diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/1366-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/1366-0.txt | 33080 |
1 files changed, 33080 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/1366-0.txt b/old/1366-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9c8041 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1366-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,33080 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cloister and the Hearth, by Charles Reade + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Cloister and the Hearth + +Author: Charles Reade + +Release Date: February 15, 2006 [EBook #1366] +Last Updated: March 5, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH *** + + + + +Produced by Neil McLachlan and David Widger + + + + + +THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH + + +by Charles Reade + + + + +Etext Notes: + +1. Greek passages are enclosed in angled brackets, e.g. {methua}, and + have been transliterated according to:alpha A, a + beta B, b + gamma G, g + delta D, d + epsilon E, e + zeta Z, z + eta Y, y + theta Th, th + iota I, i + kappa K, k + lamda L, l + mu M, m + nu N, n + omicron O, o + pi P, p + rho R, r + sigma S, s + tau T, t + phi Ph, ph + chi Ch, ch + psi Ps, ps + xi X, x + upsilon U, u + omega W, w + +2. All diacritics have been removed from this version + +3. References for the Author's footnotes are enclosed in square +brackets(e.g. (1)) and collected at the end of the chapter they occur +in. + +4. There are 100 chapters in the book, each starting with CHAPTER R, +where R is the chapter number expressed as a Roman numeral. + + + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE + +A small portion of this tale appeared in Once a Week, July-September, +1859, under the title of “A Good Fight.” + +After writing it, I took wider views of the subject, and also felt +uneasy at having deviated unnecessarily from the historical outline of +a true story. These two sentiments have cost me more than a year's very +hard labour, which I venture to think has not been wasted. After this +plain statement I trust all who comment on this work will see that to +describe it as a reprint would be unfair to the public and to me. The +English language is copious, and, in any true man's hands, quite able +to convey the truth--namely, that one-fifth of the present work is a +reprint, and four-fifths of it a new composition. + +CHARLES READE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great +deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure +heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known +till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small +great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their +lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record +them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly +and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, +but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his +bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as +skeletons are not human figures. + +Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk: the +writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so +rare a gift. Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the +public--as an interpreter. + +There is a musty chronicle, written in intolerable Latin, and in it +a chapter where every sentence holds a fact. Here is told, with harsh +brevity, the strange history of a pair, who lived untrumpeted, and died +unsung, four hundred years ago; and lie now, as unpitied, in that stern +page, as fossils in a rock. Thus, living or dead, Fate is still unjust +to them. For if I can but show you what lies below that dry chronicler's +words, methinks you will correct the indifference of centuries, and give +those two sore-tried souls a place in your heart--for a day. + +It was past the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was sovereign +of France; Edward IV was wrongful king of England; and Philip “the +Good,” having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, +and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, +where our tale begins. + +Elias, and Catherine his wife, lived in the little town of Tergou. He +traded, wholesale and retail, in cloth, silk, brown holland, and, +above all, in curried leather, a material highly valued by the middling +people, because it would stand twenty years' wear, and turn an ordinary +knife, no small virtue in a jerkin of that century, in which folk were +so liberal of their steel; even at dinner a man would leave his meat +awhile, and carve you his neighbour, on a very moderate difference of +opinion. + +The couple were well to do, and would have been free from all earthly +care, but for nine children. When these were coming into the world, one +per annum, each was hailed with rejoicings, and the saints were thanked, +not expostulated with; and when parents and children were all young +together, the latter were looked upon as lovely little playthings +invented by Heaven for the amusement, joy, and evening solace of people +in business. + +But as the olive-branches shot up, and the parents grew older, and saw +with their own eyes the fate of large families, misgivings and care +mingled with their love. They belonged to a singularly wise and +provident people: in Holland reckless parents were as rare as +disobedient children. So now when the huge loaf came in on a gigantic +trencher, looking like a fortress in its moat, and, the tour of the +table once made, seemed to have melted away, Elias and Catherine would +look at one another and say, “Who is to find bread for them all when we +are gone?” + +At this observation the younger ones needed all their filial respect to +keep their little Dutch countenances; for in their opinion dinner and +supper came by nature like sunrise and sunset, and, so long as that +luminary should travel round the earth, so long as the brown loaf go +round their family circle, and set in their stomachs only to rise again +in the family oven. But the remark awakened the national thoughtfulness +of the elder boys, and being often repeated, set several of the family +thinking, some of them good thoughts, some ill thoughts, according to +the nature of the thinkers. + +“Kate, the children grow so, this table will soon be too small.” + +“We cannot afford it, Eli,” replied Catherine, answering not his words, +but his thought, after the manner of women. + +Their anxiety for the future took at times a less dismal but more +mortifying turn. The free burghers had their pride as well as the +nobles; and these two could not bear that any of their blood should go +down in the burgh after their decease. + +So by prudence and self-denial they managed to clothe all the little +bodies, and feed all the great mouths, and yet put by a small hoard +to meet the future; and, as it grew and grew, they felt a pleasure the +miser hoarding for himself knows not. + +One day the eldest boy but one, aged nineteen, came to his mother, and, +with that outward composure which has so misled some persons as to the +real nature of this people, begged her to intercede with his father to +send him to Amsterdam, and place him with a merchant. “It is the way +of life that likes me: merchants are wealthy; I am good at numbers; +prithee, good mother, take my part in this, and I shall ever be, as I am +now, your debtor.” + +Catherine threw up her hands with dismay and incredulity. + +“What! leave Tergou!” + +“What is one street to me more than another? If I can leave the folk of +Tergou, I can surely leave the stones.” + +“What! quit your poor father now he is no longer young?” + +“Mother, if I can leave you, I can leave” + +“What! leave your poor brothers and sisters, that love you so dear?” + +“There are enough in the house without me.” + +“What mean you, Richart? Who is more thought of than you Stay, have I +spoken sharp to you? Have I been unkind to you?” + +“Never that I know of; and if you had, you should never hear of it from +me. Mother,” said Richart gravely, but the tear was in his eye, “it all +lies in a word, and nothing can change my mind. There will be one mouth +less for you to feed.' + +“There now, see what my tongue has done,” said Catherine, and the next +moment she began to cry. For she saw her first young bird on the edge +of the nest trying his wings to fly into the world. Richart had a calm, +strong will, and she knew he never wasted a word. + +It ended as nature has willed all such discourse shall end: young +Richart went to Amsterdam with a face so long and sad as it had never +been seen before, and a heart like granite. + +That afternoon at supper there was one mouth less. Catherine looked at +Richart's chair and wept bitterly. On this Elias shouted roughly and +angrily to the children, “Sit wider, can't ye: sit wider!” and turned +his head away over the back of his seat awhile, and was silent. + +Richart was launched, and never cost them another penny; but to fit him +out and place him in the house of Vander Stegen, the merchant, took all +the little hoard but one gold crown. They began again. Two years passed, +Richart found a niche in commerce for his brother Jacob, and Jacob left +Tergou directly after dinner, which was at eleven in the forenoon. At +supper that day Elias remembered what had happened the last time; so it +was in a low whisper he said, “Sit wider, dears!” Now until that moment, +Catherine would not see the gap at table, for her daughter Catherine had +besought her not to grieve to-night, and she had said, “No, sweetheart, +I promise I will not, since it vexes my children.” But when Elias +whispered “Sit wider!” says she, “Ay! the table will soon be too big +for the children, and you thought it would be too small;” and having +delivered this with forced calmness, she put up her apron the next +moment, and wept sore. + +“'Tis the best that leave us,” sobbed she; “that is the cruel part.” + +“Nay! nay!” said Elias, “our children are good children, and all are +dear to us alike. Heed her not! What God takes from us still seems +better that what He spares to us; that is to say, men are by nature +unthankful--and women silly.” + +“And I say Richart and Jacob were the flower of the flock,” sobbed +Catherine. + +The little coffer was empty again, and to fill it they gathered +like ants. In those days speculation was pretty much confined to the +card-and-dice business. Elias knew no way to wealth but the slow and +sure one. “A penny saved is a penny gained,” was his humble creed. All +that was not required for the business and the necessaries of life went +into the little coffer with steel bands and florid key. They denied +themselves in turn the humblest luxuries, and then, catching one +another's looks, smiled; perhaps with a greater joy than self-indulgence +has to bestow. And so in three years more they had gleaned enough to set +up their fourth son as a master-tailor, and their eldest daughter as a +robemaker, in Tergou. Here were two more provided for: their own trade +would enable them to throw work into the hands of this pair. But the +coffer was drained to the dregs, and this time the shop too bled a +little in goods if not in coin. + +Alas! there remained on hand two that were unable to get their bread, +and two that were unwilling. The unable ones were, 1, Giles, a dwarf, +of the wrong sort, half stupidity, half malice, all head and claws and +voice, run from by dogs and unprejudiced females, and sided with through +thick and thin by his mother; 2, Little Catherine, a poor little girl +that could only move on crutches. She lived in pain, but smiled through +it, with her marble face and violet eyes and long silky lashes; and +fretful or repining word never came from her lips. The unwilling ones +were Sybrandt, the youngest, a ne'er-do-weel, too much in love with play +to work; and Cornelis, the eldest, who had made calculations, and stuck +to the hearth, waiting for dead men's shoes. Almost worn out by their +repeated efforts, and above all dispirited by the moral and physical +infirmities of those that now remained on hand, the anxious couple would +often say, “What will become of all these when we shall be no longer +here to take care of them?” But when they had said this a good many +times, suddenly the domestic horizon cleared, and then they used +still to say it, because a habit is a habit, but they uttered it half +mechanically now, and added brightly and cheerfully, “But thanks to St. +Bavon and all the saints, there's Gerard.” + +Young Gerard was for many years of his life a son apart and he was going +into the Church, and the Church could always maintain her children by +hook or by crook in those days: no great hopes, because his family had +no interest with the great to get him a benefice, and the young man's +own habits were frivolous, and, indeed, such as our cloth merchant +would not have put up with in any one but a clerk that was to be. His +trivialities were reading and penmanship, and he was so wrapped up in +them that often he could hardly be got away to his meals. The day +was never long enough for him; and he carried ever a tinder-box and +brimstone matches, and begged ends of candles of the neighbours, which +he lighted at unreasonable hours--ay, even at eight of the clock at +night in winter, when the very burgomaster was abed. Endured at home, +his practices were encouraged by the monks of a neighbouring convent. +They had taught him penmanship, and continued to teach him until one day +they discovered, in the middle of a lesson, that he was teaching them. +They pointed this out to him in a merry way: he hung his head and +blushed: he had suspected as much himself, but mistrusted his judgment +in so delicate a matter. “But, my son,” said an elderly monk, “how is +it that you, to whom God has given an eye so true, a hand so subtle yet +firm, and a heart to love these beautiful crafts, how is it you do not +colour as well as write? A scroll looks but barren unless a border of +fruit, and leaves, and rich arabesques surround the good words, and +charm the sense as those do the soul and understanding; to say nothing +of the pictures of holy men and women departed, with which the several +chapters should be adorned, and not alone the eye soothed with the brave +and sweetly blended colours, but the heart lifted by effigies of the +saints in glory. Answer me, my son.” + +At this Gerard was confused, and muttered that he had made several +trials at illuminating, but had not succeeded well; and thus the matter +rested. + +Soon after this a fellow-enthusiast came on the scene in the unwonted +form of an old lady. Margaret, sister and survivor of the brothers Van +Eyck, left Flanders, and came to end her days in her native country. She +bought a small house near Tergou. In course of time she heard of Gerard, +and saw some of his handiwork: it pleased her so well that she sent her +female servant, Reicht Heynes, to ask him to come to her. This led to an +acquaintance: it could hardly be otherwise, for little Tergou had never +held so many as two zealots of this sort before. At first the old lady +damped Gerard's courage terribly. At each visit she fished out of holes +and corners drawings and paintings, some of them by her own hand, that +seemed to him unapproachable; but if the artist overpowered him, the +woman kept his heart up. She and Reicht soon turned him inside out like +a glove: among other things, they drew from him what the good monks had +failed to hit upon, the reason why he did not illuminate, viz., that +he could not afford the gold, the blue, and the red, but only the cheap +earths; and that he was afraid to ask his mother to buy the choice +colours, and was sure he should ask her in vain. Then Margaret Van Eyck +gave him a little brush--gold, and some vermilion and ultramarine, and +a piece of good vellum to lay them on. He almost adored her. As he left +the house Reicht ran after him with a candle and two quarters: he +quite kissed her. But better even than the gold and lapis-lazuli to the +illuminator was the sympathy to the isolated enthusiast. That sympathy +was always ready, and, as he returned it, an affection sprung up between +the old painter and the young caligrapher that was doubly characteristic +of the time. For this was a century in which the fine arts and the +higher mechanical arts were not separated by any distinct boundary, nor +were those who practised them; and it was an age in which artists sought +out and loved one another. Should this last statement stagger a painter +or writer of our day, let me remind him that even Christians loved one +another at first starting. + +Backed by an acquaintance so venerable, and strengthened by female +sympathy, Gerard advanced in learning and skill. His spirits, too, rose +visibly: he still looked behind him when dragged to dinner in the +middle of an initial G; but once seated, showed great social qualities; +likewise a gay humour, that had hitherto but peeped in him, shone out, +and often he set the table in a roar, and kept it there, sometimes with +his own wit, sometimes with jests which were glossy new to his family, +being drawn from antiquity. + +As a return for all he owed his friends the monks, he made them +exquisite copies from two of their choicest MSS., viz., the life of +their founder, and their Comedies of Terence, the monastery finding the +vellum. + +The high and puissant Prince, Philip “the Good,” Duke of Burgundy, +Luxemburg, and Brabant, Earl of Holland and Zealand, Lord of Friesland, +Count of Flanders, Artois, and Hainault, Lord of Salins and Macklyn--was +versatile. + +He could fight as well as any king going; and lie could lie as well as +any, except the King of France. He was a mighty hunter, and could read +and write. His tastes were wide and ardent. He loved jewels like a +woman, and gorgeous apparel. He dearly loved maids of honour, and indeed +paintings generally; in proof of which he ennobled Jan Van Eyck. He had +also a rage for giants, dwarfs, and Turks. These last stood ever planted +about him, turbaned and blazing with jewels. His agents inveigled them +from Istamboul with fair promises; but the moment he had got them, he +baptized them by brute force in a large tub; and this done, let them +squat with their faces towards Mecca, and invoke Mahound as much as they +pleased, laughing in his sleeve at their simplicity in fancying they +were still infidels. He had lions in cages, and fleet leopards trained +by Orientals to run down hares and deer. In short, he relished all +rarities, except the humdrum virtues. For anything singularly pretty or +diabolically ugly, this was your customer. The best of him was, he was +openhanded to the poor; and the next best was, he fostered the arts in +earnest: whereof he now gave a signal proof. He offered prizes for the +best specimens of orfevrerie in two kinds, religious and secular: item, +for the best paintings in white of egg, oils, and tempera; these to +be on panel, silk, or metal, as the artists chose: item, for the best +transparent painting on glass: item, for the best illuminating and +border-painting on vellum: item, for the fairest writing on vellum. The +burgomasters of the several towns were commanded to aid all the poorer +competitors by receiving their specimens and sending them with due care +to Rotterdam at the expense of their several burghs. When this was cried +by the bellman through the streets of Tergou, a thousand mouths opened, +and one heart beat--Gerard's. He told his family timidly he should try +for two of those prizes. They stared in silence, for their breath was +gone at his audacity; but one horrid laugh exploded on the floor like +a petard. Gerard looked down, and there was the dwarf, slit and fanged +from ear to ear at his expense, and laughing like a lion. Nature, +relenting at having made Giles so small, had given him as a set-off the +biggest voice on record. His very whisper was a bassoon. He was like +those stunted wide-mouthed pieces of ordnance we see on fortifications; +more like a flower-pot than a cannon; but ods tympana how they bellow! + +Gerard turned red with anger, the more so as the others began to titter. +White Catherine saw, and a pink tinge came on her cheek. She said +softly, “Why do you laugh? Is it because he is our brother you think +he cannot be capable? Yes, Gerard, try with the rest. Many say you are +skilful; and mother and I will pray the Virgin to guide your hand.” + +“Thank you, little Kate. You shall pray to our Lady, and our mother +shall buy me vellum and the colours to illuminate with.” + +“What will they cost, my lad?” + +“Two gold crowns” (about three shillings and fourpence English money). + +“What!” screamed the housewife, “when the bushel of rye costs but a +groat! What! me spend a month's meal and meat and fire on such vanity as +that: the lightning from Heaven would fall on me, and my children would +all be beggars.” + +“Mother!” sighed little Catherine, imploringly. + +“Oh! it is in vain, Kate,” said Gerard, with a sigh. “I shall have to +give it up, or ask the dame Van Eyck. She would give it me, but I think +shame to be for ever taking from her.” + +“It is not her affair,” said Catherine, very sharply; “what has she to +do coming between me and my son?” and she left the room with a red +face. Little Catherine smiled. Presently the housewife returned with a +gracious, affectionate air, and two little gold pieces in her hand. + +“There, sweetheart,” said she, “you won't have to trouble dame or +demoiselle for two paltry crowns.” + +But on this Gerard fell a thinking how he could spare her purse. + +“One will do, mother. I will ask the good monks to let me send my copy +of their 'Terence:' it is on snowy vellum, and I can write no better: +so then I shall only need six sheets of vellum for my borders and +miniatures, and gold for my ground, and prime colours--one crown will +do.' + +“Never tyne the ship for want of a bit of tar, Gerard,” said his +changeable mother. But she added, “Well, there, I will put the crown in +my pocket. That won't be like putting it back in the box. Going to the +box to take out instead of putting in, it is like going to my heart with +a knife for so many drops of blood. You will be sure to want it, Gerard. +The house is never built for less than the builder counted on.” + +Sure enough, when the time came, Gerard longed to go to Rotterdam and +see the Duke, and above all to see the work of his competitors, and +so get a lesson from defeat. And the crown came out of the housewife's +pocket with a very good grace. Gerard would soon be a priest. It seemed +hard if he might not enjoy the world a little before separating himself +from it for life. + +The night before he went, Margaret Van Eyck asked him to take a letter +for her, and when he came to look at it, to his surprise he found it was +addressed to the Princess Marie, at the Stadthouse in Rotterdam. + +The day before the prizes were to be distributed, Gerard started for +Rotterdam in his holiday suit, to wit, a doublet of silver-grey cloth, +with sleeves, and a jerkin of the same over it, but without sleeves. +From his waist to his heels he was clad in a pair of tight-fitting +buckskin hose fastened by laces (called points) to his doublet. His +shoes were pointed, in moderation, and secured by a strap that passed +under the hollow of the foot. On his head and the back of his neck he +wore his flowing hair, and pinned to his back between his shoulders was +his hat: it was further secured by a purple silk ribbon little Kate had +passed round him from the sides of the hat, and knotted neatly on +his breast; below his hat, attached to the upper rim of his broad +waist-belt, was his leathern wallet. When he got within a league of +Rotterdam he was pretty tired, but he soon fell in with a pair that were +more so. He found an old man sitting by the roadside quite worn out, and +a comely young woman holding his hand, with a face brimful of concern. +The country people trudged by, and noticed nothing amiss; but Gerard, as +he passed, drew conclusions. Even dress tells a tale to those who study +it so closely as he did, being an illuminator. The old man wore a gown, +and a fur tippet, and a velvet cap, sure signs of dignity; but the +triangular purse at his girdle was lean, the gown rusty, the fur worn, +sure signs of poverty. The young woman was dressed in plain russet +cloth: yet snow-white lawn covered that part of her neck the gown left +visible, and ended half way up her white throat in a little band of gold +embroidery; and her head-dress was new to Gerard: instead of hiding her +hair in a pile of linen or lawn, she wore an open network of silver cord +with silver spangles at the interstices: in this her glossy auburn hair +was rolled in front into two solid waves, and supported behind in a +luxurious and shapely mass. His quick eye took in all this, and the old +man's pallor, and the tears in the young woman's eyes. So when he had +passed them a few yards, he reflected, and turned back, and came towards +them bashfully. + +“Father, I fear you are tired.” + +“Indeed, my son, I am,” replied the old man, “and faint for lack of +food.” + +Gerard's address did not appear so agreeable to the girl as to the old +man. She seemed ashamed, and with much reserve in her manner, said, +that it was her fault--she had underrated the distance, and imprudently +allowed her father to start too late in the day. + +“No, no,” said the old man; “it is not the distance, it is the want of +nourishment.” + +The girl put her arms round his neck with tender concern, but took that +opportunity of whispering, “Father, a stranger--a young man!” + +But it was too late. Gerard, with simplicity, and quite as a matter of +course, fell to gathering sticks with great expedition. This done, he +took down his wallet, out with the manchet of bread and the iron flask +his careful mother had put up, and his everlasting tinder-box; lighted a +match, then a candle-end, then the sticks; and put his iron flask on it. +Then down he went on his stomach, and took a good blow: then looking up, +he saw the girl's face had thawed, and she was looking down at him and +his energy with a demure smile. He laughed back to her. “Mind the pot,” + said he, “and don't let it spill, for Heaven's sake: there's a cleft +stick to hold it safe with;” and with this he set off running towards a +corn-field at some distance. + +Whilst he was gone, there came by, on a mule with rich purple housings, +an old man redolent of wealth. The purse at his girdle was plethoric, +the fur on his tippet was ermine, broad and new. + +It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the burgomaster of Tergou. + +He was old, and his face furrowed. He was a notorious miser, and looked +one generally. But the idea of supping with the Duke raised him just now +into manifest complacency. Yet at the sight of the faded old man and his +bright daughter sitting by a fire of sticks, the smile died out of his +face, and he wore a strange look of pain and uneasiness. He reined in +his mule. + +“Why, Peter,--Margaret,” said he, almost fiercely, “what mummery is +this?” Peter was going to answer, but Margaret interposed hastily, and +said: “My father was exhausted, so I am warming something to give him +strength before we go on.” + +“What! reduced to feed by the roadside like the Bohemians,” said +Ghysbrecht, and his hand went into his purse; but it did not seem at +home there; it fumbled uncertainly, afraid too large a coin might stick +to a finger and come out. + +At this moment who should come bounding up but Gerard. He had two straws +in his hand, and he threw himself down by the fire and relieved Margaret +of the cooking part: then suddenly recognizing the burgomaster, he +coloured all over. Ghysbrecht Van Swieten started and glared at him, +and took his hand out of his purse. “Oh!” said he bitterly, “I am +not wanted,” and went slowly on, casting a long look of suspicion on +Margaret, and hostility on Gerard, that was not very intelligible. +However, there was something about it that Margaret could read enough +to blush at, and almost toss her head. Gerard only stared with surprise. +“By St. Bavon, I think the old miser grudges us three our quart +of soup,” said he. When the young man put that interpretation on +Ghysbrecht's strange and meaning look, Margaret was greatly relieved, +and smiled gaily on the speaker. + +Meanwhile Ghysbrecht plodded on, more wretched in his wealth than these +in their poverty. And the curious thing is, that the mule, the purple +housings, and one-half the coin in that plethoric purse, belonged not to +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, but to that faded old man and that comely girl, +who sat by a roadside fire to be fed by a stranger. They did not know +this; but Ghysbrecht knew it, and carried in his heart a scorpion of +his own begetting; that scorpion is remorse--the remorse that, not +being penitence, is incurable, and ready for fresh misdeeds upon a fresh +temptation. + +Twenty years ago, when Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was a hard and honest man, +the touchstone opportunity came to him, and he did an act of heartless +roguery. It seemed a safe one. It had hitherto proved a safe one, though +he had never felt safe. To-day he had seen youth, enterprise, and, above +all, knowledge, seated by fair Margaret and her father on terms that +look familiar and loving. + +And the fiends are at big ear again. + + + +CHAPTER II + +“The soup is hot,” said Gerard. + +“But how are we to get it to our mouths?” inquired the senior, +despondingly. + +“Father, the young man has brought us straws.” And Margaret smiled +slily. + +“Ay, ay!” said the old man; “but my poor bones are stiff, and indeed the +fire is too hot for a body to kneel over with these short straws. St. +John the Baptist, but the young man is adroit!” + +For, while he stated his difficulty, Gerard removed it. He untied in a +moment the knot on his breast, took his hat off, put a stone into each +corner of it, then, wrapping his hand in the tail of his jerkin, whipped +the flask off the fire, wedged it in between the stones, and put the +hat under the old man's nose with a merry smile. The other tremulously +inserted the pipe of rye-straw and sucked. Lo and behold, his wan, drawn +face was seen to light up more and more, till it quite glowed; and as +soon as he had drawn a long breath: + +“Hippocrates and Galen!” he cried, “'tis a soupe au vin--the restorative +of restoratives. Blessed be the nation that invented it, and the woman +that made it, and the young man who brings it to fainting folk. Have a +suck, my girl, while I relate to our young host the history and virtues +of this his sovereign compound. This corroborative, young sir, was +unknown to the ancients: we find it neither in their treatises of +medicine, nor in those popular narratives, which reveal many of their +remedies, both in chirurgery and medicine proper. Hector, in the Ilias, +if my memory does not play me false-- + +(Margaret. “Alas! he's off.”) + +----was invited by one of the ladies of the poem to drink a draught of +wine; but he declined, on the plea that he was just going into battle, +and must not take aught to weaken his powers. Now, if the soupe au vin +had been known in Troy, it is clear that in declining vinum merum upon +that score, he would have added in the hexameter, 'But a soupe au vin, +madam, I will degust, and gratefully.' Not only would this have been but +common civility--a virtue no perfect commander is wanting in--but not +to have done it would have proved him a shallow and improvident person, +unfit to be trusted with the conduct of a war; for men going into a +battle need sustenance and all possible support, as is proved by this, +that foolish generals, bringing hungry soldiers to blows with full ones, +have been defeated, in all ages, by inferior numbers. The Romans lost +a great battle in the north of Italy to Hannibal, the Carthaginian, by +this neglect alone. Now, this divine elixir gives in one moment force to +the limbs and ardour to the spirits; and taken into Hector's body at +the nick of time, would, by the aid of Phoebus, Venus, and the blessed +saints, have most likely procured the Greeks a defeat. For note how +faint and weary and heart-sick I was a minute ago; well, I suck this +celestial cordial, and now behold me brave as Achilles and strong as an +eagle.” + +“Oh, father, now? an eagle, alack!” + +“Girl, I defy thee and all the world. Ready, I say, like a foaming +charger, to devour the space between this and Rotterdam, and strong +to combat the ills of life, even poverty and old age, which last +philosophers have called the summum malum. Negatur; unless the man's +life has been ill-spent--which, by the bye, it generally has. Now for +the moderns!” + +“Father! dear father!” + +“Fear me not, girl; I will be brief, unreasonably and unseasonably +brief. The soupe au vin occurs not in modern science; but this is only +one proof more, if proof were needed, that for the last few hundred +years physicians have been idiots, with their chicken-broth and their +decoction of gold, whereby they attribute the highest qualities to that +meat which has the least juice of any meat, and to that metal which +has less chemical qualities than all the metals; mountebanks! dunces! +homicides! Since, then, from these no light is to be gathered, go we +to the chroniclers; and first we find that Duguesclin, a French knight, +being about to join battle with the English--masters, at that time, of +half France, and sturdy strikers by sea and land--drank, not one, but +three soupes au vin in honour of the Blessed Trinity. This done, he +charged the islanders; and, as might have been foretold, killed a +multitude, and drove the rest into the sea. But he was only the first +of a long list of holy and hard-hitting ones who have, by this divine +restorative, been sustentated, fortified, corroborated, and consoled.” + +“Dear father, prithee add thyself to that venerable company ere the +soup cools.” And Margaret held the hat imploringly in both hands till he +inserted the straw once more. + +This spared them the “modern instances,” and gave Gerard an opportunity +of telling Margaret how proud his mother would be her soup had profited +a man of learning. + +“Ay! but,” said Margaret, “it would like her ill to see her son give all +and take none himself. Why brought you but two straws?” + +“Fair mistress, I hoped you would let me put my lips to your straw, +there being but two.” + +Margaret smiled and blushed. “Never beg that you may command,” said she. +“The straw is not mine, 'tis yours: you cut it in yonder field.” + +“I cut it, and that made it mine; but after that, your lip touched it, +and that made it yours.” + +“Did it Then I will lend it you. There--now it is yours again; your lip +has touched it.” + +“No, it belongs to us both now. Let us divide it.” + +“By all means; you have a knife.” + +“No, I will not cut it--that would be unlucky. I'll bite it. There I +shall keep my half: you will burn yours, once you get home, I doubt.' + +“You know me not. I waste nothing. It is odds but I make a hairpin of +it, or something.” + +This answer dashed the novice Gerard, instead of provoking him, to fresh +efforts, and he was silent. And now, the bread and soup being disposed +of, the old scholar prepared to continue his journey. Then came a +little difficulty: Gerard the adroit could not tie his ribbon again as +Catherine had tied it. Margaret, after slily eyeing his efforts for +some time, offered to help him; for at her age girls love to be coy and +tender, saucy and gentle, by turns, and she saw she had put him out of +countenance but now. Then a fair head, with its stately crown of auburn +hair, glossy and glowing through silver, bowed sweetly towards him; and, +while it ravished his eye, two white supple hands played delicately upon +the stubborn ribbon, and moulded it with soft and airy touches. Then a +heavenly thrill ran through the innocent young man, and vague glimpses +of a new world of feeling and sentiment opened on him. And these new and +exquisite sensations Margaret unwittingly prolonged: it is not natural +to her sex to hurry aught that pertains to the sacred toilet. Nay, when +the taper fingers had at last subjugated the ends of the knot, her mind +was not quite easy, till, by a manoeuvre peculiar to the female hand, +she had made her palm convex, and so applied it with a gentle pressure +to the centre of the knot--a sweet little coaxing hand-kiss, as much as +to say, “Now be a good knot, and stay so.” The palm-kiss was bestowed on +the ribbon, but the wearer's heart leaped to meet it. + +“There, that is how it was,” said Margaret, and drew back to take one +last keen survey of her work; then, looking up for simple approval +of her skill, received full in her eyes a longing gaze of such ardent +adoration, as made her lower them quickly and colour all over. An +indescribable tremor seized her, and she retreated with downcast lashes +and tell-tale cheeks, and took her father's arm on the opposite side. +Gerard, blushing at having scared her away with his eyes, took the +other arm; and so the two young things went downcast and conscious, and +propped the eagle along in silence. + +They entered Rotterdam by the Schiedamze Poort; and, as Gerard was +unacquainted with the town, Peter directed him the way to the Hooch +Straet, in which the Stadthouse was. He himself was going with Margaret +to his cousin, in the Ooster-Waagen Straet, so, almost on entering the +gate, their roads lay apart. They bade each other a friendly adieu, and +Gerard dived into the great town. A profound sense of solitude fell upon +him, yet the streets were crowded. Then he lamented too late that, out +of delicacy, he had not asked his late companions who they were and +where they lived. + +“Beshrew my shamefacedness!” said he. “But their words and their +breeding were above their means, and something did whisper me they would +not be known. I shall never see her more. Oh weary world, I hate you and +your ways. To think I must meet beauty and goodness and learning--three +pearls of price--and never see them more!” + +Falling into this sad reverie, and letting his body go where it would, +he lost his way; but presently meeting a crowd of persons all moving in +one direction, he mingled with them, for he argued they must be making +for the Stadthouse. Soon the noisy troop that contained the moody Gerard +emerged, not upon the Stadthouse, but upon a large meadow by the side of +the Maas; and then the attraction was revealed. Games of all sorts +were going on: wrestling, the game of palm, the quintain, legerdemain, +archery, tumbling, in which art, I blush to say, women as well as men +performed, to the great delectation of the company. There was also a +trained bear, who stood on his head, and marched upright, and bowed with +prodigious gravity to his master; and a hare that beat a drum, and a +cock that strutted on little stilts disdainfully. These things made +Gerard laugh now and then; but the gay scene could not really enliven +it, for his heart was not in tune with it. So hearing a young man say +to his fellow that the Duke had been in the meadow, but was gone to +the Stadthouse to entertain the burgomasters and aldermen and the +competitors for the prizes, and their friends, he suddenly remembered +he was hungry, and should like to sup with a prince. He left the +river-side, and this time he found the Hooch Straet, and it speedily led +him to the Stadthouse. But when he got there he was refused, first +at one door, then at another, till he came to the great gate of the +courtyard. It was kept by soldiers, and superintended by a pompous +major-domo, glittering in an embroidered collar and a gold chain of +office, and holding a white staff with a gold knob. There was a crowd of +persons at the gate endeavouring to soften this official rock. They came +up in turn like ripples, and retired as such in turn. It cost Gerard a +struggle to get near him, and when he was within four heads of the +gate, he saw something that made his heart beat; there was Peter, with +Margaret on his arm, soliciting humbly for entrance. + +“My cousin the alderman is not at home; they say he is here.” + +“What is that to me, old man?” + +“If you will not let us pass in to him, at least take this leaf from my +tablet to my cousin. See, I have written his name; he will come out to +us. + +“For what do you take me? I carry no messages, I keep the gate.” + +He then bawled, in a stentorian voice, inexorably: + +“No strangers enter here, but the competitors and their companies.” + +“Come, old man,” cried a voice in the crowd, “you have gotten your +answer; make way.” + +Margaret turned half round imploringly: + +“Good people, we are come from far, and my father is old; and my cousin +has a new servant that knows us not, and would not let us sit in our +cousin's house.” + +At this the crowd laughed hoarsely. Margaret shrank as if they had +struck her. At that moment a hand grasped hers--a magic grasp; it felt +like heart meeting heart, or magnet steel. She turned quickly round at +it, and it was Gerard. Such a little cry of joy and appeal came from her +bosom, and she began to whimper prettily. + +They had hustled her and frightened her, for one thing; and her cousin's +thoughtlessness, in not even telling his servant they were coming, +was cruel; and the servant's caution, however wise and faithful to her +master, was bitterly mortifying to her father and her. And to her so +mortified, and anxious and jostled, came suddenly this kind hand and +face. “Hinc illae lacrimae.” + +“All is well now,” remarked a coarse humourist; “she hath gotten her +sweetheart.” + +“Haw! haw! haw!” went the crowd. + +She dropped Gerard's hand directly, and turned round, with eyes flashing +through her tears: + +“I have no sweetheart, you rude men. But I am friendless in your boorish +town, and this is a friend; and one who knows, what you know not, how to +treat the aged and the weak.” + +The crowd was dead silent. They had only been thoughtless, and now felt +the rebuke, though severe, was just. The silence enabled Gerard to treat +with the porter. + +“I am a competitor, sir.” + +“What is your name?” and the man eyed him suspiciously. + +“Gerard, the son of Elias.” + +The janitor inspected a slip of parchment he held in his hand: + +“Gerard Eliassoen can enter.” + +“With my company, these two?” + +“Nay; those are not your company they came before you.” + +“What matter? They are my friends, and without them I go not in.” + +“Stay without, then.” + +“That will I not.” + +“That we shall see.” + +“We will, and speedily.” And with this, Gerard raised a voice of +astounding volume and power, and routed so that the whole street rang: + +“Ho! PHILIP, EARL OF HOLLAND!” + +“Are you mad?” cried the porter. + +“HERE IS ONE OF YOUR VARLETS DEFIES YOU.” + +“Hush, hush!” + +“AND WILL NOT LET YOUR GUESTS PASS IN.” + +“Hush! murder! The Dukes there. I'm dead,” cried the janitor, quaking. + +Then suddenly trying to overpower Gerard's thunder, he shouted, with all +his lungs: + +“OPEN THE GATE, YE KNAVES! WAY THERE FOR GERARD ELIASSOEN AND HIS +COMPANY! (The fiends go with him!)” + +The gate swung open as by magic. Eight soldiers lowered their pikes +halfway, and made an arch, under which the victorious three marched +in triumphant. The moment they had passed, the pikes clashed together +horizontally to bar the gateway, and all but pinned an abdominal citizen +that sought to wedge in along with them. + +Once past the guarded portal, a few steps brought the trio upon a scene +of Oriental luxury. The courtyard was laid out in tables loaded with +rich meats and piled with gorgeous plate. Guests in rich and various +costumes sat beneath a leafy canopy of fresh-cut branches fastened +tastefully to golden, silver, and blue silken cords that traversed the +area; and fruits of many hues, including some artificial ones of gold, +silver, and wax, hung pendant, or peeped like fair eyes among the green +leaves of plane-trees and lime-trees. The Duke's minstrels swept their +lutes at intervals, and a fountain played red Burgundy in six jets that +met and battled in the air. The evening sun darted its fires through +those bright and purple wine spouts, making them jets and cascades of +molten rubies, then passing on, tinged with the blood of the grape, +shed crimson glories here and there on fair faces, snowy beards, velvet, +satin, jewelled hilts, glowing gold, gleaming silver, and sparkling +glass. Gerard and his friends stood dazzled, spell-bound. Presently +a whisper buzzed round them, “Salute the Duke! Salute the Duke!” They +looked up, and there on high, under the dais, was their sovereign, +bidding them welcome with a kindly wave of the hand. The men bowed low, +and Margaret curtsied with a deep and graceful obeisance. The Duke's +hand being up, he gave it another turn, and pointed the new-comers out +to a knot of valets. Instantly seven of his people, with an obedient +start, went headlong at our friends, seated them at a table, and put +fifteen many-coloured soups before them, in little silver bowls, and as +many wines in crystal vases. + +“Nay, father, let us not eat until we have thanked our good friend,” + said Margaret, now first recovering from all this bustle. + +“Girl, he is our guardian angel.” + +Gerard put his face into his hands. + +“Tell me when you have done,” said he, “and I will reappear and have +my supper, for I am hungry. I know which of us three is the happiest at +meeting again.” + +“Me?” inquired Margaret. + +“No: guess again.” + +“Father?” + +“No.” + +“Then I have no guess which it can be;” and she gave a little crow of +happiness and gaiety. The soup was tasted, and vanished in a twirl +of fourteen hands, and fish came on the table in a dozen forms, with +patties of lobster and almonds mixed, and of almonds and cream, and an +immense variety of brouets known to us as rissoles. The next trifle was +a wild boar, which smelt divine. Why, then, did Margaret start away from +it with two shrieks of dismay, and pinch so good a friend as Gerard? +Because the Duke's cuisinier had been too clever; had made this +excellent dish too captivating to the sight as well as taste. He had +restored to the animal, by elaborate mimicry with burnt sugar and other +edible colours, the hair and bristles he had robbed him of by fire and +water. To make him still more enticing, the huge tusks were carefully +preserved in the brute's jaw, and gave his mouth the winning smile that +comes of tusk in man or beast; and two eyes of coloured sugar glowed +in his head. St. Argus! what eyes! so bright, so bloodshot, so +threatening--they followed a man and every movement of his knife and +spoon. But, indeed, I need the pencil of Granville or Tenniel to make +you see the two gilt valets on the opposite side of the table putting +the monster down before our friends, with a smiling, self-satisfied, +benevolent obsequiousness for this ghastly monster was the flower of all +comestibles--old Peter clasping both hands in pious admiration of +it; Margaret wheeling round with horror-stricken eyes and her hand on +Gerard's shoulder, squeaking and pinching; his face of unwise delight at +being pinched, the grizzly brute glaring sulkily on all, and the guests +grinning from ear to ear. + +“What's to do?” shouted the Duke, hearing the signals of female +distress. Seven of his people with a zealous start went headlong and +told him. He laughed and said, “Give her of the beef-stuffing, then, and +bring me Sir Boar.” Benevolent monarch! The beef-stuffing was his own +private dish. On these grand occasions an ox was roasted whole, and +reserved for the poor. But this wise as well as charitable prince had +discovered, that whatever venison, bares, lamb, poultry, etc., you +skewered into that beef cavern, got cooked to perfection, retaining +their own juices and receiving those of the reeking ox. These he called +his beef-stuffing, and took delight therein, as did now our trio; +for, at his word, seven of his people went headlong, and drove silver +tridents into the steaming cave at random, and speared a kid, a cygnet, +and a flock of wildfowl. These presently smoked before Gerard and +company; and Peter's face, sad and slightly morose at the loss of the +savage hog, expanded and shone. After this, twenty different tarts of +fruits and herbs, and last of all, confectionery on a Titanic scale; +cathedrals of sugar, all gilt painted in the interstices of the +bas-reliefs; castles with moats, and ditches imitated to the life; +elephants, camels, toads; knights on horseback jousting; kings and +princesses looking on trumpeters blowing; and all these personages +eating, and their veins filled with sweet-scented juices: works of art +made to be destroyed. The guests breached a bastion, crunched a crusader +and his horse and lance, or cracked a bishop, cope, chasuble, crosier +and all, as remorselessly as we do a caraway comfit; sipping meanwhile +hippocras and other spiced drinks, and Greek and Corsican wines, while +every now and then little Turkish boys, turbaned, spangled, jewelled, +and gilt, came offering on bended knee golden troughs of rose-water and +orange-water to keep the guests' hands cool and perfumed. + +But long before our party arrived at this final stage appetite had +succumbed, and Gerard had suddenly remembered he was the bearer of a +letter to the Princess Marie, and, in an under-tone, had asked one of +the servants if he would undertake to deliver it. The man took it with +a deep obeisance: “He could not deliver it himself, but would instantly +give it one of the Princess's suite, several of whom were about.” + +It may be remembered that Peter and Margaret came here not to dine, but +to find their cousin. Well, the old gentleman ate heartily, and--being +much fatigued, dropped asleep, and forgot all about his cousin. Margaret +did not remind him; we shall hear why. + +Meanwhile, that Cousin was seated within a few feet of them, at their +backs, and discovered them when Margaret turned round and screamed +at the boar. But he forbore to speak to them, for municipal reasons. +Margaret was very plainly dressed, and Peter inclined to threadbare. So +the alderman said to himself: + +“'Twill be time to make up to them when the sun sets and the company +disperses then I will take my poor relations to my house, and none will +be the wiser.” + +Half the courses were lost on Gerard and Margaret. They were no great +eaters, and just now were feeding on sweet thoughts that have ever been +unfavourable to appetite. But there is a delicate kind of sensuality, +to whose influence these two were perhaps more sensitive than any other +pair in that assembly--the delights of colour, music, and perfume, all +of which blended so fascinatingly here. + +Margaret leaned back and half closed her eyes, and murmured to Gerard: +“What a lovely scene! the warm sun, the green shade, the rich dresses, +the bright music of the lutes and the cool music of the fountain, and +all faces so happy and gay! and then, it is to you we owe it.” + +Gerard was silent all but his eyes; observing which-- + +“Now, speak not to me,” said Margaret languidly; “let me listen to the +fountain: what are you a competitor for?” + +He told her. + +“Very well! You will gain one prize, at least.” + +“Which? which? have you seen any of my work?” + +“I? no. But you will gain a prize. + +“I hope so; but what makes you think so?” + +“Because you were so good to my father.” + +Gerard smiled at the feminine logic, and hung his head at the sweet +praise, and was silent. + +“Speak not,” murmured Margaret. “They say this is a world of sin and +misery. Can that be? What is your opinion?” + +“No! that is all a silly old song,” explained Gerard. “'Tis a byword our +elders keep repeating, out of custom: it is not true.” + +“How can you know? You are but a child,” said Margaret, with pensive +dignity. + +“Why, only look round! And then thought I had lost you for ever; and you +are by my side; and now the minstrels are going to play again. Sin and +misery? Stuff and nonsense!” + +The lutes burst out. The courtyard rang again with their delicate +harmony. + +“What do you admire most of all these beautiful things, Gerard?” + +“You know my name? How is that?” + +“White magic. I am a--witch.” + +“Angels are never witches. But I can't think how you--” + +“Foolish boy! was it not cried at the gate loud enough to deave one?” + +“So it was. Where is my head? What do I admire most? If you will sit a +little more that way, I'll tell you.” + +“This way?” + +“Yes; so that the light may fall on you. There! I see many fair things +here, fairer than I could have conceived; but the fairest of all, to +my eye, is your lovely hair in its silver frame, and the setting sun +kissing it. It minds me of what the Vulgate praises for beauty, 'an +apple of gold in a network of silver,' and oh, what a pity I did not +know you before I sent in my poor endeavours at illuminating! I could +illuminate so much better now. I could do everything better. There, now +the sun is full on it, it is like an aureole. So our Lady looked, and +none since her until to-day.” + +“Oh, fie! it is wicked to talk so. Compare a poor, coarse-favoured girl +like me with the Queen of Heaven? Oh, Gerard! I thought you were a good +young man.” And Margaret was shocked apparently. + +Gerard tried to explain. “I am no worse than the rest; but how can I +help having eyes, and a heart Margaret!” + +“Gerard!” + +“Be not angry now!” + +“Now, is it likely?” + +“I love you.” + +“Oh, for shame! you must not say that to me,” and Margaret coloured +furiously at this sudden assault. + +“I can't help it. I love you. I love you.” + +“Hush, hush! for pity's sake! I must not listen to such words from a +stranger. I am ungrateful to call you a stranger. Oh! how one may be +mistaken! If I had known you were so bold--” And Margaret's bosom began +to heave, and her cheeks were covered with blushes, and she looked +towards her sleeping father, very much like a timid thing that meditates +actual flight. + +Then Gerard was frightened at the alarm he caused. “Forgive me,” said he +imploringly. “How could any one help loving you?” + +“Well, sir, I will try and forgive you--you are so good in other +respects; but then you must promise me never to say you--to say that +again.” + +“Give me your hand then, or you don't forgive me.” + +She hesitated; but eventually put out her hand a very little way, very +slowly, and with seeming reluctance. He took it, and held it prisoner. +When she thought it had been there long enough, she tried gently to draw +it away. He held it tight: it submitted quite patiently to force. +What is the use resisting force. She turned her head away, and her long +eyelashes drooped sweetly. Gerard lost nothing by his promise. Words +were not needed here; and silence was more eloquent. Nature was in that +day what she is in ours; but manners were somewhat freer. Then as now, +virgins drew back alarmed at the first words of love; but of prudery +and artificial coquetry there was little, and the young soon read one +another's hearts. Everything was on Gerard's side, his good looks, her +belief in his goodness, her gratitude; and opportunity for at the Duke's +banquet this mellow summer eve, all things disposed the female nature +to tenderness: the avenues to the heart lay open; the senses were so +soothed and subdued with lovely colours, gentle sounds, and delicate +odours; the sun gently sinking, the warm air, the green canopy, the cool +music of the now violet fountain. + +Gerard and Margaret sat hand in hand in silence; and Gerard's eyes +sought hers lovingly; and hers now and then turned on him timidly and +imploringly and presently two sweet unreasonable tears rolled down her +cheeks, and she smiled while they were drying: yet they did not take +long. + +And the sun declined; and the air cooled; and the fountain plashed more +gently; and the pair throbbed in unison and silence, and this weary +world looked heaven to them. + + Oh, the merry days, the merry days when we were young. + Oh, the merry days, the merry days when we were young. + + + +CHAPTER III + +A grave white-haired seneschal came to their table, and inquired +courteously whether Gerard Eliassoen was of their company. Upon Gerard's +answer, he said: + +“The Princess Marie would confer with you, young sir; I am to conduct +you to her presence.” + +Instantly all faces within hearing turned sharp round, and were bent +with curiosity and envy on the man that was to go to a princess. + +Gerard rose to obey. + +“I wager we shall not see you again,” said Margaret calmly, but +colouring a little. + +“That you will,” was the reply: then he whispered in her ear: “This is +my good princess; but you are my queen.” He added aloud: “Wait for me, I +pray you, I will presently return.” + +“Ay, ay!” said Peter, awaking and speaking at one and the same moment. + +Gerard gone, the pair whose dress was so homely, yet they were with the +man whom the Princess sent for, became “the cynosure of neighbouring +eyes;” observing which, William Johnson came forward, acted surprise, +and claimed his relations. + +“And to think that there was I at your backs, and you saw me not” + +“Nay, cousin Johnson, I saw you long syne,” said Margaret coldly. + +“You saw me, and spoke not to me?” + +“Cousin, it was for you to welcome us to Rotterdam, as it is for us +to welcome you at Sevenbergen. Your servant denied us a seat in your +house.” + +“The idiot!” + +“And I had a mind to see whether it was 'like maid like master:' for +there is sooth in bywords.” + +William Johnson blushed purple. He saw Margaret was keen, and suspected +him. He did the wisest thing under the circumstances, trusted to deeds +not words. He insisted on their coming home with him at once, and he +would show them whether they were welcome to Rotterdam or not. + +“Who doubts it, cousin? Who doubts it?” said the scholar. + +Margaret thanked him graciously, but demurred to go just now: said +she wanted to hear the minstrels again. In about a quarter of an hour +Johnson renewed his proposal, and bade her observe that many of the +guests had left. Then her real reason came out. + +“It were ill manners to our friend; and he will lose us. He knows not +where we lodge in Rotterdam, and the city is large, and we have parted +company once already.” + +“Oh!” said Johnson, “we will provide for that. My young man, ahem! +I mean my secretary, shall sit here and wait, and bring him on to my +house: he shall lodge with me and with no other.” + +“Cousin, we shall be too burdensome.” + +“Nay, nay; you shall see whether you are welcome or not, you and your +friends, and your friends' friends, if need be; and I shall hear what +the Princess would with him.” + +Margaret felt a thrill of joy that Gerard should be lodged under the +same roof with her; then she had a slight misgiving. + +“But if your young man should be thoughtless, and go play, and Gerard +miss him?” + +“He go play? He leave that spot where I put him, and bid him stay? Ho! +stand forth, Hans Cloterman.” + +A figure clad in black serge and dark violet hose arose, and took two +steps and stood before them without moving a muscle: a solemn, precise +young man, the very statue of gravity and starched propriety. At his +aspect Margaret, being very happy, could hardly keep her countenance. +But she whispered Johnson, “I would put my hand in the fire for him. We +are at your command, cousin, as soon as you have given him his orders.” + +Hans was then instructed to sit at the table and wait for Gerard, and +conduct him to Ooster-Waagen Straet. He replied, not in words, but +by calmly taking the seat indicated, and Margaret, Peter, and William +Johnson went away together. + +“And, indeed, it is time you were abed, father, after all your travel,” + said Margaret. This had been in her mind all along. + +Hans Cloterman sat waiting for Gerard, solemn and businesslike. The +minutes flew by, but excited no impatience in that perfect young man. +Johnson did him no more than justice when he laughed to scorn the idea +of his secretary leaving his post or neglecting his duty in pursuit of +sport or out of youthful hilarity and frivolity. + +As Gerard was long in coming, the patient Hans--his employer's eye being +no longer on him improved the time by quaffing solemnly, silently, and +at short but accurately measured intervals, goblets of Corsican wine. +The wine was strong, so was Cloterman's head; and Gerard had been gone +a good hour ere the model secretary imbibed the notion that Creation +expected Cloterman to drink the health of all good fellows, and +nommement of the Duke of Burgundy there present. With this view he +filled bumper nine, and rose gingerly but solemnly and slowly. Having +reached his full height, he instantly rolled upon the grass, goblet +in hand, spilling the cold liquor on more than one ankle--whose owners +frisked--but not disturbing a muscle in his own long face, which, in +the total eclipse of reason, retained its gravity, primness, and +infallibility. + +The seneschal led Gerard through several passages to the door of the +pavilion, where some young noblemen, embroidered and feathered, sat +sentinel, guarding the heir-apparent, and playing cards by the red light +of torches their servants held. A whisper from the seneschal, and one +of them rose reluctantly, stared at Gerard with haughty surprise, and +entered the pavilion. He presently returned, and, beckoning the pair, +led then, through a passage or two and landed them in an ante-chamber, +where sat three more young gentlemen, feathered, furred, and embroidered +like pieces of fancy work, and deep in that instructive and edifying +branch of learning, dice. + +“You can't see the Princess--it is too late,” said one. + +Another followed suit: + +“She passed this way but now with her nurse. She is gone to bed, doll +and all. Deuce--ace again!” + +Gerard prepared to retire. The seneschal, with an incredulous smile, +replied: + +“The young man is here by the Countess's orders; be so good as conduct +him to her ladies.” + +On this a superb Adonis rose, with an injured look, and led Gerard into +a room where sat or lolloped eleven ladies, chattering like magpies. +Two, more industrious than the rest, were playing cat's-cradle with +fingers as nimble as their tongues. At the sight of a stranger all the +tongues stopped like one piece of complicated machinery, and all the +eyes turned on Gerard, as if the same string that checked the tongues +had turned the eyes on. Gerard was ill at ease before, but this battery +of eyes discountenanced him, and down went his eyes on the ground. Then +the cowards finding, like the hare who ran by the pond and the frogs +scuttled into the water, that there was a creature they could frighten, +giggled and enjoyed their prowess. Then a duenna said severely, +“Mesdames!” and they were all abashed at once as though a modesty string +had been pulled. This same duenna took Gerard, and marched before him +in solemn silence. The young man's heart sank, and he had half a mind to +turn and run out of the place. + +“What must princes be,” he thought, “when their courtiers are so +freezing? Doubtless they take their breeding from him they serve.” These +reflections were interrupted by the duenna suddenly introducing him into +a room where three ladies sat working, and a pretty little girl tuning +a lute. The ladies were richly but not showily dressed, and the duenna +went up to the one who was hemming a kerchief, and said a few words in +a low tone. This lady then turned towards Gerard with a smile, and +beckoned him to come near her. She did not rise, but she laid aside her +work, and her manner of turning towards him, slight as the movement was, +was full of grace and ease and courtesy. She began a conversation at +once. + +“Margaret Van Eyck is an old friend of mine, sir, and I am right glad to +have a letter from her hand, and thankful to you, sir, for bringing it +to me safely. Marie, my love, this is the gentleman who brought you that +pretty miniature.” + +“Sir, I thank you a thousand times,” said the young lady. + +“I am glad you feel her debtor, sweetheart, for our friend would have us +to do him a little service in return. + +“I will do anything on earth for him,” replied the young lady with +ardour. + +“Anything on earth is nothing in the world,” said the Countess of +Charolois quietly. + +“Well, then, I will--What would you have me to do, sir?” + +Gerard had just found out what high society he was in. “My sovereign +demoiselle,” said he, gently and a little tremulously, “where there have +been no pains, there needs no reward.” + +But we must obey mamma. All the world must obey + +“That is true. Then, our demoiselle, reward me, if you will by letting +me hear the stave you were going to sing and I did interrupt it.” + +“What! you love music, sir?” + +“I adore it.” + +The little princess looked inquiringly at her mother, and received a +smile of assent. She then took her lute and sang a romaunt of the day. +Although but twelve years old, she was a well-taught and painstaking +musician. Her little claw swept the chords with Courage and precision, +and struck out the notes of the arpeggio clear, and distinct, and +bright, like twinkling stars; but the main charm was her voice. It was +not mighty, but it was round, clear, full, and ringing like a bell. She +sang with a certain modest eloquence, though she knew none of the tricks +of feeling. She was too young to be theatrical, or even sentimental, +so nothing was forced--all gushed. Her little mouth seemed the mouth of +Nature. The ditty, too, was as pure as its utterance. As there were none +of those false divisions--those whining slurs, which are now sold so +dear by Italian songsters, though every jackal in India delivers them +gratis to his customers all night, and sometimes gets shot for them, and +always deserves it--so there were no cadences and fiorituri, the trite, +turgid, and feeble expletives of song, the skim-milk with which mindless +musicians and mindless writers quench fire, wash out colour, and drown +melody and meaning dead. + +While the pure and tender strain was flowing from the pure young throat, +Gerard's eyes filled. The Countess watched him with interest, for it +was usual to applaud the Princess loudly, but not with cheek and eye. +So when the voice ceased, and the glasses left off ringing, she asked +demurely, “Was he content?” + +Gerard gave a little start; the spoken voice broke a charm and brought +him back to earth. + +“Oh, madam!” he cried, “surely it is thus that cherubs and seraphs sing, +and charm the saints in heaven.” + +“I am somewhat of your opinion, my young friend,” said the Countess, +with emotion; and she bent a look of love and gentle pride upon her +girl: a heavenly look, such as, they say, is given to the eye of the +short-lived resting on the short-lived. + +The Countess resumed: “My old friend request me to be serviceable to +you. It is the first favour she has done us the honour of asking us, and +the request is sacred. You are in holy orders, sir?” + +Gerard bowed. + +“I fear you are not a priest, you look too young.” + +“Oh no, madam; I am not even a sub-deacon. I am only a lector; but next +month I shall be an exorcist, and before long an acolyth.” + +“Well, Monsieur Gerard, with your accomplishments you can soon pass +through the inferior orders. And let me beg you to do so. For the +day after you have said your first mass I shall have the pleasure of +appointing you to a benefice.” + +“Oh, madam!” + +“And, Marie, remember I make this promise in your name as well as my +own.” + +“Fear not, mamma: I will not forget. But if he will take my advice, +what he will be is Bishop of Liege. The Bishop of Liege is a beautiful +bishop. What! do you not remember him, mamma, that day we were at Liege? +he was braver than grandpapa himself. He had on a crown, a high one, and +it was cut in the middle, and it was full of oh! such beautiful jewels; +and his gown stiff with gold; and his mantle, too; and it had a broad +border, all pictures; but, above all, his gloves; you have no such +gloves, mamma. They were embroidered and covered with jewels, and +scented with such lovely scent; I smelt them all the time he was giving +me his blessing on my head with them. Dear old man! I dare say he will +die soon most old people do and then, sir, you Can be bishop you know, +and wear-- + +“Gently, Marie, gently: bishoprics are for old gentlemen; and this is a +young gentleman.” + +“Mamma! he is not so very young. + +“Not compared with you, Marie, eh?” + +“He is a good birth dear mamma; and I am sure he is good enough for a +bishop. + +“Alas! mademoiselle, you are mistaken” + +“I know not that, Monsieur Gerard; but I am a little puzzled to know on +what grounds mademoiselle there pronounces your character so boldly.” + +“Alas! mamma,” said the Princess, “you have not looked at his face, +then;” and she raised her eyebrows at her mother's simplicity. + +“I beg your pardon,” said the Countess, “I have. Well, sir, if I cannot +go quite so fast as my daughter, attribute it to my age, not to a want +of interest in your welfare. A benefice will do to begin your Career +with; and I must take care it is not too far from--what call you the +place?” + +“Tergou, madam + +“A priest gives up much,” continued the Countess; “often, I fear, he +learns too late how much;” and her woman's eye rested a moment on Gerard +with mild pity and half surprise at his resigning her sex and all the +heaven they can bestow, and the great parental joys: “at least you shall +be near your friends. Have you a mother?” + +“Yes, madam, thanks be to God!” + +“Good! You shall have a church near Tergou. She will thank me. And now, +sir, we must not detain you too long from those who have a better claim +on your society than we have. Duchess, oblige me by bidding one of the +pages conduct him to the hall of banquet; the way is hard to find.” + +Gerard bowed low to the Countess and the Princess, and backed towards +the door. + +“I hope it will be a nice benefice,” said the Princess to him, with a +pretty smile, as he was going out; then, shaking her head with an air of +solemn misgiving, “but you had better have been Bishop of Liege.” + +Gerard followed his new conductor, his heart warm with gratitude; but +ere he reached the banquet-hall a chill came over him. The mind of one +who has led a quiet, uneventful life is not apt to take in contradictory +feelings at the same moment and balance them, but rather to be +overpowered by each in turn. While Gerard was with the Countess, the +excitement of so new a situation, the unlooked-for promise the joy +and pride it would cause at home, possessed him wholly; but now it was +passion's turn to be heard again. What! give up Margaret, whose soft +hand he still felt in his, and her deep eyes in his heart? resign her +and all the world of love and joy she had opened on him to-day? The +revulsion, when it did come, was so strong that he hastily resolved +to say nothing at home about the offered benefice. “The Countess is +so good,” thought he, “she has a hundred ways of aiding a young man's +fortune: she will not compel me to be a priest when she shall learn I +love one of her sex: one would almost think she does know it, for she +cast a strange look on me, and said, 'A priest gives up much, too much.' +I dare say she will give me a place about the palace.” And with this +hopeful reflection his mind was eased, and, being now at the entrance +of the banqueting hall, he thanked his conductor, and ran hastily with +joyful eyes to Margaret. He came in sight of the table--she was gone. +Peter was gone too. Nobody was at the table at all; only a citizen in +sober garments had just tumbled under it dead drunk, and several persons +were raising him to carry him away. Gerard never guessed how important +this solemn drunkard was to him: he was looking for “Beauty,” and +let the “Beast” lie. He ran wildly round the hall, which was now +comparatively empty. She was not there. He left the palace: outside he +found a crowd gaping at two great fan-lights just lighted over the gate. +He asked them earnestly if they had seen an old man in a gown, and a +lovely girl pass out. They laughed at the question. “They were staring +at these new lights that turn night into day. They didn't trouble their +heads about old men and young wenches, every-day sights.” From another +group he learned there was a Mystery being played under canvas hard by, +and all the world gone to see it. This revived his hopes, and he went +and saw the Mystery. + +In this representation divine personages, too sacred for me to name +here, came clumsily down from heaven to talk sophistry with the cardinal +Virtues, the nine Muses, and the seven deadly sins, all present in +human shape, and not unlike one another. To enliven which weary stuff +in rattled the Prince of the power of the air, and an imp that kept +molesting him and buffeting him with a bladder, at each thwack of which +the crowd were in ecstasies. When the Vices had uttered good store of +obscenity and the Virtues twaddle, the celestials, including the nine +Muses went gingerly back to heaven one by one; for there was but one +cloud; and two artisans worked it up with its supernatural freight, +and worked it down with a winch, in full sight of the audience. These +disposed of, the bottomless pit opened and flamed in the centre of the +stage; the carpenters and Virtues shoved the Vices in, and the Virtues +and Beelzebub and his tormentor danced merrily round the place of +eternal torture to the fife and tabor. + +This entertainment was writ by the Bishop of Ghent for the diffusion +of religious sentiment by the aid of the senses, and was an average +specimen of theatrical exhibitions so long as they were in the hands of +the clergy. But, in course of time, the laity conducted plays, and so +the theatre, I learn from the pulpit, has become profane. + +Margaret was nowhere in the crowd, and Gerard could not enjoy the +performance; he actually went away in Act 2, in the midst of a +much-admired piece of dialogue, in which Justice out-quibbled Satan. He +walked through many streets, but could not find her he sought. At last, +fairly worn out, he went to a hostelry and slept till daybreak. All that +day, heavy and heartsick, he sought her, but could never fall in with +her or her father, nor ever obtain the slightest clue. Then he felt she +was false or had changed her mind. He was irritated now, as well as sad. +More good fortune fell on him; he almost hated it. At last, on the third +day, after he had once more been through every street, he said, “She is +not in the town, and I shall never see her again. I will go home.” + He started for Tergou with royal favour promised, with fifteen golden +angels in his purse, a golden medal on his bosom, and a heart like a +lump of lead. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +It was near four o'clock in the afternoon. Eli was in the shop. His +eldest and youngest sons were abroad. Catherine and her little crippled +daughter had long been anxious about Gerard, and now they were gone a +little way down the road, to see if by good luck he might be visible +in the distance; and Giles was alone in the sitting-room, which I will +sketch, furniture and dwarf included. + +The Hollanders were always an original and leading people. They claim +to have invented printing (wooden type), oil-painting, liberty, +banking, gardening, etc. Above all, years before my tale, they invented +cleanliness. So, while the English gentry, in velvet jerkins and +chicken-toed shoes, trode floors of stale rushes, foul receptacle of +bones, decomposing morsels, spittle, dogs, eggs, and all abominations, +this hosier's sitting-room at Tergou was floored with Dutch tiles, so +highly glazed and constantly washed, that you could eat off them. There +was one large window; the cross stone-work in the centre of it was +very massive, and stood in relief, looking like an actual cross to the +inmates, and was eyed as such in their devotions. The panes were very +small and lozenge-shaped, and soldered to one another with strips of +lead: the like you may see to this day in our rural cottages. The chairs +were rude and primitive, all but the arm-chair, whose back, at right +angles with its seat, was so high that the sitter's head stopped two +feet short of the top. This chair was of oak, and carved at the summit. +There was a copper pail, that went in at the waist, holding holy water, +and a little hand-besom to sprinkle it far and wide; and a long, narrow, +but massive oak table, and a dwarf sticking to its rim by his teeth, his +eyes glaring, and his claws in the air like a pouncing vampire. Nature, +it would seem, did not make Giles a dwarf out of malice prepense; she +constructed a head and torso with her usual care; but just then her +attention was distracted, and she left the rest to chance; the result +was a human wedge, an inverted cone. He might justly have taken her to +task in the terms of Horace, + + “Amphora coepit + Institui; currente rota cur urceus exit?” + +His centre was anything but his centre of gravity. Bisected, upper Giles +would have outweighed three lower Giles. But this very disproportion +enabled him to do feats that would have baffled Milo. His brawny arms +had no weight to draw after them; so he could go up a vertical pole like +a squirrel, and hang for hours from a bough by one hand like a cherry by +its stalk. If he could have made a vacuum with his hands, as the lizard +is said to do with its feet, he would have gone along a ceiling. Now, +this pocket-athlete was insanely fond of gripping the dinner-table with +both hands, and so swinging; and then--climax of delight! he would seize +it with his teeth, and, taking off his hands, hold on like grim death by +his huge ivories. + +But all our joys, however elevating, suffer interruption. Little Kate +caught Sampsonet in this posture, and stood aghast. She was her mother's +daughter, and her heart was with the furniture, not with the 12mo +gymnast. + +“Oh, Giles! how can you? Mother is at hand. It dents the table.” + +“Go and tell her, little tale-bearer,” snarled Giles. “You are the one +for making mischief.” + +“Am I?” inquired Kate calmly; “that is news to me.” + +“The biggest in Tergou,” growled Giles, fastening on again. + +“Oh, indeed!” said Kate drily. + +This piece of unwonted satire launched, and Giles not visibly blasted, +she sat down quietly and cried. + +Her mother came in almost at that moment, and Giles hurled himself under +the table, and there glared. + +“What is to do now?” said the dame sharply. Then turning her experienced +eyes from Kate to Giles, and observing the position he had taken up, and +a sheepish expression, she hinted at cuffing of ears. + +“Nay, mother,” said the girl; “it was but a foolish word Giles spoke. +I had not noticed it at another time; but I was tired and in care for +Gerard, you know.” + +“Let no one be in care for me,” said a faint voice at the door, and in +tottered Gerard, pale, dusty, and worn out; and amidst uplifted hands +and cries of delight, curiosity, and anxiety mingled, dropped exhausted +into the nearest chair. + +Beating Rotterdam, like a covert, for Margaret, and the long journey +afterwards, had fairly knocked Gerard up. But elastic youth soon +revived, and behold him the centre of an eager circle. First of all they +must hear about the prizes. Then Gerard told them he had been admitted +to see the competitors' works, all laid out in an enormous hall before +the judges pronounced. + +“Oh, mother! oh, Kate! when I saw the goldsmiths' work, I had liked to +have fallen on the floor. I thought not all the goldsmiths on earth had +so much gold, silver, jewels, and craft of design and facture. But, in +sooth, all the arts are divine.” + +Then, to please the females, he described to them the reliquaries, +feretories, calices, crosiers, crosses, pyxes, monstrances, and other +wonders ecclesiastical, and the goblets, hanaps, watches, Clocks, +chains, brooches, &c., so that their mouths watered. + +“But, Kate, when I came to the illuminated work from Ghent and Bruges, +my heart sank. Mine was dirt by the side of it. For the first minute I +could almost have cried; but I prayed for a better spirit, and presently +I was able to enjoy them, and thank God for those lovely works, and +for those skilful, patient craftsmen, whom I own my masters. Well, the +coloured work was so beautiful I forgot all about the black and white. +But next day, when all the other prizes had been given, they came to the +writing, and whose name think you was called first?” + +“Yours,” said Kate. + +The others laughed her to scorn. + +“You may well laugh,” said Gerard, “but for all that, Gerard Eliassoen +of Tergou was the name the herald shouted. I stood stupid; they thrust +me forward. Everything swam before my eyes. I found myself kneeling on +a cushion at the feet of the Duke. He said something to me, but I was so +fluttered I could not answer him. So then he put his hand to his side, +and did not draw a glaive and cut off my dull head, but gave me a gold +medal, and there it is.” There was a yell and almost a scramble. “And +then he gave me fifteen great bright golden angels. I had seen one +before, but I never handled one. Here they are.” + +“Oh, Gerard! oh, Gerard!” + +“There is one for you, our eldest; and one for you, Sybrandt, and for +you, Little Mischief; and two for thee, Little Lily, because God hath +afflicted thee; and one for myself, to buy colours and vellum; and nine +for her that nursed us all, and risked the two crowns upon poor Gerard's +hand.” + +The gold drew out their characters. Cornelis and Sybrandt clutched each +his coin with one glare of greediness and another glare of envy at Kate, +who had got two pieces. Giles seized his and rolled it along the floor +and gambolled after it. Kate put down her crutches and sat down, and +held out her little arms to Gerard with a heavenly gesture of love and +tenderness; and the mother, fairly benumbed at first by the shower of +gold that fell on her apron, now cried out, “Leave kissing him, Kate; +he is my son, not yours. Ah. Gerard! my boy! I have not loved you as you +deserved.” + +Then Gerard threw himself on his knees beside her, and she flung her +arms round him and wept for joy and pride upon his neck. + +“Good lad! good lad!” cried the hosier, with some emotion. “I must go +and tell the neighbours. Lend me the medal, Gerard; I'll show it my good +friend Peter Buyskens; he is ever regaling me with how his son Jorian +won the tin mug a shooting at the butts.” + +“Ay, do, my man; and show Peter Buyskens one of the angels. Tell him +there are fourteen more where that came from. Mind you bring it me +back!” + +“Stay a minute, father; there is better news behind,” said Gerard, +flushing with joy at the joy he caused. + +“Better! better than this?” + +Then Gerard told his interview with the Countess, and the house rang +with joy. + +“Now, God bless the good lady, and bless the dame Van Eyck! A benefice? +our son! My cares are at an end. Eli, my good friend and master, now we +two can die happy whenever our time comes. This dear boy will take our +place, and none of these loved ones will want a home or a friend.” + +From that hour Gerard was looked upon as the stay of the family. He +was a son apart, but in another sense. He was always in the right, and +nothing too good for him. Cornelis and Sybrandt became more and more +jealous of him, and longed for the day he should go to his benefice; +they would get rid of the favourite, and his reverence's purse would be +open to them. With these views he co-operated. The wound love had +given him throbbed duller and duller. His success and the affection and +admiration of his parents made him think more highly of himself, and +resent with more spirit Margaret's ingratitude and discourtesy. For all +that, she had power to cool him towards the rest of her sex, and now for +every reason he wished to be ordained priest as soon as he could pass +the intermediate orders. He knew the Vulgate already better than most of +the clergy, and studied the rubric and the dogmas of the Church with +his friends the monks; and, the first time the bishop came that way, he +applied to be admitted “exorcist,” the third step in holy orders. The +bishop questioned him, and ordained him at once. He had to kneel, and, +after a short prayer, the bishop delivered to him a little MS. full of +exorcisms, and said: “Take this, Gerard, and have power to lay hands +on the possessed, whether baptized or catechumens!” and he took it +reverently, and went home invested by the Church with power to cast out +demons. + +Returning home from the church, he was met by little Kate on her +crutches. + +“Oh, Gerard! who, think you, hath sent to our house seeking you?--the +burgomaster himself.” + +“Ghysbrecht Van Swieten! What would he with me?” + +“Nay, Gerard, I know not. But he seems urgent to see you. You are to go +to his house on the instant.” + +“Well, he is the burgomaster: I will go; but it likes me not. Kate, I +have seen him cast such a look on me as no friend casts. No matter; such +looks forewarn the wise. To be sure, he knows.” + +“Knows what, Gerard?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Nothing?” + +“Kate, I'll go.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was an artful man. He opened on the novice with +something quite wide of the mark he was really aiming at. “The town +records,” said he, “are crabbedly written, and the ink rusty with age.” + He offered Gerard the honour of transcribing them fair. + +Gerard inquired what he was to be paid. + +Ghysbrecht offered a sum that would have just purchased the pens, ink, +and parchment. + +“But, burgomaster, my labour? Here is a year's work.” + +“Your labour? Call you marking parchment labour? Little sweat goes to +that, I trow.” + +“'Tis labour, and skilled labour to boot; and that is better paid in all +crafts than rude labour, sweat or no sweat. Besides, there's my time.” + +“Your time? Why, what is time to you, at two-and-twenty?” Then fixing +his eyes keenly on Gerard, to mark the effect of his words, he said: +“Say, rather, you are idle grown. You are in love. Your body is with +these chanting monks, but your heart is with Peter Brandt and his +red-haired girl.” + +“I know no Peter Brandt.” + +This denial confirmed Ghysbrecht's suspicion that the caster-out of +demons was playing a deep game. + +“Ye lie!” he shouted. “Did I not find you at her elbow on the road to +Rotterdam?” + +“Ah!” + +“Ah! And you were seen at Sevenbergen but t'other day.” + +“Was I?' + +“Ah and at Peter's house.” + +“At Sevenbergen?” + +“Ay, at Sevenbergen.” + +Now, this was what in modern days is called a draw. It was a guess, put +boldly forth as fact, to elicit by the young man's answer whether he had +been there lately or not. + +The result of the artifice surprised the crafty one. Gerard started up +in a strange state of nervous excitement. + +“Burgomaster,” said he, with trembling voice, “I have not been at +Sevenbergen these three years, and I know not the name of those you saw +me with, nor where they dwelt; but, as my time is precious, though +you value it not, give you good day.” And he darted out, with his eyes +sparkling. + +Ghysbrecht started up in huge ire; but he sank into his chair again. + +“He fears me not. He knows something, if not all.” + +Then he called hastily to his trusty servant, and almost dragged him to +a window. + +“See you yon man?” he cried. “Haste! follow him! But let him not see +you. He is young, but old in craft. Keep him in sight all day. Let me +know whither he goes, and what he does.” + +It was night when the servant returned. + +“Well? well?” cried Van Swieten eagerly. + +“Master, the young man went from you to Sevenbergen.” + +Ghysbrecht groaned. + +“To the house of Peter the Magician.