"Yes, thank God."

"And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good fellow lost to the world."

"And gained to God, I hope."

"I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead here?"

"Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them."

"Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou get to Oxford?"

"It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till thy messenger returns?"

It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death of an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from Oxford to figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence the occasion of their meeting under such different auspices.



Chapter 19: The Preaching Friar.

The system of the early Franciscans bore a very remarkable likeness to that devised by John Wesley for his itinerant preachers, if indeed the former did not suggest the latter. They were not to supersede the parochial system, only to supplement it. They were not to administer the sacraments, only to send people to their ordinary parish priest for them, save in the rare cases of friars in full orders, who might exercise their offices, but so as not to interfere with the ordinary jurisdiction. The consent of the bishop of the diocese was at first required, and ordinarily that of the parish priest; but in the not infrequent cases where a slothful vicar would not allow any intrusion on his sinecure, his objections were disregarded. When the parish priest gave consent, the church was used if conveniently situated; otherwise the nearest barn or glade in the woods was utilised for the sermons. Like certain modern religionists, they were free and easy in their modes, frequently addressing passers by with personal questions, and often resorting to eccentric means of attracting attention. But unlike their modern imitators, they acted on very strict subordination to Church authority, and all their influence was used on behalf of the Church; although they strove as their one great aim to infuse personal religion into the dry bones of the existing system, which they fully accepted, while teaching that "the letter without the spirit killeth."

In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset, although it grievously degenerated in after days.

___________

Martin's health was still far from strong. He yet felt the effects of the terrible attack of the black fever or plague the preceding spring; and now he was once more prostrated by a comparatively slight return of the feverish symptoms, the after effects of his illness.

But he had found his nurse now. What a delight it was to his mother to take his head, "that dear head," upon her knee, and to fondle it once more, as if he were a child again. Now she had her reward for all her loving self denial in sending him away and feigning herself dead.

In the summer time, especially if the weather were warm and genial, the greenwood was not a bad place for an invalid, and Martin was as well attended as if he had been in the infirmary at Michelham, and with far more loving care. But under such care he rapidly gathered strength, and as he did so used it all in his master's service. The impression he produced on the followers of his forefathers was profound, but he traversed every corner of the forest, and not an outlying hamlet or village church escaped his ministrations, so that shortly his fame was spread through all the country side.

___________

We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne.

The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily returned after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies were spent in making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas. He attended him in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of the estate. He looked after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the general retinue of a medieval castle. The days had passed indeed when war and violence were the natural occupation of a baron, and when the men-at-arms were never left idle long together, but they were almost within memory of living men and might return again. So the defences of the castle were never neglected, and the arts of warfare ceased not to be objects of daily study in the Middle Ages.

The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert's version of the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo's manipulation, assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our readers.

Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was so happily discovered. Harengod would content him, and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between Harengod and Walderne.

So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert's visit to Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter, whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations. He had rather they should look hopefully to his return. Poor Hubert!

Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles. The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to Acre, in a vessel called the Fleur de Lys, near which spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed.

He himself, "by the blessing of our Lady," had escaped all dangers, had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve months.

But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came not.

The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke again.

The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved so well. They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which his lady had founded. There his friends and retainers followed him, with tears, to the grave.

And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by those who do not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no pathway to it. Sic transit.

Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring character—he had been at Saint Jean d'Acre.

Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant silence.

"How long ago was it that he had left Acre?"

"It might be six months."

"Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts were very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?"

"No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard of it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of Saint John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother, waiting upon their guests."

Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.

"And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles, called the Fleur de Lys?"

"Lady," he replied, "the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage homeward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool, which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns the abyss again absorbs them.

"Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure of the Fleur de Lys."

"And you know no more?"

"Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the straits, and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn in, and that every soul perished."

A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her chamber.

From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers; she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells, notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest.

Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him, she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well, like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before God and brought a Peter.

About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was indeed called "The mirror pond;" the upper sky, the branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure void.

At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation.

Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived—twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate.

All at once she heard a voice singing:

Love sets my heart on fire, Love of the Crucified: To Him my heart He drew, Whilst hanging on the tree, From whence He said to me, I am thy Shepherd true; I am thy Bridegroom new.

The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.

She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat.

"Sister," said the foremost one, "hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!"

What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the "brother" of whom Hubert had spoken.

"I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him," she said sadly.

"Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?"

Quam bonus es petentibus Sed quid invenientibus {27}!

"How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!"

And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added:

"Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?"

"I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother Hubert?"

"Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer brought us," and she told him the story of Charybdis.

"Lady," he said, 'I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving nature."

"What reason hast thou to give?"

"Only a conviction borne upon me."

"Wilt thou not return with me?"

"I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound."

"But thou wilt come soon?"

"On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle."

Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time.

___________

It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.

Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.

The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o'clock, the hour hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost. The chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after Trinity.

