fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness with its green robe, making that picturesque which anon was hideous. But company gives confidence, and our little troop rode, laughing and talking, into the haunted Castle of Fievrault.

"I have no food," said the old man.

"We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share it? Thou look'st as if a good meal might do thee good."

"I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates and dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs the sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and it will be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then depart."

"We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall."

"I cannot say you nay."

He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and conspicuous amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his loathly lady; the painter had not flattered them.

There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge battle-axes, maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of armour, rusty and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to become after the lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for at the end of the row hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de Fievrault, the last of his grim race.

The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?), then without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board, and feasted in serenity and ease.

When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect. Song and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards the east and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades of the adjacent wilderness. Then the old servitor came up to Hubert:

"It is time, my lord, to take the sword thou hast come to seek, and to go, unless thou wishest to be benighted in the forest."

"My lord," said Almeric, "we have come abroad in quest of adventures, and as yet found none to relate around the winter fireside when we get home again; and it is the humble petition of your poor squire and men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle this night and see what stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms there be."

Hubert smiled approval.

"My Almeric," he said, 'I have ever been of opinion that ghostly apparitions are delusions, and always thought that I should like to put the matter to a test. Wherefore I welcome your proposal with joy, for I doubted whether any of you would willingly stay with me. We will remain here tonight."

"Nay," said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault; "bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father."

"And for that very reason his son would fain avenge him," said Hubert flippantly, "and flout the ghosts, if such things there be. And if men—Frenchmen or the like—see fit to attire themselves in masquerade, no coward fear will blunt the edge of our swords."

"Wilful must have his way," said the old servitor with a sigh. "What is to be will be, only remember, all of you, the old man has warned you, and only permits you to remain because he has no power to send you forth."

"Nay, be not so inhospitable."

"A churl will be a churl," said Almeric.

The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business, whatever that may have been.

The party now broke up to examine the castle, and to make sure that all was as it seemed, and that no earthly inmates were there to play pranks in the night. They ascended the ruined towers, and gazed upon a wilderness of leaves, as far as the eye could reach, save where a wild fantastic range of mountains upreared its riven peaks in the dim distance, the Puy de Dome, the highest point. Then they descended the steps and explored the vaults and dungeons: dismal habitations dug by the hands of cruel men in the solid rock upon which the castle was built. In one they shuddered to behold a human skeleton, from which the rats had long since eaten the flesh, chained by steel manacles around its wrists and ankles to the wall, and hence still retaining its upright position: and in each of these dark chambers they found sufficient evidence of the fell character of the house of Fievrault.

In one large cell, which had evidently been the torture chamber, they found the rusty implements of cruelty—curious arrangements of ropes and pulleys; a rack which had fallen to pieces with age; a brazier with rusty pincers, which had once been heated red hot therein, to tear the quivering flesh from some victim, who had long since carried his plaint to the bar of God, where the oppressors had also long since followed him.

Hubert and his followers shuddered; but they were a little more hardened to the sight of such things, which were not unknown in those times even in "merry England," than we should be.

"Where does that trap door lead to?" said Almeric, pointing to an arrangement of two folding doors in front of a rude image.

"It looks firm."

"Nay, trust it not. Here is a rude stump, once used as a seat. Roll it upon the trap doors."

The round, short log was rolled on the trap, which gave way at once. Down went the log, and, after what seemed minutes to those above, came a hollow boom. It had reached the bottom. The oubliette—Almeric shuddered, and the colour faded from his face.

"What if I had tried the strength with my own weight!" thought he.

They returned to the upper air. The sun had set, and the shades of night were gathering around the hoary pile, and, with deepening shades, every soul present felt a sense of gloom and depression creep over him; a sort of apprehension which had no visible cause, and could not easily be explained, but which led one to start at shadows, and look round at each unexpected footfall.

For over all there came a sense of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said as plain as whisper in the ear— "This place is haunted."

"Bring wood. Kindle a fire on the hearth here. Set torches in those cressets. Bring out the remains of our dinner. There is yet plenty of the vin de pays; let us eat drink, and be merry."