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +“Look into your own heart and write!” said Herr Cant; and earth's +cuckoos echoed the cry. Look into the Rhine where it is deepest, and the +Thames where it is thickest, and paint the bottom. Lower a bucket into +a well of self-deception, and what comes up must be immortal truth, +mustn't it? Now, in the first place, no son of Adam ever reads his own +heart at all, except by the habit acquired, and the light gained, from +some years perusal of other hearts; and even then, with his acquired +sagacity and reflected light, he can but spell and decipher his own +heart, not read it fluently. Half way to Sevenbergen Gerard looked into +his own heart, and asked it why he was going to Sevenbergen. His heart +replied without a moment's hesitation, “We are going out of curiosity +to know why she jilted us, and to show her it has not broken our hearts, +and that we are quite content with our honours and our benefice in +prospectu, and don't want her nor ally of her fickle sex.” + +He soon found out Peter Brandt's cottage; and there sat a girl in the +doorway, plying her needle, and a stalwart figure leaned on a long bow +and talked to her. Gerard felt an unaccountable pang at the sight of +him. However, the man turned out to be past fifty years of age, an old +soldier, whom Gerard remembered to have seen shoot at the butts with +admirable force and skill. Another minute and the youth stood before +them. Margaret looked up and dropped her work, and uttered a faint cry, +and was white and red by turns. But these signs of emotion were swiftly +dismissed, and she turned far more chill and indifferent than she would +if she had not betrayed this agitation. + +“What! is it you, Master Gerard? What on earth brings you here, I +wonder?” + +“I was passing by and saw you; so I thought I would give you good day, +and ask after your father.” + +“My father is well. He will be here anon.” + +“Then I may as well stay till he comes.” + +“As you will. Good Martin, step into the village and tell my father here +is a friend of his.” + +“And not of yours?” + +“My father's friends are mine.” + +“That is doubtful. It was not like a friend to promise to wait for me, +and then make off the moment my back was turned. Cruel Margaret you +little know how I searched the town for you; how for want of you nothing +was pleasant to me.” + +“These are idle words; if you had desired my father's company, or mine, +you would have come back. There I had a bed laid for you, sir, at my +cousin's, and he would have made much of you, and, who knows, I might +have made much of you too. I was in the humour that day. You will +not catch me in the same mind again, neither you nor any young man, I +warrant me.” + +“Margaret, I came back the moment the Countess let me go; but you were +not there.” + +“Nay, you did not, or you had seen Hans Cloterman at our table; we left +him to bring you on.” + +“I saw no one there, but only a drunken man, that had just tumbled +down.” + +“At our table? How was he clad?” + +“Nay, I took little heed: in sad-coloured garb.” + +At this Margaret's face gradually warmed; but presently, assuming +incredulity and severity, she put many shrewd questions, all of which +Gerard answered most loyally. Finally, the clouds cleared, and they +guessed how the misunderstanding had come about. Then came a revulsion +of tenderness, all the more powerful that they had done each other +wrong; and then, more dangerous still, came mutual confessions. Neither +had been happy since; neither ever would have been happy but for this +fortunate meeting. + +And Gerard found a MS. Vulgate lying open on the table, and pounced upon +it like a hawk. MSS. were his delight; but before he could get to it two +white hands quickly came flat upon the page, and a red face over them. + +“Nay, take away your hands, Margaret, that I may see where you are +reading, and I will read there too at home; so shall my soul meet yours +in the sacred page. You will not? Nay, then I must kiss them away.” And +he kissed them so often, that for very shame they were fain to withdraw, +and, lo! the sacred book lay open at, + +“An apple of gold in a network of silver.” + +“There, now,” said she, “I had been hunting for it ever so long, +and found it but even now--and to be caught!” and with a touch of +inconsistency she pointed it out to Gerard with her white finger. + +“Ay,” said he, “but to-day it is all hidden in that great cap.” + +“It is a comely cap, I'm told by some.” + +“Maybe; but what it hides is beautiful.” + +“It is not: it is hideous.” + +“Well, it was beautiful at Rotterdam.” + +“Ay, everything was beautiful that day” (with a little sigh). + +And now Peter came in, and welcomed Gerard cordially, and would have him +to stay supper. And Margaret disappeared; and Gerard had a nice learned +chat with Peter; and Margaret reappeared with her hair in her silver +net, and shot a glance half arch, half coy, and glided about them, and +spread supper, and beamed bright with gaiety and happiness. And in +the cool evening Gerard coaxed her out, and she objected and came; and +coaxed her on to the road to Tergou, and she declined, and came; and +there they strolled up and down, hand in hand; and when he must go, they +pledged each other never to quarrel or misunderstand one another again; +and they sealed the promise with a long loving kiss, and Gerard went +home on wings. + +From that day Gerard spent most of his evenings with Margaret, and the +attachment deepened and deepened on both sides, till the hours they +spent together were the hours they lived; the rest they counted and +underwent. And at the outset of this deep attachment all went smoothly. +Obstacles there were, but they seemed distant and small to the eyes of +hope, youth, and love. The feelings and passions of so many persons, +that this attachment would thwart, gave no warning smoke to show +their volcanic nature and power. The course of true love ran smoothly, +placidly, until it had drawn these two young hearts into its current for +ever. + +And then-- + + + +CHAPTER VII + +One bright morning unwonted velvet shone, unwonted feathers waved, and +horses' hoofs glinted and ran through the streets of Tergou, and the +windows and balconies were studded with wondering faces. The French +ambassador was riding through to sport in the neighbouring forest. + +Besides his own suite, he was attended by several servants of the Duke +of Burgundy, lent to do him honour and minister to his pleasure. The +Duke's tumbler rode before him with a grave, sedate majesty, that made +his more noble companions seem light, frivolous persons. But ever and +anon, when respect and awe neared the oppressive, he rolled off his +horse so ignobly and funnily, that even the ambassador was fain' to +burst out laughing. He also climbed up again by the tail in a way +provocative of mirth, and so he played his part. Towards the rear of the +pageant rode one that excited more attention still--the Duke's leopard. +A huntsman, mounted on a Flemish horse of giant prodigious size and +power, carried a long box fastened to the rider's loins by straps +curiously contrived, and on this box sat a bright leopard crouching. +She was chained to the huntsman. The people admired her glossy hide +and spots, and pressed near, and one or two were for feeling her, +and pulling her tail; then the huntsman shouted in a terrible voice, +“Beware! At Antwerp one did but throw a handful of dust at her, and the +Duke made dust of him.” + +“Gramercy!” + +“I speak sooth. The good Duke shut him up in prison, in a cell under +ground, and the rats cleaned the flesh off his bones in a night. Served +him right for molesting the poor thing.” + +There was a murmur of fear, and the Tergovians shrank from tickling the +leopard of their sovereign. + +But an incident followed that raised their spirits again. The Duke's +giant, a Hungarian seven feet four inches high, brought up the rear. +This enormous creature had, like some other giants, a treble, fluty +voice of little power. He was a vain fellow, and not conscious of this +nor any defect. Now it happened he caught sight of Giles sitting on the +top of the balcony; so he stopped and began to make fun of him. + +“Hallo! brother!” squeaked he, “I had nearly passed without seeing +thee.” + +“You are plain enough to see,” bellowed Giles in his bass tones. + +“Come on my shoulder, brother,” squeaked Titan, and held out a shoulder +of mutton fist to help him down. + +“If I do I'll cuff your ears,” roared the dwarf. + +The giant saw the homuncule was irascible, and played upon him, being +encouraged thereto by the shouts of laughter. For he did not see +that the people were laughing not at his wit, but at the ridiculous +incongruity of the two voices--the gigantic feeble fife, and the petty +deep, loud drum, the mountain delivered of a squeak, and the mole-hill +belching thunder. + +The singular duet came to as singular an end. Giles lost all patience +and self-command, and being a creature devoid of fear, and in a rage to +boot, he actually dropped upon the giant's neck, seized his hair with +one hand, and punched his head with the other. The giant's first impulse +was to laugh, but the weight and rapidity of the blows soon corrected +that inclination. + +“He! he! Ah! ha! hallo! oh! oh! Holy saints! here! help! or I must +throttle the imp. I can't! I'll split your skull against the--” and he +made a wild run backwards at the balcony. Giles saw his danger, seized +the balcony in time with both hands, and whipped over it just as the +giant's head came against it with a stunning crack. The people roared +with laughter and exultation at the address of their little champion. +The indignant giant seized two of the laughers, knocked them together +like dumb-bells, shook them and strewed them flat--Catherine shrieked +and threw her apron over Giles--then strode wrathfully away after the +party. This incident had consequences no one then present foresaw. Its +immediate results were agreeable. The Tergovians turned proud of Giles, +and listened with more affability to his prayers for parchment. For +he drove a regular trade with his brother Gerard in this article. Went +about and begged it gratis, and Gerard gave him coppers for it. + +On the afternoon of the same day, Catherine and her daughter were +chatting together about their favourite theme, Gerard, his goodness, his +benefice, and the brightened prospects of the whole family. + +Their good luck had come to them in the very shape they would have +chosen; besides the advantages of a benefice such as the Countess +Charolois would not disdain to give, there was the feminine delight +at having a priest, a holy man, in their own family. “He will marry +Cornelis and Sybrandt: for they can wed (good housewives), now, if they +will. Gerard will take care of you and Giles, when we are gone.” + +“Yes, mother, and we can confess to him instead of to a stranger,” said +Kate. + +“Ay, girl! and he can give the sacred oil to your father and me, and +close our eyes when our time comes.” + +“Oh, mother! not for many, many years, I do pray Heaven. Pray speak not +of that, it always makes me sad. I hope to go before you, mother dear. +No; let us be gay to-day. I am out of pain, mother, quite out of +all pain; it does seem so strange; and I feel so bright and happy, +that--mother, Can you keep a secret?” + +“Nobody better, child. Why, you know I can.” + +“Then I will show you something so beautiful. You never saw the like, I +trow. Only Gerard must never know; for sure he means to surprise us with +it; he covers it up so, and sometimes he carries it away altogether.” + +Kate took her crutches, and moved slowly away, leaving her mother in an +exalted state of curiosity. She soon returned with something in a cloth, +uncovered it, and there was a lovely picture of the Virgin, with all her +insignia, and wearing her tiara over a wealth of beautiful hair, which +flowed loose over her shoulders. Catherine, at first, was struck with +awe. + +“It is herself,” she cried; “it is the Queen of Heaven. I never saw one +like her to my mind before.” + +“And her eyes, mother: lifted to the sky, as if they belonged there, and +not to a mortal creature. And her beautiful hair of burning gold.” + +“And to think I have a son that can make the saints live again upon a +piece of wood!” + +“The reason is, he is a young saint himself, mother. He is too good for +this world; he is here to portray the blessed, and then to go away and +be with them for ever.” + +Ere they had half done admiring it, a strange voice was heard at the +door. By one of the furtive instincts of their sex they hastily hid the +picture in the cloth, though there was no need, And the next moment in +came, casting his eyes furtively around, a man that had not entered the +house this ten years Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. + +The two women were so taken by surprise, that they merely stared at +him and at one another, and said, “The burgomaster!” in a tone so +expressive, that Ghysbrecht felt compelled to answer it. + +“Yes! I own the last time I came here was not on a friendly errand. Men +love their own interest--Eli's and mine were contrary. Well, let this +visit atone the last. To-day I come on your business and none of mine.” + Catherine and her daughter exchanged a swift glance of contemptuous +incredulity. They knew the man better than he thought. + +“It is about your son Gerard.” + +“Ay! ay! you want him to work for the town all for nothing. He told us.” + +“I come on no such errand. It is to let you know he has fallen into bad +hands.” + +“Now Heaven and the saints forbid! Man, torture not a mother! Speak out, +and quickly: speak ere you have time to coin falsehood: we know thee.” + +Ghysbrecht turned pale at this affront, and spite mingled with the other +motives that brought him here. “Thus it is, then,” said he, grinding his +teeth and speaking very fast. “Your son Gerard is more like to be father +of a family than a priest: he is for ever with Margaret, Peter Brandt's +red-haired girl, and loves her like a cow her calf.” + +Mother and daughter both burst out laughing. Ghysbrecht stared at them. + +“What! you knew it?” + +“Carry this tale to those who know not my son, Gerard. Women are nought +to him.” + +“Other women, mayhap. But this one is the apple of his eye to him, or +will be, if you part them not, and soon. Come, dame, make me not waste +time and friendly counsel: my servant has seen them together a score +times, handed, and reading babies in one another's eyes like--you know, +dame--you have been young, too.” + +“Girl, I am ill at ease. Yea, I have been young, and know how blind +and foolish the young are. My heart! he has turned me sick in a moment. +Kate, if it should be true?” + +“Nay, nay!” cried Kate eagerly. “Gerard might love a young woman: all +young men do: I can't find what they see in them to love so; but if he +did, he would let us know; he would not deceive us. You wicked man! +No, dear mother, look not so! Gerard is too good to love a creature of +earth. His love is for our Lady and the saints. Ah! I will show you the +picture there: if his heart was earthly, could he paint the Queen +of Heaven like that--look! look!” and she held the picture out +triumphantly, and, more radiant and beautiful in this moment of +enthusiasm than ever dead picture was or will be, over-powered the +burgomaster with her eloquence and her feminine proof of Gerard's +purity. His eyes and mouth opened, and remained open: in which state +they kept turning, face and all as if on a pivot, from the picture to +the women, and from the women to the picture. + +“Why, it is herself,” he gasped. + +“Isn't it!” cried Kate, and her hostility was softened. “You admire it? +I forgive you for frightening us.” + +“Am I in a mad-house?” said Ghysbrecht Van Swieten thoroughly puzzled. +“You show me a picture of the girl; and you say he painted it; and that +is a proof he cannot love her. Why, they all paint their sweethearts, +painters do.” + +“A picture of the girl?” exclaimed Kate, shocked. “Fie! this is no girl; +this is our blessed Lady.” + +“No, no; it is Margaret Brandt.” + +“Oh blind! It is the Queen of Heaven.” + +“No; only of Sevenbergen village.” + +“Profane man! behold her crown!” + +“Silly child! look at her red hair! Would the Virgin be seen in red +hair? She who had the pick of all the colours ten thousand years before +the world began.” + +At this moment an anxious face was insinuated round the edge of the open +door: it was their neighbour Peter Buyskens. + +“What is to do?” said he in a cautious whisper. “We can hear you all +across the street. What on earth is to do?” + +“Oh, neighbour! What is to do? Why, here is the burgomaster blackening +our Gerard.” + +“Stop!” cried Van Swieten. “Peter Buyskens is come in the nick of time. +He knows father and daughter both. They cast their glamour on him.” + +“What! is she a witch too?” + +“Else the egg takes not after the bird. Why is her father called the +magician? I tell you they bewitched this very Peter here; they cast +unholy spells on him, and cured him of the colic: now, Peter, look and +tell me who is that? and you be silent, women, for a moment, if you can; +who is it, Peter?” + +“Well, to be sure!” said Peter, in reply; and his eye seemed fascinated +by the picture. + +“Who is it?” repeated Ghysbrecht impetuously. + +Peter Buyskens smiled. “Why, you know as well as I do; but what have +they put a crown on her for? I never saw her in a crown, for my part.” + +“Man alive! Can't you open your great jaws, and just speak a wench's +name plain out to oblige three people?” + +“I'd do a great deal more to oblige one of you than that, burgomaster. +If it isn't as natural as life!” + +“Curse the man! he won't, he won't--curse him!” + +“Why, what have I done now?” + +“Oh, sir!” said little Kate, “for pity's sake tell us; are these the +features of a living woman, of--of--Margaret Brandt?” + +“A mirror is not truer, my little maid.” + +“But is it she, sir, for very certain?” + +“Why, who else should it be?” + +“Now, why couldn't you say so at once?” snarled Ghysbrecht. + +“I did say so, as plain as I could speak,” snapped Peter; and they +growled over this small bone of contention so zealously, that they did +not see Catherine and her daughter had thrown their aprons over their +heads, and were rocking to and fro in deep distress. The next moment +Elias came in from the shop, and stood aghast. Catherine, though her +face was covered, knew his footstep. + +“That is my poor man,” she sobbed. “Tell him, good Peter Buyskens, for I +have not the courage.” + +Elias turned pale. The presence of the burgomaster in his house, after +so many years of coolness, coupled with his wife's and daughter's +distress, made him fear some heavy misfortune. + +“Richart! Jacob!” he gasped. + +“No, no!” said the burgomaster; “it is nearer home, and nobody is dead +or dying, old friend.” + +“God bless you, burgomaster! Ah! something has gone off my breast that +was like to choke me. Now, what is the matter?” + +Ghysbrecht then told him all that he told the women, and showed the +picture in evidence. + +“Is that all?” said Eli, profoundly relieved. “What are ye roaring and +bellowing for? It is vexing--it is angering, but it is not like death, +not even sickness. Boys will be boys. He will outgrow that disease: 'tis +but skin-deep.” + +But when Ghysbrecht told him that Margaret was a girl of good character; +that it was not to be supposed she would be so intimate if marriage had +not been spoken of between them, his brow darkened. + +“Marriage! that shall never be,” said he sternly. “I'll stay that; ay, +by force, if need be--as I would his hand lifted to cut his throat. I'd +do what old John Koestein did t'other day.” + +“And what is that, in Heaven's name?” asked the mother, suddenly +removing her apron. + +It was the burgomaster who replied: + +“He made me shut young Albert Koestein up in the prison of the +Stadthouse till he knocked under. It was not long: forty-eight hours, +all alone, on bread and water, cooled his hot stomach. 'Tell my father I +am his humble servant,' says he, 'and let me into the sun once more--the +sun is worth all the wenches in the world.'” + +“Oh, the cruelty of men!” sighed Catherine. + +“As to that, the burgomaster has no choice: it is the law. And if a +father says, 'Burgomaster, lock up my son,' he must do it. A fine thing +it would be if a father might not lock up his own son.” + +“Well, well! it won't come to that with me and my son. He never +disobeyed me in his life: he never shall, Where is he? It is past +supper-time. Where is he, Kate?” + +“Alas! I know not, father.” + +“I know,” said Ghysbrecht; “he is at Sevenbergen. My servant met him on +the road.” + +Supper passed in gloomy silence. Evening descended--no Gerard! Eight +o'clock came--no Gerard! Then the father sent all to bed, except +Catherine. + +“You and I will walk abroad, wife, and talk over this new care.” + +“Abroad, my man, at this time? Whither?” + +“Why, on the road to Sevenbergen.” + +“Oh no; no hasty words, father. Poor Gerard! he never vexed you before.” + +“Fear me not. But it must end; and I am not one that trusts to-morrow +with to-day's work.” + +The old pair walked hand in hand; for, strange is it may appear to +some of my readers, the use of the elbow to couples walking was not +discovered in Europe till centuries after this. They sauntered on a long +time in silence. The night was clear and balmy. Such nights, calm and +silent, recall the past from the dead. + +“It is a many years since we walked so late, my man,” said Catherine +softly. + +“Ay, sweetheart, more than we shall see again (is he never coming, I +wonder?)” + +“Not since our courting days, Eli.” + +“No. Ay, you were a buxom lass then.” + +“And you were a comely lad, as ever a girl's eye stole a look at. I do +suppose Gerard is with her now, as you used to be with me. Nature is +strong, and the same in all our generations.” + +“Nay, I hope he has left her by now, confound her, or we shall be here +all night.” + +“Eli!” + +“Well, Kate?” + +“I have been happy with you, sweetheart, for all our rubs--much happier, +I trow, than if I had--been--a--a--nun. You won't speak harshly to the +poor child? One can be firm without being harsh.” + +“Surely.” + +“Have you been happy with me, my poor Eli?” + +“Why, you know I have. Friends I have known, but none like thee. Buss +me, wife!” + +“A heart to share joy and grief with is a great comfort to man or woman. +Isn't it, Eli?” + +“It is so, my lass. + + 'It doth joy double, + And halveth trouble,' + +runs the byword. And so I have found it, sweetheart. Ah! here comes the +young fool.” + +Catherine trembled, and held her husband's hand tight. + +The moon was bright, but they were in the shadow of some trees, and +their son did not see them. He came singing in the moonlight, and his +face shining. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +While the burgomaster was exposing Gerard at Tergou, Margaret had a +trouble of her own at Sevenbergen. It was a housewife's distress, but +deeper than we can well conceive. She came to Martin Wittenhaagen, the +old soldier, with tears in her eyes. + +“Martin, there's nothing in the house, and Gerard is coming, and he is +so thoughtless. He forgets to sup at home. When he gives over work, then +he runs to me straight, poor soul; and often he comes quite faint. And +to think I have nothing to set before my servant that loves me so dear.” + +Martin scratched his head. “What can I do?” + +“It is Thursday; it is your day to shoot; sooth to Say, I counted on you +to-day.” + +“Nay,” said the soldier, “I may not shoot when the Duke or his friends +are at the chase; read else. I am no scholar.” And he took out of his +pouch a parchment with a grand seal. It purported to be a stipend and a +licence given by Philip, Duke of Burgundy, to Martin Wittenhaagen, one +of his archers, in return for services in the wars, and for a wound +received at the Dukes side. The stipend was four merks yearly, to be +paid by the Duke's almoner, and the licence was to shoot three arrows +once a week, viz., on Thursday, and no other day, in any of the Duke's +forests in Holland, at any game but a seven-year-old buck or a doe +carrying fawn; proviso, that the Duke should not be hunting on that day, +or any of his friends. In this case Martin was not to go and disturb the +woods on peril of his salary and his head, and a fine of a penny. + +Margaret sighed and was silent. + +“Come, cheer up, mistress,” said he; “for your sake I'll peril my +carcass; I have done that for many a one that was not worth your +forefinger. It is no such mighty risk either. I'll but step into the +skirts of the forest here. It is odds but they drive a hare or a fawn +within reach of my arrow.” + +“Well, if I let you go, you must promise me not to go far, and not to +be seen; far better Gerard went supperless than ill should come to you, +faithful Martin.” + +The required promise given, Martin took his bow and three arrows, and +stole cautiously into the wood: it was scarce a furlong distant. The +horns were heard faintly in the distance, and all the game was afoot. +“Come,” thought Martin, “I shall soon fill the pot, and no one be the +wiser.” He took his stand behind a thick oak that commanded a view of +an open glade, and strung his bow, a truly formidable weapon. It was +of English yew, six feet two inches high, and thick in proportion; and +Martin, broad-chested, with arms all iron and cord, and used to the bow +from infancy, could draw a three-foot arrow to the head, and, when +it flew, the eye could scarce follow it, and the bowstring twanged as +musical as a harp. This bow had laid many a stout soldier low in the +wars of the Hoecks and Cabbel-jaws. In those days a battlefield was not +a cloud of smoke; the combatants were few, but the deaths many--for they +saw what they were about; and fewer bloodless arrows flew than bloodless +bullets now. A hare came cantering, then sat sprightly, and her ears +made a capital V. Martin levelled his tremendous weapon at her. The +arrow flew, the string twanged; but Martin had been in a hurry to pot +her, and lost her by an inch: the arrow seemed to hit her, but it struck +the ground close to her, and passed under her belly like a flash, and +hissed along the short grass and disappeared. She jumped three feet +perpendicular and away at the top of her speed. “Bungler!” said Martin. +A sure proof he was not an habitual bungler, or he would have blamed +the hare. He had scarcely fitted another arrow to his string when a +wood-pigeon settled on the very tree he stood under. “Aha!” thought he, +“you are small, but dainty.” This time he took more pains; drew his arrow +carefully, loosed it smoothly, and saw it, to all appearance, go clean +through the bird, carrying feathers skyward like dust. Instead of +falling at his feet, the bird, whose breast was torn, not fairly +pierced, fluttered feebly away, and, by a great effort, rose above the +trees, flew some fifty yards and dead at last; but where, he could not +see for the thick foliage. + +“Luck is against me,” said he despondingly. But he fitted another arrow, +and eyed the glade keenly. Presently he heard a bustle behind him, and +turned round just in time to see a noble buck cross the open, but too +late to shoot at him. He dashed his bow down with an imprecation. At +that moment a long spotted animal glided swiftly across after the deer; +its belly seemed to touch the ground as it went. Martin took up his bow +hastily: he recognized the Duke's leopard. “The hunters will not be far +from her,” said he, “and I must not be seen. Gerard must go supperless +this night.” + +He plunged into the wood, following the buck and leopard, for that was +his way home. He had not gone far when he heard an unusual sound ahead +of him--leaves rustling violently and the ground trampled. He hurried in +the direction. He found the leopard on the buck's back, tearing him +with teeth and claw, and the buck running in a circle and bounding +convulsively, with the blood pouring down his hide. Then Martin formed a +desperate resolution to have the venison for Margaret. He drew his arrow +to the head, and buried it in the deer, who, spite of the creature on +his back, bounded high into the air, and fell dead. The leopard went on +tearing him as if nothing had happened. + +Martin hoped that the creature would gorge itself with blood, and then +let him take the meat. He waited some minutes, then walked resolutely +up, and laid his hand on the buck's leg. The leopard gave a frightful +growl, and left off sucking blood. She saw Martin's game, and was +sulky and on her guard. What was to be done? Martin had heard that wild +creatures cannot stand the human eye. Accordingly, he stood erect, and +fixed his on the leopard: the leopard returned a savage glance, and +never took her eye off Martin. Then Martin continuing to look the beast +down, the leopard, brutally ignorant of natural history, flew at his +head with a frightful yell, flaming eyes, and jaws and distended. He had +but just time to catch her by the throat, before her teeth could crush +his face; one of her claws seized his shoulder and rent it, the other, +aimed at his cheek, would have been more deadly still, but Martin was +old-fashioned, and wore no hat, but a scapulary of the same stuff as his +jerkin, and this scapulary he had brought over his head like a hood; the +brute's claw caught in the loose leather. Martin kept her teeth off his +face with great difficulty, and griped her throat fiercely, and she +kept rending his shoulder. It was like blunt reaping-hooks grinding and +tearing. The pain was fearful; but, instead of cowing the old soldier, +it put his blood up, and he gnashed his teeth with rage almost as fierce +as hers, and squeezed her neck with iron force. The two pair of eyes +flared at one another--and now the man's were almost as furious as the +brute's. She found he was throttling her, and made a wild attempt +to free herself, in which she dragged his cowl all over his face and +blinded him, and tore her claw out of his shoulder, flesh and all; but +still he throttled her with hand and arm of iron. Presently her +long tail, that was high in the air, went down. “Aha!” cried Martin, +joyfully, and gripped her like death; next, her body lost its +elasticity, and he held a choked and powerless thing: he gripped it +still, till all motion ceased, then dashed it to the earth; then, +panting, removed his cowl: the leopard lay mute at his feet with tongue +protruding and bloody paw; and for the first time terror fell on Martin. +“I am a dead man: I have slain the Duke's leopard.” He hastily seized +a few handfuls of leaves and threw them over her; then shouldered the +buck, and staggered away, leaving a trail of blood all the way his own +and the buck's. He burst into Peter's house a horrible figure, bleeding +and bloodstained, and flung the deer's carcass down. + +“There--no questions,” said he, “but broil me a steak on't, for I am +faint.” + +Margaret did not see he was wounded; she thought the blood was all from +the deer. + +She busied herself at the fire, and the stout soldier stanched and bound +his own wound apart; and soon he and Gerard and Margaret were supping +royally on broiled venison. + +They were very merry; and Gerard, with wonderful thoughtfulness, had +brought a flask of Schiedam, and under its influence Martin revived, +and told them how the venison was got; and they all made merry over the +exploit. + +Their mirth was strangely interrupted. Margaret's eye became fixed and +fascinated, and her cheek pale with fear. She gasped, and could not +speak, but pointed to the window with trembling finger. Their eyes +followed hers, and there in the twilight crouched a dark form with eyes +like glowworms. + +It was the leopard. + +While they stood petrified, fascinated by the eyes of green fire, there +sounded in the wood a single deep bay. Martin trembled at it. + +“They have lost her, and laid muzzled bloodhounds on her scent; +they will find her here, and the venison. Good-bye, friends, Martin +Wittenhaagen ends here.” + +Gerard seized his bow, and put it into the soldier's hands. + +“Be a man,” he cried; “shoot her, and fling her into the wood ere they +come up. Who will know?” + +More voices of hounds broke out, and nearer. + +“Curse her!” cried Martin; “I spared her once; now she must die, or I, +or both more likely;” and he reared his bow, and drew his arrow to the +head. + +“Nay! nay!” cried Margaret, and seized the arrow. It broke in half: the +pieces fell on each side the bow. The air at the same time filled with +the tongues of the hounds: they were hot upon the scent. + +“What have you done, wench? You have put the halter round my throat.” + +“No!” cried Margaret. “I have saved you: stand back from the window, +both! Your knife, quick!” + +She seized his long-pointed knife, almost tore it out of his girdle, and +darted from the room. The house was now surrounded with baying dogs and +shouting men. + +The glowworm eyes moved not. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Margaret cut off a huge piece of venison, and ran to the window and +threw it out to the green eyes of fire. They darted on to it with a +savage snarl; and there was a sound of rending and crunching: at this +moment, a hound uttered a bay so near and loud it rang through the +house; and the three at the window shrank together. Then the leopard +feared for her supper, and glided swiftly and stealthily away with it +towards the woods, and the very next moment horses and men and dogs came +helter-skelter past the window, and followed her full cry. Martin and +his companions breathed again: the leopard was swift, and would not +be caught within a league of their house. They grasped hands. Margaret +seized this opportunity, and cried a little; Gerard kissed the tears +away. + +To table once more, and Gerard drank to woman's wit: “'Tis stronger than +man's force,” said he. + +“Ay,” said Margaret, “when those she loves are in danger; not else.” + +To-night Gerard stayed with her longer than usual, and went home prouder +than ever of her, and happy as a prince. Some little distance from home, +under the shadow of some trees, he encountered two figures: they almost +barred his way. + +It was his father and mother. + +Out so late! what could be the cause? + +A chill fell on him. + +He stopped and looked at them: they stood grim and silent. He stammered +out some words of inquiry. + +“Why ask?” said the father; “you know why we are here.” + +“Oh, Gerard!” said his mother, with a voice full of reproach yet of +affection. + +Gerard's heart quaked: he was silent. + +Then his father pitied his confusion, and said to him: + +“Nay, you need not to hang your head. You are not the first young fool +that has been caught by a red cheek and a pair of blue eyes.” + +“Nay, nay!” put in Catherine, “it was witchcraft; Peter the Magician is +well known for that.” + +“Come, Sir Priest,” resumed his father, “you know you must not meddle +with women folk. But give us your promise to go no more to Sevenbergen, +and here all ends: we won't be hard on you for one fault.” + +“I cannot promise that, father.” + +“Not promise it, you young hypocrite!” + +“Nay, father, miscall me not: I lacked courage to tell you what I knew +would vex you; and right grateful am I to that good friend, whoever he +be, that has let you wot. 'Tis a load off my mind. Yes, father, I love +Margaret; and call me not a priest, for a priest I will never be. I will +die sooner.” + +“That we shall see, young man. Come, gainsay me no more; you will learn +what 'tis to disrespect a father.” + +Gerard held his peace, and the three walked home in gloomy silence, +broken only by a deep sigh or two from Catherine. + +From that hour the little house at Tergou was no longer the abode of +peace. Gerard was taken to task next day before the whole family; and +every voice was loud against him, except little Kate's and the dwarf's, +who was apt to take his cue from her without knowing why. As for +Cornelis and Sybrandt, they were bitterer than their father. Gerard +was dismayed at finding so many enemies, and looked wistfully into his +little sister's face: her eyes were brimming at the harsh words showered +on one who but yesterday was the universal pet. But she gave him no +encouragement: she turned her head away from him and said: + +“Dear, dear Gerard, pray to Heaven to cure you of this folly!” + +“What, are you against me too?” said Gerard, sadly; and he rose with a +deep sigh, and left the house and went to Sevenbergen. + +The beginning of a quarrel, where the parties are bound by affection +though opposed in interest and sentiment, is comparatively innocent: +both are perhaps in the right at first starting, and then it is that +a calm, judicious friend, capable of seeing both sides, is a gift from +Heaven. For the longer the dissension endures, the wider and deeper it +grows by the fallibility and irascibility of human nature: these are +not confined to either side, and finally the invariable end is +reached--both in the wrong. + +The combatants were unequally matched: Elias was angry, Cornelis and +Sybrandt spiteful; but Gerard, having a larger and more cultivated mind, +saw both sides where they saw but one, and had fits of irresolution, +and was not wroth, but unhappy. He was lonely, too, in this struggle. +He could open his heart to no one. Margaret was a high-spirited girl: +he dared not tell her what he had to endure at home; she was capable of +siding with his relations by resigning him, though at the cost of her +own happiness. Margaret Van Eyck had been a great comfort to him on +another occasion; but now he dared not make her his confidant. Her own +history was well known. In early life she had many offers of marriage; +but refused them all for the sake of that art, to which a wife's and +mother's duties are so fatal: thus she remained single and painted with +her brothers. How could he tell her that he declined the benefice she +had got him, and declined it for the sake of that which at his age she +had despised and sacrificed so lightly? + +Gerard at this period bade fair to succumb. But the other side had a +horrible ally in Catherine, senior. This good-hearted but uneducated +woman could not, like her daughter, act quietly and firmly: still less +could she act upon a plan. She irritated Gerard at times, and so helped +him; for anger is a great sustainer of the courage: at others she turned +round in a moment and made onslaughts on her own forces. To take +a single instance out of many: one day that they were all at home, +Catherine and all, Cornelis said: “Our Gerard wed Margaret Brandt? Why, +it is hunger marrying thirst.” + +“And what will it be when you marry?” cried Catherine. “Gerard can +paint, Gerard can write, but what can you do to keep a woman, ye lazy +loon? Nought but wait for your father's shoon. Oh we can see why you and +Sybrandt would not have the poor boy to marry. You are afraid he will +come to us for a share of our substance. And say that he does, and say +that we give it him, it isn't yourn we part from, and mayhap never will +be.” + +On these occasions Gerard smiled slily, and picked up heart, and +temporary confusion fell on Catherine's unfortunate allies. But at last, +after more than six months of irritation, came the climax. The father +told the son before the whole family he had ordered the burgomaster +to imprison him in the Stadthouse rather than let him marry Margaret. +Gerard turned pale with anger at this, but by a great effort held his +peace. His father went on to say, “And a priest you shall be before the +year is out, nilly-willy.” + +“Is it so?” cried Gerard. “Then, hear me, all. By God and St. Bavon I +swear I will never be a priest while Margaret lives. Since force is to +decide it, and not love and duty, try force, father; but force shall not +serve you, for the day I see the burgomaster come for me, I leave Tergou +for ever, and Holland too, and my father's house, where it seems I have +been valued all these years, not for myself, but for what is to be got +out of me.” + +And he flung out of the room white with anger and desperation. + +“There!” cried Catherine, “that comes of driving young folks too hard. +But men are crueller than tigers, even to their own flesh and blood. +Now, Heaven forbid he should ever leave us, married or single.” + +As Gerard came out of the house, his cheeks pale and his heart panting, +he met Reicht Heynes: she had a message for him: Margaret Van Eyck +desired to see him. He found the old lady seated grim as a judge. She +wasted no time in preliminaries, but inquired coldly why he had not +visited her of late: before he could answer, she said in a sarcastic +tone, “I thought we had been friends, young sir.” + +At this Gerard looked the picture of doubt and consternation. + +“It is because you never told her you were in love,” said Reicht Heynes, +pitying his confusion. + +“Silence, wench! Why should he tell us his affairs? We are not his +friends: we have not deserved his confidence.” + +“Alas! my second mother,” said Gerard, “I did not dare to tell you my +folly.” + +“What folly? Is it folly to love?” + +“I am told so every day of my life.” + +“You need not have been afraid to tell my mistress; she is always kind +to true lovers.” + +“Madam--Reicht I was afraid because I was told...” + +“Well, you were told--?” + +“That in your youth you scorned love, preferring art.” + +“I did, boy; and what is the end of it? Behold me here a barren stock, +while the women of my youth have a troop of children at their side, and +grandchildren at their knee I gave up the sweet joys of wifehood and +motherhood for what? For my dear brothers. They have gone and left me +long ago. For my art. It has all but left me too. I have the knowledge +still, but what avails that when the hand trembles. No, Gerard; I look +on you as my son. You are good, you are handsome, you are a painter, +though not like some I have known. I will not let you throw your youth +away as I did mine: you shall marry this Margaret. I have inquired, and +she is a good daughter. Reicht here is a gossip. She has told me all +about it. But that need not hinder you to tell me.” + +Poor Gerard was overjoyed to be permitted to praise Margaret aloud, and +to one who could understand what he loved in her. + +Soon there were two pair of wet eyes over his story; and when the poor +boy saw that, there were three. + +Women are creatures brimful of courage. Theirs is not exactly the same +quality as manly courage; that would never do, hang it all; we should +have to give up trampling on them. No; it is a vicarious courage. They +never take part in a bull-fight by any chance; but it is remarked that +they sit at one unshaken by those tremors and apprehensions for the +combatants to which the male spectator--feeble-minded wretch!--is +subject. Nothing can exceed the resolution with which they have been +known to send forth men to battle: as some witty dog says, + +“Les femmes sont tres braves avec le peur d'autrui.” + +By this trait Gerard now profited. Margaret and Reicht were agreed that +a man should always take the bull by the horns. Gerard's only course was +to marry Margaret Brandt off-hand; the old people would come to after +a while, the deed once done. Whereas, the longer this misunderstanding +continued on its present footing, the worse for all parties, especially +for Gerard. + +“See how pale and thin they have made him amongst them.” + +“Indeed you are, Master Gerard,” said Reicht. “It makes a body sad to +see a young man so wasted and worn. Mistress, when I met him in the +street to-day, I had liked to have burst out crying: he was so changed. + +“And I'll be bound the others keep their colour; ah, Reicht? such as it +is.” + +“Oh, I see no odds in them.” + +“Of course not. We painters are no match for boors. We are glass, they +are stone. We can't stand the worry, worry, worry of little minds; and +it is not for the good of mankind we should be exposed to it. It is hard +enough, Heaven knows, to design and paint a masterpiece, without having +gnats and flies stinging us to death into the bargain.” + +Exasperated as Gerard was by his father's threat of violence, he +listened to these friendly voices telling him the prudent course was +rebellion. But though he listened, he was not convinced. + +“I do not fear my father's violence,” he said, “but I do fear his +anger. When it came to the point he would not imprison me. I would marry +Margaret to-morrow if that was my only fear. No; he would disown me. I +should take Margaret from her father, and give her a poor husband, +who would never thrive, weighed down by his parent's curse. Madam! I +sometimes think if I could marry her secretly, and then take her away +to some country where my craft is better paid than in this; and after +a year or two, when the storm had blown over, you know, could come back +with money in my purse, and say, 'My dear parents, we do not seek your +substance, we but ask you to love us once more as you used, and as we +have never ceased to love you'--but, alas! I shall be told these are the +dreams of an inexperienced young man.” + +The old lady's eyes sparkled. + +“It is no dream, but a piece of wonderful common-sense in a boy; +it remains to be seen whether you have spirit to carry out your own +thought. There is a country, Gerard, where certain fortune awaits you +at this moment. Here the arts freeze, but there they flourish, as they +never yet flourished in any age or land.” + +“It is Italy!” cried Gerard. “It is Italy!” + +“Ay, Italy! where painters are honoured like princes, and scribes are +paid three hundred crowns for copying a single manuscript. Know you not +that his Holiness the Pope has written to every land for skilful scribes +to copy the hundreds of precious manuscripts that are pouring into that +favoured land from Constantinople, whence learning and learned men are +driven by the barbarian Turks?” + +“Nay, I know not that; but it has been the dream and hope of my life to +visit Italy, the queen of all the arts; oh, madam! But the journey, and +we are all so poor.” + +“Find you the heart to go, I'll find the means. I know where to lay my +hand on ten golden angels: they will take you to Rome: and the girl with +you, if she loves you as she ought.” + +They sat till midnight over this theme. And, after that day, Gerard +recovered his spirits, and seemed to carry a secret talisman against all +the gibes and the harsh words that flew about his ears at home. + +Besides the money she procured him for the journey, Margaret Van Eyck +gave him money's worth. Said she, “I will tell you secrets that I +learned from masters that are gone from me, and have left no fellow +behind. Even the Italians know them not; and what I tell you now in +Tergou you shall sell here in Florence. Note my brother Jan's pictures: +time, which fades all other paintings, leaves his colours bright as the +day they left the easel. The reason is, he did nothing blindly, in +a hurry. He trusted to no hireling to grind his colours; he did it +himself, or saw it done. His panel was prepared and prepared again--I +will show you how--a year before he laid his colour on. Most of them are +quite content to have their work sucked up and lost, sooner than not +be in a hurry. Bad painters are always in a hurry. Above all, Gerard, +I warn you use but little oil, and never boil it: boiling it melts that +vegetable dross into its heart which it is our business to clear away; +for impure oil is death to colour. No; take your oil and pour it into +a bottle with water. In a day or two the water will turn muddy: that is +muck from the oil. Pour the dirty water carefully away and add fresh. +When that is poured away, you will fancy the oil is clear. You're +mistaken. Reicht, fetch me that!” Reicht brought a glass trough with a +glass lid fitting tight. “When your oil has been washed in bottle, put +it into this trough with water, and put the trough in the sun all day. +You will soon see the water turbid again. But mark, you must not carry +this game too far, or the sun will turn your oil to varnish. When it is +as clear as crystal, not too luscious, drain carefully, and cork it up +tight. Grind your own prime colours, and lay them on with this oil, and +they shall live. Hubert would put sand or salt in the water to clear the +oil quicker. But Jan used to say, 'Water will do it best; give water +time.' Jan Van Eyck was never in a hurry, and that is why the world will +not forget him in a hurry.” + +This and several other receipts, quae nunc perscribere longum est, +Margaret gave him with sparkling eyes, and Gerard received them like +a legacy from Heaven, so interesting are some things that read +uninteresting. Thus provided with money and knowledge, Gerard decided to +marry and fly with his wife to Italy. Nothing remained now but to inform +Margaret Brandt of his resolution, and to publish the banns as quietly +as possible. He went to Sevenbergen earlier than usual on both these +errands. He began with Margaret; told her of the Dame Van Eyck's +goodness, and the resolution he had come to at last, and invited her +co-operation. + +She refused it plump. + +“No, Gerard; you and I have never spoken of your family, but when you +come to marriage--” She stopped, then began again. “I do think your +father has no ill-will to me more than to another. He told Peter +Buyskens as much, and Peter told me. But so long as he is bent on your +being a priest (you ought have told me this instead of I you), I could +not marry you, Gerard, dearly as I love you.” + +Gerard strove in vain to shake this resolution. He found it very easy +to make her cry, but impossible to make her yield. Then Gerard was +impatient and unjust. + +“Very well!” he cried; “then you are on their side, and you will drive +me to be a priest, for this must end one way or another. My parents hate +me in earnest, but my lover only loves me in jest.” + +And with this wild, bitter speech, he flung away home again, and left +Margaret weeping. + +When a man misbehaves, the effect is curious on a girl who loves him +sincerely. It makes her pity him. This, to some of us males, seems +anything but logical. The fault is in our own eye; the logic is too +swift for us. The girl argues thus:--“How unhappy, how vexed, how poor +he must be to misbehave! Poor thing!” + +Margaret was full of this sweet womanly pity, when, to her great +surprise, scarce an hour and a half after he left her, Gerard came +running back to her with the fragments of a picture in his hand, and +panting with anger and grief. + +“There, Margaret! see! see! the wretches! Look at their spite! They have +cut your portrait to pieces.” + +Margaret looked, and, sure enough, some malicious hand had cut her +portrait into five pieces. She was a good girl, but she was not ice; she +turned red to her very forehead. + +“Who did it?” + +“Nay, I know not. I dared not ask; for I should hate the hand that did +it, ay, till my dying day. My poor Margaret! The butchers, the ruffians! +Six months' work cut out of my life, and nothing to show for it now. +See, they have hacked through your very face; the sweet face that every +one loves who knows it. Oh, heartless, merciless vipers!” + +“Never mind, Gerard,” said Margaret, panting. “Since this is how they +treat you for my sake--Ye rob him of my portrait, do ye? Well, then, he +shall have the face itself, such as it is.” + +“Oh, Margaret!” + +“Yes, Gerard; since they are so cruel, I will be the kinder: forgive +me for refusing you. I will be your wife: to-morrow, if it is your +pleasure.” + +Gerard kissed her hands with rapture, and then her lips; and in a tumult +of joy ran for Peter and Martin. They came and witnessed the betrothal; +a solemn ceremony in those days, and indeed for more than a century +later, though now abolished. + + + +CHAPTER X + +The banns of marriage had to be read three times, as in our days; with +this difference, that they were commonly read on week-days, and the +young couple easily persuaded the cure to do the three readings in +twenty-four hours: he was new to the place, and their looks spoke +volumes in their favour. They were cried on Monday at matins and at +vespers; and, to their great delight, nobody from Tergou was in the +church. The next morning they were both there, palpitating with anxiety, +when, to their horror, a stranger stood up and forbade the banns, On +the score that the parties were not of age, and their parents not +consenting. + +Outside the church door Margaret and Gerard held a trembling, and almost +despairing consultation; but, before they could settle anything, the man +who had done them so ill a turn approached, and gave them to understand +that he was very sorry to interfere: that his inclination was to further +the happiness of the young; but that in point of fact his only means of +getting a living was by forbidding banns: what then? “The young people +give me a crown, and I undo my work handsomely; tell the cure I was +misinformed, and all goes smoothly.” + +“A crown! I will give you a golden angel to do this,” said Gerard +eagerly; the man consented as eagerly, and went with Gerard to the cure, +and told him he had made a ridiculous mistake, which a sight of the +parties had rectified. On this the cure agreed to marry the young couple +next day at ten: and the professional obstructor of bliss went home with +Gerard's angel. Like most of these very clever knaves, he was a fool, +and proceeded to drink his angel at a certain hostelry in Tergou where +was a green devoted to archery and the common sports of the day. There, +being drunk, he bragged of his day's exploit; and who should be +there, imbibing every word, but a great frequenter of the spot, the +ne'er-do-weel Sybrandt. Sybrandt ran home to tell his father; his father +was not at home; he was gone to Rotterdam to buy cloth of the merchants. +Catching his elder brother's eye, he made him a signal to come out, and +told him what he had heard. + +There are black sheep in nearly every large family; and these two were +Gerard's black brothers. Idleness is vitiating: waiting for the death of +those we ought to love is vitiating; and these two one-idea'd curs were +ready to tear any one to death that should interfere with that miserable +inheritance which was their thought by day and their dream by night. +Their parents' parsimony was a virtue; it was accompanied by industry, +and its motive was love of their offspring; but in these perverse and +selfish hearts that homely virtue was perverted into avarice, than which +no more fruitful source of crimes is to be found in nature. + +They put their heads together, and agreed not to tell their mother, +whose sentiments were so uncertain, but to go first to the burgomaster. +They were cunning enough to see that he was averse to the match, though +they could not divine why. + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten saw through them at once; but he took care not +to let them see through him. He heard their story, and putting on +magisterial dignity and coldness, he said; + +“Since the father of the family is not here, his duty falleth on me, who +am the father of the town. I know your father's mind; leave all to me; +and, above all, tell not a woman a word of this, least of all the women +that are in your own house: for chattering tongues mar wisest counsels.” + +So he dismissed them, a little superciliously: he was ashamed of his +confederates. + +On their return home they found their brother Gerard seated on a low +stool at their mother's knee: she was caressing his hair with her hand, +speaking very kindly to him, and promising to take his part with his +father and thwart his love no more. The main cause of this change of +mind was characteristic of the woman. She it was who in a moment of +female irritation had cut Margaret's picture to pieces. She had watched +the effect with some misgivings, and had seen Gerard turn pale as death, +and sit motionless like a bereaved creature, with the pieces in his +hands, and his eyes fixed on them till tears came and blinded them. Then +she was terrified at what she had done; and next her heart smote her +bitterly; and she wept sore apart; but, being what she was, dared not +own it, but said to herself, “I'll not say a word, but I'll make it up +to him.” And her bowels yearned over her son, and her feeble violence +died a natural death, and she was transferring her fatal alliance to +Gerard when the two black sheep came in. Gerard knew nothing of the +immediate cause; on the contrary, inexperienced as he was in the ins +and outs of females, her kindness made him ashamed of a suspicion he +had entertained that she was the depredator, and he kissed her again +and again, and went to bed happy as a prince to think his mother was his +mother once more at the very crisis of his fate. + +The next morning, at ten o'clock, Gerard and Margaret were in the church +at Sevenbergen, he radiant with joy, she with blushes. Peter was +also there, and Martin Wittenhaagen, but no other friend. Secrecy was +everything. Margaret had declined Italy. She could not leave her father; +he was too learned and too helpless. But it was settled they should +retire into Flanders for a few weeks until the storm should be blown +over at Tergou. The cure did not keep them waiting long, though it +seemed an age. Presently he stood at the altar, and called them to him. +They went hand in hand, the happiest in Holland. The cure opened his +book. + +But ere he uttered a single word of the sacred rite, a harsh voice cried +“Forbear!” And the constables of Tergou came up the aisle and seized +Gerard in the name of the law. Martin's long knife flashed out directly. + +“Forbear, man!” cried the priest. “What! draw your weapon in a church, +and ye who interrupt this holy sacrament, what means this impiety?” + +“There is no impiety, father,” said the burgomaster's servant +respectfully. “This young man would marry against his father's will, and +his father has prayed our burgomaster to deal with him according to the +law. Let him deny it if he can.” + +“Is this so, young man?” + +Gerard hung his head. + +“We take him to Rotterdam to abide the sentence of the Duke.” + +At this Margaret uttered a cry of despair, and the young creatures, who +were so happy a moment ago, fell to sobbing in one another's arms so +piteously, that the instruments of oppression drew back a step and were +ashamed; but one of them that was good-natured stepped up under pretence +of separating them, and whispered to Margaret: + +“Rotterdam? it is a lie. We but take him to our Stadthouse.” + +They took him away on horseback, on the road to Rotterdam; and, after a +dozen halts, and by sly detours, to Tergou. Just outside the town they +were met by a rude vehicle covered with canvas. Gerard was put into +this, and about five in the evening was secretly conveyed into the +prison of the Stadthouse. He was taken up several flights of stairs +and thrust into a small room lighted only by a narrow window, with a +vertical iron bar. The whole furniture was a huge oak chest. + +Imprisonment in that age was one of the highroads to death. It is +horrible in its mildest form; but in those days it implied cold, +unbroken solitude, torture, starvation, and often poison. Gerard felt he +was in the hands of an enemy. + +“Oh, the look that man gave me on the road to Rotterdam. There is more +here than my father's wrath. I doubt I shall see no more the light of +day.” And he kneeled down and commended his soul to God. + +Presently he rose and sprang at the iron bar of the window, and clutched +it. This enabled him to look out by pressing his knees against the wall. +It was but for a minute; but in that minute he saw a sight such as none +but a captive can appreciate. + +Martin Wittenhaagen's back. + +Martin was sitting, quietly fishing in the brook near the Stadthouse. + +Gerard sprang again at the window, and whistled. Martin instantly showed +that he was watching much harder than fishing. He turned hastily round +and saw Gerard--made him a signal, and taking up his line and bow, went +quickly off. + +Gerard saw by this that his friends were not idle: yet had rather Martin +had stayed. The very sight of him was a comfort. He held on, looking +at the soldier's retiring form as long as he could, then falling back +somewhat heavily wrenched the rusty iron bar, held only by rusty nails, +away from the stone-work just as Ghysbrecht Van Swieten opened the door +stealthily behind him. The burgomaster's eye fell instantly on the iron, +and then glanced at the window; but he said nothing. The window was a +hundred feet from the ground; and if Gerard had a fancy for jumping out, +why should he balk it? He brought a brown loaf and a pitcher of water, +and set them on the chest in solemn silence. Gerard's first impulse +was to brain him with the iron bar and fly down the stairs; but the +burgomaster seeing something wicked in his eye, gave a little cough, and +three stout fellows, armed, showed themselves directly at the door. + +“My orders are to keep you thus until you shall bind yourself by an oath +to leave Margaret Brandt, and return to the Church, to which you have +belonged from your cradle.” + +“Death sooner.” + +“With all my heart.” And the burgomaster retired. + +Martin went with all speed to Sevenbergen; there he found Margaret pale +and agitated, but full of resolution and energy. She was just finishing +a letter to the Countess Charolois, appealing to her against the +violence and treachery of Ghysbrecht. + +“Courage!” cried Martin on entering. “I have found him. He is in the +haunted tower, right at the top of it. Ay, I know the place: many a poor +fellow has gone up there straight, and come down feet foremost.” + +He then told them how he had looked up and seen Gerard's face at a +window that was like a slit in the wall. + +“Oh, Martin! how did he look?” + +“What mean you? He looked like Gerard Eliassoen.” + +“But was he pale?” + +“A little.” + +“Looked he anxious? Looked he like one doomed?” + +“Nay, nay; as bright as a pewter pot.” + +“You mock me. Stay! then that must have been at sight of you. He counts +on us. Oh, what shall we do? Martin, good friend, take this at once to +Rotterdam.” + +Martin held out his hand for the letter. + +Peter had sat silent all this time, but pondering, and yet, contrary to +custom, keenly attentive to what was going on around him. + +“Put not your trust in princes,” said he. + +“Alas! what else have we to trust in?” + +“Knowledge.” + +“Well-a-day, father! your learning will not serve us here.” + +“How know you that? Wit has been too strong for iron bars ere to-day. + +“Ay, father; but nature is stronger than wit, and she is against us. +Think of the height! No ladder in Holland might reach him.” + +“I need no ladder; what I need is a gold crown.” + +“Nay, I have money, for that matter. I have nine angels. Gerard gave +them me to keep; but what do they avail? The burgomaster will not be +bribed to let Gerard free.” + +“What do they avail? Give me but one crown, and the young man shall sup +with us this night.” + +Peter spoke so eagerly and confidently, that for a moment Margaret +felt hopeful; but she caught Martin's eye dwelling upon him with an +expression of benevolent contempt. + +“It passes the powers of man's invention,” said she, with a deep sigh. + +“Invention!” cried the old man. “A fig for invention. What need we +invention at this time of day? Everything has been said that is to be +said, and done that ever will be done. I shall tell you how a Florentine +knight was shut up in a tower higher than Gerard's; yet did his faithful +squire stand at the tower foot and get him out, with no other engine +than that in your hand, Martin, and certain kickshaws I shall buy for a +crown.” + +Martin looked at his bow, and turned it round in his hand, and seemed to +interrogate it. But the examination left him as incredulous as before. + +Then Peter told them his story, how the faithful squire got the knight +out of a high tower at Brescia. The manoeuvre, like most things that +are really scientific, was so simple, that now their wonder was they had +taken for impossible what was not even difficult. + +The letter never went to Rotterdam. They trusted to Peter's learning and +their own dexterity. + +It was nine o'clock on a clear moonlight night; Gerard, senior, was +still away; the rest of his little family had been some time abed. + +A figure stood by the dwarf's bed. It was white, and the moonlight shone +on it. + +With an unearthly noise, between a yell and a snarl, the gymnast rolled +off his bed and under it by a single unbroken movement. A soft voice +followed him in his retreat. + +“Why, Giles, are you afeard of me?” + +At this, Giles's head peeped cautiously up, and he saw it was only his +sister Kate. + +She put her finger to her lips. “Hush! lest the wicked Cornelis or the +wicked Sybrandt hear us.” Giles's claws seized the side of the bed, and +he returned to his place by one undivided gymnastic. + +Kate then revealed to Giles that she had heard Cornelis and Sybrandt +mention Gerard's name; and being herself in great anxiety at his not +coming home all day, had listened at their door, and had made a fearful +discovery. Gerard was in prison, in the haunted tower of the Stadthouse. +He was there, it seemed, by their father's authority. But here must be +some treachery; for how could their father have ordered this cruel act? +He was at Rotterdam. She ended by entreating Giles to bear her company +to the foot of the haunted tower, to say a word of comfort to poor +Gerard, and let him know their father was absent, and would be sure to +release him on his return. + +“Dear Giles, I would go alone, but I am afeard of the spirits that men +say do haunt the tower; but with you I shall not be afeard.” + +“Nor I with you,” said Giles. “I don't believe there are any spirits in +Tergou. I never saw one. This last was the likest one ever I saw; and it +was but you, Kate, after all.” + +In less than half an hour Giles and Kate opened the housedoor cautiously +and issued forth. She made him carry a lantern, though the night was +bright. “The lantern gives me more courage against the evil spirits,” + said she. + +The first day of imprisonment is very trying, especially if to the +horror of captivity is added the horror of utter solitude. I observe +that in our own day a great many persons commit suicide during the first +twenty-four hours of the solitary cell. This is doubtless why our Jairi +abstain so carefully from the impertinence of watching their little +experiment upon the human soul at that particular stage of it. + +As the sun declined, Gerard's heart too sank and sank; with the waning +light even the embers of hope went out. He was faint, too, with hunger; +for he was afraid to eat the food Ghysbrecht had brought him; and hunger +alone cows men. He sat upon the chest, his arms and his head drooping +before him, a picture of despondency. Suddenly something struck the wall +beyond him very sharply, and then rattled on the floor at his feet. It +was an arrow; he saw the white feather. A chill ran through him--they +meant then to assassinate him from the outside. He crouched. No more +missiles came. He crawled on all fours, and took up the arrow; there was +no head to it. He uttered a cry of hope: had a friendly hand shot it? He +took it up, and felt it all over: he found a soft substance attached +to it. Then one of his eccentricities was of grand use to him. His +tinder-box enabled him to strike a light: it showed him two things that +made his heart bound with delight, none the less thrilling for being +somewhat vague. Attached to the arrow was a skein of silk, and on the +arrow itself were words written. + +How his eyes devoured them, his heart panting the while! + +Well beloved, make fast the silk to thy knife and lower to us: but hold +thine end fast: then count an hundred and draw up. + +Gerard seized the oak chest, and with almost superhuman energy dragged +it to the window: a moment ago he could not have moved it. Standing on +the chest and looking down, he saw figures at the tower foot. They were +so indistinct, they looked like one huge form. He waved his bonnet to +them with trembling hand: then he undid the silk rapidly but carefully, +and made one end fast to his knife and lowered it till it ceased to +draw. Then he counted a hundred. Then pulled the silk carefully up: it +came up a little heavier. At last he came to a large knot, and by that +knot a stout whipcord was attached to the silk. What could this mean? +While he was puzzling himself Margaret's voice came up to him, low but +clear. “Draw up, Gerard, till you see liberty.” At the word Gerard drew +the whipcord line up, and drew and drew till he came to another knot, +and found a cord of some thickness take the place of the whipcord. He +had no sooner begun to draw this up, than he found that he had now a +heavy weight to deal with. Then the truth suddenly flashed on him, and +he went to work and pulled and pulled till the perspiration rolled down +him: the weight got heavier and heavier, and at last he was well-nigh +exhausted: looking down, he saw in the moonlight a sight that revived +him: it was as it were a great snake coming up to him out of the deep +shadow cast by the tower. He gave a shout of joy, and a score more wild +pulls, and lo! a stout new rope touched his hand: he hauled and hauled, +and dragged the end into his prison, and instantly passed it through +both handles of the chest in succession, and knotted it firmly; then sat +for a moment to recover his breath and collect his courage. The +first thing was to make sure that the chest was sound, and capable of +resisting his weight poised in mid-air. He jumped with all his force +upon it. At the third jump the whole side burst open, and out scuttled +the contents, a host of parchments. + +After the first start and misgiving this gave him, Gerard comprehended +that the chest had not burst, but opened: he had doubtless jumped upon +some secret spring. Still it shook in some degree his confidence in the +chest's powers of resistance; so he gave it an ally: he took the iron +bar and fastened it with the small rope across the large rope, and +across the window. He now mounted the chest, and from the chest put his +foot through the window, and sat half in and half out, with one hand on +that part of the rope which was inside. In the silent night he heard his +own heart beat. + +The free air breathed on his face, and gave him the courage to risk what +we must all lose one day--for liberty. Many dangers awaited him, but the +greatest was the first getting on to the rope outside. Gerard reflected. +Finally, he put himself in the attitude of a swimmer, his body to the +waist being in the prison, his legs outside. Then holding the inside +rope with both hands, he felt anxiously with his feet for the outside +rope, and when he had got it, he worked it in between the palms of his +feet, and kept it there tight: then he uttered a short prayer, and, all +the calmer for it, put his left hand on the sill and gradually wriggled +out. Then he seized the iron bar, and for one fearful moment hung +outside from it by his right hand, while his left hand felt for the rope +down at his knees; it was too tight against the wall for his fingers to +get round it higher up. The moment he had fairly grasped it, he left the +bar, and swiftly seized the rope with the right hand too; but in this +manoeuvre his body necessarily fell about a yard. A stifled cry came up +from below. Gerard hung in mid-air. He clenched his teeth, and nipped +the rope tight with his feet and gripped it with his hands, and went +down slowly hand below hand. He passed by one huge rough stone after +another. He saw there was green moss on one. He looked up and he looked +down. The moon shone into his prison window: it seemed very near. The +fluttering figures below seemed an awful distance. It made him dizzy to +look down: so he fixed his eyes steadily on the wall close to him, and +went slowly down, down, down. + +He passed a rusty, slimy streak on the wall: it was some ten feet long. +The rope made his hands very hot. He stole another look up. + +The prison window was a good way off now. + +Down--down--down--down. + +The rope made his hands sore. + +He looked up. The window was so distant, he ventured now to turn his +eyes downward again; and there, not more than thirty feet below him, +were Margaret and Martin, their faithful hands upstretched to catch him +should he fall. He could see their eyes and their teeth shine in the +moonlight. For their mouths were open, and they were breathing hard. + +“Take care, Gerard oh, take care! Look not down.” + +“Fear me not,” cried Gerard joyfully, and eyed the wall, but came down +faster. + +In another minute his feet were at their hands. They seized him ere he +touched the ground, and all three clung together in one embrace. + +“Hush! away in silence, dear one.” + +They stole along the shadow of the wall. + +Now, ere they had gone many yards, suddenly a stream of light shot from +an angle of the building, and lay across their path like a barrier of +fire, and they heard whispers and footsteps close at hand. + +“Back!” hissed Martin. “Keep in the shade.” + +They hurried back, passed the dangling rope, and made for a little +square projecting tower. They had barely rounded it when the light shot +trembling past them, and flickered uncertainly into the distance. + +“A lantern!” groaned Martin in a whisper. “They are after us.” + +“Give me my knife,” whispered Gerard. “I'll never be taken alive.” + +“No, no!” murmured Margaret; “is there no way out where we are?” + +“None! none! But I carry six lives at my shoulder;” and with the word, +Martin strung his bow, and fitted an arrow to the string: “in war never +wait to be struck: I will kill one or two ere they shall know where +their death comes from:” then, motioning his companions to be quiet he +began to draw his bow, and, ere the arrow was quite drawn to the head, +he glided round the corner ready to loose the string the moment the +enemy should offer a mark. + +Gerard and Margaret held their breath in horrible expectation: they had +never seen a human being killed. + +And now a wild hope, but half repressed, thrilled through Gerard, that +this watchful enemy might be the burgomaster in person. The soldier, he +knew, would send an arrow through a burgher or burgomaster, as he would +through a boar in a wood. + +But who may foretell the future, however near? The bow, instead of +remaining firm, and loosing the deadly shaft, was seen to waver first, +then shake violently, and the stout soldier staggered back to them, his +knees knocking and his cheeks blanched with fear. He let his arrow fall, +and clutched Gerard's shoulder. + +“Let me feel flesh and blood,” he gasped. “The haunted tower! the +haunted tower!” + +His terror communicated itself to Margaret and Gerard. They gasped +rather than uttered an inquiry. + +“Hush!” he cried, “it will hear you up the wall! it is going up the +wall! Its head is on fire. Up the wall, as mortal creatures walk upon +green sward. If you know a prayer, say it, for hell is loose to-night.” + +“I have power to exorcise spirits,” said Gerard, trembling. “I will +venture forth.” + +“Go alone then,” said Martin; “I have looked on't once, and live.” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +The strange glance of hatred the burgomaster had cast on Gerard, coupled +with his imprisonment, had filled the young man with a persuasion that +Ghysbrecht was his enemy to the death, and he glided round the angle of +the tower, fully expecting to see no supernatural appearance, but some +cruel and treacherous contrivance of a bad man to do him a mischief in +that prison, his escape from which could hardly be known. + +As he stole forth, a soft but brave hand crept into his; and Margaret +was by his side, to share this new peril. + +No sooner was the haunted tower visible, than a sight struck their eyes +that benumbed them as they stood. More than halfway up the tower, a +creature with a fiery head, like an enormous glowworm, was steadily +mounting the wall: the body was dark, but its outline visible through +the glare from the head, and the whole creature not much less than four +feet long. + +At the foot of the tower stood a thing in white, that looked exactly +like the figure of a female. Gerard and Margaret palpitated with awe. + +“The rope! the rope! It is going up the rope,” gasped Gerard. + +As they gazed, the glowworm disappeared in Gerard's late prison, but +its light illuminated the cell inside and reddened the window. The white +figure stood motionless below. + +Such as can retain their senses after the first prostrating effect of +the supernatural are apt to experience terror in one of its strangest +forms, a wild desire to fling themselves upon the terrible object. It +fascinates them as the snake the bird. The great tragedian Macready +used to render this finely in Macbeth, at Banquo's second appearance. +He flung himself with averted head at the horrible shadow. This strange +impulse now seized Margaret. She put down Gerard's hand quietly, and +stood bewildered; then, all in a moment, with a wild cry, darted towards +the spectre. Gerard, not aware of the natural impulse I have spoken of, +never doubted the evil one was drawing her to her perdition. He fell on +his knees. + +“Exorcizo vos. In nomine beatae Mariae, exorcizo vos.” + +While the exorcist was shrieking his incantations in extremity of +terror, to his infinite relief he heard the spectre utter a feeble +cry of fear. To find that hell had also its little weaknesses was +encouraging. He redoubled his exorcisms, and presently he saw the +ghastly shape kneeling at Margaret's knees, and heard it praying +piteously for mercy. + + +Kate and Giles soon reached the haunted tower. Judge their surprise when +they found a new rope dangling from the prisoner's window to the ground. + +“I see how it is,” said the inferior intelligence, taking facts as they +came. “Our Gerard has come down this rope. He has got clear. Up I go, +and see.” + +“No, Giles, no!” said the superior intelligence, blinded by prejudice. +“See you not this is glamour? This rope is a line the evil one casts out +to wile thee to destruction. He knows the weaknesses of all our hearts; +he has seen how fond you are of going up things. Where should our Gerard +procure a rope? how fasten it in the sky like this? It is not in nature. +Holy saints protect us this night, for hell is abroad.” + +“Stuff!” said the dwarf; “the way to hell is down, and this rope leads +up. I never had the luck to go up such a long rope. It may be years ere +I fall in with such a long rope all ready for me. As well be knocked on +the head at once as never know happiness.” + +And he sprung on to the rope with a cry of delight, as a cat jumps with +a mew on to a table where fish is. All the gymnast was on fire; and the +only concession Kate could gain from him was permission to fasten the +lantern on his neck first. + +“A light scares the ill spirits,” said she. + +And so, with his huge arms, and his legs like feathers, Giles went up +the rope faster than his brother came down it. The light at the nape of +his neck made a glowworm of him. His sister watched his progress, with +trembling anxiety. Suddenly a female figure started out of the solid +masonry, and came flying at her with more than mortal velocity. + +Kate uttered a feeble cry. It was all she could, for her tongue clove to +her palate with terror. Then she dropped her crutches, and sank upon her +knees, hiding her face and moaning: + +“Take my body, but spare my soul!” + +Margaret (panting). “Why, it is a woman!” + +Kate (quivering). “Why, it is a woman!” + +Margaret. “How you scared me!” + +Kate. “I am scared enough myself. Oh! oh! oh!” + +“This is strange! But the fiery-headed thing? Yet it was with you, and +you are harmless! But why are you here at this time of night?” + +“Nay, why are YOU?” + +“Perhaps we are on the same errand? Ah! you are his good sister, Kate!” + +“And you are Margaret Brandt.” + +“Yes. + +“All the better. You love him; you are here. Then Giles was right. He +has won free.” + +Gerard came forward, and put the question at rest. But all further +explanation was cut short by a horrible unearthly noise, like a +sepulchre ventriloquizing: + +“PARCHMENT!--PARCHMENT!--PARCHMENT!” + +At each repetition, it rose in intensity. They looked up, and there was +the dwarf, with his hands full of parchments, and his face lighted with +fiendish joy and lurid with diabolical fire. The light being at his +neck, a more infernal “transparency” never startled mortal eye. With the +word, the awful imp hurled parchment at the astonished heads below. +Down came records, like wounded wild-ducks; some collapsed, others +fluttering, and others spread out and wheeling slowly down in airy +circles. They had hardly settled, when again the sepulchral roar was +heard--“Parchment--parchment!” and down pattered and sailed another +flock of documents: another followed: they whitened the grass. Finally, +the fire-headed imp, with his light body and horny hands, slid down the +rope like a falling star, and (business before sentiment) proposed to +his rescued brother an immediate settlement for the merchandise he had +just delivered. + +“Hush!” said Gerard; “you speak too loud. Gather them up, and follow us +to a safer place than this.” + +“Will you come home with me, Gerard?” said little Kate. + +“I have no home.” + +“You shall not say so. Who is more welcome than you will be, after this +cruel wrong, to your father's house? + +“Father! I have no father,” said Gerard sternly. “He that was my father +is turned my gaoler. I have escaped from his hands; I will never come +within their reach again.” + +“An enemy did this, and not our father.” + +And she told him what she had overheard Cornelis and Sybrandt say. But +the injury was too recent to be soothed. Gerard showed a bitterness of +indignation he had hitherto seemed incapable of. + +“Cornelis and Sybrandt are two ill curs that have shown me their teeth +and their heart a long while; but they could do no more. My father it is +that gave the burgomaster authority, or he durst not have laid a finger +on me, that am a free burgher of this town. So be it, then. I was his +son. I am his prisoner. He has played his part. I shall play mine. +Farewell the burgh where I was born, and lived honestly and was put in +prison. While there is another town left in creation, I'll never trouble +you again, Tergou.” + +“Oh! Gerard! Gerard!” + +Margaret whispered her: “Do not gainsay him now. Give his choler time to +cool!” + +Kate turned quickly towards her. “Let me look at your face?” The +inspection was favourable, it seemed, for she whispered: “It is a comely +face, and no mischief-maker's.” + +“Fear me not,” said Margaret, in the same tone. “I could not be happy +without your love, as well as Gerard's.” + +“These are comfortable words,” sobbed Kate. Then, looking up, she said, +“I little thought to like you so well. My heart is willing, but my +infirmity will not let me embrace you.” + +At this hint, Margaret wound gently round Gerard's sister, and kissed +her lovingly. + +“Often he has spoken of you to me, Kate; and often I longed for this.” + +“You, too, Gerard,” said Kate; “kiss me ere you go; for my heart lies +heavy at parting with you this night.” + +Gerard kissed her, and she went on her crutches home. The last thing +they heard of her was a little patient sigh. Then the tears came and +stood thick in Margaret's eyes. But Gerard was a man, and noticed not +his sister's sigh. + +As they turned to go to Sevenbergen, the dwarf nudged Gerard with his +bundle of parchments and held out a concave claw. + +Margaret dissuaded Gerard. “Why take what is not ours?” + +“Oh, spoil an enemy how you can.” + +“But may they not make this a handle for fresh violence?” + +“How can they? Think you I shall stay in Tergou after this? The +burgomaster robbed me of my liberty; I doubt I should take his life for +it, if I could.” + +“Oh, fie! Gerard.” + +“What! Is life worth more than liberty? Well, I can't take his life, so +I take the first thing that comes to hand.” + +He gave Giles a few small coins, with which the urchin was gladdened, +and shuffled after his sister. Margaret and Gerard were speedily joined +by Martin, and away to Sevenbergen. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten kept the key of Gerard's prison in his pouch. He +waited till ten of the clock ere he visited for he said to himself, “A +little hunger sometimes does well it breaks 'em.” At ten he crept up +the stairs with a loaf and pitcher, followed by his trusty servant well +armed. Ghysbrecht listened at the door. There was no sound inside. +A grim smile stole over his features. “By this time he will be as +down-hearted as Albert Koestein was,” thought he. He opened the door. + +No Gerard. + +Ghysbrecht stood stupefied. + +Although his face was not visible, his body seemed to lose all motion +in so peculiar a way, and then after a little he fell trembling so, that +the servant behind him saw there was something amiss, and crept close +to him and peeped over his shoulder. At sight of the empty cell, and +the rope, and iron bar, he uttered a loud exclamation of wonder; but his +surprise doubled when his master, disregarding all else, suddenly flung +himself on his knees before the empty chest, and felt wildly all over it +with quivering hands, as if unwilling to trust his eyes in a matter so +important. + +The servant gazed at him in utter bewilderment. + +“Why, master, what is the matter?” + +Ghysbrecht's pale lips worked as if he was going to answer; but they +uttered no sound: his hands fell by his side, and he stared into the +chest. + +“Why, master, what avails glaring into that empty box? The lad is not +there. See here! note the cunning of the young rogue; he hath taken out +the bar, and--” + +“GONE! GONE! GONE!” + +“Gone! What is gone, Holy saints! he is planet-struck!” + +“STOP THIEF!” shrieked Ghysbrecht, and suddenly turned, on his servant +and collared him, and shook him with rage. “D'ye stand there, knave, and +see your master robbed? Run! fly! A hundred crowns to him that finds +it me again. No, no! 'tis in vain. Oh, fool! fool! to leave that in the +same room with him. But none ever found the secret spring before. None +ever would but he. It was to be. It is to be. Lost! lost!” and his years +and infirmity now gained the better of his short-lived frenzy, and he +sank on the chest muttering “Lost! lost!” + +“What is lost, master?” asked the servant kindly. + +“House and lands and good name,” groaned Ghysbrecht, and wrung his hands +feebly. + +“WHAT?” cried the servant. + +This emphatic word, and the tone of eager curiosity, struck on +Ghysbrecht's ear and revived his natural cunning. + +“I have lost the town records,” stammered he, and he looked askant at +the man like a fox caught near a hen-roost. + +“Oh, is that all?” + +“Is't not enough? What will the burghers say to me? What will the burghs +do?” Then he suddenly burst out again, “A hundred crowns to him who +shall recover them; all, mind, all that were in this box. If one be +missing, I give nothing.” + +“'Tis a bargain, master: the hundred crowns are in my pouch. See you not +that where Gerard Eliassoen is, there are the pieces of sheepskin you +rate so high?” + +“That is true; that is true, good Dierich: good faithful Dierich. All, +mind, all that were in the chest.” + +“Master, I will take the constables to Gerard's house, and seize him for +the theft.” + +“The theft? ay! good; very good. It is theft. I forgot that. So, as he +is a thief now, we will put him in the dungeons below, where the toads +are and the rats. Dierich, that man must never see daylight again. 'Tis +his own fault; he must be prying. Quick, quick! ere he has time to talk, +you know, time to talk.” + +In less than half an hour Dierich Brower and four constables entered +the hosier's house, and demanded young Gerard of the panic-stricken +Catherine. + +“Alas! what has he done now?” cried she; “that boy will break my heart.” + +“Nay, dame, but a trick of youth,” said Dierich. “He hath but made +off with certain skins of parchment, in a frolic doubtless but the +burgomaster is answerable to the burgh for their safe keeping, so he is +in care about them; as for the youth, he will doubtless be quit for a +reprimand.” + +This smooth speech completely imposed on Catherine; but her daughter +was more suspicious, and that suspicion was strengthened by the +disproportionate anger and disappointment Dierich showed the moment he +learned Gerard was not at home, had not been at home that night. + +“Come away then,” said he roughly. “We are wasting time.” He added +vehemently, “I'll find him if he is above ground.” + +Affection sharpens the wits, and often it has made an innocent person +more than a match for the wily. As Dierich was going out, Kate made him +a signal she would speak with him privately. He bade his men go on, and +waited outside the door. She joined him. + +“Hush!” said she; “my mother knows not. Gerard has left Tergou.” + +“How?” + +“I saw him last night.” + +“Ay! Where?” cried Dierich eagerly. + +“At the foot of the haunted tower.” + +“How did he get the rope?” + +“I know not; but this I know; my brother Gerard bade me there farewell, +and he is many leagues from Tergou ere this. The town, you know, was +always unworthy of him, and when it imprisoned him, he vowed never +to set foot in it again. Let the burgomaster be content, then. He has +imprisoned him, and he has driven him from his birthplace and from his +native land. What need now to rob him and us of our good name?” + +This might at another moment have struck Dierich as good sense; but he +was too mortified at this escape of Gerard and the loss of a hundred +crowns. + +“What need had he to steal?” retorted he bitterly. + +“Gerard stole not the trash; he but took it to spite the burgomaster, +who stole his liberty; but he shall answer to the Duke for it, he shall. +As for these skins of parchment you keep such a coil about, look in the +nearest brook or stye, and 'tis odds but you find them.” + +“Think ye so, mistress?