"Ah," he said, "this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.

"Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon God's beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest, stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How lovely it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves and the cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide, where on the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk, the stoat, and all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims, and nature's hand is like a claw, red with blood—and on the other, beneath the cottage roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning with painful disease, many children mourn their sires, many widows and orphans feel that the light is withdrawn from the world, so far as they are concerned.

"And yet is not God good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes; but sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.

"But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with an eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was made perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to tread the road He trod before them."

And so, with an eloquence unsurpassed in the experience of his hearers, he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled, died for them, and bade them see that Passion pictured in the Holy Mysteries, which were about to be celebrated before them, and to give Him their hearts' oblation in union with the sacrifice.

After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be, in a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent of honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays of a full moon shone brightly through an open casement. At first the conversation was confined to the topic of Martin's discourse, which we here omit, but afterwards the dame said:

"My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy countenance?"

Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the secret of his relationship.

"Tell me," said she, "doth thy mother yet live?"

"She doth."

"And proud must she be of her son."

He was still silent.

"Brother Martin," said she, "I had a sister once, a wilful capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister."

She continued after a long pause:

"I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble English blood, she had one child, a son."

Again a long pause:

"And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts. Tell me, is it true?"

Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.

"It is true, aunt," he said.

She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of Walderne."

"I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert's return."

"I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne."

"Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return."

"What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep."

"Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir."

"It is wisely thought, and shall be done," she replied. "And now, my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?"

"I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife's first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well."

What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell—no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses, overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind.

The reader must imagine the rest.

It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference. She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan.

At length the old dame said:

"Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler places it nightly on the sideboard."

Let us precede Martin by only one minute.

Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and casts the shadow—The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.

Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.

"Martin," she said, "hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?"

"I have repeated your kind words."

"And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may God grant."

"I have."

"And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne."

Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep:

Which men call death.

Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb. Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours.

He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.

But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert returned—in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de facto of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—only Martin knew this—and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his friend Hubert's interests, for he still believed that he lived, and would return home again.

"We are friends, Drogo?" said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the greenwood.

"Friends," said Drogo. "We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not? Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons—keep to the greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be broken."



Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.

Ah, where was our Hubert?

No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the veil, after the fashion of storytellers.

It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons—yet already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to a comely face.

A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with loaded whips—alas! can this be our Hubert?

Indeed it is.

The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The Fleur de Lys had been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer—"when the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell"—in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem.

They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the wondrous country beneath "The hill of Hermon" on their road southward. Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners. Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself.

Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the happy who cling to life.

An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished. All men bowed before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become the property of "a prince among his people."

Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind him—taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:

"Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope."

"Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain."

Hubert started: the "Old Man of the Mountain"—he had often heard of him, but had thought him only a "bogy," invented by the credulous amongst the crusaders and pilgrims. He was said to be a Mohammedan prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all the promising boys he could find, whom from early years he trained in habits of self devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in them all respect for human life, or sympathy for human suffering. His palace was on the slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with Christian slaves from the various markets; and it was said that those who continued obstinate in their faith were, sooner or later, put cruelly to death for the sport of the amiable pupils, to familiarise them with such scenes, and render them callous to suffering.

And when his education was finished, the "Old Man" presented each pupil with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such or such a Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth. The deeds of his pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of history {28}.

Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even his hopeful temperament—always buoyant under misfortune—could not prevent him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a little despised.

In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore, huge bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without, and if a slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little chance there was of escape.

Little? Rather, none.

In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes of the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of the "Old Man" soon appeared in sight.

A grand Eastern palace—cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting sun—terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and refreshing—gardens wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the melon, the orange, the lemon, and all the fruits of the East—wherein toiled wretched slaves under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and savage dogs.

When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon a courtyard with a tank in the centre. They were supplied with mats for beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the wall. And without the dogs prowled and growled all night.

Poor Hubert!

In the morning the "Old Man" appeared, and the slaves were all assembled to hear his words:

"Come, ye Christians, and hearken unto me, for ye shall hear my words—sweet to the wise, but as goads to the foolish. Ye are my property, bought with my money, and is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own? But there is one God, and Mohammed is His prophet; and to please them is more to me than diamonds of Golconda or rubies of Shiraz.

"Therefore, I make proclamation, that every slave who will embrace the true faith of Islam shall be free, only tarrying here until we be assured of his knowledge of the Koran and steadfastness of purpose, when he shall go forth to the world, his own master, the slave of none but God and His prophet.

"But if there be senseless Jews, or unbelieving Nazarenes, who will not accept the blessing offered them, for six months shall they groan beneath the taskmaster, toiling in the sun; and then, if yet obstinate, they shall die, for the edification and warning of others, and the manner of their death shall be in fit proportion to their deserts.

"Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow's sun arise, let your decision be made."