Wood was plentiful, pine torches easily procured in such a locality, and soon the hall was bright with the firelight and vocal with the sound of voices in melody. So the hours sped on until it was quite dark. It was a very still night, but the clouds were thick, and there were no stars abroad.

At length they had burned all the wood which had been brought in.

"Go, Tristam, and bring more wood from the great pile in the courtyard," said Hubert.

Tristam, a grizzled man-at-arms, went out.

All at once a cry of horror was heard. All started to their feet, but before they could run to Tristam's aid the door was dashed open, and he ran in, his hair erect with horror, and his eyes starting from their sockets.

"It is after me!" he shrieked, as he slammed the door behind him.

"What was it?" said Hubert, while the sight of the man's infectious terror sent a thrill through all of them.

But he couldn't tell; he only stood and gibbered and shuddered, as if he had lost his senses, then crept to the innermost corner of the large fireplace, where they made room for him, and moaned like some wounded animal.

"The wood must be brought," said Hubert. "We are not going to let the fire go out, nor to be frightened at shadows.

"Almeric, you will come with me and fetch it."

"Yes, master," said Almeric, not without a shudder, which did not promise well.

"Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric. Sign thyself with the Cross. Now!"

And they went forth.

The night was, as we have said, intensely dark, and they each carried a fat, resinous pine torch, which diffused a lurid light around. The stones of the courtyard were slimy from long neglect; and the light, drizzly rain which was falling churned the dust and slime into thin mud. As they drew near the wood pile, Hubert going boldly first, they both fancied a presence—a presence which caused a sickening dread—between them and the pile.

"Look, master," said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror.

Hubert followed the direction of Almeric's glance, and saw that a footmark impressed itself in the slime before their own advancing tread, just as if some invisible being were walking before them. So sickening a dread, yet quite an inexplicable one, a dread of the vague unknown, came upon them that, brave men as they were, they could not proceed to the wood pile, and, like Tristam, returned empty handed.

"Where is the wood?" was the general cry.

"Let no one go out for wood tonight," said Hubert. "We must break up the forms, the floors, nay, our dining board, to sustain the fire—for fire we must have. Now, remember we are warriors of the Cross, pledged to a holy cause, and that no demon can hurt us if we are true to ourselves. Join me in the holy psalms of the night watch, then spread our cloaks and sleep here."

They said the well-known compline psalms, familiar then in England from their nightly use. Then, replenishing the fire at the expense of some rude oaken benches, and barring the door, they all strove to sleep. A watch seemed needless. The fear was that they would all be found watching when they should be sleeping.

But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did all fall asleep.

In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the consciousness that someone was gazing upon him. He looked up. There was the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the slain Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his hand on the wound in his side.

"Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy bidding, to fulfil thy vow."

"Thank God! Thou hast spoken, and I may speak, too. Thou goest to do my bidding in love for thy father, to fulfil my vow. Alas, many trials await thee. Canst thou face them?"

"I can do all man can do."

"So I imagine from thy bold bearing in this haunted castle of my ancestors. It is well. Only go forward, whatever happens. Thou shalt not perish. Thou shalt deliver thy father and me, condemned as yet to walk this lower earth, till the vow my own misconduct made me unworthy to fulfil is fulfilled by thee. Fare thee well, and fear not."

And the figure disappeared.

Hubert felt a sense of blessed relief, under which he fell asleep again, and did not awake until aroused by a cry of terror. He started up. Almeric and all the men were on their feet, like frenzied beings, gazing into the darkness which enveloped the end of the hall. Then they rushed with a wild cry at the door, which they unbarred with eager hands, and issued into the darkness. He heard a heavy fall, as if one, perhaps two, had missed the steps and gone headlong into the courtyard.

Terror is contagious, but Hubert saw nothing as yet to fear.

"Come back, ye cowards! Shame on ye!" he cried, but cried in vain—he was alone in the haunted hall.

The fact was that Hubert felt as if he personally had made his peace with the mysterious haunters of the castle, and had nothing to fear. So he did not stir, but was even able to sleep again until aroused by the aged janitor, just as the blessed light of dawn was pouring through the oriel window.

"I warned you, my lord," he said.

"You did. The fault, and the punishment, too, is ours. But where are my men?"