--think ye so?” And Dierich's eyes flashed. +“Mayhap you know 'tis so.” + +“This I know, that Gerard is too good to steal, and too wise to load +himself with rubbish, going a journey.” + +“Give you good day, then,” said Dierich sharply. “The sheepskin you +scorn, I value it more than the skin of any in Tergou.” + +And he went off hastily on a false scent. + +Kate returned into the house and drew Giles aside. + +“Giles, my heart misgives me; breathe not to a soul what I say to you. I +have told Dirk Brower that Gerard is out of Holland, but much I doubt he +is not a league from Tergou.” + +“Why, where is he, then?” + +“Where should he be, but with her he loves? But if so, he must not +loiter. These be deep and dark and wicked men that seek him. Giles, I +see that in Dirk Brower's eye makes me tremble. Oh, why cannot I fly to +Sevenbergen and bid him away? Why am I not lusty and active like other +girls? God forgive me for fretting at His will; but I never felt till +now what it is to be lame and weak and useless. But you are strong, dear +Giles,” added she coaxingly; “you are very strong.” + +“Yes, I am strong,” thundered Perpusillus; then, catching sight of her +meaning, “but I hate to go on foot,” he added sulkily. + +“Alas! alas! who will help me if you will not? Dear Giles, do you not +love Gerard?” + +“Yes, I like him best of the lot. I'll go to Sevenbergen on Peter +Buyskens his mule. Ask you him, for he won't lend her me.” + +Kate remonstrated. The whole town would follow him. It would be known +whither he was gone, and Gerard be in worse danger than before. + +Giles parried this by promising to ride out of the town the opposite +way, and not turn the mule's head towards Sevenbergen till he had got +rid of the curious. + +Kate then assented and borrowed the mule. She charged Giles with a short +but meaning message, and made him repeat it after her over and over, +till he could say it word for word. + +Giles started on the mule, and little Kate retired, and did the last +thing now in her power for her beloved brother--prayed on her knees long +and earnestly for his safety. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Gerard and Margaret went gaily to Sevenbergen in the first flush of +recovered liberty and successful adventure. But these soon yielded +to sadder thoughts. Gerard was an escaped prisoner, and liable to be +retaken and perhaps punished; and therefore he and Margaret would have +to part for a time. Moreover, he had conceived a hatred to his native +place. Margaret wished him to leave the country for a while, but at +the thought of his going to Italy her heart fainted. Gerard, on the +contrary, was reconciled to leaving Margaret only by his desire to visit +Italy, and his strong conviction that there he should earn money and +reputation, and remove every obstacle to their marriage. He had already +told her all that the demoiselle Van Eyck had said to him. He repeated +it, and reminded Margaret that the gold pieces were only given him to go +to Italy with. The journey was clearly for Gerard's interest. He was a +craftsman and an artist, lost in this boorish place. In Italy they would +know how to value him. On this ground above all the unselfish girl gave +her consent; but many tender tears came with it, and at that Gerard, +young and loving as herself, cried bitterly with her, and often they +asked one another what they had done, that so many different persons +should be their enemies, and combine, as it seemed, to part them. + +They sat hand in hand till midnight, now deploring their hard fate, now +drawing bright and hopeful pictures of the future, in the midst of which +Margaret's tears would suddenly flow, and then poor Gerard's eloquence +would die away in a sigh. + +The morning found them resigned to part, but neither had the courage to +say when; and much I doubt whether the hour of parting ever would have +struck. + +But about three in the afternoon, Giles, who had made a circuit of many +miles to avoid suspicion, rode up to the door. They both ran out to him, +eager with curiosity. + +“Brother Gerard,” cried he, in his tremendous tones, “Kate bids you run +for your life. They charge you with theft; you have given them a handle. +Think not to explain. Hope not for justice in Tergou. The parchments you +took, they are but a blind. She hath seen your death in the men's eyes; +a price is on your head. Fly! For Margaret's sake and all who love you, +loiter not life away, but fly!” + +It was a thunder-clap, and left two white faces looking at one another, +and at the terrible messenger. + +Then Giles, who had hitherto but uttered by rote what Catherine bade +him, put in a word of his own. + +“All the constables were at our house after you, and so was Dirk Brower. +Kate is wise, Gerard. Best give ear to her rede, and fly!” + +“Oh, yes, Gerard,” cried Margaret wildly. “Fly on the instant. Ah! those +parchments; my mind misgave me: why did I let you take them?” + +“Margaret, they are but a blind: Giles says so. No matter: the old +caitiff shall never see them again; I will not go till I have hidden +his treasure where he shall never find it.” Gerard then, after thanking +Giles warmly, bade him farewell, and told him to go back and tell Kate +he was gone. “For I shall be gone ere you reach home,” said he. He then +shouted for Martin; and told him what had happened, and begged him to go +a little way towards Tergou, and watch the road. + +“Ay!” said Martin, “and if I see Dirk Brower or any of his men, I will +shoot an arrow into the oak-tree that is in our garden; and on that +you must run into the forest hard by, and meet me at the weird hunter's +spring. Then I will guide you through the wood.” + +Surprise thus provided against, Gerard breathed again. He went with +Margaret, and while she watched the oak-tree tremblingly, fearing every +moment to see an arrow strike among the branches, Gerard dug a deep hole +to bury the parchments in. + +He threw them in, one by one. They were nearly all charters and records +of the burgh; but one appeared to be a private deed between Floris +Brandt, father of Peter, and Ghysbrecht. + +“Why, this is as much yours as his,” said Gerard. “I will read this.” + +“Oh, not now, Gerard, not now,” cried Margaret. “Every moment you lose +fills me with fear; and see, large drops of rain are beginning to fall, +and the clouds lower.” + +Gerard yielded to this remonstrance; but he put the deed into his bosom, +and threw the earth in over the others, and stamped it down. While thus +employed there came a flash of lightning followed by a peal of distant +thunder, and the rain came down heavily. Margaret and Gerard ran into +the house, whither they were speedily followed by Martin. + +“The road is clear,” said he, “and a heavy storm coming on.” + +His words proved true. The thunder came nearer and nearer till it +crashed overhead: the flashes followed one another close, like the +strokes of a whip, and the rain fell in torrents. Margaret hid her face +not to see the lightning. On this, Gerard put up the rough shutter and +lighted a candle. The lovers consulted together, and Gerard blessed +the storm that gave him a few hours more with Margaret. The sun set +unperceived, and still the thunder pealed, and the lightning flashed, +and the rain poured. Supper was set; but Gerard and Margaret could not +eat: the thought that this was the last time they should sup together +choked them. The storm lulled a little. Peter retired to rest. But +Gerard was to go at peep of day, and neither he nor Margaret could +afford to lose an hour in sleep. Martin sat a while, too; for he was +fitting a new string to his bow, a matter in which he was very nice. + +The lovers murmured their sorrows and their love beside him. + +Suddenly the old man held up his hand to them to be silent. + +They were quiet and listened, and heard nothing. But the next moment a +footstep crackled faintly upon the autumn leaves that lay strewn in the +garden at the back door of the house. To those who had nothing to fear +such a step would have said nothing; but to those who had enemies it was +terrible. For it was a foot trying to be noiseless. + +Martin fitted an arrow to his string and hastily blew out the candle. At +this moment, to their horror, they heard more than one footstep approach +the other door of the cottage, not quite so noiselessly as the other, +but very stealthily--and then a dead pause. + +Their blood froze in their veins. + +“Oh, Kate, oh, Kate! You said fly on the instant.” And Margaret moaned +and wrung her hands in anguish and terror and wild remorse for having +kept Gerard. + +“Hush, girl!” said Martin, in a stern whisper. + +A heavy knock fell on the door. + +And on the hearts within. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +As if this had been a concerted signal, the back door was struck as +rudely the next instant. They were hemmed in. But at these alarming +sounds Margaret seemed to recover some share of self-possession. She +whispered, “Say he was here, but is gone.” And with this she seized +Gerard and almost dragged him up the rude steps that led to her father's +sleeping-room. Her own lay next beyond it. + +The blows on the door were repeated. + +“Who knocks at this hour?” + +“Open, and you will see!” + +“I open not to thieves--honest men are all abed now.” + +“Open to the law, Martin Wittenhaagen, or you shall rue it.” + +“Why, that is Dirk Brower's voice, I trow. What make you so far from +Tergou?” + +“Open, and you will know.” + +Martin drew the bolt very slowly, and in rushed Dierich and four more. +They let in their companion who was at the back door. + +“Now, Martin, where is Gerard Eliassoen?” + +“Gerard Eliassoen? Why, he was here but now!” + +“Was here?” Dierich's countenance fell. “And where is he now?” + +“They say he has gone to Italy. Why, what is to do?” + +“No matter. When did he go? Tell me not that he went in such a storm as +this!” + +“Here is a coil about Gerard Eliassoen,” said Martin contemptuously. +Then he lighted the candle, and seating himself coolly by the fire, +proceeded to whip some fine silk round his bow-string at the place where +the nick of the arrow frets it. + +“I'll tell you,” said he carelessly. “Know you his brother Giles?--a +little misbegotten imp, all head and arms? Well, he came tearing over +here on a mule, and bawled out something, I was too far off to hear the +creature's words, but only its noise. Any way, he started Gerard. For as +soon as he was gone, there was such crying and kissing, and then Gerard +went away. They do tell me he has gone to Italy--mayhap you know where +that is, for I don't.” + +Dierich's countenance fell lower and lower at this account. There was +no flaw in it, A cunninger man than Martin would perhaps have told a +lie too many and raised suspicion. But Martin did his task well. He only +told the one falsehood he was bade to tell, and of his own head invented +nothing. + +“Mates,” said Dierich, “I doubt he speaks sooth. I told the burgomaster +how 'twould be. He met the dwarf galloping Peter Buyskens's mule from +Sevenbergen. 'They have sent that imp to Gerard,' says he, 'so, then, +Gerard is at Sevenbergen.' 'Ah, master!' says I, ''tis too late now. We +should have thought of Sevenbergen before, instead of wasting our time +hunting all the odd corners of Tergou for those cursed parchments that +we shall never find till we find the man that took 'em. If he was at +Sevenbergen,' quoth I, 'and they sent the dwarf to him, it must have +been to warn him we are after him. He is leagues away by now,' quoth I. +Confound that chalk-faced girl! she has outwitted us bearded men; and +so I told the burgomaster, but he would not hear reason. A wet jerkin +apiece, that is all we shall get, mates, by this job.” + +Martin grinned coolly in Dierich's face. + +“However,” added the latter, “to content the burgomaster, we will search +the house.” + +Martin turned grave directly. + +This change of countenance did not escape Dierich. He reflected a +moment. + +“Watch outside two of you, one on each side of the house, that no one +jump from the upper windows. The rest come with me.” + +And he took the candle and mounted the stairs, followed by three of his +comrades. + +Martin was left alone. + +The stout soldier hung his head. All had gone so well at first; and now +this fatal turn! Suddenly it occurred to him that all was not yet lost. +Gerard must be either in Peter's room or Margaret's; they were not so +very high from the ground. Gerard would leap out. Dierich had left a man +below; but what then? For half a minute Gerard and he would be two to +one, and in that brief space, what might not be done? + +Martin then held the back door ajar and watched. The light shone in +Peter's room. “Curse the fool!” said he, “is he going to let them take +him like a girl?” + +The light now passed into Margaret's bedroom. Still no window was +opened. Had Gerard intended to escape that way, he would not have waited +till the men were in the room. Martin saw that at once, and left the +door, and came to the foot-stair and listened. + +He began to think Gerard must have escaped by the window while all the +men were in the house. The longer the silence continued, the stronger +grew this conviction. But it was suddenly and rudely dissipated. + +Faint cries issued from the inner bedroom--Margaret's. + +“They have taken him,” groaned Martin; “they have got him.” + +It now flashed across Martin's mind that if they took Gerard away, his +life was not worth a button; and that, if evil befell him, Margaret's +heart would break. He cast his eyes wildly round like some savage beast +seeking an escape, and in a twinkling formed a resolution terribly +characteristic of those iron times and of a soldier driven to bay. He +stepped to each door in turn, and imitating Dierich Brower's voice, +said sharply, “Watch the window!” He then quietly closed and bolted +both doors. He then took up his bow and six arrows; one he fitted to his +string, the others he put into his quiver. His knife he placed upon a +chair behind him, the hilt towards him; and there he waited at the foot +of the stair with the calm determination to slay those four men, or be +slain by them. Two, he knew, he could dispose of by his arrows, ere +they could get near him, and Gerard and he must take their chance +hand-to-hand with the remaining pair. Besides, he had seen men +panic-stricken by a sudden attack of this sort. Should Brower and his +men hesitate but an instant before closing with him, he should shoot +three instead of two, and then the odds would be on the right side. + +He had not long to wait. The heavy steps sounded in Margaret's room, and +came nearer and nearer. + +The light also approached, and voices. + +Martin's heart, stout as it was, beat hard, to hear men coming thus to +their death, and perhaps to his; more likely so than not: for four is +long odds in a battlefield of ten feet square, and Gerard might be bound +perhaps, and powerless to help. But this man, whom we have seen shake in +his shoes at a Giles-o'-lanthorn, never wavered in this awful moment of +real danger, but stood there, his body all braced for combat, and his +eye glowing, equally ready to take life and lose it. Desperate game! to +win which was exile instant and for life, and to lose it was to die that +moment upon that floor he stood on. + + +Dierich Brower and his men found Peter in his first sleep. They opened +his cupboards, they ran their knives into an alligator he had nailed to +his wall; they looked under his bed: it was a large room, and apparently +full of hiding-places, but they found no Gerard. + +Then they went on to Margaret's room, and the very sight of it was +discouraging--it was small and bare, and not a cupboard in it; there +was, however, a large fireplace and chimney. Dierich's eye fell on these +directly. Here they found the beauty of Sevenbergen sleeping on an old +chest not a foot high, and no attempt made to cover it; but the sheets +were snowy white, and so was Margaret's own linen. And there she lay, +looking like a lily fallen into a rut. + +Presently she awoke, and sat up in the bed, like one amazed; then, +seeing the men, began to scream faintly, and pray for mercy. + +She made Dierich Brower ashamed of his errand. + +“Here is a to-do,” said he, a little confused. “We are not going to hurt +you, my pretty maid. Lie you still, and shut your eyes, and think of +your wedding-night, while I look up this chimney to see if Master Gerard +is there.” + +“Gerard! in my room?” + +“Why not? They say that you and he--” + +“Cruel! you know they have driven him away from me--driven him from his +native place. This is a blind. You are thieves; you are wicked men; you +are not men of Sevenbergen, or you would know Margaret Brandt better +than to look for her lover in this room of all others in the world. Oh, +brave! Four great hulking men to come, armed to the teeth, to insult one +poor honest girl! The women that live in your own houses must be naught, +or you would respect them too much to insult a girl of good character.” + +“There! come away, before we hear worse,” said Dierich hastily. “He +is not in the chimney. Plaster will mend what a cudgel breaks; but a +woman's tongue is a double-edged dagger, and a girl is a woman with her +mother's milk still in her.” And he beat a hasty retreat. “I told the +burgomaster how 'twould be.” + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Where is the woman that cannot act a part? Where is she who will not +do it, and do it well, to save the man she loves? Nature on these great +occasions comes to the aid of the simplest of the sex, and teaches her +to throw dust in Solomon's eyes. The men had no sooner retired than +Margaret stepped out of bed, and opened the long chest on which she had +been lying down in her skirt and petticoat and stockings, and nightdress +over all; and put the lid, bed-clothes and all, against the wall: then +glided to the door and listened. The footsteps died away through her +father's room and down the stairs. + +Now in that chest there was a peculiarity that it was almost impossible +for a stranger to detect. A part of the boarding of the room had been +broken, and Gerard being applied to to make it look neater, and being +short of materials, had ingeniously sawed away a space sufficient just +to admit Margaret's soi-disant bed, and with the materials thus acquired +he had repaired the whole room. As for the bed or chest, it really +rested on the rafters a foot below the boards. Consequently it was full +two feet deep, though it looked scarce one. + +All was quiet. Margaret kneeled and gave thanks to Heaven. Then she +glided from the door and leaned over the chest, and whispered tenderly, +“Gerard!” + +Gerard did not reply. + +She then whispered a little louder, “Gerard, all is safe, thank Heaven! +You may rise; but oh! be cautious!” + +Gerard made no reply. + +She laid her hand upon his shoulder--“Gerard!” + +No reply. + +“Oh, what is this?” she cried, and her hands ran wildly over his face +and his bosom. She took him by the shoulders; she shook him; she lifted +him; but he escaped from her trembling hands, and fell back, not like a +man, but like a body. A great dread fell on her. The lid had been down. +She had lain upon it. The men had been some time in the room. With all +the strength of frenzy she tore him out of the chest. She bore him in +her arms to the window. She dashed the window open. The sweet air came +in. She laid him in it and in the moonlight. His face was the colour of +ashes; his body was all limp and motionless. She felt his heart. Horror! +it was as still as the rest! Horror of horrors! she had stifled him with +her own body. + +The mind cannot all at once believe so great and sudden and strange a +calamity. Gerard, who had got alive into that chest scarce five minutes +ago, how could he be dead? + +She called him by all the endearing names that heart could think or +tongue could frame. She kissed him and fondled him and coaxed him and +implored him to speak to her. + +No answer to words of love, such as she had never uttered to him before, +nor thought she could utter. Then the poor creature, trembling all over, +began to say over that ashy face little foolish things that were at once +terrible and pitiable. + +“Oh, Gerard! I am very sorry you are dead. I am very sorry I have killed +you. Forgive me for not letting the men take you; it would have been +better than this. Oh, Gerard! I am very, very sorry for what I have +done.” Then she began suddenly to rave. + +“No! no! such things can't be, or there is no God. It is monstrous. How +can my Gerard be dead? How can I have killed my Gerard? I love him. Oh, +God! you know how I love him. He does not. I never told him. If he knew +my heart, he would speak to me, he would not be so deaf to his poor +Margaret. It is all a trick to make me cry out and betray him; but no! +I love him too well for that. I'll choke first.” And she seized her own +throat, to check her wild desire to scream in her terror and anguish. + +“If he would but say one word. Oh, Gerard! don't die without a word. +Have mercy on me and scold me, but speak to me: if you are angry with +me, scold me! curse me! I deserve it: the idiot that killed the man she +loved better than herself. Ah I am a murderess. The worst in all the +world. Help! help! I have murdered him. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!” + +She tore her hair, and uttered shriek after shriek, so wild, so +piercing, they fell like a knell upon the ears of Dierich Brower and his +men. All started to their feet and looked at one another. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Martin Wittenhaagen, standing at the foot of the stairs with his arrow +drawn nearly to the head and his knife behind him, was struck with +amazement to see the men come back without Gerard: he lowered his bow +and looked open-mouthed at them. They, for their part, were equally +puzzled at the attitude they had caught him in. + +“Why, mates, was the old fellow making ready to shoot at us?” + +“Stuff!” said Martin, recovering his stolid composure; “I was but trying +my new string. There! I'll unstring my bow, if you think that.” + +“Humph!” said Dierich suspiciously, “there is something more in you than +I understand: put a log on, and let us dry our hides a bit ere we go.” + +A blazing fire was soon made, and the men gathered round it, and their +clothes and long hair were soon smoking from the cheerful blaze. Then it +was that the shrieks were heard in Margaret's room. They all started up, +and one of them seized the candle and ran up the steps that led to the +bedrooms. + +Martin rose hastily too, and being confused by these sudden screams, and +apprehending danger from the man's curiosity, tried to prevent him from +going there. + +At this Dierich threw his arms round him from behind, and called on the +others to keep him. The man that had the candle got clear away, and all +the rest fell upon Martin, and after a long and fierce struggle, in the +course of which they were more than once all rolling on the floor, with +Martin in the middle, they succeeded in mastering the old Samson, and +binding him hand and foot with a rope they had brought for Gerard. + +Martin groaned aloud. He saw the man had made his way to Margaret's room +during the struggle, and here was he powerless. + +“Ay, grind your teeth, you old rogue,” said Dierich, panting with the +struggle. “You shan't use them.” + +“It is my belief, mates, that our lives were scarce safe while this old +fellow's bones were free.” + +“He makes me think this Gerard is not far off,” put in another. + +“No such luck,” replied Dierich. “Hallo, mates. Jorian Ketel is a long +time in that girl's bedroom. Best go and see after him, some of us.” + +The rude laugh caused by this remark had hardly subsided, when hasty +footsteps were heard running along over head. + +“Oh, here he comes, at last. Well, Jorian, what is to do now up there?” + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +Jorian Ketel went straight to Margaret's room, and there, to his +infinite surprise, he found the man he had been in search of, pale and +motionless, his head in Margaret's lap, and she kneeling over him, mute +now, and stricken to stone. Her eyes were dilated yet glazed, and she +neither saw the light nor heard the man, nor cared for anything on +earth, but the white face in her lap. + +Jorian stood awe-struck, the candle shaking in his hand. + +“Why, where was he, then, all the time?” + +Margaret heeded him not. Jorian went to the empty chest and inspected +it. He began to comprehend. The girl's dumb and frozen despair moved +him. + +“This is a sorry sight,” said he; “it is a black night's work: all for +a few skins! Better have gone with us than so. She is past answering me, +poor wench. Stop! let us try whether--” + +He took down a little round mirror, no bigger than his hand, and put it +to Gerard's mouth and nostrils, and held it there. When he withdrew it, +it was dull. + +“THERE IS LIFE IN HIM!” said Jorian Ketel to himself. + +Margaret caught the words instantly, though only muttered, and it was if +a statue should start into life and passion. She rose and flung her arms +round Jorian's neck. + +“Oh, bless the tongue that tells me so!” and she clasped the great rough +fellow again and again, eagerly, almost fiercely. + +“There, there! let us lay him warm, said Jorian; and in a moment he +raised Gerard and laid him on the bed-clothes. Then he took out a flask +he carried, and filled his hand twice with Schiedamze, and flung it +sharply each time in Gerard's face. The pungent liquor co-operated with +his recovery--he gave a faint sigh. Oh, never was sound so joyful to +human ear! She flew towards him, but then stopped, quivering for fear +she should hurt him. She had lost all confidence in herself. + +“That is right--let him alone,” said Jorian; “don't go cuddling him as +you did me, or you'll drive his breath back again. Let him alone: he is +sure to come to. 'Tisn't like as if he was an old man.” + +Gerard sighed deeply, and a faint streak of colour stole to his lips. +Jorian made for the door. He had hardly reached it, when he found his +legs seized from behind. + +It was Margaret! She curled round his knees like a serpent, and kissed +his hand, and fawned on him. “You won't tell? You have saved his life; +you have not the heart to thrust him back into his grave, to undo your +own good work?” + +“No, no! It is not the first time I have done you two a good turn; 'twas +I told you in the church whither we had to take him. Besides, what is +Dierich Brower to me? I'll see him hanged ere I'll tell him. But I +wish you'd tell me where the parchments are! There are a hundred crowns +offered for them. That would be a good windfall for my Joan and the +children, you know.” + +“Ah! they shall have those hundred crowns. + +“What! are the things in the house?” asked Jorian eagerly. + +“No; but I know where they are; and by God and St. Bavon I swear you +shall have them to-morrow. Come to me for them when you will, but come +alone.” + +“I were made else. What! share the hundred crowns with Dirk Brower? And +now may my bones rot in my skin if I let a soul know the poor boy is +here.” + +He then ran off, lest by staying longer he should excite suspicion, +and have them all after him. And Margaret knelt, quivering from head to +foot, and prayed beside Gerard and for Gerard. + + +“What is to do?” replied Jorian to Dierich Brower's query; “why, we have +scared the girl out of her wits. She was in a kind of fit.” + +“We had better all go and doctor her, then.” + +“Oh, yes! and frighten her into the churchyard. Her father is a doctor, +and I have roused him, and set him to bring her round. Let us see the +fire, will ye?” + +His off-hand way disarmed all suspicion. And soon after the party agreed +that the kitchen of the “Three Kings” was much warmer than Peter's +house, and they departed, having first untied Martin. + +“Take note, mate, that I was right, and the burgomaster wrong,” said +Dierich Brower at the door; “I said we should be too late to catch him, +and we were too late.” + + +Thus Gerard, in one terrible night, grazed the prison and the grave. + +And how did he get clear at last? Not by his cunningly contrived +hiding-place, nor by Margaret's ready wit; but by a good impulse in +one of his captors, by the bit of humanity left in a somewhat reckless +fellow's heart, aided by his desire of gain. So mixed and seemingly +incongruous are human motives, so shortsighted our shrewdest counsels. + +They whose moderate natures or gentle fates keep them, in life's +passage, from the fierce extremes of joy and anguish our nature is +capable of, are perhaps the best, and certainly the happiest of +mankind. But to such readers I should try in vain to convey what bliss +unspeakable settled now upon these persecuted lovers, Even to those who +have joyed greatly and greatly suffered, my feeble art can present but a +pale reflection of Margaret's and Gerard's ecstasy. + +To sit and see a beloved face come back from the grave to the world, to +health and beauty, by swift gradations; to see the roses return to the +loved cheek, love's glance to the loved eye, and his words to the loved +mouth--this was Margaret's--a joy to balance years of sorrow. It +was Gerard's to awake from a trance, and find his head pillowed on +Margaret's arm; to hear the woman he adored murmur new words of eloquent +love, and shower tears and tender kisses and caresses on him. He never +knew, till this sweet moment, how ardently, how tenderly, she loved +him. He thanked his enemies. They wreathed their arms sweetly round each +other, and trouble and danger seemed a world, an age behind them. They +called each other husband and wife. Were they not solemnly betrothed? +And had they not stood before the altar together? Was not the blessing +of Holy Church upon their union?--her curse on all who would part them? + +But as no woman's nerves can bear with impunity so terrible a strain. +presently Margaret turned faint, and sank on Gerard's shoulder, smiling +feebly, but quite, quite unstrung. Then Gerard was anxious, and would +seek assistance. But she held him with a gentle grasp, and implored him +not to leave her for a moment. + +“While I can lay my hand on you, I feel you are safe, not else. Foolish +Gerard! nothing ails me. I am weak, dearest, but happy, oh! so happy!” + +Then it was Gerard's turn to support that dear head, with its great +waves of hair flowing loose over him, and nurse her, and soothe her, +quivering on his bosom, with soft encouraging words and murmurs of love, +and gentle caresses. Sweetest of all her charms is a woman's weakness to +a manly heart. + +Poor things! they were happy. To-morrow they must part. But that was +nothing to them now. They had seen Death, and all other troubles seemed +light as air. While there is life there is hope; while there is hope +there is joy. Separation for a year or two, what was it to them, who +were so young, and had caught a glimpse of the grave? The future was +bright, the present was Heaven: so passed the blissful hours. + +Alas! their innocence ran other risks besides the prison and the grave. +They were in most danger from their own hearts and their inexperience, +now that visible danger there was none. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten could not sleep all night for anxiety. He was +afraid of thunder and lightning, or he would have made one of the party +that searched Peter's house. As soon as the storm ceased altogether, +he crept downstairs, saddled his mule, and rode to the “Three Kings” at +Sevenbergen. There he found his men sleeping, some on the chairs, some +on the tables, some on the floor. He roused them furiously, and heard +the story of their unsuccessful search, interlarded with praises of +their zeal. + +“Fool! to let you go without me,” cried the burgomaster. “My life on't +he was there all the time. Looked ye under the girl's bed?” + +“No; there was no room for a man there.” + +“How know ye that, if ye looked not?” snarled Ghysbrecht. “Ye should +have looked under her bed, and in it too, and sounded all the panels +with your knives. Come, now, get up, and I shall show ye how to search.” + +Dierich Brower got up and shook himself. “If you find him, call me a +horse and no man.” + +In a few minutes Peter's house was again surrounded. + +The fiery old man left his mule in the hands of Jorian Ketel, and, with +Dierich Brower and the others, entered the house. + +The house was empty. + +Not a creature to be seen, not even Peter. They went upstairs, and +then suddenly one of the men gave a shout, and pointed through Peter's +window, which was open. The others looked, and there, at some little +distance, walking quietly across the fields with Margaret and Martin, +was the man they sought. Ghysbrecht, with an exulting yell, descended +the stairs and flung himself on his mule; and he and his men set off in +hot pursuit. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Gerard warned by recent peril, rose before daybreak and waked Martin. +The old soldier was astonished. He thought Gerard had escaped by the +window last night. Being consulted as to the best way for him to leave +the country and elude pursuit, he said there was but one road safe. “I +must guide you through the great forest to a bridle-road I know of. This +will take you speedily to a hostelry, where they will lend you a swift +horse; and then a day's gallop will take you out of Holland. But let us +start ere the folk here quit their beds.” + +Peter's house was but a furlong and a half from the forest. They +started, Martin with his bow and three arrows, for it was Thursday; +Gerard with nothing but a stout oak staff Peter gave him for the +journey. + +Margaret pinned up her kirtle and farthingale, for the road was wet. +Peter went as far as his garden hedge with them, and then with more +emotion than he often bestowed on passing events, gave the young man his +blessing. + +The sun was peeping above the horizon as they crossed the stony field +and made for the wood. They had crossed about half, when Margaret, who +kept nervously looking back every now and then, uttered a cry, and, +following her instinct, began to run towards the wood, screaming with +terror all the way. + +Ghysbrecht and his men were in hot pursuit. + +Resistance would have been madness. Martin and Gerard followed +Margaret's example. The pursuers gained slightly on them; but Martin +kept shouting, “Only win the wood! only win the wood!” + +They had too good a start for the men on foot, and their hearts bounded +with hope at Martin's words, for the great trees seemed now to stretch +their branches like friendly arms towards them, and their leaves like a +screen. + +But an unforeseen danger attacked them. The fiery old burgomaster flung +himself on his mule, and, spurring him to a gallop, he headed not his +own men only, but the fugitives. His object was to cut them off. The +old man came galloping in a semicircle, and got on the edge of the wood, +right in front of Gerard; the others might escape for aught he cared. + +Margaret shrieked, and tried to protect Gerard by clasping him; but he +shook her off without ceremony. + +Ghysbrecht in his ardour forgot that hunted animals turn on the hunter; +and that two men can hate, and two can long to kill the thing they hate. + +Instead of attempting to dodge him, as the burgomaster made sure he +would, Gerard flew right at him, with a savage, exulting cry, and struck +at him with all his heart, and soul and strength. The oak staff came +down on Ghysbrecht's face with a frightful crash, and laid him under +his mule's tail beating the devil's tattoo with his heels, his face +streaming, and his collar spattered with blood. + +The next moment the three were in the wood. The yell of dismay and +vengeance that burst from Ghysbrecht's men at that terrible blow which +felled their leader, told the fugitives that it was now a race for life +or death. + +“Why run?” cried Gerard, panting. “You have your bow, and I have this,” + and he shook his bloody staff. + +“Boy!” roared Martin; “the GALLOWS! Follow me,” and he fled into the +wood. Soon they heard a cry like a pack of hounds opening on sight of +the game. The men were in the wood, and saw them flitting amongst the +trees. Margaret moaned and panted as she ran; and Gerard clenched his +teeth and grasped his staff. The next minute they came to a stiff hazel +coppice. Martin dashed into it, and shouldered the young wood aside as +if it were standing corn. + +Ere they had gone fifty yards in it they came to four blind paths. + +Martin took one. “Bend low,” said he. And, half creeping, they glided +along. Presently their path was again intersected with other little +tortuous paths. They took one of them. It seemed to lead back; but +it soon took a turn, and, after a while, brought them to a thick pine +grove, where the walking was good and hard. There were no paths here; +and the young fir-trees were so thick, you could not see three yards +before your nose. + +When they had gone some way in this, Martin sat down; and, having +learned in war to lose all impression of danger with the danger itself, +took a piece of bread and a slice of ham out of his wallet, and began +quietly to eat his breakfast. + +The young ones looked at him with dismay. He replied to their looks. + +“All Sevenbergen could not find you now; you will lose your purse, +Gerard, long before you get to Italy; is that the way to carry a purse?” + +Gerard looked, and there was a large triangular purse, entangled by its +chains to the buckle and strap of his wallet. + +“This is none of mine,” said he. “What is in it, I wonder?” and he +tried to detach it; but in passing through the coppice it had become +inextricably entangled in his strap and buckle. “It seems loath to leave +me,” said Gerard, and he had to cut it loose with his knife. The purse, +on examination, proved to be well provided with silver coins of all +sizes, but its bloated appearance was greatly owing to a number of +pieces of brown paper folded and doubled. A light burst on Gerard. “Why, +it must be that old thief's; and see! stuffed with paper to deceive the +world!” + +The wonder was how the burgomaster's purse came on Gerard. + +They hit at last upon the right solution. The purse must have been +at Ghysbrecht's saddle-bow, and Gerard rushing at his enemy, had +unconsciously torn it away, thus felling his enemy and robbing him, with +a single gesture. + +Gerard was delighted at this feat, but Margaret was uneasy. + +“Throw it away, Gerard, or let Martin take it back. Already they call +you a thief. I cannot bear it.” + +“Throw it away! give it him back? not a stiver! This is spoil lawfully +won in battle from an enemy. Is it not, Martin?” + +“Why, of course. Send him back the brown paper, and you will; but the +purse or the coin--that were a sin.” + +“Oh, Gerard!” said Margaret, “you are going to a distant land. We need +the goodwill of Heaven. How can we hope for that if we take what is not +ours?” + +But Gerard saw it in a different light. + +“It is Heaven that gives it me by a miracle, and I shall cherish it +accordingly,” said this pious youth. “Thus the favoured people spoiled +the Egyptians, and were blessed.” + +“Take your own way,” said Margaret humbly; “you are wiser than I am. You +are my husband,” added she, in a low murmuring voice; “is it for me to +gainsay you?” + +These humble words from Margaret, who, till that day, had held the +whip-hand, rather surprised Martin for the moment. They recurred to him +some time afterwards, and then they surprised him less. + +Gerard kissed her tenderly in return for her wife-like docility, and +they pursued their journey hand in hand, Martin leading the way, +into the depths of the huge forest. The farther they went, the more +absolutely secure from pursuit they felt. Indeed, the townspeople never +ventured so far as this into the trackless part of the forest. + +Impetuous natures repent quickly. Gerard was no sooner out of all danger +than his conscience began to prick him. + +“Martin, would I had not struck quite so hard.” + +“Whom? Oh! let that pass, he is cheap served.” + +“Martin, I saw his grey hairs as my stick fell on him. I doubt they will +not from my sight this while.” + +Martin grunted with contempt. “Who spares a badger for his grey hairs? +The greyer your enemy is, the older; and the older the craftier and the +craftier the better for a little killing.” + +“Killing? killing, Martin? Speak not of killing!” and Gerard shook all +over. + +“I am much mistook if you have not,” said Martin cheerfully. + +“Now Heaven forbid!” + +“The old vagabond's skull cracked like a walnut. Aha!” + +“Heaven and the saints forbid it!” + +“He rolled off his mule like a stone shot out of a cart. Said I to +myself, 'There is one wiped out,'” and the iron old soldier grinned +ruthlessly. + +Gerard fell on his knees and began to pray for his enemy's life. + +At this Martin lost his patience. “Here's mummery. What! you that set up +for learning, know you not that a wise man never strikes his enemy but +to kill him? And what is all this coil about killing of old men? If it +had been a young one, now, with the joys of life waiting for him, wine, +women, and pillage! But an old fellow at the edge of the grave, why not +shove him in? Go he must, to-day or to-morrow; and what better place for +greybeards? Now, if ever I should be so mischancy as to last so long +as Ghysbrecht did, and have to go on a mule's legs instead of Martin +Wittenhaagen's, and a back like this (striking the wood of his bow), +instead of this (striking the string), I'll thank and bless any +young fellow who will knock me on the head, as you have done that old +shopkeeper; malison on his memory. + +“Oh, culpa mea! culpa mea!” cried Gerard, and smote upon his breast. + +“Look there!” cried Martin to Margaret scornfully, “he is a priest at +heart still--and when he is not in ire, St. Paul, what a milksop!” + +“Tush, Martin!” cried Margaret reproachfully: then she wreathed her arms +round Gerard, and comforted him with the double magic of a woman's sense +and a woman's voice. + +“Sweetheart!” murmured she, “you forget: you went not a step out of the +way to harm him, who hunted you to your death. You fled from him. He it +was who spurred on you. Then did you strike; but in self-defence and +a single blow, and with that which was in your hand. Malice had drawn +knife, or struck again and again. How often have men been smitten with +staves not one but many blows, yet no lives lost! If then your enemy +has fallen, it is through his own malice, not yours, and by the will of +God.” + +“Bless you, Margaret; bless you for thinking so!” + +“Yes; but, beloved one, if you have had the misfortune to kill that +wicked man, the more need is there that you fly with haste from Holland. +Oh, let us on.” + +“Nay, Margaret,” said Gerard. “I fear not man's vengeance, thanks to +Martin here and this thick wood: only Him I fear whose eye pierces the +forest and reads the heart of man. If I but struck in self-defence, +'tis well; but if in hate, He may bid the avenger of blood follow me to +Italy--to Italy? ay, to earth's remotest bounds.” + +“Hush!” said Martin peevishly. “I can't hear for your chat.” + +“What is it?” + +“Do you hear nothing, Margaret; my ears are getting old.” + +Margaret listened, and presently she heard a tuneful sound, like a +single stroke upon a deep ringing bell. She described it so to Martin. + +“Nay, I heard it,” said he. + +“And so did I,” said Gerard; “it was beautiful. Ah! there it is again. +How sweetly it blends with the air. It is a long way off. It is before +us, is it not?” + +“No, no! the echoes of this wood confound the ear of a stranger. It +comes from the pine grove.” + +“What! the one we passed?” + +“Why, Martin, is this anything? You look pale.” + +“Wonderful!” said Martin, with a sickly sneer. “He asks me is it +anything? Come, on, on! at any rate, let us reach a better place than +this.” + +“A better place--for what?” + +“To stand at bay, Gerard,” said Martin gravely; “and die like soldiers, +killing three for one.” + +“What's that sound?” + +“IT IS THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.” + +“Oh, Martin, save him! Oh, Heaven be merciful What new mysterious peril +is this?” + +“GIRL, IT'S A BLOODHOUND.” + + + +CHAPTER XX + +The courage, like the talent, of common men, runs in a narrow groove. +Take them but an inch out of that, and they are done. Martin's courage +was perfect as far as it went. He had met and baffled many dangers in +the course of his rude life, and these familiar dangers he could face +with Spartan fortitude, almost with indifference; but he had never +been hunted by a bloodhound, nor had he ever seen that brute's unerring +instinct baffled by human cunning. Here then a sense of the supernatural +combined with novelty to ungenteel his heart. After going a few steps, +he leaned on his bow, and energy and hope oozed out of him. Gerard, to +whom the danger appeared slight in proportion as it was distant, urged +him to flight. + +“What avails it?” said Martin sadly; “if we get clear of the wood we +shall die cheap; here, hard by, I know a place where we may die dear.” + +“Alas! good Martin,” cried Gerard, “despair not so quickly; there must +be some way to escape.” + +“Oh, Martin!” cried Margaret, “what if we were to part company? Gerard's +life alone is forfeit. Is there no way to draw the pursuit on us twain +and let him go safe?” + +“Girl, you know not the bloodhound's nature. He is not on this man's +track or that; he is on the track of blood. My life on't they have taken +him to where Ghysbrecht fell, and from the dead man's blood to the man +that shed it that cursed hound will lead them, though Gerard should run +through an army or swim the Meuse.” And again he leaned upon his bow, +and his head sank. + +The hound's mellow voice rang through the wood. + + A cry more tunable + Was never halloed to, nor cheered with horn, + In Crete, in Sparta, or in Thessaly. + +Strange that things beautiful should be terrible and deadly' The eye +of the boa-constrictor, while fascinating its prey, is lovely. No royal +crown holds such a jewel; it is a ruby with the emerald's green light +playing ever upon it. Yet the deer that sees it loses all power of +motion, and trembles, and awaits his death and even so, to compare +hearing with sight, this sweet and mellow sound seemed to fascinate +Martin Wittenhaagen. He stood uncertain, bewildered, and unnerved. +Gerard was little better now. Martin's last words had daunted him, He +had struck an old man and shed his blood, and, by means of that very +blood, blood's four-footed avenger was on his track. Was not the finger +of Heaven in this? + +Whilst the men were thus benumbed, the woman's brain was all activity. +The man she loved was in danger. + +“Lend me your knife,” said she to Martin. He gave it her. + +“But 'twill be little use in your hands,” said he. + +Then Margaret did a sly thing. She stepped behind Gerard, and furtively +drew the knife across her arm, and made it bleed freely; then stooping, +smeared her hose and shoes; and still as the blood trickled she smeared +them; but so adroitly that neither Gerard nor Martin saw. Then she +seized the soldier's arm. + +“Come, be a man!” she said, “and let this end. Take us to some thick +place, where numbers will not avail our foes.” + +“I am going,” said Martin sulkily. “Hurry avails not; we cannot shun the +hound, and the place is hard by;” then turning to the left, he led the +way, as men go to execution. + +He soon brought them to a thick hazel coppice, like the one that had +favoured their escape in the morning. + +“There,” said he, “this is but a furlong broad, but it will serve our +turn.” + +“What are we to do?” + +“Get through this, and wait on the other side; then as they come +straggling through, shoot three, knock two on the head, and the rest +will kill us.” + +“Is that all you can think of?” said Gerard. + +“That is all.” + +“Then, Martin Wittenhaagen, I take the lead, for you have lost your +head. Come, can you obey so young a man as I am?” + +“Oh, yes, Martin,” cried Margaret, “do not gainsay Gerard! He is wiser +than his years.” + +Martin yielded a sullen assent. + +“Do then as you see me do,” said Gerard; and drawing his huge knife, he +cut at every step a hazel shoot or two close by the ground, and turning +round twisted them breast-high behind him among the standing shoots. +Martin did the same, but with a dogged hopeless air. When they had +thus painfully travelled through the greater part of the coppice, the +bloodhound's deep bay came nearer and nearer, less and less musical, +louder and sterner. + +Margaret trembled. + +Martin went down on his stomach and listened. + +“I hear a horse's feet.” + +“No,” said Gerard; “I doubt it is a mule's. That cursed Ghysbrecht is +still alive: none other would follow me up so bitterly.” + +“Never strike your enemy but to slay him,” said Martin gloomily. + +“I'll hit harder this time, if Heaven gives me the chance,” said Gerard. + +At last they worked through the coppice, and there was an open wood. The +trees were large, but far apart, and no escape possible that way. + +And now with the hound's bay mingled a score of voices hooping and +hallooing. + +“The whole village is out after us,” said Martin. + +“I care not,” said Gerard. “Listen, Martin. I have made the track smooth +to the dog, but rough to the men, that we may deal with them apart. +Thus the hound will gain on the men, and as soon as he comes out of the +coppice we must kill him.” + +“The hound? There are more than one.” + +“I hear but one.” + +“Ay! but one speaks, the others run mute; but let the leading hound lose +the scent, then another shall give tongue. There will be two dogs, at +least, or devils in dog's hides.” + +“Then we must kill two instead of one. The moment they are dead, into +the coppice again, and go right back.” + +“That is a good thought, Gerard,” said Martin, plucking up heart. + +“Hush! the men are in the wood.” + +Gerard now gave his orders in a whisper. + +“Stand you with your bow by the side of the coppice--there, in the +ditch. I will go but a few yards to yon oak-tree, and hide behind it; +the dogs will follow me, and, as they come out, shoot as many as you +can, the rest will I brain as they come round the tree.” + +Martin's eye flashed. They took up their places. + +The hooping and hallooing came closer and closer, and soon even the +rustling of the young wood was heard, and every now and then the +unerring bloodhound gave a single bay. + +It was terrible! the branches rustling nearer and nearer, and the +inevitable struggle for life and death coming on minute by minute, +and that death-knell leading it. A trembling hand was laid on Gerard's +shoulder. It made him start violently, strung up as he was. + +“Martin says if we are forced to part company, make for that high +ash-tree we came in by.” + +“Yes! yes! yes! but go back for Heaven's sake! don't come here, all out +in the open!” + +She ran back towards Martin; but, ere she could get to him, suddenly a +huge dog burst out of the coppice, and stood erect a moment. Margaret +cowered with fear, but he never noticed her. Scent was to him what sight +is to us. He lowered his nose an instant, and the next moment, with an +awful yell, sprang straight at Gerard's tree and rolled head-over-heels +dead as a stone, literally spitted with an arrow from the bow that +twanged beside the coppice in Martin's hand. That same moment out came +another hound and smelt his dead comrade. Gerald rushed out at him; +but ere he could use his cudgel, a streak of white lightning seemed to +strike the hound, and he grovelled in the dust, wounded desperately, but +not killed, and howling piteously. + +Gerard had not time to despatch him: the coppice rustled too near: it +seemed alive. Pointing wildly to Martin to go back, Gerard ran a few +yards to the right, then crept cautiously into the thick coppice just as +three men burst out. These had headed their comrades considerably: the +rest were following at various distances. Gerard crawled back almost on +all-fours. Instinct taught Martin and Margaret to do the same upon their +line of retreat. Thus, within the distance of a few yards, the pursuers +and pursued were passing one another upon opposite tracks. + +A loud cry announced the discovery of the dead and the wounded hound. +Then followed a babble of voices, still swelling as fresh pursuers +reached the spot. The hunters, as usual on a surprise, were wasting +time, and the hunted ones were making the most of it. + +“I hear no more hounds,” whispered Martin to Margaret, and he was +himself again. + +It was Margaret's turn to tremble and despair. + +“Oh, why did we part with Gerard? They will kill my Gerard, and I not +near him.” + +“Nay, nay! the head to catch him is not on their shoulders. You bade him +meet us at the ash-tree?” + +“And so I did. Bless you, Martin, for thinking of that. To the +ash-tree!” + +“Ay! but with less noise.” + +They were now nearly at the edge of the coppice, when suddenly +they heard hooping and hallooing behind them. The men had satisfied +themselves the fugitives were in the coppice, and were beating back. + +“No matter,” whispered Martin to his trembling companion. “We shall have +time to win clear and slip back out of sight by hard running. Ah!” + +He stooped suddenly; for just as he was going to burst out of the +brushwood, his eye caught a figure keeping sentinel. It was Ghysbrecht +Van Swieten seated on his mule; a bloody bandage was across his nose, +the bridge of which was broken; but over this his eyes peered keenly, +and it was plain by their expression he had heard the fugitives rustle, +and was looking out for them. Martin muttered a terrible oath, and +cautiously strung his bow, then with equal caution fitted his last arrow +to the string. Margaret put her hands to her face, but said nothing. +She saw this man must die or Gerard. After the first impulse she peered +through her fingers, her heart panting to her throat. + +The bow was raised, and the deadly arrow steadily drawn to its head, +when at that moment an active figure leaped on Ghysbrecht from behind so +swiftly, it was like a hawk swooping on a pigeon. A kerchief went over +the burgomaster, in a turn of the hand his head was muffled in it, and +he was whirled from his seat and fell heavily upon the ground, where he +lay groaning with terror; and Gerard jumped down after him. + +“Hist, Martin! Martin!” + +Martin and Margaret came out, the former openmouthed crying, “Now fly! +fly! while they are all in the thicket; we are saved.” + +At this crisis, when safety seemed at hand, as fate would have it, +Margaret, who had borne up so bravely till now, began to succumb, partly +from loss of blood. + +“Oh, my beloved, fly!” she gasped. “Leave me, for I am faint.” + +“No! no!” cried Gerard. “Death together, or safety. Ah! the mule! mount +her, you, and I'll run by your side.” + +In a moment Martin was on Ghysbrecht's mule, and Gerard raised the +fainting girl in his arms and placed her on the saddle, and relieved +Martin of his bow. + +“Help! treason! murder! murder!” shrieked Ghysbrecht, suddenly rising on +his hams. + +“Silence, cur,” roared Gerard, and trode him down again by the throat as +men crush an adder. + +“Now, have you got her firm? Then fly! for our lives! for our lives!” + +But even as the mule, urged suddenly by Martin's heel, scattered the +flints with his hind hoofs ere he got into a canter, and even as Gerard +withdrew his foot from Ghysbrecht's throat to run, Dierich Brower and +his five men, who had come back for orders, and heard the burgomaster's +cries, burst roaring out of the coppice on them. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +Speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts; but there are emotions so +simple and overpowering, that they rush out not in words, but eloquent +sounds. At such moments man seems to lose his characteristics, and to +be merely one of the higher animals; for these, when greatly agitated, +ejaculate, though they cannot speak. + +There was something terrible and truly animal, both in the roar +of triumph with which the pursuers burst out of the thicket on our +fugitives, and the sharp cry of terror with which these latter darted +away. The pursuers hands clutched the empty air, scarce two feet behind +them, as they fled for life. Confused for a moment, like lions that miss +their spring, Dierich and his men let Gerard and the mule put ten yards +between them. Then they flew after with uplifted weapons. They were +sure of catching them; for this was not the first time the parties had +measured speed. In the open ground they had gained visibly on the three +this morning, and now, at last, it was a fair race again, to be settled +by speed alone. A hundred yards were covered in no time. Yet still there +remained these ten yards between the pursuers and the pursued. + +This increase of speed since the morning puzzled Dierich Brower. The +reason was this. When three run in company, the pace is that of the +slowest of the three. From Peter's house to the edge of the forest +Gerard ran Margaret's pace; but now he ran his own; for the mule was +fleet, and could have left them all far behind. Moreover, youth and +chaste living began to tell. Daylight grew imperceptibly between the +hunted ones and the hunters. Then Dierich made a desperate effort, and +gained two yards; but in a few seconds Gerard had stolen them quietly +back. The pursuers began to curse. + +Martin heard, and his face lighted up. “Courage, Gerard! courage, brave +lad! they are straggling.” + +It was so. Dierich was now headed by one of his men, and another dropped +into the rear altogether. + +They came to a rising ground, not sharp, but long; and here youth, and +grit, and sober living told more than ever. + +Ere he reached the top, Dierich's forty years weighed him down like +forty bullets. “Our cake is dough,” he gasped. “Take him dead, if you +can't alive;” and he left running, and followed at a foot's pace. Jorian +Ketel tailed off next; and then another, and so, one by one, Gerard ran +them all to a standstill, except one who kept on stanch as a bloodhound, +though losing ground every minute. His name, if I am not mistaken, +was Eric Wouverman. Followed by him, they came to a rise in the wood, +shorter, but much steeper than the last. + +“Hand on mane!” cried Martin. + +Gerard obeyed, and the mule helped him up the hill faster even than he +was running before. + +At the sight of this manoeuvre, Dierich's man lost heart, and, being now +full eighty yards behind Gerard, and rather more than that in advance of +his nearest comrade, he pulled up short, and, in obedience to Dierich's +order, took down his crossbow, levelled it deliberately, and just as the +trio were sinking out of sight over the crest of the hill, sent the bolt +whizzing among them. + +There was a cry of dismay; and, next moment, as if a thunder-bolt had +fallen on them, they were all lying on the ground, mule and all. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +The effect was so sudden and magical, that the shooter himself was +stupefied for an instant. Then he hailed his companions to join him in +effecting the capture, and himself set off up the hill; but, ere he had +got half way, up rose the figure of Martin Wittenhaagen with a bent bow +in his hand. Eric Wouverman no sooner saw him in this attitude, than he +darted behind a tree, and made himself as small as possible. Martin's +skill with that weapon was well known, and the slain dog was a keen +reminder of it. + +Wouverman peered round the bark cautiously: there was the arrow's point +still aimed at him. He saw it shine. He dared not move from his shelter. + +When he had been at peep-ho some minutes, his companions came up in +great force. + +Then, with a scornful laugh, Martin vanished, and presently was heard to +ride off on the mule. + +All the men ran up together. The high ground commanded a view of a +narrow but almost interminable glade. + +They saw Gerard and Margaret running along at a prodigious distance; +they looked like gnats; and Martin galloping after them ventre a terre. + +The hunters were outwitted as well as outrun. A few words will explain +Martin's conduct. We arrive at causes by noting coincidences; yet, now +and then, coincidences are deceitful. As we have all seen a hare tumble +over a briar just as the gun went off, and so raise expectations, then +dash them to earth by scudding away untouched, so the burgomaster's mule +put her foot in a rabbit-hole at or about the time the crossbow bolt +whizzed innocuous over her head: she fell and threw both her riders. +Gerard caught Margaret, but was carried down by her weight and impetus; +and, behold, the soil was strewed with dramatis personae. + +The docile mule was up again directly, and stood trembling. Martin was +next, and looking round saw there was but one in pursuit; on this he +made the young lovers fly on foot, while he checked the enemy as I have +recorded. + +He now galloped after his companions, and when after a long race he +caught them, he instantly put Gerard and Margaret on the mule, and ran +by their side till his breath failed, then took his turn to ride, and so +in rotation. Thus the runner was always fresh, and long ere they relaxed +their speed all sound and trace of them was hopelessly lost to Dierich +and his men. These latter went crestfallen back to look after their +chief and their winged bloodhound. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +Life and liberty, while safe, are little thought of: for why? they are +matters of course. Endangered, they are rated at their real value. In +this, too, they are like sunshine, whose beauty men notice not at noon +when it is greatest, but towards evening, when it lies in flakes of +topaz under shady elms. Yet it is feebler then; but gloom lies beside +it, and contrast reveals its fire. Thus Gerard and Margaret, though they +started at every leaf that rustled louder than its fellows, glowed all +over with joy and thankfulness as they glided among the friendly trees +in safety and deep tranquil silence, baying dogs and brutal voices yet +ringing in their mind's ears. + +But presently Gerard found stains of blood on Margaret's ankles. + +“Martin! Martin! help! they have wounded her: the crossbow!” + +“No, no!” said Margaret, smiling to reassure him; “I am not wounded, nor +hurt at all.” + +“But what is it, then, in Heaven's name?” cried Gerard, in great +agitation. + +“Scold me not, then!” and Margaret blushed. + +“Did I ever scold you?” + +“No, dear Gerard. Well, then, Martin said it was blood those cruel dogs +followed; so I thought if I could but have a little blood on my shoon, +the dogs would follow me instead, and let my Gerard wend free. So I +scratched my arm with Martin's knife--forgive me! Whose else could I +take? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. You forgive me?” said she beseechingly, and +lovingly and fawningly, all in one. + +“Let me see this scratch first,” said Gerard, choking with emotion. +“There, I thought so. A scratch? I call it a cut--a deep, terrible, +cruel cut.” + +Gerard shuddered at sight of it. + +“She might have done it with her bodkin,” said the soldier. “Milksop! +that sickens at sight of a scratch and a little blood.” + +“No, no. I could look on a sea of blood, but not on hers. Oh, Margaret! +how could you be so cruel?” + +Margaret smiled with love ineffable. “Foolish Gerard,” murmured she, “to +make so much of nothing.” And she flung the guilty arm round his neck. +“As if I would not give all the blood in my heart for you, let alone +a few drops from my arm.” And with this, under the sense of his recent +danger, she wept on his neck for pity and love; and he wept with her. + +“And I must part from her,” he sobbed; “we two that love so dear--one +must be in Holland, one in Italy. Ah me! ah me! ah me!” + +At this Margaret wept afresh, but patiently and silently. Instinct is +never off its guard, and with her unselfishness was an instinct. +To utter her present thoughts would be to add to Gerard's misery at +parting, so she wept in silence. + +Suddenly they emerged upon a beaten path, and Martin stopped. + +“This is the bridle-road I spoke of,” said he hanging his head; “and +there away lies the hostelry.” + +Margaret and Gerard cast a scared look at one another. + +“Come a step with me, Martin,” whispered Gerard. When he had drawn him +aside, he said to him in a broken voice, “Good Martin, watch over her +for me! She is my wife; yet I leave her. See Martin! here is gold--it +was for my journey; it is no use my asking her to take it--she would +not; but you will for her, will you not? Oh, Heaven! and is this all I +can do for her? Money? But poverty is a curse. You will not let her want +for anything, dear Martin? The burgomaster's silver is enough for me.” + +“Thou art a good lad, Gerard. Neither want nor harm shall come to her. +I care more for her little finger than for all the world; and were she +nought to me, even for thy sake would I be a father to her. Go with +a stout heart, and God be with thee going and coming.” And the rough +soldier wrung Gerard's hand, and turned his head away, with unwonted +feeling. + +After a moment's silence he was for going back to Margaret, but Gerard +stopped him. “No, good Martin; prithee, stay here behind this thicket, +and turn your head away from us, while I-oh, Martin! Martin!” + +By this means Gerard escaped a witness of his anguish at leaving her he +loved, and Martin escaped a piteous sight. He did not see the poor +young things kneel and renew before Heaven those holy vows cruel men had +interrupted. He did not see them cling together like one, and then try +to part, and fail, and return to one another, and cling again, like +drowning, despairing creatures. But he heard Gerard sob, and sob, and +Margaret moan. + +At last there was a hoarse cry, and feet pattered on the hard road. + +He started up, and there was Gerard running wildly, with both hands +clasped above his head, in prayer, and Margaret tottering back towards +him with palms extended piteously, as if for help, and ashy cheek and +eyes fixed on vacancy. + +He caught her in his arms, and spoke words of comfort to her; but her +mind could not take them in; only at the sound of his voice she moaned +and held him tight, and trembled violently. + +He got her on the mule, and put his arm around her, and so, supporting +her frame, which, from being strong like a boy, had now turned all +relaxed and powerless, he took her slowly and sadly home. + +She did not shed one tear, nor speak one word. + +At the edge of the wood he took her off the mule, and bade her go across +to her father's house. She did as she was bid. + +Martin to Rotterdam. Sevenbergen was too hot for him. + +Gerard, severed from her he loved, went like one in a dream. He hired a +horse and a guide at the little hostelry, and rode swiftly towards the +German frontier. But all was mechanical; his senses felt blunted; trees +and houses and men moved by him like objects seen through a veil. His +companions spoke to him twice, but he did not answer. Only once he cried +out savagely, “Shall we never be out of this hateful country?” + +After many hours' riding they came to the brow of a steep hill; a small +brook ran at the bottom. + +“Halt!” cried the guide, and pointed across the valley. “Here is +Germany.” + +“Where?” + +“On t'other side of the bourn. No need to ride down the hill, I trow.” + +Gerard dismounted without a word, and took the burgomaster's purse from +his girdle: while he opened it, “You will soon be out of this hateful +country,” said his guide, half sulkily; “mayhap the one you are going to +will like you no better; any way, though it be a church you have robbed, +they cannot take you, once across that bourn.” + +These words at another time would have earned the speaker an admonition +or a cuff. They fell on Gerard now like idle air. He paid the lad in +silence, and descended the hill alone. The brook was silvery; it ran +murmuring over little pebbles, that glittered, varnished by the clear +water; he sat down and looked stupidly at them. Then he drank of the +brook; then he laved his hot feet and hands in it; it was very cold: +it waked him. He rose, and taking a run, leaped across it into Germany. +Even as he touched the strange land he turned suddenly and looked back. +“Farewell, ungrateful country!” he cried. “But for her it would cost me +nought to leave you for ever, and all my kith and kin, and--the mother +that bore me, and--my playmates, and my little native town. Farewell, +fatherland--welcome the wide world! omne so-lum for-ti p p-at-r-a.” And +with these brave words in his mouth he drooped suddenly with arms and +legs all weak, and sat down and sobbed bitterly upon the foreign soil. + +When the young exile had sat a while bowed down, he rose and dashed the +tears from his eyes like a man; and not casting a single glance more +behind him, to weaken his heart, stepped out into the wide world. + +His love and heavy sorrow left no room in him for vulgar misgivings. +Compared with rending himself from Margaret, it seemed a small thing to +go on foot to Italy in that rude age. + +All nations meet in a convent. So, thanks to his good friends the monks, +and his own thirst of knowledge, he could speak most of the languages +needed on that long road. He said to himself, “I will soon be at Rome; +the sooner the better now.” + +After walking a good league, he came to a place where four ways +met. Being country roads, and serpentine, they had puzzled many an +inexperienced neighbour passing from village to village. Gerard took out +a little dial Peter had given him, and set it in the autumn sun, and by +this compass steered unhesitatingly for Rome inexperienced as a young +swallow flying south; but unlike the swallow, wandering south alone. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Not far on this road he came upon a little group. Two men in sober suits +stood leaning lazily on each side of a horse, talking to one another. +The rider, in a silk doublet and bright green jerkin and hose, both +of English cloth, glossy as a mole, lay flat on his stomach in the +afternoon sun, and looked an enormous lizard. His velvet cloak (flaming +yellow) was carefully spread over the horse's loins. + +“Is aught amiss?” inquired Gerard. + +“Not that I wot of,” replied one of the servants. + +“But your master, he lies like a corpse. Are ye not ashamed to let him +grovel on the ground?” + +“Go to; the bare ground is the best cure for his disorder. If you get +sober in bed, it gives you a headache; but you leap up from the hard +ground like a lark in spring. Eh, Ulric?” + +“He speaks sooth, young man,” said Ulric warmly. + +“What, is the gentleman drunk?” + +The servants burst into a hoarse laugh at the simplicity of Gerard's +question. But suddenly Ulric stopped, and eyeing him all over, said very +gravely, “Who are you, and where born, that know not the Count is ever +drunk at this hour?” And Gerard found himself a suspected character. + +“I am a stranger,” said he, “but a true man, and one that loves +knowledge; therefore ask I questions, and not for love of prying.” + +“If you be a true man,” said Ulric shrewdly, “then give us trinkgeld for +the knowledge we have given you.” + +Gerard looked blank, but putting a good face on it, said, “Trinkgeld you +shall have, such as my lean purse can spare, an if you will tell me why +ye have ta'en his cloak from the man and laid it on the beast.” + +Under the inspiring influence of coming trinkgeld, two solutions were +instantly offered Gerard at once: the one was, that should the Count +come to himself (which, being a seasoned toper, he was apt to do all +in a minute), and find his horse standing sweating in the cold, while +a cloak lay idle at hand, he would fall to cursing, and peradventure +to laying on; the other, more pretentious, was, that a horse is a poor +milksop, which, drinking nothing but water, has to be cockered up and +warmed outside; but a master, being a creature ever filled with good +beer, has a store of inward heat that warms him to the skin, and renders +a cloak a mere shred of idle vanity. + +Each of the speakers fell in love with his theory, and, to tell the +truth, both had taken a hair or two of the dog that had bitten their +master to the brain; so their voices presently rose so high, that the +green sot began to growl instead of snoring. In their heat they did not +notice this. + +Ere long the argument took a turn that sooner or later was pretty sure +to enliven a discussion in that age. Hans, holding the bridle with his +right hand, gave Ulric a sound cuff with his left; Ulric returned it +with interest, his right hand being free; and at it they went, ding +dong, over the horse's mane, pommelling one another, and jagging the +poor beast, till he ran backward, and trode with iron heel upon a +promontory of the green lord; he, like the toad stung by Ithuriel's +spear, started up howling, with one hand clapped to the smart and the +other tugging at his hilt. The servants, amazed with terror, let the +horse go; he galloped off whinnying, the men in pursuit of him crying +out with fear, and the green noble after them, volleying curses, his +naked sword in his hand, and his body rebounding from hedge to hedge in +his headlong but zigzag career down the narrow lane. + +“In which hurtling” Gerard turned his back on them all, and went calmly +south, glad to have saved the four tin farthings he had got ready for +trinkgeld, but far too heavy hearted even to smile at their drunken +extravagance. + + +The sun was nearly setting, and Gerard, who had now for some time been +hoping in vain to find an inn by the way, was very ill at ease. To make +matters worse, black clouds gathered over the sky. + +Gerard quickened his pace almost to a run. + +It was in vain; down came the rain in torrents, drenched the bewildered +traveller, and seemed to extinguish the very sun-for his rays, already +fading, could not cope with this new assailant. + +Gerard trudged on, dark, and wet, and in an unknown region. “Fool! to +leave Margaret,” said he. + +Presently the darkness thickened. + +He was entering a great wood. Huge branches shot across the narrow road, +and the benighted stranger groped his way in what seemed an interminable +and inky cave with a rugged floor, on which he stumbled and stumbled as +he went. + +On, and on, and on, with shivering limbs and empty stomach, and fainting +heart, till the wolves rose from their lairs and bayed all round the +wood. + +His hair bristled; but he grasped his cudgel, and prepared to sell his +life dear. + +There was no wind; and his excited ear heard light feet patter at times +over the newly fallen leaves, and low branches rustle with creatures +gliding swiftly past them. + +Presently in the sea of ink there was a great fiery star close to the +ground. He hailed it as he would his patron saint. “CANDLE! a CANDLE!” + he shouted, and tried to run. But the dark and rugged way soon stopped +that. The light was more distant than he had thought. But at last, in +the very heart of the forest, he found a house, with lighted candles +and loud voices inside it. He looked up to see if there was a signboard. +There was none. “Not an inn after all!” said he sadly. “No matter; what +Christian would turn a dog out into this wood to-night?” and with this +he made for the door that led to the voices. He opened it slowly, and +put his head in timidly. He drew it out abruptly, as if slapped in the +face, and recoiled into the rain and darkness. + +He had peeped into a large but low room, the middle of which was filled +by a huge round stove, or clay oven, that reached to the ceiling; +round this, wet clothes were drying-some on lines, and some more +compendiously, on rustics. These latter habiliments, impregnated with +the wet of the day, but the dirt of a life, and lined with what another +foot traveller in these parts call “rammish clowns,” evolved rank +vapours and compound odours inexpressible, in steaming clouds. + +In one corner was a travelling family, a large one: thence flowed into +the common stock the peculiar sickly smell of neglected brats. Garlic +filled up the interstices of the air. And all this with closed window, +and intense heat of the central furnace, and the breath of at least +forty persons. + +They had just supped. + +Now Gerard, like most artists, had sensitive organs, and the potent +effluvia struck dismay into him. But the rain lashed him outside, and +the light and the fire tempted him in. + +He could not force his way all at once through the palpable perfumes, +but he returned to the light again and again, like the singed moth. +At last he discovered that the various smells did not entirely mix, no +fiend being there to stir them round. Odour of family predominated in +two corners; stewed rustic reigned supreme in the centre; and garlic in +the noisy group by the window. He found, too, by hasty analysis, that of +these the garlic described the smallest aerial orbit, and the scent of +reeking rustic darted farthest--a flavour as if ancient goats, or the +fathers of all foxes, had been drawn through a river, and were here +dried by Nebuchadnezzar. + +So Gerard crept into a corner close to the door. But though the solidity +of the main fetors isolated them somewhat, the heat and reeking vapours +circulated, and made the walls drip; and the home-nurtured novice found +something like a cold snake wind about his legs, and his head turn to a +great lump of lead; and next, he felt like choking, sweetly slumbering, +and dying, all in one. + +He was within an ace of swooning, but recovered to a deep sense of +disgust and discouragement; and settled to go back to Holland at peep +of day. This resolution formed, he plucked up a little heart; and being +faint with hunger, asked one of the men of garlic whether this was not +an inn after all? + +“Whence come you, who know not 'The Star of the Forest'?” was the reply. + +“I am a stranger; and in my country inns have aye a sign.” + +“Droll country yours! What need of a sign to a public-house--a place +that every soul knows?” + +Gerard was too tired and faint for the labour of argument, so he turned +the conversation, and asked where he could find the landlord? + +At this fresh display of ignorance, the native's contempt rose too high +for words. He pointed to a middle-aged woman seated on the other side +of the oven; and turning to his mates, let them know what an outlandish +animal was in the room. Thereat the loud voices stopped, one by one, as +the information penetrated the mass; and each eye turned, as on a pivot, +following Gerard, and his every movement, silently and zoologically. + +The landlady sat on a chair an inch or two higher than the rest, between +two bundles. From the first, a huge heap of feathers and wings, she was +taking the downy plumes, and pulling the others from the quills, and so +filling bundle two littering the floor ankle-deep, and contributing to +the general stock a stuffy little malaria, which might have played a +distinguished part in a sweet room, but went for nothing here. Gerard +asked her if he could have something to eat. + +She opened her eyes with astonishment. “Supper is over this hour and +more. + +“But I had none of it, good dame.” + +“Is that my fault? You were welcome to your share for me.” + +“But I was benighted, and a stranger; and belated sore against my will.” + +“What have I to do with that? All the world knows 'The Star of the +Forest' sups from six till eight. Come before six, ye sup well; come +before eight, ye sup as pleases Heaven; come after eight, ye get a clean +bed, and a stirrup cup, or a horn of kine's milk, at the dawning.” + +Gerard looked blank. “May I go to bed, then, dame?” said he sulkily “for +it is ill sitting up wet and fasting, and the byword saith, 'He sups who +sleeps.'” + +“The beds are not come yet,” replied the landlady. “You will sleep when +the rest do. Inns are not built for one.” + +It was Gerard's turn to be astonished. “The beds were not come! what, in +Heaven's name, did she mean?” But he was afraid to ask for every word +he had spoken hitherto had amazed the assembly, and zoological eyes were +upon him--he felt them. He leaned against the wall, and sighed audibly. + +At this fresh zoological trait, a titter went round the watchful +company. + +“So this is Germany,” thought Gerard; “and Germany is a great country by +Holland. Small nations for me.” + +He consoled himself by reflecting it was to be his last, as well as his +first, night in the land. His reverie was interrupted by an elbow driven +into his ribs. He turned sharp on his assailant, who pointed across the +room. Gerard looked, and a woman in the corner was beckoning him. He +went towards her gingerly, being surprised and irresolute, so that to a +spectator her beckoning finger seemed to be pulling him across the floor +with a gut-line. When he had got up to her, “Hold the child,” said +she, in a fine hearty voice; and in a moment she plumped the bairn into +Gerard's arms. + +He stood transfixed, jelly of lead in his hands, and sudden horror in +his elongated countenance. + +At this ruefully expressive face, the lynx-eyed conclave laughed loud +and long. + +“Never heed them,” said the woman cheerfully; “they know no better; +how should they, bred an' born in a wood?” She was rummaging among her +clothes with the two penetrating hands, one of which Gerard had set +free. Presently she fished out a small tin plate and a dried pudding; +and resuming her child with one arm, held them forth to Gerard with the +other, keeping a thumb on the pudding to prevent it from slipping off. + +“Put it in the stove,” said she; “you are too young to lie down +fasting.” + +Gerard thanked her warmly. But on his way to the stove, his eye fell on +the landlady. “May I, dame?” said he beseechingly. + +“Why not?” said she. + +The question was evidently another surprise, though less startling than +its predecessors. + +Coming to the stove, Gerard found the oven door obstructed by “the +rammish clowns.” They did not budge. He hesitated a moment. The landlady +saw, calmly put down her work, and coming up, pulled a hircine man or +two hither, and pushed a hircine man or two thither, with the impassive +countenance of a housewife moving her furniture. “Turn about is fair +play,” she said; “ye have been dry this ten minutes and better.” + +Her experienced eye was not deceived; Gorgonii had done stewing, and +begun baking. Debarred the stove, they trundled home, all but one, who +stood like a table, where the landlady had moved him to, like a table. +And Gerard baked his pudding; and getting to the stove, burst into +steam. + +The door opened, and in flew a bundle of straw. + +It was hurled by a hind with a pitchfork. Another and another came +flying after it, till the room was like a clean farmyard. These were +then dispersed round the stove in layers, like the seats in an arena, +and in a moment the company was all on its back. + +The beds had come. + +Gerard took out his pudding, and found it delicious. While he was +relishing it, the woman who had given it him, and who was now abed, +beckoned him again. He went to her bundle side. “She is waiting for +you,” whispered the woman. Gerard returned to the stove, and gobbled. +the rest of his sausage, casting uneasy glances at the landlady, seated +silent as fate amid the prostrate multitude. The food bolted, he went to +her, and said, “Thank you kindly, dame, for waiting for me.” + +“You are welcome,” said she calmly, making neither much nor little of +the favour; and with that began to gather up the feathers. But Gerard +stopped her. “Nay, that is my task;” and he went down on his knees, and +collected them with ardour. She watched him demurely. + +“I wot not whence ye come,” said she, with a relic of distrust; adding, +more cordially, “but ye have been well brought up;--y' have had a good +mother, I'll go bail.” + +At the door she committed the whole company to Heaven, in a formula, and +disappeared. Gerard to his straw in the very corner-for the guests lay +round the sacred stove by seniority, i.e. priority of arrival. + +This punishment was a boon to Gerard, for thus he lay on the shore of +odour and stifling heat, instead of in mid-ocean. + +He was just dropping off, when he was awaked by a noise; and lo there +was the hind remorselessly shaking and waking guest after guest, to ask +him whether it was he who had picked up the mistress's feathers. + +“It was I,” cried Gerard. + +“Oh, it was you, was it?” said the other, and came striding rapidly over +the intermediate sleepers. “She bade me say, 'One good turn deserves +another,' and so here's your nightcap,” and he thrust a great oaken mug +under Gerard's nose. + +“I thank her, and bless her; here goes--ugh!” and his gratitude ended in +a wry face; for the beer was muddy, and had a strange, medicinal twang +new to the Hollander. + +“Trinke aus!” shouted the hind reproachfully. + +“Enow is as good as a feast,” said the youth Jesuitically. + +The hind cast a look of pity on this stranger who left liquor in his +mug. “Ich brings euch,” said he, and drained it to the bottom. + +And now Gerard turned his face to the wall and pulled up two handfuls of +the nice clean straw, and bored in them with his finger, and so made a +scabbard, and sheathed his nose in it. And soon they were all asleep; +men, maids, wives, and children all lying higgledy-piggledy, and snoring +in a dozen keys like an orchestra slowly tuning; and Gerard's body lay +on straw in Germany, and his spirit was away to Sevenbergen. + + +When he woke in the morning he found nearly all his fellow-passengers +gone. One or two were waiting for dinner, nine o'clock; it was now +six. He paid the landlady her demand, two pfenning, or about an English +halfpenny, and he of the pitchfork demanded trinkgeld, and getting a +trifle more than usual, and seeing Gerard eye a foaming milk-pail he had +just brought from the cow, hoisted it up bodily to his lips. “Drink your +fill, man,” said he, and on Gerard offering to pay for the delicious +draught, told him in broad patois that a man might swallow a skinful of +milk, or a breakfast of air, without putting hand to pouch. At the door +Gerard found his benefactress of last night, and a huge-chested artisan, +her husband. + +Gerard thanked her, and in the spirit of the age offered her a creutzer +for her pudding. + +But she repulsed his hand quietly. “For what do you take me?” said she, +colouring faintly; “we are travellers and strangers the same as you, and +bound to feel for those in like plight.” + +Then Gerard blushed in his turn and stammered excuses. + +The hulking husband grinned superior to them both. + +“Give the vixen a kiss for her pudding, and cry quits,” said he, with an +air impartial, judge-like and Jove-like. + +Gerard obeyed the lofty behest, and kissed the wife's cheek. “A blessing +go with you both, good people,” said he. + +“And God speed you, young man!” replied the honest couple; and with that +they parted, and never met again in this world. + +The sun had just risen: the rain-drops on the leaves glittered like +diamonds. The air was fresh and bracing, and Gerard steered south, and +did not even remember his resolve of overnight. + +Eight leagues he walked that day, and in the afternoon came upon a huge +building with an enormous arched gateway and a postern by its side. + +“A monastery!” cried he joyfully; “I go no further lest I fare worse.” He +applied at the postern, and on stating whence he came and whither bound, +was instantly admitted and directed to the guestchamber, a large and +lofty room, where travellers were fed and lodged gratis by the charity +of the monastic orders. Soon the bell tinkled for vespers, and Gerard +entered the church of the convent, and from his place heard a service +sung so exquisitely, it seemed the choir of heaven. But one thing was +wanting, Margaret was not there to hear it with him, and this made +him sigh bitterly in mid rapture. At supper, plain but wholesome and +abundant food, and good beer, brewed in the convent, were set before +him and his fellows, and at an early hour they were ushered into a large +dormitory, and the number being moderate, had each a truckle bed, and +for covering, sheepskins dressed with the fleece on; but previously to +this a monk, struck by his youth and beauty, questioned him, and soon +drew out his projects and his heart. When he was found to be convent +bred, and going alone to Rome, he became a personage, and in the morning +they showed him over the convent and made him stay and dine in the +refectory. They also pricked him a route on a slip of parchment, and the +prior gave him a silver guilden to help him on the road, and advised him +to join the first honest company he should fall in with, “and not face +alone the manifold perils of the way.” + +“Perils?” said Gerard to himself. + +That evening he came to a small straggling town where was one inn; it +had no sign; but being now better versed in the customs of the country, +he detected it at once by the coats of arms on its walls. These belonged +to the distinguished visitors who had slept in it at different +epochs since its foundation, and left these customary tokens of their +patronage. At present it looked more like a mausoleum than a hotel. +Nothing moved nor sounded either in it or about it. Gerard hammered on +the great oak door: no answer. He hallooed: no reply. After a while he +hallooed louder, and at last a little round window, or rather hole in +the wall, opened, a man's head protruded cautiously, like a tortoise's +from its shell, and eyed Gerard stolidly, but never uttered a syllable. + +“Is this an inn?” asked Gerard, with a covert sneer. + +The head seemed to fall into a brown study; eventually it nodded, but +lazily. + +“Can I have entertainment here?” + +Again the head pondered and ended by nodding, but sullenly, and seemed a +skull overburdened with catch-penny interrogatories. + +“How am I to get within, an't please you?” + +At this the head popped in, as if the last question had shot it; and a +hand popped out, pointed round the corner of the building, and slammed +the window. + +Gerard followed the indication, and after some research discovered +that the fortification had one vulnerable part, a small low door on its +flank. As for the main entrance, that was used to keep out thieves and +customers, except once or twice in a year, when they entered together, +i.e., when some duke or count arrived in pomp with his train of gaudy +ruffians. + +Gerard, having penetrated the outer fort, soon found his way to the +stove (as the public room was called from the principal article in it), +and sat down near the oven, in which were only a few live embers that +diffused a mild and grateful heat. + +After waiting patiently a long time, he asked a grim old fellow with a +long white beard, who stalked solemnly in, and turned the hour-glass, +and then was stalking out, when supper would be. The grisly Ganymede +counted the guests on his fingers--“When I see thrice as many here as +now.” Gerard groaned. + +The grisly tyrant resented the rebellious sound. “Inns are not built +for one,” said he; “if you can't wait for the rest, look out for another +lodging.” + +Gerard sighed. + +At this the greybeard frowned. + +After a while company trickled steadily in, till full eighty persons of +various conditions were congregated, and to our novice the place became +a chamber of horrors; for here the mothers got together and compared +ringworms, and the men scraped the mud off their shoes with their +knives, and left it on the floor, and combed their long hair out, +inmates included, and made their toilet, consisting generally of a dry +rub. Water, however, was brought in ewers. Gerard pounced on one of +these, but at sight of the liquid contents lost his temper and said +to the waiter, “Wash you first your water, and then a man may wash his +hands withal.” + +“An' it likes you not, seek another inn!” + +Gerard said nothing, but went quietly and courteously besought an old +traveller to tell him how far it was to the next inn. + +“About four leagues.” + +Then Gerard appreciated the grim pleasantry of the unbending sire. + +That worthy now returned with an armful of wood, and counting the +travellers, put on a log for every six, by which act of raw justice the +hotter the room the more heat he added. Poor Gerard noticed this little +flaw in the ancient man's logic, but carefully suppressed every symptom +of intelligence, lest his feet should have to carry his brains four +leagues farther that night. + +When perspiration and suffocation were far advanced, they brought in +the table-cloths; but oh, so brown, so dirty, and so coarse; they seemed +like sacks that had been worn out in agriculture and come down to this, +or like shreads from the mainsail of some worn-out ship. The Hollander, +who had never seen such linen even in nightmare, uttered a faint cry. + +“What is to do?” inquired a traveller. Gerard pointed ruefully to +the dirty sackcloth. The other looked at it with lack lustre eye, and +comprehended nought. + +A Burgundian soldier with his arbalest at his back came peeping over +Gerard's shoulder, and seeing what was amiss, laughed so loud that the +room rang again, then slapped him on the back and cried, “Courage! le +diable est mort.” + +Gerard stared: he doubted alike the good tidings and their +relevancy; but the tones were so hearty and the arbalestrier's face, +notwithstanding a formidable beard, was so gay and genial, that he +smiled, and after a pause said drily, “Il a bien faite avec l'eau et +linge du pays on allait le noircir a ne se reconnaitre plus.” + +“Tiens, tiens!” cried the soldier, “v'la qui parle le Francais peu s'en +faut,” and he seated himself by Gerard, and in a moment was talking +volubly of war, women, and pillage, interlarding his discourse with +curious oaths, at which Gerard drew away from him more or less. + +Presently in came the grisly servant, and counted them all on his +fingers superciliously, like Abraham telling sheep; then went out again, +and returned with a deal trencher and deal spoon to each. + +Then there was an interval. Then he brought them a long mug apiece made +of glass, and frowned. By-and-by he stalked gloomily in with a hunch of +bread apiece, and exit with an injured air. Expectation thus raised, +the guests sat for nearly an hour balancing the wooden spoons, and with +their own knives whittling the bread. Eventually, when hope was extinct, +patience worn out, and hunger exhausted, a huge vessel was brought +in with pomp, the lid was removed, a cloud of steam rolled forth, and +behold some thin broth with square pieces of bread floating. This, +though not agreeable to the mind, served to distend the body. Slices of +Strasbourg ham followed, and pieces of salt fish, both so highly salted +that Gerard could hardly swallow a mouthful. Then came a kind of gruel, +and when the repast had lasted an hour and more, some hashed meat highly +peppered and the French and Dutch being now full to the brim with the +above dainties, and the draughts of beer the salt and spiced meats had +provoked, in came roasted kids, most excellent, and carp and trout fresh +from the stream. Gerard made an effort and looked angrily at them, but +“could no more,” as the poets say. The Burgundian swore by the liver and +pike-staff of the good centurion, the natives had outwitted him. Then +turning to Gerard, he said, “Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort,” as +loudly as before, but not with the same tone of conviction. The canny +natives had kept an internal corner for contingencies, and polished the +kid's very bones. + +The feast ended with a dish of raw animalcula in a wicker cage. A cheese +had been surrounded with little twigs and strings; then a hole made +in it and a little sour wine poured in. This speedily bred a small but +numerous vermin. When the cheese was so rotten with them that only +the twigs and string kept it from tumbling to pieces and walking off +quadrivious, it came to table. By a malicious caprice of fate, cage +and menagerie were put down right under the Dutchman's organ of +self-torture. He recoiled with a loud ejaculation, and hung to the bench +by the calves of his legs. + +“What is the matter?” said a traveller disdainfully. “Does the good +cheese scare ye? Then put it hither, in the name of all the saints!” + +“Cheese!” cried Gerard, “I see none. These nauseous reptiles have made +away with every bit of it.” + +“Well,” replied another, “it is not gone far. By eating of the mites we +eat the cheese to boot.” + +“Nay, not so,” said Gerard. “These reptiles are made like us, and digest +their food and turn it to foul flesh even as we do ours to sweet; as +well might you think to chew grass by eating of grass-fed beeves, as to +eat cheese by swallowing these uncleanly insects.” + +Gerard raised his voice in uttering this, and the company received the +paradox in dead silence, and with a distrustful air, like any other +stranger, during which the Burgundian, who understood German but +imperfectly, made Gerard Gallicize the discussion. He patted his +interpreter on the back. “C'est bien, mon gars; plus fin que toi n'est +pas bete,” and administered his formula of encouragement; and Gerard +edged away from him; for next to ugly sights and ill odours, the poor +wretch disliked profaneness. + +Meantime, though shaken in argument, the raw reptiles were duly eaten +and relished by the company, and served to provoke thirst, a principal +aim of all the solids in that part of Germany. So now the company drank +garausses all round, and their tongues were unloosed, and oh, the Babel! +But above the fierce clamour rose at intervals, like some hero's war-cry +in battle, the trumpet-like voice of the Burgundian soldier shouting +lustily, “Courage, camarades, le diable est mort!” + +Entered grisly Ganymede holding in his hand a wooden dish with circles +and semicircles marked on it in chalk. He put it down on the table +and stood silent, sad, and sombre, as Charon by Styx waiting for his +boat-load of souls. Then pouches and purses were rummaged, and each +threw a coin into the dish. Gerard timidly observed that he had drunk +next to no beer, and inquired how much less he was to pay than the +others. + +“What mean you?” said Ganymede roughly. “Whose fault is it you have not +drunken? Are all to suffer because one chooses to be a milksop? You will +pay no more than the rest, and no less.” + +Gerard was abashed. + +“Courage, petit, le diable est mort,” hiccoughed the soldier and flung +Ganymede a coin. + +“You are bad as he is,” said the old man peevishly; “you are paying too +much;” and the tyrannical old Aristides returned him some coin out of +the trencher with a most reproachful countenance. And now the man whom +Gerard had confuted an hour and a half ago awoke from a brown study, in +which he had been ever since, and came to him and said, “Yes, but the +honey is none the worse for passing through the bees' bellies.” + +Gerard stared. The answer had been so long on the road he hadn't an idea +what it was an answer to. Seeing him dumfounded, the other concluded him +confuted, and withdrew calmed. + +The bedrooms were upstairs, dungeons with not a scrap of furniture +except the bed, and a male servant settled inexorably who should sleep +with whom. Neither money nor prayers would get a man a bed to himself +here; custom forbade it sternly. You might as well have asked to +monopolize a see-saw. They assigned to Gerard a man with a great black +beard. He was an honest fellow enough, but not perfect; he would not go +to bed, and would sit on the edge of it telling the wretched Gerard by +force, and at length, the events of the day, and alternately laughing +and crying at the same circumstances, which were not in the smallest +degree pathetic or humorous, but only dead trivial. At last Gerard put +his fingers in his ears, and lying down in his clothes, for the sheets +were too dirty for him to undress, contrived to sleep. But in an hour or +two he awoke cold, and found that his drunken companion had got all the +feather bed; so mighty is instinct. They lay between two beds; the lower +one hard and made of straw, the upper soft and filled with feathers +light as down. Gerard pulled at it, but the experienced drunkard held +it fast mechanically. Gerard tried to twitch it away by surprise, but +instinct was too many for him. On this he got out of bed, and kneeling +down on his bedfellow's unguarded side, easily whipped the prize away +and rolled with it under the bed, and there lay on one edge of it, and +curled the rest round his shoulders. Before he slept he often heard +something grumbling and growling above him, which was some little +satisfaction. Thus instinct was outwitted, and victorious Reason lay +chuckling on feathers, and not quite choked with dust. + +At peep of day Gerard rose, flung the feather bed upon his snoring +companion, and went in search of milk and air. + +A cheerful voice hailed him in French: “What ho! you are up with the +sun, comrade.” + +“He rises betimes that lies in a dog's lair,” answered Gerard crossly. + +“Courage, l'ami! le diable est mort,” was the instant reply. The soldier +then told him his name was Denys, and he was passing from Flushing in +Zealand to the Duke's French dominions; a change the more agreeable to +him, as he should revisit his native place, and a host of pretty girls +who had wept at his departure, and should hear French spoken again. “And +who are you, and whither bound?” + +“My name is Gerard, and I am going to Rome,” said the more reserved +Hollander, and in a way that invited no further confidences. + +“All the better; we will go together as far as Burgundy.” + +“That is not my road.” + +“All roads take to Rome.” + +“Ay, but the shortest road thither is my way.” + +“Well, then, it is I who must go out of my way a step for the sake +of good company, for thy face likes me, and thou speakest French, or +nearly.” + +“There go two words to that bargain,” said Gerard coldly. “I steer by +proverbs, too. They do put old heads on young men's shoulders. 