The day was given to work in the burning sun, doubtless as a foretaste of what awaited the obstinate Christian. During the day troops of lithe, active boys of all ages from ten to twenty, had pranced about the garden—bright in face, lively and versatile in disposition; but with a certain cruel look about their black eyes and swarthy features which was the result of their system of education.

And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves:

"Fresh food for the stake—fresh work for the torturers."

"Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most of them do, and deprive us of the fun."

That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side by side.

"What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?" said young Alphonse, after many a sigh.

"God helping us, our course is clear enough—we may not deny our faith."

"Perhaps you have one to deny," said the other, with another sigh. "For me, I have never been religious."

"Nor have I," said Hubert. "I always laughed at a dear companion who chose the religious life, even while I admired him in my heart. But when it comes to denying one's faith, and accepting the religion of Mohammed, it seems to me there is no more to be said. I have got at least as much religion as may keep me from that, although I am not a saint."

"I wish I had; but it is fearful: the toil in the sun, the chains, the silence, the starvation, and then the impalement, the scourging to death, the stake—or whatever else awaits us—at the end of the six months; while all these scoffing youngsters, whose savage mirth we have heard ringing about the place, are taught to exult in one's sufferings—the bloodthirsty tyrant. But might we not in so hard a case pretend to become Mussulmen, and, as soon as we can escape, seek absolution and reconciliation to the Church?"

"He has said, 'Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I deny.' I never read much Scripture, but I remember that the chaplain at Kenilworth, where I once lived as a page, impressed so much as this upon my mind. No; I shall stand firm, and take my chance, God helping me."

So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all marshalled into the presence of the "Old Man of the Mountain."

"Yesterday you heard the terms, today the choice remains—liberty and the faith of the prophet; slavery and death if you remain obstinate. Those who choose the former, file off to my right hand; those who select the latter, to my left."

There were some thirty slaves. A moment's hesitation. Then, at the signal from the guards, about twenty, amongst whom was Alphonse, stalked off to the right. Ten, amongst whom was Hubert, passed to the left.

"Your selection is made. Every moon the same choice will be repeated, until the end of the sixth, when no further grace will be granted; and the death he has chosen awaits the unbeliever."

From this time the situation of the few who remained faithful became unbearable. They slept in the cells we have described, as best they could, rose at the dawn, and laboured under the guardianship of ferocious dogs and crueler men till the sun set, and darkness put an end to their unremitting toil. Only the briefest intervals were allowed for meals, and the food was barely sufficient to maintain life. Conversation was utterly forbidden, and at night, if the slaves were heard talking, they were visited with stripes.

The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in many days Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer:

"What happens in the end?"

"We are impaled on a stake, I believe, after the fashion of the Turcomans; or perhaps burnt alive; or the two may be combined. God help us. Although He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

"God bless you for those words," replied Hubert.

The merry laughter of boys filled the place at times, between their hours of instruction, for the youngsters had all the European languages to study amongst them, for the ends the founder of this "orphan asylum" had in view. But nothing was done to make them tired of their work, or unfaithful in their attachment to the principles they were to maintain with cup and dagger.

Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men.

"Their time is come," said the others in a terrified whisper.

And on such occasions a few shrieks would sometimes break the silence of a summer day, followed by the derisive laughter of youthful voices. Yet these martyrs might have saved themselves by apostasy at any moment—save, perhaps, at the last, when the appetite of the cruel Mussulmen had been whetted for blood, and must be satiated—yet they would not deny their Lord. Their behaviour was very unlike the conduct of an English officer in the Indian Mutiny, who saved his life readily by becoming a Mussulman, with the intention, of course, of throwing his new creed aside as soon as he was restored to society, and laughed at the folly of those who accepted his profession thereof.

But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and almost afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more than Martin would have done.

Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those days.

And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile.



Chapter 21: To Arms! To Arms!

Three years had passed away since the death of the Lady Sybil of Walderne.

A great change had passed over the scene. War—civil war—the fiercest of all strife—had fairly begun in the land. Lest my readers should marvel, like little Peterkin, "what it was all about," let me briefly explain that the royal party desired absolute personal rule, on the part of the king, unfettered by law or counsellors. The barons desired that his counsellors should be held responsible for his acts, and that his power should be modified by the House of Lords or Barons, if not by the Commons as well; the latter idea was but dawning. In short, they desired a constitutional government, a limited monarchy, such as we now enjoy.

The Pope had been called upon to mediate, and had decided in favour of the King, and absolved him from his oath and obligations to his subjects, especially those "Provisions of Oxford." Louis IX, King of France (afterwards known as Saint Louis), had been appealed to, but, though a very holy man, he was a staunch believer in the divine right of kings; and he, too, decided against the barons.

What were they to do? Most of the barons were in submission, but Earl Simon said:

"Though all should leave me, I and my four sons will uphold the cause of justice, as I have sworn to do, for the honour of the Church and the good of the realm of England."