"Here is one," said the janitor, leading Hubert to the cell over the gateway which he occupied himself, where on a couch lay poor Almeric with a broken arm; broken in falling down the steps.

"And where are the rest?" said Hubert after expressing his sympathy to the wounded squire.

"In the forest; they were raving like madmen in the courtyard, and I opened the gates and let them out to cool their brains. They will doubtless be here anon."

"What didst thou see, Almeric, that frightened thee out of thy reason?"

"Ask me not! I may tell thee anon, but let us leave this evil place," said Almeric.

"We must wait for our men—I will go out and blow my horn without the barbican."

He blew a mighty blast, and after awhile first one and then another responded to the appeal, looking thoroughly ashamed of themselves; till four were in presence. But the fifth never arrived; doubtless he had met some mishap in the forest.

"The wolves have got him," said the old man. "There is an old she wolf with a litter of cubs not far off, and I heard a mighty howling there-a-way after the gates were opened. If he staggered in her way in the darkness she would be sure to tear him to pieces."

They sought for him in vain, but could not risk having to pass another night in the place. Almeric was able to sit his horse with difficulty, Hubert taking the reins and riding at his side and supporting him from time to time with his arm. The sprightly lad was quite changed.

"I know not what it was," he said, "but it was something in that darkness, an awful face, a giant form, a deathly thing of horror, and we lost our presence of mind and sought absence of body. That is all I can say. It was something borne upon our wills and we could not resist. I shall never want to try such experiments again."

Even our Hubert, brave as he had been, was changed. He understood his father's affliction better, nor was he ever quite so light hearted and frivolous again. The joy of youth was dimmed. Yet he often thought that the apparition of the slain Frenchman might have been but a dream sent from heaven, to encourage him in his undertaking on his father's behalf.



Chapter 18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.

The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to avoid.

Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised their branches to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral. There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.

And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro related many tales of "sweet Father Francis," and in return Martin enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring ecclesiastics.

"All the more need of our mission," thought both.

They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a little stream, a stern voice called, "Stand and deliver."

They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.

Martin was quite unalarmed.

"Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who have come hither for your good."

"For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like cattle."

"But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick."

"Ah! Whom have we got here?"

"An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard, who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?"

"Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?"

"Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?"

"Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so."

Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they reached a spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.

But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around the sides of the amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it, supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature's own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.

Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had added their transforming touch, tempus edax rerum. His tall stature was diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and joints were less firmly knit.

A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of some successful fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle's feather. There were eagles then in "merrie Sussex."

"Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?"

"Guests, good captain," replied Martin, "who have come far to seek thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of kings."

Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he could not have harmed him. So he conquered his discontent.

"Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such as it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace."

"Not till we have delivered our message."

"Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil's own children, but if you will try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you."

Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing, said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for a brief period.

The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game, collops of venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the meal was over Grimbeard spoke:

"We generally Test awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal, for our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps your tramp through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and after the sun has sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may deliver the message you spoke about."

Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did some of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the spreading beeches, as did our two brethren.

They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched, and so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even this precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.

And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to active life.

"Call the brethren of Saint Francis," said the chief. "Now we are ready. Sit round, my merrie men."

It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the wild and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws, with their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the grass, with the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow rock, while Martin, standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his message.

With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His enthusiasm mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his face, his eyes sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to tell, and the result was such as was common in the early days of the Franciscan missions. Women, yea, and men too, were moved to tears.

But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman's voice broke the intensity of the silence in which the preacher's words were received:

"My son—my own son—my dear son."

The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned from the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the chieftain's wife, or "Mad Mab," as they flippantly called her, and only on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the camp had she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as she drew nearer, and when she entered the circle—we may well say the charmed circle—she stood entranced, until at last conviction grew into certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher's voice by her cry of maternal love.

She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark eyes; but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt weary of life.

But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one distraught in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life burst upon her—something to live for, and, rushing forward, she threw her arms around the neck of her recovered boy.

"My mother," said he in an agitated voice. "Nay, she has been long dead."

But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he lost self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was conquered by the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed the event.

"This explains how he knew all about us!"