'Bon loup +mauvais compagnon, dit le brebis;' and a soldier, they say, is near akin +to a wolf.” + +“They lie,” said Denys; “besides, if he is, 'les loups ne se mangent pas +entre eux.'” + +“Aye but, sir soldier, I am not a wolf; and thou knowest, a bien petite +occasion se saisit le loup du mouton.'” + +“Let us drop wolves and sheep, being men; my meaning is, that a good +soldier never pillages-a comrade. Come, young man, too much suspicion +becomes not your years. They who travel should learn to read faces; +methinks you might see lealty in mine sith I have seen it in yourn. Is +it yon fat purse at your girdle you fear for?” (Gerard turned pale.) +“Look hither!” and he undid his belt, and poured out of it a double +handful of gold pieces, then returned them to their hiding-place. +“There is a hostage for you,” said he; “carry you that, and let us be +comrades,” and handed him his belt, gold and all. + +Gerard stared. “If I am over prudent, you have not enow.” But he flushed +and looked pleased at the other's trust in him. + +“Bah! I can read faces; and so must you, or you'll never take your four +bones safe to Rome.” + +“Soldier, you would find me a dull companion, for my heart is very +heavy,” said Gerard, yielding. + +“I'll cheer you, mon gars.” + +“I think you would,” said Gerard sweetly; “and sore need have I of a +kindly voice in mine ear this day.” + +“Oh! no soul is sad alongside me. I lift up their poor little hearts +with my consigne: 'Courage, tout le monde, le diable est mort.' Ha! ha!” + +“So be it, then,” said Gerard. “But take back your belt, for I could +never trust by halves. We will go together as far as Rhine, and God go +with us both!” + +“Amen!” said Denys, and lifted his cap. “En avant!” + + +The pair trudged manfully on, and Denys enlivened the weary way. He +chattered about battles and sieges, and things which were new to Gerard; +and he was one of those who make little incidents wherever they go. He +passed nobody without addressing them. “They don't understand it, but +it wakes them up,” said he. But whenever they fell in with a monk +or priest. He pulled a long face, and sought the reverend father's +blessing, and fearlessly poured out on him floods of German words in +such order as not to produce a single German sentence--He doffed his +cap to every woman, high or low, he caught sight of, and with eagle eye +discerned her best feature, and complimented her on it in his native +tongue, well adapted to such matters; and at each carrion crow or +magpie, down came his crossbow, and he would go a furlong off the road +to circumvent it; and indeed he did shoot one old crow with laudable +neatness and despatch, and carried it to the nearest hen-roost, and +there slipped in and set it upon a nest. “The good-wife will say, +'Alack, here is Beelzebub ahatching of my eggs.'” + +“No, you forget he is dead,” objected Gerard. + +“So he is, so he is. But she doesn't know that, not having the luck +to be acquainted with me, who carry the good news from city to city, +uplifting men's hearts.” + +Such was Denys in time of peace. + +Our travellers towards nightfall reached a village; it was a very small +one, but contained a place of entertainment. They searched for it, +and found a small house with barn and stables. In the former was the +everlasting stove, and the clothes drying round it on lines, and a +traveller or two sitting morose. Gerard asked for supper. + +“Supper? We have no time to cook for travellers; we only provide +lodging, good lodging for man and beast. You can have some beer.” + +“Madman, who, born in Holland, sought other lands!” snorted Gerard in +Dutch. The landlady started. + +“What gibberish is that?” asked she, and crossed herself with looks of +superstitious alarm. “You can buy what you like in the village, and cook +it in our oven; but, prithee, mutter no charms nor sorceries here, good +man; don't ye now, it do make my flesh creep so.” + +They scoured the village for food, and ended by supping on roasted eggs +and brown bread. + +At a very early hour their chambermaid came for them. It was a +rosy-cheeked old fellow with a lanthorn. + +They followed him. He led them across a dirty farmyard, where they had +much ado to pick their steps, and brought them into a cow-house. There, +on each side of every cow, was laid a little clean straw, and a tied +bundle of ditto for a pillow. The old man looked down on this his work +with paternal pride. Not so Gerard. “What, do you set Christian men to +lie among cattle?” + +“Well, it is hard upon the poor beasts. They have scarce room to turn.” + +“Oh! what, it is not hard on us, then?” + +“Where is the hardship? I have lain among them all my life. Look at me! +I am fourscore, and never had a headache in all my born days--all along +of lying among the kye. Bless your silly head, kine's breath is ten +times sweeter to drink nor Christians'. You try it!” and he slammed the +bedroom door. + +“Denys, where are you?” whined Gerard. + +“Here, on her other side.” + +“What are you doing?” + +“I know not; but as near as I can guess, I think I must be going to +sleep. What are you at? + +“I am saying my prayers.” + +“Forget me not in them!” + +“Is it likely? Denys, I shall soon have done: do not go to sleep, I want +to talk. + +“Despatch then! for I feel--augh like floating-in the sky on a warm +cloud.” + +“Denys!” + +“Augh! eh! hallo! is it time to get up?” + +“Alack, no. There, I hurried my orisons to talk; and look at you, going +to sleep! We shall be starved before morning, having no coverlets.” + +“Well, you know what to do.” + +“Not I, in sooth.” + +“Cuddle the cow.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Burrow in the straw, then. You must be very new to the world, to +grumble at this. How would you bear to lie on the field of battle on a +frosty night, as I did t'other day, stark naked, with nothing to keep me +warm but the carcass of a fellow I had been and helped kill?” + +“Horrible! horrible! Tell me all about it! Oh, but this is sweet.” + +“Well, we had a little battle in Brabant, and won a little victory, but +it cost us dear; several arbalestriers turned their toes up, and I among +them.” + +“Killed, Denys? come now!” + +“Dead as mutton. Stuck full of pike-holes till the blood ran out of +me, like the good wine of Macon from the trodden grapes. It is right +bounteous in me to pour the tale in minstrel phrase, for--augh--I am +sleepy. Augh--now where was I?” + +“Left dead on the field of battle, bleeding like a pig; that is to say, +like grapes, or something; go on, prithee go on, 'tis a sin to sleep in +the midst of a good story.” + +“Granted. Well, some of those vagabonds, that strip the dead soldier on +the field of glory, came and took every rag off me; they wrought me no +further ill, because there was no need.” + +“No; you were dead.” + +“C'est convenu. This must have been at sundown; and with the night came +a shrewd frost that barkened the blood on my wounds, and stopped all the +rivulets that were running from my heart, and about midnight I awoke as +from a trance.' + +“And thought you were in heaven?” asked Gerard eagerly, being a youth +inoculated with monkish tales. + +“Too frost-bitten for that, mon gars; besides, I heard the wounded +groaning on all sides, so I knew I was in the old place. I saw I could +not live the night through without cover. I groped about shivering and +shivering; at last one did suddenly leave groaning. 'You are sped,' said +I, so made up to him, and true enough he was dead, but warm, you know. +I took my lord in my arms, but was too weak to carry him, so rolled with +him into a ditch hard by; and there my comrades found me in the morning +properly stung with nettles, and hugging a dead Fleming for the bare +life.” + +Gerard shuddered. “And this is war; this is the chosen theme of poets +and troubadours, and Reden Ryckers. Truly was it said by the men of old, +dulce bellum inexpertis.” + +“Tu dis?” + +“I say-oh, what stout hearts some men have!” + +“N'est-ce pas, p'tit? So after that sort--thing--this sort thing is +heaven. Soft--warm--good company, comradancow--cou'age--diable--m-ornk!” + +And the glib tongue was still for some hours. + +In the morning Gerard was wakened by a liquid hitting his eye, and it +was Denys employing the cow's udder as a squirt. + +“Oh, fie!” cried Gerard, “to waste the good milk;” and he took a horn +out of his wallet. “Fill this! but indeed I see not what right we have +to meddle with her milk at all.” + +“Make your mind easy! Last night la camarade was not nice; but what +then, true friendship dispenses with ceremony. To-day we make as free +with her.” + +“Why, what did she do, poor thing?” + +“Ate my pillow.” + +“Ha! ha!” + +“On waking I had to hunt for my head, and found it down in the stable +gutter. She ate our pillow from us, we drink our pillow from her. A +votre sante, madame; et sans rancune;” and the dog drank her milk to her +own health. + +“The ancient was right though,” said Gerard. “Never have I risen so +refreshed since I left my native land. Henceforth let us shun great +towns, and still lie in a convent or a cow-house; for I'd liever sleep +on fresh straw, than on linen well washed six months agone; and the +breath of kine it is sweeter than that of Christians, let alone the +garlic, which men and women folk affect, but cowen abhor from, and so do +I, St. Bavon be my witness!” + +The soldier eyed him from head to foot: “Now but for that little tuft on +your chin I should take you for a girl; and by the finger-nails of St. +Luke, no ill-favoured one neither.” + +These three towns proved types and repeated themselves with slight +variations for many a weary league; but even when he could get neither a +convent nor a cow-house, Gerard learned in time to steel himself to +the inevitable, and to emulate his comrade, whom he looked on as almost +superhuman for hardihood of body and spirit. + +There was, however, a balance to all this veneration. + +Denys, like his predecessor Achilles, had his weak part, his very weak +part, thought Gerard. + +His foible was “woman.” + +Whatever he was saying or doing, he stopped short at sight of a +farthingale, and his whole soul became occupied with that garment and +its inmate till they had disappeared; and sometimes for a good while +after. + +He often put Gerard to the blush by talking his amazing German to such +females as he caught standing or sitting indoors or out, at which they +stared; and when he met a peasant girl on the road, he took off his cap +to her and saluted her as if she was a queen; the invariable effect of +which was, that she suddenly drew herself up quite stiff like a soldier +on parade, and wore a forbidding countenance. + +“They drive me to despair,” said Denys. “Is that a just return to a +civil bonnetade? They are large, they are fair, but stupid as swans.” + +“What breeding can you expect from women that wear no hose?” inquired +Gerard; “and some of them no shoon? They seem to me reserved and modest, +as becomes their sex, and sober, whereas the men are little better than +beer-barrels. Would you have them brazen as well as hoseless?” + +“A little affability adorns even beauty,” sighed Denys. + +“Then let these alone, sith they are not to your taste,” retorted +Gerard. “What, is there no sweet face in Burgundy that would pale to see +you so wrapped up in strange women?” + +“Half-a-dozen that would cry their eyes out.” + +“Well then!” + +“But it is a long way to Burgundy.” + +“Ay, to the foot, but not to the heart. I am there, sleeping and waking, +and almost every minute of the day.” + +“In Burgundy? Why, I thought you had never--” + +“In Burgundy?” cried Gerard contemptuously. “No, in sweet Sevenbergen. +Ah! well-a-day! well-a-day!” + +Many such dialogues as this passed between the pair on the long and +weary road, and neither could change the other. + +One day about noon they reached a town of some pretensions, and Gerard +was glad, for he wanted to buy a pair of shoes; his own were quite worn +out. They soon found a shop that displayed a goodly array, and made up +to it, and would have entered it, but the shopkeeper sat on the doorstep +taking a nap, and was so fat as to block up the narrow doorway; the very +light could hardly struggle past his “too, too solid flesh,” much less a +carnal customer. + +My fair readers, accustomed, when they go shopping, to be met half way +with nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, and waved into a seat, while +almost at the same instant an eager shopman flings himself half +across the counter in a semi-circle to learn their commands, can best +appreciate this mediaeval Teuton, who kept a shop as a dog keeps a +kennel, and sat at the exclusion of custom snoring like a pig. + +Denys and Gerard stood and contemplated this curiosity; emblem, permit +me to remark, of the lets and hindrances to commerce that characterized +his epoch. + +“Jump over him!” + +“The door is too low.” + +“March through him!” + +“The man is too thick.” + +“What is the coil?” inquired a mumbling voice from the interior; +apprentice with his mouth full. + +“We want to get into your shop?” + +“What for, in Heaven's name??!!!” + +“Shoon, lazy bones!” + +The ire of the apprentice began to rise at such an explanation. “And +could ye find no hour out of all the twelve to come pestering us for +shoon, but the one little, little hour my master takes his nap, and I +sit down to my dinner, when all the rest of the world is full long ago?” + +Denys heard, but could not follow the sense. “Waste no more time talking +their German gibberish,” said he; “take out thy knife and tickle his fat +ribs.” + +“That I will not,” said Gerard. + +“Then here goes; I'll prong him with this.” + +Gerard seized the mad fellow's arm in dismay, for he had been long +enough in the country to guess that the whole town would take part in +any brawl with the native against a stranger. But Denys twisted away +from him, and the cross-bow bolt in his hand was actually on the road to +the sleeper's ribs; but at that very moment two females crossed the road +towards him; he saw the blissful vision, and instantly forgot what he +was about, and awaited their approach with unreasonable joy. + +Though companions, they were not equals, except in attractiveness to a +Burgundian crossbow man; for one was very tall, the other short, and +by one of those anomalies which society, however primitive, speedily +establishes, the long one held up the little one's tail. The tall one +wore a plain linen coif on her head, a little grogram cloak over her +shoulders, a grey kirtle, and a short farthingale or petticoat of bright +red cloth, and feet and legs quite bare, though her arms were veiled in +tight linen sleeves. + +The other a kirtle broadly trimmed with fur, her arms in double sleeves, +whereof the inner of yellow satin clung to the skin; the outer, all +befurred, were open at the inside of the elbow, and so the arm passed +through and left them dangling. Velvet head-dress, huge purse at girdle, +gorgeous train, bare legs. And thus they came on, the citizen's wife +strutting, and the maid gliding after, holding her mistress's train +devoutly in both hands, and bending and winding her lithe body prettily +enough to do it. Imagine (if not pressed for time) a bantam, with a +guineahen stepping obsequious at its stately heel. + +This pageant made straight for the shoemaker's shop. Denys louted low; +the worshipful lady nodded graciously, but rapidly, having business +on hand, or rather on foot; for in a moment she poked the point of her +little shoe into the sleeper, and worked it round in him like a gimlet, +till with a long snarl he woke. The incarnate shutter rising and +grumbling vaguely, the lady swept in and deigned him no further notice. +He retreated to his neighbour's shop, the tailor's, and sitting on the +step, protected it from the impertinence of morning calls. Neighbours +should be neighbourly. + +Denys and Gerard followed the dignity into the shop, where sat the +apprentice at dinner; the maid stood outside with her insteps crossed, +leaning against the wall, and tapping it with her nails. + +“Those, yonder,” said the dignity briefly, pointing with an imperious +little white hand to some yellow shoes gilded at the toe. While the +apprentice stood stock still neutralized by his dinner and his duty, +Denys sprang at the shoes, and brought them to her; she smiled, and +calmly seating herself, protruded her foot, shod, but hoseless, and +scented. Down went Denys on his knees, and drew off her shoe, and tried +the new ones on the white skin devoutly. Finding she had a willing +victim, she abused the opportunity, tried first one pair, then another, +then the first again, and so on, balancing and hesitating for about half +an hour, to Gerard's disgust, and Denys's weak delight. At last she was +fitted, and handed two pair of yellow and one pair of red shoes out to +her servant. Then was heard a sigh. It burst from the owner of the shop: +he had risen from slumber, and was now hovering about, like a partridge +near her brood in danger. + +“There go all my coloured shoes,” said he, as they disappeared in the +girl's apron. + +The lady departed: Gerard fitted himself with a stout pair, asked the +price, paid it without a word, and gave his old ones to a beggar in the +street, who blessed him in the marketplace, and threw them furiously +down a well in the suburbs. The comrades left the shop, and in it two +melancholy men, that looked, and even talked, as if they had been robbed +wholesale. + +“My shoon are sore worn,” said Denys, grinding his teeth; “but I'll go +barefoot till I reach France, ere I'll leave my money with such churls +as these.” + +The Dutchman replied calmly, “They seem indifferent well sewn.” + +As they drew near the Rhine, they passed through forest after forest, +and now for the first time ugly words sounded in travellers' mouths, +seated around stoves. “Thieves!” “black gangs!” “cut-throats!” etc. + +The very rustics were said to have a custom hereabouts of murdering the +unwary traveller in these gloomy woods, whose dark and devious winding +enabled those who were familiar with them to do deeds of rapine and +blood undetected, or if detected, easily to baffle pursuit. + +Certain it was, that every clown they met carried, whether for offence +or defence, a most formidable weapon; a light axe, with a short pike at +the head, and a long slender handle of ash or yew, well seasoned. These +the natives could all throw with singular precision, so as to make +the point strike an object at several yard's distance, or could slay +a bullock at hand with a stroke of the blade. Gerard bought one and +practised with it. Denys quietly filed and ground his bolt sharp, +whistling the whilst; and when they entered a gloomy wood, he would +unsling his crossbow and carry it ready for action; but not so much like +a traveller fearing an attack, as a sportsman watchful not to miss a +snap shot. + +One day, being in a forest a few leagues from Dusseldorf, as Gerard was +walking like one in a dream, thinking of Margaret, and scarce seeing the +road he trode, his companion laid a hand on his shoulder, and strung +his crossbow with glittering eye. “Hush!” said he, in a low whisper that +startled Gerard more than thunder. Gerard grasped his axe tight, and +shook a little: he heard a rustling in the wood hard by, and at the +same moment Denys sprang into the wood, and his crossbow went to his +shoulder, even as he jumped. Twang! went the metal string; and after an +instant's suspense he roared, “Run forward, guard the road, he is hit! +he is hit!” + +Gerard darted forward, and as he ran a young bear burst out of the wood +right upon him; finding itself intercepted, it went upon its hind legs +with a snarl, and though not half grown, opened formidable jaws and long +claws. Gerard, in a fury of excitement and agitation, flung himself on +it, and delivered a tremendous blow on its nose with his axe, and the +creature staggered; another, and it lay grovelling, with Gerard hacking +it. + +“Hallo! stop! you are mad to spoil the meat.” + +“I took it for a robber,” said Gerard, panting. “I mean, I had made +ready for a robber, so I could not hold my hand.” + +“Ay, these chattering travellers have stuffed your head full of thieves +and assassins; they have not got a real live robber in their whole +nation. Nay, I'll carry the beast; bear thou my crossbow.” + +“We will carry it by turns, then,” said Gerard, “for 'tis a heavy load: +poor thing, how its blood drips. Why did we slay it?” + +“For supper and the reward the baillie of the next town shall give us.” + +“And for that it must die, when it had but just begun to live; and +perchance it hath a mother that will miss it sore this night, and loves +it as ours love us; more than mine does me.” + +“What, know you not that his mother was caught in a pitfall last month, +and her skin is now at the tanner's? and his father was stuck full of +cloth-yard shafts t'other day, and died like Julius Caesar, with his +hands folded on his bosom, and a dead dog in each of them?” + +But Gerard would not view it jestingly. “Why, then,” said he, “we have +killed one of God's creatures that was all alone in the world-as I am +this day, in this strange land.” + +“You young milksop,” roared Denys, “these things must not be looked +at so, or not another bow would be drawn nor quarrel fly in forest nor +battlefield. Why, one of your kidney consorting with a troop of pikemen +should turn them to a row of milk-pails; it is ended, to Rome thou goest +not alone, for never wouldst thou reach the Alps in a whole skin. I take +thee to Remiremont, my native place, and there I marry thee to my young +sister, she is blooming as a peach. Thou shakest thy head? ah! I forgot; +thou lovest elsewhere, and art a one woman man, a creature to me scarce +conceivable. Well then I shall find thee, not a wife, nor a leman, but +a friend; some honest Burgundian who shall go with thee as far as Lyons; +and much I doubt that honest fellow will be myself, into whose liquor +thou has dropped sundry powders to make me love thee; for erst I endured +not doves in doublet and hose. From Lyons, I say, I can trust thee +by ship to Italy, which being by all accounts the very stronghold of +milksops, thou wilt there be safe: they will hear thy words, and make +thee their duke in a twinkling.” + +Gerard sighed. “In sooth I love not to think of this Dusseldorf, where +we are to part company, good friend.” + +They walked silently, each thinking of the separation at hand; the +thought checked trifling conversation, and at these moments it is a +relief to do something, however insignificant. Gerard asked Denys to +lend him a bolt. “I have often shot with a long bow, but never with one +of these!” + +“Draw thy knife and cut this one out of the cub,” said Denys slily. + +“Nay, Day, I want a clean one.” + +Denys gave him three out of his quiver. + +Gerard strung the bow, and levelled it at a bough that had fallen into +the road at some distance. The power of the instrument surprised him; +the short but thick steel bow jarred him to the very heel as it went +off, and the swift steel shaft was invisible in its passage; only the +dead leaves, with which November had carpeted the narrow road, flew +about on the other side of the bough. + +“Ye aimed a thought too high,” said Denys. + +“What a deadly thing! no wonder it is driving out the longbow--to +Martin's much discontent.” + +“Ay, lad,” said Denys triumphantly, “it gains ground every day, in spite +of their laws and their proclamations to keep up the yewen bow, because +forsooth their grandsires shot with it, knowing no better. You see, +Gerard, war is not pastime. Men will shoot at their enemies with the +hittingest arm and the killingest, not with the longest and missingest.” + +“Then these new engines I hear of will put both bows down; for these +with a pinch of black dust, and a leaden ball, and a child's finger, +shall slay you Mars and Goliath, and the Seven Champions.” + +“Pooh! pooh!” said Denys warmly; “petrone nor harquebuss shall ever put +down Sir Arbalest. Why, we can shoot ten times while they are putting +their charcoal and their lead into their leathern smoke belchers, and +then kindling their matches. All that is too fumbling for the field of +battle; there a soldier's weapon needs be aye ready, like his heart.” + +Gerard did not answer, for his ear was attracted by a sound behind +them. It was a peculiar sound, too, like something heavy, but not hard, +rushing softly over the dead leaves. He turned round with some little +curiosity. A colossal creature was coming down the road at about sixty +paces' distance. + +He looked at it in a sort of calm stupor at first, but the next moment, +he turned ashy pale. + +“Denys!” he cried. “Oh, God! Denys!” + +Denys whirled round. + +It was a bear as big as a cart-horse. + +It was tearing along with its huge head down, running on a hot scent. + +The very moment he saw it Denys said in a sickening whisper-- + +“THE CUB!” + +Oh! the concentrated horror of that one word, whispered hoarsely, with +dilating eyes! For in that syllable it all flashed upon them both like +a sudden stroke of lightning in the dark--the bloody trail, the murdered +cub, the mother upon them, and it. DEATH. + +All this in a moment of time. The next, she saw them. Huge as she was, +she seemed to double herself (it was her long hair bristling with rage): +she raised her head big as a hull's, her swine-shaped jaws opened wide +at them, her eyes turned to blood and flame, and she rushed upon them, +scattering the leaves about her like a whirlwind as she came. + +“Shoot!” screamed Denys, but Gerard stood shaking from head to foot, +useless. + +“Shoot, man! ten thousand devils, shoot! too late! Tree! tree!” and he +dropped the cub, pushed Gerard across the road, and flew to the first +tree and climbed it, Gerard the same on his side; and as they fled, both +men uttered inhuman howls like savage creatures grazed by death. + +With all their speed one or other would have been torn to fragments at +the foot of his tree; but the bear stopped a moment at the cub. + +Without taking her bloodshot eyes off those she was hunting, she smelt +it all round, and found, how, her Creator only knows, that it was dead, +quite dead. She gave a yell such as neither of the hunted ones had ever +heard, nor dreamed to be in nature, and flew after Denys. She reared and +struck at him as he climbed. He was just out of reach. + +Instantly she seized the tree, and with her huge teeth tore a great +piece out of it with a crash. Then she reared again, dug her claws deep +into the bark, and began to mount it slowly, but as surely as a monkey. + +Denys's evil star had led him to a dead tree, a mere shaft, and of no +very great height. He climbed faster than his pursuer, and was soon at +the top. He looked this way and that for some bough of another tree to +spring to. There was none; and if he jumped down, he knew the bear would +be upon him ere he could recover the fall, and make short work of him. +Moreover, Denys was little used to turning his back on danger, and his +blood was rising at being hunted. He turned to bay. + +“My hour is come,” thought he. “Let me meet death like a man.” He +kneeled down and grasped a small shoot to steady himself, drew his long +knife, and clenching his teeth, prepared to jab the huge brute as soon +as it should mount within reach. + +Of this combat the result was not doubtful. + +The monster's head and neck were scarce vulnerable for bone and masses +of hair. The man was going to sting the bear, and the bear to crack the +man like a nut. + +Gerard's heart was better than his nerves. He saw his friend's mortal +danger, and passed at once from fear to blindish rage. He slipped down +his tree in a moment, caught up the crossbow, which he had dropped in +the road, and running furiously up, sent a bolt into the bear's body +with a loud shout. The bear gave a snarl of rage and pain, and turned +its head irresolutely. + +“Keep aloof!” cried Denys, “or you are a dead man.” + +“I care not;” and in a moment he had another bolt ready and shot it +fiercely into the bear, screaming, “Take that! take that!” + +Denys poured a volley of oaths down at him. “Get away, idiot!” + +He was right: the bear finding so formidable and noisy a foe behind +her, slipped growling down the tree, rending deep furrows in it as she +slipped. Gerard ran back to his tree and climbed it swiftly. But while +his legs were dangling some eight feet from the ground, the bear came +rearing and struck with her fore paw, and out flew a piece of bloody +cloth from Gerard's hose. He climbed, and climbed; and presently he +heard as it were in the air a voice say, “Go out on the bough!” He +looked, and there was a long massive branch before him shooting upwards +at a slight angle: he threw his body across it, and by a series of +convulsive efforts worked up it to the end. + +Then he looked round panting. + +The bear was mounting the tree on the other side. He heard her claws +scrape, and saw her bulge on both sides of the massive tree. Her eye not +being very quick, she reached the fork and passed it, mounting the main +stem. Gerard drew breath more freely. The bear either heard him, or +found by scent she was wrong: she paused; presently she caught sight of +him. She eyed him steadily, then quietly descended to the fork. + +Slowly and cautiously she stretched out a paw and tried the bough. It +was a stiff oak branch, sound as iron. Instinct taught the creature +this: it crawled carefully out on the bough, growling savagely as it +came. + +Gerard looked wildly down. He was forty feet from the ground. Death +below. Death moving slow but sure on him in a still more horrible +form. His hair bristled. The sweat poured from him. He sat helpless, +fascinated, tongue-tied. + +As the fearful monster crawled growling towards him, incongruous +thoughts coursed through his mind. Margaret: the Vulgate, where it +speaks of the rage of a she-bear robbed of her whelps--Rome--Eternity. + +The bear crawled on. And now the stupor of death fell on the doomed man; +he saw the open jaws and bloodshot eyes coming, but in a mist. + +As in a mist he heard a twang; he glanced down; Denys, white and silent +as death, was shooting up at the bear. The bear snarled at the twang. +but crawled on. Again the crossbow twanged, and the bear snarled, and +came nearer. Again the cross bow twanged; and the next moment the bear +was close upon Gerard, where he sat, with hair standing stiff on end and +eyes starting from their sockets, palsied. The bear opened her jaws like +a grave, and hot blood spouted from them upon Gerard as from a pump. The +bough rocked. The wounded monster was reeling; it clung, it stuck its +sickles of claws deep into the wood; it toppled, its claws held firm, +but its body rolled off, and the sudden shock to the branch shook Gerard +forward on his stomach with his face upon one of the bear's straining +paws. At this, by a convulsive effort, she raised her head up, up, till +he felt her hot fetid breath. Then huge teeth snapped together loudly +close below him in the air, with a last effort of baffled hate. The +ponderous carcass rent the claws out of the bough, then pounded the +earth with a tremendous thump. There was a shout of triumph below, +and the very next instant a cry of dismay, for Gerard had swooned, and +without an attempt to save himself, rolled headlong from the perilous +height. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Denys caught at Gerard, and somewhat checked his fall; but it may be +doubted whether this alone would have saved him from breaking his +neck, or a limb. His best friend now was the dying bear, on whose hairy +carcass his head and shoulders descended. Denys tore him off her. It was +needless. She panted still, and her limbs quivered, but a hare was not +so harmless; and soon she breathed her last; and the judicious Denys +propped Gerard up against her, being soft, and fanned him. He came to +by degrees, but confused, and feeling the bear around him, rolled away, +yelling. + +“Courage,” cried Denys, “le diable est mort.” + +“Is it dead? quite dead?” inquired Gerard from behind a tree; for his +courage was feverish, and the cold fit was on him just now, and had been +for some time. + +“Behold,” said Denys, and pulled the brute's ear playfully, and opened +her jaws and put in his head, with other insulting antics; in the midst +of which Gerard was violently sick. + +Denys laughed at him. + +“What is the matter now?” said he, “also, why tumble off your perch just +when we had won the day?” + +“I swooned, I trow.” + +“But why?” + +Not receiving an answer, he continued, “Green girls faint as soon +as look at you, but then they choose time and place. What woman ever +fainted up a tree?” + +“She sent her nasty blood all over me. I think the smell must have +overpowered me! Faugh! I hate blood.” + +“I do believe it potently.” + +“See what a mess she has made me + +“But with her blood, not yours. I pity the enemy that strives to satisfy +you.”' + +“You need not to brag, Maitre Denys; I saw you under the tree, the +colour of your shirt.” + +“Let us distinguish,” said Denys, colouring; “it is permitted to tremble +for a friend.” + +Gerard, for answer, flung his arms round Denys's neck in silence. + +“Look here,” whined the stout soldier, affected by this little gush of +nature and youth, “was ever aught so like a woman? I love thee, little +milksop--go to. Good! behold him on his knees now. What new caprice is +this?” + +“Oh, Denys, ought we not to return thanks to Him who has saved both our +lives against such fearful odds?” And Gerard kneeled, and prayed aloud. +And presently he found Denys kneeling quiet beside him, with his hands +across his bosom after the custom of his nation, and a face as long as +his arm. When they rose, Gerard's countenance was beaming. + +“Good Denys,” said he, “Heaven will reward thy piety.” + +“Ah, bah! I did it out of politeness,” said the Frenchman. “It was to +please thee, little one. C'est egal, 'twas well and orderly prayed, and +edified me to the core while it lasted. A bishop had scarce handled the +matter better; so now our evensong being sung, and the saints enlisted +with us--marchons.” + +Ere they had taken two steps, he stopped. “By-the-by, the cub!” + +“Oh, no, no!” cried Gerard. + +“You are right. It is late. We have lost time climbing trees, and +tumbling off 'em, and swooning, and vomiting, and praying; and the brute +is heavy to carry. And now I think on't, we shall have papa after it +next; these bears make such a coil about an odd cub. What is this? you +are wounded! you are wounded!” + +“Not I.” + +“He is wounded; miserable that I am!” + +“Be calm, Denys. I am not touched; I feel no pain anywhere.” + +“You? you only feel when another is hurt,” cried Denys, with great +emotion; and throwing himself on his knees, he examined Gerard's leg +with glistening eyes. + +“Quick! quick! before it stiffens,” he cried, and hurried him on. + +“Who makes the coil about nothing now?” inquired Gerard composedly. + +Denys's reply was a very indirect one. + +“Be pleased to note,” said he, “that I have a bad heart. You were man +enough to save my life, yet I must sneer at you, a novice in war. Was +not I a novice once myself? Then you fainted from a wound, and I thought +you swooned for fear, and called you a milksop. Briefly, I have a bad +tongue and a bad heart.” + +“Denys!” + +“Plait-il?” + +“You lie.” + +“You are very good to say so, little one, and I am eternally obliged to +you,” mumbled the remorseful Denys. + +Ere they had walked many furlongs, the muscles of the wounded leg +contracted and stiffened, till presently Gerard could only just put his +toe to the ground, and that with great pain. + +At last he could bear it no longer. + +“Let me lie down and die,” he groaned, “for this is intolerable.” + +Denys represented that it was afternoon, and the nights were now frosty; +and cold and hunger ill companions; and that it would be unreasonable +to lose heart, a certain great personage being notoriously defunct. So +Gerard leaned upon his axe, and hobbled on; but presently he gave in, +all of a sudden, and sank helpless in the road. + +Denys drew him aside into the wood, and to his surprise gave him his +crossbow and bolts, enjoining him strictly to lie quiet, and if any +ill-looking fellows should find him out and come to him, to bid them +keep aloof; and should they refuse, to shoot them dead at twenty paces. +“Honest men keep the path; and, knaves in a wood, none but fools do +parley with them.” With this he snatched up Gerard's axe, and set off +running--not, as Gerard expected, towards Dusseldorf, but on the road +they had come. + +Gerard lay aching and smarting; and to him Rome, that seemed so near at +starting, looked far, far off, now that he was two hundred miles nearer +it. But soon all his thoughts turned Sevenbergen-wards. How sweet it +would be one day to hold Margaret's hand, and tell her all he had gone +through for her! The very thought of it, and her, soothed him; and in +the midst of pain and irritation of the nerves be lay resigned, and +sweetly, though faintly, smiling. + +He had lain thus more than two hours, when suddenly there were shouts; +and the next moment something struck a tree hard by, and quivered in it. + +He looked, it was an arrow. + +He started to his feet. Several missiles rattled among the boughs, and +the wood echoed with battle-cries. Whence they came he could not tell, +for noises in these huge woods are so reverberated, that a stranger +is always at fault as to their whereabout; but they seemed to fill +the whole air. Presently there was a lull; then he heard the fierce +galloping of hoofs; and still louder shouts and cries arose, mingled +with shrieks and groans; and above all, strange and terrible sounds, +like fierce claps of thunder, bellowing loud, and then dying off in +cracking echoes; and red tongues of flame shot out ever and anon among +the trees, and clouds of sulphurous smoke came drifting over his head. +And all was still. + +Gerard was struck with awe. “What will become of Denys?” he cried. “Oh, +why did you leave me? Oh, Denys, my friend! my friend!” + +Just before sunset Denys returned, almost sinking under a hairy bundle. +It was the bear's skin. + +Gerard welcomed him with a burst of joy that astonished him. + +“I thought never to see you again, dear Denys. Were you in the battle?” + +“No. What battle?” + +“The bloody battle of men, or fiends, that raged in the wood a while +agone;” and with this he described it to the life, and more fully than I +have done. + +Denys patted him indulgently on the back. + +“It is well,” said he; “thou art a good limner; and fever is a great +spur to the imagination. One day I lay in a cart-shed with a cracked +skull, and saw two hosts manoeuvre and fight a good hour on eight feet +square, the which I did fairly describe to my comrade in due order, only +not so gorgeously as thou, for want of book learning. + +“What, then, you believe me not? when I tell you the arrows whizzed over +my head, and the combatants shouted, and--” + +“May the foul fiends fly away with me if I believe a word of it.” + +Gerard took his arm, and quietly pointed to a tree close by. + +“Why, it looks like--it is-a broad arrow, as I live!” And he went close, +and looked up at it. + +“It came out of the battle. I heard it, and saw it.” + +“An English arrow.” + +“How know you that?” + +“Marry, by its length. The English bowmen draw the bow to the ear, +others only to the right breast. Hence the English loose a three-foot +shaft, and this is one of them, perdition seize them! Well, if this is +not glamour, there has been a trifle of a battle. And if there has been +a battle in so ridiculous a place for a battle as this, why then 'tis +no business of mine, for my Duke hath no quarrel hereabouts. So let's to +bed,” said the professional. And with this he scraped together a heap of +leaves, and made Gerard lie on it, his axe by his side. He then lay down +beside him, with one hand on his arbalest, and drew the bear-skin over +them, hair inward. They were soon as warm as toast, and fast asleep. + +But long before the dawn Gerard woke his comrade. + +“What shall I do, Denys, I die of famine?” + +“Do? why, go to sleep again incontinent: qui dort dine.” + +“But I tell you I am too hungry to sleep,” snapped Gerard. + +“Let us march, then,” replied Denys, with paternal indulgence. + +He had a brief paroxysm of yawns; then made a small bundle of bears' +ears, rolling them up in a strip of the skin, cut for the purpose; and +they took the road. + +Gerard leaned on his axe, and propped by Denys on the other side, +hobbled along, not without sighs. + +“I hate pain.” said Gerard viciously. + +“Therein you show judgment,” replied papa smoothly. + +It was a clear starlight night; and soon the moon rising revealed the +end of the wood at no great distance: a pleasant sight, since Dusseldorf +they knew was but a short league further. + +At the edge of the wood they came upon something so mysterious that they +stopped to gaze at it, before going up to it. Two white pillars rose +in the air, distant a few paces from each other; and between them stood +many figures, that looked like human forms. + +“I go no farther till I know what this is,” said Gerard, in an agitated +whisper. “Are they effigies of the saints, for men to pray to on the +road? or live robbers waiting to shoot down honest travellers? Nay, +living men they cannot be, for they stand on nothing that I see. Oh! +Denys, let us turn back till daybreak; this is no mortal sight.” + +Denys halted, and peered long and keenly. “They are men,” said he, at +last. Gerard was for turning back all the more. “But men that will never +hurt us, nor we them. Look not to their feet, for that they stand on!” + +“Where, then, i' the name of all the saints?” + +“Look over their heads,” said Denys gravely. + +Following this direction, Gerard presently discerned the outline of +a dark wooden beam passing from pillar to pillar; and as the pair got +nearer, walking now on tiptoe, one by one dark snake-like cords came out +in the moonlight, each pendent from the beam to a dead man, and tight as +wire. + +Now as they came under this awful monument of crime and wholesale +vengeance a light air swept by, and several of the corpses swung, or +gently gyrated, and every rope creaked. Gerard shuddered at this ghastly +salute. So thoroughly had the gibbet, with its sickening load, seized +and held their eyes, that it was but now they perceived a fire right +underneath, and a living figure sitting huddled over it. His axe lay +beside him, the bright blade shining red in the glow. He was asleep. + +Gerard started, but Denys only whispered, “courage, comrade, here is a +fire.” + +“Ay! but there is a man at it.” + +“There will soon be three;” and he began to heap some wood on it that +the watcher had prepared; during which the prudent Gerard seized the +man's axe, and sat down tight on it, grasping his own, and examining the +sleeper. There was nothing outwardly distinctive in the man. He wore the +dress of the country folk, and the hat of the district, a three-cornered +hat called a Brunswicker, stiff enough to turn a sword cut, and with a +thick brass hat-band. The weight of the whole thing had turned his ears +entirely down, like a fancy rabbit's in our century; but even this, +though it spoiled him as a man, was nothing remarkable. They had of late +met scores of these dog's-eared rustics. The peculiarity was, this clown +watching under a laden gallows. What for? + +Denys, if he felt curious, would not show it; he took out two bears' +ears from his bundle, and running sticks through them, began to toast +them. “'Twill be eating coined money,” said he; “for the burgomaster +of Dusseldorf had given us a rix-dollar for these ears, as proving the +death of their owners; but better a lean purse than a lere stomach.” + +“Unhappy man!” cried Gerard, “could you eat food here?” + +“Where the fire is lighted there must the meat roast, and where it +roasts there must it be eaten; for nought travels worse than your +roasted meat.” + +“Well, eat thou, Denys, an thou canst! but I am cold and sick; there is +no room for hunger in my heart after what mine eyes have seen,” and he +shuddered over the fire. “Oh! how they creak! and who is this man, I +wonder? what an ill-favoured churl!” + +Denys examined him like a connoisseur looking at a picture, and in +due course delivered judgment. “I take him to be of the refuse of that +company, whereof these (pointing carelessly upward) were the cream, and +so ran their heads into danger. + +“At that rate, why not stun him before he wakes?” and Gerard fidgeted +where he sat. + +Denys opened his eyes with humorous surprise. “For one who sets up for +a milksop you have the readiest hand. Why should two stun one? tush! he +wakes: note now what he says at waking, and tell me.” + +These last words were hardly whispered when the watcher opened his eyes. +At sight of the fire made up, and two strangers eyeing him keenly, he +stared, and there was a severe and pretty successful effort to be calm; +still a perceptible tremor ran all over him. Soon he manned himself, +and said gruffly. “Good morrow. But at the very moment of saying it he +missed his axe, and saw how Gerard was sitting upon it, with his own +laid ready to his hand. He lost countenance again directly. Denys smiled +grimly at this bit of byplay. + +“Good morrow!” said Gerard quietly, keeping his eye on him. + +The watcher was now too ill at ease to be silent. “You make free with +my fire,” said he; but he added in a somewhat faltering voice, “you are +welcome.” + +Denys whispered Gerard. The watcher eyed them askant. + +“My comrade says, sith we share your fire, you shall share his meat.” + +“So be it,” said the man warmly. “I have half a kid hanging on a bush +hard by, I'll go fetch it;” and he arose with a cheerful and obliging +countenance, and was retiring. + +Denys caught up his crossbow, and levelled it at his head. The man fell +on his knees. + +Denys lowered his weapon, and pointed him back to his place. He rose and +went back slowly and unsteadily, like one disjointed; and sick at heart +as the mouse, that the cat lets go a little way, and then darts and +replaces. + +“Sit down, friend,” said Denys grimly, in French. + +The man obeyed finger and tone, though he knew not a word of French. + +“Tell him the fire is not big enough for more than thee. He will take my +meaning.” + +This being communicated by Gerard, the man grinned; ever since Denys +spoke he had seemed greatly relieved. “I wist not ye were strangers,” + said he to Gerard. + +Denys cut a piece of bear's ear, and offered it with grace to him he had +just levelled crossbow at. + +He took it calmly, and drew a piece of bread from his wallet, and +divided it with the pair. Nay, more, he winked and thrust his hand into +the heap of leaves he sat on (Gerard grasped his axe ready to brain him) +and produced a leathern bottle holding full two gallons. He put it to +his mouth, and drank their healths, then handed it to Gerard; he passed +it untouched to Denys. + +“Mort de ma vie!” cried the soldier, “it is Rhenish wine, and fit +for the gullet of an archbishop. Here's to thee, thou prince of good +fellows, wishing thee a short life and a merry one! Come, Gerard, sup! +sup! Pshaw, never heed them, man! they heed not thee. Natheless, did I +hang over such a skin of Rhenish as this, and three churls sat beneath a +drinking it and offered me not a drop, I'd soon be down among them.” + +“Denys! Denys!” + +“My spirit would cut the cord, and womp would come my body amongst ye, +with a hand on the bottle, and one eye winking, t'other.” + +Gerard started up with a cry of horror and his fingers to his ears, and +was running from the place, when his eye fell on the watcher's axe. The +tangible danger brought him back. He sat down again on the axe with his +fingers in his ears. + +“Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort!” shouted Denys gaily, and offered +him a piece of bear's ear, put it right under his nose as he stopped his +ears. Gerard turned his head away with loathing. + +“Wine!” he gasped. “Heaven knows I have much need of it, with such +companions as thee and--” + +He took a long draught of the Rhenish wine: it ran glowing through his +veins, and warmed and strengthened his heart, but could not check his +tremors whenever a gust of wind came. As for Denys and the other, they +feasted recklessly, and plied the bottle unceasingly, and drank healths +and caroused beneath that creaking sepulchre and its ghastly tenants. + +“Ask him how they came here,” said Denys, with his mouth full, and +pointing up without looking. + +On this question being interpreted to the watcher, he replied that +treason had been their end, diabolical treason and priest-craft. He +then, being rendered communicative by drink, delivered a long prosy +narrative, the purport of which was as follows. These honest gentlemen +who now dangled here so miserably were all stout men and true, and +lived in the forest by their wits. Their independence and thriving state +excited the jealousy and hatred of a large portion of mankind, and many +attempts were made on their lives and liberties; these the Virgin and +their patron saints, coupled with their individual skill and courage +constantly baffled. But yester eve a party of merchants came slowly on +their mules from Dusseldorf. The honest men saw them crawling, and let +them penetrate near a league into the forest, then set upon them to +make them disgorge a portion of their ill-gotten gains. But alas! +the merchants were no merchants at all, but soldiers of more than one +nation, in the pay of the Archbishop of Cologne; haubergeons had they +beneath their gowns, and weapons of all sorts at hand; natheless, the +honest men fought stoutly, and pressed the traitors hard, when lo! +horsemen, that had been planted in ambush many hours before, galloped +up, and with these new diabolical engines of war, shot leaden bullets, +and laid many an honest fellow low, and so quelled the courage of others +that they yielded them prisoners. These being taken red-handed, the +victors, who with malice inconceivable had brought cords knotted round +their waists, did speedily hang, and by their side the dead ones, to +make the gallanter show. “That one at the end was the captain. He never +felt the cord. He was riddled with broad arrows and leaden balls or ever +they could take him: a worthy man as ever cried, 'Stand and deliver!' +but a little hasty, not much: stay! I forgot; he is dead. Very hasty, +and obstinate as a pig. That one in the--buff jerkin is the lieutenant, +as good a soul as ever lived: he was hanged alive. This one here, I +never could abide; no (not that one; that is Conrad, my bosom friend); I +mean this one right overhead in the chicken-toed shoon; you were always +carrying tales, ye thief, and making mischief; you know you were; and, +sirs, I am a man that would rather live united in a coppice than in a +forest with backbiters and tale-bearers: strangers, I drink to you.” + And so he went down the whole string, indicating with the neck of the +bottle, like a showman with his pole, and giving a neat description of +each, which though pithy was invariably false; for the showman had no +real eye for character, and had misunderstood every one of these people. + +“Enough palaver!” cried Denys. “Marchons! Give me his axe: now tell him +he must help you along.” + +The man's countenance fell, but he saw in Denys's eye that resistance +would be dangerous; he submitted. Gerard it was who objected. He said, +“Y pensez-vous? to put my hand on a thief, it maketh my flesh creep.” + +“Childishness! all trades must live. Besides, I have my reasons. Be not +you wiser than your elder.” + +“No. Only if I am to lean on him I must have my hand in my bosom, still +grasping the haft of my knife.” + +“It is a new attitude to walk in; but please thyself.” + +And in that strange and mixed attitude of tender offices and deadly +suspicion the trio did walk. I wish I could draw them--I would not trust +to the pen. + +The light of the watch-tower at Dusseldorf was visible as soon as they +cleared the wood, and cheered Gerard. When, after an hour's march, the +black outline of the tower itself and other buildings stood out clear to +the eye, their companion halted and said gloomily, “You may as well slay +me out of hand as take me any nearer the gates of Dusseldorf town.” + +On this being communicated to Denys, he said at once, “Let him go then, +for in sooth his neck will be in jeopardy if he wends much further with +us.” Gerard acquiesced as a matter of course. His horror of a criminal +did not in the least dispose him to active co-operation with the law. +But the fact is, that at this epoch no private citizen in any part +of Europe ever meddled with criminals but in self-defence, except, +by-the-by, in England, which, behind other nations in some things, was +centuries before them all in this. + +The man's personal liberty being restored, he asked for his axe. It was +given him. To the friends' surprise he still lingered. Was he to have +nothing for coming so far out of his way with them? + +“Here are two batzen, friend. + +“Add the wine, the good Rhenish?” + +“Did you give aught for it?” + +“Ay! the peril of my life.” + +“Hum! what say you, Denys?” + +“I say it was worth its weight in gold. Here, lad, here be silver +groshen, one for every acorn on that gallows tree; and here is one more +for thee, who wilt doubtless be there in due season.” + +The man took the coins, but still lingered. + +“Well! what now?” cried Gerard, who thought him shamefully overpaid +already. “Dost seek the hide off our bones?” + +“Nay, good sirs, but you have seen to-night how parlous a life is mine. +Ye be true men, and your prayers avail; give me then a small trifle of a +prayer, an't please you; for I know not one.” + +Gerard's choler began to rise at the egotistical rogue; moreover, ever +since his wound he had felt gusts of irritability. However, he bit his +lip and said, “There go two words to that bargain; tell me first, is it +true what men say of you Rhenish thieves, that ye do murder innocent and +unresisting travellers as well as rob them?” + +The other answered sulkily, “They you call thieves are not to blame for +that; the fault lies with the law.” + +“Gramercy! so 'tis the law's fault that ill men break it?” + +“I mean not so; but the law in this land slays an honest man an if he +do but steal. What follows? he would be pitiful, but is discouraged +herefrom; pity gains him no pity, and doubles his peril: an he but cut +a purse his life is forfeit; therefore cutteth he the throat to boot, to +save his own neck: dead men tell no tales. Pray then for the poor soul +who by bloody laws is driven to kill or else be slaughtered; were there +less of this unreasonable gibbeting on the highroad, there should be +less enforced cutting of throats in dark woods, my masters.” + +“Fewer words had served,” replied Gerard coldly. “I asked a question, I +am answered,” and suddenly doffing his bonnet-- + +“'Obsecro Deum omnipotentem, ut, qua cruce jam pendent isti quindecim +latrones fures et homicidae, in ea homicida fur et latro tu pependeris +quam citissime, pro publica salute, in honorem justi Dei cui sit gloria, +in aeternum, Amen.'” + +“And so good day.” + +The greedy outlaw was satisfied last. “That is Latin,” he muttered, “and +more than I bargained for.” So indeed it was. + +And he returned to his business with a mind at ease. The friends +pondered in silence the many events of the last few hours. + +At last Gerard said thoughtfully, “That she-bear saved both our lives-by +God's will.” + +“Like enough,” replied Denys; “and talking of that, it was lucky we did +not dawdle over our supper.” + +“What mean you?” + +“I mean they are not all hanged; I saw a refuse of seven or eight as +black as ink around our fire.” + +“When? when?” + +“Ere we had left it five minutes.” + +“Good heavens! and you said not a word.” + +“It would but have worried you, and had set our friend a looking back, +and mayhap tempted him to get his skull split. All other danger was +over; they could not see us, we were out of the moonshine, and indeed, +just turning a corner. Ah! there is the sun; and here are the gates of +Dusseldorf. Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort!” + +“My head! my head!” was all poor Gerard could reply. + +So many shocks, emotions, perils, horrors, added to the wound, his +first, had tried his youthful body and sensitive nature too severely. + + +It was noon of the same day. + +In a bedroom of “The Silver Lion” the rugged Denys sat anxious, watching +his young friend. + +And he lay raging with fever, delirious at intervals, and one word for +ever on his lips. + +“Margaret!--Margaret Margaret!” + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +It was the afternoon of the next day. Gerard was no longer lightheaded, +but very irritable and full of fancies; and in one of these he begged +Denys to get him a lemon to suck. Denys, who from a rough soldier had +been turned by tender friendship into a kind of grandfather, got up +hastily, and bidding him set his mind at ease, “lemons he should have in +the twinkling of a quart pot,” went and ransacked the shops for them. + +They were not so common in the North as they are now, and he was absent +a long while, and Gerard getting very impatient, when at last the door +opened. But it was not Denys. Entered softly an imposing figure; an old +gentleman in a long sober gown trimmed with rich fur, cherry-coloured +hose, and pointed shoes, with a sword by his side in a morocco scabbard, +a ruff round his neck not only starched severely, but treacherously +stiffened in furrows by rebatoes, or a little hidden framework of wood; +and on his head a four-cornered cap with a fur border; on his chin and +bosom a majestic white beard. Gerard was in no doubt as to the vocation +of his visitor, for, the sword excepted, this was familiar to him as the +full dress of a physician. Moreover, a boy followed at his heels with +a basket, where phials, lint, and surgical tools rather courted than +shunned observation. The old gentleman came softly to the bedside, and +said mildly and sotto voce, “How is't with thee, my son?” + +Gerard answered gratefully that his wound gave him little pain now; but +his throat was parched, and his head heavy. + +“A wound! they told me not of that. Let me see it. Ay, ay, a good clean +bite. The mastiff had sound teeth that took this out, I warrant me;” + and the good doctor's sympathy seemed to run off to the quadruped he had +conjured, his jackal. + +“This must be cauterized forthwith, or we shall have you starting back +from water, and turning somersaults in bed under our hands. 'Tis the +year for raving curs, and one hath done your business; but we will +baffle him yet. Urchin, go heat thine iron.” + +“But, sir,” edged in Gerard, “'twas no dog, but a bear.” + +“A bear! Young man,” remonstrated the senior severely, “think what you +say; 'tis ill jesting with the man of art who brings his grey hairs and +long study to heal you. A bear, quotha! Had you dissected as many bears +as I, or the tithe, and drawn their teeth to keep your hand in, you +would know that no bear's jaw ever made this foolish trifling wound. I +tell you 'twas a dog, and since you put me to it, I even deny that it +was a dog of magnitude, but neither more nor less than one of these +little furious curs that are so rife, and run devious, biting each manly +leg, and laying its wearer low, but for me and my learned brethren, who +still stay the mischief with knife and cautery.” + +“Alas, sir! when said I 'twas a bear's jaw? I said, 'A bear:' it was his +paw, now.” + +“And why didst not tell me that at once?” + +“Because you kept telling me instead.” + +“Never conceal aught from your leech, young man,” continued the senior, +who was a good talker, but one of the worst listeners in Europe. “Well, +it is an ill business. All the horny excrescences of animals, to wit, +claws of tigers, panthers, badgers, cats, bears, and the like, and +horn of deer, and nails of humans, especially children, are imbued with +direst poison. Y'had better have been bitten by a cur, whatever you may +say, than gored by bull or stag, or scratched by bear. However, shalt +have a good biting cataplasm for thy leg; meantime keep we the +body cool: put out thy tongue!-good!-fever. Let me feel thy pulse: +good!--fever. I ordain flebotomy, and on the instant.” + +“Flebotomy! that is bloodletting: humph! Well, no matter, if 'tis sure +to cure me, for I will not lie idle here.” The doctor let him know that +flebotomy was infallible, especially in this case. + +“Hans, go fetch the things needful, and I will entertain the patient +meantime with reasons.” + +The man of art then explained to Gerard that in disease the blood +becomes hot and distempered and more or less poisonous; but a portion of +this unhealthy liquid removed, Nature is fain to create a purer fluid to +fill its place. Bleeding, therefore, being both a cooler and a purifier, +was a specific in all diseases, for all diseases were febrile, whatever +empirics might say. + +“But think not,” said he warmly, “that it suffices to bleed; any paltry +barber can open a vein (though not all can close it again). The art is +to know what vein to empty for what disease. T'other day they brought me +one tormented with earache. I let him blood in the right thigh, and away +flew his earache. By-the-by, he has died since then. Another came with +the toothache. I bled him behind the ear, and relieved him in a jiffy. +He is also since dead as it happens. I bled our bailiff between the +thumb and forefinger for rheumatism. Presently he comes to me with +a headache and drumming in the ears, and holds out his hand over the +basin; but I smiled at his folly, and bled him in the left ankle sore +against his will, and made his head as light as a nut.” + +Diverging then from the immediate theme after the manner of enthusiasts, +the reverend teacher proceeded thus: + +“Know, young man, that two schools of art contend at this moment +throughout Europe. The Arabian, whose ancient oracles are Avicenna, +Rhazes, Albucazis; and its revivers are Chauliac and Lanfranc; and +the Greek school, whose modern champions are Bessarion, Platinus, and +Marsilius Ficinus, but whose pristine doctors were medicine's very +oracles, Phoebus, Chiron, Aesculapius, and his sons Podalinus and +Machaon, Pythagoras, Democritus, Praxagoras, who invented the arteries, +and Dioctes, 'qui primus urinae animum dedit.' All these taught orally. +Then came Hippocrates, the eighteenth from Aesculapius, and of him we +have manuscripts; to him we owe 'the vital principle.' He also invented +the bandage, and tapped for water on the chest; and above all he +dissected; yet only quadrupeds, for the brutal prejudices of the pagan +vulgar withheld the human body from the knife of science. Him followed +Aristotle, who gave us the aorta, the largest blood-vessel in the human +body.” + +“Surely, sir, the Almighty gave us all that is in our bodies, and not +Aristotle, nor any Grecian man,” objected Gerard humbly. + +“Child! of course He gave us the thing; but Aristotle did more, he gave +us the name of the thing. But young men will still be talking. The +next great light was Galen; he studied at Alexandria, then the home +of science. He, justly malcontent with quadrupeds, dissected apes, as +coming nearer to man, and bled like a Trojan. Then came Theophilus, who +gave us the nerves, the lacteal vessels, and the pia mater.” + +This worried Gerard. “I cannot lie still and hear it said that mortal +man bestowed the parts which Adam our father took from Him, who made him +of the clay, and us his sons.” + +“Was ever such perversity?” said the doctor, his colour rising. “Who is +the real donor of a thing to man? he who plants it secretly in the +dark recesses of man's body, or the learned wight who reveals it to +his intelligence, and so enriches his mind with the knowledge of it? +Comprehension is your only true possession. Are you answered?” + +“I am put to silence, sir.” + +“And that is better still; for garrulous patients are ill to cure, +especially in fever; I say, then, that Eristratus gave us the cerebral +nerves and the milk vessels; nay, more, he was the inventor of +lithotomy, whatever you may say. Then came another whom I forget; you do +somewhat perturb me with your petty exceptions. Then came Ammonius, the +author of lithotrity, and here comes Hans with the basin-to stay your +volubility. Blow thy chafer, boy, and hand me the basin; 'tis well. +Arabians, quotha! What are they but a sect of yesterday who about the +year 1000 did fall in with the writings of those very Greeks, and read +them awry, having no concurrent light of their own? for their demigod, +and camel-driver, Mahound, impostor in science as in religion, had +strictly forbidden them anatomy, even of the lower animals, the which he +who severeth from medicine, 'tollit solem e mundo,' as Tully quoth. Nay, +wonder not at my fervour, good youth; where the general weal stands in +jeopardy, a little warmth is civic, humane, and honourable. Now there is +settled of late in this town a pestilent Arabist, a mere empiric, +who, despising anatomy, and scarce knowing Greek from Hebrew, hath yet +spirited away half my patients; and I tremble for the rest. Put forth +thine ankle; and thou, Hans, breathe on the chafer.” + +Whilst matters were in this posture, in came Denys with the lemons, and +stood surprised. “What sport is toward?” said he, raising his brows. + +Gerard coloured a little, and told him the learned doctor was going to +flebotomize him and cauterize him; that was all. + +“Ay! indeed; and yon imp, what bloweth he hot coals for?” + +“What should it be for,” said the doctor to Gerard, “but to cauterize +the vein when opened and the poisonous blood let free? 'Tis the only +safe way. Avicenna indeed recommends a ligature of the vein; but how +'tis to be done he saith not, nor knew he himself I wot, nor any of the +spawn of Ishmael. For me, I have no faith in such tricksy expedients; +and take this with you for a safe principle: 'Whatever an Arab or +Arabist says is right, must be wrong.'” + +“Oh, I see now what 'tis for,” said Denys; “and art thou so simple as +to let him put hot iron to thy living flesh? didst ever keep thy little +finger but ten moments in a candle? and this will be as many minutes. +Art not content to burn in purgatory after thy death? must thou needs +buy a foretaste on't here?” + +“I never thought of that,” said Gerard gravely; “the good doctor spake +not of burning, but of cautery; to be sure 'tis all one, but cautery +sounds not so fearful as burning.” + +“Imbecile! That is their art; to confound a plain man with dark words, +till his hissing flesh lets him know their meaning. Now listen to what +I have seen. When a soldier bleeds from a wound in battle, these leeches +say, 'Fever. Blood him!' and so they burn the wick at t'other end too. +They bleed the bled. Now at fever's heels comes desperate weakness; then +the man needs all his blood to live; but these prickers and burners, +having no forethought, recking nought of what is sure to come in a few +hours, and seeing like brute beasts only what is under their noses, +having meantime robbed him of the very blood his hurt had spared him to +battle that weakness withal; and so he dies exhausted. Hundreds have I +seen so scratched and pricked out of the world, Gerard, and tall fellows +too; but lo! if they have the luck to be wounded where no doctor can +be had, then they live; this too have I seen. Had I ever outlived that +field in Brabant but for my most lucky mischance, lack of chirurgery? +The frost chocked all my bleeding wounds, and so I lived. A chirurgeon +had pricked yet one more hole in this my body with his lance, and +drained my last drop out, and my spirit with it. Seeing them thus +distraught in bleeding of the bleeding soldier, I place no trust in +them; for what slays a veteran may well lay a milk-and-water bourgeois +low.” + +“This sounds like common sense,” sighed Gerard languidly, “but no +need to raise your voice so; I was not born deaf, and just now I hear +acutely.” + +“Common sense! very common sense indeed,” shouted the bad listener; +“why, this is a soldier; a brute whose business is to kill men, not cure +them.” He added in very tolerable French, “Woe be to you, unlearned +man, if you come between a physician and his patient; and woe be to you, +misguided youth, if you listen to that man of blood.” + +“Much obliged,” said Denys, with mock politeness; “but I am a true man, +and would rob no man of his name. I do somewhat in the way of blood, but +not worth mention in this presence. For one I slay, you slay a score; +and for one spoonful of blood I draw, you spill a tubful. The world is +still gulled by shows. We soldiers vapour with long swords, and even in +war be-get two foes for every one we kill; but you smooth gownsmen, with +soft phrases and bare bodkins, 'tis you that thin mankind.” + +“A sick chamber is no place for jesting,” cried the physician. + +“No, doctor, nor for bawling,” said the patient peevishly. + +“Come, young man,” said the senior kindly, “be reasonable. Cuilibet +in sua arte credendum est. My whole life has been given to this art. I +studied at Montpelier; the first school in France, and by consequence in +Europe. There learned I Dririmancy, Scatomancy, Pathology, Therapeusis, +and, greater than them all, Anatomy. For there we disciples of +Hippocrates and Galen had opportunities those great ancients never knew. +Goodbye, quadrupeds and apes, and paganism, and Mohammedanism; we bought +of the churchwardens, we shook the gallows; we undid the sexton's work +of dark nights, penetrated with love of science and our kind; all the +authorities had their orders from Paris to wink; and they winked. Gods +of Olympus, how they winked! The gracious king assisted us: he sent us +twice a year a living criminal condemned to die, and said, 'Deal ye with +him as science asks; dissect him alive, if ye think fit.'” + +“By the liver of Herod, and Nero's bowels, he'll make me blush for the +land that bore me, an' if he praises it any more,” shouted Denys at the +top of his voice. + +Gerard gave a little squawk, and put his fingers in his ears; but +speedily drew them out and shouted angrily, and as loudly, “you great +roaring, blaspheming bull of Basan, hold your noisy tongue!” + +Denys summoned a contrite look. + +“Tush, slight man,” said the doctor, with calm contempt, and vibrated +a hand over him as in this age men make a pointer dog down charge; then +flowed majestic on. “We seldom or never dissected the living criminal, +except in part. We mostly inoculated them with such diseases as the +barren time afforded, selecting of course the more interesting ones.” + +“That means the foulest,” whispered Denys meekly. + +“These we watched through all their stages to maturity.” + +“Meaning the death of the poor rogue,” whispered Denys meekly. + +“And now, my poor sufferer, who best merits your confidence, this +honest soldier with his youth, his ignorance, and his prejudices, or a +greybeard laden with the gathered wisdom of ages?” + +“That is,” cried Denys impatiently, “will you believe what a jackdaw in +a long gown has heard from a starling in a long gown, who heard it from +a jay-pie, who heard it from a magpie, who heard it from a popinjay; or +will you believe what I, a man with nought to gain by looking awry, nor +speaking false, have seen; nor heard with the ears which are given us +to gull us, but seen with these sentinels mine eye, seen, seen; to wit, +that fevered and blooded men die, that fevered men not blooded live? +stay, who sent for this sang-sue? Did you?” + +“Not I. I thought you had.” + +“Nay,” explained the doctor, “the good landlord told me one was 'down' +in his house; so I said to myself, 'A stranger, and in need of my art,' +and came incontinently.” + +“It was the act of a good Christian, sir.” + +“Of a good bloodhound,” cried Denys contemptuously. “What, art thou so +green as not to know that all these landlords are in league with certain +of their fellow-citizens, who pay them toll on each booty? Whatever +you pay this ancient for stealing your life blood, of that the landlord +takes his third for betraying you to him. Nay, more, as soon as ever +your blood goes down the stair in that basin there, the landlord will +see it or smell it, and send swiftly to his undertaker and get his third +out of that job. For if he waited till the doctor got downstairs, the +doctor would be beforehand and bespeak his undertaker, and then he would +get the black thirds. Say I sooth, old Rouge et Noir? dites!” + +“Denys, Denys, who taught you to think so ill of man?” + +“Mine eyes, that are not to be gulled by what men say, seeing this many +a year what they do, in all the lands I travel.” + +The doctor with some address made use of these last words to escape +the personal question. “I too have eyes as well as thou, and go not by +tradition only, but by what I have seen, and not only seen, but done. +I have healed as many men by bleeding as that interloping Arabist has +killed for want of it. 