They changed their standing point, and, to meet the condemnation which both Pope and King of France had awarded to the "Provisions of Oxford," took their stand upon Magna Carta instead.

But here they fared no better. In March 1264 a parliament had been summoned to meet at Oxford by the king, that he might there undo what the barons had done in 1258. At this period the action of our tale recommences.

Drogo was still lord of the Castle of Walderne. No news had reached England of Hubert these three long years, and hence no one disputed the title of Drogo to present possession. His steps had been taken with all the craft of a subtle fox. One by one he had removed all the old dwellers in the castle, and, so far as was possible, the outside tenantry also, and substituted creatures of his own—men who would do his bidding, whatsoever it were, and who had no local interests or attachment to the former family.

And, little by little, his rule had been growing as hard and cruel as that of a medieval tyrant could be. The dungeons were reopened which had long been closed; the torture chamber, long disused, was refitted, as it had been in the dreadful days of King Stephen; the defences had been looked to, the weapons furbished, for, as a war horse sniffs battle afar off, so did Drogo.

Need I tell my readers which side Drogo took? He had never, since the day he was expelled from Kenilworth, ceased to hate Earl Simon, and now he declared boldly for the king, and prepared to fight like a wildcat for the royal cause.

But Waleran, Lord of Herstmonceux, the father of our Ralph, espoused the popular side warmly, as did all the English men of Saxon race—the "merrie men" of the woods, and the like.

But the great Earl de Warrenne of Lewes was a fierce royalist. So was the Lord of Pevensey.

Already the woods were full of strife. Whensoever a party met a party of opposite principles, there was instant bloodshed. The barons' men from Herstmonceux pillaged the lands of Walderne or Pevensey. The burghers of Hailsham declared for the earl, as did most burghers throughout the land; and Lewes, Pevensey, and Walderne threatened to unite, harry their lands, and burn their town. The monks of Battle preached for the king, as did those of Wilmington and Michelham. The Franciscans everywhere used all their powers for the barons, for was not Simon de Montfort one of them in heart in their reforms?

So all was strife and confusion—the first big drops of rain before the thunderstorm.

Drogo was at the height of his ambition. He had added Walderne to his patrimony of Harengod. He had humbled the neighbouring franklins, who refused to pay him blackmail. He had filled his castle with free lances, whose very presence forced him to a life of brigandage, for they must be paid, and work must be found them, or—he could not hold them in hand. The vassals who cultivated the land around enjoyed security of life with more or less suffering from his tyranny; but the independent franklin, the headmen of the villages, the burgesses of the towns (outside their walls), the outlaws of the woods, when he could get at them all, these were his natural sport and prey.

He had a squire after his own heart, named Raoul of Blois, who had come to England in the train of one of the king's foreign favourites, and escaped the general sentence of expulsion passed at Oxford in 1258.

One eventide—the work of the day was over, and Drogo and this squire were taking counsel in the chamber of the former; once the boudoir of Lady Sybil in better days.

"Raoul," said his master, "have you heard aught yet of the Lady Alicia of Possingworth?"

"Yes, my lord, but not good news."

"Tell them without more grimace."

"She has placed herself under the protection of the Earl of Leicester."

Drogo swore a deep oath.

"We were too weak, my lord, to interrupt the party, and we did not know in time what they were about. But one thing I heard the demoiselle said, which you should hear, although it may not be pleasant."

"Well!"

"Although my first love be dead, I will never marry a man who poisoned his aunt.'"

"They have to prove it—let them."

"My lord, the old hag who sold you the phial, as she says, yet lives, and I fear prates."

"She shall do so no longer. Get a party of half a dozen of your tenderest lambs ready for secret service. We will start two hours before dawn, when all the world is fast asleep. See that you are all ready and call me."

All lonely stood the hut—in the tangled brake—where dwelt a sinful but repentant woman. For one had broken in upon her life, and had awakened a conscience which seemed almost non-existent until he came—our Martin. And this night she tosses on her bed uneasily.

"Would that he might come again," she says. "I would fain hear more of Him who can save, as he said, even me."

She mutters no longer spells, but prayers. The stone seems removed from the door of that sepulchre, her heart. Towards morning sleep, long wooed in vain, comes over her—and she dozes.

It wants but an hour to dawn, but the night is at its darkest. The stars still drift over the western sky, but in the east it is cloudy, and no morning watch from his tower could spy the dawning day.

Eight men emerge from the deep shade of the tangled wood. In silence they approach the hut, and first they tie the door outside, so that the inmate cannot open it.

"Which way is the wind?" whispers the leader.

"In the east."

"Fire the house on that side."

They have with them a dark lantern, from which a torch is fired and applied to the roof of light reeds on the windward side. We draw a veil over the quarter of an hour which followed. It was what the French call un mauvais quart d'heure.