"It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain."

"The last of the house of Michelham!"

"Turned into a preaching friar!"

Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.

"Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not leave the camp."

"Mother," said Martin, "why that cruel message of thy death? Thou hadst not otherwise lost me so long."

"It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw or vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy love would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side."

"My poor forsaken mother!"

___________

Grimbeard now approached.

"Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy natural home. Dost thou remember me?"

"Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which doubtless I deserved."

"Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up thy abode again with us? We want a priest."

"I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the Andredsweald at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great Shepherd therein."

"Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go in and out without security, that our retreat be not made known."

"Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free will accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your secret, still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to cease from your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful, well and good. But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall never be brought against you by me."

___________

They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard maintained that the position of the "merrie men," who still kept up a struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period would?

"No length of time," replied Grimbeard.

"Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you have laid down. What should you then say?"

Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.

"Thou hast me on the hip, youngster."

After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day's walk and all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered treasure—happy mother.

The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day, Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real present strife had put Senlac into his head.

He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:

"Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!"

"Out! out! ye English thieves!"

"Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!"

Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.

For there with arrow, spear, and knife, Men fought the desperate fight for life.

Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained a sloping bank, and there—

That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from Herstmonceux Castle to go "a hunting," and in the very exuberance of his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the woods haunted by the "merrie men," as he in the Percy's country. Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.

But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with underwood. All at once a voice cried:

"Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which free Englishmen claim as their own?"

A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.

"Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as I conceive thee to be."

"Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.

"Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim."

"Bring on your merrie men."

Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess), that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were in the power of the "merrie men," whose arrowheads and caps they could alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank, amidst the purple heather.

What a plight!

"Give soft words," said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of our friend Ralph, "or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines."

But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving, at the same time, the order:

"Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin."

The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a leader.

A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared, pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled road; throwing their riders in most eases, or dashing their heads against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a slaughter house.

Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their axes.

"Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow."

"Thou hast saved the old villain's life, grey friar," said mad Ralph, parrying a stroke of Grimbeard's axe, but this was but a bootless boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they often faced the rush of wolf or boar.

"Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.

"Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?"

"Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out."

"Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive."

Then he cried aloud:

"Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp."

The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were blindfolded, and in that condition led into the camp of the outlaws; Martin keeping close by their side, intent upon preventing any further violence from being offered, if he could avert it.

Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin of logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the door, and they were left to their meditations.

They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.

Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen the grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene of conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any circumstances.

It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed themselves with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a seat of judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which grew in the centre of the camp, and all the population of the place turned out to see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be enacted. Just as, in our own recollection, the mob crowded together to see an execution.

Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions. He dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself with the air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side stood Martin, pale and composed, but determined to prevent further bloodshed if it were in mortal power to do so.

"Bring forth the prisoners."

They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.

"What is thy name?" asked Grimbeard.

"Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux."

"And what has brought thee into my woods?"

"Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt."

"And thou must pay for thy sport."

"Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high."

"Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be content with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers—three weeks ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I have sworn in such cases to have life for life. If they hang, we hang too. If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an Englishman. Hast thou not any outlanders here?"

"If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?"

"Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence," laughed Grimbeard. "It is not that I respect noble blood. I have scant cause. A wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us the story of Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of a Shibboleth, too.

"So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men."

The first was evidently an Englishman.

"Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?"

"Bread and cheese."

"It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph's messenger, and shall be set free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.

"Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, 'Shibboleth."'

It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who stepped forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same question, he replied:

"Dis bread and dat sheese {26}."

"Hang him," said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have been, for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some seizing upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some preparing the rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like monkeys, to assist in drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch to bear the human weight, while the poor Gaul stood shivering below; when Martin threw his left arm around the victim, and raised his crucifix on high with the other.

"Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your redemption."

"Who forbids?" said Grimbeard.

"I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one who might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for generations. But I rest not on that," and here he pleaded so eloquently in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he could not resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over him.

"Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again, either with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.

"There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can't afford to lose that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage in case this morning's work bring a hornets' nest about our ears."

"Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?" said Martin.

"I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my poor pate against the boves boreales, as now from latrones austroles. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph. But art thou indeed a grey friar?"