'Twas but t'other day I healed one threatened +with leprosy; I but bled him at the tip of the nose. I cured last year +a quartan ague: how? bled its forefinger. Our cure lost his memory. I +brought it him back on the point of my lance; I bled him behind the +ear. I bled a dolt of a boy, and now he is the only one who can tell his +right hand from his left in a whole family of idiots. When the plague +was here years ago, no sham plague, such as empyrics proclaim every six +years or so, but the good honest Byzantine pest, I blooded an alderman +freely, and cauterized the symptomatic buboes, and so pulled him out +of the grave; whereas our then chirurgeon, a most pernicious Arabist, +caught it himself, and died of it, aha, calling on Rhazes, Avicenna, +and Mahound, who, could they have come, had all perished as miserably as +himself.” + +“Oh, my poor ears,” sighed Gerard. + +“And am I fallen so low that one of your presence and speech rejects my +art and listens to a rude soldier, so far behind even his own miserable +trade as to bear an arbalest, a worn-out invention, that German +children shoot at pigeons with, but German soldiers mock at since ever +arquebusses came and put them down?” + +“You foul-mouthed old charlatan,” cried Denys, “the arbalest is +shouldered by taller men than ever stood in Rhenish hose, and even now +it kills as many more than your noisy, stinking arquebus, as the lancet +does than all our toys together. Go to! He was no fool who first called +you 'leeches.' Sang-sues! va!” + +Gerard groaned. “By the holy virgin, I wish you were both at Jericho, +bellowing.' + +“Thank you comrade. Then I'll bark no more, but at need I'll bite. If +he has a lance, I have a sword; if he bleeds you, I'll bleed him. The +moment his lance pricks your skin, little one, my sword-hilt knocks +against his ribs; I have said it.” + +And Denys turned pale, folded his arms, and looked gloomy and dangerous. + +Gerard sighed wearily. “Now, as all this is about me, give me leave to +say a word.” + +“Ay! let the young man choose life or death for himself.” + +Gerard then indirectly rebuked his noisy counsellors by contrast and +example. He spoke with unparalleled calmness, sweetness, and gentleness. +And these were the words of Gerard the son of Eli. “I doubt not you both +mean me well; but you assassinate me between you. Calmness and quiet are +everything to me; but you are like two dogs growling over a bone. And +in sooth, bone I should be, did this uproar last long.” + +There was a dead silence, broken only by the silvery voice of Gerard, +as he lay tranquil, and gazed calmly at the ceiling, and trickled into +words. + +“First, venerable sir, I thank you for coming to see me, whether from +humanity, or in the way of honest gain; all trades must live. + +“Your learning, reverend sir, seems great, to me at least, and for your +experience, your age voucheth it. + +“You say you have bled many, and of these many, many have not died +thereafter, but lived, and done well. I must needs believe you.” + +The physician bowed; Denys grunted. + +“Others, you say, you have bled, and-they are dead. I must needs believe +you. + +“Denys knows few things compared with you, but he knows them well. He is +a man not given to conjecture. This I myself have noted. He says he has +seen the fevered and blooded for the most part die; the fevered and not +blooded live. I must needs believe him. + +“Here, then, all is doubt. + +“But thus much is certain; if I be bled, I must pay you a fee, and be +burnt and excruciated with a hot iron, who am no felon. + +“Pay a certain price in money and anguish for a doubtful remedy, that +will I never. + +“Next to money and ease, peace and quiet are certain goods, above all in +a sick-room; but 'twould seem men cannot argue medicine without heat and +raised voices; therefore, sir, I will essay a little sleep, and Denys +will go forth and gaze on the females of the place, and I will keep +you no longer from those who can afford to lay out blood and money in +flebotomy and cautery.” + +The old physician had naturally a hot temper; he had often during this +battle of words mastered it with difficulty, and now it mastered him. +The most dignified course was silence; he saw this, and drew himself up, +and made loftily for the door, followed close by his little boy and big +basket. + +But at the door he choked, he swelled, he burst. He whirled and came +back open-mouthed, and the little boy and big basket had to +whisk semicircularly not to be run down, for de minimis non curat +Medicina-even when not in a rage. + +“Ah! you reject my skill, you scorn my art. My revenge shall be to leave +you to yourself; lost idiot, take your last look at me, and at the sun. +Your blood be on your head!” And away he stamped. + +But on reaching the door he whirled and came back; his wicker tail +twirling round after him like a cat's. + +“In twelve hours at furthest you will be in the secondary stage of +fever. Your head will split. Your carotids will thump. Aha! And let but +a pin fall, you will jump to the ceiling. Then send for me; and I'll not +come.” He departed. But at the door-handle gathered fury, wheeled and +came flying, with pale, terror-stricken boy and wicker tail whisking +after him. “Next will come--CRAMPS of the STOMACH. Aha! + +“Then--BILIOUS VOMIT. Aha! + +“Then--COLD SWEAT, and DEADLY STUPOR. + +“Then--CONFUSION OF ALL THE SENSES. + +“Then--BLOODY VOMIT. + +“And after that nothing can save you, not even I; and if I could I would +not, and so farewell!” + +Even Denys changed colour at threats so fervent and precise; but Gerard +only gnashed his teeth with rage at the noise, and seized his hard +bolster with kindling eye. + +This added fuel to the fire, and brought the insulted ancient back from +the impassable door, with his whisking train. + +“And after that--MADNESS! + +“And after that--BLACK VOMIT + +“And then--CONVULSIONS! + +“And then--THAT CESSATION OF ALL VITAL FUNCTIONS THE VULGAR CALL +'DEATH,' for which thank your own Satanic folly and insolence. +Farewell.” He went. He came. He roared, “And think not to be buried in +any Christian church-yard; for the bailiff is my good friend, and I +shall tell him how and why you died: felo de se! felo de se! Farewell.” + +Gerard sprang to his feet on the bed by some supernatural gymnastic +power excitement lent him, and seeing him so moved, the vindictive +orator came back at him fiercer than ever, to launch some master-threat +the world has unhappily lost; for as he came with his whisking train, +and shaking his fist, Gerard hurled the bolster furiously in his face +and knocked him down like a shot, the boy's head cracked under his +falling master's, and crash went the dumb-stricken orator into the +basket, and there sat wedged in an inverted angle, crushing phial +after phial. The boy, being light, was strewed afar, but in a squatting +posture; so that they sat in a sequence, like graduated specimens, the +smaller howling. But soon the doctor's face filled with horror, and he +uttered a far louder and unearthly screech, and kicked and struggled +with wonderful agility for one of his age. + +He was sitting on the hot coals. + +They had singed the cloth and were now biting the man. Struggling wildly +but vainly to get out of the basket, he rolled yelling over with it +sideways, and lo! a great hissing; then the humane Gerard ran and +wrenched off the tight basket not without a struggle. The doctor lay on +his face groaning, handsomely singed with his own chafer, and slaked a +moment too late by his own villainous compounds, which, however, being +as various and even beautiful in colour as they were odious in taste, +had strangely diversified his grey robe, and painted it more gaudy than +neat. + +Gerard and Denys raised him up and consoled him. “Courage, man, 'tis +but cautery; balm of Gilead, why, you recommend it but now to my comrade +here.” + +The physician replied only by a look of concentrated spite, and went out +in dead silence, thrusting his stomach forth before him in the drollest +way. The boy followed him next moment but in that slight interval he +left off whining, burst into a grin, and conveyed to the culprits by an +unrefined gesture his accurate comprehension of, and rapturous though +compressed joy at, his master's disaster. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE worthy physician went home and told his housekeeper he was in agony +from “a bad burn.” Those were the words. For in phlogistic as in other +things, we cauterize our neighbour's digits, but burn our own fingers. +His housekeeper applied some old women's remedy mild as milk. He +submitted like a lamb to her experience: his sole object in the case +of this patient being cure: meantime he made out his bill for broken +phials, and took measures to have the travellers imprisoned at once. He +made oath before a magistrate that they, being strangers and indebted to +him, meditated instant flight from the township. + +Alas! it was his unlucky day. His sincere desire and honest endeavour to +perjure himself were baffled by a circumstance he had never foreseen nor +indeed thought possible. + +He had spoken the truth. + +And IN AN AFFIDAVIT! + +The officers, on reaching “The Silver Lion”, found the birds were flown. + +They went down to the river, and from intelligence they received there, +started up the bank in hot pursuit. + +This temporary escape the friends owed to Denys's good sense and +observation. After a peal of laughter, that it was a cordial to hear, +and after venting his watchword three times, he turned short grave, and +told Gerard Dusseldorf was no place for them. “That old fellow,” said +he, “went off unnaturally silent for such a babbler: we are strangers +here; the bailiff is his friend: in five minutes we shall lie in a +dungeon for assaulting a Dusseldorf dignity, are you strong enough to +hobble to the water's edge? it is hard by. Once there you have but to +lie down in a boat instead of a bed; and what is the odds?” + +“The odds, Denys? untold, and all in favour of the boat. I pine for +Rome; for Rome is my road to Sevenbergen; and then we shall lie in the +boat, but ON the Rhine, the famous Rhine; the cool, refreshing Rhine. +I feel its breezes coming: the very sight will cure a little +hop-'o-my-thumb fever like mine; away! away!” + +Finding his excitable friend in this mood, Denys settled hastily with +the landlord, and they hurried to the river. On inquiry they found to +their dismay that the public boat was gone this half hour, and no other +would start that day, being afternoon. By dint, however, of asking a +great many questions, and collecting a crowd, they obtained an offer of +a private boat from an old man and his two sons. + +This was duly ridiculed by a bystander. “The current is too strong for +three oars.” + +“Then my comrade and I will help row,” said the invalid. + +“No need,” said the old man. “Bless your silly heart, he owns t'other +boat.” + +There was a powerful breeze right astern; the boatmen set a broad sail, +and rowing also, went off at a spanking rate. + +“Are ye better, lad, for the river breeze?” + +“Much better. But indeed the doctor did me good.” + +“The doctor? Why, you would none of his cures.” + +“No, but I mean--you will say I am nought--but knocking the old fool +down--somehow--it soothed me.” + +“Amiable dove! how thy little character opens more and more every day, +like a rosebud. I read thee all wrong at first.” + +“Nay, Denys, mistake me not, neither. I trust I had borne with his idle +threats, though in sooth his voice went through my poor ears; but he was +an infidel, or next door to one, and such I have been taught to abhor. +Did he not as good as say, we owed our inward parts to men with long +Greek names, and not to Him, whose name is but a syllable, but whose +hand is over all the earth? Pagan!” + +“So you knocked him down forthwith--like a good Christian.” + +“Now, Denys, you will still be jesting. Take not an ill man's part. Had +it been a thunderbolt from Heaven, he had met but his due; yet he took +but a sorry bolster from this weak arm.” + +“What weak arm?” inquired Denys, with twinkling eyes. “I have lived +among arms, and by Samson's hairy pow never saw I one more like a +catapult. The bolster wrapped round his nose and the two ends kissed +behind his head, and his forehead resounded, and had he been Goliath, +or Julius Caesar, instead of an old quacksalver, down he had gone. St. +Denys guard me from such feeble opposites as thou! and above all from +their weak arms--thou diabolical young hypocrite.” + + +The river took many turns, and this sometimes brought the wind on their +side instead of right astern. Then they all moved to the weather side +to prevent the boat heeling over too much all but a child of about five +years old, the grandson of the boatman, and his darling; this urchin +had slipped on board at the moment of starting, and being too light +to affect the boat's trim, was above, or rather below, the laws of +navigation. + +They sailed merrily on, little conscious that they were pursued by a +whole posse of constables armed with the bailiff's writ, and that their +pursuers were coming up with them; for if the wind was strong, so was +the current. + +And now Gerard suddenly remembered that this was a very good way to +Rome, but not to Burgundy. “Oh, Denys,” said he, with an almost alarmed +look, “this is not your road.” + +“I know it,” said Denys quietly; “but what can I do? I cannot leave thee +till the fever leaves thee; and it is on thee still, for thou art +both red and white by turns; I have watched thee. I must e'en go on to +Cologne, I doubt, and then strike across.” + +“Thank Heaven,” said Gerard joyfully. He added eagerly, with a little +touch of self-deception, “'Twere a sin to be so near Cologne and not see +it. Oh, man, it is a vast and ancient city such as I have often dreamed +of, but ne'er had the good luck to see. Me miserable, by what hard +fortune do I come to it now? Well then, Denys,” continued the young man +less warmly, “it is old enough to have been founded by a Roman lady +in the first century of grace, and sacked by Attila the barbarous, and +afterwards sore defaced by the Norman Lothaire. And it has a church +for every week in the year forbye chapels and churches innumerable +of convents and nunneries, and above all, the stupendous minster yet +unfinished, and therein, but in their own chapel, lie the three kings +that brought gifts to our Lord, Melchior gold, and Gaspar frankincense, +and Balthazar the black king, he brought myrrh; and over their bones +stands the shrine the wonder of the world; it is of ever-shining brass +brighter than gold, studded with images fairly wrought, and inlaid with +exquisite devices, and brave with colours; and two broad stripes run to +and fro, of jewels so great, so rare, each might adorn a crown or +ransom its wearer at need; and upon it stand the three kings curiously +counterfeited, two in solid silver, richly gilt; these be bareheaded; +but he of Aethiop ebony, and beareth a golden crown; and in the midst +our blessed Lady, in virgin silver, with Christ in her arms; and at the +corners, in golden branches, four goodly waxen tapers do burn night and +day. Holy eyes have watched and renewed that light unceasingly for +ages, and holy eyes shall watch them in saecula. I tell thee, Denys, the +oldest song, the oldest Flemish or German legend, found them burning, +and they shall light the earth to its grave. And there is St. Ursel's +church, a British saint's, where lie her bones and all the other virgins +her fellows; eleven thousand were they who died for the faith, being put +to the sword by barbarous Moors, on the twenty-third day of October, two +hundred and thirty-eight. Their bones are piled in the vaults, and many +of their skulls are in the church. St. Ursel's is in a thin golden case, +and stands on the high altar, but shown to humble Christians only on +solemn days.” + +“Eleven thousand virgins!” cried Denys. “What babies German men must +have been in days of yore. Well, would all their bones might turn flesh +again, and their skulls sweet faces, as we pass through the gates. 'Tis +odds but some of them are wearied of their estate by this time.” + +“Tush, Denys!” said Gerard; “why wilt thou, being good, still make +thyself seem evil? If thy wishing-cap be on, pray that we may meet the +meanest she of all those wise virgins in the next world, and to that +end let us reverence their holy dust in this one. And then there is the +church of the Maccabees, and the cauldron in which they and their +mother Solomona were boiled by a wicked king for refusing to eat swine's +flesh.” + +“Oh, peremptory king! and pig-headed Maccabees! I had eaten bacon with +my pork liever than change places at the fire with my meat.” + +“What scurvy words are these? it was their faith.” + +“Nay, bridle thy choler, and tell me, are there nought but churches +in this thy so vaunted city? for I affect rather Sir Knight than Sir +Priest.” + +“Ay, marry, there is an university near a hundred years old; and there +is a market-place, no fairer in the world, and at the four sides of +it houses great as palaces; and there is a stupendous senate-house all +covered with images, and at the head of them stands one of stout Herman +Gryn, a soldier like thyself, lad.” + +“Ay. Tell me of him! what feat of arms earned him his niche?” + +“A rare one. He slew a lion in fair combat, with nought but his cloak +and a short sword. He thrust the cloak in the brute's mouth, and cut +his spine in twain, and there is the man's effigy and eke the lion's to +prove it. The like was never done but by three more, I ween; Samson +was one, and Lysimachus of Macedon another, and Benaiah, a captain of +David's host.” + +“Marry! three tall fellows. I would like well to sup with them all +to-night.” + +“So would not I,” said Gerard drily. + +“But tell me,” said Denys, with some surprise, “when wast thou in +Cologne?” + +“Never but in the spirit. I prattle with the good monks by the way, and +they tell me all the notable things both old and new. + +“Ay, ay, have not I seen your nose under their very cowls? But when I +speak of matters that are out of sight, my words they are small, and the +thing it was big; now thy words be as big or bigger than the things; art +a good limner with thy tongue; I have said it; and for a saint, as ready +with hand, or steel, or bolster--as any poor sinner living; and so, +shall I tell thee which of all these things thou hast described draws me +to Cologne?” + +“Ay, Denys.” + +“Thou, and thou only; no dead saint, but my living friend and comrade +true; 'tis thou alone draws Denys of Burgundy to Cologne?” + +Gerard hung his head. + +At this juncture one of the younger boatmen suddenly inquired what was +amiss with “little turnip-face?” + +His young nephew thus described had just come aft grave as a judge, and +burst out crying in the midst without more ado. On this phenomenon, +so sharply defined, he was subjected to many interrogatories, some +coaxingly uttered, some not. Had he hurt himself? had he over-ate +himself? was he frightened? was he cold? was he sick? was he an idiot? + +To all and each he uttered the same reply, which English writers render +thus, oh! oh! oh! and French writers thus, hi! hi! hi! So fixed are +Fiction's phonetics. + +“Who can tell what ails the peevish brat?” snarled the young boatman +impatiently. “Rather look this way and tell me whom be these after!” + The old man and his other son looked, and saw four men walking along +the east bank of the river; at the sight they left rowing awhile, and +gathered mysteriously in the stern, whispering and casting glances +alternately at their passengers and the pedestrians. + +The sequel may show they would have employed speculation better in +trying to fathom the turnip-face mystery; I beg pardon of my age: I mean +the deep mind of dauntless infancy. + +“If 'tis as I doubt,” whispered one of the young men, “why not give them +a squeak for their lives; let us make for the west bank.” + +The old man objected stoutly. “What,” said he, “run our heads into +trouble for strangers! are ye mad? Nay, let us rather cross to the east +side; still side with the strong arm! that is my rede. What say you, +Werter?” + +“I say, please yourselves.” + +What age and youth could not decide upon, a puff of wind settled most +impartially. Came a squall, and the little vessel heeled over; the men +jumped to windward to trim her; but to their horror they saw in the very +boat from stem to stern a ditch of water rushing to leeward, and the +next moment they saw nothing, but felt the Rhine, the cold and rushing +Rhine. + +“Turnip-face” had drawn the plug. + +The officers unwound the cords from their waists. + +Gerard could swim like a duck; but the best swimmer, canted out of a +boat capsized, must sink ere he can swim. The dark water bubbled loudly +over his head, and then he came up almost blind and deaf for a moment; +the next, he saw the black boat bottom uppermost, and figures clinging +to it; he shook his head like a water-dog, and made for it by a sort of +unthinking imitation; but ere he reached it he heard a voice behind him +cry not loud but with deep manly distress, “Adieu, comrade, adieu!” + +He looked, and there was poor Denys sinking, sinking, weighed down by +his wretched arbalest. His face was pale, and his eyes staring wide, +and turned despairingly on his dear friend. Gerard uttered a wild cry +of love and terror, and made for him, cleaving the water madly; but the +next moment Denys was under water. + +The next, Gerard was after him. + +The officers knotted a rope and threw the end in. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +Things good and evil balance themselves in a remarkable manner and +almost universally. The steel bow attached to the arbalestrier's back, +and carried above his head, had sunk him. That very steel bow, owing +to that very position, could not escape Gerard's hands, one of which +grasped it, and the other went between the bow and the cord, which was +as good. The next moment, Denys, by means of his crossbow, was hoisted +with so eager a jerk that half his body bobbed up out of water. + +“Now, grip me not! grip me not!” cried Gerard, in mortal terror of that +fatal mistake. + +“Pas si bete,” gurgled Denys. + +Seeing the sort of stuff he had to deal with, Gerard was hopeful and +calm directly. “On thy back,” said he sharply, and seizing the arbalest, +and taking a stroke forward, he aided the desired movement. “Hand on +my shoulder! slap the water with the other hand! No--with a downward +motion; so. Do nothing more than I bid thee.” Gerard had got hold of +Denys's long hair, and twisting it hard, caught the end between his side +teeth, and with the strong muscles of his youthful neck easily kept up +the soldier's head, and struck out lustily across the current. A moment +he had hesitated which side to make for, little knowing the awful +importance of that simple decision; then seeing the west bank a trifle +nearest, he made towards it, instead of swimming to jail like a good +boy, and so furnishing one a novel incident. Owing to the force of the +current they slanted considerably, and when they had covered near a +hundred yards, Denys murmured uneasily, “How much more of it?” + +“Courage,” mumbled Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; art +safe as in bed.” + +The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow +water, and so waded ashore. Once on terra firma, they looked at one +another from head to foot as if eyes could devour, then by one impulse +flung each an arm round the other's neck, and panted there with hearts +too full to speak. And at this sacred moment life was sweet as heaven to +both; sweetest perhaps to the poor exiled lover, who had just saved his +friend. Oh, joy to whose height what poet has yet soared, or ever tried +to soar? To save a human life; and that life a loved one. Such moments +are worth living for, ay, three score years and ten. And then, calmer, +they took hands, and so walked along the bank hand in hand like a pair +of sweethearts, scarce knowing or caring whither they went. + +The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft, +Herr Turnip-face, the “Inverter of things,” being in the middle. All +this fracas seemed not to have essentially deranged his habits. At least +he was greeting when he shot our friends into the Rhine, and greeting +when they got out again. + +“Shall we wait till they right the boat?” + +“No, Denys, our fare is paid; we owe them nought. Let us on, and +briskly.” + +Denys assented, observing that they could walk all the way to Cologne on +this bank. + +“I fare not to Cologne,” was the calm reply. + +“Why, whither then?” + +“To Burgundy.” + +“To Burgundy? Ah, no! that is too good to be sooth.” + +“Sooth 'tis, and sense into the bargain. What matters it to me how I go +to Rome?” + +“Nay, nay; you but say so to pleasure me. The change is too sudden; and +think me not so ill-hearted as take you at your word. Also did I not see +your eyes sparkle at the wonders of Cologne? the churches, the images, +the relics + +“How dull art thou, Denys; that was when we were to enjoy them together. +Churches! I shall see plenty, go Rome-ward how I will. The bones of +saints and martyrs; alas! the world is full of them; but a friend like +thee, where on earth's face shall I find another? No, I will not turn +thee farther from the road that leads to thy dear home, and her that +pines for thee. Neither will I rob myself of thee by leaving thee. Since +I drew thee out of Rhine I love thee better than I did. Thou art my +pearl: I fished thee; and must keep thee. So gainsay me not, or thou +wilt bring back my fever; but cry courage, and lead on; and hey for +Burgundy!” + +Denys gave a joyful caper. “Courage! va pour la Bourgogne. Oh! soyes +tranquille! cette fois il est bien decidement mort, ce coquin-la.” And +they turned their backs on the Rhine. + +On this decision making itself clear, across the Rhine there was a +commotion in the little party that had been watching the discussion, and +the friends had not taken many steps ere a voice came to them over the +water. “HALT!” + +Gerard turned, and saw one of those four holding out a badge of office +and a parchment slip. His heart sank; for he was a good citizen, and +used to obey the voice that now bade him turn again to Dusseldorf--the +Law's. + +Denys did not share his scruples. He was a Frenchman, and despised every +other nation, laws, inmates, and customs included. He was a soldier, +and took a military view of the situation. Superior force opposed; river +between; rear open; why, 'twas retreat made easy. He saw at a glance +that the boat still drifted in mid-stream, and there was no ferry nearer +than Dusseldorf. “I shall beat a quick retreat to that hill,” said he, +“and then, being out of sight, quick step.” + +They sauntered off. + +“Halt! in the bailiff's name,” cried a voice from the shore. + +Denys turned round and ostentatiously snapped his fingers at the +bailiff, and proceeded. + +“Halt! in the archbishop's name.” + +Denys snapped his fingers at his grace, and proceeded. + +“Halt! in the emperor's name.” + +Denys snapped his fingers at his majesty, and proceeded. + +Gerard saw this needless pantomime with regret, and as soon as they had +passed the brow of the hill, said, “There is now but one course, we must +run to Burgundy instead of walking;” and he set off, and ran the best +part of a league without stopping. + +Denys was fairly blown, and inquired what on earth had become of +Gerard's fever. “I begin to miss it sadly,” said he drily. + +“I dropped it in Rhine, I trow,” was the reply. + +Presently they came to a little village, and here Denys purchased a loaf +and a huge bottle of Rhenish wine. “For,” he said, “we must sleep in +some hole or corner. If we lie at an inn, we shall be taken in our +beds.” This was no more than common prudence on the old soldier's part. + +The official network for catching law-breakers, especially plebeian +ones, was very close in that age; though the co-operation of the public +was almost null, at all events upon the Continent. The innkeepers were +everywhere under close surveillance as to their travellers, for whose +acts they were even in some degree responsible, more so it would seem +than for their sufferings. + +The friends were both glad when the sun set; and delighted, when, after +a long trudge under the stars (for the moon, if I remember right, did +not rise till about three in the morning) they came to a large barn +belonging to a house at some distance. A quantity of barley had been +lately thrashed; for the heap of straw on one side the thrashing-floor +was almost as high as the unthrashed corn on the other. + +“Here be two royal beds,” said Denys; “which shall we lie on, the mow, +or the straw?” + +“The straw for me,” said Gerard. + +They sat on the heap, and ate their brown bread, and drank their wine, +and then Denys covered his friend up in straw, and heaped it high above +him, leaving him only a breathing hole: “Water, they say, is death to +fevered men; I'll make warm water on't, anyhow.” + +Gerard bade him make his mind easy. “These few drops from Rhine cannot +chill me. I feel heat enough in my body now to parch a kennel, or boil a +cloud if I was in one.” And with this epigram his consciousness went so +rapidly, he might really be said to “fall asleep.” + +Denys, who lay awake awhile, heard that which made him nestle closer. +Horses' hoofs came ringing up from Dusseldorf, and the wooden barn +vibrated as they rattled past howling in a manner too well known and +understood in the 15th century, but as unfamiliar in Europe now as a red +Indian's war-whoop. + +Denys shook where he lay. + +Gerard slept like a top. + +It all swept by, and troop and howls died away. + +The stout soldier drew a long breath, whistled in a whisper, closed his +eyes, and slept like a top, too. + +In the morning he sat up and put out his hand to wake Gerard. It lighted +on the young man's forehead, and found it quite wet. Denys then in his +quality of nurse forbore to wake him. “It is ill to check sleep or sweat +in a sick man,” said he. “I know that far, though I ne'er minced ape nor +gallows-bird.” + +After waiting a good hour he felt desperately hungry; so he turned, and +in self-defence went to sleep again. + +Poor fellow, in his hard life he had been often driven to this +manoeuvre. At high noon he was waked by Gerard moving, and found him +sitting up with the straw smoking round him like a dung-hill. Animal +heat versus moisture. Gerard called him “a lazy loon.” He quietly +grinned. + +They set out, and the first thing Denys did was to give Gerard his +arbalest, etc., and mount a high tree on the road. “Coast clear to the +next village,” said he, and on they went. + +On drawing near the village, Denys halted and suddenly inquired of +Gerard how he felt. + +“What! can you not see? I feel as if Rome was no further than yon +hamlet.” + +“But thy body, lad; thy skin?” + +“Neither hot nor cold; and yesterday 'twas hot one while and cold +another. But what I cannot get rid of is this tiresome leg.” + +“Le grand malheur! Many of my comrades have found no such difficulty.” + +“Ah! there it goes again; itches consumedly.” + +“Unhappy youth,” said Denys solemnly, “the sum of thy troubles is this: +thy fever is gone, and thy wound is--healing. Sith so it is,” added he +indulgently, “I shall tell thee a little piece of news I had otherwise +withheld.” + +“What is't?” asked Gerard, sparkling with curiosity. + +“THE HUE AND CRY IS OUT AFTER US: AND ON FLEET HORSES.” + +“Oh!” + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +Gerard was staggered by this sudden communication, and his colour came +and went. Then he clenched his teeth with ire. For men of any spirit +at all are like the wild boar; he will run from a superior force, owing +perhaps to his not being an ass; but if you stick to his heels too long +and too close, and, in short, bore him, he will whirl, and come tearing +at a multitude of hunters, and perhaps bore you. Gerard then set his +teeth and looked battle, But the next moment his countenance fell, and +he said plaintively, “And my axe is in Rhine.” + +They consulted together. Prudence bade them avoid that village; hunger +said “buy food.” + +Hunger spoke loudest. Prudence most convincingly. They settled to strike +across the fields. + +They halted at a haystack and borrowed two bundles of hay, and lay on +them in a dry ditch out of sight, but in nettles. + +They sallied out in turn and came back with turnips. These they munched +at intervals in their retreat until sunset. + +Presently they crept out shivering into the rain and darkness, and got +into the road on the other side of the village. + +It was a dismal night, dark as pitch, and blowing hard. They could +neither see, nor hear, nor be seen, nor heard; and for aught I know, +passed like ghosts close to their foes. These they almost forgot in the +natural horrors of the black tempestuous night, in which they seemed to +grope and hew their way as in black marble. When the moon rose they were +many a league from Dusseldorf. But they still trudged on. Presently they +came to a huge building. + +“Courage!” cried Denys, “I think I know this convent. Aye it is. We are +in the see of Juliers. Cologne has no power here.” + +The next moment they were safe within the walls. + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +Here Gerard made acquaintance with a monk, who had constructed the +great dial in the prior's garden, and a wheel for drawing water, and +a winnowing machine for the grain, etc., and had ever some ingenious +mechanism on hand. He had made several psalteries and two dulcimers, and +was now attempting a set of regalles, or little organ for the choir. + +Now Gerard played the humble psaltery a little; but the monk touched +that instrument divinely, and showed him most agreeably what a novice +he was in music. He also illuminated finely, but could not write so +beautifully as Gerard. Comparing their acquirements with the earnestness +and simplicity of an age in which accomplishments implied a true natural +bent, Youth and Age soon became like brothers, and Gerard was pressed +hard to stay that night. He consulted Denys, who assented with a rueful +shrug. + +Gerard told his old new friend whither he was going, and described their +late adventures, softening down the bolster. + +“Alack!” said the good old man, “I have been a great traveller in my +day, but none molested me.” He then told him to avoid inns; they were +always haunted by rogues and roysterers, whence his soul might take harm +even did his body escape, and to manage each day's journey so as to lie +at some peaceful monastery; then suddenly breaking off and looking as +sharp as a needle at Gerard, he asked him how long since he had been +shriven? Gerard coloured up and replied feebly-- + +“Better than a fortnight.” + +“And thou an exorcist! No wonder perils have overtaken thee. Come, thou +must be assoiled out of hand.” + +“Yes, father,” said Gerard, “and with all mine heart;” and was sinking +down to his knees, with his hands joined, but the monk stopped him half +fretfully-- + +“Not to me! not to me! not to me! I am as full of the world as thou or +any be that lives in't. My whole soul it is in these wooden pipes, and +sorry leathern stops, which shall perish--with them whose minds are +fixed on such like vanities.” + +“Dear father,” said Gerard, “they are for the use of the Church, and +surely that sanctifies the pains and labour spent on them?” + +“That is just what the devil has been whispering in mine ear this +while,” said the monk, putting one hand behind his back and shaking his +finger half threateningly, half playfully, at Gerard. “He was even so +kind and thoughtful as to mind me that Solomon built the Lord a house +with rare hangings, and that this in him was counted gracious and no +sin. Oh! he can quote Scripture rarely. But I am not so simple a monk +as you think, my lad,” cried the good father, with sudden defiance, +addressing not Gerard but--Vacancy. “This one toy finished, vigils, +fasts, and prayers for me; prayers standing, prayers lying on the chapel +floor, and prayers in a right good tub of cold water.” He nudged Gerard +and winked his eye knowingly. “Nothing he hates and dreads like seeing +us monks at our orisons up to our chins in cold water. For corpus domat +aqua. So now go confess thy little trumpery sins, pardonable in youth +and secularity, and leave me to mine, sweet to me as honey, and to be +expiated in proportion.” + +Gerard bowed his head, but could not help saying, “Where shall I find a +confessor more holy and clement?” + +“In each of these cells,” replied the monk simply (they were now in the +corridor) “there, go to Brother Anselm, yonder.” + +Gerard followed the monk's direction, and made for a cell; but the doors +were pretty close to one another, and it seems he mistook; for just +as he was about to tap, he heard his old friend crying to him in an +agitated whisper, “Nay! nay! nay!” He turned, and there was the monk +at his cell-door, in a strange state of anxiety, going up and down +and beating the air double-handed, like a bottom sawyer. Gerard really +thought the cell he was at must be inhabited by some dangerous wild +beast, if not by that personage whose presence in the convent had been +so distinctly proclaimed. He looked back inquiringly and went on to the +next door. Then his old friend nodded his head rapidly, bursting in a +moment into a comparatively blissful expression of face, and shot back +into his den. He took his hour-glass, turned it, and went to work on his +regalles; and often he looked up, and said to himself, “Well-a-day, the +sands how swift they run when the man is bent over earthly toys.” + +Father Anselm was a venerable monk, with an ample head, and a face all +dignity and love. Therefore Gerard in confessing to him, and replying to +his gentle though searching questions, could not help thinking, “Here is +a head!--Oh dear! oh dear! I wonder whether you will let me draw it when +I have done confessing.” And so his own head got confused, and he forgot +a crime or two. However, he did not lower the bolstering this time, +nor was he so uncandid as to detract from the pagan character of the +bolstered. + +The penance inflicted was this: he was to enter the convent church, and +prostrating himself, kiss the lowest step of the altar three times; +then kneeling on the floor, to say three paternosters and a credo: “this +done, come back to me on the instant.” + +Accordingly, his short mortification performed, Gerard returned, and +found Father Anselm spreading plaster. + +“After the soul the body,” said he; “know that I am the chirurgeon here, +for want of a better. This is going on thy leg; to cool it, not to burn +it; the saints forbid.” + +During the operation the monastic leech, who had naturally been +interested by the Dusseldorf branch of Gerard's confession, rather sided +with Denys upon “bleeding.” “We Dominicans seldom let blood nowadays; +the lay leeches say 'tis from timidity and want of skill; but, in sooth, +we have long found that simples will cure most of the ills that can +be cured at all. Besides, they never kill in capable hands; and other +remedies slay like thunderbolts. As for the blood, the Vulgate saith +expressly it is the life of a man.' And in medicine or law, as in +divinity, to be wiser than the All-wise is to be a fool. Moreover, +simples are mighty. The little four-footed creature that kills the +poisonous snake, if bitten herself, finds an herb powerful enough to +quell that poison, though stronger and of swifter operation than any +mortal malady; and we, taught by her wisdom, and our own traditions, +still search and try the virtues of those plants the good God hath +strewed this earth with, some to feed men's bodies, some to heal them. +Only in desperate ills we mix heavenly with earthly virtue. We steep +the hair or the bones of some dead saint in the medicine, and thus work +marvellous cures.” + +“Think you, father, it is along of the reliques? for Peter a Floris, a +learned leech and no pagan, denies it stoutly.” + +“What knows Peter a Floris? And what know I? I take not on me to say +we can command the saints, and will they nill they, can draw corporal +virtue from their blest remains. But I see that the patient drinking +thus in faith is often bettered as by a charm. Doubtless faith in the +recipient is for much in all these cures. But so 'twas ever. A sick +woman, that all the Jewish leeches failed to cure, did but touch +Christ's garment and was healed in a moment. Had she not touched that +sacred piece of cloth she had never been healed. Had she without faith +not touched it only, but worn it to her grave, I trow she had been none +the better for't. But we do ill to search these things too curiously. +All we see around us calls for faith. Have then a little patience. +We shall soon know all. Meantime, I, thy confessor for the nonce, do +strictly forbid thee, on thy soul's health, to hearken learned lay folk +on things religious. Arrogance is their bane; with it they shut heaven's +open door in their own faces. Mind, I say, learned laics. Unlearned ones +have often been my masters in humility, and may be thine. Thy wound is +cared for; in three days 'twill be but a scar. And now God speed thee, +and the saints make thee as good and as happy as thou art thoughtful +and gracious.” Gerard hoped there was no need to part yet, for he was +to dine in the refectory. But Father Anselm told him, with a shade of +regret just perceptible and no more, that he did not leave his cell this +week, being himself in penitence; and with this he took Gerard's head +delicately in both hands, and kissed him on the brow, and almost before +the cell door had closed on him, was back to his pious offices. Gerard +went away chilled to the heart by the isolation of the monastic life, +and saddened too. “Alas!” he thought, “here is a kind face I must never +look to see again on earth; a kind voice gone from mine ear and my heart +for ever. There is nothing but meeting and parting in this sorrowful +world. Well-a-day! well-a-day!” This pensive mood was interrupted by +a young monk who came for him and took him to the refectory; there he +found several monks seated at a table, and Denys standing like a poker, +being examined as to the towns he should pass through: the friars +then clubbed their knowledge, and marked out the route, noting all the +religious houses on or near that road; and this they gave Gerard. Then +supper, and after it the old monk carried Gerard to his cell, and they +had an eager chat, and the friar incidentally revealed the cause of +his pantomime in the corridor. “Ye had well-nigh fallen into Brother +Jerome's clutches. Yon was his cell.” + +“Is Father Jerome an ill man, then?” + +“An ill man!” and the friar crossed himself; “a saint, an anchorite, the +very pillar of this house! He had sent ye barefoot to Loretto. Nay, I +forgot, y'are bound for Italy; the spiteful old saint upon earth, had +sent ye to Canterbury or Compostella. But Jerome was born old and with +a cowl; Anselm and I were boys once, and wicked beyond anything you +can imagine” (Gerard wore a somewhat incredulous look): “this keeps us +humble more or less, and makes us reasonably lenient to youth and hot +blood.” + +Then, at Gerard's earnest request, one more heavenly strain upon the +psalterion, and so to bed, the troubled spirit calmed, and the sore +heart soothed. + + +I have described in full this day, marked only by contrast, a day that +came like oil on waves after so many passions and perils--because it +must stand in this narrative as the representative of many such days +which now succeeded to it. For our travellers on their weary way +experienced that which most of my readers will find in the longer +journey of life, viz., that stirring events are not evenly distributed +over the whole road, but come by fits and starts, and as it were, in +clusters. To some extent this may be because they draw one another by +links more or less subtle. But there is more in it than that. It happens +so. Life is an intermittent fever. Now all narrators, whether of history +or fiction, are compelled to slur these barren portions of time or else +line trunks. The practice, however, tends to give the unguarded reader +a wrong arithmetical impression, which there is a particular reason +for avoiding in these pages as far as possible. I invite therefore your +intelligence to my aid, and ask you to try and realize that, although +there were no more vivid adventures for a long while, one day's march +succeeded another; one monastery after another fed and lodged them +gratis with a welcome always charitable, sometimes genial; and though +they met no enemy but winter and rough weather, antagonists not always +contemptible, yet they trudged over a much larger tract of territory +than that, their passage through which I have described so minutely. And +so the pair, Gerard bronzed in the face and travel-stained from head to +foot, and Denys with his shoes in tatters, stiff and footsore both of +them, drew near the Burgundian frontier. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +Gerard was almost as eager for this promised land as Denys; for the +latter constantly chanted its praises, and at every little annoyance +showed him “they did things better in Burgundy;” and above all played on +his foible by guaranteeing clean bedclothes at the inns of that polished +nation. “I ask no more,” the Hollander would say; “to think that I have +not lain once in a naked bed since I left home! When I look at their +linen, instead of doffing habit and hose, it is mine eyes and nose I +would fain be shut of.” + +Denys carried his love of country so far as to walk twenty leagues in +shoes that had exploded, rather than buy of a German churl, who would +throw all manner of obstacles in a customer's way, his incivility, his +dinner, his body. + +Towards sunset they found themselves at equal distances from a little +town and a monastery, only the latter was off the road. Denys was for +the inn, Gerard for the convent. Denys gave way, but on condition that +once in Burgundy they should always stop at an inn. Gerard consented +to this the more readily that his chart with its list of convents ended +here. So they turned off the road. And now Gerard asked with surprise +whence this sudden aversion to places that had fed and lodged them +gratis so often. The soldier hemmed and hawed at first, but at last his +wrongs burst forth. It came out that this was no sudden aversion, but an +ancient and abiding horror, which he had suppressed till now, but with +infinite difficulty, and out of politeness: “I saw they had put powder +in your drink,” said he, “so I forbore them. However, being the last, +why not ease my mind? Know then I have been like a fish out of water +in all those great dungeons. You straightway levant with some old +shaveling: so you see not my purgatory.” + +“Forgive me! I have been selfish.” + +“Ay, ay, I forgive thee, little one; 'tis not thy fault: art not the +first fool that has been priest-rid, and monk-hit. But I'll not +forgive them my misery.” Then, about a century before Henry VIII.'s +commissioners, he delivered his indictment. These gloomy piles were +all built alike. Inns differed, but here all was monotony. Great gate, +little gate, so many steps and then a gloomy cloister. Here the dortour, +there the great cold refectory, where you must sit mumchance, or at +least inaudible, he who liked to speak his mind out; “and then,” + said he, “nobody is a man here, but all are slaves, and of what? of a +peevish, tinkling bell, that never sleeps. An 'twere a trumpet now, aye +sounding alarums, 'twouldn't freeze a man's heart so. Tinkle, tinkle, +tinkle, and you must sit to meat with may be no stomach for food. Ere +your meat settles in your stomach, tinkle, tinkle! and ye must to church +with may be no stomach for devotion: I am not a hog at prayers, for one. +Tinkle, tinkle, and now you must to bed with your eyes open. Well, by +then you have contrived to shut them, some uneasy imp of darkness has +got to the bell-rope, and tinkle, tinkle, it behoves you say a prayer in +the dark, whether you know one or not. If they heard the sort of prayers +I mutter when they break my rest with their tinkle! Well, you drop off +again and get about an eyeful of sleep: lo, it is tinkle, tinkle, for +matins.” + +“And the only clapper you love is a woman's,” put in Gerard half +contemptuously. + +“Because there is some music in that even when it scolds,” was the stout +reply. “And then to be always checked. If I do but put my finger in the +salt-cellar, straightway I hear, 'Have you no knife that you finger the +salt?' And if I but wipe my knife on the cloth to save time, then 'tis, +'Wipe thy knife dirty on the bread, and clean upon the cloth!' Oh small +of soul! these little peevish pedantries fall chill upon good fellowship +like wee icicles a-melting down from strawen eaves.” + +“I hold cleanliness no pedantry,” said Gerard. “Shouldst learn better +manners once for all.” + +“Nay; 'tis they who lack manners. They stop a fellow's mouth at every +word.” + +“At every other word, you mean; every obscene or blasphemous one.” + +“Exaggerator, go to! Why, at the very last of these dungeons I found the +poor travellers sitting all chilled and mute round one shaveling, like +rogues awaiting their turn to be hanged; so to cheer them up, I did but +cry out, 'Courage, tout le monde, le dia-- + +“Connu! what befell?” + +“Marry, this. 'Blaspheme not!' quo' the bourreau. 'Plait-il,' say I. +Doesn't he wheel and wyte on me in a sort of Alsatian French, turning +all the P's into B's. I had much ado not to laugh in his face.” + +“Being thyself unable to speak ten words of his language without a +fault.” + +“Well, all the world ought to speak French. What avail so many jargons +except to put a frontier atwixt men's hearts?” + +“But what said he?” + +“What signifies it what a fool says?” + +“Oh, not all the words of a fool are folly, or I should not listen to +you.” + +“Well, then, he said, 'Such as begin by making free with the devil's +name, aye end by doing it with all the names in heaven.' 'Father,' said +I, 'I am a soldier, and this is but my “consigne” or watchword.” 'Oh, +then, it is just a custom?' said he. I not divining the old fox, and +thinking to clear myself, said, 'Ay, it was.' 'Then that is ten times +worse,' said he. ''Twill bring him about your ears one of these days. He +still comes where he hears his name often called.' Observe! no gratitude +for the tidings which neither his missals nor his breviary had ever let +him know. Then he was so good as to tell me, soldiers do commonly the +crimes for which all other men are broke on the wheel; a savoir murder, +rape, and pillage.” + +“And is't not true?” + +“True or not, it was ill manners,” replied Denys guardedly. “And so +says this courteous host of mine, 'Being the foes of mankind, why make +enemies of good spirits into the bargain, by still shouting the names of +evil ones?' and a lot more stuff.” + +“Well, but, Denys, whether you hearken his rede, or slight it, wherefore +blame a man for raising his voice to save your soul?” + +“How can his voice save my soul, when he keeps turning of his P's into +B's.” + +Gerard was staggered: ere he could recover at this thunderbolt of +Gallicism, Denys went triumphant off at a tangent, and stigmatized all +monks as hypocrites. “Do but look at them, how they creep about and +cannot eye you like honest men.” + +“Nay,” said Gerard eagerly, “that modest downcast gaze is part of their +discipline, 'tis 'custodia oculorum'.” + +“Cussed toads eating hoc hac horum? No such thing; just so looks a +cut-purse. Can't meet a true man's eye. Doff cowl, monk; and behold, +a thief; don cowl thief, and lo, a monk. Tell me not they will ever be +able to look God Almighty in the face, when they can't even look a true +man in the face down here. Ah, here it is, black as ink! into the well +we go, comrade. Misericorde, there goes the tinkle already. 'Tis the +best of tinkles though; 'tis for dinner: stay, listen! I thought so: the +wolf in my stomach cried 'Amen!'” This last statement he confirmed with +two oaths, and marched like a victorious gamecock into the convent, +thinking by Gerard's silence he had convinced him, and not dreaming how +profoundly he had disgusted him. + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +In the refectory allusion was made, at the table where Gerard sat, +to the sudden death of the monk who had undertaken to write out fresh +copies of the charter of the monastery, and the rule, etc. + +Gerard caught this, and timidly offered his services. There was a +hesitation which he mistook. “Nay, not for hire, my lords, but for love, +and as a trifling return for many a good night's lodging the brethren of +your order have bestowed on me a poor wayfarer.” + +A monk smiled approvingly; but hinted that the late brother was an +excellent penman, and his work could not be continued but by a master. +Gerard on this drew from his wallet with some trepidation a vellum deed, +the back of which he had cleaned and written upon by way of specimen. +The monk gave quite a start at sight of it, and very hastily went up +the hall to the high table, and bending his knee so as just to touch in +passing the fifth step and the tenth, or last, presented it to the prior +with comments. Instantly a dozen knowing eyes were fixed on it, and a +buzz of voices was heard; and soon Gerard saw the prior point more than +once, and the monk came back, looking as proud as Punch, with a savoury +crustade ryal, or game pie gravied and spiced, for Gerard, and a silver +grace cup full of rich pimentum. This latter Gerard took, and bowing +low, first to the distant prior, then to his own company, quaffed, and +circulated the cup. + +Instantly, to his surprise, the whole table hailed him as a brother: +“Art convent bred, deny it not?” He acknowledged it, and gave Heaven +thanks for it, for otherwise he had been as rude and ignorant as his +brothers, Sybrandt and Cornelis. + +“But 'tis passing strange how you could know,” said he. + +“You drank with the cup in both hands,” said two monks, speaking +together. + +The voices had for some time been loudish round a table at the bottom +of the hall; but presently came a burst of mirth so obstreperous and +prolonged, that the prior sent the very sub-prior all down the hall to +check it, and inflict penance on every monk at the table. And Gerard's +cheek burned with shame; for in the heart of the unruly merriment his +ear had caught the word “courage!” and the trumpet tones of Denys of +Burgundy. + +Soon Gerard was installed in feu Werter's cell, with wax lights, and a +little frame that could be set at any angle, and all the materials of +caligraphy. The work, however, was too much for one evening. Then came +the question, how could he ask Denys, the monk-hater, to stay longer? +However, he told him, and offered to abide by his decision. He was +agreeably surprised when Denys said graciously, “A day's rest will do +neither of us harm. Write thou, and I'll pass the time as I may.” + +Gerard's work was vastly admired; they agreed that the records of the +monastery had gained by poor Werter's death. The sub-prior forced a +rix-dollar on Gerard, and several brushes and colours out of the convent +stock, which was very large. He resumed his march warm at heart, for +this was of good omen; since it was on the pen he relied to make +his fortune and recover his well-beloved. “Come, Denys,” said he +good-humouredly, “see what the good monks have given me; now, do try to +be fairer to them; for to be round with you, it chilled my friendship +for a moment to hear even you call my benefactors 'hypocrites.'” + +“I recant,” said Denys. + +“Thank you! thank you! Good Denys.” + +“I was a scurrilous vagabond.” + +“Nay, nay, say not so, neither!” + +“But we soldiers are rude and hasty. I give myself the lie, and I offer +those I misunderstood all my esteem. 'Tis unjust that thousands should +be defamed for the hypocrisy of a few.” + +“Now are you reasonable. You have pondered what I said?” + +“Nay, it is their own doing.” + +Gerard crowed a little, we all like to be proved in the right; and +was all attention when Denys offered to relate how his conversion was +effected. + +“Well then, at dinner the first day a young monk beside me did open his +jaws and laughed right out and most musically. 'Good,' said I, 'at last +I have fallen on a man and not a shorn ape.' So, to sound him further, +I slapped his broad back and administered my consigne. 'Heaven forbid!' +says he. I stared. For the dog looked as sad as Solomon; a better mime +saw you never, even at a Mystery. 'I see war is no sharpener of the +wits,' said he. 'What are the clergy for but to fight the foul fiend? +and what else are the monks for? + + “The fiend being dead, + The friars are sped.” + +You may plough up the convents, and we poor monks shall have nought to +do--but turn soldiers, and so bring him to life again.' Then there was a +great laugh at my expense. 'Well, you are the monk for me,' said I. 'And +you are the crossbowman for me,' quo' he. 'And I'll be bound you could +tell us tales of the war should make our hair stand on end.' 'Excusez! +the barber has put that out of the question,' quoth I, and then I had +the laugh.” + +“What wretched ribaldry!” observed Gerard pensively. + +The candid Denys at once admitted he had seen merrier jests hatched with +less cackle. “'Twas a great matter to have got rid of hypocrisy. 'So,' +said I, 'I can give you the chaire de poule, if that may content ye.' +'That we will see,' was the cry, and a signal went round.” + +Denys then related, bursting with glee, how at bedtime he had been taken +to a cell instead of the great dortour, and strictly forbidden to sleep; +and to aid his vigil, a book had been lent him of pictures representing +a hundred merry adventures of monks in pursuit of the female laity; +and how in due course he had been taken out barefooted and down to the +parlour, where was a supper fit for the duke, and at it twelve jolly +friars, the roaringest boys he had ever met in peace or war. How the +story, the toast, the jest, the wine-cup had gone round, and some +had played cards with a gorgeous pack, where Saint Theresa, and Saint +Catherine, etc., bedizened with gold, stood for the four queens; and +black, white, grey, and crutched friars for the four knaves; and had +staked their very rosaries, swearing like troopers when they lost. And +how about midnight a sly monk had stolen out, but had by him and others +been as cannily followed into the garden, and seen to thrust his hand +into the ivy and out with a rope-ladder. With this he had run up on +the wall, which was ten feet broad, yet not so nimbly but what a russet +kirtle had popped up from the outer world as quick as he; and so to +billing and cooing: that this situation had struck him as rather feline +than ecclesiastical, and drawn from him the appropriate comment of a +“mew!” The monks had joined the mewsical chorus, and the lay visitor +shrieked and been sore discomforted; but Abelard only cried, “What, are +ye there, ye jealous miauling knaves? ye shall caterwaul to some tune +to-morrow night. I'll fit every man-jack of ye with a fardingale.” That +this brutal threat had reconciled him to stay another day--at Gerard's +request. + +Gerard groaned. + +Meantime, unable to disconcert so brazen a monk, and the demoiselle +beginning to whimper, they had danced caterwauling in a circle, then +bestowed a solemn benediction on the two wall-flowers, and off to +the parlour, where they found a pair lying dead drunk, and other +two affectionate to tears. That they had straightway carried off the +inanimate, and dragged off the loving and lachymose, kicked them all +merrily each into his cell. + +“And so shut up in measureless content.” + +Gerard was disgusted: and said so. + +Denys chuckled, and proceeded to tell him how the next day he and the +young monks had drawn the fish-ponds and secreted much pike, carp, +tench, and eel for their own use: and how, in the dead of night, he had +been taken shoeless by crooked ways into the chapel, a ghost-like place, +being dark, and then down some steps into a crypt below the chapel +floor, where suddenly paradise had burst on him. + +“'Tis there the holy fathers retire to pray,” put in Gerard. + +“Not always,” said Denys; “wax candles by the dozen were lighted, and +princely cheer; fifteen soups maigre, with marvellous twangs of venison, +grouse, and hare in them, and twenty different fishes (being Friday), +cooked with wondrous art, and each he between two buxom lasses, and each +lass between two lads with a cowl; all but me: and to think I had to woo +by interpreter. I doubt the knave put in three words for himself and +one for me; if he didn't, hang him for a fool. And some of the weaker +vessels were novices, and not wont to hold good wine; had to be coaxed +ere they would put it to their white teeth; mais elles s'y faisaient; +and the story, and the jest, and the cup went round (by-the-by, they had +flagons made to simulate breviaries); and a monk touched the cittern, +and sang ditties with a voice tunable as a lark in spring. The posies +did turn the faces of the women folk bright red at first: but elles s'y +faisaient.” + +Here Gerard exploded. + +“Miserable wretches! Corrupters of youth! Perverters of innocence! but +for your being there, Denys, who have been taught no better, oh, +would God the church had fallen on the whole gang. Impious, abominable +hypocrites!” + +“Hypocrites?” cried Denys, with unfeigned surprise. “Why, that is what I +clept them ere I knew them: and you withstood me. Nay, they are sinners; +all good fellows are that; but, by St. Denys his helmeted skull, no +hypocrites, but right jolly roaring blades.” + +“Denys,” said Gerard solemnly, “you little know the peril you ran that +night. That church you defiled amongst you is haunted; I had it from +one of the elder monks. The dead walk there, their light feet have been +heard to patter o'er the stones.” + +“Misericorde!” whispered Denys. + +“Ay, more,” said Gerard, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; +“celestial sounds have issued from the purlieus of that very crypt you +turned into a tavern. Voices of the dead holding unearthly communion +have chilled the ear of midnight, and at times, Denys, the faithful in +their nightly watches have even heard music from dead lips; and chords, +made by no mortal finger, swept by no mortal hand, have rung faintly, +like echoes, deep among the dead in those sacred vaults.” + +Denys wore a look of dismay. “Ugh! if I had known, mules and wain-ropes +had not hauled me thither; and so” (with a sigh) “I had lost a merry +time.” + +Whether further discussion might have thrown any more light upon these +ghostly sounds, who can tell? for up came a “bearded brother” from the +monastery, spurring his mule, and waving a piece of vellum in his hand. +It was the deed between Ghysbrecht and Floris Brandt. Gerard valued it +deeply as a remembrance of home: he turned pale at first but to think he +had so nearly lost it, and to Denys's infinite amusement not only gave a +piece of money to the lay brother, but kissed the mule's nose. + +“I'll read you now,” said Gerard, “were you twice as ill written; +and--to make sure of never losing you”--here he sat down, and taking out +needle and thread, sewed it with feminine dexterity to his doublet, and +his mind, and heart, and soul were away to Sevenbergen. + +They reached the promised land, and Denys, who was in high spirits, +doffed his bonnet to all the females; who curtsied and smiled in return; +fired his consigne at most of the men; at which some stared, some +grinned, some both; and finally landed his friend at one of the +long-promised Burgundian inns. + +“It is a little one,” said he, “but I know it of old for a good one; +Les Trois Poissons.' But what is this writ up? I mind not this;” and he +pointed to an inscription that ran across the whole building in a single +line of huge letters. “Oh, I see. 'Ici on loge a pied et a cheval,'” + said Denys, going minutely through the inscription, and looking +bumptious when he had effected it. + +Gerard did look, and the sentence in question ran thus: + +“ON NE LOGE CEANS A CREDIT; CE BONHOMME EST MORT, LES MAUVAIS PAIEURS +L'ONT TUE.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +They met the landlord in the passage. + +“Welcome, messieurs,” said he, taking off his cap, with a low bow. + +“Come, we are not in Germany,” said Gerard. + +In the public room they found the mistress, a buxom woman of forty. She +curtsied to them, and smiled right cordially “Give yourself the trouble +of sitting ye down, fair sir,” said she to Gerard, and dusted two chairs +with her apron, not that they needed it. + +“Thank you, dame,” said Gerard. “Well,” thought he, “this is a polite +nation: the trouble of sitting down? That will I with singular patience; +and presently the labour of eating, also the toil of digestion, and +finally, by Hercules his aid, the strain of going to bed, and the +struggle of sinking fast asleep. + +“Why, Denys, what are you doing? ordering supper for only two?” + +“Why not?” + +“What, can we sup without waiting for forty more? Burgundy forever!” + +“Aha! Courage, camarade. Le dia--” + +“C'est convenu.” + +The salic law seemed not to have penetrated to French inns. In this one +at least wimple and kirtle reigned supreme; doublets and hose were few +in number, and feeble in act. The landlord himself wandered objectless, +eternally taking off his cap to folk for want of thought; and the women, +as they passed him in turn, thrust him quietly aside without looking at +him, as we remove a live twig in bustling through a wood. + +A maid brought in supper, and the mistress followed her, empty handed. + +“Fall to, my masters,” said she cheerily; “y'have but one enemy here; +and he lies under your knife.” (I shrewdly suspect this of formula.) + +They fell to. The mistress drew her chair a little toward the table; and +provided company as well as meat; gossiped genially with them like old +acquaintances: but this form gone through, the busy dame was soon off +and sent in her daughter, a beautiful young woman of about twenty, +who took the vacant seat. She was not quite so broad and genial as the +elder, but gentle and cheerful, and showed a womanly tenderness for +Gerard on learning the distance the poor boy had come, and had to go. +She stayed nearly half-an-hour, and when she left them Gerard said, +“This an inn? Why, it is like home.” + +“Qui fit Francois il fit courtois,” said Denys, bursting with gratified +pride. + +“Courteous? nay, Christian; to welcome us like home guests and old +friends, us vagrants, here to-day and gone to-morrow. But indeed who +better merits pity and kindness than the worn traveller far from his +folk? Hola! here's another.” + +The new-comer was the chambermaid, a woman of about twenty-five, with +a cocked nose, a large laughing mouth, and a sparkling black eye, and a +bare arm very stout but not very shapely. + +The moment she came in, one of the travellers passed a somewhat free +jest on her; the next the whole company were roaring at his expense, +so swiftly had her practised tongue done his business. Even as, in +a passage of arms between a novice and a master of fence, foils +clash--novice pinked. On this another, and then another, must break a +lance with her; but Marion stuck her great arms upon her haunches, and +held the whole room in play. This country girl possessed in perfection +that rude and ready humour which looks mean and vulgar on paper, but +carries all before it spoken: not wit's rapier; its bludgeon. Nature had +done much for her in this way, and daily practice in an inn the rest. + +Yet shall she not be photographed by me, but feebly indicated: for it +was just four hundred years ago, the raillery was coarse, she returned +every stroke in kind, and though a virtuous woman, said things without +winking, which no decent man of our day would say even among men. + +Gerard sat gaping with astonishment. This was to him almost a new +variety of “that interesting species,” homo. He whispered “Denys, Now +I see why you Frenchmen say 'a woman's tongue is her sword:'” just then +she levelled another assailant; and the chivalrous Denys, to console +and support “the weaker vessel,” the iron kettle among the clay pots, +administered his consigne, “Courage, ma mie, le---” etc. + +She turned on him directly. “How can he be dead as long as there is an +archer left alive?” (General laughter at her ally's expense.) + +“It is 'washing day,' my masters,” said she, with sudden gravity. + +“Apres? We travellers cannot strip and go bare while you wash our +clothes,” objected a peevish old fellow by the fireside, who had kept +mumchance during the raillery, but crept out into the sunshine of +commonplaces. + +“I aimed not your way, ancient man,” replied Marion superciliously. “But +since you ask me” (here she scanned him slowly from head to foot), “I +trow you might take a turn in the tub, clothes and all, and no harm +done” (laughter). “But what I spoke for, I thought this young sire might +like his beard starched.” + +Poor Gerard's turn had come; his chin crop was thin and silky. + +The loudest of all the laughers this time was the traitor Denys, whose +beard was of a good length, and singularly stiff and bristly; so that +Shakespeare, though he never saw him, hit him in the bull's eye. + + “Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.” + --As You Like It. + +Gerard bore the Amazonian satire mighty calmly. He had little personal +vanity. “Nay, 'chambriere,'” said he, with a smile, “mine is all +unworthy your pains; take you this fair growth in hand!” and he pointed +to Denys's vegetable. + +“Oh, time for that, when I starch the besoms.” + +Whilst they were all shouting over this palpable hit, the mistress +returned, and in no more time than it took her to cross the threshold, +did our Amazon turn to a seeming Madonna meek and mild. + +Mistresses are wonderful subjugators. Their like I think breathes not +on the globe. Housemaids, decide! It was a waste of histrionic ability +though; for the landlady had heard, and did not at heart disapprove, the +peals of laughter. + +“Ah, Marion, lass,” said she good-humouredly, “if you laid me an +egg every time you cackle, 'L'es Trois Poissons' would never lack an +omelet.” + +“Now, dame,” said Gerard, “what is to pay?” + +“What for?” + +“Our supper.” + +“Where is the hurry? cannot you be content to pay when you go? lose the +guest, find the money, is the rule of 'The Three Fish.'” + +“But, dame, outside 'The Three Fish' it is thus written--'Ici-on ne +loge--” + +“Bah! Let that flea stick on the wall! Look hither,” and she pointed +to the smoky ceiling, which was covered with hieroglyphics. These were +accounts, vulgo scores; intelligible to this dame and her daughter, who +wrote them at need by simply mounting a low stool, and scratching with +a knife so as to show lines of ceiling through the deposit of smoke. The +dame explained that the writing on the wall was put there to frighten +moneyless folk from the inn altogether, or to be acted on at odd times +when a non-paying face should come in and insist on being served. “We +can't refuse them plump, you know. The law forbids us.” + +“And how know you mine is not such a face?” + +“Out fie! it is the best face that has entered 'The Three Fish' this +autumn.” + +“And mine, dame?” said Denys; “dost see no knavery here?” + +She eyed him calmly. “Not such a good one as the lad's; nor ever will +be. But it is the face of a true man. For all that,” added she drily, +“an I were ten years younger, I'd as lieve not meet that face on a dark +night too far from home.” + +Gerard stared. Denys laughed. “Why, dame, I would but sip the night dew +off the flower; and you needn't take ten years off, nor ten days, to be +worth risking a scratched face for.” + +“There, our mistress,” said Marion, who had just come in, “said I not +t'other day you could make a fool of them still, an if you were properly +minded?” + +“I dare say ye did; it sounds like some daft wench's speech.” + +“Dame,” said Gerard, “this is wonderful.” + +“What? Oh! no, no, that is no wonder at all. Why, I have been here all +my life; and reading faces is the first thing a girl picks up in an +inn.” + +Marion. “And frying eggs the second; no, telling lies; frying eggs is +the third, though.” + +The Mistress. “And holding her tongue the last, and modesty the day +after never at all.” + +Marion. “Alack! Talk of my tongue. But I say no more. She under whose +wing I live now deals the blow. I'm sped--'tis but a chambermaid gone. +Catch what's left on't!” and she staggered and sank backwards on to the +handsomest fellow in the room, which happened to be Gerard. + +“Tic! tic!” cried he peevishly; “there, don't be stupid! that is too +heavy a jest for me. See you not I am talking to the mistress?” + +Marion resumed her elasticity with a grimace, made two little bounds +into the middle of the floor, and there turned a pirouette. “There, +mistress,” said she, “I give in; 'tis you that reigns supreme with the +men, leastways with male children.” + +“Young man,” said the mistress, “this girl is not so stupid as her +deportment; in reading of faces, and frying of omelets, there we are +great. 'Twould be hard if we failed at these arts, since they are about +all we do know.” + +“You do not quite take me, dame,” said Gerard. “That honesty in a face +should shine forth to your experienced eye, that seems reasonable: but +how by looking on Denys here could you learn his one little foible, his +insanity, his miserable mulierosity?” Poor Gerard got angrier the more +he thought of it. + +“His mule--his what?” (crossing herself with superstitious awe at the +polysyllable). + +“Nay, 'tis but the word I was fain to invent for him.” + +“Invent? What, can a child like you make other words than grow in +Burgundy by nature? Take heed what ye do! why, we are overrun with them +already, especially bad ones. Lord, these be times. I look to hear of a +new thistle invented next.” + +“Well then, dame, mulierose--that means wrapped up, body and soul, +in women. So prithee tell me; how did you ever detect the noodle's +mulierosity?” + +“Alas! good youth, you make a mountain of a molehill. We that are women +be notice-takers; and out of the tail of our eye see more than most men +can, glaring through a prospect glass. Whiles I move to and fro doing +this and that, my glance is still on my guests, and I did notice that +this soldier's eyes were never off the womenfolk: my daughter, or +Marion, or even an old woman like me, all was gold to him: and there a +sat glowering; oh, you foolish, foolish man! Now you still turned to the +speaker, her or him, and that is common sense.” + +Denys burst into a hoarse laugh. “You never were more out. Why, this +silky, smooth-faced companion is a very Turk--all but his beard. He is +what d'ye call 'em oser than ere an archer in the Duke's body-guard. He +is more wrapped up in one single Dutch lass called Margaret, than I am +in the whole bundle of ye, brown and fair.” + +“Man alive, that is just the contrary,” said the hostess. “Yourn is the +bane, and hisn the cure. Cling you still to Margaret, my dear. I hope +she is an honest girl.” + +“Dame, she is an angel.” + +“Ay, ay, they are all that till better acquainted. I'd as lieve have her +no more than honest, and then she will serve to keep you out of worse +company. As for you, soldier, there is trouble in store for you. Your +eyes were never made for the good of your soul.” + +“Nor of his pouch either,” said Marion, striking in, “and his lips, they +will sip the dew, as he calls it, off many a bramble bush.” + +“Overmuch clack! Marion overmuch clack.” + +“Ods bodikins, mistress; ye didn't hire me to be one o' your three +fishes, did ye?” and Marion sulked thirty seconds. + +“Is that the way to speak to our mistress?” remonstrated the landlord, +who had slipped in. + +“Hold your whisht,” said his wife sharply; “it is not your business to +check the girl; she is a good servant to you.” + +“What, is the cock never to crow, and the hens at it all day?” + +“You can crow as loud as you like, my man out o' doors. But the hen +means to rule the roost.” + +“I know a byword to that tune.” said Gerard. + +“Do ye, now? out wi't then.” + + “Femme veut en toute saison, + Estre dame en sa mason.” + +“I never heard it afore; but 'tis as sooth as gospel. Ay, they that +set these bywords a rolling had eyes and tongues, and tongues and eyes. +Before all the world give me an old saw.” + +“And me a young husband,” said Marion. “Now there was a chance for you +all, and nobody spoke. Oh! it is too late now, I've changed my mind.” + +“All the better for some poor fellow,” suggested Denys. + +And now the arrival of the young mistress, or, as she was called, the +little mistress, was the signal for them all to draw round the fire, +like one happy family, travellers, host, hostess, and even servants in +the outer ring, and tell stories till bedtime. And Gerard in his turn +told a tremendous one out of his repertory, a MS. collection of “acts of +the saints,” and made them all shudder deliciously; but soon after began +to nod, exhausted by the effort, I should say. The young mistress saw, +and gave Marion a look. She instantly lighted a rush, and laying her +hand on Gerard's shoulder, invited him to follow her. She showed him a +room where were two nice white beds, and bade him choose. + +“Either is paradise,” said he. “I'll take this one. Do you know, I have +not lain in a naked bed once since I left my home in Holland.” + +“Alack! poor soul!” said she; “well, then, the sooner my flax and your +down (he! he!) come together, the better; so--allons!” and she held out +her cheek as business-like as if it had been her hand for a fee. + +“Allons? what does that mean?” + +“It means 'good-night.' Ahem! What, don't they salute the chambermaid in +your part?” + +“Not all in a moment.” + +“What, do they make a business on't?” + +“Nay, perverter of words, I mean we make not so free with strange women. + +“They must be strange women if they do not think you strange fools, +then. Here is a coil. Why, all the old greasy greybeards that lie at our +inn do kiss us chambermaids; faugh! and what have we poor wretches to +set on t'other side the compt but now and then a nice young----? Alack! +time flies, chambermaids can't be spared long in the nursery, so how +is't to be?” + +“An't please you arrange with my comrade for both. He is mulierose; I am +not.” + +“Nay, 'tis the curb he will want, not the spur. Well! well! you shall +to bed without paying the usual toll; and oh, but 'tis sweet to fall +in with a young man who can withstand these ancient ill customs, and +gainsay brazen hussies. Shalt have thy reward.” + +“Thank you! But what are you doing with my bed?” + +“Me? oh, only taking off these sheets, and going to put on the pair the +drunken miller slept in last night.” + +“Oh, no! no! You cruel, black-hearted thing! There! there!” + +“A la bonne heure! What will not perseverance effect? But note now the +frowardness of a mad wench! I cared not for't a button. I am dead sick +of that sport this five years. But you denied me; so then forthwith I +behoved to have it; belike had gone through fire and water for't. Alas, +young sir, we women are kittle cattle; poor perverse toads: excuse us: +and keep us in our place, savoir, at arm's length; and so good-night!” + +At the door she turned and said, with a complete change of tone and +manner: “The Virgin guard thy head, and the holy Evangelists watch the +bed where lies a poor young wanderer far from home! Amen!” + +And the next moment he heard her run tearing down the stairs, and soon a +peal of laughter from the salle betrayed her whereabouts. + +“Now that is a character,” said Gerard profoundly, and yawned over the +discovery. + +In a very few minutes he was in a dry bath of cold, clean linen, +inexpressibly refreshing to him after so long disuse: then came a +delicious glow; and then--Sevenbergen. + + +In the morning Gerard awoke infinitely refreshed, and was for rising, +but found himself a close prisoner. His linen had vanished. Now this +was paralysis; for the nightgown is a recent institution. In Gerard's +century, and indeed long after, men did not play fast and loose with +clean sheets (when they could get them), but crept into them clothed +with their innocence, like Adam: out of bed they seem to have taken most +after his eldest son. + +Gerard bewailed his captivity to Denys; but that instant the door +opened, and in sailed Marion with their linen, newly washed and ironed, +on her two arms, and set it down on the table. + +“Oh you good girl,” cried Gerard. + +“Alack, have you found me out at last?” + +“Yes, indeed. Is this another custom?” + +“Nay, not to take them unbidden: but at night we aye question +travellers, are they for linen washed. So I came into you, but you were +both sound. Then said I to the little mistress, 'La! where is the sense +of waking wearied men, t'ask them is Charles the Great dead, and would +they liever carry foul linen or clean, especially this one with a skin +like cream? 'And so he has, I declare,' said the young mistress.” + +“That was me,” remarked Denys, with the air of a commentator. + +“Guess once more, and you'll hit the mark.” + +“Notice him not, Marion, he is an impudent fellow; and I am sure we +cannot be grateful enough for your goodness, and I am sorry I ever +refused you--anything you fancied you should like.” + +“Oh, are ye there,” said l'espiegle. “I take that to mean you would +fain brush the morning dew off, as your bashful companion calls it; well +then, excuse me, 'tis customary, but not prudent. I decline. Quits with +you, lad.” + +“Stop! stop!” cried Denys, as she was making off victorious, “I am +curious to know how many, of ye were here last night a-feasting your +eyes on us twain. + +“'Twas so satisfactory a feast as we weren't half a minute over't. Who? +why the big mistress, the little mistress, Janet, and me, and the whole +posse comitatus, on tiptoe. We mostly make our rounds the last thing, +not to get burned down; and in prodigious numbers. Somehow that maketh +us bolder, especially where archers lie scattered about.” + +“Why did not you tell me? I'd have lain awake.” + +“Beau sire, the saying goes that the good and the ill are all one while +their lids are closed. So we said, 'Here is one who will serve God best +asleep, Break not his rest!'” + +“She is funny,” said Gerard dictatorially. + +“I must be either that or knavish.” + +“How so?” + +“Because 'The Three Fish' pay me to be funny. You will eat before you +part? Good! then I'll go see the meat be fit for such worshipful teeth.” + +“Denys!” + +“What is your will?” + +“I wish that was a great boy, and going along with us, to keep us +cheery.” + +“So do not I. But I wish it was going along with us as it is.” + +“Now Heaven forefend! A fine fool you would make of yourself.” + + +They broke their fast, settled their score, and said farewell. Then +it was they found that Marion had not exaggerated the “custom of the +country.” The three principal women took and kissed them right heartily, +and they kissed the three principal women. The landlord took and kissed +them, and they kissed the landlord; and the cry was, “Come back, the +sooner the better!” + +“Never pass 'The Three Fish'; should your purses be void, bring +yourselves: 'le sieur credit' is not dead for you.” + +And they took the road again. + +They came to a little town, and Denys went to buy shoes. The shopkeeper +was in the doorway, but wide awake. He received Denys with a bow down +to the ground. The customer was soon fitted, and followed to the street, +and dismissed with graceful salutes from the doorstep. + +The friends agreed it was Elysium to deal with such a shoemaker as this. +“Not but what my German shoes have lasted well enough,” said Gerard the +just. + +Outside the town was a pebbled walk. + +“This is to keep the burghers's feet dry, a-walking o' Sundays with +their wives and daughters,” said Denys. + +Those simple words of Denys, one stroke of a careless tongue, painted +“home” in Gerard's heart. “Oh, how sweet!” said he. + +“Mercy! what is this? A gibbet! and ugh, two skeletons thereon! +Oh, Denys, what a sorry sight to woo by!” + +“Nay,” said Denys, “a comfortable sight; for every rogue i' the air +there is one the less a-foot.” + +A little farther on they came to two pillars, and between these was a +huge wheel closely studded with iron prongs; and entangled in these were +bones and fragments of cloth miserably dispersed over the wheel. + +Gerard hid his face in his hands. “Oh, to think those patches and bones +are all that is left of a man! of one who was what we are now.” + +“Excusez! a thing that went on two legs and stole; are we no more than +that?” + +“How know ye he stole? Have true men never suffered death and torture +too?” + +“None of my kith ever found their way to the gibbet, I know.” + +“The better their luck. Prithee, how died the saints?” + +“Hard. But not in Burgundy.” + +“Ye massacred them wholesale at Lyons, and that is on Burgundy's +threshold. To you the gibbet proves the crime, because you read not +story. Alas! had you stood on Calvary that bloody day we sigh for to +this hour, I tremble to think you had perhaps shouted for joy at the +gibbet builded there; for the cross was but the Roman gallows, Father +Martin says.” + +“The blaspheming old hound!” + +“Oh, fie! fie! a holy and a book-learned man. Ay, Denys, y'had read +them, that suffered there, by the bare light of the gibbet. 'Drive +in the nails!' y'had cried: 'drive in the spear!' Here be three +malefactors. Three 'roues.' Yet of those little three one was the first +Christian saint, and another was the Saviour of the world which gibbeted +him.” + +Denys assured him on his honour they managed things better in Burgundy. +He added, too, after profound reflection, that the horrors Gerard had +alluded to had more than once made him curse and swear with rage when +told by the good cure in his native village at Eastertide: “but they +chanced in an outlandish nation, and near a thousand years agone. Mort +de ma vie, let us hope it is not true; or at least sore exaggerated. Do +but see how all tales gather as they roll!” + +Then he reflected again, and all in a moment turned red with ire. “Do +ye not blush to play with your book-craft on your unlettered friend, and +throw dust in his eyes, evening the saints with these reptiles?” + +Then suddenly he recovered his good humour. “Since your heart beats for +vermin, feel for the carrion crows! they be as good vermin as these; +would ye send them to bed supperless, poor pretty poppets? Why, these +be their larder; the pangs of hunger would gnaw them dead, but for cold +cut-purse hung up here and there.” + +Gerard, who had for some time maintained a dead silence, informed him +the subject was closed between them, and for ever. “There are things,” + said he, “in which our hearts seem wide as the poles asunder, and eke +our heads. But I love thee dearly all the same,” he added, with infinite +grace and tenderness. + +Towards afternoon they heard a faint wailing noise on ahead; it grew +distincter as they proceeded. Being fast walkers they soon came up with +its cause: a score of pikemen, accompanied by several constables, were +marching along, and in advance of them was a herd of animals they were +driving. These creatures, in number rather more than a hundred, were of +various ages, only very few were downright old: the males were downcast +and silent. It was the females from whom all the outcry came. In other +words, the animals thus driven along at the law's point were men and +women. + +“Good Heaven!” cried Gerard, “what a band of them! But stay, surely all +those children cannot be thieves; why, there are some in arms. What on +earth is this, Denys?” + +Denys advised him to ask that “bourgeois” with the badge; “This is +Burgundy: here a civil question ever draws a civil reply.” + +Gerard went up to the officer, and removing his cap, a civility which +was immediately returned, said, “For our Lady's sake, sir, what do ye +with these poor folk?” + +“Nay, what is that to you, my lad?” replied the functionary +suspiciously. + +“Master, I'm a stranger, and athirst for knowledge.” + +“That is another matter. What are we doing? ahem. Why we--Dost hear, +Jacques? Here is a stranger seeks to know what we are doing,” and the +two machines were tickled that there should be a man who did not know +something they happened to know. In all ages this has tickled. However, +the chuckle was brief and moderated by the native courtesy, and the +official turned to Gerard again. “What we are doing? hum!” and now he +hesitated, not from any doubt as to what he was doing, but because he +was hunting for a single word that should convey the matter. + +“Ce que nous faisons, mon gars?--Mais--dam--NOUS TRANSVASONS.” + +“You decant? that should mean you pour from one vessel to another.” + +“Precisely.” He explained that last year the town of Charmes had been +sore thinned by a pestilence, whole houses emptied and trades short of +hands. Much ado to get in the rye, and the flax half spoiled. So the +bailiff and aldermen had written to the duke's secretary; and the duke +he sent far and wide to know what town was too full. “That are we,” had +the baillie of Toul writ back. “Then send four or five score of your +townsfolk,” was the order. “Was not this to decant the full town into +the empty, and is not the good duke the father of his people, and will +not let the duchy be weakened, nor its fair towns laid waste by sword +nor pestilence; but meets the one with pike, and arbalest (touching his +cap to the sergeant and Denys alternately), and t'other with policy? +LONG LIVE THE DUKE!” + +The pikemen of course were not to be outdone in loyalty; so they shouted +with stentorian lungs “LONG LIVE THE DUKE!” Then the decanted ones, +partly because loyalty was a non-reasoning sentiment in those days, +partly perhaps because they feared some further ill consequence should +they alone be mute, raised a feeble, tremulous shout, “Long live the +Duke!” + +But, at this, insulted nature rebelled. Perhaps indeed the sham +sentiment drew out the real, for, on the very heels of that royal noise, +a loud and piercing wail burst from every woman's bosom, and a deep, +deep groan from every man's; oh! the air filled in a moment with womanly +and manly anguish. Judge what it must have been when the rude pikemen +halted unbidden, all confused; as if a wall of sorrow had started up +before them. + +“En avant,” roared the sergeant, and they marched again, but muttering +and cursing. + +“Ah the ugly sound,” said the civilian, wincing. “Les malheureux!” cried +he ruefully: for where is the single man can hear the sudden agony of +a multitude and not be moved? “Les ingrats! They are going whence +they were de trop to where they will be welcome: from starvation to +plenty--and they object. They even make dismal noises. One would think +we were thrusting them forth from Burgundy.” + +“Come away,” whispered Gerard, trembling; “come away,” and the friends +strode forward. + +When they passed the head of the column, and saw the men walk with their +eyes bent in bitter gloom upon the ground, and the women, some carrying, +some leading little children, and weeping as they went, and the poor +bairns, some frolicking, some weeping because “their mammies” wept, +Gerard tried hard to say a word of comfort, but choked and could utter +nothing to the mourners; but gasped, “Come on, Denys, I cannot mock such +sorrow with little words of comfort.” And now, artist-like, all his aim +was to get swiftly out of the grief he could not soothe. He almost ran +not to hear these sighs and sobs. + +“Why, mate,” said Denys, “art the colour of a lemon. Man alive, take not +other folk's troubles to heart! not one of those whining milksops there +but would see thee, a stranger, hanged without winking.” + +Gerard scarce listened to him. + +“Decant them?” he groaned; “ay, if blood were no thicker than wine. +Princes, ye are wolves. Poor things! Poor things! Ah, Denys! Denys! +with looking on their grief mine own comes home to me. Well-a-day! ah, +well-a-day!” + +“Ay, now you talk reason. That you, poor lad, should be driven all the +way from Holland to Rome is pitiful indeed. But these snivelling curs, +where is their hurt? There is six score of 'em to keep one another +company: besides, they are not going out of Burgundy.” + +“Better for them if they had never been in it.” + +“Mechant, va! they are but going from one village to another, a mule's +journey! whilst thou--there, no more. Courage, camarade, le diable est +mort.” + +Gerard shook his head very doubtfully, but kept silence for about a +mile, and then he said thoughtfully, “Ay, Denys, but then I am sustained +by booklearning. These are simple folk that likely thought their village +was the world: now what is this? more weeping. Oh! 