The sun had arisen for some hours when the solitude of the forest was broken by the tread of three strangers—travellers, who trod one of its most verdant glades. The one was a brother preacher of the order of Saint Francis. The second, a knight clad in hunting attire. The third, the mayor, the headman of the borough of Hamelsham.

"The cottage lies here away," said the first. "We shall see the roof when we turn the end of the avenue of beeches."

"Do you not smell an odour unusual to the forest?"

"The scent of something burnt or burning?"

"I have perceived it."

"Ah, here it is," and the three stopped short. They had just turned the corner to which they had alluded. A thin smoke still arose from the spot where the cottage had stood.

They all paused; then, without a word, hurried on ward by a common impulse. They only found the smoking embers of the dwelling they had come to seek.

"This is Drogo's doing," said Ralph of Herstmonceux.

"Could he have heard of our intentions?" said the mayor.

"No, but—he might have learned that poor Madge was a penitent, and then—" said Martin.

"Well, our work is done, and as the country is not over safe so near the lion's den—"

("Wolf's den, you mean," interrupted Ralph—)

"And we have come unattended, the sooner we retire the better."

"Too late!" said a stern voice: and Drogo stood before them.

"My Lord of Walderne, this is ill pleasantry," said Ralph.

"'Pleasantry,' you call it, well. So it is for those who win."

He whistled shrill, And quick was answered from the hill; That whistle garrisoned the glen, With twice a hundred armed men.

In short, the three travellers were surrounded on all sides. Their errand had been betrayed by one of Drogo's outlying scouts.

"What is thy purpose, Drogo?" said Martin.

"Do ye yield yourselves prisoners?"

"On what compulsion?"

"Force, the right that rules the world."

"And what pretext for using it?" said Ralph, drawing his sword.

"I should advise thee not to touch thy weapon, unless thy skill is proof against an arrow. In a word, Ralph of Herstmonceux, art thou for the king or the barons?"

"Thou knowest—the barons."

"And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.

"I will not give my sword to thee," and Ralph flung it into a pond.

"And what right hast thou to arrest me?" said the mayor.

"Good mayor, hast thou not stirred up thy town of Hamelsham, thy puissant butchers and bakers, to resist the good king and to send aid to the rebellious Earl of Leicester, may the fiends rive him! Wherefore I might, without further parley, hang thee to this beech, which never bore a worthier acorn."

"Yes, hang him for the general amusement," said several deep voices.

"Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling, beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body.

"Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?"

"Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a poor man."

They laughed immoderately.

"We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren pay for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in installments, first one ear, then the other, and so on."

"Our Lady help me!"

"Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help in man," said Martin. "And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old, and in whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?"

"A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring against such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience compels me."

"Thy conscience!"

"Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think thou art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?"

"Go on without further blasphemies."

"Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest thee on a charge of murder."

"Of murder!" cried all three.

"Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of Walderne."

"Good heavens!" cried the knight and mayor.

"Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!" said Martin.

"Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar."

"Thou didst murder her thyself."

"Nay: who gave her the sleeping draught the last night? I have just discovered that it contained poison supplied by the old witch who lived here, and whom I have duly punished by fire. But whose hand, administered it?"

Martin turned pale.

"I ask," continued Drogo, "who gave her the draught?"

"It was I, but who poisoned it?"

"Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it.

"I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of Hamelsham, that you both hear him—confitentem mum, as Father Edmund used to say at Kenilworth.

"Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest dungeon for the poisoner."



Chapter 22: A Medieval Tyrant.

Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of day, for although he had collected together a large flock of black sheep, yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to those dungeons of his.

The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of the baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their wickedness; yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it would bring bad luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the garb of his order.

But Drogo's will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the prisoners in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a labourer's smock over Martin's robe, led their prisoners to the castle.

Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were born in camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of robbers, so that it was to them a second nature to mutilate, imprison, and torture, and slay. They looked upon burghers and peasants as butchers do on sheep, or rather they looked upon them as beings made that warriors might wring their hidden hoards from them, by torture and violence, or even in default of the gold hang them for amusement, or the like. They had about as much sympathy for these men of peace as the pike for the roach—they only thought them excellent eating.

As for the knight—he was a knight, and must be treated as such, although an enemy. As for the burgher—well, we have discussed the case. As for the friar—they did not like to meddle with the Church. They dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they were.

The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from whence he could see:

The forest dark and gloomy,

And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher and friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to each other, where they were left to solitude and silence.

Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate of a narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for a rotten bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and loaf of black bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle beneath one's feet: oh, horrible!

And such was our Martin's fate.

But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the lion's den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in the castle of his fathers.

And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught was in itself sufficiently painful.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," and Martin left it.

The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far more compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool trade. He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the spindle and loom. He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five; three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered justice to petty offenders. And here was he, torn from all this, and consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young "noble."

To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.

"The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy presence."

"Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken off, thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get out of thy den."

Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and charged fifty marks the more.

"We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}."

"Why, it is a king's ransom!"

"And thou art fit to be a king."

"And what if I cannot pay it?"

"We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons."

"May I send a messenger to my castle?"

"At once. I will place my household at thy disposal."

"And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their freedom?"

"By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom."

"But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting men, under my protection."

"Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what errand ye were all bent?"

Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve.

"Now for the burgher," said he.

A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into the face of his fierce young captor.

"What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?"

"I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now tell me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a wife and children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who long sore for me!"

"'When the cat's away the mice will play.'

"They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must answer before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?"

The mayor hesitated.

"S'death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs with a handsome screw in a moment."

Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.

"Nay, it can do no harm. We came to witness the last confession of a dying woman, who had some crime on her soul, which she wished to depose before fitting witnesses."

"Of what nature?"

"I was not told. I waited to learn."

"Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?"

Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn't offended therein.

"The fact is that you knew the men, your companions, came as my enemies, and suspected that the lies that witch, whom Satan is just now basting, meant to tell, affected me! Don't lie, or I will thrust the lie down thy throat, together with a few spare teeth; my gauntlet is heavy."

"It was so," said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham.

"Ha! ha! Well, it matters little to me what thou mayest say, or what thy silly townsfolk think of me: the gudgeons probably talk much evil of the perch, but I never heard that it hurts him much, or spoils his digestion of those savoury little fish. But thou must pay for it: I fix thy ransom at one hundred marks."

"Good heavens! I have not as many pence!"

"Swear not, most fat and comely burgher. The money must be raised, or I will send the good citizens of Hamelsham their mayor bit by bit, an ear to begin with. A man waits without, give him thy instructions to thy people. Farewell!"

And the young bully strolled into the next cell, which was Martin's, a keeper opening the door and shutting it upon him until the signal was given to reopen it; for Drogo did not wish the coming conversation to be overheard.

"So I have got thee at last?"

"Thou hast my body."

"It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to feel, to suffer."

"I am in God's hands, not thine."

"I advise thee not to look for help to so distant a quarter. Martin! I have always hated thee, both at Kenilworth and Walderne. Revenge is a morsel fit for the gods."

"What hast thou to revenge?"

"Didst thou not plot to oust me of mine inheritance, the night before the doting old woman died up above? It cost her her life."

"For which thou must answer to God."

"Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!"

"And what dost thou seek of me now?"

"Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path."

"I am no man's enemy."

"Yes, thou art mine, and always hast been. Didst thou not plot against me with that old hag, Mother Madge, whom I have sent to her master in a chariot of fire?"

"I heard her confession of that particular crime."

"So did I, through eavesdroppers. Well, thou knowest too much; and shalt never see the sun again. It is pleasant is it not—the fresh air of the green woods, the sheen of the sun, the songs of the birds, the murmur of the streams, the scent of the flowers.

"Ah, ah!—thou feelest it—well, it shall never again fall to thy lot to see, hear, and smell all these. Here shalt thou linger out thy remaining days; thy companions the toad, the eft, the spider, the beetle; and when thou diest of hunger and thirst, which will eventually be thy lot, this cell shall be thy coffin. Here shalt thou rot."

"And hence shall I rise, in that case, at the day of resurrection. Nay, Drogo, thou canst not frighten me. I am not in thy power. Thou canst not tame the spirit. Do thy worst, I wait God's hour."

Drogo was beside himself by rage at this language on the part of a captive, and he would have struck him down on the spot but for something in Martin that awed him, even as the keeper, who calls himself the lion king, tames the lion.

"We shall see," he said, and left the cell.

"My lord, do not harm him," said the man. "If a hand be laid upon him the men-at-arms will rebel. They fear that it will bring a curse upon them."

"The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?"

"I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead a score of knights, than touch this friar."

"I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him," thought the base lord of the castle.

As he ascended the stairs he heard the sound of a trumpet, or rather a horn. Loud cries of surprise and alarm greeted his ears.

He went out on the watch tower. The woods were alive with men: they issued out on all sides—the "merrie men" of the woods.

Drogo saw at once that they had come to seek Martin. He took hold of a white flag, and advanced to the tower above the central gateway—to parley—for he feared the arrows of the marksmen of the woods.

"Whom seek ye?"

"One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin."

"I have not got him here."

"But thou hast, and we have come to claim him."

"Choose three of your number. They may come and confer with me in the castle upon his disappearance. God forbid that I should lay hands on His ministers."

"Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?"

"Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I would have touched brother Martin."

He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and selected three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered.

The gates were shut behind them.

And then, oh, shame to say! They were seized from behind, their arms bound behind their backs, and, in spite of their protests, led out on the watch tower, where was a permanent gibbet, and, in sight of all their comrades, hung over the battlements.

"That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws," laughed Drogo.

A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice, and made six troopers stretch their bodies on the ground.