'tis a sweet world +Humph! A little girl that hath broke her pipkin. Now may I hang on one +of your gibbets but I'll dry somebody's tears,” and he pounced savagely +upon this little martyr, like a kite on a chick, but with more generous +intentions. It was a pretty little lass of about twelve; the tears were +raining down her two peaches, and her palms lifted to heaven in that +utter, though temporary, desolation which attends calamity at twelve; +and at her feet the fatal cause, a broken pot, worth, say the fifth of a +modern farthing. + +“What, hast broken thy pot, little one?” said Gerard, acting intensest +sympathy. + +“Helas! bel gars; as you behold;” and the hands came down from the sky +and both pointed at the fragments. A statuette of adversity. + +“And you weep so for that?” + +“Needs I must, bel gars. My mammy will massacre me. Do they not already” + (with a fresh burst of woe) “c-c-call me J-J-Jean-net-on C-c-casse tout? +It wanted but this; that I should break my poor pot. Helas! fallait-il +donc, mere de Dieu?” + +“Courage, little love,” said Gerard; “'tis not thy heart lies broken; +money will soon mend pots. See now, here is a piece of silver, and +there, scarce a stone's throw off, is a potter; take the bit of silver +to him, and buy another pot, and the copper the potter will give thee +keep that to play with thy comrades.” + +The little mind took in all this, and smiles began to struggle with the +tears: but spasms are like waves, they cannot go down the very moment +the wind of trouble is lulled. So Denys thought well to bring up his +reserve of consolation “Courage, ma mie, le diable est mort!” cried that +inventive warrior gaily. Gerard shrugged his shoulders at such a way of +cheering a little girl, + + “What a fine thing + Is a lute with one string,” + +said he. + +The little girl's face broke into warm sunshine. + +“Oh, the good news! oh, the good news!” she sang out with such heartfelt +joy, it went off into a honeyed whine; even as our gay old tunes have +a pathos underneath “So then,” said she, “they will no longer be able to +threaten us little girls with him, making our lives a burden!” And she +bounded off “to tell Nanette,” she said. + +There is a theory that everything has its counterpart; if true, Denys it +would seem had found the mind his consigne fitted. + +While he was roaring with laughter at its unexpected success and +Gerard's amazement, a little hand pulled his jerkin and a little face +peeped round his waist. Curiosity was now the dominant passion in that +small but vivid countenance. + +“Est-ce toi qui l'a tue, beau soldat?” + +“Oui, ma mie,” said Denys, as gruffly as ever he could, rightly deeming +this would smack of supernatural puissance to owners of bell-like +trebles. “C'est moi. Ca vaut une petite embrassade--pas?” + +“Je crois ben. Aie! aie!” + +“Qu'as-tu?” + +“Ca pique! ca pique!” + +“Quel dommage! je vais la couper.” + +“Nein, ce n'est rien; et pisque t'as tue ce mechant. T'es fierement +beau, tout d' meme, toi; t'es lien miex que ma grande soeur. + +“Will you not kiss me, too, ma mie?” said Gerard. + +“Je ne demande par miex. Tiens, tiens, tiens! c'est doulce celle-ci. Ah! +que j'aimons les hommes! Des fames, ca ne m'aurait jamais donne l'arjan, +blanc, plutot ca m'aurait ri au nez. C'est si peu de chose, les fames. +Serviteur, beaulx sires! Bon voiage; et n'oubliez point la Jeanneton!” + +“Adieu, petit coeur,” said Gerard, and on they marched; but presently +looking back they saw the contemner of women in the middle of the road, +making them a reverence, and blowing them kisses with little May morning +face. + +“Come on,” cried Gerard lustily. “I shall win to Rome yet. Holy St. +Bavon, what a sunbeam of innocence hath shot across our bloodthirsty +road! Forget thee, little Jeanneton? not likely, amidst all this +slobbering, and gibbeting, and decanting. Come on, thou laggard! +forward!” + +“Dost call this marching?” remonstrated Denys; “why, we shall walk o'er +Christmas Day and never see it.” + +At the next town they came to, suddenly an arbalestrier ran out of a +tavern after them, and in a moment his beard and Denys's were like two +brushes stuck together. It was a comrade. He insisted on their coming +into the tavern with him, and breaking a bottle of wine. In course of +conversation, he told Denys there was an insurrection in the Duke's +Flemish provinces, and soldiers were ordered thither from all parts of +Burgundy. “Indeed, I marvelled to see thy face turned this way. + +“I go to embrace my folk that I have not seen these three years. Ye can +quell a bit of a rising without me I trow.” + +Suddenly Denys gave a start. “Dost hear Gerard? this comrade is bound +for Holland.” + +“What then? ah, a letter! a letter to Margaret! but will he be so good, +so kind?” + +The soldier with a torrent of blasphemy informed him he would not only +take it, but go a league or two out of his way to do it. + +In an instant out came inkhorn and paper from Gerard's wallet; and he +wrote a long letter to Margaret, and told her briefly what I fear I have +spun too tediously; dwelt most on the bear, and the plunge in the Rhine, +and the character of Denys, whom he painted to the life. And with many +endearing expressions bade her to be of good cheer; some trouble and +peril there had been, but all that was over now, and his only grief left +was, that he could not hope to have a word from her hand till he should +reach Rome. He ended with comforting her again as hard as he could. And +so absorbed was he in his love and his work, that he did not see all the +people in the room were standing peeping, to watch the nimble and true +finger execute such rare penmanship. + +Denys, proud of his friend's skill, let him alone, till presently the +writer's face worked, and soon the scalding tears began to run down his +young cheeks, one after another, on the paper where he was then writing +comfort, comfort. Then Denys rudely repulsed the curious, and asked his +comrade with a faltering voice whether he had the heart to let so sweet +a love-letter miscarry? The other swore by the face of St. Luke he would +lose the forefinger of his right hand sooner. + +Seeing him so ready, Gerard charged him also with a short, cold letter +to his parents; and in it he drew hastily with his pen two hands +grasping each other, to signify farewell. By-the-by, one drop of +bitterness found its way into his letter to Margaret. But of that anon. + +Gerard now offered money to the soldier. He hesitated, but declined it. +“No, no! art comrade of my comrade; and may” (etc.) “but thy love for +the wench touches me. I'll break another bottle at thy charge an thou +wilt, and so cry quits.” + +“Well said, comrade,” cried Denys. “Hadst taken money, I had invited +thee to walk in the courtyard and cross swords with me.” + +“Whereupon I had cut thy comb for thee,” retorted the other. + +“Hadst done thy endeavour, drole, I doubt not.” + +They drank the new bottle, shook hands, adhered to custom, and parted on +opposite routes. + +This delay, however, somewhat put out Denys's calculations, and evening +surprised them ere they reached a little town he was making for, where +was a famous hotel. However, they fell in with a roadside auberge, and +Denys, seeing a buxom girl at the door, said, “This seems a decent +inn,” and led the way into the kitchen. They ordered supper, to which +no objection was raised, only the landlord requested them to pay for it +beforehand. It was not an uncommon proposal in any part of the world. +Still it was not universal, and Denys was nettled, and dashed his hand +somewhat ostentatiously into his purse and pulled out a gold angel. +“Count me the change, and speedily,” said he. “You tavern-keepers are +more likely to rob me than I you.” + +While the supper was preparing, Denys disappeared, and was eventually +found by Gerard in the yard, helping Manon, his plump but not bright +decoy duck, to draw water, and pouring extravagant compliments into her +dullish ear. Gerard grunted and returned to table, but Denys did not +come in for a good quarter of an hour. + +“Uphill work at the end of a march,” said he, shrugging his shoulders. + +“What matters that to you!” said Gerard drily. “The mad dog bites all +the world.” + +“Exaggerator. You know I bite but the fairer half. Well, here comes +supper; that is better worth biting.” + +During supper the girl kept constantly coming in and out, and looking +point-blank at them, especially at Denys; and at last in leaning over +him to remove a dish, dropped a word in his ear; and he replied with a +nod. + +As soon as supper was cleared away, Denys rose and strolled to the door, +telling Gerard the sullen fair had relented, and given him a little +rendezvous in the stable-yard. + +Gerard suggested that the calf-pen would have been a more appropriate +locality. “I shall go to bed, then,” said he, a little crossly. “Where +is the landlord? out at this time of night? no matter. I know our room. +Shall you be long, pray?” + +“Not I. I grudge leaving the fire and thee. But what can I do? There are +two sorts of invitations a Burgundian never declines.” + +Denys found a figure seated by the well. It was Manon; but instead +of receiving him as he thought he had a right to expect, coming by +invitation, all she did was to sob. He asked her what ailed her? She +sobbed. Could he do anything for her? She sobbed. + +The good-natured Denys, driven to his wits' end, which was no great +distance, proffered the custom of the country by way of consolation. She +repulsed him roughly. “Is it a time for fooling?” said she, and sobbed. + +“You seem to think so,” said Denys, waxing wroth. But the next moment he +added tenderly, “and I, who could never bear to see beauty in distress.” + +“It is not for myself.” + +“Who then? your sweetheart?” + +“Oh, que nenni. My sweetheart is not on earth now: and to think I have +not an ecu to buy masses for his soul;” and in this shallow nature the +grief seemed now to be all turned in another direction. + +“Come, come,” said Denys, “shalt have money to buy masses for thy dead +lad; I swear it. Meantime tell me why you weep.” + +“For you.” + +“For me? Art mad?” + +“No; I am not mad. 'Tis you that were mad to open your purse before +him.” + +The mystery seemed to thicken, and Denys, wearied of stirring up the +mud by questions, held his peace to see if it would not clear of itself. +Then the girl, finding herself no longer questioned, seemed to go +through some internal combat. At last she said, doggedly and aloud, “I +will. The Virgin give me courage? What matters it if they kill me, since +he is dead? Soldier, the landlord is out.” + +“Oh, is he?” + +“What, do landlords leave their taverns at this time of night? also +see what a tempest! We are sheltered here, but t'other side it blows a +hurricane.” + +Denys said nothing. + +“He is gone to fetch the band.” + +“The band! what band?” + +“Those who will cut your throat and take your gold. Wretched man; to go +and shake gold in an innkeeper's face!” + +The blow came so unexpectedly it staggered even Denys, accustomed as he +was to sudden perils. He muttered a single word, but in it a volume. + +“Gerard!” + +“Gerard! What is that? Oh, 'tis thy comrade's name, poor lad. Get him +out quick ere they come; and fly to the next town.” + +“And thou?” + +“They will kill me.” + +“That shall they not. Fly with us.” + +“'Twill avail me nought: one of the band will be sent to kill me. They +are sworn to slay all who betray them.” + +“I'll take thee to my native place full thirty leagues from hence, and +put thee under my own mother's wing, ere they shall hurt a hair o' thy +head. But first Gerard. Stay thou here whilst I fetch him!” + +As he was darting off, the girl seized him convulsively, and with all +the iron strength excitement lends to women. “Stay me not! for pity's +sake,” he cried; “'tis life or death.” + +“Sh!--sh!” whispered the girl, shutting his mouth hard with her hand, +and putting her pale lips close to him, and her eyes, that seemed to +turn backwards, straining towards some indistinct sound. + +He listened. + +He heard footsteps, many footsteps, and no voices. She whispered in his +ear, “They are come.” And trembled like a leaf. + +Denys felt it was so. Travellers in that number would never have come in +dead silence. + +The feet were now at the very door. + +“How many?” said he, in a hollow whisper. + +“Hush!” and she put her mouth to his very ear. And who, that had seen +this man and woman in that attitude, would have guessed what freezing +hearts were theirs, and what terrible whispers passed between them? + +“How armed?” + +“Sword and dagger: and the giant with his axe. They call him the Abbot.” + +“And my comrade?” + +“Nothing can save him. Better lose one life than two. Fly!” + +Denys's blood froze at this cynical advice. “Poor creature, you know not +a soldier's heart.” + +He put his head in his hands a moment, and a hundred thoughts of dangers +baffled whirled through his brain. + +“Listen, girl! There is one chance for our lives, if thou wilt but be +true to us. Run to the town; to the nearest tavern, and tell the first +soldier there, that a soldier here is sore beset, but armed, and his +life to be saved if they will but run. Then to the bailiff. But first +to the soldiers. Nay, not a word, but buss me, good lass, and fly! men's +lives hang on thy heels.” + +She kilted up her gown to run. He came round to the road with her, saw +her cross the road cringing with fear, then glide away, then turn into +an erect shadow, then melt away in the storm. + +And now he must get to Gerard. But how? He had to run the gauntlet of +the whole band. He asked himself, what was the worst thing they could +do? for he had learned in war that an enemy does, not what you hope he +will do, but what you hope he will not do. “Attack me as I enter the +kitchen! Then I must not give them time.” + +Just as he drew near to the latch, a terrible thought crossed him. +“Suppose they had already dealt with Gerard. Why, then,” thought he, +“nought is left but to kill, and be killed;” and he strung his bow, and +walked rapidly into the kitchen. There were seven hideous faces seated +round the fire, and the landlord pouring them out neat brandy, blood's +forerunner in every age. + +“What? company!” cried Denys gaily; “one minute, my lads, and I'll be +with you;” and he snatched up a lighted candle off the table, opened the +door that led to the staircase, and went up it hallooing. “What, Gerard! +whither hast thou skulked to?” There was no answer. He hallooed louder, +“Gerard, where art thou?” + +After a moment, in which Denys lived an hour of agony, a peevish, +half-inarticulate noise issued from the room at the head of the little +stairs. Denys burst in, and there was Gerard asleep. + +“Thank God!” he said, in a choking voice, then began to sing loud, +untuneful ditties. Gerard put his fingers into his ears; but presently +he saw in Denys's face a horror that contrasted strangely with this +sudden merriment. + +“What ails thee?” said he, sitting up and staring. + +“Hush!” said Denys, and his hand spoke even more plainly than his lips. +“Listen to me.” + +Denys then pointing significantly to the door, to show Gerard sharp ears +were listening hard by, continued his song aloud but under cover of it +threw in short muttered syllables. + +“(Our lives are in peril.) + +“(Thieves.) + +“(Thy doublet.) + +“(Thy sword.) + +“Aid. + +“Coming. + +“Put off time.” Then aloud-- + +“Well, now, wilt have t'other bottle?--Say nay.” + +“No, not I.” + +“But I tell thee, there are half-a-dozen jolly fellows. Tired.” + +“Ay, but I am too wearied,” said Gerard. “Go thou.” + +“Nay, nay!” Then he went to the door and called out cheerfully +“Landlord, the young milksop will not rise. Give those honest fellows +t'other bottle. I will pay for't in the morning.” + +He heard a brutal and fierce chuckle. + +Having thus by observation made sure the kitchen door was shut, and the +miscreants were not actually listening, he examined the chamber door +closely: then quietly shut it, but did not bolt it; and went and +inspected the window. + +It was too small to get out of, and yet a thick bar of iron had been +let in the stone to make it smaller; and just as he made this chilling +discovery, the outer door of the house was bolted with a loud clang. + +Denys groaned. “The beasts are in the shambles.” + +But would the thieves attack them while they were awake? Probably not. + +Not to throw away this their best chance, the poor souls now made a +series of desperate efforts to converse, as if discussing ordinary +matters; and by this means Gerard learned all that had passed, and that +the girl was gone for aid. + +“Pray Heaven she may not lose heart by the way,” said Denys, +sorrowfully. + +And Denys begged Gerard's forgiveness for bringing him out of his way +for this. + +Gerard forgave him. + +“I would fear them less, Gerard, but for one they call the Abbot. +I picked him out at once. Taller than you, bigger than us both put +together. Fights with an axe. Gerard, a man to lead a herd of deer to +battle. I shall kill that man to-night, or he will kill me. I think +somehow 'tis he will kill me.” + +“Saints forbid! Shoot him at the door! What avails his strength against +your weapon?” + +“I shall pick him out; but if it comes to hand fighting, run swiftly +under his guard, or you are a dead man. I tell thee neither of us may +stand a blow of that axe: thou never sawest such a body of a man.” + +Gerard was for bolting the door; but Denys with a sign showed him that +half the door-post turned outward on a hinge, and the great bolt was +little more than a blind. “I have forborne to bolt it,” said he, “that +they may think us the less suspicious.” + +Near an hour rolled away thus. It seemed an age. Yet it was but a little +hour, and the town was a league distant. And some of the voices in the +kitchen became angry and impatient. + +“They will not wait much longer,” said Denys, “and we have no chance at +all unless we surprise them.” + +“I will do whate'er you bid,” said Gerard meekly. + +There was a cupboard on the same side as the door; but between it and +the window. It reached nearly to the ground, but not quite. Denys opened +the cupboard door and placed Gerard on a chair behind it. “If they +run for the bed, strike at the napes of their necks! a sword cut there +always kills or disables.” He then arranged the bolsters and their shoes +in the bed so as to deceive a person peeping from a distance, and drew +the short curtains at the head. + +Meantime Gerard was on his knees. Denys looked round and saw him. + +“Ah!” said Denys, “above all, pray them to forgive me for bringing you +into this guet-apens!” + +And now they grasped hands and looked in one another's eyes oh, such a +look! Denys's hand was cold, and Gerard's warm. + +They took their posts. + +Denys blew out the candle. + +“We must keep silence now.” + +But in the terrible tension of their nerves and very souls they found +they could hear a whisper fainter than any man could catch at all +outside that door. They could hear each other's hearts thump at times. + +“Good news!” breathed Denys, listening at the door. “They are casting +lots.” + +“Pray that it may be the Abbot.” + +“Yes. Why? + +“If he comes alone I can make sure of him.” + +“Denys!” + +“Ay!” + +“I fear I shall go mad, if they do not come soon.” + +“Shall I feign sleep? Shall I snore?” + +“Will that-------? + +“Perhaps” + +“Do then and God have mercy on us!” + +Denys snored at intervals. + +There was a scuffling of feet heard in the kitchen, and then all was +still. + +Denys snored again. Then took up his position behind the door. + +But he, or they, who had drawn the lot, seemed determined to run no +foolish risks. Nothing was attempted in a hurry. + +When they were almost starved with cold, and waiting for the attack, the +door on the stairs opened softly and closed again. Nothing more. + +There was another harrowing silence. + +Then a single light footstep on the stair; and nothing more. + +Then a light crept under the door and nothing more. + +Presently there was a gentle scratching, not half so loud as a mouse's, +and the false door-post opened by degrees, and left a perpendicular +space, through which the light streamed in. The door, had it been +bolted, would now have hung by the bare tip of the bolt, which went into +the real door-post, but as it was, it swung gently open of itself. It +opened inwards, so Denys did not raise his crossbow from the ground, but +merely grasped his dagger. + +The candle was held up, and shaded from behind by a man's hand. + +He was inspecting the beds from the threshold, satisfied that his +victims were both in bed. + +The man glided into the apartment. But at the first step something in +the position of the cupboard and chair made him uneasy. He ventured no +further, but put the candle on the floor and stooped to peer under +the chair; but as he stooped, an iron hand grasped his shoulder, and a +dagger was driven so fiercely through his neck that the point came +out at his gullet. There was a terrible hiccough, but no cry; and +half-a-dozen silent strokes followed in swift succession, each a +death-blow, and the assassin was laid noiselessly on the floor. + +Denys closed the door, bolted it gently, drew the post to, and even +while he was going whispered Gerard to bring a chair. It was done. + +“Help me set him up.” + +“Dead?” + +“Parbleu.” + +“What for?” + +“Frighten them! Gain time.” + +Even while saying this, Denys had whipped a piece of string round the +dead man's neck, and tied him to the chair, and there the ghastly figure +sat fronting the door. + +“Denys, I can do better. Saints forgive me!” + +“What? Be quick then, we have not many moments.” + +And Denys got his crossbow ready, and tearing off his straw mattress, +reared it before him and prepared to shoot the moment the door should +open, for he had no hope any more would come singly, when they found the +first did not return. + +While thus employed, Gerard was busy about the seated corpse, and to +his amazement Denys saw a luminous glow spreading rapidly over the white +face. + +Gerard blew out the candle; and on this the corpse's face shone still +more like a glowworm's head. + +Denys shook in his shoes, and his teeth chattered. + +“What, in Heaven's name, is this?” he whispered. + +“Hush! 'tis but phosphorus, but 'twill serve.” + +“Away! they will surprise thee.” + +In fact, uneasy mutterings were heard below, and at last a deep voice +said, “What makes him so long? is the drole rifling them?” + +It was their comrade they suspected then, not the enemy. Soon a step +came softly but rapidly up the stairs: the door was gently tried. + +When this resisted, which was clearly not expected, the sham post was +very cautiously moved, and an eye no doubt peeped through the aperture: +for there was a howl of dismay, and the man was heard to stumble back +and burst into the kitchen, here a Babel of voices rose directly on his +return. + +Gerard ran to the dead thief and began to work on him again. + +“Back, madman!” whispered Denys. + +“Nay, nay. I know these ignorant brutes; they will not venture here +awhile. I can make him ten times more fearful.” + +“At least close that opening! Let them not see you at your devilish +work.” + +Gerard closed the sham post, and in half a minute his brush gave the +dead head a sight to strike any man with dismay. He put his art to a +strange use, and one unparalleled perhaps in the history of mankind. +He illuminated his dead enemy's face to frighten his living foe: the +staring eyeballs he made globes of fire; the teeth he left white, for +so they were more terrible by the contrast; but the palate and tongue +he tipped with fire, and made one lurid cavern of the red depths the +chapfallen jaw revealed: and on the brow he wrote in burning letters +“La Mort.” And, while he was doing it, the stout Denys was quaking, and +fearing the vengeance of Heaven; for one mans courage is not another's; +and the band of miscreants below were quarrelling and disputing loudly, +and now without disguise. + +The steps that led down to the kitchen were fifteen, but they were +nearly perpendicular: there was therefore in point of fact no distance +between the besiegers and besieged, and the latter now caught almost +every word. At last one was heard to cry out, “I tell ye the devil has +got him and branded him with hellfire. I am more like to leave this +cursed house than go again into a room that is full of fiends.” + +“Art drunk? or mad? or a coward?” said another. + +“Call me a coward, I'll give thee my dagger's point, and send thee where +Pierre sits o' fire for ever. + +“Come, no quarrelling when work is afoot,” roared a tremendous diapason, +“or I'll brain ye both with my fist, and send ye where we shall all go +soon or late.” + +“The Abbot,” whispered Denys gravely. + +He felt the voice he had just heard could belong to no man but the +colossus he had seen in passing through the kitchen. It made the place +vibrate. The quarrelling continued some time, and then there was a dead +silence. + +“Look out, Gerard.” + +“Ay. What will they do next?” + +“We shall soon know.” + +“Shall I wait for you, or cut down the first that opens the door?” + +“Wait for me, lest we strike the same and waste a blow. Alas! we cannot +afford that.” + +Dead silence. + +Sudden came into the room a thing that made them start and their hearts +quiver. + +And what was it? A moonbeam. + +Even so can this machine, the body, by the soul's action, be strung +up to start and quiver. The sudden ray shot keen and pure into that +shamble. + +Its calm, cold, silvery soul traversed the apartment in a stream of no +great volume, for the window was narrow. + +After the first tremor Gerard whispered, “Courage, Denys! God's eye +is on us even here.” And he fell upon his knees with his face turned +towards the window. + +Ay it was like a holy eye opening suddenly on human crime and human +passions. Many a scene of blood and crime that pure cold eye had rested +on; but on few more ghastly than this, where two men, with a lighted +corpse between them, waited panting, to kill and be killed. Nor did the +moonlight deaden that horrible corpse-light. If anything it added to +its ghastliness: for the body sat at the edge of the moonbeam, which cut +sharp across the shoulder and the ear, and seemed blue and ghastly and +unnatural by the side of that lurid glow in which the face and eyes and +teeth shone horribly. But Denys dared not look that way. + +The moon drew a broad stripe of light across the door, and on that his +eyes were glued. Presently he whispered, “Gerard!” + +Gerard looked and raised his sword. + +Acutely as they had listened, they had heard of late no sound on +the stair. Yet therein the door-post, at the edge of the stream of +moonlight, were the tips of the fingers of a hand. + +The nails glistened. + +Presently they began to crawl and crawl down towards the bolt, but +with infinite slowness and caution. In so doing they crept into the +moonlight. The actual motion was imperceptible, but slowly, slowly, +the fingers came out whiter and whiter; but the hand between the main +knuckles and the wrist remained dark. + +Denys slowly raised his crossbow. + +He levelled it. He took a long steady aim. + +Gerard palpitated. At last the crossbow twanged. The hand was instantly +nailed, with a stern jar, to the quivering door-post. There was a scream +of anguish. “Cut,” whispered Denys eagerly, and Gerard's uplifted sword +descended and severed the wrist with two swift blows. A body sank down +moaning outside. + +The hand remained inside, immovable, with blood trickling from it down +the wall. The fierce bolt, slightly barbed, had gone through it and deep +into the real door-post. + +“Two,” said Denys, with terrible cynicism. + +He strung his crossbow, and kneeled behind his cover again. + +“The next will be the Abbot.” + +The wounded man moved, and presently crawled down to his companions on +the stairs, and the kitchen door was shut. + +There nothing was heard now but low muttering. The last incident had +revealed the mortal character of the weapons used by the besieged. + +“I begin to think the Abbot's stomach is not so great as his body,” said +Denys. + +The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the following events +happened all in a couple of seconds. The kitchen door was opened +roughly, a heavy but active man darted up the stairs without any manner +of disguise, and a single ponderous blow sent the door not only off its +hinges, but right across the room on to Denys's fortification, which it +struck so rudely as nearly to lay him flat. And in the doorway stood a +colossus with a glittering axe. + +He saw the dead man with the moon's blue light on half his face, and the +red light on the other half and inside his chapfallen jaws: he stared, +his arms fell, his knees knocked together, and he crouched with terror. + +“LA MORT!” he cried, in tones of terror, and turned and fled. In which +act Denys started up and shot him through both jaws. He sprang with one +bound into the kitchen, and there leaned on his axe, spitting blood and +teeth and curses. + +Denys strung his bow and put his hand into his breast. + +He drew it out dismayed. + +“My last bolt is gone,” he groaned. + +“But we have our swords, and you have slain the giant.” + +“No, Gerard,” said Denys gravely, “I have not. And the worst is I have +wounded him. Fool! to shoot at a retreating lion. He had never faced thy +handiwork again, but for my meddling.” + +“Ha! to your guard! I hear them open the door.” + +Then Denys, depressed by the one error he had committed in all this +fearful night, felt convinced his last hour had come. He drew his sword, +but like one doomed. But what is this? a red light flickers on the +ceiling. Gerard flew to the window and looked out. There were men with +torches, and breastplates gleaming red. “We are saved! Armed men!” And +he dashed his sword through the window shouting, “Quick! quick! we are +sore pressed.” + +“Back!” yelled Denys; “they come! strike none but him!” + +That very moment the Abbot and two men with naked weapons rushed into +the room. Even as they came, the outer door was hammered fiercely, and +the Abbot's comrades hearing it, and seeing the torchlight, turned and +fled. Not so the terrible Abbot: wild with rage and pain, he spurned his +dead comrade, chair and all, across the room, then, as the men faced him +on each side with kindling eyeballs, he waved his tremendous axe like a +feather right and left, and cleared a space, then lifted it to hew them +both in pieces. + +His antagonists were inferior in strength, but not in swiftness and +daring, and above all they had settled how to attack him. The moment +he reared his axe, they flew at him like cats, and both together. If he +struck a full blow with his weapon he would most likely kill one, but +the other would certainly kill him: he saw this, and intelligent as +well as powerful, he thrust the handle fiercely in Denys's face, and, +turning, jobbed with the steel at Gerard. Denys went staggering back +covered with blood. Gerard had rushed in like lightning, and, just as +the axe turned to descend on him, drove his sword so fiercely through +the giant's body, that the very hilt sounded on his ribs like the blow +of a pugilist, and Denys, staggering back to help his friend, saw a +steel point come out of the Abbot behind. + +The stricken giant bellowed like a bull, dropped his axe, and clutching +Gerard's throat tremendously, shook him like a child. Then Denys with +a fierce snarl drove his sword into the giant's back. “Stand firm now!” + and he pushed the cold steel through and through the giant and out at +his breast. + +Thus horribly spitted on both sides, the Abbot gave a violent shudder, +and his heels hammered the ground convulsively. His lips, fast turning +blue, opened wide and deep, and he cried, “LA MORT!-LA MORT!-LA MORT!!” + the first time in a roar of despair, and then twice in a horror-stricken +whisper, never to be forgotten. + +Just then the street door was forced. + +Suddenly the Abbot's arms whirled like windmills, and his huge body +wrenched wildly and carried them to the doorway, twisting their wrists +and nearly throwing them off their legs. + +“He'll win clear yet,” cried Denys: “out steel! and in again!” + +They tore out their smoking swords, but ere they could stab again, +the Abbot leaped full five feet high, and fell with a tremendous crash +against the door below, carrying it away with him like a sheet of paper, +and through the aperture the glare of torches burst on the awe-struck +faces above, half blinding them. + +The thieves at the first alarm had made for the back door, but driven +thence by a strong guard ran back to the kitchen, just in time to see +the lock forced out of the socket, and half-a-dozen mailed archers burst +in upon them. On these in pure despair they drew their swords. + +But ere a blow was struck on either side, the staircase door behind them +was battered into their midst with one ponderous blow, and with it the +Abbot's body came flying, hurled as they thought by no mortal hand, and +rolled on the floor spouting blood from back and bosom in two furious +jets, and quivered, but breathed no more. + +The thieves smitten with dismay fell on their knees directly, and the +archers bound them, while, above, the rescued ones still stood like +statues rooted to the spot, their dripping swords extended in the red +torchlight, expecting their indomitable enemy to leap back on them as +wonderfully as he had gone. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +“Where be the true men?” + +“Here be we. God bless you all! God bless you!” + +There was a rush to the stairs, and half-a-dozen hard but friendly hands +were held out and grasped them warmly. + +“Y'have saved our lives, lads,” cried Denys, “y'have saved our lives +this night.” + +A wild sight met the eyes of the rescued pair. The room flaring with +torches, the glittering breastplates of the archers, their bronzed +faces, the white cheeks of the bound thieves, and the bleeding giant, +whose dead body these hard men left lying there in its own gore. + +Gerard went round the archers and took them each by the hand with +glistening eyes, and on this they all kissed him; and this time he +kissed them in return. Then he said to one handsome archer of his own +age, “Prithee, good soldier, have an eye to me. A strange drowsiness +overcomes me. Let no one cut my throat while I sleep--for pity's sake.” + +The archer promised with a laugh; for he thought Gerard was jesting: and +the latter went off into a deep sleep almost immediately. + +Denys was surprised at this: but did not interfere; for it suited his +immediate purpose. A couple of archers were inspecting the Abbot's body, +turning it half over with their feet, and inquiring, “Which of the two +had flung this enormous rogue down from an upper storey like that; they +would fain have the trick of his arm.” + +Denys at first pished and pshawed, but dared not play the braggart, for +he said to himself, “That young vagabond will break in and say 'twas +the finger of Heaven, and no mortal arm, or some such stuff, and make me +look like a fool.” But now, seeing Gerard unconscious, he suddenly gave +this required information. + +“Well, then, you see, comrades, I had run my sword through this one up +to the hilt, and one or two more of 'em came buzzing about me; so it +behoved me have my sword or die: so I just put my foot against his +stomach, gave a tug with my hand and a spring with my foot, and sent him +flying to kingdom come! He died in the air, and his carrion rolled +in amongst you without ceremony: made you jump, I warrant me. But +pikestaves and pillage! what avails prattling of, these trifles once +they are gone by? buvons, camarades, buvons.” + +The archers remarked that it was easy to say “buvons” where no liquor +was, but not so easy to do it. + +“Nay, I'll soon find you liquor. My nose hath a natural alacrity at +scenting out the wine. You follow me: and I my nose: bring a torch!” And +they left the room, and finding a short flight of stone steps, descended +them and entered a large, low, damp cellar. + +It smelt close and dank: and the walls were encrusted here and there +with what seemed cobwebs; but proved to be saltpetre that had oozed out +of the damp stones and crystallized. + +“Oh! the fine mouldy smell,” said Denys; “in such places still lurks the +good wine; advance thy torch. Diable! what is that in the corner? A pile +of rags? No: 'tis a man.” + +They gathered round with the torch, and lo! a figure crouched on a heap +in the corner, pale as ashes and shivering. + +“Why, it is the landlord,” said Denys. + +“Get up, thou craven heart!” shouted one of the archers. + +“Why, man, the thieves are bound, and we are dry that bound them. Up! +and show us thy wine; for no bottles see here.” + +“What, be the rascals bound?” stammered the pale landlord; “good news. +W-w-wine? that will I, honest sirs.” + +And he rose with unsure joints and offered to lead the way to the wine +cellar. But Denys interposed. “You are all in the dark, comrades. He is +in league with the thieves.” + +“Alack, good soldier, me in league with the accursed robbers! Is that +reasonable?” + +“The girl said so anyway.” + +“The girl! What girl? Ah! Curse her, traitress!” + +“Well,” interposed the other archer; “the girl is not here, but gone on +to the bailiff. So let the burghers settle whether this craven be guilty +or no: for we caught him not in the act: and let him draw us our wine.” + +“One moment,” said Denys shrewdly. “Why cursed he the girl? If he be a +true man, he should bless her as we do.” + +“Alas, sir!” said the landlord, “I have but my good name to live by, and +I cursed her to you, because you said she had belied me.” + +“Humph! I trow thou art a thief, and where is the thief that cannot lie +with a smooth face? Therefore hold him, comrades: a prisoner can draw +wine an if his hands be not bound.” + +The landlord offered no objection; but on the contrary said he would +with pleasure show them where his little stock of wine was, but hoped +they would pay for what they should drink, for his rent was due this two +months. + +The archers smiled grimly at his simplicity, as they thought it; one of +them laid a hand quietly but firmly on his shoulder, the other led on +with the torch. + +They had reached the threshold when Denys cried “Halt!” + +“What is't?” + +“Here be bottles in this corner; advance thy light.” + +The torch-bearer went towards him. He had just taken off his scabbard +and was probing the heap the landlord had just been crouched upon. + +“Nay, nay,” cried the landlord, “the wine is in the next cellar. There +is nothing there.” + +“Nothing is mighty hard, then,” said Denys, and drew out something with +his hand from the heap. + +It proved to be only a bone. + +Denys threw it on the floor: it rattled. + +“There is nought there but the bones of the house,” said the landlord. + +“Just now 'twas nothing. Now that we have found something 'tis nothing +but bones. Here's another. Humph? look at this one, comrade; and you +come too and look at it, and bring you smooth knave along.” + +The archer with the torch, whose name was Philippe, held the bone to the +light and turned it round and round. + +“Well?” said Denys. + +“Well, if this was a field of battle, I should say 'twas the shankbone +of a man; no more, no less. But 'tisn't a battlefield, nor a churchyard; +'tis an inn.” + +“True, mate; but yon knave's ashy face is as good a light to me as a +field of battle. I read the bone by it, Bring yon face nearer, I say. +When the chine is amissing, and the house dog can't look at you without +his tail creeping between his legs, who was the thief? Good brothers +mine, my mind it doth misgive me. The deeper I thrust the more there be. +Mayhap if these bones could tell their tale they would make true men's +flesh creep that heard it.” + +“Alas! young man, what hideous fancies are these! The bones are bones +of beeves, and sheep, and kids, and not, as you think, of men and women. +Holy saints preserve us!” + +“Hold thy peace! thy words are air. Thou hast not got burghers by the +ear, that know not a veal knuckle from their grandsire's ribs; but +soldiers-men that have gone to look for their dear comrades, and found +their bones picked as clean by the crows as these I doubt have been by +thee and thy mates. Men and women, saidst thou? And prithee, when spake +I a word of women's bones? Wouldst make a child suspect thee. Field +of battle, comrade! Was not this house a field of battle half an hour +agone? Drag him close to me, let me read his face: now then, what is +this, thou knave?” and he thrust a small object suddenly in his face. + +“Alas! I know not.” + +“Well, I would not swear neither: but it is too like the thumb bone of +a man's hand; mates, my flesh it creeps. Churchyard! how know I this is +not one?” + +And he now drew his sword out of the scabbard and began to rake the heap +of earth and broken crockery and bones out on the floor. + +The landlord assured him he but wasted his time. “We poor innkeepers are +sinners,” said he; “we give short measure and baptize the wine: we are +fain to do these things; the laws are so unjust to us; but we are not +assassins. How could we afford to kill our customers? May Heaven's +lightning strike me dead if there be any bones there but such as have +been used for meat. 'Tis the kitchen wench flings them here: I swear by +God's holy mother, by holy Paul, by holy Dominic, and Denys my patron +saint--ah!” + +Denys held out a bone under his eye in dead silence. It was a bone no +man, however ignorant, however lying, could confound with those of sheep +or oxen. The sight of it shut the lying lips, and palsied the heartless +heart. + +The landlord's hair rose visibly on his head like spikes, and his knees +gave way as if his limbs had been struck from under him. But the archers +dragged him fiercely up, and kept him erect under the torch, staring +fascinated at the dead skull which, white as the living cheek opposed, +but no whiter, glared back again at its murderer, whose pale lip now +opened and opened, but could utter no sound. + +“Ah!” said Denys solemnly, and trembling now with rage, “look on the +sockets out of which thou hast picked the eyes, and let them blast thine +eyes, that crows shall pick out ere this week shall end. Now, hold thou +that while I search on. Hold it, I say, or here I rob the gallows--” and +he threatened the quaking wretch with his naked sword, till with a groan +he took the skull and held it, almost fainting. + +Oh! that every murderer, and contriver of murder, could see him, sick, +and staggering with terror, and with his hair on end, holding the cold +skull, and feeling that his own head would soon be like it. And soon +the heap was scattered, and alas! not one nor two, but many skulls were +brought to light, the culprit moaning at each discovery. + +Suddenly Denys uttered a strange cry of distress to come from so bold +and hard a man; and held up to the torch a mass of human hair. It was +long, glossy, and golden. A woman's beautiful hair. At the sight of it +the archers instinctively shook the craven wretch in their hands: and he +whined. + +“I have a little sister with hair just so fair and shining as this,” + gulped Denys. “Jesu! if it should be hers! There quick, take my sword +and dagger, and keep them from my hand, lest I strike him dead and wrong +the gibbet. And thou, poor innocent victim, on whose head this most +lovely hair did grow, hear me swear this, on bended knee, never to +leave this man till I see him broken to pieces on the wheel even for thy +sake.” + +He rose from his knee. “Ay, had he as many lives as here be hairs, I'd +have them all, by God,” and he put the hair into his bosom. Then in a +sudden fury seized the landlord fiercely by the neck, and forced him to +his knees; and foot on head ground his face savagely among the bones +of his victims, where they lay thickest; and the assassin first yelled, +then whined and whimpered, just as a dog first yells, then whines, when +his nose is so forced into some leveret or other innocent he has killed. + +“Now lend me thy bowstring, Philippe!” He passed it through the eyes of +a skull alternately, and hung the ghastly relic of mortality and crime +round the man's neck; then pulled him up and kicked him industriously +into the kitchen, where one of the aldermen of the burgh had arrived +with constables, and was even now taking an archer's deposition. + +The grave burgher was much startled at sight of the landlord driven +in bleeding from a dozen scratches inflicted by the bones of his own +victims, and carrying his horrible collar. But Denys came panting after, +and in a few fiery words soon made all clear. + +“Bind him like the rest,” said the alderman sternly. “I count him the +blackest of them all.” + +While his hands were being bound, the poor wretch begged piteously that +“the skull might be taken from him.” + +“Humph!” said the alderman. “Certes I had not ordered such a thing to be +put on mortal man. Yet being there, I will not lift voice nor finger to +doff it. Methinks it fits thee truly, thou bloody dog. 'Tis thy ensign, +and hangs well above a heart so foul as thine.” + +He then inquired of Denys if he thought they had secured the whole gang, +or but a part. + +“Your worship,” said Denys, “there are but seven of them, and this +landlord. One we slew upstairs, one we trundled down dead, the rest are +bound before you.” + +“Good! go fetch the dead one from upstairs, and lay him beside him I +caused to be removed.” + +Here a voice like a guinea-fowl's broke peevishly in. “Now, now, now, +where is the hand? that is what I want to see.” The speaker was a little +pettifogging clerk. + +“You will find it above, nailed to the door-post by a crossbow bolt.” + +“Good!” said the clerk. He whispered his master, “What a goodly show +will the 'pieces de conviction' make!” and with this he wrote them down, +enumerating them in separate squeaks as he penned them. Skulls--Bones--A +woman's hair--A thief's hands 1 axe--2 carcasses--1 crossbow bolt. +This done, he itched to search the cellar himself: there might be other +invaluable morsels of evidence, an ear, or even an earring. The alderman +assenting, he caught up a torch and was hurrying thither, when an +accident stopped him, and indeed carried him a step or two in the +opposite direction. + +The constables had gone up the stair in single file. + +But the head constable no sooner saw the phosphorescent corpse seated +by the bedside, than he stood stupefied; and next he began to shake like +one in an ague, and, terror gaining on him more and more, he uttered a +sort of howl and recoiled swiftly. Forgetting the steps in his recoil, +he tumbled over backward on his nearest companion; but he, shaken by the +shout of dismay, and catching a glimpse of something horrid, was already +staggering back, and in no condition to sustain the head constable, who, +like most head constables, was a ponderous man. The two carried away the +third, and the three the fourth, and they streamed into the kitchen, and +settled on the floor, overlapping each other like a sequence laid out on +a card-table. The clerk coming hastily with his torch ran an involuntary +tilt against the fourth man, who, sharing the momentum of the mass, +knocked him instantly on his back, the ace of that fair quint; and there +he lay kicking and waving his torch, apparently in triumph, but +really in convulsion, sense and wind being driven out together by the +concussion. + +“What is to do now, in Heaven's name?” cried the alderman, starting up +with considerable alarm. But Denys explained, and offered to accompany +his worship. “So be it,” said the latter. His men picked themselves +ruefully up, and the alderman put himself at their head and examined the +premises above and below. As for the prisoners, their interrogatory was +postponed till they could be confronted with the servant. + +Before dawn, the thieves, alive and dead, and all the relics and +evidences of crime and retribution, were swept away into the law's +net, and the inn was silent and almost deserted. There remained but one +constable, and Denys and Gerard, the latter still sleeping heavily. + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +Gerard awoke, and found Denys watching him with some anxiety. + +“It is you for sleeping! Why, 'tis high noon.” + +“It was a blessed sleep,” said Gerard; “methinks Heaven sent it me. It +hath put as it were a veil between me and that awful night. To think +that you and I sit here alive and well. How terrible a dream I seem to +have had!” + +“Ay, lad, that is the wise way to look at these things when once they +are past, why, they are dreams, shadows. Break thy fast, and then thou +wilt think no more on't. Moreover, I promised to bring thee on to the +town by noon, and take thee to his worship.” + +Gerard then sopped some rye bread in red wine and ate it to break his +fast: then went with Denys over the scene of combat, and came back +shuddering, and finally took the road with his friend, and kept peering +through the hedges, and expecting sudden attacks unreasonably, till they +reached the little town. Denys took him to “The White Hart”. + +“No fear of cut-throats here,” said he. “I know the landlord this many +a year. He is a burgess, and looks to be bailiff. 'Tis here I was making +for yestreen. But we lost time, and night o'ertook us--and-- + +“And you saw a woman at the door, and would be wiser than a Jeanneton; +she told us they were nought.” + +“Why, what saved our lives if not a woman? Ay, and risked her own to do +it.” + +“That is true, Denys; and though women are nothing to me, I long to +thank this poor girl, and reward her, ay, though I share every doit in +my purse with her. Do not you?” + +“Parbleu.” + +“Where shall we find her?” + +“Mayhap the alderman will tell us. We must go to him first.” + +The alderman received them with a most singular and inexplicable +expression of countenance. However, after a moment's reflection, he wore +a grim smile, and finally proceeded to put interrogatories to Gerard, +and took down the answers. This done, he told them that they must +stay in the town till the thieves were tried, and be at hand to give +evidence, on peril of fine and imprisonment. They looked very blank at +this. + +“However,” said he, “'twill not be long, the culprits having been taken +red-handed.” He added, “And you know, in any case you could not leave +the place this week.” + +Denys stared at this remark, and Gerard smiled at what he thought the +simplicity of the old gentleman in dreaming that a provincial town of +Burgundy had attraction to detain him from Rome and Margaret. + +He now went to that which was nearest both their hearts. + +“Your worship,” said he, “we cannot find our benefactress in the town.” + +“Nay, but who is your benefactress?” + +“Who? why the good girl that came to you by night and saved our lives at +peril of her own. Oh sir, our hearts burn within us to thank and bless +her; where is she?” + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +“In prison, sir; good lack, for what misdeed?” + +“Well, she is a witness, and may be a necessary one.” + +“Why, Messire Bailiff,” put in Denys, “you lay not all your witnesses by +the heels I trow.” + +The alderman, pleased at being called bailiff, became communicative. +“In a case of blood we detain all testimony that is like to give us leg +bail, and so defeat justice, and that is why we still keep the women +folk. For a man at odd times hides a week in one mind, but a woman, if +she do her duty to the realm o' Friday, she shall undo it afore Sunday, +or try. Could you see yon wench now, you should find her a-blubbering +at having betrayed five males to the gallows. Had they been females, +we might have trusted to a subpoena. For they despise one another. +And there they show some sense. But now I think on't, there were other +reasons for laying this one by the heels. Hand me those depositions, +young sir.” And he put on his glasses. “Ay! she was implicated; she was +one of the band.” + +A loud disclaimer burst from Denys and Gerard at once. + +“No need to deave me,” said the alderman. “Here 'tis in black and white. +'Jean Hardy (that is one of the thieves), being questioned, confessed +that--humph? Ay, here 'tis. 'And that the girl Manon was the decoy, +and her sweetheart was Georges Vipont, one of the band; and hanged last +month: and that she had been deject ever since, and had openly blamed +the band for his death, saying if they had not been rank cowards, he had +never been taken, and it is his opinion she did but betray them out of +very spite, and-- + +“His opinion,” cried Gerard indignantly; “what signifies the opinion +of a cut-throat, burning to be revenged on her who has delivered him to +justice? And an you go to that, what avails his testimony? Is a thief +never a liar? Is he not aye a liar? and here a motive to lie? Revenge, +why, 'tis the strongest of all the passions. And oh, sir, what madness +to question a detected felon and listen to him lying away an honest +life--as if he were a true man swearing in open day, with his true hand +on the Gospel laid!” + +“Young man,” said the alderman, “restrain thy heat in presence of +authority! I find by your tone you are a stranger. Know then that in +this land we question all the world. We are not so weak as to hope to +get at the truth by shutting either our left ear or our right.” + +“And so you would listen to Satan belying the saints!” + +“Ta! ta! The law meddles but with men and women, and these cannot +utter a story all lies, let them try ever so. Wherefore we shut not the +barn-door (as the saying is) against any man's grain. Only having taken +it in, we do winnow and sift it. And who told you I had swallowed the +thief's story whole like fair water? Not so. I did but credit so much +on't as was borne out by better proof.” + +“Better proof?” and Gerard looked blank. “Why, who but the thieves would +breathe a word against her?” + +“Marry, herself.” + +“Herself, sir? what, did you question her too?” + +“I tell you we question all the world. Here is her deposition; can you +read?--Read it yourself, then.” + +Gerard looked at Denys and read him Manon's deposition. + +“I am a native of Epinal. I left my native place two years ago because +I was unfortunate: I could not like the man they bade me. So my father +beat me. I ran away from my father. I went to service. I left service +because the mistress was jealous of me. The reason that she gave for +turning me off was, because I was saucy. Last year I stood in the +marketplace to be hired with other girls. The landlord of 'The Fair +Star' hired me. I was eleven months with him. A young man courted me. I +loved him. I found out that travellers came and never went away again. +I told my lover. He bade me hold my peace. He threatened me. I found my +lover was one of a band of thieves. When travellers were to be robbed, +the landlord went out and told the band to come. Then I wept and prayed +for the travellers' souls. I never told. A month ago my lover died. + +“The soldier put me in mind of my lover. He was bearded like him I had +lost. I cannot tell whether I should have interfered, if he had had no +beard. I am sorry I told now.” + +The paper almost dropped from Gerard's hands. Now for the first time he +saw that Manon's life was in mortal danger. He knew the dogged law, and +the dogged men that executed it. He threw himself suddenly on his knees +at the alderman's feet. “Oh, sir! think of the difference between those +cruel men and this poor weak woman! Could you have the heart to send her +to the same death with them; could you have the heart to condemn us to +look on and see her slaughtered, who, but that she risked her life for +ours, had not now been in jeopardy? Alas, sir! show me and my comrade +some pity, if you have none for her, poor soul. Denys and I be true men, +and you will rend our hearts if you kill that poor simple girl. What +can we do? What is left for us to do then but cut our throats at her +gallows' foot?” + +The alderman was tough, but mortal; the prayers and agitation of Gerard +first astounded, then touched him. He showed it in a curious way. He +became peevish and fretful. “There, get up, do,” said he. “I doubt +whether anybody would say as many words for me. What ho, Daniel! +go fetch the town clerk.” And on that functionary entering from an +adjoining room, “Here is a foolish lad fretting about yon girl. Can +we stretch a point? say we admit her to bear witness, and question her +favourably.” + +The town clerk was one of your “impossibility” men. + +“Nay, sir, we cannot do that: she was not concerned in this business. +Had she been accessory, we might have offered her a pardon to bear +witness.” + +Gerard burst in, “But she did better. Instead of being accessory, she +stayed the crime; and she proffered herself as witness by running hither +with the tale.” + +“Tush, young man, 'tis a matter of law.” The alderman and the clerk then +had a long discussion, the one maintaining, the other denying, that she +stood as fair in law as if she had been accessory to the attempt on +our travellers' lives. And this was lucky for Manon: for the alderman, +irritated by the clerk reiterating that he could not do this, and could +not that, and could not do t'other, said “he would show him he could do +anything he chose,” And he had Manon out, and upon the landlord of “The +White Hart” being her bondsman, and Denys depositing five gold pieces +with him, and the girl promising, not without some coaxing from Denys, +to attend as a witness, he liberated her, but eased his conscience by +telling her in his own terms his reason for this leniency. + +“The town had to buy a new rope for everybody hanged, and present it +to the bourreau, or compound with him in money: and she was not in his +opinion worth this municipal expense, whereas decided characters like +her late confederates, were.” And so Denys and Gerard carried her off, +Gerard dancing round her for joy, Denys keeping up her heart by +assuring her of the demise of a troublesome personage, and she weeping +inauspiciously. However, on the road to “The White Hart” the public +found her out, and having heard the whole story from the archers, who +naturally told it warmly in her favour, followed her hurrahing and +encouraging her, till finding herself backed by numbers she plucked up +heart. The landlord too saw at a glance that her presence in the inn +would draw custom, and received her politely, and assigned her an upper +chamber: here she buried herself, and being alone rained tears again. + +Poor little mind, it was like a ripple, up and down, down and up, up and +down. Bidding the landlord be very kind to her, and keep her a prisoner +without letting her feel it, the friends went out: and lo! as they +stepped into the street they saw two processions coming towards them +from opposite sides. One was a large one, attended with noise and howls +and those indescribable cries by which rude natures reveal at odd times +that relationship to the beasts of the field and forest, which at other +times we succeed in hiding. The other, very thinly attended by a few +nuns and friars, came slow and silent. + +The prisoners going to exposure in the market-place. The gathered bones +of the victims coming to the churchyard. + +And the two met in the narrow street nearly at the inn door, and could +not pass each other for a long time, and the bier, that bore the relics +of mortality, got wedged against the cart that carried the men who had +made those bones what they were, and in a few hours must die for it +themselves. The mob had not the quick intelligence to be at once struck +with this stern meeting: but at last a woman cried, “Look at your work, +ye dogs!” and the crowd took it like wildfire, and there was a horrible +yell, and the culprits groaned and tried to hide their heads upon their +bosoms, but could not, their hands being tied. And there they stood, +images of pale hollow-eyed despair, and oh how they looked on the bier, +and envied those whom they had sent before them on the dark road they +were going upon themselves! And the two men who were the cause of both +processions stood and looked gravely on, and even Manon, hearing the +disturbance, crept to the window, and, hiding her face, peeped trembling +through her fingers, as women will. + +This strange meeting parted Denys and Gerard. The former yielded +to curiosity and revenge, the latter doffed his bonnet, and piously +followed the poor remains of those whose fate had so nearly been his +own. For some time he was the one lay mourner: but when they had reached +the suburbs, a long way from the greater attraction that was filling the +market-place, more than one artisan threw down his tools, and more +than one shopman left his shop, and touched with pity or a sense of our +common humanity, and perhaps decided somewhat by the example of Gerard, +followed the bones bareheaded, and saw them deposited with the prayers +of the Church in hallowed ground. + +After the funeral rites Gerard stepped respectfully up to the cure, and +offered to buy a mass for their souls. + +Gerard, son of Catherine, always looked at two sides of a penny: and he +tried to purchase this mass a trifle under the usual terms, on account +of the pitiable circumstances. But the good cure gently but adroitly +parried his ingenuity, and blandly screwed him up to the market price. + +In the course of the business they discovered a similarity of +sentiments. Piety and worldly prudence are not very rare companions: +still it is unusual to carry both so far as these two men did. Their +collision in the prayer market led to mutual esteem, as when knight +encountered knight worthy of his steel. Moreover the good cure loved a +bit of gossip, and finding his customer was one of those who had fought +the thieves at Domfront, would have him into his parlour and hear the +whole from his own lips. And his heart warmed to Gerard, and he said +“God was good to thee. I thank Him for't with all my soul. Thou art +a good lad.” He added drily, “Shouldst have told me this tale in the +churchyard. I doubt, I had given thee the mass for love. However,” said +he (the thermometer suddenly falling), “'tis ill luck to go back upon a +bargain. But I'll broach a bottle of my old Medoc for thee: and few +be the guests I would do that for.” The cure went to his cupboard, and +while he groped for the choice bottle, he muttered to himself, “At their +old tricks again!” + +“Plait-il?” said Gerard. + +“I said nought. Ay, here 'tis.” + +“Nay, your reverence. You surely spoke: you said, 'At their old tricks +again!'” + +“Said I so in sooth?” and his reverence smiled. He then proceeded to +broach the wine, and filled a cup for each. Then he put a log of wood on +the fire, for stoves were none in Burgundy. “And so I said 'At their old +tricks!' did I? Come, sip the good wine, and, whilst it lasts, story for +story, I care not if I tell you a little tale.” + +Gerard's eyes sparkled. + +“Thou lovest a story?” + +“As my life.” + +“Nay, but raise not thine expectations too high, neither. 'Tis but a +foolish trifle compared with thine adventures.” + +THE CURE'S TALE. + +“Once upon a time, then, in the kingdom of France, and in the duchy +of Burgundy, and not a day's journey from the town where now we sit +a-sipping of old Medoc, there lived a cure. I say he lived; but barely. +The parish was small, the parishioners greedy; and never gave their +cure a doit more than he could compel. The nearer they brought him to a +disembodied spirit by meagre diet, the holier should be his prayers in +their behalf. I know not if this was their creed, but their practice +gave it colour. + +“At last he pickled a rod for them. + +“One day the richest farmer in the place had twins to baptize. The cure +was had to the christening dinner as usual; but ere he would baptize +the children, he demanded, not the christening fees only, but the burial +fees. 'Saints defend us, parson, cried the mother; 'talk not of burying! +I did never see children liker to live.' 'Nor I,' said the cure, 'the +praise be to God. Natheless, they are sure to die, being sons of Adam, +as well as of thee, dame. But die when they will, 'twill cost them +nothing, the burial fees being paid and entered in this book.' 'For all +that 'twill cost them something,' quoth the miller, the greatest wag +in the place, and as big a knave as any; for which was the biggest God +knoweth, but no mortal man, not even the hangman. 'Miller, I tell thee +nay,' quo' the cure. 'Parson, I tell you ay,' quo' the miller. ''Twill +cost them their lives.' At which millstone conceit was a great laugh; +and in the general mirth the fees were paid and the Christians made. + +“But when the next parishioner's child, and the next after, and all, had +to pay each his burial fee, or lose his place in heaven, discontent did +secretly rankle in the parish. Well, one fine day they met in +secret, and sent a churchwarden with a complaint to the bishop, and a +thunderbolt fell on the poor cure. Came to him at dinner-time a summons +to the episcopal palace, to bring the parish books and answer certain +charges. Then the cure guessed where the shoe pinched. He left his food +on the board, for small his appetite now, and took the parish books and +went quaking. + +“The bishop entertained him with a frown, and exposed the plaint. +'Monseigneur,' said the cure right humbly, 'doth the parish allege many +things against me, or this one only?' 'In sooth, but this one,' said the +bishop, and softened a little. 'First, monseigneur, I acknowledge the +fact.' ''Tis well,' quoth the bishop; 'that saves time and trouble. Now +to your excuse, if excuse there be.' 'Monseigneur, I have been cure of +that parish seven years, and fifty children have I baptized, and buried +not five. At first I used to say, “Heaven be praised, the air of this +village is main healthy;” but on searching the register book I found +'twas always so, and on probing the matter, it came out that of those +born at Domfront, all, but here and there one, did go and get hanged at +Aix. But this was to defraud not their cure only, but the entire Church +of her dues, since “pendards” pay no funeral fees, being buried in air. +Thereupon, knowing by sad experience their greed, and how they grudge +the Church every sou, I laid a trap to keep them from hanging; for, +greed against greed, there be of them that will die in their beds like +true men ere the Church shall gain those funeral fees for nought.' +Then the bishop laughed till the tears ran down, and questioned the +churchwarden, and he was fain to confess that too many of the parish did +come to that unlucky end at Aix. 'Then,' said the bishop, 'I do approve +the act, for myself and my successors; and so be it ever, till they +mend their manners and die in their beds.' And the next day came the +ringleaders crestfallen to the cure, and said, 'Parson, ye were even +good to us, barring this untoward matter: prithee let there be no ill +blood anent so trivial a thing.' And the cure said, 'My children, I were +unworthy to be your pastor could I not forgive a wrong; go in peace, and +get me as many children as may be, that by the double fees the cure you +love may miss starvation.' + +“And the bishop often told the story, and it kept his memory of the cure +alive, and at last he shifted him to a decent parish, where he can offer +a glass of old Medoc to such as are worthy of it. Their name it is not +legion.” + +A light broke in upon Gerard, his countenance showed it. + +“Ay!” said his host, “I am that cure: so now thou canst guess why I said +'At their old tricks.' My life on't they have wheedled my successor into +remitting those funeral fees. You are well out of that parish. And so am +I.” + +The cure's little niece burst in, “Uncle, the weighing--la! a stranger!” + And burst out. + +The cure rose directly, but would not part with Gerard. + +“Wet thy beard once more, and come with me.” + +In the church porch they found the sexton with a huge pair of scales, +and weights of all sizes. Several humble persons were standing by, and +soon a woman stepped forward with a sickly child and said, “Be it heavy +be it light, I vow, in rye meal of the best, whate'er this child shall +weigh, and the same will duly pay to Holy Church, an if he shall cast +his trouble. Pray, good people, for this child, and for me his mother +hither come in dole and care!” + +The child was weighed, and yelled as if the scale had been the font. + +“Courage! dame,” cried Gerard. “This is a good sign. There is plenty of +life here to battle its trouble.” + +“Now, blest be the tongue that tells me so,” said the poor woman. She +hushed her ponderling against her bosom, and stood aloof watching, +whilst another woman brought her child to scale. + +But presently a loud, dictatorial voice was heard, “Way there, make way +for the seigneur!” + +The small folk parted on both sides like waves ploughed by a lordly +galley, and in marched in gorgeous attire, his cap adorned by a feather +with a topaz at its root, his jerkin richly furred, satin doublet, red +hose, shoes like skates, diamond-hilted sword in velvet scabbard, and +hawk on his wrist, “the lord of the manor.” He flung himself into the +scales as if he was lord of the zodiac as well as the manor: whereat the +hawk balanced and flapped; but stuck: then winked. + +While the sexton heaved in the great weights, the cure told Gerard, “My +lord had been sick unto death, and vowed his weight in bread and cheese +to the poor, the Church taking her tenth.” + +“Permit me, my lord; if your lordship continues to press your lordship's +staff on the other scale, you will disturb the balance.” + +His lordship grinned and removed his staff, and leaned on it. The cure +politely but firmly objected to that too. + +“Mille diables! what am I to do with it, then?” cried the other. + +“Deign to hold it out so, my lord, wide of both scales.” + +When my lord did this, and so fell into the trap he had laid for +Holy Church, the good cure whispered to Gerard. “Cretensis incidit in +Cretensem!” which I take to mean, “Diamond cut diamond.” He then said +with an obsequious air, “If that your lordship grudges Heaven full +weight, you might set the hawk on your lacquey, and so save a pound.” + +“Gramercy for thy rede, cure,” cried the great man, reproachfully. +“Shall I for one sorry pound grudge my poor fowl the benefit of Holy +Church? I'd as lieve the devil should have me and all my house as her, +any day i' the year.” + +“Sweet is affection,” whispered the cure. + +“Between a bird and a brute,” whispered Gerard. + +“Tush!” and the cure looked terrified. + +The seigneur's weight was booked, and Heaven I trust and believe did not +weigh his gratitude in the balance of the sanctuary. For my unlearned +reader is not to suppose there was anything the least eccentric in the +man, or his gratitude to the Giver of health and all good gifts. Men +look forward to death, and back upon past sickness with different eyes. +Item, when men drive a bargain, they strive to get the sunny side of +it; it matters not one straw whether it is with man or Heaven they are +bargaining. In this respect we are the same now, at bottom, as we were +four hundred years ago: only in those days we did it a grain or two more +naively, and that naivete shone out more palpably, because, in that rude +age, body prevailing over mind, all sentiments took material forms. +Man repented with scourges, prayed by bead, bribed the saints with wax +tapers, put fish into the body to sanctify the soul, sojourned in cold +water for empire over the emotions, and thanked God for returning health +in 1 cwt. 2 stone 7 lb 3 oz. 1 dwt. of bread and cheese. + +Whilst I have been preaching, who preach so rarely and so ill, the good +cure has been soliciting the lord of the manor to step into the church, +and give order what shall be done with his great-great-grandfather. + +“Ods bodikins! what, have you dug him up?” + +“Nay, my lord, he never was buried.” + +“What, the old dict was true after all?” + +“So true that the workmen this very day found a skeleton erect in the +pillar they are repairing. I had sent to my lord at once, but I knew he +would be here.” + +“It is he! 'Tis he!” said his descendant, quickening his pace. “Let us +go see the old boy. This youth is a stranger, I think.” + +Gerard bowed. + +“Know then that my great-great-grandfather held his head high and being +on the point of death, revolted against lying under the aisle with his +forbears for mean folk to pass over. So, as the tradition goes, he swore +his son (my great-grandfather), to bury him erect in one of the pillars +of the church” (here they entered the porch). “'For,' quoth he, 'NO BASE +MAN SHALL PASS OVER MY STOMACH.' Peste!” and even while speaking, his +lordship parried adroitly with his stick a skull that came hopping at +him, bowled by a boy in the middle of the aisle, who took to his heels +yelling with fear the moment he saw what he had done. His lordship +hurled the skull furiously after him as he ran, at which the cure gave a +shout of dismay and put forth his arm to hinder him, but was too late. + +The cure groaned aloud. And as if this had evoked spirits of mischief, +up started a whole pack of children from some ambuscade, and unseen, but +heard loud enough, clattered out of the church like a covey rising in a +thick wood. + +“Oh! these pernicious brats,” cried the cure. “The workmen cannot go to +their nonemete but the church is rife with them. Pray Heaven they have +not found his late lordship; nay, I mind, I hid his lordship under a +workmen's jerkin, and--saints defend us! the jerkin has been moved.” + +The poor cure's worst misgivings were realized: the rising generation +of the plebians had played the mischief with the haughty old noble. “The +little ones had jockeyed for the bones oh,” and pocketed such of them as +seemed adapted for certain primitive games then in vogue amongst them. + +“I'll excommunicate them,” roared the curate, “and all their race.” + +“Never heed,” said the scapegrace lord: and stroked his hawk; “there is +enough of him to swear by. Put him back! put him back!” + +“Surely, my lord, 'tis your will his bones be laid in hallowed earth, +and masses said for his poor prideful soul?” + +The noble stroked his hawk. + +“Are ye there, Master Cure?” said he. “Nay, the business is too old: +he is out of purgatory by this time, up or down. I shall not draw +my purse-strings for him. Every dog his day. Adieu, Messires, adieu, +ancestor;” and he sauntered off whistling to his hawk and caressing it. + +His reverence looked ruefully after him. + +“Cretensis incidit in Cretensem,” said he sorrowfully. “I thought I +had him safe for a dozen masses. Yet I blame him not, but that young +ne'er-do-weel which did trundle his ancestor's skull at us: for who +could venerate his great-great-grandsire and play football with his +head? Well it behoves us to be better Christians than he is.” So they +gathered the bones reverently, and the cure locked them up, and forbade +the workmen, who now entered the church, to close up the pillar, till he +should recover by threats of the Church's wrath every atom of my lord. +And he showed Gerard a famous shrine in the church. Before it were the +usual gifts of tapers, etc. There was also a wax image of a falcon, most +curiously moulded and coloured to the life, eyes and all. Gerard's eye +fell at once on this, and he expressed the liveliest admiration. The +cure assented. Then Gerard asked, “Could the saint have loved hawking?” + +The cure laughed at his simplicity. “Nay, 'tis but a statuary hawk. When +they have a bird of gentle breed they cannot train, they make his image, +and send it to this shrine with a present, and pray the saint to work +upon the stubborn mind of the original, and make it ductile as wax: that +is the notion, and methinks a reasonable one, too.” + +Gerard assented. “But alack, reverend sir, were I a saint, methinks I +should side with the innocent dove, rather than with the cruel hawk that +rends her.” + +“By St. Denys you are right,” said the cure. “But, que voulez-vous? +the saints are debonair, and have been flesh themselves, and know man's +frailty and absurdity. 'Tis the Bishop of Avignon sent this one.” + +“What! do bishops hawk in this country?” + +“One and all. Every noble person hawks, and lives with hawk on wrist. +Why, my lord abbot hard by, and his lordship that has just parted from +us, had a two years' feud as to where they should put their hawks down +on that very altar there. Each claimed the right hand of the altar for +his bird.” + +“What desecration!” + +“Nay! nay! thou knowest we make them doff both glove and hawk to take +the blessed eucharist. Their jewelled gloves will they give to a servant +or simple Christian to hold: but their beloved hawks they will put down +on no place less than the altar.” + +Gerard inquired how the battle of the hawks ended. + +“Why, the abbot he yielded, as the Church yields to laymen. He searched +ancient books, and found that the left hand was the more honourable, +being in truth the right hand, since the altar is east, but looks +westward. So he gave my lord the soi-disant right hand, and contented +himself with the real right hand, and even so may the Church still +outwit the lay nobles and their arrogance, saving your presence.” + +“Nay, sir, I honour the Church. I am convent bred, and owe all I have +and am to Holy Church.” + +“Ah, that accounts for my sudden liking to thee. Art a gracious youth. +Come and see me whenever thou wilt.” + +Gerard took this as a hint that he might go now. It jumped with his own +wish, for he was curious to hear what Denys had seen and done all this +time. He made his reverence and walked out of the church; but was +no sooner clear of it than he set off to run with all his might: and +tearing round a corner, ran into a large stomach, whose owner clutched +him, to keep himself steady under the shock; but did not release his +hold on regaining his equilibrium. + +“Let go, man,” said Gerard. + +“Not so. You are my prisoner.” + +“Prisoner?” + +“Ay.” + +“What for, in Heaven's name?” + +“What for? Why, sorcery.” + +“SORCERY?” + +“Sorcery.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +The culprits were condemned to stand pinioned in the marketplace for two +hours, that should any persons recognize them or any of them as guilty +of other crimes, they might depose to that effect at the trial. + +They stood, however, the whole period, and no one advanced anything +fresh against them. This was the less remarkable that they were night +birds, vampires who preyed in the dark on weary travellers, mostly +strangers. + +But just as they were being taken down, a fearful scream was heard in +the crowd, and a woman pointed at one of them, with eyes almost starting +from their sockets: but ere she could speak she fainted away. + +Then men and women crowded round her, partly to aid her, partly from +curiosity. When she began to recover they fell to conjectures. + +“'Twas at him she pointed.” + +“Nay, 'twas at this one.” + +“Nay, nay,” said another, “'twas at yon hangdog with the hair hung round +his neck.” + +All further conjectures were cut short. The poor creature no sooner +recovered her senses than she flew at the landlord like a lioness. +“My child! Man! man! Give me back my child.” And she seized the glossy +golden hair that the officers had hung round his neck, and tore it +from his neck, and covered it with kisses; then, her poor confused mind +clearing, she saw even by this token that her lost girl was dead, and +sank suddenly down shrieking and sobbing so over the poor hair, that the +crowd rushed on the assassin with one savage growl. His life had ended +then and speedily, for in those days all carried death at their girdles. +But Denys drew his sword directly, and shouting “A moi, camarades!” kept +the mob at bay. “Who lays a finger on him dies.” Other archers backed +him, and with some difficulty they kept him uninjured, while Denys +appealed to those who shouted for his blood. + +“What sort of vengeance is this? would you be so mad as rob the wheel, +and give the vermin an easy death?” + +The mob was kept passive by the archers' steel rather than by Denys's +words, and growled at intervals with flashing eyes. The municipal +officers, seeing this, collected round, and with the archers made a +guard, and prudently carried the accused back to gaol. + +The mob hooted them and the prisoners indiscriminately. Denys saw the +latter safely lodged, then made for “The White Hart,” where he expected +to find Gerard. + +On the way he saw two girls working at a first-floor window. He saluted +them. They smiled. He entered into conversation. Their manners were +easy, their complexion high. + +He invited them to a repast at “The White Hart.” They objected. He +acquiesced in their refusal. They consented. And in this charming +society he forgot all about poor Gerard, who meantime was carried off to +gaol; but on the way suddenly stopped, having now somewhat recovered +his presence of mind, and demanded to know by whose authority he was +arrested. + +“By the vice-baillie's,” said the constable. + +“The vice-baillie? Alas! what have I, a stranger, done to offend a +vice-baillie? For this charge of sorcery must be a blind. No sorcerer am +I; but a poor true lad far from his home.” + +This vague shift disgusted the officer. “Show him the capias, Jacques,” + said he. + +Jacques held out the writ in both hands about a yard and a half from +Gerard's eye; and at the same moment the large constable suddenly pinned +him; both officers were on tenterhooks lest the prisoner should grab the +document, to which they attached a superstitious importance. + +But the poor prisoner had no such thought. Query whether he would have +touched it with the tongs. He just craned out his neck and read it, and +to his infinite surprise found the vice-bailiff who had signed the writ +was the friendly alderman. He took courage and assured his captor there +was some error. But finding he made no impression, demanded to be taken +before the alderman. + +“What say you to that, Jacques?” + +“Impossible. We have no orders to take him before his worship. Read the +writ!” + +“Nay, but good kind fellows, what harm can it be? I will give you each +an ecu.” + +“Jacques, what say you to that?” + +“Humph! I say we have no orders not to take him to his worship. Read the +writ!” + +“Then say we take him to prison round by his worship.” + +It was agreed. They got the money; and bade Gerard observe they were +doing him a favour. He saw they wanted a little gratitude as well as +much silver. He tried to satisfy this cupidity, but it stuck in his +throat. Feigning was not his forte. + +He entered the alderman's presence with his heart in his mouth, and +begged with faltering voice to know what he had done to offend since he +left that very room with Manon and Denys. + +“Nought that I know of,” said the alderman. + +On the writ being shown him, he told Gerard he had signed it at +daybreak. “I get old, and my memory faileth me: a discussing of the girl +I quite forgot your own offence: but I remember now. All is well. You +are he I committed for sorcery. Stay! ere you go to gaol, you shall hear +what your accuser says: run and fetch him, you.” + +The man could not find the accuser all at once. So the alderman, getting +impatient, told Gerard the main charge was that he had set a dead body a +burning with diabolical fire, that flamed, but did not consume. “And if +'tis true, young man, I'm sorry for thee, for thou wilt assuredly burn +with fire of good pine logs in the market-place of Neufchasteau.” + +“Oh, sir, for pity's sake let me have speech with his reverence the +cure.” + +The alderman advised Gerard against it. “The Church was harder upon +sorcerers than was the corporation.” + +“But, sir, I am innocent,” said Gerard, between snarling and whining. + +“Oh, if you think you are innocent--officer, go with him to the cure; +but see he 'scape you not. Innocent, quotha?” + +They found the cure in his doublet repairing a wheelbarrow. Gerard +told him all, and appealed piteously to him. “Just for using a little +phosphorus in self-defence against cut-throats they are going to hang.” + +It was lucky for our magician that he had already told his tale in full +to the cure, for thus that shrewd personage had hold of the stick at the +right end. The corporation held it by the ferule. His reverence looked +exceedingly grave and said, “I must question you privately on this +untoward business.” He took him into a private room and bade the officer +stand outside and guard the door, and be ready to come if called. The +big constable stood outside the door, quaking, and expecting to see the +room fly away and leave a stink of brimstone. Instantly they were alone +the cure unlocked his countenance and was himself again. + +“Show me the trick on't,” said he, all curiosity. + +“I cannot, sir, unless the room be darkened.” + +The cure speedily closed out the light with a wooden shutter. “Now, +then.” + +“But on what shall I put it?” said Gerard. “Here is no dead face. 'Twas +that made it look so dire.” The cure groped about the room. “Good; here +is an image: 'tis my patron saint.” + +“Heaven forbid! That were profanation.” + +“Pshaw! 'twill rub off, will't not?” + +“Ay, but it goes against me to take such liberty with a saint,” objected +the sorcerer. + +“Fiddlestick!” said the divine. + +“To be sure by putting it on his holiness will show your reverence it is +no Satanic art.” + +“Mayhap 'twas for that I did propose it.” said the cure subtly. + +Thus encouraged, Gerard fired the eyes and nostrils of the image and +made the cure jump. Then lighted up the hair in patches; and set the +whole face shining like a glow-worm's. + +“By'r Lady,” shouted the cure, “'tis strange, and small my wonder that +they took you for a magician, seeing a dead face thus fired. Now come +thy ways with me!” + +He put on his grey gown and great hat, and in a few minutes they found +themselves in presence of the alderman. By his side, poisoning his mind, +stood the accuser, a singular figure in red hose and red shoes, a black +gown with blue bands, and a cocked hat. + +After saluting the alderman, the cure turned to this personage and said +good-humouredly, “So, Mangis, at thy work again, babbling away honest +men's lives! Come, your worship, this is the old tale! two of a trade +can ne'er agree. Here is Mangis, who professes sorcery, and would sell +himself to Satan to-night, but that Satan is not so weak as buy what +he can have gratis, this Mangis, who would be a sorcerer, but is only +a quacksalver, accuses of magic a true lad, who did but use in +self-defence a secret of chemistry well-known to me and all churchmen.” + +“But he is no churchman, to dabble in such mysteries,” objected the +alderman. + +“He is more churchman than layman, being convent bred, and in the lesser +orders,” said the ready cure. “Therefore, sorcerer, withdraw thy plaint +without more words!” + +“That I will not, your reverence,” replied Mangis stoutly. “A sorcerer I +am, but a white one, not a black one. I make no pact with Satan, but on +the contrary still battle him with lawful and necessary arts, I ne'er +profane the sacraments, as do the black sorcerers, nor turn myself into +a cat and go sucking infants' blood, nor e'en their breath, nor set dead +men o' fire. I but tell the peasants when their cattle and their hens +are possessed, and at what time of the moon to plant rye, and what days +in each month are lucky for wooing of women and selling of bullocks +and so forth: above all, it is my art and my trade to detect the black +magicians, as I did that whole tribe of them who were burnt at Dol but +last year.” + +“Ay, Mangis. And what is the upshot of that famous fire thy tongue did +kindle?” + +“Why, their ashes were cast to the wind.” + +“Ay. But the true end of thy comedy is this. The parliament of Dijon +hath since sifted the matter, and found they were no sorcerers, but good +and peaceful citizens; and but last week did order masses to be said for +their souls, and expiatory farces and mysteries to be played for them +in seven towns of Burgundy; all which will not of those cinders make men +and women again. Now 'tis our custom in this land, when we have slain +the innocent by hearkening false knaves like thee, not to blame our +credulous ears, but the false tongue that gulled them. Therefore bethink +thee that, at a word from me to my lord bishop, thou wilt smell burning +pine nearer than e'er knave smelt it and lived, and wilt travel on a +smoky cloud to him whose heart thou bearest (for the word devil in the +Latin it meaneth 'false accuser'), and whose livery thou wearest.” + +And the cure pointed at Mangis with his staff. + +“That is true i'fegs,” said the alderman, “for red and black be the foul +fiendys colours.” + +By this time the white sorcerer's cheek was as colourless as his dress +was fiery. Indeed the contrast amounted to pictorial. He stammered out, +“I respect Holy Church and her will; he shall fire the churchyard, and +all in it, for me: I do withdraw the plaint.” + +“Then withdraw thyself,” said the vice-bailiff. + +The moment he was gone the cure took the conversational tone, and told +the alderman courteously that the accused had received the chemical +substance from Holy Church, and had restored it her, by giving it all to +him. + +“Then 'tis in good hands,” was the reply; “young man, you are free. Let +me have your reverence's prayers.” + +“Doubt it not! Humph! Vice-baillie, the town owes me four silver franks, +this three months and more.” + +“They shall be paid, cure, ay, ere the week be out.” + +On this good understanding Church and State parted. As soon as he was in +the street Gerard caught the priest's hand, and kissed it. + +“Oh, sir! Oh, your reverence. You have saved me from the fiery stake. +What can I say, what do? what?” + +“Nought, foolish lad. Bounty rewards itself. Natheless--Humph?