"Keep under cover," shouted Drogo. "There will be a fine gathering of arrows when all is done, and it will be long before these old walls crave for mercy. Keep up your courage, men. The fools have no means of besieging the place, and ere another sun has set, the royal banner will appear for their dispersion and our deliverance."

For he had heard from a sure hand that the royal army had reached Tunbridge, en route for Lewes, and would pass by Walderne, tarrying, perchance, for the night. Hence his daring defiance of the sons of the soil.



Chapter 23: Saved As By Fire.

And all this time the true heir of Walderne was leading the degraded life of an unhappy and most miserable slave in the palace of the "Old Man of the Mountain," in the far off hills of Lebanon.

The six months passed away, and still they spared our Hubert. Others were taken away and met their most doleful fate, but the more youthful and active slaves were spared awhile, not out of pity, but because of their utility; and Hubert's fine constitution enabled him still to live. But he could not have lived on had he not still hoped. The tremendous inscription seen by the poet over the sombre gate of hell was not yet burnt into his young heart: All ye that enter here, leave hope behind.

Some lucky accident, perhaps an invasion of the crusaders, might deliver him; but otherwise he would not despair while God gave him life. Again, irreligious as some may think his former life, he had great belief in the efficacy of the prayers of others. The thought that his father and Martin were praying for him continually gave him comfort.

"God will hear them, if not me," he thought.

Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he would once have thought possible.

But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he was summoned to the presence of the "Old Man."

"Christian," said the latter, "hast thou not borne the heat and burden of slavery long enough?"

"Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the expense of my faith."

"Not when the alternative is a bitter death?"

"No."

"Thy constancy will be tried. We have borne with thee full long. At next full moon thou wilt have had a year's reprieve. Thou must prepare to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or die."

"My choice is made."

"Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go."

And Hubert was led away.

And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained by what may be called a miraculous interposition.

It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the yet more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at once he heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.

Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally slept at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive's nightly rest. The door opened, and—He beheld his father!

Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of another world over his worn features.

"Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and to bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man's extremity is His opportunity."

"Art thou really my father?"

And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished. It was of God's appointment, that vision, given to confirm the faith and hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert's belief {30}.

It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern climes. But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth; and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

"Shall I ever see my native land again?"

It seemed impossible, but "hope springs eternal in the human breast." All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of alarm or anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which he knew enough of their language to interpret—the palace was in flames.

"Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?"

The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard without. The doors were opened one after another—

"Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!"

The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and courts to the very front of the burning pile—blazing pile, we should say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre Eastern beauty—cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires, but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its aspect.

The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets from hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at this extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in front of the row, each looking and walking in the contrary direction to the other, changing their direction at the same moment as they went and returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of sight of the watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man knew, instinctively, that the least movement which looked suspicious might bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck, bearing away the trunkless head like a plaything.

Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the centre of the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular erection of stone, like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around it. The flat surface, the disc we may call it, was half composed of iron bars like a grate, supported by the stonework, and in the centre ran an iron post with rings stout and strong, from which an iron girdle, unclasped, depended.

What could it be meant for?

"Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow."

He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on either side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall, and the ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from it. Beyond the moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and hills, valleys and depths.

All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die on the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the fiery death designed for him on the morrow.

And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a window, right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces of some of the hopeful pupils of the "Old Man," forgotten and left, when the rest were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge, the same death awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with pitiless eyes, as inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow. They had probably been looking forward to the occasion, as a Spaniard to his auto da fe, as an interesting spectacle.

Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and cruelty becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities, which make us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the Mussulman, the Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not moralise here.

All eyes were drawn to the spot. The "Old Man" himself, now first heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was tottering; it bent inward, an awful crash, and—

At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind. In a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a head, not Hubert's, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He lingered not an instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on the other sentinel, a moment's clashing of blades, the skill of the knight prevailed, and the Moslem was cleft to the chin.

"Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!"

And Hubert leapt over the wall.

He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for him his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to guide himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley, through which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled merrily along.

He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came crashing through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was the only man armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so boldly won.

Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which was reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in ruddy glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.

"Do any of my brethren know the country?"

At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke diffidently:

"If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters of Merom."

"But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and that only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might sustain a host," said another.

"We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to follow," said Hubert.

They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and boulders, avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the dawn was at hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a cathedral bell, booming down the valley.

"What bell is that?"

"No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds."

"But they can find no trace."

"They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the sense to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease we leave it."

"What shall we do?" asked the helpless men.

Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently inaccessible, but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a mere goat path, used perhaps also by shepherds.

"Follow me," he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a veritable mauvais pas. At the height of some two hundred feet it struck inward through a wild region.

"Here we must make a stand at this summit," said Hubert, "and meet the dogs. I will give a good account of them."