--I wish +I had done't without leasing. It ill becomes my function to utter +falsehoods.” + +“Falsehood, sir?” Gerard was mystified. + +“Didst not hear me say thou hadst given me that same phosphorus? 'Twill +cost me a fortnight's penance, that light word.” The cure sighed, and +his eye twinkled cunningly. + +“Nay, nay,” cried Gerard eagerly. “Now Heaven forbid! That was no +falsehood, father: well you knew the phosphorus was yours, is yours.” + And he thrust the bottle into the cure's hand. “But alas, 'tis too poor +a gift: will you not take from my purse somewhat for Holy Church?” and +now he held out his purse with glistening eyes. + +“Nay,” said the other brusquely, and put his hands quickly behind him; +“not a doit. Fie! fie! art pauper et exul. Come thou rather each day at +noon and take thy diet with me; for my heart warms to thee;” and he went +off very abruptly with his hands behind him. + +They itched. + +But they itched in vain. + +Where there's a heart there's a Rubicon. + +Gerard went hastily to the inn to relieve Denys of the anxiety so long +and mysterious an absence must have caused him. He found him seated +at his ease, playing dice with two young ladies whose manners were +unreserved, and complexion high. + +Gerard was hurt. “N'oubliez point la Jeanneton!” said he, colouring up. + +“What of her?” said Denys, gaily rattling the dice. + +“She said, 'Le peu que sont les femmes.'” + +“Oh, did she? And what say you to that, mesdemoiselles?” + +“We say that none run women down, but such as are too old, or too +ill-favoured, or too witless to please them.” + +“Witless, quotha? Wise men have not folly enough to please them, nor +madness enough to desire to please them,” said Gerard loftily; “but 'tis +to my comrade I speak, not to you, you brazen toads, that make so free +with a man at first sight.” + +“Preach away, comrade. Fling a byword or two at our heads. Know, girls, +that he is a very Solomon for bywords. Methinks he was brought up by +hand on 'em.” + +“Be thy friendship a byword!” retorted Gerard. “The friendship that +melts to nought at sight of a farthingale.” + +“Malheureux!” cried Denys, “I speak but pellets, and thou answerest +daggers.” + +“Would I could,” was the reply. “Adieu.” + +“What a little savage!” said one of the girls. + +Gerard opened the door and put in his head. “I have thought of a +byword,” said he spitefully-- + + “Qui hante femmes et dez + Il mourra en pauvretez. + +“There.” And having delivered this thunderbolt of antique wisdom, he +slammed the door viciously ere any of them could retort. + +And now, being somewhat exhausted by his anxieties, he went to the bar +for a morsel of bread and a cup of wine. The landlord would sell nothing +less than a pint bottle. Well then he would have a bottle; but when he +came to compare the contents of the bottle with its size, great was the +discrepancy: on this he examined the bottle keenly, and found that +the glass was thin where the bottle tapered, but towards the bottom +unnaturally thick. He pointed this out at once. + +The landlord answered superciliously that he did not make bottles: and +was nowise accountable for their shape. + +“That we will see presently,” said Gerard. “I will take this thy pint to +the vice-bailiff.” + +“Nay, nay, for Heaven's sake,” cried the landlord, changing his tone at +once. “I love to content my customers. If by chance this pint be short, +we will charge it and its fellow three sous insteads of two sous each.” + +“So be it. But much I admire that you, the host of so fair an inn, +should practise thus. The wine, too, smacketh strongly of spring water.” + +“Young sir,” said the landlord, “we cut no travellers' throats at this +inn, as they do at most. However, you know all about that, 'The White +Hart' is no lion, nor bear. Whatever masterful robbery is done here, is +done upon the poor host. How then could he live at all if he dealt not a +little crooked with the few who pay?” + +Gerard objected to this system root and branch. Honest trade was small +profits, quick returns; and neither to cheat nor be cheated. + +The landlord sighed at this picture. “So might one keep an inn in +heaven, but not in Burgundy. When foot soldiers going to the wars are +quartered on me, how can I but lose by their custom? Two sous per day is +their pay, and they eat two sous' worth, and drink into the bargain. The +pardoners are my good friends, but palmers and pilgrims, what think you +I gain by them? marry, a loss. Minstrels and jongleurs draw custom and +so claim to pay no score, except for liquor. By the secular monks I +neither gain nor lose, but the black and grey friars have made vow +of poverty, but not of famine; eat like wolves and give the poor host +nought but their prayers; and mayhap not them: how can he tell? In my +father's day we had the weddings; but now the great gentry let their +houses and their plates, their mugs and their spoons to any honest +couple that want to wed, and thither the very mechanics go with their +brides and bridal train. They come not to us: indeed we could not find +seats and vessels for such a crowd as eat and drink and dance the week +out at the homeliest wedding now. In my father's day the great gentry +sold wine by the barrel only; but now they have leave to cry it, and +sell it by the galopin, in the very market-place. How can we vie with +them? They grow it. We buy it of the grower. The coroner's quests we +have still, and these would bring goodly profit, but the meat is aye +gone ere the mouths be full.” + +“You should make better provision,” suggested his hearer. + +“The law will not let us. We are forbidden to go into the market for +the first hour. So, when we arrive, the burghers have bought all but the +refuse. Besides, the law forbids us to buy more than three bushels +of meal at a time: yet market day comes but once a week. As for the +butchers, they will not kill for us unless we bribe them.” + +“Courage!” said Gerard kindly, “the shoe pinches every trader +somewhere.” + +“Ay: but not as it pinches us. Our shoe is trode all o' one side as well +as pinches us lame. A savoir, if we pay not the merchants we buy meal, +meat, and wine of, they can cast us into prison and keep us there till +we pay or die. But we cannot cast into prison those who buy those very +victuals of us. A traveller's horse we may keep for his debt; but where, +in Heaven's name? In our own stable, eating his head off at our cost. +Nay, we may keep the traveller himself; but where? In gaol? Nay, in +our own good house, and there must we lodge and feed him gratis. And so +fling good silver after bad? Merci; no: let him go with a wanion. Our +honestest customers are the thieves. Would to Heaven there were more of +them. They look not too close into the shape of the canakin, nor into +the host's reckoning: with them and with their purses 'tis lightly come, +and lightly go. Also they spend freely, not knowing but each carouse may +be their last. But the thief-takers, instead of profiting by this +fair example, are for ever robbing the poor host. When noble or honest +travellers descend at our door, come the Provost's men pretending to +suspect them, and demanding to search them and their papers. To save +which offence the host must bleed wine and meat. Then come the excise to +examine all your weights and measures. You must stop their mouths with +meat and wine. Town excise. Royal excise. Parliament excise. A swarm +of them, and all with a wolf in their stomachs and a sponge in their +gullets. Monks, friars, pilgrims, palmers, soldiers, excisemen, +provost-marshals and men, and mere bad debtors, how can 'The White Hart' +butt against all these? Cutting no throats in self-defence as do your +'Swans' and 'Roses' and 'Boar's Heads' and 'Red Lions' and 'Eagles,' +your 'Moons,' 'Stars,' and 'Moors,' how can 'The White Hart' give a pint +of wine for a pint? And everything risen so. Why, lad, not a pound of +bread I sell but cost me three good copper deniers, twelve to the sou; +and each pint of wine, bought by the tun, costs me four deniers; every +sack of charcoal two sous, and gone in a day. A pair of partridges five +sous. What think you of that? Heard one ever the like? five sous for two +little beasts all bone and feather? A pair of pigeons, thirty deniers. +'Tis ruination!!! For we may not raise our pricen with the market. Oh, +no, I tell thee the shoe is trode all o' one side as well as pinches the +water into our eyn. We may charge nought for mustard, pepper, salt, +or firewood. Think you we get them for nought? Candle it is a sou the +pound. Salt five sous the stone, pepper four sous the pound, mustard +twenty deniers the pint; and raw meat, dwindleth it on the spit with no +cost to me but loss of weight? Why, what think you I pay my cook? But +you shall never guess. A HUNDRED SOUS A YEAR AS I AM A LIVING SINNER. + +“And my waiter thirty sous, besides his perquisites. He is a hantle +richer than I am. And then to be insulted as well as pillaged. Last +Sunday I went to church. It is a place I trouble not often. Didn't the +cure lash the hotel-keepers? I grant you he hit all the trades, except +the one that is a byword for looseness, and pride, and sloth, to wit, +the clergy. But, mind you, he stripeit the other lay estates with a +feather, but us hotel-keepers with a neat's pizzle: godless for this, +godless for that, and most godless of all for opening our doors during +mass. Why, the law forces us to open at all hours to travellers from +another town, stopping, halting, or passing: those be the words. They +can fine us before the bailiff if we refuse them, mass or no mass; +and say a townsman should creep in with the true travellers, are we to +blame? They all vow they are tired wayfarers; and can I ken every face +in a great town like this? So if we respect the law our poor souls are +to suffer, and if we respect it not, our poor lank purses must bleed at +two holes, fine and loss of custom.” + +A man speaking of himself in general, is “a babbling brook;” of his +wrongs, “a shining river.” + +“Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum.” + +So luckily for my readers, though not for all concerned, this injured +orator was arrested in mid career. Another man burst in upon his wrongs +with all the advantage of a recent wrong; a wrong red hot. It was Denys +cursing and swearing and crying that he was robbed. + +“Did those hussies pass this way? who are they? where do they bide? They +have ta'en my purse and fifteen golden pieces: raise the hue and cry! +ah! traitresses! vipers! These inns are all guet-apens.” + +“There now,” cried the landlord to Gerard. + +Gerard implored him to be calm, and say how it had befallen. + +“First one went out on some pretence: then after a while the other went +to fetch her back, and neither returning, I clapped hand to purse and +found it empty: the ungrateful creatures, I was letting them win it in a +gallop: but loaded dice were not quick enough; they must claw it all in +a lump.” + +Gerard was for going at once to the alderman and setting the officers to +find them. + +“Not I,” said Denys. “I hate the law. No: as it came so let it go.” + +Gerard would not give it up so. + +At a hint from the landlord he forced Denys along with him to the +provost-marshal. That dignitary shook his head. “We have no clue to +occasional thieves, that work honestly at their needles, till some gull +comes and tempts them with an easy booty, and then they pluck him. + +“Come away,” cried Denys furiously. “I knew what use a bourgeois would +be to me at a pinch:” and he marched off in a rage. + +“They are clear of the town ere this,” said Gerard. + +“Speak no more on't if you prize my friendship. I have five pieces with +the bailiff, and ten I left with Manon, luckily; or these traitresses +had feathered their nest with my last plume. What dost gape for so? Nay, +I do ill to vent my choler on thee: I'll tell thee all. Art wiser than +I. What saidst thou at the door? No matter. Well, then, I did offer +marriage to that Manon.” + +Gerard was dumfounded. + +“What? You offered her what?” + +“Marriage. Is that such a mighty strange thing to offer a wench?” + +“'Tis a strange thing to offer to a strange girl in passing.” + +“Nay, I am not such a sot as you opine. I saw the corn in all that +chaff. I knew I could not get her by fair means, so I was fain to try +foul. 'Mademoiselle,' said I, 'marriage is not one of my habits, but +struck by your qualities I make an exception; deign to bestow this hand +on me.'” + +“And she bestowed it on thine ear.'” + +“Not so. On the contrary she--Art a disrespectful young monkey. Know +that here, not being Holland or any other barbarous state, courtesy +begets courtesy. Says she, a colouring like a rose, 'Soldier, you are +too late. He is not a patch on you for looks; but then--he has loved me +a long time.' + +“'He? who?' + +“'T'other.' + +“'What other?' + +“Why, he that was not too late.' Oh, that is the way they all speak, the +loves; the she-wolves. Their little minds go in leaps. Think you they +marshal their words in order of battle? Their tongues are in too great +a hurry. Says she, 'I love him not; not to say love him; but he does me, +and dearly; and for that reason I'd sooner die than cause him grief, I +would.'” + +“Now I believe she did love him.” + +“Who doubts that? Why she said so, round about, as they always say these +things, and with 'nay' for 'ay.' + +“Well one thing led to another, and at last, as she could not give me +her hand, she gave me a piece of advice, and that was to leave part of +my money with the young mistress. Then, when bad company had cleaned me +out, I should have some to travel back with, said she. I said I would +better her advice, and leave it with her. Her face got red. Says she, +'Think what you do. Chambermaids have an ill name for honesty.' 'Oh, the +devil is not so black as he is painted,' said I. 'I'll risk it;' and I +left fifteen gold pieces with her.” + +Gerard sighed. “I wish you may ever see them again. It is wondrous in +what esteem you do hold this sex, to trust so to the first comer. For my +part I know little about them; I never saw but one I could love as well +as I love thee. But the ancients must surely know; and they held women +cheap. 'Levius quid femina,' said they, which is but la Jeanneton's +tune in Latin, 'Le peu que sont les femmes.' Also do but see how the +greybeards of our own day speak of them, being no longer blinded by +desire: this alderman, to wit.” + +“Oh, novice of novices,” cried Denys, “not to have seen why that old +fool rails so on the poor things! One day, out of the millions of women +he blackens, one did prefer some other man to him: for which solitary +piece of bad taste, and ten to one 'twas good taste, he doth bespatter +creation's fairer half, thereby proving what? le peu que sont les +hommes.” + +“I see women have a shrewd champion in thee,” said Gerard, with a smile. +But the next moment inquired gravely why he had not told him all this +before. + +Denys grinned. “Had the girl said 'Ay,' why then I had told thee +straight. But 'tis a rule with us soldiers never to publish our defeats: +'tis much if after each check we claim not a victory.” + +“Now that is true,” said Gerard. “Young as I am, I have seen this; that +after every great battle the generals on both sides go to the nearest +church, and sing each a Te Deum for the victory; methinks a Te Martem, +or Te Bellonam, or Te Mercurium, Mercury being the god of lies, were +more fitting.” + +“Pas si bete,” said Denys approvingly. “Hast a good eye: canst see a +steeple by daylight. So now tell me how thou hast fared in this town all +day.” + +“Come,” said Gerard, “'tis well thou hast asked me: for else I had never +told thee.” He then related in full how he had been arrested, and by +what a providential circumstance he had escaped long imprisonment or +speedy conflagration. + +His narrative produced an effect he little expected or desired. + +“I am a traitor,” cried Denys. “I left thee in a strange place to fight +thine own battles, while I shook the dice with those jades. Now take +thou this sword and pass it through my body forthwith.” + +“What for in Heaven's name?” inquired Gerard. + +“For an example,” roared Denys. “For a warning to all false loons that +profess friendship, and disgrace it.” + +“Oh, very well,” said Gerard. “Yes. Not a bad notion. Where will you +have it?” + +“Here, through my heart; that is, where other men have a heart, but I +none, or a Satanic false one.” + +Gerard made a motion to run him through, and flung his arms round his +neck instead. “I know no way to thy heart but this, thou great silly +thing.” + +Denys uttered an exclamation, then hugged him warmly--and, quite +overcome by this sudden turn of youthful affection and native grace, +gulped out in a broken voice, “Railest on women--and art--like +them--with thy pretty ways. Thy mother's milk is in thee still. Satan +would love thee, or--le bon Dieu would kick him out of hell for shaming +it. Give me thy hand! Give me thy hand! May” (a tremendous oath) “if I +let thee out of my sight till Italy.” + +And so the staunch friends were more than reconciled after their short +tiff. + +The next day the thieves were tried. The pieces de conviction were +reduced in number, to the great chagrin of the little clerk, by the +interment of the bones. But there was still a pretty show. A thief's +hand struck off flagrante delicto; a murdered woman's hair; the Abbot's +axe, and other tools of crime. The skulls, etc., were sworn to by the +constables who had found them. Evidence was lax in that age and place. +They all confessed but the landlord. And Manon was called to bring the +crime home to him. Her evidence was conclusive. He made a vain attempt +to shake her credibility by drawing from her that her own sweetheart had +been one of the gang, and that she had held her tongue so long as he +was alive. The public prosecutor came to the aid of his witness, +and elicited that a knife had been held to her throat, and her own +sweetheart sworn with solemn oaths to kill her should she betray them, +and that this terrible threat, and not the mere fear of death, had glued +her lips. + +The other thieves were condemned to be hanged, and the landlord to be +broken on the wheel. He uttered a piercing cry when his sentence was +pronounced. + +As for poor Manon, she became the subject of universal criticism. Nor +did opinion any longer run dead in her favour; it divided into two broad +currents. And strange to relate, the majority of her own sex took her +part, and the males were but equally divided; which hardly happens once +in a hundred years. Perhaps some lady will explain the phenomenon. As +for me, I am a little shy of explaining things I don't understand. It +has become so common. Meantime, had she been a lover of notoriety, she +would have been happy, for the town talked of nothing but her. The poor +girl, however, had but one wish to escape the crowd that followed her, +and hide her head somewhere where she could cry over her “pendard,” + whom all these proceedings brought vividly back to her affectionate +remembrance. Before he was hanged he had threatened her life; but she +was not one of your fastidious girls, who love their male divinities any +the less for beating them, kicking them, or killing them, but rather +the better, provided these attentions are interspersed with occasional +caresses; so it would have been odd indeed had she taken offence at a +mere threat of that sort. He had never threatened her with a rival. She +sobbed single-mindedly. + +Meantime the inn was filled with thirsters for a sight of her, who +feasted and drank, to pass away the time till she should deign to +appear. When she had been sobbing some time, there was a tap at her +door, and the landlord entered with a proposal. “Nay, weep not, good +lass, your fortune it is made an you like. Say the word, and you are +chambermaid of 'The White Hart.'” + +“Nay, nay,” said Manon with a fresh burst of grief. “Never more will I +be a servant in an inn. I'll go to my mother.” + +The landlord consoled and coaxed her: and she became calmer, but none +the less determined against his proposal. + +The landlord left her. But ere long he returned and made her another +proposal. Would she be his wife, and landlady of “The White Hart”? + +“You do ill to mock me,” said she sorrowfully. + +“Nay, sweetheart. I mock thee not. I am too old for sorry jests. Say you +the word, and you are my partner for better for worse.” + +She looked at him, and saw he was in earnest: on this she suddenly +rained hard to the memory of “le pendard”: the tears came in a torrent, +being the last; and she gave her hand to the landlord of “The White +Hart,” and broke a gold crown with him in sign of plighted troth. + +“We will keep it dark till the house is quiet,” said the landlord. + +“Ay,” said she; “but meantime prithee give me linen to hem, or work to +do; for the time hangs on me like lead.” + +Her betrothed's eye brightened at this housewifely request, and he +brought her up two dozen flagons of various sizes to clean and polish. + +She gathered complacency as she reflected that by a strange turn of +fortune all this bright pewter was to be hers. + +Meantime the landlord went downstairs, and falling in with our friends +drew them aside into the bar. + +He then addressed Denys with considerable solemnity. “We are old +acquaintances, and you want not for sagacity: now advise me in a strait. +My custom is somewhat declining: this girl Manon is the talk of the +town; see how full the inn is to-night. She doth refuse to be my +chambermaid. I have half a mind to marry her. What think you? shall I +say the word?” + +Denys in reply merely open his eyes wide with amazement. + +The landlord turned to Gerard with a half-inquiring look, + +“Nay, sir,” said Gerard; “I am too young to advise my seniors and +betters.” + +“No matter. Let us hear your thought.” + +“Well, sir, it was said of a good wife by the ancients, 'bene quae +latuit, bene vixit,' that is, she is the best wife that is least talked +of: but here 'male quae patuit' were as near the mark. Therefore, an +you bear the lass good-will, why not club purses with Denys and me and +convey her safe home with a dowry? Then mayhap some rustical person in +her own place may be brought to wife her.” + +“Why so many words?” said Denys. “This old fox is not the ass he affects +to be.” + +“Oh! that is your advice, is it?” said the landlord testily. “Well then +we shall soon know who is the fool, you or me, for I have spoken to her +as it happens; and what is more, she has said Ay, and she is polishing +the flagons at this moment.” + +“Oho!” said Denys drily, “'twas an ambuscade. Well, in that case, my +advice is, run for the notary, tie the noose, and let us three drink the +bride's health, till we see six sots a-tippling.” + +“And shall. Ay, now you utter sense.” + +In ten minutes a civil marriage was effected upstairs before a notary +and his clerk and our two friends. + +In ten minutes more the white hind, dead sick of seclusion, had taken +her place within the bar, and was serving out liquids, and bustling, and +her colour rising a little. + +In six little minutes more she soundly rated a careless servant-girl for +carrying a nipperkin of wine awry and spilling good liquor. + +During the evening she received across the bar eight offers of marriage, +some of them from respectable burghers. Now the landlord and our two +friends had in perfect innocence ensconced themselves behind a screen, +to drink at their ease the new couple's health. The above comedy was +thrown in for their entertainment by bounteous fate. They heard the +proposals made one after another, and uninventive Manon's invariable +answer--“Serviteur; you are a day after the fair.” The landlord chuckled +and looked good-natured superiority at both his late advisers, with +their traditional notions that men shun a woman “quae patuit,” i.e. who +has become the town talk. + +But Denys scarce noticed the spouse's triumph over him, he was so +occupied with his own over Gerard. At each municipal tender of undying +affection, he turned almost purple with the effort it cost him not +to roar with glee; and driving his elbow into the deep-meditating +and much-puzzled pupil of antiquity, whispered, “Le peu que sont les +hommes.” + +The next morning Gerard was eager to start, but Denys was under a vow to +see the murderers of the golden-haired girl executed. + +Gerard respected his vow, but avoided his example. + +He went to bid the cure farewell instead, and sought and received his +blessing. About noon the travellers got clear of the town. Just outside +the south gate they passed the gallows; it had eight tenants: the +skeleton of Manon's late wept, and now being fast forgotten, lover, and +the bodies of those who had so nearly taken our travellers' lives. A +hand was nailed to the beam. And hard by on a huge wheel was clawed the +dead landlord, with every bone in his body broken to pieces. + +Gerard averted his head and hurried by. Denys lingered, and crowed over +his dead foes. “Times are changed, my lads, since we two sat shaking in +the cold awaiting you seven to come and cut our throats.” + +“Fie, Denys! Death squares all reckonings. Prithee pass on without +another word, if you prize my respect a groat.” + +To this earnest remonstrance Denys yielded. He even said thoughtfully, +“You have been better brought up than I.” + +About three in the afternoon they reached a little town with the people +buzzing in knots. The wolves, starved by the cold, had entered, and +eaten two grown-up persons overnight, in the main street: so some were +blaming the eaten--“None but fools or knaves are about after nightfall;” + others the law for not protecting the town, and others the corporation +for not enforcing what laws there were. + +“Bah! this is nothing to us,” said Denys, and was for resuming their +march. + +“Ay, but 'tis,” remonstrated Gerard. + +“What, are we the pair they ate?” + +“No, but we may be the next pair.” + +“Ay, neighbour,” said an ancient man, “'tis the town's fault for not +obeying the ducal ordinance, which bids every shopkeeper light a lamp +o'er his door at sunset, and burn it till sunrise.” + +On this Denys asked him somewhat derisively, “What made him fancy rush +dips would scare away empty wolves? Why, mutton fat is all their joy.” + +“'Tis not the fat, vain man, but the light. All ill things hate light; +especially wolves and the imps that lurk, I ween, under their fur. +Example; Paris city stands in a wood like, and the wolves do howl around +it all night: yet of late years wolves come but little in the streets. +For why, in that burgh the watchmen do thunder at each door that is +dark, and make the weary wight rise and light. 'Tis my son tells me. He +is a great voyager, my son Nicholas.” + +In further explanation he assured them that previously to that ordinance +no city had been worse infested with wolves than Paris; a troop had +boldly assaulted the town in 1420, and in 1438 they had eaten fourteen +persons in a single month between Montmartre and the gate St. Antoine, +and that not a winter month even, but September: and as for the +dead, which nightly lay in the streets slain in midnight brawls, or +assassinated, the wolves had used to devour them, and to grub up the +fresh graves in the churchyards and tear out the bodies. + +Here a thoughtful citizen suggested that probably the wolves had been +bridled of late in Paris, not by candle-lights, but owing to the English +having been driven out of the kingdom of France. “For those English be +very wolves themselves for fierceness and greediness. What marvel then +that under their rule our neighbours of France should be wolf-eaten?” + This logic was too suited to the time and place not to be received +with acclamation. But the old man stood his ground. “I grant ye those +islanders are wolves; but two-legged ones, and little apt to favour +their four-footed cousins. One greedy thing loveth it another? I trow +not. By the same token, and this too I have from my boy Nicole, Sir Wolf +dare not show his nose in London city; though 'tis smaller than Paris, +and thick woods hard by the north wall, and therein great store of deer, +and wild boars as rife as flies at midsummer.” + +“Sir,” said Gerard, “you seem conversant with wild beasts, prithee +advise my comrade here and me: we would not waste time on the road, an +if we may go forward to the next town with reasonable safety.' + +“Young man, I trow 'twere an idle risk. It lacks but an hour of dusk, +and you must pass nigh a wood where lurk some thousands of these +half-starved vermin, rank cowards single; but in great bands bold as +lions. Wherefore I rede you sojourn here the night; and journey on +betimes. By the dawn the vermin will be tired out with roaring and +rampaging; and mayhap will have filled their lank bellies with flesh of +my good neighbours here, the unteachable fools.” + +Gerard hoped not; and asked could he recommend them to a good inn. + +“Humph! there is the 'Tete d'Or.' My grandaughter keeps it. She is +a mijauree, but not so knavish as most hotel-keepers, and her house +indifferent clean.” + +“Hey, for the 'Tete d'Or,'” struck in Denys, decided by his ineradicable +foible. + +On the way to it, Gerard inquired of his companion what a “mijauree” + was? + +Denys laughed at his ignorance. “Not know what a mijauree is? why all +the world knows that. It is neither more nor less than a mijauree.” + +As they entered the “Tete d'Or,” they met a young lady richly dressed +with a velvet chaperon on her head, which was confined by law to the +nobility. They unbonneted and louted low, and she curtsied, but fixed +her eye on vacancy the while, which had a curious rather than a genial +effect. However, nobility was not so unassuming in those days as it +is now. So they were little surprised. But the next minute supper was +served, and lo! in came this princess and carved the goose. + +“Holy St. Bavon,” cried Gerard. “'Twas the landlady all the while.” + +A young woman, cursed with nice white teeth and lovely hands: for these +beauties being misallied to homely features, had turned her head. She +was a feeble carver, carving not for the sake of others but herself, +i.e. to display her hands. When not carving she was eternally either +taking a pin out of her head or her body, or else putting a pin into her +head or her body. To display her teeth, she laughed indifferently at gay +or grave and from ear to ear. And she “sat at ease” with her mouth ajar. + +Now there is an animal in creation of no great general merit; but it has +the eye of a hawk for affectation. It is called “a boy.” And Gerard was +but a boy still in some things; swift to see, and to loath, affectation. +So Denys sat casting sheep's eyes, and Gerard daggers, at one comedian. + +Presently, in the midst of her minauderies, she gave a loud shriek and +bounded out of her chair like hare from form, and ran backwards out of +the room uttering little screams, and holding her farthingale tight down +to her ankles with both hands. And as she scuttled out of the door a +mouse scuttled back to the wainscot in a state of equal, and perhaps +more reasonable terror. The guests, who had risen in anxiety at the +principal yell, now stood irresolute awhile, then sat down laughing. The +tender Denys, to whom a woman's cowardice, being a sexual trait, seemed +to be a lovely and pleasant thing, said he would go comfort her and +bring her back. + +“Nay! nay! nay! for pity's sake let her bide,” cried Gerard earnestly. +“Oh, blessed mouse! sure some saint sent thee to our aid.” + +Now at his right hand sat a sturdy middle-aged burgher, whose conduct up +to date had been cynical. He had never budged nor even rested his knife +at all this fracas. He now turned on Gerard and inquired haughtily +whether he really thought that “grimaciere” was afraid of a mouse. + +“Ay. She screamed hearty.” + +“Where is the coquette that cannot scream to the life? These she +tavern-keepers do still ape the nobles. Some princess or duchess hath +lain here a night, that was honestly afeard of a mouse, having been +brought up to it. And this ape hath seen her, and said, 'I will start +at a mouse, and make a coil,' She has no more right to start at a mouse +than to wear that fur on her bosom, and that velvet on her monkey's +head. I am of the town, young man, and have known the mijauree all her +life, and I mind when she was no more afeard of a mouse than she is of +a man.” He added that she was fast emptying the inn with these +“singeries.” “All the world is so sick of her hands, that her very +kinsfolk will not venture themselves anigh them.” He concluded with +something like a sigh, “The 'Tete d'Or' was a thriving hostelry under my +old chum her good father; but she is digging its grave tooth and nail.' + +“Tooth and nail? good! a right merry conceit and a true,” said Gerard. +But the right merry conceit was an inadvertence as pure as snow, and +the stout burgher went to his grave and never knew what he had done: +for just then attention was attracted by Denys returning pompously. He +inspected the apartment minutely, and with a high official air: he also +looked solemnly under the table; and during the whole inquisition a +white hand was placed conspicuously on the edge of the open door, and +a tremulous voice inquired behind it whether the horrid thing was quite +gone. + +“The enemy has retreated, bag and baggage,” said Denys: and handed in +the trembling fair, who, sitting down, apologized to her guests for +her foolish fears, with so much earnestness, grace, and seeming +self-contempt, that, but for a sour grin on his neighbour's face, Gerard +would have been taken in as all the other strangers were. Dinner ended, +the young landlady begged an Augustine friar at her right hand to say +grace. He delivered a longish one. The moment he began, she clapped her +white hands piously together, and held them up joined for mortals to +admire; 'tis an excellent pose for taper white fingers: and cast her +eyes upward towards heaven, and felt as thankful to it as a magpie does +while cutting off with your thimble. + +After supper the two friends went to the street-door and eyed the +market-place. The mistress joined them, and pointed out the town-hall, +the borough gaol, St. Catherine's church, etc. This was courteous, to +say the least. But the true cause soon revealed itself; the fair hand +was poked right under their eyes every time an object was indicated; and +Gerard eyed it like a basilisk, and longed for a bunch of nettles. The +sun set, and the travellers, few in number, drew round the great roaring +fire, and omitting to go on the spit, were frozen behind though roasted +in front. For if the German stoves were oppressively hot, the French +salles manger were bitterly cold, and above all stormy. In Germany men +sat bareheaded round the stove, and took off their upper clothes, but in +Burgundy they kept on their hats, and put on their warmest furs to sit +round the great open chimney places, at which the external air rushed +furiously from door and ill-fitting window. However, it seems their +mediaeval backs were broad enough to bear it: for they made themselves +not only comfortable but merry, and broke harmless jests over each +other in turn. For instance, Denys's new shoes, though not in direct +communication, had this day exploded with twin-like sympathy and +unanimity. “Where do you buy your shoon, soldier?” asked one. + +Denys looked askant at Gerard, and not liking the theme, shook it off. +“I gather 'em off the trees by the roadside,” said he surlily. + +“Then you gathered these too ripe,” said the hostess, who was only a +fool externally. + +“Ay, rotten ripe,” observed another, inspecting them. + +Gerard said nothing, but pointed the circular satire by pantomime. He +slily put out both his feet, one after another, under Denys's eye, with +their German shoes, on which a hundred leagues of travel had produced no +effect. They seemed hewn out of a rock. + +At this, “I'll twist the smooth varlet's neck that sold me mine,” + shouted Denys, in huge wrath, and confirmed the threat with singular +oaths peculiar to the mediaeval military. The landlady put her fingers +in her ears, thereby exhibiting the hand in a fresh attitude. “Tell me +when he has done his orisons, somebody,” said she mincingly. And after +that they fell to telling stories. + +Gerard, when his turn came, told the adventure of Denys and Gerard at +the inn in Domfront, and so well, that the hearers were rapt into sweet +oblivion of the very existence of mijauree and hands. But this made her +very uneasy, and she had recourse to her grand coup. This misdirected +genius had for a twelvemonth past practised yawning, and could do it +now at any moment so naturally as to set all creation gaping, could all +creation have seen her. By this means she got in all her charms. For +first she showed her teeth, then, out of good breeding, you know, closed +her mouth with three taper fingers. So the moment Gerard's story got too +interesting and absorbing, she turned to and made yawns, and “croix sur +la bouche.” + +This was all very fine: but Gerard was an artist, and artists are +chilled by gaping auditors. He bore up against the yawns a long time; +but finding they came from a bottomless reservoir, lost both heart and +temper, and suddenly rising in mid narrative, said, “But I weary our +hostess, and I am tired myself: so good night!” whipped a candle off the +dresser, whispered Denys, “I cannot stand her,” and marched to bed in a +moment. + +The mijauree coloured and bit her lips. She had not intended her byplay +for Gerard's eye: and she saw in a moment she had been rude, and silly, +and publicly rebuked. She sat with cheek on fire, and a little natural +water in her eyes, and looked ten times comelier and more womanly +and interesting than she had done all day. The desertion of the best +narrator broke up the party, and the unassuming Denys approached the +meditative mijauree, and invited her in the most flattering terms to +gamble with him. She started from her reverie, looked him down into the +earth's centre with chilling dignity, and consented, for she remembered +all in a moment what a show of hands gambling admitted. + +The soldier and the mijauree rattled the dice. In which sport she was so +taken up with her hands, that she forgot to cheat, and Denys won an “ecu +au soleil” of her. She fumbled slowly with her purse, partly because her +sex do not burn to pay debts of honour, partly to admire the play of +her little knuckles peeping between their soft white cushions. Denys +proposed a compromise. + +“Three silver franks I win of you, fair hostess. Give me now three +kisses of this white hand, and we'll e'en cry quits.” + +“You are malapert,” said the lady, with a toss of her head; “besides, +they are so dirty. See! they are like ink!” and to convince him she put +them out to him and turned them up and down. They were no dirtier than +cream fresh from the cob and she knew it: she was eternally washing and +scenting them. + +Denys read the objection like the observant warrior he was, seized them +and mumbled them. + +Finding him so appreciative of her charm, she said timidly, “Will you do +me a kindness, good soldier?” + +“A thousand, fair hostess, an you will.” + +“Nay, I ask but one. 'Tis to tell thy comrade I was right sorry to lose +his most thrilling story, and I hope he will tell me the rest to-morrow +morning. Meantime I shall not sleep for thinking on't. Wilt tell him +that--to pleasure me?” + +“Ay, I'll tell the young savage. But he is not worthy of your +condescension, sweet hostess. He would rather be aside a man than a +woman any day.” + +“So would--ahem. He is right: the young women of the day are not worthy +of him, 'un tas des mijaurees' He has a good, honest, and right comely +face. Any way, I would not guest of mine should think me unmannerly, not +for all the world. Wilt keep faith with me and tell him?” + +“On this fair hand I swear it; and thus I seal the pledge.” + +“There; no need to melt the wax, though. Now go to bed. And tell him ere +you sleep.” + +The perverse toad (I thank thee, Manon, for teaching me that word) was +inclined to bestow her slight affections upon Gerard. Not that she was +inflammable: far less so than many that passed for prudes in the town. +But Gerard possessed a triple attraction that has ensnared coquettes in +all ages. 1. He was very handsome. 2. He did not admire her the least. +3. He had given her a good slap in the face. + +Denys woke Gerard and gave the message. Gerard was not enchanted “Dost +wake a tired man to tell him that? Am I to be pestered with 'mijaurees' +by night as well as day?” + +“But I tell thee, novice, thou hast conquered her: trust to my +experience: her voice sank to melodious whispers; and the cunning jade +did in a manner bribe me to carry thee her challenge to Love's lists! +for so I read her message.” + +Denys then, assuming the senior and the man of the world, told Gerard +the time was come to show him how a soldier understood friendship +and camaraderie. Italy was now out of the question. Fate had provided +better; and the blind jade Fortune had smiled on merit for once. “The +Head of Gold” had been a prosperous inn, would be again with a man at +its head. A good general laid far-sighted plans; but was always ready +to abandon them, should some brilliant advantage offer, and to reap +the full harvest of the unforeseen: 'twas chiefly by this trait great +leaders defeated little ones; for these latter could do nothing not cut +and dried beforehand. + +“Sorry friendship, that would marry me to a mijauree,” interposed +Gerard, yawning. + +“Comrade, be reasonable; 'tis not the friskiest sheep that falls down +the cliff. All creatures must have their fling soon, or late; and why +not a woman? What more frivolous than a kitten? what graver than a cat?” + +“Hast a good eye for nature, Denys,” said Gerard, “that I proclaim. + +“A better for thine interest, boy. Trust then to me; these little doves +they are my study day and night; happy the man whose wife taketh her +fling before wedlock, and who trippeth up the altar-steps instead of +down 'em. Marriage it always changeth them for better or else for worse. +Why, Gerard, she is honest when all is done; and he is no man, nor half +a man, that cannot mould any honest lass like a bit of warm wax, and she +aye aside him at bed and board. I tell thee in one month thou wilt make +of this coquette the matron the most sober in the town, and of all +its wives the one most docile and submissive. Why, she is half tamed +already. Nine in ten meek and mild ones had gently hated thee like +poison all their lives, for wounding of their hidden pride. But she for +an affront proffers affection. By Joshua his bugle a generous lass, and +void of petty malice. When thou wast gone she sat a-thinking and spoke +not. A sure sign of love in one of her sex: for of all things else +they speak ere they think. Also her voice did sink exceeding low in +discoursing of thee, and murmured sweetly; another infallible sign. The +bolt hath struck and rankles in her; oh, be joyful! Art silent? I +see; 'tis settled. I shall go alone to Remiremont, alone and sad. But, +pillage and poleaxes! what care I for that, since my dear comrade will +stay here, landlord of the 'Tete d'Or,' and safe from all the storms +of life? Wilt think of me, Gerard, now and then by thy warm fire, of me +camped on some windy heath, or lying in wet trenches, or wounded on +the field and far from comfort? Nay!” and this he said in a manner truly +noble, “not comfortless or cold, or wet, or bleeding, 'twill still warm +my heart to lie on my back and think that I have placed my dear friend +and comrade true in the 'Tete d'Or,' far from a soldier's ills.” + +“I let you run on, dear Denys,” said Gerard softly, “because at each +word you show me the treasure of a good heart. But now bethink thee, my +troth is plighted there where my heart it clingeth. You so leal, would +you make me disloyal?” + +“Perdition seize me, but I forgot that,” said Denys. + +“No more then, but hie thee to bed, good Denys. Next to Margaret I love +thee best on earth, and value thy 'coeur d'or' far more than a dozen +of these 'Tetes d'Or.' So prithee call me at the first blush of +rosy-fingered morn, and let's away ere the woman with the hands be +stirring.” + +They rose with the dawn, and broke their fast by the kitchen fire. + +Denys inquired of the girl whether the mistress was about. + +“Nay; but she hath risen from her bed: by the same token I am carrying +her this to clean her withal;” and she filled a jug with boiling water, +and took it upstairs. + +“Behold,” said Gerard, “the very elements must be warmed to suit her +skin; what had the saints said, which still chose the coldest pool? +Away, ere she come down and catch us.” + +They paid the score, and left the “Tete d'Or,” while its mistress was +washing her hands. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +Outside the town they found the snow fresh trampled by innumerable +wolves every foot of the road. + +“We did well to take the old man's advice, Denys.” + +“Ay did we. For now I think on't, I did hear them last night scurrying +under our window, and howling and whining for man's flesh in yon +market-place. But no fat burgher did pity the poor vagabones, and drop +out o' window.” + +Gerard smiled, but with an air of abstraction. And they plodded on in +silence. + +“What dost meditate so profoundly?” + +“Thy goodness.” + +Denys was anything but pleased at this answer. Amongst his oddities you +may have observed that he could stand a great deal of real impertinence; +he was so good-humoured. But would fire up now and then where not even +the shadow of a ground for anger existed. + +“A civil question merits a civil reply,” said he very drily. + +“Alas, I meant no other,” said Gerard. + +“Then why pretend you were thinking of my goodness, when you know I have +no goodness under my skin?” + +“Had another said this, I had answered, 'Thou liest.' But to thee I say, +'Hast no eye for men's qualities, but only for women's.' And once more I +do defy thy unreasonable choler, and say I was thinking on thy goodness +of overnight. Wouldst have wedded me to the 'Tete d'Or' or rather to the +'tete de veau doree,' and left thyself solitary.” + +“Oh, are ye there, lad?” said Denys, recovering his good humour in a +moment. “Well, but to speak sooth, I meant that not for goodness; but +for friendship and true fellowship, no more. And let me tell you, my +young master, my conscience it pricketh me even now for letting you turn +your back thus on fortune and peaceful days. A truer friend than I had +ta'en and somewhat hamstrung thee. Then hadst thou been fain to lie +smarting at the 'Tete d'Or' a month or so; yon skittish lass had nursed +thee tenderly, and all had been well. Blade I had in hand to do't, but +remembering how thou hatest pain, though it be but a scratch, my craven +heart it failed me at the pinch.” And Denys wore a look of humble +apology for his lack of virtuous resolution when the path of duty lay so +clear. + +Gerard raised his eyebrows with astonishment at this monstrous but +thoroughly characteristic revelation; however, this new and delicate +point of friendship was never discussed; viz., whether one ought in +all love to cut the tendon Achilles of one's friend. For an incident +interposed. + +“Here cometh one in our rear a-riding on his neighbour's mule,” shouted +Denys. + +Gerard turned round. “And how know ye 'tis not his own, pray?” + +“Oh, blind! Because he rides it with no discretion.” + +And in truth the man came galloping like a fury. But what astonished the +friends most was that on reaching them the rustic rider's eyes opened +saucer-like, and he drew the rein so suddenly and powerfully, that the +mule stuck out her fore-legs, and went sliding between the pedestrians +like a four-legged table on castors. + +“I trow ye are from the 'Tete d'Or?'” They assented. “Which of ye is the +younger?” + +“He that was born the later,” said Denys, winking at his companion. + +“Gramercy for the news.” + +“Come, divine then!” + +“And shall. Thy beard is ripe, thy fellow's is green; he shall be the +younger; here, youngster.” And he held him out a paper packet. “Ye left +this at the 'Tete d'Or,' and our mistress sends it ye.” + +“Nay, good fellow, methinks I left nought.” And Gerard felt his pouch. +etc. + +“Would ye make our burgess a liar,” said the rustic reproachfully; “and +shall I have no pourboire?” (still more reproachfully); “and came ventre +a terre.” + +“Nay, thou shalt have pourboire,” and he gave him a small coin. + +“A la bonne heure,” cried the clown, and his features beamed with +disproportionate joy. “The Virgin go with ye; come up, Jenny!” and back +he went “stomach to earth,” as his nation is pleased to call it. + +Gerard undid the packet; it was about six inches square, and inside it +he found another packet, which contained a packet, and so on. At the +fourth he hurled the whole thing into the snow. Denys took it out +and rebuked his petulance. He excused himself on the ground of hating +affectation. + +Denys attested, “'The great toe of the little daughter of Herodias' +there was no affectation here, but only woman's good wit. Doubtless the +wraps contained something which out of delicacy, or her sex's lovely +cunning, she would not her hind should see her bestow on a young man; +thy garter, to wit.” + +“I wear none.” + +“Her own then; or a lock of her hair. What is this? A piece of raw silk +fresh from the worm. Well, of all the love tokens!” + +“Now who but thee ever dreamed that she is so naught as send me love +tokens? I saw no harm in her--barring her hands.” + +“Stay, here is something hard lurking in this soft nest. Come forth, I +say, little nestling! Saints and pikestaves! look at this!” + +It was a gold ring with a great amethyst glowing and sparkling, full +coloured, but pure as crystal. + +“How lovely!” said Gerard innocently. + +“And here is something writ; read it thou! I read not so glib as some, +when I know not the matter beforehand.” + +Gerard took the paper. “'Tis a posy, and fairly enough writ.” He read +the lines, blushing like a girl. They were very naive, and may be thus +Englished:-- + + 'Youth, with thee my heart is fledde, + Come back to the 'golden Hedde!' + Wilt not? yet this token keepe + Of hir who doeth thy goeing weepe. + Gyf the world prove harsh and cold, + Come back to 'the Hedde of gold.'” + +“The little dove!” purred Denys. + +“The great owl! To go and risk her good name thus. However, thank Heaven +she has played this prank with an honest lad that will ne'er expose her +folly. But oh, the perverseness! Could she not bestow her nauseousness +on thee?” Denys sighed and shrugged. “On thee that art as ripe for folly +as herself?” + +Denys confessed that his young friend had harped his very thought. 'Twas +passing strange to him that a damsel with eyes in her head should pass +by a man, and bestow her affections on a boy. Still he could not but +recognize in this the bounty of Nature. Boys were human beings after +all, and but for this occasional caprice of women, their lot would be +too terrible; they would be out of the sun altogether, blighted, and +never come to anything; since only the fair could make a man out of +such unpromising materials as a boy. Gerard interrupted this flattering +discourse to beg the warrior-philosopher's acceptance of the lady's +ring. He refused it flatly, and insisted on Gerard going back to the +“Tete d'Or” at once, ring and all, like a man, and not letting a poor +girl hold out her arms to him in vain. + +“Her hands, you mean.” + +“Her hand, with the 'Tete d'Or' in it.” + +Failing in this, he was for putting the ring on his friend's finger. +Gerard declined. “I wear a ring already.” + +“What, that sorry gimcrack? why, 'tis pewter, or tin at best: and this +virgin gold, forbye the jewel.” + +“Ay, but 'twas Margaret gave me this one; and I value it above rubies. +I'll neither part with it nor give it a rival,” and he kissed the base +metal, and bade it fear nought. + +“I see the owl hath sent her ring to a goose,” said Denys sorrowfully. +However, he prevailed on Gerard to fasten it inside his bonnet. To this, +indeed, the lad consented very readily. For sovereign qualities were +universally ascribed to certain jewels; and the amethyst ranked high +among these precious talismans. + +When this was disposed of, Gerard earnestly requested his friend to let +the matter drop, since speaking of the other sex to him made him pine +so for Margaret, and almost unmanned him with the thought that each step +was taking him farther from her. “I am no general lover, Denys. There is +room in my heart for one sweetheart, and for one friend. I am far from +my dear mistress; and my friend, a few leagues more, and I must lose him +too. Oh, let me drink thy friendship pure while I may, and not dilute +with any of these stupid females.” + +“And shalt, honey-pot, and shalt,” said Denys kindly'. “But as to +my leaving thee at Remiremont, reckon thou not on that! For” (three +consecutive oaths) “if I do. Nay, I shall propose to thee to stay +forty-eight hours there, while I kiss my mother and sisters, and the +females generally, and on go you and I together to the sea.” + +“Denys! Denys!” + +“Denys nor me! 'Tis settled. Gainsay me not! or I'll go with thee +to Rome. Why not? his Holiness the Pope hath ever some little merry +pleasant war toward, and a Burgundian soldier is still welcome in his +ranks.” + +On this Gerard opened his heart. “Denys, ere I fell in with thee, I used +often to halt on the road, unable to go farther: my puny heart so pulled +me back: and then, after a short prayer to the saints for aid, would I +rise and drag my most unwilling body onward. But since I joined company +with thee, great is my courage. I have found the saying of the +ancients true, that better is a bright comrade on the weary road than +a horse-litter; and, dear brother, when I do think of what we have done +and suffered together! Savedst my life from the bear, and from yet +more savage thieves; and even poor I did make shift to draw thee out +of Rhine, and somehow loved thee double from that hour. How many ties +tender and strong between us! Had I my will, I'd never, never, never, +never part with my Denys on this side the grave. Well-a-day! God His +will be done. + +“No, my will shall be done this time,” shouted Denys. “Le bon Dieu has +bigger fish to fry than you or me. I'll go with thee to Rome. There is +my hand on it.” + +“Think what, you say! 'Tis impossible. 'Tis too selfish of me.” + +“I tell thee, 'tis settled. No power can change me. At Remiremont I +borrow ten pieces of my uncle, and on we go; 'tis fixed.” + +They shook hands over it. Then Gerard said nothing, for his heart was +too full; but he ran twice round his companion as he walked, then danced +backwards in front of him, and finally took his hand, and so on they +went hand in hand like sweethearts, till a company of mounted soldiers, +about fifty in number, rose to sight on the brow of a hill. + +“See the banner of Burgundy,” said Denys joyfully; “I shall look out for +a comrade among these.” + +“How gorgeous is the standard in the sun,” said Gerard “and how brave +are the leaders with velvet and feathers, and steel breastplates like +glassy mirrors!” + +When they came near enough to distinguish faces, Denys uttered an +exclamation: “Why, 'tis the Bastard of Burgundy, as I live. Nay, then; +there is fighting a-foot since he is out; a gallant leader, Gerard, +rates his life no higher than a private soldier's, and a soldier's no +higher than a tomtit's; and that is the captain for me.” + +“And see, Denys, the very mules with their great brass frontlets and +trappings seem proud to carry them; no wonder men itch to be soldiers;” + and in the midst of this innocent admiration the troop came up with +them. + +“Halt!” cried a stentorian voice. The troop halted. The Bastard of +Burgundy bent his brow gloomily on Denys: “How now, arbalestrier, how +comes it thy face is turned southward, when every good hand and heart is +hurrying northward?” + +Denys replied respectfully that he was going on leave, after some years +of service, to see his kindred at Remiremont. + +“Good. But this is not the time for't; the duchy is disturbed. Ho! bring +that dead soldier's mule to the front; and thou mount her and forward +with us to Flanders.” + +“So please your highness,” said Denys firmly, “that may not be. My home +is close at hand. I have not seen it these three years; and above all, I +have this poor youth in charge, whom I may not, cannot leave, till I see +him shipped for Rome. + +“Dost bandy words with me?” said the chief, with amazement, turning fast +to wrath. “Art weary o' thy life? Let go the youth's hand, and into the +saddle without more idle words.” + +Denys made no reply; but he held Gerard's hand the tighter, and looked +defiance. + +At this the bastard roared, “Jarnac, dismount six of thy archers, and +shoot me this white-livered cur dead where he stands--for an example.” + +The young Count de Jarnac, second in command, gave the order, and the +men dismounted to execute it. + +“Strip him naked,” said the bastard, in the cold tone of military +business, “and put his arms and accoutrements on the spare mule We'll +maybe find some clown worthier to wear them.” + +Denys groaned aloud, “Am I to be shamed as well as slain?” + +“Oh, nay! nay! nay!” cried Gerard, awaking from the stupor into which +this thunderbolt of tyranny had thrown him. “He shall go with you on the +instant. I'd liever part with him for ever than see a hair of his dear +head harmed Oh, sir, oh, my lord, give a poor boy but a minute to bid +his only friend farewell! he will go with you. I swear he shall go with +you.” + +The stern leader nodded a cold contemptuous assent. “Thou, Jarnac, stay +with them, and bring him on alive or dead. Forward!” And he resumed his +march, followed by all the band but the young count and six archers, one +of whom held the spare mule. + +Denys and Gerard gazed at one another haggardly. Oh, what a look! + +And after this mute interchange of anguish, they spoke hurriedly, for +the moments were flying by. + +“Thou goest to Holland: thou knowest where she bides. Tell her all. She +will be kind to thee for my sake.” + +“Oh, sorry tale that I shall carry her! For God's sake, go back to the +'Tete d'Or.' I am mad!” + +“Hush! Let me think: have I nought to say to thee, Denys? my head! my +head!” + +“Ah! I have it. Make for the Rhine, Gerard! Strasbourg. 'Tis but a step. +And down the current to Rotterdam. Margaret is there: I go thither. I'll +tell her thou art coming. We shall all be together.” + +“My lads, haste ye, or you will get us into trouble,” said the count +firmly, but not harshly now. + +“Oh, sir, one moment! one little moment!” panted Gerard. + +“Cursed be the land I 'was born in! cursed be the race of man! and he +that made them what they are!” screamed Denys. + +“Hush, Denys, hush! blaspheme not! Oh, God forgive him, he wots not what +he says. Be patient, Denys, be patient: though we meet no more on earth, +let us meet in a better world, where no blasphemer may enter. To my +heart, lost friend; for what are words now?” He held out his arms, and +they locked one another in a close embrace. They kissed one another +again and again, speechless, and the tears rained down their cheeks And +the Count Jarnac looked on amazed, but the rougher soldiers, to whom +comrade was a sacred name, looked on with some pity in their hard +faces. Then at a signal from Jarnac, with kind force and words of rude +consolation, they almost lifted Denys on to the mule; and putting him +in the middle of them, spurred after their leader. And Gerard ran wildly +after (for the lane turned), to see the very last of him; and the last +glimpse he caught, Denys was rocking to and fro on his mule, and tearing +his hair out. But at this sight something rose in Gerard's throat so +high, so high, he could run no more nor breathe, but gasped, and leaned +against the snow-clad hedge, seizing it, and choking piteously. + +The thorns ran into his hand. + +After a bitter struggle he got his breath again; and now began to see +his own misfortune. Yet not all at once to realize it, so sudden and +numbing was the stroke. He staggered on, but scarce feeling or caring +whither he was going; and every now and then he stopped, and his arms +fell and his head sank on his chest, and he stood motionless: then he +said to himself, “Can this thing be? this must be a dream. 'Tis scarce +five minutes since we were so happy, walking handed, faring to Rome +together, and we admired them and their gay banners and helmets oh +hearts of hell!” + +All nature seemed to stare now as lonely as himself. Not a creature in +sight. No colour but white. He, the ghost of his former self, wandered +alone among the ghosts of trees, and fields, and hedges. Desolate! +desolate! desolate! All was desolate. + +He knelt and gathered a little snow. “Nay, I dream not; for this is +snow: cold as the world's heart. It is bloody, too: what may that +mean? Fool! 'tis from thy hand. I mind not the wound Ay, I see: thorns. +Welcome! kindly foes: I felt ye not, ye ran not into my heart. Ye are +not cruel like men.” + +He had risen, and was dragging his leaden limbs along, when he heard +horses' feet and gay voices behind him. He turned with a joyful but wild +hope that the soldiers had relented and were bringing Denys back. But +no, it was a gay cavalcade. A gentleman of rank and his favourites in +velvet and furs and feathers; and four or five armed retainers in buff +jerkins. + +They swept gaily by. + +Gerard never looked at them after they were gone by: certain gay shadows +had come and passed; that was all. He was like one in a dream. But he +was rudely wakened; suddenly a voice in front of him cried harshly, +“Stand and deliver!” and there were three of the gentleman's servants in +front of him. They had ridden back to rob him. + +“How, ye false knaves,” said he, quite calmly; “would ye shame your +noble master? He will hang ye to the nearest tree;” and with these words +he drew his sword doggedly, and set his back to the hedge. + +One of the men instantly levelled his petronel at him. + +But another, less sanguinary, interposed. “Be not so hasty! And be not +thou so mad! Look yonder!” + +Gerard looked, and scarce a hundred yards off the nobleman and his +friends had halted, and sat on their horses, looking at the lawless +act, too proud to do their own dirty work, but not too proud to reap +the fruit, and watch lest their agents should rob them of another man's +money. + +The milder servant then, a good-natured fellow, showed Gerard resistance +was vain; reminded him common thieves often took the life as well as the +purse, and assured him it cost a mint to be a gentleman; his master had +lost money at play overnight, and was going to visit his leman, and so +must take money where he saw it. + +“Therefore, good youth, consider that we rob not for ourselves, and +deliver us that fat purse at thy girdle without more ado, nor put us to +the pain of slitting thy throat and taking it all the same.” + +“This knave is right,” said Gerard calmly aloud but to himself. “I +ought not to fling away my life; Margaret would be so sorry. Take then +the poor man's purse to the rich man's pouch; and with it this; tell +him, I pray the Holy Trinity each coin in it may burn his hand, and +freeze his heart, and blast his soul for ever. Begone and leave me to my +sorrow!” He flung them the purse. + +They rode away muttering; for his words pricked them a little; a very +little: and he staggered on, penniless now as well as friendless, till +he came to the edge of a wood. Then, though his heart could hardly feel +this second blow, his judgment did; and he began to ask himself what was +the use going further? He sat down on the hard road, and ran his nails +into his hair, and tried to think for the best; a task all the more +difficult that a strange drowsiness was stealing over him. Rome he could +never reach without money. Denys had said, “Go to Strasbourg, and down +the Rhine home.” He would obey Denys. But how to get to Strasbourg +without money? + +Then suddenly seemed to ring in his ears-- + + “Gyf the world prove harsh and cold, + Come back to the hedde of gold.” + +“And if I do I must go as her servant; I who am Margaret's. I am +a-weary, a-weary. I will sleep, and dream all is as it was. Ah me, how +happy were we an hour agone, we little knew how happy. There is a house: +the owner well-to-do. What if I told him my wrong, and prayed his aid +to retrieve my purse, and so to Rhine? Fool! is he not a man, like the +rest? He would scorn me and trample me lower. Denys cursed the race of +men. That will I never; but oh, I begin to loathe and dread them. Nay, +here will I lie till sunset: then darkling creep into this rich man's +barn, and take by stealth a draught of milk or a handful o' grain, to +keep body and soul together. God, who hath seen the rich rob me, will +peradventure forgive me. They say 'tis ill sleeping on the snow. Death +steals on such sleepers with muffled feet and honey breath. But what can +I? I am a-weary, a-weary. Shall this be the wood where lie the wolves +yon old man spoke of? I must e'en trust them: they are not men; and I am +so a-weary.” + +He crawled to the roadside, and stretched out his limbs on the snow, +with a deep sigh. + +“Ah, tear not thine hair so! teareth my heart to see thee.” + +“Margaret. Never see me more. Poor Margaret.” + +And the too tender heart was still. + +And the constant lover, and friend of antique mould, lay silent on the +snow; in peril from the weather, in peril from wild beasts, in peril +from hunger, friendless and penniless in a strange land, and not halfway +to Rome. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +Rude travel is enticing to us English. And so are its records; even +though the adventurer be no pilgrim of love. And antique friendship has +at least the interest of a fossil. Still, as the true centre of this +story is in Holland, it is full time to return thither, and to those +ordinary personages and incidents whereof life has been mainly composed +in all ages. + +Jorian Ketel came to Peter's house to claim Margaret's promise; but +Margaret was ill in bed, and Peter, on hearing his errand, affronted him +and warned him off the premises, and one or two that stood by were for +ducking him; for both father and daughter were favourites, and the +whole story was in every mouth, and Sevenbergens in that state of hot, +undiscriminating irritation which accompanies popular sympathy. + +So Jorian Ketel went off in dudgeon, and repented him of his good deed. +This sort of penitence is not rare, and has the merit of being sincere. +Dierich Brower, who was discovered at “The Three Kings,” making a +chatterbox drunk in order to worm out of him the whereabouts of Martin +Wittenhaagen, was actually taken and flung into a horsepond, and +threatened with worse usage, should he ever show his face in the burgh +again; and finally, municipal jealousy being roused, the burgomaster +of Sevenbergen sent a formal missive to the burgomaster of Tergou, +reminding him he had overstepped the law, and requesting him to apply to +the authorities of Sevenbergen on any future occasion when he might have +a complaint, real or imaginary, against any of its townsfolk. + +The wily Ghysbrecht, suppressing his rage at this remonstrance, +sent back a civil message to say that the person he had followed to +Sevenbergen was a Tergovian, one Gerard, and that he had stolen the town +records: that Gerard having escaped into foreign parts, and probably +taken the documents with him, the whole matter was at an end. + +Thus he made a virtue of necessity. But in reality his calmness was but +a veil: baffled at Sevenbergen, he turned his views elsewhere he set his +emissaries to learn from the family at Tergou whither Gerard had fled, +and “to his infinite surprise” they did not know. This added to +his uneasiness. It made him fear Gerard was only lurking in the +neighbourhood: he would make a certain discovery, and would come back +and take a terrible revenge. From this time Dierich and others that were +about him noticed a change for the worse in Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. He +became a moody irritable man. A dread lay on him. His eyes cast furtive +glances, like one who expects a blow, and knows not from what quarter +it is to come. Making others wretched had not made him happy. It seldom +does. + +The little family at Tergou, which, but for his violent interference, +might in time have cemented its difference without banishing spem gregis +to a distant land, wore still the same outward features, but within was +no longer the simple happy family this tale opened with. Little Kate +knew the share Cornelis and Sybrandt had in banishing Gerard, and +though, for fear of making more mischief still, she never told her +mother, yet there were times she shuddered at the bare sight of them, +and blushed at their hypocritical regrets. Catherine, with a woman's +vigilance, noticed this, and with a woman's subtlety said nothing, but +quietly pondered it, and went on watching for more. The black sheep +themselves, in their efforts to partake in the general gloom and sorrow, +succeeded so far as to impose upon their father and Giles: but the +demure satisfaction that lay at their bottom could not escape these +feminine eyes-- + +“That, noting all, seem nought to note.” + +Thus mistrust and suspicion sat at the table, poor substitutes for +Gerard's intelligent face, that had brightened the whole circle, +unobserved till it was gone. As for the old hosier his pride had been +wounded by his son's disobedience, and so he bore stiffly up, and did +his best never to mention Gerard's name; but underneath his Spartan +cloak, Nature might be seen tugging at his heart-strings. One anxiety he +never affected to conceal. “If I but knew where the boy is, and that his +life and health are in no danger, small would be my care,” would he say; +and then a deep sigh would follow. I cannot help thinking that if Gerard +had opened the door just then, and walked in, there would have been many +tears and embraces for him, and few reproaches, or none. + +One thing took the old couple quite by surprise--publicity. Ere Gerard +had been gone a week, his adventures were in every mouth; and to make +matters worse, the popular sympathy declared itself warmly on the side +of the lovers, and against Gerard's cruel parents, and that old busybody +the burgomaster, who must put his nose into a business that nowise +concerned him. + +“Mother,” said Kate, “it is all over the town that Margaret is down with +a fever--a burning fever; her father fears her sadly.” + +“Margaret? what Margaret?” inquired Catherine, with a treacherous +assumption of calmness and indifference. + +“Oh, mother! whom should I mean? Why, Gerard's Margaret.” + +“Gerard's Margaret,” screamed Catherine; “how dare you say such a word +to me? And I rede you never mention that hussy's name in this house, +that she has laid bare. She is the ruin of my poor boy, the flower of +all my flock. She is the cause that he is not a holy priest in the midst +of us, but is roaming the world, and I a desolate broken-hearted mother. +There, do not cry, my girl, I do ill to speak harsh to you. But oh, +Kate! you know not what passes in a mother's heart. I bear up before +you all; it behoves me swallow my fears; but at night I see him in my +dreams, and still some trouble or other near him: sometimes he is torn +by wild beasts; other times he is in the hands of robbers, and their +cruel knives uplifted to strike his poor pale face, that one should +think would move a stone. Oh! when I remember that, while I sit here +in comfort, perhaps my poor boy lies dead in some savage place, and all +along of that girl: there, her very name is ratsbane to me. I tremble +all over when I hear it.” + +“I'll not say anything, nor do anything to grieve you worse, mother,” + said Kate tenderly; but she sighed. + +She whose name was so fiercely interdicted in this house was much spoken +of, and even pitied elsewhere. All Sevenbergen was sorry for her, and +the young men and maidens cast many a pitying glance, as they passed, at +the little window where the beauty of the village lay “dying for love.” + In this familiar phrase they underrated her spirit and unselfishness. +Gerard was not dead, and she was too loyal herself to doubt his +constancy. Her father was dear to her and helpless; and but for bodily +weakness, all her love for Gerard would not have kept her from doing +her duties, though she might have gone about them with drooping head and +heavy heart. But physical and mental excitement had brought on an attack +of fever so violent, that nothing but youth and constitution saved +her. The malady left her at last, but in that terrible state of bodily +weakness in which the patient feels life a burden. + +Then it is that love and friendship by the bedside are mortal angels +with comfort in their voice, and healing in their palms. + +But this poor girl had to come back to life and vigour how she could. +Many days she lay alone, and the heavy hours rolled like leaden waves +over her. In her enfeebled state existence seemed a burden, and life a +thing gone by. She could not try her best to get well. Gerard was gone. +She had not him to get well for. Often she lay for hours quite still, +with the tears welling gently out of her eyes. + +One day, waking from an uneasy slumber, she found two women in her room, +One was a servant, the other by the deep fur on her collar and sleeves +was a person of consideration: a narrow band of silvery hair, being +spared by her coiffure, showed her to be past the age when women of +sense concealed their years. The looks of both were kind and friendly. +Margaret tried to raise herself in the bed, but the old lady placed a +hand very gently on her. + +“Lie still, sweetheart; we come not here to put you about, but to +comfort you, God willing. Now cheer up a bit, and tell us, first, who +think you we are?” + +“Nay, madam, I know you, though I never saw you before: you are the +demoiselle Van Eyck, and this is Reicht Heynes. Gerard has oft spoken of +you, and of your goodness to him. Madam, he has no friend like you near +him now,” and at this thought she lay back, and the tears welled out of +her eyes in a moment. + +The good-natured Reicht Heynes began to cry for company; but her +mistress scolded her. “Well, you are a pretty one for a sick-room,” said +she; and she put out a world of innocent art to cheer the patient; and +not without some little success. An old woman, that has seen life and +all its troubles, is a sovereign blessing by a sorrowful young woman's +side. She knows what to say, and what to avoid. She knows how to soothe +her and interest her. Ere she had been there an hour, she had Margaret's +head lying on her shoulder instead of on the pillow, and Margaret's soft +eyes dwelling on her with gentle gratitude. + +“Ah! this is hair,” said the old lady, running her fingers through it. +“Come and look at it, Reicht!” + +Reicht came and handled it, and praised it unaffectedly. The poor +girl that owned it was not quite out of the reach of flattery; owing +doubtless to not being dead. + +“In sooth, madam, I did use to think it hideous; but he praised it, and +ever since then I have been almost vain of it, saints forgive me. You +know how foolish those are that love.” + +“They are greater fools that don't,” said the old lady, sharply. + +Margaret opened her lovely eyes, and looked at her for her meaning. + +This was only the first of many visits. In fact either Margaret Van Eyck +or Reicht came nearly every day until their patient was convalescent; +and she improved rapidly under their hands. Reicht attributed this +principally to certain nourishing dishes she prepared in Peter's +kitchen; but Margaret herself thought more of the kind words and eyes +that kept telling her she had friends to live for. + + +Martin Wittenhaagen went straight to Rotterdam, to take the bull by the +horns. The bull was a biped, with a crown for horns. It was Philip +the Good, duke of this, earl of that, lord of the other. Arrived at +Rotterdam, Martin found the court was at Ghent. To Ghent he went, and +sought an audience, but was put off and baffled by lackeys and pages. So +he threw himself in his sovereign's way out hunting, and contrary to +all court precedents, commenced the conversation--by roaring lustily for +mercy. + +“Why, where is the peril, man?” said the duke, looking all round and +laughing. + +“Grace for an old soldier hunted down by burghers!” + +Now kings differ in character like other folk; but there is one trait +they have in common; they are mightily inclined to be affable to men +of very low estate. These do not vie with them in anything whatever, +so jealousy cannot creep in; and they amuse them by their bluntness and +novelty, and refresh the poor things with a touch of nature--a rarity in +courts. So Philip the Good reined in his horse and gave Martin almost a +tete-a-tete, and Martin reminded him of a certain battlefield where he +had received an arrow intended for his sovereign. The duke remembered +the incident perfectly, and was graciously pleased to take a cheerful +view of it. He could afford to, not having been the one hit. Then +Martin told his majesty of Gerard's first capture in the church, his +imprisonment in the tower, and the manoeuvre by which they got him out, +and all the details of the hunt; and whether he told it better than +I have, or the duke had not heard so many good stories as you have, +certain it is that sovereign got so wrapt up in it, that, when a number +of courtiers came galloping up and interrupted Martin, he swore like +a costermonger, and threatened, only half in jest, to cut off the next +head that should come between him and a good story; and when Martin had +done, he cried out-- + +“St. Luke! what sport goeth on in this mine earldom, ay! in my own +woods, and I see it not. You base fellows have all the luck.” And he +was indignant at the partiality of Fortune. “Lo you now! this was a +man-hunt,” said he. “I never had the luck to be at a man-hunt.” + +“My luck was none so great,” replied Martin bluntly: “I was on the wrong +side of the dogs' noses.” + +“Ah! so you were; I forgot that.” And royalty was more reconciled to its +lot. “What would you then?” + +“A free pardon, your highness, for myself and Gerard.” + +“For what?” + +“For prison-breaking.” + +“Go to; the bird will fly from the cage. 'Tis instinct. Besides, coop a +young man up for loving a young woman? These burgomasters must be void +of common sense. What else?” + +“For striking down the burgomaster.” + +“Oh, the hunted boar will turn to bay. 'Tis his right; and I hold him +less than man that grudges it him. What else?” + +“For killing of the bloodhounds.” + +The duke's countenance fell. + +“'Twas their life or mine,” said Martin eagerly. + +“Ay! but I can't have, my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds, +sacrificed to-- + +“No, no, no! They were not your dogs.” + +“Whose dogs, then?” + +“The ranger's.” + +“Oh. Well, I am very sorry for him, but as I was saying I can't have +my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shalt have thy free +pardon.” + +“And poor Gerard.” + +“And poor Gerard too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this burgomaster +his doings mislike me: this is to set up for a king, not a burgomaster. +I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more humble; or by St. +Jude I'll hang him before his own door, as I hanged the burgomaster +of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it was; no, 'twas' +somewhere in Brabant--no matter--I hanged him, I remember that much--for +oppressing poor folk.” + +The duke then beckoned his chancellor, a pursy old fellow that rode like +a sack, and bade him write out a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard. + +This precious document was drawn up in form, and signed next day, and +Martin hastened home with it. + +Margaret had left her bed some days, and was sitting pale and pensive +by the fireside, when he burst in, waving the parchment, and crying, “A +free pardon, girl, for Gerard as well as me! Send for him back when you +will; all the burgomasters on earth daren't lay a finger on him.” + +She flushed all over with joy and her hands trembled with eagerness +as she took the parchment and devoured it with her eyes, and kissed it +again and again, and flung her arms round Martin's neck, and kissed him. +When she was calmer, she told him Heaven had raised her up a friend in +the dame Van Eyck. “And I would fain consult her on this good news; but +I have not strength to walk so far.” + +“What need to walk? There is my mule.” + +“Your mule, Martin?” + +The old soldier or professional pillager laughed, and confessed he +had got so used to her, that he forgot at times Ghysbrecht had a prior +claim. To-morrow he would turn her into the burgomaster's yard, but +to-night she should carry Margaret to Tergou. + +It was nearly dusk; so Margaret ventured, and about seven in the evening +she astonished and gladdened her new but ardent friend, by arriving at +her house with unwonted roses on her cheeks, and Gerard's pardon in her +bosom. + + + +CHAPTER XL + +Some are old in heart at forty, some are young at eighty. Margaret +Van Eyck's heart was an evergreen. She loved her young namesake with +youthful ardour. Nor was this new sentiment a mere caprice; she was +quick at reading character, and saw in Margaret Brandt that which in +one of her own sex goes far with an intelligent woman; genuineness. But, +besides her own sterling qualities, Margaret had from the first a potent +ally in the old artist's bosom. + +Human nature. + +Strange as it may appear to the unobservant, our hearts warm more +readily to those we have benefited than to our benefactors. Some of the +Greek philosophers noticed this; but the British Homer has stamped it in +immortal lines:-- + + “I heard, and thought how side by side + We two had stemmed the battle's tide + In many a well-debated field, + Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield. + I thought on Darien's deserts pale, + Where Death bestrides the evening gale, + How o'er my friend my cloak I threw, + And fenceless faced the deadly dew. + I thought on Quariana's cliff, + Where, rescued from our foundering skiff, + Through the white breakers' wrath I bore + Exhausted Bertram to the shore: + And when his side an arrow found, + I sucked the Indian's venom'd wound. + These thoughts like torrents rushed along + To sweep away my purpose strong.” + +Observe! this assassin's hand is stayed by memory, not of benefits +received, but benefits conferred. + +Now Margaret Van Eyck had been wonderfully kind to Margaret Brandt; had +broken through her own habits to go and see her; had nursed her, and +soothed her, and petted her, and cured her more than all the medicine in +the world. So her heart opened to the recipient of her goodness, and she +loved her now far more tenderly than she had ever loved Gerard, though, +in truth, it was purely out of regard for Gerard she had visited her in +the first instance. + +When, therefore, she saw the roses on Margaret's cheek, and read the +bit of parchment that had brought them there, she gave up her own views +without a murmur. + +“Sweetheart,” said she, “I did desire he should stay in Italy five +or six years, and come back rich, and above all, an artist. But your +happiness is before all, and I see you cannot live without him, so we +must have him home as fast as may be.” + +“Ah, madam! you see my very thoughts.” And the young woman hung her head +a moment and blushed. “But how to let him know, madam? That passes my +skill. He is gone to Italy; but what part I know not. Stay! he named the +cities he should visit. Florence was one, and Rome.” But then--Finally, +being a sensible girl, she divined that a letter, addressed, “My +Gerard--Italy,” might chance to miscarry, and she looked imploringly at +her friend for counsel. + +“You are come to the right place, and at the right time,” said the old +lady. “Here was this Hans Memling with me to-day; he is going to Italy, +girl, no later than next week, 'to improve his hand,' he says. Not +before 'twas needed, I do assure you.” + +“But how is he to find my Gerard?” + +“Why, he knows your Gerard, child. They have supped here more than +once, and were like hand and glove. Now, as his business is the same as +Gerard's, he will visit the same places as Gerard, and soon or late he +must fall in with him. Wherefore, get you a long letter written, and +copy out this pardon into it, and I'll answer for the messenger. In six +months at farthest Gerard shall get it; and when he shall get it, then +will he kiss it, and put it in his bosom, and come flying home. What are +you smiling at? And now what makes your cheeks so red? And what you +are smothering me for, I cannot think. Yes! happy days are coming to my +little pearl.” + +Meantime, Martin sat in the kitchen, with the black-jack before him and +Reicht Heynes spinning beside him: and, wow! but she pumped him that +night. + + +This Hans Memling was an old pupil of Jan Van Eyck and his sister. He +was a painter notwithstanding Margaret's sneer, and a good soul enough, +with one fault. He loved the “nipperkin, canakin, and the brown bowl” + more than they deserve. This singular penchant kept him from amassing +fortune, and was the cause that he often came to Margaret Van Eyck for +a meal, and sometimes for a groat. But this gave her a claim on him, and +she knew he would not trifle with any commission she should entrust to +him. + +The letter was duly written and left with Margaret Van Eyck; and the +following week, sure enough, Hans Memling returned from Flanders, +Margaret Van Eyck gave him the letter, and a piece of gold towards his +travelling expenses. He seemed in a hurry to be off. + +“All the better,” said the old artist; “he will be the sooner in Italy.” + +But as there are horses who burn and rage to start, and after the first +yard or two want the whip, so all this hurry cooled into inaction when +Hans got as far as the principal hostelry of Tergou, and saw two of +his boon companions sitting in the bay window. He went in for a parting +glass with them; but when he offered to pay, they would not hear of it, +No; he was going a long journey; they would treat him; everybody must +treat him, the landlord and all. + +It resulted from this treatment that his tongue got as loose as if the +wine had been oil; and he confided to the convivial crew that he was +going to show the Italians how to paint: next he sang his exploits +in battle, for he had handled a pike; and his amorous successes with +females, not present to oppose their version of the incidents. In short, +“plenus rimarum erat: huc illuc diffluebat;” and among the miscellaneous +matters that oozed out, he must blab that he was entrusted with a letter +to a townsman of theirs, one Gerard, a good fellow: he added “you are +all good fellows:” and to impress his eulogy, slapped Sybrandt on the +back so heartily, as to drive the breath out of his body. + +Sybrandt got round the table to avoid this muscular approval; but +listened to every word, and learned for the first time that Gerard was +gone to Italy. However, to make sure, he affected to doubt it. + +“My brother Gerard is never in Italy.” + +“Ye lie, ye cur,” roared Hans, taking instantly the irascible turn, and +not being clear enough to see that he, who now sat opposite him, was the +same he had praised, and hit, when beside him. “If he is ten times +your brother, he is in Italy. What call ye this? There, read me that +superscription!” and he flung down a letter on the table. + +Sybrandt took it up, and examined it gravely; but eventually laid it +down, with the remark, that he could not read. However, one of the +company, by some immense fortuity, could read; and proud of so rare an +accomplishment, took it, and read it out: + +“To Gerard Eliassoen, of Tergou. These by the hand of the trusty Hans +Memling, with all speed.” + +“'Tis excellently well writ,” said the reader, examining every letter. + +“Ay!” said Hans bombastically, “and small wonder: 'tis writ by a famous +hand; by Margaret, sister of Jan Van Eyck. Blessed and honoured be his +memory! She is an old friend of mine, is Margaret Van Eyck.” + +Miscellaneous Hans then diverged into forty topics. + +Sybrandt stole out of the company, and went in search of Cornelis. + +They put their heads together over the news: Italy was an immense +distance off. If they could only keep him there? + +“Keep him there? Nothing would keep him long from his Margaret.” + +“Curse her!” said Sybrandt. “Why didn't she die when she was about it?” + +“She die? She would outlive the pest to vex us.” And Cornelis was wroth +at her selfishness in not dying, to oblige. + +These two black sheep kept putting their heads together, and tainting +each other worse and worse, till at last their corrupt hearts conceived +a plan for keeping Gerard in Italy all his life, and so securing his +share of their father's substance. + +But when they had planned it they were no nearer the execution: for that +required talent: so iniquity came to a standstill. But presently, as if +Satan had come between the two heads, and whispered into the right ear +of one and the left of the other simultaneously, they both burst out-- + +“THE BURGOMASTER!” + + +They went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and he received them at once: +for the man who is under the torture of suspense catches eagerly at +knowledge. Certainty is often painful, but seldom, like suspense, +intolerable. + +“You have news of Gerard?” said he eagerly. + +Then they told about the letter and Hans Memling. He listened with +restless eye. “Who writ the letter?” + +“Margaret Van Eyck,” was the reply; for they naturally thought the +contents were by the same hand as the superscription. + +“Are ye sure?” And he went to a drawer and drew out a paper written by +Margaret Van Eyck while treating with the burgh for her house. “Was it +writ like this?” + +“Yes. 