He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only ascend by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for the first dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with flashing eyes and gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received with a sweep of the scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in twain, and he rolled down the deep declivity, all mangled and bleeding, to the foot, missing the path and falling from rock to rock, so that when he was found by the party who followed they could not tell by what means he had received his first wound.

And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in gore, after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no farther.

Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool spot by the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom—the head waters of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which afforded them food, they watched in turn until the sun was low; after which they renewed their journey.

Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of the Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western shore, so rich in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin, Bethsaida, Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden: By those sacred feet once nailed, For our salvation, to the bitter rood.

In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim; and on the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns; begging bread in the villages—a boon readily granted. And in the evening they saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital of Saint John of Acre, where Hubert's father, Sir Roger, had been restored to health and life.

Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard of the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace of the "Old Man of the Mountain," and naturally curiosity led him to interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a knight like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the son of an old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.

All was well now.

"Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost the sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre."

"My brother," said the prior then present, "dost thou remember that a party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in the gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent conflict, and found a broken sword, which they brought with them and left here?"

"Bring it hither, Raymond," said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.

It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the Sieur de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem's skull in the desperate fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he receive it! He could now discharge his father's delegated duty.

"Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem."

Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with its deep shady cloisters, with its massive walls and its beauteous chapel, wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert was told, for he had long since lost count of time, he returned thanks to God for his preservation, and took part once more in the worship of a Christian congregation, and knelt before a Christian altar. The walls of that chapel were of almost as many precious stones as Saint John enumerates in describing the New Jerusalem. Its rich colouring, its dim religious light, its devout psalmody; oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.

And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden, rich with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees, vocal with the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request of the fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men who had erst heard his father's tale.

The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or last, crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy miles from Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians {31} in Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was adorned with noble buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and strong fortifications. From hence such pilgrims as dared venture made their hazardous visits to Jerusalem, which they could only enter as a favour, granted in return for much expenditure of treasure and submission to many humiliations; and thus Hubert was forced to accomplish his father's vow, setting forth so soon as his strength was restored.



Chapter 24: Before The Battle.

The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" as one said of old when before the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.

The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.

Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.

It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:

And all around the widespread scene survey.

What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see around—Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle—all in view.

There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.

Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal enemy is in the forest.

Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.

The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with excited steps—the royal banner will soon be seen surmount ing that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear life—look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The "merrie men" have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.

"What news? Speak, thou varlet!"

"The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows of the windmill."

"Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege."

Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile neighbours—the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods—the fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or the like, for the king's supper. Then he interviewed the butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.

When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:

On lance, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part.

The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices. And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.

Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle in his hand.

The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.

Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired, prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.

"Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight."

"My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own."

"Ah, and yet so loyal!"

"For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I daily heard."

"Ah, indeed," said the king, "then shalt thou receive the honour from my own hands," and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added, "Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne."

"Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed," muttered Prince Edward.

"Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those who honour us will we honour {32}."

The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations. The multitude cried, "Largesse! Largesse!" and by Drogo's direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:

"Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne."

Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands, pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.

The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of the board—his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards "The Hammer of Scotland," on his father's left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.

Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and honour which he had received.

Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader's patience with scenes of that sort enough already.

But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow's journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the multitude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.

Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.

"Who are these doughty foes?"

"Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor of the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a favourite page of the Earl of Leicester."

"Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain such acorns?"

"I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand."

"Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless make short work of them."

Night reigned without the occasional challenge of the sentinel alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host encamped at Walderne.

Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to life and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the woods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the eastern hills.

Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet hastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind them, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and friar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin's health was not strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of a dungeon.

"You are accused of rebellion," said the stern Edward, as he faced them. "What is your answer?"

Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and anger, died of fear—yet he was never intentionally unjust.

Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the only course.

"My prince," he said, "we must indeed avow that our convictions are with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are, but we disclaim the word."

"And thou, Sir Mayor?"

"I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to choose."

"And thou, friar of orders grey?"

"Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester just," said Martin quietly.

Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger era he replied:

"They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in ward."

Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to the "superstitious" scruples of his followers, and to gain this he would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold, but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion than avarice.

And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were the newly-made knight and his followers.

He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons—the only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will disclose themselves ere long.

As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the key of Martin's dungeon.

"Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst."

Should he send it back?

"No, no!"

He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.

"I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design."

Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite powers.

We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast, where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports—Winchelsea and Pevensey, so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of Savoy, the then lord of the "Eagle," entertained them at the Norman castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the approach of the barons.

___________

There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would joyfully chant his Nunc Dimittis.

On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance related; and when he awoke he said;

"Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored."

But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith. For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him. Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the sufferer.

One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his adversary's dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days, a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional. It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave {33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day.

It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when, lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features resigned and peaceful.

"I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward."

And he disappeared.

Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the fulfilment of the vision.

___________

It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.

"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more words were whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features with a softer expression.

The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given "the first born of his body for the sin of his soul."

And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless, but loving Hubert.