'Tis the same writing,” said Sybrandt boldly. + +“Good. And now what would ye of me?” said Ghysbrecht, with beating +heart, but a carelessness so well feigned that it staggered them. They +fumbled with their bonnets, and stammered and spoke a word or two, then +hesitated and beat about the bush, and let out by degrees that they +wanted a letter written, to say something that might keep Gerard in +Italy; and this letter they proposed to substitute in Hans Memling's +wallet for the one he carried. While these fumbled with their bonnets +and their iniquity, and vacillated between respect for a burgomaster, +and suspicion that this one was as great a rogue as themselves, and +somehow or other, on their side against Gerard, pros and cons were +coursing one another to and fro in the keen old man's spirit. Vengeance +said let Gerard come back and feel the weight of the law. Prudence said +keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty +work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues +to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was +in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the +quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus: “It is my duty to +aid the citizens that cannot write. But for their matter I will not be +responsible. Tell me, then, what I shall write.” + +“Something about this Margaret.” + +“Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go +bail.” + +“Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!” cried Sybrandt; “Gerard +would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see. +No; say that she is dead.” + +“Dead! what, at her age, will he credit that?” + +“Sooner than the other. Why she was nearly dead: so it is not to say a +downright lie, after all.” + +“Humph! And you think that will keep him in Italy?” + +“We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?” + +“Ay,” said Cornelis, “our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is +there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for +his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own +family; always did.” + +“This would be a bitter pill to him,” said the old hypocrite. + +“It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one. + +“What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis. + +“And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?” Ghysbrecht spoke +sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time. + +“Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and +breaks no bones.” + +“A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; “no, nor even like a stroke with a +cudgel.” And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken +nose. + +Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his +wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate. + +“Well,” said he, “tell me what to write for you, and I must write it; +but take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand +which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed.” + +The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew +his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's +writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape +of the letter, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel +burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone. + +“Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow.” + +“Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear.” + +The burgomaster rose, and drew Jorian aside into the embrasure of his +deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager +tones. It ended by Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to saddle his mule. He +then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them-- + +“I prize the peace of households; but this is not a thing to be done in +a hurry: we will see about it, we will see.” + +“But, burgomaster, the man will be gone. It will be too late.” + +“Where is he?” + +“At the hostelry, drinking.” + +“Well, keep him drinking! We will see, we will see.” And he sent them +off discomfited. + +To explain all this we must retrograde a step. This very morning then, +Margaret Brandt had met Jorian Ketel near her own door. He passed her +with a scowl. This struck her, and she remembered him. + +“Stay,” said she. “Yes! it is the good man who saved him. Oh! why +have you not been near me since? And why have you not come for the +parchments? Was it not true about the hundred crowns?” + +Jorian gave a snort; but, seeing her face that looked so candid, began +to think there might be some mistake. He told her he had come, and how +he had been received. + +“Alas!” said she, “I knew nought of this. I lay at Death's door. She +then invited him to follow her, and took him into the garden and showed +him the spot where the parchments were buried. Martin was for taking +them up, but I would not let him. He put them there; and I said none +should move them but you, who had earned them so well of him and me.” + +“Give me a spade!” cried Jorian eagerly. “But stay! No; he is a +suspicious man. You are sure they are there still?” + +“I will openly take the blame if human hand hath touched them.” + +“Then keep them but two hours more, I prithee, good Margaret,” said +Jorian, and ran off to the Stadthouse of Tergou a joyful man. + +The burgomaster jogged along towards Sevenbergen, with Jorian striding +beside him, giving him assurance that in an hour's time the missing +parchments would be in his hand. + +“Ah, master!” said he, “lucky for us it wasn't a thief that took them.” + +“Not a thief? not a thief? what call you him, then?” + +“Well, saving your presence, I call him a jackdaw. This is jackdaw's +work, if ever there was; 'take the thing you are least in need of, and +hide it'--that's a jackdaw. I should know,” added Jorian oracularly, +“for I was brought up along with a chough. He and I were born the same +year, but he cut his teeth long before me, and wow! but my life was a +burden for years all along of him. If you had but a hole in your hose no +bigger than a groat, in went his beak like a gimlet; and, for stealing, +Gerard all over. What he wanted least, and any poor Christian in the +house wanted most, that went first. Mother was a notable woman, so +if she did but look round, away flew her thimble. Father lived by +cordwaining, so about sunrise Jack went diligently off with his awl, his +wax, and his twine. After that, make your bread how you could! One day +I heard my mother tell him to his face he was enough to corrupt +half-a-dozen other children; and he only cocked his eye at her, and next +minute away with the nurseling's shoe off his very foot. Now this Gerard +is tarred with the same stick. The parchments are no more use to him +than a thimble or an awl to Jack. He took 'em out of pure mischief and +hid them, and you would never have found them but for me.” + +“I believe you are right,” said Ghysbrecht, “and I have vexed myself +more than need.” + +When they came to Peter's gate he felt uneasy. + +“I wish it had been anywhere but here.” + +Jorian reassured him. + +“The girl is honest and friendly,” said he. “She had nothing to do with +taking them, I'll be sworn;” and he led him into the garden. “There, +master, if a face is to be believed, here they lie; and see, the mould +is loose.” + +He ran for a spade which was stuck up in the ground at some distance, +and soon went to work and uncovered a parchment. Ghysbrecht saw it, and +thrust him aside and went down on his knees and tore it out of the hole. +His hands trembled and his face shone. He threw out parchment after +parchment, and Jorian dusted them and cleared them and shook them. Now, +when Ghysbrecht had thrown out a great many, his face began to darken +and lengthen, and when he came to the last, he put his hands to his +temples and seemed to be all amazed. + +“What mystery lies here?” he gasped. “Are fiends mocking me? Dig deeper! +There must be another.” + +Jorian drove the spade in and threw out quantities of hard mould. In +vain. And even while he dug, his master's mood had changed. + +“Treason! treachery!” he cried. “You knew of this.” + +“Knew what, master, in Heaven's name?” + +“Caitiff, you knew there was another one worth all these twice told.' + +“'Tis false,” cried Jorian, made suspicious by the other's suspicion. +“'Tis a trick to rob me of my hundred crowns. Oh! I know you, +burgomaster.” And Jorian was ready to whimper. + +A mellow voice fell on them both like oil upon the waves. + +“No, good man, it is not false, nor yet is it quite true: there was +another parchment.” + +“There, there, there! Where is it?” + +“But,” continued Margaret calmly, “it was not a town record (so you have +gained your hundred crowns, good man): it was but a private deed between +the burgomaster here and my grandfather Flor--” + +“Hush, hush!” + +“--is Brandt.” + +“Where is it, girl? that is all we want to know.” + +“Have patience, and I shall tell you. Gerard read the title of it, and +he said, 'This is as much yours as the burgomaster's,' and he put it +apart, to read it with me at his leisure.” + +“It is in the house, then?” said the burgomaster, recovering his +calmness. + +“No, sir,” said Margaret gravely, “it is not.” Then, in a voice +that faltered suddenly, “You hunted--my poor Gerard--so hard--and so +close-that you gave him--no time-to think of aught--but his life--and +his grief. The parchment was in his bosom, and he hath ta'en it with +him.” + +“Whither, whither?” + +“Ask me no more, sir. What right is yours to question me thus? It was +for your sake, good man, I put force upon my heart, and came out here, +and bore to speak at all to this hard old man. For, when I think of the +misery he has brought on him and me, the sight of him is more than I can +bear;” and she gave an involuntary shudder, and went slowly in, with her +hand to her head, crying bitterly. + +Remorse for the past, and dread of the future--the slow, but, as he now +felt, the inevitable future--avarice, and fear, all tugged in one short +moment at Ghysbrecht's tough heart. He hung his head, and his arms fell +listless by his sides. A coarse chuckle made him start round, and there +stood Martin Wittenhaagen leaning on his bow, and sneering from ear +to ear. At sight of the man and his grinning face, Ghysbrecht's worst +passions awoke. + +“Ho! attach him, seize him, traitor and thief!” cried he. “Dog, thou +shalt pay for all.” + +Martin, without a word, calmly thrust the duke's pardon under +Ghysbrecht's nose. He looked, and had not a word to say. Martin followed +up his advantage. + +“The duke and I are soldiers. He won't let you greasy burghers trample +on an old comrade. He bade me carry you a message too.” + +“The duke send a message to me?” + +“Ay! I told him of your masterful doings, of your imprisoning Gerard +for loving a girl; and says he, 'Tell him this is to be a king, not +a burgomaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more +humble, or I'll hang him at his own door,'” + +(Ghysbrecht trembled: he thought the duke capable of the deed) + +“'as I hanged the burgomaster of Thingembob.' The duke could not mind +which of you he had hung, or in what part; such trifles stick not in a +soldier's memory; but he was sure he had hanged one of you for grinding +poor folk, 'and I'm the man to hang another,' quoth the good duke.” + +These repeated insults from so mean a man, coupled with his +invulnerability, shielded as he was by the duke, drove the choleric old +man into a fit of impotent fury: he shook his fist at the soldier, +and tried to threaten him, but could not speak for the rage and +mortification that choked him: then he gave a sort of screech, and +coiled himself up in eye and form like a rattlesnake about to strike; +and spat furiously upon Martin's doublet. + +The thick-skinned soldier treated this ebullition with genuine contempt. +“Here's a venomous old toad! he knows a kick from his foot would send +him to his last home; and he wants me to cheat the gallows. But I have +slain too many men in fair fight to lift limb against anything less than +a man; and this I count no man. What is it, in Heaven's name? an old +goat's-skin bag full o' rotten bones.” + +“My mule! my mule!” screamed Ghysbrecht. + +Jorian helped the old man up trembling in every joint. Once in the +saddle, he seemed to gather in a moment unnatural vigour; and the figure +that went flying to Tergou was truly weird-like and terrible: so old and +wizened the face; so white and reverend the streaming hair; so baleful +the eye; so fierce the fury which shook the bent frame that went +spurring like mad; while the quavering voice yelled, “I'll make their +hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. I'll make their hearts ache. +I'll make their hearts ache. All of them. All!--all!--all!” + + +The black sheep sat disconsolate amidst the convivial crew, and eyed +Hans Memling's wallet. For more ease he had taken it off, and flung it +on the table. How readily they could have slipped out that letter and +put in another. For the first time in their lives they were sorry they +had not learned to write, like their brother. + +And now Hans began to talk of going, and the brothers agreed in a +whisper to abandon their project for the time. They had scarcely +resolved this, when Dierich Brower stood suddenly in the doorway, and +gave them a wink. + +They went out to him. “Come to the burgomaster with all speed,” said he, + +They found Ghysbrecht seated at a table, pale and agitated. Before him +lay Margaret Van Eyck's handwriting. “I have written what you desired,” + said he. “Now for the superscription. What were the words? did ye see?” + +“We cannot read,” said Cornelis. + +“Then is all this labour lost,” cried Ghysbrecht angrily. “Dolts!” + +“Nay, but,” said Sybrandt, “I heard the words read, and I have not lost +them. They were, 'To Gerard Eliassoen, these by the hand of the trusty +Hans Memling, with all speed.'” + +“'Tis well. Now, how was the letter folded? how big was it?” + +“Longer than that one, and not so long as this.” + +“'Tis well. Where is he?” + +“At the hostelry.” + +“Come, then, take you this groat, and treat him. Then ask to see the +letter, and put this in place of it. Come to me with the other letter.” + +The brothers assented, took the letter, and went to the hostelry. + +They had not been gone a minute, when Dierich Brower issued from the +Stadthouse, and followed them. He had his orders not to let them out +of his sight till the true letter was in his master's hands. He watched +outside the hostelry. + +He had not long to wait. They came out almost immediately, with downcast +looks. Dierich made up to them. + +“Too late!” they cried; “too late! He is gone.” + +“Gone? How long?” + +“Scarce five minutes. Cursed chance!” + +“You must go back to the burgomaster at once,” said Dierich Brower. + +“To what end?” + +“No matter; come!” and he hurried them to the Stadthouse. + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was not the man to accept a defeat. + +“Well,” said he, on hearing the ill news, “suppose he is gone. Is he +mounted?” + +“No.” + +“Then what hinders you to come up with him?” + +“But what avails coming up with him! There are no hostelries on the road +he is gone.” + +“Fools!” said Ghysbrecht, “is there no way of emptying a man's pockets +but liquor and sleight of hand?” + +A meaning look, that passed between Ghysbrecht and Dierich, aided the +brothers' comprehension. They changed colour, and lost all zeal for the +business. + +“No! no! we don't hate our brother. We won't get ourselves hanged to +spite him,” said Sybrandt; “that would be a fool's trick.” + +“Hanged!” cried Ghysbrecht. “Am I not the burgomaster? How can ye be +hanged? I see how 'tis ye fear to tackle one man, being two: hearts +of hare, that ye are! Oh! why cannot I be young again? I'd do it +single-handed.” + +The old man now threw off all disguise, and showed them his heart was in +this deed. He then flattered and besought, and jeered them alternately, +but he found no eloquence could move them to an action, however +dishonourable, which was attended with danger. At last he opened a +drawer, and showed them a pile of silver coins. + +“Change but those letters for me,” he said, “and each of you shall +thrust one hand into this drawer, and take away as many of them as you +can hold.” + +The effect was magical. Their eyes glittered with desire. Their whole +bodies seemed to swell, and rise into male energy. + +“Swear it, then,” said Sybrandt. + +“I swear it.” + +“No; on the crucifix.” + +Ghysbrecht swore upon the crucifix. + +The next minute the brothers were on the road, in pursuit of Hans +Memling. They came in sight of him about two leagues from Tergou, but +though they knew he had no weapon but his staff, they were too prudent +to venture on him in daylight; so they fell back. + +But being now three leagues and more from the town, and on a grassy +road--sun down, moon not yet up--honest Hans suddenly found himself +attacked before and behind at once by men with uplifted knives, who +cried in loud though somewhat shaky voices, “Stand and deliver!” + +The attack was so sudden, and so well planned, that Hans was dismayed. +“Slay me not, good fellows,” he cried; “I am but a poor man, and ye +shall have my all.” + +“So be it then. Live! but empty thy wallet.” + +“There is nought in my wallet, good friend, but one letter.” + +“That we shall see,” said Sybrandt, who was the one in front. + +“Well, it is a letter.” + +“Take it not from me, I pray you. 'Tis worth nought, and the good dame +would fret that writ it.” + +“There,” said Sybrandt, “take back thy letter; and now empty thy pouch. +Come I tarry not!” + +But by this time Hans had recovered his confusion; and from a certain +flutter in Sybrandt, and hard breathing of Cornelis, aided by an +indescribable consciousness, felt sure the pair he had to deal with were +no heroes. He pretended to fumble for his money: then suddenly thrust +his staff fiercely into Sybrandt's face, and drove him staggering, and +lent Cornelis a back-handed slash on the ear that sent him twirling like +a weathercock in March; then whirled his weapon over his head and danced +about the road like a figure on springs, shouting: + +“Come on, ye thieving loons! Come on!” + +It was a plain invitation; yet they misunderstood it so utterly as to +take to their heels, with Hans after them, he shouting “Stop thieves!” + and they howling with fear and pain as they ran. + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +Denys, placed in the middle of his companions, lest he should be so mad +as attempt escape was carried off in an agony of grief and remorse. For +his sake Gerard had abandoned the German route to Rome; and what was his +reward? left all alone in the centre of Burgundy. This was the thought +which maddened Denys most, and made him now rave at heaven and earth, +now fall into a gloomy silence so savage and sinister that it was deemed +prudent to disarm him. They caught up their leader just outside the +town, and the whole cavalcade drew up and baited at the “Tete d'Or.” + +The young landlady, though much occupied with the count, and still +more with the bastard, caught sight of Denys, and asked him somewhat +anxiously what had become of his young companion? + +Denys, with a burst of grief, told her all, and prayed her to send after +Gerard. “Now he is parted from me, he will maybe listen to my rede,” + said he; “poor wretch, he loves not solitude.” + +The landlady gave a toss of her head. “I trow I have been somewhat +over-kind already,” said she, and turned rather red. + +“You will not?” + +“Not I.” + +“Then,”--and he poured a volley of curses and abuse upon her. + +She turned her back upon him, and went off whimpering, and Saying she +was not used to be cursed at; and ordered her hind to saddle two mules. + +Denys went north with his troop, mute and drooping over his saddle, +and quite unknown to him, that veracious young lady made an equestrian +toilet in only forty minutes, she being really in a hurry, and spurred +away with her servant in the opposite direction. + +At dark, after a long march, the bastard and his men reached “The White +Hart;” their arrival caused a prodigious bustle, and it was some time +before Manon discovered her old friend among so many. When she did, she +showed it only by heightened colour. She did not claim the acquaintance. +The poor soul was already beginning to scorn. + +“The base degrees by which she did ascend.” + +Denys saw but could not smile. The inn reminded him too much of Gerard. + +Ere the night closed the wind changed. She looked into the room and +beckoned him with her finger. He rose sulkily, and his guards with him. + +“Nay, I would speak a word to thee in private.” + +She drew him to a corner of the room, and there asked him under her +breath would he do her a kindness. + +He answered out loud, “No, he would not; he was not in the vein to do +kindnesses to man or woman. If he did a kindness it should be to a dog; +and not that if he could help it.” + +“Alas, good archer, I did you one eftsoons, you and your pretty +comrade,” said Manon humbly. + +“You did, dame, you did; well then, for his sake--what is't to do?” + +“Thou knowest my story. I had been unfortunate. Now I am worshipful. But +a woman did cast him in my teeth this day. And so 'twill be ever while +he hangs there. I would have him ta'en down; well-a-day!” + +“With all my heart.” + +“And none dare I ask but thee. Wilt do't?” + +“Not I, even were I not a prisoner.” + +On this stern refusal the tender Manon sighed, and clasped her palms +together despondently. Denys told her she need not fret. There were +soldiers of a lower stamp who would not make two bites of such a cherry. +It was a mere matter of money; if she could find two angels, he would +find two soldiers to do the dirty work of “The White Hart.” + +This was not very palatable. However, reflecting that soldiers were +birds of passage, drinking here to-night, knocked on the head there +to-morrow, she said softly, “Send them out to me. But prithee, tell them +that 'tis for one that is my friend; let them not think 'tis for me; I +should sink into the earth; times are changed.” + +Denys found warriors glad to win an angel apiece so easily. He sent them +out, and instantly dismissing the subject with contempt, sat brooding on +his lost friend. + +Manon and the warriors soon came to a general understanding. But what +were they to do with the body when taken down? She murmured, “The river +is nigh the--the place.” + +“Fling him in, eh?” + +“Nay, nay; be not so cruel! Could ye not put him--gently--and--with +somewhat weighty?” + +She must have been thinking on the subject in detail; for she was not +one to whom ideas came quickly. + +All was speedily agreed, except the time of payment. The mail-clad +itched for it, and sought it in advance. Manon demurred to that. + +What, did she doubt their word? then let her come along with them, or +watch them at a distance. + +“Me?” said Manon with horror. “I would liever die than see it done.” + +“Which yet you would have done.” + +“Ay, for sore is my need. Times are changed.” + +She had already forgotten her precept to Denys. + +An hour later the disagreeable relic of caterpillar existence ceased +to canker the worshipful matron's public life, and the grim eyes of the +past to cast malignant glances down into a white hind's clover field. + +Total. She made the landlord an average wife, and a prime house-dog, and +outlived everybody. + +Her troops, when they returned from executing with mediaeval naivete +the precept, “Off wi' the auld love,” received a shock. They found +the market-place black with groups; it had been empty an hour ago. +Conscience smote them. This came of meddling with the dead. However, the +bolder of the two, encouraged by the darkness, stole forward alone, and +slily mingled with a group: he soon returned to his companion, saying, +in a tone of reproach not strictly reasonable, + +“Ye born fool, it is only a miracle.” + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +Letters of fire on the church wall had just inquired, with an appearance +of genuine curiosity, why there was no mass for the duke in this time of +trouble. The supernatural expostulation had been seen by many, and had +gradually faded, leaving the spectators glued there gaping. The upshot +was, that the corporation, not choosing to be behind the angelic powers +in loyalty to a temporal sovereign, invested freely in masses. By this +an old friend of ours, the cure, profited in hard cash; for which he had +a very pretty taste. But for this I would not of course have detained +you over so trite an occurrence as a miracle. + + +Denys begged for his arms. “Why disgrace him as well as break his +heart?” + +“Then swear on the cross of thy sword not to leave the bastard's service +until the sedition shall be put down.” He yielded to necessity, and +delivered three volleys of oaths, and recovered his arms and liberty. + +The troops halted at “The Three Fish,” and Marion at sight of him cried +out, “I'm out of luck; who would have thought to see you again?” Then +seeing he was sad, and rather hurt than amused at this blunt jest, she +asked him what was amiss? He told her. She took a bright view of the +case. Gerard was too handsome and well-behaved to come to harm. The +women too would always be on his side. Moreover, it was clear that +things must either go well or ill with him. In the former case he would +strike in with some good company going to Rome; in the latter he would +return home, perhaps be there before his friend; “for you have a trifle +of fighting to do in Flanders by all accounts.” She then brought him +his gold pieces, and steadily refused to accept one, though he urged her +again and again. Denys was somewhat convinced by her argument, because +she concurred with his own wishes, and was also cheered a little by +finding her so honest. It made him think a little better of that world +in which his poor little friend was walking alone. + +Foot soldiers in small bodies down to twos and threes were already on +the road, making lazily towards Flanders, many of them penniless, but +passed from town to town by the bailiffs, with orders for food and +lodging on the innkeepers. + +Anthony of Burgundy overtook numbers of these, and gathered them under +his standard, so that he entered Flanders at the head of six hundred +men. On crossing the frontier he was met by his brother Baldwyn, with +men, arms, and provisions; he organized his whole force and marched on +in battle array through several towns, not only without impediment, +but with great acclamations. This loyalty called forth comments not +altogether gracious. + +“This rebellion of ours is a bite,” growled a soldier called Simon, who +had elected himself Denys's comrade. + +Denys said nothing, but made a little vow to St. Mars to shoot this +Anthony of Burgundy dead, should the rebellion, that had cost him +Gerard, prove no rebellion. + +That afternoon they came in sight of a strongly fortified town; and a +whisper went through the little army that this was a disaffected place. + +But when they came in sight, the great gate stood open, and the towers +that flanked it on each side were manned with a single sentinel +apiece. So the advancing force somewhat broke their array and marched +carelessly. + +When they were within a furlong, the drawbridge across the moat rose +slowly and creaking till it stood vertical against the fort and the +very moment it settled into this warlike attitude, down rattled the +portcullis at the gate, and the towers and curtains bristled with lances +and crossbows. + +A stern hum ran through the bastard's front rank and spread to the rear. + +“Halt!” cried he. The word went down the line, and they halted. “Herald +to the gate!” A pursuivant spurred out of the ranks, and halting twenty +yards from the gate, raised his bugle with his herald's flag hanging +down round it, and blew a summons. A tall figure in brazen armour +appeared over the gate. A few fiery words passed between him and the +herald, which were not audible, but their import clear, for the herald +blew a single keen and threatening note at the walls, and came galloping +back with war in his face. The bastard moved out of the line to meet +him, and their heads had not been together two seconds ere he turned in +his saddle and shouted, “Pioneers, to the van!” and in a moment hedges +were levelled, and the force took the field and encamped just out of +shot from the walls; and away went mounted officers flying south, east, +and west, to the friendly towns, for catapults, palisades, mantelets, +raw hides, tar-barrels, carpenters, provisions, and all the materials +for a siege. + +The bright perspective mightily cheered one drooping soldier. At +the first clang of the portcullis his eyes brightened and his temple +flushed; and when the herald came back with battle in his eye he saw it +in a moment, and for the first time this many days cried, “Courage, tout +le monde, le diable est mort.” + +If that great warrior heard, how he must have grinned! + +The besiegers encamped a furlong from the walls, and made roads; kept +their pikemen in camp ready for an assault when practicable; and sent +forward their sappers, pioneers, catapultiers, and crossbowmen. These +opened a siege by filling the moat, and mining, or breaching the wall, +etc. And as much of their work had to be done under close fire of +arrows, quarels, bolts, stones, and little rocks, the above artists “had +need of a hundred eyes,” and acted in concert with a vigilance, and an +amount of individual intelligence, daring, and skill, that made a siege +very interesting, and even amusing: to lookers on. + +The first thing they did was to advance their carpenters behind rolling +mantelets, to erect a stockade high and strong on the very edge of the +moat. Some lives were lost at this, but not many; for a strong force of +crossbowmen, including Denys, rolled their mantelets up and shot over +the workmen's heads at every besieged who showed his nose, and at every +loophole, arrow-slit, or other aperture, which commanded the particular +spot the carpenters happened to be upon. Covered by their condensed +fire, these soon raised a high palisade between them and the ordinary +missiles from the pierced masonry. + +But the besieged expected this, and ran out at night their boards or +wooden penthouses on the top of the curtains. The curtains were built +with square holes near the top to receive the beams that supported these +structures, the true defence of mediaeval forts, from which the besieged +delivered their missiles with far more freedom and variety of range +than they could shoot through the oblique but immovable loopholes of the +curtain, or even through the sloping crenelets of the higher towers. +On this the besiegers brought up mangonels, and set them hurling +huge stones at these woodworks and battering them to pieces. +Contemporaneously they built a triangular wooden tower as high as the +curtain, and kept it ready for use, and just out of shot. + +This was a terrible sight to the besieged. These wooden towers had taken +many a town. They began to mine underneath that part of the moat the +tower stood frowning at; and made other preparations to give it a warm +reception. The besiegers also mined, but at another part, their object +being to get under the square barbican and throw it down. All this time +Denys was behind his mantelet with another arbalestrier, protecting the +workmen and making some excellent shots. These ended by earning him +the esteem of an unseen archer, who every now and then sent a winged +compliment quivering into his mantelet. One came and struck within an +inch of the narrow slit through which Denys was squinting at the moment. +“Peste,” cried he, “you shoot well, my friend. Come forth and receive my +congratulations! Shall merit such as thine hide its head? Comrade, it +is one of those cursed Englishmen, with his half ell shaft. I'll not die +till I've had a shot at London wall.” + +On the side of the besieged was a figure that soon attracted great +notice by promenading under fire. It was a tall knight, clad in complete +brass, and carrying a light but prodigiously long lance, with which he +directed the movements of the besieged. And when any disaster befell the +besiegers, this tall knight and his long lance were pretty sure to be +concerned in it. + +My young reader will say, “Why did not Denys shoot him?” Denys did shoot +him; every day of his life; other arbalestriers shot him; archers shot +him. Everybody shot him. He was there to be shot, apparently. But the +abomination was, he did not mind being shot. Nay, worse, he got at last +so demoralised as not to seem to know when he was shot. He walked his +battlements under fire, as some stout skipper paces his deck in a +suit of Flushing, calmly oblivious of the April drops that fall on his +woollen armour. At last the besiegers got spiteful, and would not waste +any more good steel on him; but cursed him and his impervious coat of +mail. + +He took those missiles like the rest. + + +Gunpowder has spoiled war. War was always detrimental to the solid +interests of mankind. But in old times it was good for something: it +painted well, sang divinely, furnished Iliads. But invisible butchery, +under a pall of smoke a furlong thick, who is any the better for that? +Poet with his note-book may repeat, “Suave etiam belli certamina magna +tueri;” but the sentiment is hollow and savours of cuckoo. You can't +tueri anything but a horrid row. He didn't say, “Suave etiam ingentem +caliginem tueri per campos instructam.” + +They managed better in the Middle Ages. + +This siege was a small affair; but, such as it was, a writer or minstrel +could see it, and turn an honest penny by singing it; so far then the +sport was reasonable, and served an end. + +It was a bright day, clear, but not quite frosty. The efforts of the +besieging force were concentrated against a space of about two hundred +and fifty yards, containing two curtains and two towers, one of which +was the square barbican, the other had a pointed roof that was built +to overlap, resting on a stone machicolade, and by this means a row of +dangerous crenelets between the roof and the masonry grinned down at the +nearer assailants, and looked not very unlike the grinders of a modern +frigate with each port nearly closed. The curtains were overlapped with +penthouses somewhat shattered by the mangonels, trebuchets, and other +slinging engines of the besiegers. On the besiegers' edge of the moat +was what seemed at first sight a gigantic arsenal, longer than it was +broad, peopled by human ants, and full of busy, honest industry, +and displaying all the various mechanical science of the age in full +operation. Here the lever at work, there the winch and pulley, here the +balance, there the capstan. Everywhere heaps of stones, and piles of +fascines, mantelets, and rows of fire-barrels. Mantelets rolling, the +hammer tapping all day, horses and carts in endless succession rattling +up with materials. Only, on looking closer into the hive of industry, +you might observe that arrows were constantly flying to and fro, that +the cranes did not tenderly deposit their masses of stone, but flung +them with an indifference to property, though on scientific principles, +and that among the tubs full of arrows, and the tar-barrels and the +beams, the fagots, and other utensils, here and there a workman or a +soldier lay flatter than is usual in limited naps, and something more +or less feathered stuck in them, and blood, and other essentials, oozed +out. + +At the edge of the moat opposite the wooden tower, a strong penthouse, +which they called “a cat,” might be seen stealing towards the curtain, +and gradually filling up the moat with fascines and rubbish, which the +workmen flung out at its mouth. It was advanced by two sets of ropes +passing round pulleys, and each worked by a windlass at some distance +from the cat. The knight burnt the first cat by flinging blazing +tar-barrels on it. So the besiegers made the roof of this one very +steep, and covered it with raw hides, and the tar-barrels could not harm +it. Then the knight made signs with his spear, and a little trebuchet +behind the walls began dropping stones just clear of the wall into the +moat, and at last they got the range, and a stone went clean through the +roof of the cat, and made an ugly hole. + +Baldwyn of Burgundy saw this, and losing his temper, ordered the great +catapult that was battering the wood-work of the curtain opposite it to +be turned and levelled slantwise at this invulnerable knight. Denys and +his Englishman went to dinner. These two worthies being eternally on +the watch for one another had made a sort of distant acquaintance, and +conversed by signs, especially on a topic that in peace or war maintains +the same importance. Sometimes Denys would put a piece of bread on the +top of his mantelet, and then the archer would hang something of the +kind out by a string; or the order of invitation would be reversed. +Anyway, they always managed to dine together. + +And now the engineers proceeded to the unusual step of slinging +fifty-pound stones at an individual. + +This catapult was a scientific, simple, and beautiful engine, and very +effective in vertical fire at the short ranges of the period. + +Imagine a fir-tree cut down, and set to turn round a horizontal axis on +lofty uprights, but not in equilibrio; three-fourths of the tree being +on the hither side. At the shorter and thicker end of the tree was +fastened a weight of half a ton. This butt end just before the discharge +pointed towards the enemy. By means of a powerful winch the long +tapering portion of the tree was forced down to the very ground, and +fastened by a bolt; and the stone placed in a sling attached to the +tree's nose. But this process of course raised the butt end with its +huge weight high in the air, and kept it there struggling in vain +to come down. The bolt was now drawn; Gravity, an institution which +flourished even then, resumed its sway, the short end swung furiously +down, the long end went as furiously round up, and at its highest +elevation flung the huge stone out of the sling with a tremendous jerk. +In this case the huge mass so flung missed the knight; but came down +near him on the penthouse, and went through it like paper, making an +awful gap in roof and floor. Through the latter fell out two inanimate +objects, the stone itself and the mangled body of a besieger it had +struck. They fell down the high curtain side, down, down, and struck +almost together the sullen waters of the moat, which closed bubbling +on them, and kept both the stone and the bone two hundred years, till +cannon mocked those oft perturbed waters, and civilization dried them. + +“Aha! a good shot,” cried Baldwyn of Burgundy. + +The tall knight retired. The besiegers hooted him. + +He reappeared on the platform of the barbican, his helmet being just +visible above the parapet. He seemed very busy, and soon an enormous +Turkish catapult made its appearance on the platform and aided by the +elevation at which it was planted, flung a twentypound stone some two +hundred and forty yards in the air; it bounded after that, and knocked +some dirt into the Lord Anthony's eye, and made him swear. The next +stone struck a horse that was bringing up a sheaf of arrows in a cart, +bowled the horse over dead like a rabbit, and spilt the cart. It was +then turned at the besiegers' wooden tower, supposed to be out of shot. +Sir Turk slung stones cut with sharp edges on purpose, and struck it +repeatedly, and broke it in several places. The besiegers turned two +of their slinging engines on this monster, and kept constantly slinging +smaller stones on to the platform of the barbican, and killed two of +the engineers. But the Turk disdained to retort. He flung a forty-pound +stone on to the besiegers' great catapult, and hitting it in the +neighbourhood of the axis, knocked the whole structure to pieces, and +sent the engineers skipping and yelling. + +In the afternoon, as Simon was running back to his mantelet from a +palisade where he had been shooting at the besieged, Denys, peeping +through his slit, saw the poor fellow suddenly stare and hold out his +arms, then roll on his face, and a feathered arrow protruded from his +back. The archer showed himself a moment to enjoy his skill. It was the +Englishman. Denys, already prepared, shot his bolt, and the murderous +archer staggered away wounded. But poor Simon never moved. His wars were +over. + +“I am unlucky in my comrades,” said Denys. + +The next morning an unwelcome sight greeted the besieged. The cat was +covered with mattresses and raw hides, and fast filling up the moat. The +knight stoned it, but in vain; flung burning tar-barrels on it, but in +vain. Then with his own hands he let down by a rope a bag of burning +sulphur and pitch, and stunk them out. But Baldwyn, armed like a +lobster, ran, and bounding on the roof, cut the string, and the work +went on. Then the knight sent fresh engineers into the mine, and +undermined the place and underpinned it with beams, and covered the +beams thickly with grease and tar. + +At break of day the moat was filled, and the wooden tower began to move +on its wheels towards a part of the curtain on which two catapults +were already playing to breach the hoards, and clear the way. There was +something awful and magical in its approach without visible agency, for +it was driven by internal rollers worked by leverage. On the top was a +platform, where stood the first assailing party protected in front by +the drawbridge of the turret, which stood vertical till lowered on to +the wall; but better protected by full suits of armour. The beseiged +slung at the tower, and struck it often, but in vain. It was well +defended with mattresses and hides, and presently was at the edge of the +moat. The knight bade fire the mine underneath it. + +Then the Turkish engine flung a stone of half a hundredweight right +amongst the knights, and carried two away with it off the tower on to +the plain. One lay and writhed: the other neither moved nor spake. + +And now the besieging catapults flung blazing tar-barrels, and fired the +hoards on both sides, and the assailants ran up the ladders behind the +tower, and lowered the drawbridge on to the battered curtain, while the +catapults in concert flung tar-barrels and fired the adjoining works +to dislodge the defenders. The armed men on the platform sprang on the +bridge, led by Baldwyn. The invulnerable knight and his men-at-arms met +them, and a fearful combat ensued, in which many a figure was seen +to fall headlong down off the narrow bridge. But fresh besiegers kept +swarming up behind the tower, and the besieged were driven off the +bridge. + +Another minute, and the town was taken; but so well had the firing of +the mine been timed, that just at this instant the underpinners gave +way, and the tower suddenly sank away from the walls, tearing the +drawbridge clear and pouring the soldiers off it against the masonry, +and on to the dry moat. The besieged uttered a fierce shout, and in a +moment surrounded Baldwyn and his fellows; but strange to say, offered +them quarter. While a party disarmed and disposed of these, others fired +the turret in fifty places with a sort of hand grenades. At this work +who so busy as the tall knight. He put the fire-bags on his long spear, +and thrust them into the doomed structure late so terrible. To do this +he was obliged to stand on a projecting beam of the shattered hoard, +holding on by the hand of a pikeman to steady himself. This provoked +Denys; he ran out from his mantelet, hoping to escape notice in the +confusion, and levelling his crossbow missed the knight clean, but sent +his bolt into the brain of the pikeman, and the tall knight fell heavily +from the wall, lance and all. Denys gazed wonder-struck; and in that +unlucky moment, suddenly he felt his arm hot, then cold, and there was +an English arrow skewering it. + +This episode was unnoticed in a much greater matter. The knight, his +armour glittering in the morning sun, fell headlong, but turning as he +neared the water, struck it with a slap that sounded a mile off. + +None ever thought to see him again. But he fell at the edge of the +fascines on which the turret stood all cocked on one side, and his spear +stuck into them under water, and by a mighty effort he got to the side, +but could not get out. Anthony sent a dozen knights with a white flag to +take him prisoner. He submitted like a lamb, but said nothing. + +He was taken to Anthony's tent. + +That worthy laughed at first at the sight of his muddy armour, but +presently, frowning, said, “I marvel, sir, that so good a knight as +you should know his devoir so ill as turn rebel, and give us all this +trouble.” + +“I am nun-nun-nun-nun-nun-no knight.” + +“What then?” + +“A hosier.” + +“A what? Then thy armour shall be stripped off, and thou shalt be tied +to a stake in front of the works, and riddled with arrows for a warning +to traitors.” + +“N-n-n-n-no! duda-duda-duda-duda-don't do that.” + +“Why not?” + +“Tuta-tuta-tuta-townsfolk will-h-h-h-hang t'other +buba-buba-buba-buba-bastard.” + +“What, whom?” + +“Your bub-bub-bub-brother Baldwyn.” + +“What, have you knaves ta'en him?” + +The warlike hosier nodded. + +“Hang the fool!” said Anthony, peevishly. + +The warlike hosier watched his eye, and doffing his helmet, took out of +the lining an intercepted letter from the duke, bidding the said Anthony +come to court immediately, as he was to represent the court of Burgundy +at the court of England; was to go over and receive the English king's +sister, and conduct her to her bridegroom, the Earl of Charolois. The +mission was one very soothing to Anthony's pride, and also to his love +of pleasure. For Edward the Fourth held the gayest and most luxurious +court in Europe. The sly hosier saw he longed to be off, and said, +“We'll gega-gega-gega-gega-give ye a thousand angels to raise the +siege.” + +“And Baldwyn?” + +“I'll gega-gega-gega-gega-go and send him with the money.” + +It was now dinner-time; and a flag of truce being hoisted on both sides, +the sham knight and the true one dined together and came to a friendly +understanding. + +“But what is your grievance, my good friend?” + +“Tuta-tuta-tuta-tuta-too much taxes.” + +Denys, on finding the arrow in his right arm, turned his back, which was +protected by a long shield, and walked sulkily into camp. He was met by +the Comte de Jarnac, who had seen his brilliant shot, and finding him +wounded into the bargain, gave him a handful of broad pieces. + +“Hast got the better of thy grief, arbalestrier, methinks.” + +“My grief, yes; but not my love. As soon as ever I have put down this +rebellion, I go to Holland, and there I shall meet with him.” + +This event was nearer than Denys thought. He was relieved from service +next day, and though his wound was no trifle, set out with a stout heart +to rejoin his friend in Holland. + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +A change came over Margaret Brandt. She went about her household duties +like one in a dream. If Peter did but speak a little quickly to her, she +started and fixed two terrified eyes on him. She went less often to her +friend Margaret Van Eyck, and was ill at her ease when there. Instead of +meeting her warm old friend's caresses, she used to receive them passive +and trembling, and sometimes almost shrink from them. But the most +extraordinary thing was, she never would go outside her own house in +daylight. When she went to Tergou it was after dusk, and she returned +before daybreak. She would not even go to matins. At last Peter, +unobservant as he was, noticed it, and asked her the reason. + +“Methinks the folk all look at me.” + +One day, Margaret Van Eyck asked her what was the matter. + +A scared look and a flood of tears were all the reply; the old lady +expostulated gently. “What, sweetheart, afraid to confide your sorrows +to me?” + +“I have no sorrows, madam, but of my own making. I am kinder treated +than I deserve; especially in this house.” + +“Then why not come oftener, my dear?” + +“I come oftener than I deserve;” and she sighed deeply. + +“There, Reicht is bawling for you,” said Margaret Van Eyck; “go, +child!--what on earth can it be?” + +Turning possibilities over in her mind, she thought Margaret must be +mortified at the contempt with which she was treated by Gerard's family. +“I will take them to task for it, at least such of them as are women;” + and the very next day she put on her hood and cloak and followed by +Reicht, went to the hosier's house. Catherine received her with much +respect, and thanked her with tears for her kindness to Gerard. But +when, encouraged by this, her visitor diverged to Margaret Brandt, +Catherine's eyes dried, and her lips turned to half the size, and she +looked as only obstinate, ignorant women can look. When they put on +this cast of features, you might as well attempt to soften or convince a +brick wall. Margaret Van Eyck tried, but all in vain. So then, not being +herself used to be thwarted, she got provoked, and at last went out +hastily with an abrupt and mutilated curtsey, which Catherine, returned +with an air rather of defiance than obeisance. Outside the door Margaret +Van Eyck found Reicht conversing with a pale girl on crutches. Margaret +Van Eyck was pushing by them with heightened colour, and a scornful +toss intended for the whole family, when suddenly a little delicate hand +glided timidly into hers, and looking round she saw two dove-like eyes, +with the water in them, that sought hers gratefully and at the same time +imploringly. The old lady read this wonderful look, complex as it was, +and down went her choler. She stopped and kissed Kate's brow. “I see,” + said she. “Mind, then, I leave it to you.” Returned home, she said--“I +have been to a house to-day, where I have seen a very common thing and +a very uncommon thing; I have seen a stupid, obstinate woman, and I have +seen an angel in the flesh, with a face-if I had it here I'd take down +my brushes once more and try and paint it.” + +Little Kate did not belie the good opinion so hastily formed of her. She +waited a better opportunity, and told her mother what she had learned +from Reicht Heynes, that Margaret had shed her very blood for Gerard in +the wood. + +“See, mother, how she loves him.” + +“Who would not love him?” + +“Oh, mother, think of it! Poor thing.” + +“Ay, wench. She has her own trouble, no doubt, as well as we ours. I +can't abide the sight of blood, let alone my own.” + +This was a point gained; but when Kate tried to follow it up she was +stopped short. + +About a month after this a soldier of the Dalgetty tribe, returning from +service in Burgundy, brought a letter one evening to the hosier's house. +He was away on business; but the rest of the family sat at Supper. The +soldier laid the letter on the table by Catherine, and refusing all +guerdon for bringing it, went off to Sevenbergen. + +The letter was unfolded and spread out; and curiously enough, though not +one of them could read, they could all tell it was Gerard's handwriting. + +“And your father must be away,” cried Catherine. “Are ye not ashamed of +yourselves? not one that can read your brother's letter.” + +But although the words were to them what hieroglyphics are to us, there +was something in the letter they could read. There is an art can speak +without words; unfettered by the penman's limits, it can steal through +the eye into the heart and brain, alike of the learned and unlearned; +and it can cross a frontier or a sea, yet lose nothing. It is at the +mercy of no translator; for it writes an universal language. + +When, therefore, they saw this, + +[a picture of two hands clasped together] + +which Gerard had drawn with his pencil between the two short paragraphs, +of which his letter consisted, they read it, and it went straight to +their hearts. + +Gerard was bidding them farewell. + +As they gazed on that simple sketch, in every turn and line of which +they recognized his manner, Gerard seemed present, and bidding them +farewell. + +The women wept over it till they could see it no longer. + +Giles said, “Poor Gerard!” in a lower voice than seemed to belong to +him. + +Even Cornelis and Sybrandt felt a momentary remorse, and sat silent and +gloomy. + +But how to get the words read to them. They were loth to show their +ignorance and their emotion to a stranger. + +“The Dame Van Eyck?” said Kate timidly. + +“And so I will, Kate. She has a good heart. She loves Gerard, too. She +will be glad to hear of him. I was short with her when she came here; +but I will make my submission, and then she will tell me what my poor +child says to me.” + +She was soon at Margaret Van Eyck's house. Reicht took her into a room, +and said, “Bide a minute; she is at her orisons.” + +There was a young woman in the room seated pensively by the stove; but +she rose and courteously made way for the visitor. + +“Thank you, young lady; the winter nights are cold, and your stove is a +treat.” Catherine then, while warming her hands, inspected her companion +furtively from head to foot, inclusive. The young person wore an +ordinary wimple, but her gown was trimmed with fur, which was, in those +days, almost a sign of superior rank or wealth. But what most struck +Catherine was the candour and modesty of the face. She felt sure of +sympathy from so good a countenance, and began to gossip. + +“Now, what think you brings me here, young lady? It is a letter! a +letter from my poor boy that is far away in some savage part or other. +And I take shame to say that none of us can read it. I wonder whether +you can read?” + +“Yes.” + +“Can ye, now? It is much to your credit, my dear. I dare say she won't +be long; but every minute is an hour to a poor longing mother.” + +“I will read it to you.” + +“Bless you, my dear; bless you!” + +In her unfeigned eagerness she never noticed the suppressed eagerness +with which the hand was slowly put out to take the letter. She did not +see the tremor with which the fingers closed on it. + +“Come, then, read it to me, prithee. I am wearying for it.” + +“The first words are, 'To my honoured parents.'” + +“Ay! and he always did honour us, poor soul.” + +“'God and the saints have you in His holy keeping, and bless you by +night and by day. Your one harsh deed is forgotten; your years of love +remembered.'” + +Catherine laid her hand on her bosom, and sank back in her chair with +one long sob. + +“Then comes this, madam. It doth speak for itself; 'a long farewell.'” + +“Ay, go on; bless you, girl you give me sorry comfort. Still 'tis +comfort.” + +“'To my brothers Cornelis and Sybrandt--Be content; you will see me no +more!'” + +“What does that mean? Ah!” + +“'To my sister Kate. Little angel of my father's house. Be kind to +her--' Ah!” + +“That is Margaret Brandt, my dear--his sweetheart, poor soul. I've not +been kind to her, my dear. Forgive me, Gerard!” + +“'--for poor Gerard's sake: since grief to her is death to me--Ah!” + And nature, resenting the poor girl's struggle for unnatural composure, +suddenly gave way, and she sank from her chair and lay insensible, with +the letter in her hand and her head on Catherine's knees. + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +Experienced women are not frightened when a woman faints, or do they +hastily attribute it to anything but physical causes, which they have +often seen produce it. Catherine bustled about; laid the girl down with +her head on the floor quite flat, opened the window, and unloosed her +dress as she lay. Not till she had done all this did she step to the +door and say, rather loudly: + +“Come here, if you please.” + +Margaret Van Eyck and Reicht came, and found Margaret lying quite flat, +and Catherine beating her hands. + +“Oh, my poor girl! What have you done to her?” + +“Me?” said Catherine angrily. + +“What has happened, then?” + +“Nothing, madam; nothing more than is natural in her situation.” + +Margaret Van Eyck coloured with ire. + +“You do well to speak so coolly,” said she, “you that are the cause of +her situation.” + +“That I am not,” said Catherine bluntly; “nor any woman born.” + +“What! was it not you and your husband that kept them apart? and now he +has gone to Italy all alone. Situation indeed! You have broken her heart +amongst you.” + +“Why, madam? Who is it then? in Heaven's name! To hear you, one would +think this was my Gerard's lass. But that can't be. This fur never cost +less than five crowns the ell; besides, this young gentlewoman is a +wife; or ought to be.” + +“Of course she ought. And who is the cause she is none? Who came before +them at the very altar?” + +“God forgive them, whoever it was,” said Catherine gravely; “me it was +not, nor my man.” + +“Well,” said the other, a little softened, “now you have seen her, +perhaps you will not be quite so bitter against her madam. She is coming +to, thank Heaven.” + +“Me bitter against her?” said Catherine; “no, that is all over. Poor +soul! trouble behind her and trouble afore her; and to think of my +setting her, of all living women, to read Gerard's letter to me. Ay, and +that was what made her go off, I'll be sworn. She is coming to. What, +sweetheart! be not afeard, none are here but friends.” + +They seated her in an easy chair. As the colour was creeping back to her +face and lips. Catherine drew Margaret Van Eyck aside. + +“Is she staying with you, if you please?” + +“No, madam.” + +“I wouldn't let her go back to Sevenbergen to-night, then.” + +“That is as she pleases. She still refuses to bide the night.” + +“Ay, but you are older than she is; you can make her. There, she is +beginning to notice.” + +Catherine then put her mouth to Margaret Van Eyck's ear for half a +moment; it did not seem time enough to whisper a word, far less a +sentence. But on some topics females can flash communication to female +like lightning, or thought itself. + +The old lady started, and whispered back-- + +“It's false! it is a calumny! it is monstrous! look at her face. It is +blasphemy to accuse such a face.” + +“Tut! tut! tut!” said the other; “you might as well say this is not my +hand. I ought to know; and I tell ye it is so.” + +Then, much to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she went up to the girl, and +taking her round the neck, kissed her warmly. + +“I suffered for Gerard, and you shed your blood for him I do hear; his +own words show me that I have been to blame, the very words you have +read to me. Ay, Gerard, my child, I have held aloof from her; but I'll +make it up to her once I begin. You are my daughter from this hour.” + +Another warm embrace sealed this hasty compact, and the woman of impulse +was gone. + +Margaret lay back in her chair, and a feeble smile stole over her face. +Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter; but the next +moment she saw her old friend looking at her with a vexed air. + +“I wonder you let that woman kiss you.” + +“His mother!” murmured Margaret, half reproachfully. + +“Mother, or no mother, you would not let her touch you if you knew what +she whispered in my ear about you.” + +“About me?” said Margaret faintly. + +“Ay, about you, whom she never saw till to-night.” The old lady was +proceeding, with some hesitation and choice of language, to make +Margaret share her indignation, when an unlooked-for interruption closed +her lips. + +The young woman slid from her chair to her knees, and began to pray +piteously to her for pardon. From the words and the manner of her +penitence a bystander would have gathered she had inflicted some cruel +wrong, some intolerable insult, upon her venerable friend. + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +The little party at the hosier's house sat at table discussing the +recent event, when their mother returned, and casting a piercing glance +all round the little circle, laid the letter flat on the table. She +repeated every word of it by memory, following the lines with her +finger, to cheat herself and bearers into the notion that she could read +the words, or nearly. Then, suddenly lifting her head, she cast another +keen look on Cornelis and Sybrandt: their eyes fell. + +On this the storm that had long been brewing burst on their heads. + +Catherine seemed to swell like an angry hen ruffling her feathers, and +out of her mouth came a Rhone and Saone of wisdom and twaddle, of great +and mean invective, such as no male that ever was born could utter in +one current; and not many women. + +The following is a fair though a small sample of her words: only they +were uttered all in one breath. + +“I have long had my doubts that you blew the flame betwixt Gerard and +your father, and set that old rogue, Ghysbrecht, on. And now, here are +Gerard's own written words to prove it. You have driven your own flesh +and blood into a far land, and robbed the mother that bore you of her +darling, the pride of her eye, the joy of her heart. But you are all of +a piece from end to end. When you were all boys together, my others were +a comfort; but you were a curse: mischievous and sly; and took a woman +half a day to keep your clothes whole: for why? work wears cloth, but +play cuts it. With the beard comes prudence; but none came to you: +still the last to go to bed, and the last to leave it; and why? because +honesty goes to bed early, and industry rises betimes; where there are +two lie-a-beds in a house there are a pair of ne'er-do-weels. Often I've +sat and looked at your ways, and wondered where ye came from: ye don't +take after your father, and ye are no more like me than a wasp is to an +ant; sure ye were changed in the cradle, or the cuckoo dropped ye on my +floor: for ye have not our hands, nor our hearts: of all my blood, none +but you ever jeered them that God afflicted; but often when my back was +turned I've heard you mock at Giles, because he is not as big as some; +and at my lily Kate, because she is not so strong as a Flanders mare. +After that rob a church an you will! for you can be no worse in His eyes +that made both Kate and Giles, and in mine that suffered for them, poor +darlings, as I did for you, you paltry, unfeeling, treasonable curs! +No, I will not hush, my daughter, they have filled the cup too full. It +takes a deal to turn a mother's heart against the sons she has nursed +upon her knees; and many is the time I have winked and wouldn't see too +much, and bitten my tongue, lest their father should know them as I do; +he would have put them to the door that moment. But now they have filled +the cup too full. And where got ye all this money? For this last month +you have been rolling in it. You never wrought for it. I wish I may +never hear from other mouths how ye got it. It is since that night you +were out so late, and your head came back so swelled, Cornelis. Sloth +and greed are ill-mated, my masters. Lovers of money must sweat or +steal. Well, if you robbed any poor soul of it, it was some woman, I'll +go bail; for a man would drive you with his naked hand. No matter, it is +good for one thing. It has shown me how you will guide our gear if ever +it comes to be yourn. I have watched you, my lads, this while. You have +spent a groat to-day between you. And I spend scarce a groat a week, and +keep you all, good and bad. No I give up waiting for the shoes that will +maybe walk behind your coffin; for this shop and this house shall never +be yourn. Gerard is our heir; poor Gerard, whom you have banished and +done your best to kill; after that never call me mother again! But you +have made him tenfold dearer to me. My poor lost boy! I shall soon see +him again shall hold him in my arms, and set him on my knees. Ay, you +may stare! You are too crafty, and yet not crafty enow. You cut the +stalk away; but you left the seed--the seed that shall outgrow you, and +outlive you. Margaret Brandt is quick, and it is Gerard's, and what is +Gerard's is mine; and I have prayed the saints it may be a boy; and it +will--it must. Kate, when I found it was so, my bowels yearned over her +child unborn as if it had been my own. He is our heir. He will outlive +us. You will not; for a bad heart in a carcass is like the worm in the +nut, soon brings the body to dust. So, Kate, take down Gerard's bib and +tucker that are in the drawer you wot of, and one of these days we will +carry them to Sevenbergen. We will borrow Peter Buyskens' cart, and +go comfort Gerard's wife under her burden. She is his wife. Who is +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten? Can he come between a couple and the altar, and +sunder those that God and the priest make one? She is my daughter, and +I am as proud of her as I am of you, Kate, almost; and as for you, keep +out of my way awhile, for you are like the black dog in my eyes.” + +Cornelis and Sybrandt took the hint and slunk out, aching with remorse, +and impenitence, and hate. They avoided her eye as much as ever +they could; and for many days she never spoke a word, good, bad, or +indifferent, to either of them. Liberaverat animum suum. + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +Catherine was a good housewife who seldom left home for a day, and then +one thing or another always went amiss. She was keenly conscious of +this, and watching for a slack tide in things domestic, put off her +visit to Sevenbergen from day to day, and one afternoon that it really +could have been managed, Peter Buyskens' mule was out of the way. + +At last, one day Eli asked her before all the family, whether it was +true she had thought of visiting Margaret Brandt. + +“Ay, my man.” + +“Then I do forbid you.” + +“Oh, do you?” + +“I do.” + +“Then there is no more to be said, I suppose,” said she, colouring. + +“Not a word,” replied Eli sternly. + +When she was alone with her daughter she was very severe, not upon Eli, +but upon herself. + +“Behoved me rather go thither like a cat at a robin. But this was me all +over. I am like a silly hen that can lay no egg without cackling, and +convening all the house to rob her on't. Next time you and I are after +aught the least amiss, let's do't in Heaven's name then and there, and +not take time to think about it, far less talk; so then, if they take us +to task we can say, alack we knew nought; we thought no ill; now, who'd +ever? and so forth. For two pins I'd go thither in all their teeth.” + +Defiance so wild and picturesque staggered Kate. “Nay, mother, with +patience father will come round.” + +“And so will Michaelmas; but when? and I was so bent on you seeing the +girl. Then we could have put our heads together about her. Say what they +will, there is no judging body or beast but by the eye. And were I to +have fifty more sons I'd ne'er thwart one of them's fancy, till such +time as I had clapped my eyes upon her and seen Quicksands; say you, +I should have thought of that before condemning Gerard his fancy; but +there, life is a school, and the lesson ne'er done; we put down one +fault and take up t'other, and so go blundering here, and blundering +there, till we blunder into our graves, and there's an end of us.” + +“Mother,” said Kate timidly. + +“Well, what is a-coming now? no good news though, by the look of you. +What on earth can make the poor wretch so scared?” + +“An avowal she hath to make,” faltered Kate faintly. + +“Now, there is a noble word for ye,” said Catherine proudly. “Our Gerard +taught thee that, I'll go bail. Come then, out with thy vowel.” + +“Well then, sooth to say, I have seen her.” + +“And?” + +“And spoken with her to boot.” + +“And never told me? After this marvels are dirt.” + +“Mother, you were so hot against her. I waited till I could tell you +without angering you worse.” + +“Ay,” said Catherine, half sadly, half bitterly, “like mother, like +daughter; cowardice it is our bane. The others I whiles buffet, or how +would the house fare? but did you, Kate, ever have harsh word or look +from your poor mother, that you--Nay, I will not have ye cry, girl; ten +to one ye had your reason; so rise up, brave heart, and tell me all, +better late than ne'er; and first and foremost when ever, and how ever, +wend you to Sevenbergen wi' your poor crutches, and I not know?” + +“I never was there in my life; and, mammy dear, to say that I ne'er +wished to see her that I will not, but I ne'er went nor sought to see +her.” + +“There now,” said Catherine disputatively, “said I not 'twas all unlike +my girl to seek her unbeknown to me? Come now, for I'm all agog. + +“Then thus 'twas. It came to my ears, no matter how, and prithee, good +mother, on my knees ne'er ask me how, that Gerard was a prisoner in the +Stadthouse tower.” + +“Ah” + +“By father's behest as 'twas pretended.” + +Catherine uttered a sigh that was almost a moan. “Blacker than I +thought,” she muttered faintly. + +“Giles and I went out at night to bid him be of good cheer. And there at +the tower foot was a brave lass, quite strange to me I vow, on the same +errand.” + +“Lookee there now, Kate.” + +“At first we did properly frighten one another, through the place his +bad name, and our poor heads being so full o' divels, and we whitened a +bit in moonshine. But next moment, quo' I, 'You are Margaret.' 'And you +are Kate,' quo' she. Think on't!” + +“Did one ever? 'Twas Gerard! He will have been talking backards and +forrards of thee to her, and her to thee.” + +In return for this, Kate bestowed on Catherine one of the prettiest +presents in nature--the composite kiss, i.e., she imprinted on her cheek +a single kiss, which said-- + + 1. Quite correct. + 2. Good, clever mother, for guessing so right and quick. + 3. How sweet for us twain to be' of one mind again after + never having been otherwise. + 4. Etc. + +“Now then, speak thy mind, child, Gerard is not here. Alas, what am I +saying? would to Heaven he were.” + +“Well then, mother, she is comely, and wrongs her picture but little.” + +“Eh, dear; hark to young folk! I am for good acts, not good looks. Loves +she my boy as he did ought to be loved?” + +“Sevenbergen is farther from the Stadthouse than we are,” said Kate +thoughtfully; “yet she was there afore me.” + +Catherine nodded intelligence. + +“Nay, more, she had got him out ere I came. Ay, down from the captive's +tower.” + +Catherine shook her head incredulously. “The highest tower for miles! It +is not feasible.” + +“'Tis sooth though. She and an old man she brought found means and wit +to send him up a rope. There 'twas dangling from his prison, and our +Giles went up it. When first I saw it hang, I said, 'This is glamour.' +But when the frank lass's arms came round me, and her bosom' did beat +on mine, and her cheeks wet, then said I, ''Tis not glamour: 'tis love.' +For she is not like me, but lusty and able; and, dear heart, even I, +poor frail creature, do feel sometimes as I could move the world for +them I love: I love you, mother. And she loves Gerard.” + +“God bless her for't! God bless her!” + +“But + +“But what, lamb?” + +“Her love, is it for very certain honest? 'Tis most strange; but that +very thing, which hath warmed your heart, hath somewhat cooled mine +towards her; poor soul. She is no wife, you know, mother, when all is +done.” + +“Humph! They have stood at the altar together.” + +“Ay, but they went as they came, maid and bachelor.” + +“The parson, saith he so?” + +“Nay, for that I know not.” + +“Then I'll take no man's word but his in such a tangled skein.” + After some reflection she added, “Natheless art right, girl; I'll to +Sevenbergen alone. A wife I am but not a slave. We are all in the dark +here. And she holds the clue. I must question her, and no one by; least +of all you. I'll not take any lily to a house Wi' a spot, no, not to a +palace o' gold and silver.” + +The more Catherine pondered this conversation, the more she felt drawn +towards Margaret, and moreover “she was all agog” with curiosity, a +potent passion with us all, and nearly omnipotent with those who like +Catherine, do not slake it with reading. At last, one fine day, after +dinner, she whispered to Kate, “Keep the house from going to pieces, an +ye can;” and donned her best kirtle and hood, and her scarlet clocked +hose and her new shoes, and trudged briskly off to Sevenbergen, +troubling no man's mule. + +When she got there she inquired where Margaret Brandt lived. The first +person she asked shook his head, and said--“The name is strange to me.” + She went a little farther and asked a girl of about fifteen who was +standing at a door. “Father,” said the girl, speaking into the house, +“here is another after that magician's daughter.” The man came out and +told Catherine Peter Brandt's cottage was just outside the town on the +east side. “You may see the chimney hence;” and he pointed it out to +her. “But you will not find them there, neither father nor daughter; +they have left the town this week, bless you.” + +“Say not so, good man, and me walken all the way from Tergou.” + +“From Tergou? then you must ha' met the soldier.” + +“What soldier? ay, I did meet a soldier.” + +“Well, then, yon soldier was here seeking that self-same Margaret.” + +“Ay, and warn't a mad with us because she was gone?” put in the girl. +“His long beard and her cheek are no strangers, I warrant.” + +“Say no more than ye know,” said Catherine sharply. “You are young to +take to slandering your elders. Stay! tell we more about this soldier, +good man. + +“Nay, I know no more than that he came hither seeking Margaret Brandt, +and I told him she and her father had made a moonlight flit on't this +day sennight, and that some thought the devil had flown away with them, +being magicians. 'And,' says he, 'the devil fly away with thee for thy +ill news;' that was my thanks. 'But I doubt 'tis a lie,' said he. 'An +you think so,' said I, 'go and see.' 'I will,' said he, and burst out +wi' a hantle o' gibberish: my wife thinks 'twas curses; and hied him to +the cottage. Presently back a comes, and sings t'other tune. 'You were +right and I was wrong,' says he, and shoves a silver coin in my hand. +Show it the wife, some of ye; then she'll believe me; I have been called +a liar once to-day.” + +“It needs not,” said Catherine, inspecting the coin all the same. + +“And he seemed quiet and sad like, didn't he now, wench?” + +“That a did,” said the young woman warmly; “and, dame, he was just as +pretty a man as ever I clapped eyes on. Cheeks like a rose, and shining +beard, and eyes in his head like sloes.” + +“I saw he was well bearded,” said Catherine; “but, for the rest, at my +age I scan them not as when I was young and foolish. But he seemed right +civil: doffed his bonnet to me as I had been a queen, and I did drop him +my best reverence, for manners beget manners. But little I wist he had +been her light o' love, and most likely the--Who bakes for this town?” + +The man, not being acquainted with her, opened his eyes at this +transition, swift and smooth. + +“Well, dame, there be two; John Bush and Eric Donaldson, they both bide +in this street.” + +“Then, God be with you, good people,” said she, and proceeded; but her +sprightly foot came flat on the ground now, and no longer struck it with +little jerks and cocking heel. She asked the bakers whether Peter +Brandt had gone away in their debt. Bush said they were not customers. +Donaldson said, “Not a stiver: his daughter had come round and paid +him the very night they went. Didn't believe they owed a copper in the +town.” So Catherine got all the information of that kind she wanted with +very little trouble. + +“Can you tell me what sort this Margaret was?” said she, as she turned +to go. + +“Well, somewhat too reserved for my taste. I like a chatty +customer--when I'm not too busy. But she bore a high character for being +a good daughter.” + +“'Tis no small praise. A well-looking lass, I am told?” + +“Why, whence come you, wyfe?” + +“From Tergou.” + +“Oh, ay. Well you shall judge: the lads clept her 'the beauty of +Sevenbergen;' the lasses did scout it merrily, and terribly pulled her +to pieces, and found so many faults no two could agree where the fault +lay.” + +“That is enough,” said Catherine. “I see, the bakers are no fools in +Sevenbergen, and the young women no shallower than in other burghs.” + +She bought a manchet of bread, partly out of sympathy and justice (she +kept a shop), partly to show her household how much better bread she +gave them daily; and returned to Tergou dejected. + +Kate met her outside the town with beaming eyes. + +“Well, Kate, lass, it is a happy thing I went; I am heartbroken. Gerard +has been sore abused. The child is none of ourn, nor the mother from +this hour.” + +“Alas, mother, I fathom not your meaning.” + +“Ask me no more, girl, but never mention her name to me again. That is +all.” + +Kate acquiesced with a humble sigh, and they went home together. + +They found a soldier seated tranquilly by their fire. The moment they +entered the door he rose, and saluted them civilly. They stood and +looked at him; Kate with some little surprise, but Catherine with a +great deal, and with rising indignation. + +“What makes you here?” was Catherine's greeting. + +“I came to seek after Margaret.” + +“Well, we know no such person.” + +“Say not so, dame; sure you know her by name, Margaret Brandt.” + +“We have heard of her for that matter--to our cost.” + +“Comes, dame, prithee tell me at least where she bides.” + +“I know not where she bides, and care not.” + +Denys felt sure this was a deliberate untruth. He bit his lip. “Well, I +looked to find myself in an enemy's country at this Tergou; but maybe if +ye knew all ye would not be so dour.” + +“I do know all,” replied Catherine bitterly. “This morn I knew nought.” + Then suddenly setting her arms akimbo she told him with a raised voice +and flashing eyes she wondered at his cheek sitting down by that hearth +of all hearths in the world. + +“May Satan fly away with your hearth to the lake of fire and brimstone,” + shouted Denys, who could speak Flemish fluently. “Your own servant bade +me sit there till you came, else I had ne'er troubled your hearth. My +malison on it, and on the churlish roof-tree that greets an unoffending +stranger this way,” and he strode scowling to the door. + +“Oh! oh!” ejaculated Catherine, frightened, and also a little +conscience-stricken; and the virago sat suddenly down and burst into +tears. Her daughter followed suit quietly, but without loss of time. + +A shrewd writer, now unhappily lost to us, has somewhere the following +dialogue: + +She. “I feel all a woman's weakness.” + +He. “Then you are invincible.” + +Denys, by anticipation, confirmed that valuable statement; he stood at +the door looking ruefully at the havoc his thunderbolt of eloquence had +made. + +“Nay, wife,” said he, “weep not neither for a soldier's hasty word. I +mean not all I said. Why, your house is your own, and what right in it +have I? There now, I'll go.” + +“What is to do?” said a grave manly voice. + +It was Eli; he had come in from the shop. + +“Here is a ruffian been a-scolding of your women folk and making them +cry,” explained Denys. + +“Little Kate, what is't? for ruffians do not use to call themselves +ruffians,” said Eli the sensible. + +Ere she could explain, “Hold your tongue, girl,” said Catherine; “Muriel +bade him sat down, and I knew not that, and wyted on him; and he was +going and leaving his malison on us, root and branch. I was never so +becursed in all my days, oh! oh! oh!” + +“You were both somewhat to blame; both you and he,” said Eli calmly. +“However, what the servant says the master should still stand to. We +keep not open house, but yet we are not poor enough to grudge a seat at +our hearth in a cold day to a wayfarer with an honest face, and, as I +think, a wounded man. So, end all malice, and sit ye down!” + +“Wounded?” cried mother and daughter in a breath. + +“Think you a soldier slings his arm for sport?” + +“Nay, 'tis but an arrow,” said Denys cheerfully. + +“But an arrow?” said Kate, with concentrated horror. “Where were our +eyes, mother?” + +“Nay, in good sooth, a trifle. Which, however, I will pray mesdames to +accept as an excuse for my vivacity. 'Tis these little foolish trifling +wounds that fret a man, worthy sir. Why, look ye now, sweeter temper +than our Gerard never breathed, yet, when the bear did but strike a +piece no bigger than a crown out of his calf, he turned so hot and +choleric y'had said he was no son of yours, but got by the good knight +Sir John Pepper on his wife dame Mustard; who is this? a dwarf? your +servant, Master Giles.” + +“Your servant, soldier,” roared the newcomer. Denys started. He had not +counted on exchanging greetings with a petard. + +Denys's words had surprised his hosts, but hardly more than their +deportment now did him. They all three came creeping up to where he sat, +and looked down into him with their lips parted, as if he had been some +strange phenomenon. + +And growing agitation succeeded to amazement. + +“Now hush!” said Eli, “let none speak but I. Young man,” said he +solemnly, “in God's name who are you, that know us though we know you +not, and that shake our hearts speaking to us of--the absent-our poor +rebellious son: whom Heaven forgive and bless?” + +“What, master,” said Denys, lowering his voice, “hath he not writ to +you? hath he not told you of me, Denys of Burgundy?” + +“He hath writ, but three lines, and named not Denys of Burgundy, nor any +stranger.” + +“Ay, I mind the long letter was to his sweetheart, this Margaret, and +she has decamped, plague take her, and how I am to find her Heaven +knows.” + +“What, she is not your sweetheart then?” + +“Who, dame? an't please you.” + +“Why, Margaret Brandt.” + +“How can my comrade's sweetheart be mine? I know her not from Noah's +niece; how should I? I never saw her.” + +“Whist with this idle chat, Kate,” said Eli impatiently, “and let the +young man answer me. How came you to know Gerard, our son? Prithee now +think on a parent's cares, and answer me straightforward, like a soldier +as thou art.” + +“And shall. I was paid off at Flushing, and started for Burgundy. On +the German frontier I lay at the same inn with Gerard. I fancied him. I +said, 'Be my comrade.' He was loth at first; consented presently. Many a +weary league we trode together. Never were truer comrades: never will be +while earth shall last. First I left my route a bit to be with him: then +he his to be with me. We talked of Sevenbergen and Tergou a thousand +times; and of all in this house. We had our troubles on the road; but +battling them together made them light. I saved his life from a bear; he +mine in the Rhine: for he swims like a duck and I like a hod o' bricks +and one another's lives at an inn in Burgundy, where we two held a room +for a good hour against seven cut-throats, and crippled one and slew +two; and your son did his devoir like a man, and met the stoutest +champion I ever countered, and spitted him like a sucking-pig. Else I +had not been here. But just when all was fair, and I was to see him safe +aboard ship for Rome, if not to Rome itself, met us that son of a--the +Lord Anthony of Burgundy, and his men, making for Flanders, then in +insurrection, tore us by force apart, took me where I got some broad +pieces in hand, and a broad arrow in my shoulder, and left my poor +Gerard lonesome. At that sad parting, soldier though I be, these eyes +did rain salt scalding tears, and so did his, poor soul. His last word +to me was, 'Go, comfort Margaret!' so here I be. Mine to him was, 'Think +no more of Rome. Make for Rhine, and down stream home.' Now say, for you +know best, did I advise him well or ill?” + +“Soldier, take my hand,” said Eli. “God bless thee! God bless thee!” + and his lip quivered. It was all his reply, but more eloquent than many +words. + +Catherine did not answer at all, but she darted from the room and bade +Muriel bring the best that was in the house, and returned with wood in +both arms, and heaped the fire, and took out a snow-white cloth from +the press, and was going in a great hurry to lay it for Gerard's friend, +when suddenly she sat down and all the power ebbed rapidly out of her +body. + +“Father!” cried Kate, whose eye was as quick as her affection. + +Denys started up; but Eli waved him back and flung a little water +sharply in his wife's face. This did her instant good. She gasped, “So +sudden. My poor boy!” Eli whispered Denys, “Take no notice! she thinks +of him night and day.” They pretended not to observe her, and she shook +it off, and hustled and laid the cloth with her own hands; but as she +smoothed it, her hands trembled and a tear or two stole down her cheeks. + +They could not make enough of Denys. They stuffed him, and crammed him; +and then gathered round him and kept filling his glass in turn, while by +that genial blaze of fire and ruby wine and eager eyes he told all that +I have related, and a vast number of minor details, which an artist, +however minute, omits. + +But how different the effect on my readers and on this small circle! To +them the interest was already made before the first word came from his +lips. It was all about Gerard, and he who sat there telling it them, was +warm from Gerard and an actor with him in all these scenes. + +The flesh and blood around that fire quivered for their severed member, +hearing its struggles and perils. + +I shall ask my readers to recall to memory all they can of Gerard's +journey with Denys, and in their mind's eye to see those very matters +told by his comrade to an exile's father, all stoic outside, all father +within, and to two poor women, an exile's mother and a sister, who were +all love and pity and tender anxiety both outside and in. Now would you +mind closing this book for a minute and making an effort to realize all +this? It will save us so much repetition. + + +Then you will not be surprised when I tell you that after a while Giles +came softly and curled himself up before the fire, and lay gazing at the +speaker with a reverence almost canine; and that, when the rough soldier +had unconsciously but thoroughly betrayed his better qualities, and +above all his rare affection for Gerard, Kate, though timorous as a +bird, stole her little hand into the warrior's huge brown palm, where +it lay an instant like a tea-spoonful of cream spilt on a platter, then +nipped the ball of his thumb and served for a Kardiometer. In other +words, Fate is just even to rival storytellers, and balances matters. +Denys had to pay a tax to his audience which I have not. Whenever Gerard +was in too much danger, the female faces became so white, and their poor +little throats gurgled so, he was obliged in common humanity to +spoil his recital. Suspense is the soul of narrative, and thus dealt +Rough-and-Tender of Burgundy with his best suspenses. “Now, dame, take +not on till ye hear the end; ma'amselle, let not your cheek blanch so; +courage! it looks ugly; but you shall hear how we won through. Had he +miscarried, and I at hand, would I be alive?” + +And meantime Kate's little Kardiometer, or heart-measurer, graduated +emotion, and pinched by scale. At its best it was by no means a +high-pressure engine. But all is relative. Denys soon learned the tender +gamut; and when to water the suspense, and extract the thrill as far as +possible. On one occasion only he cannily indemnified his narrative for +this drawback. Falling personally into the Rhine, and sinking, he got +pinched, he Denys, to his surprise and satisfaction. “Oho!” thought he, +and on the principle of the anatomists, “experimentum in corpore vili,” + kept himself a quarter of an hour under water; under pressure all the +time. And even when Gerard had got hold of him, he was loth to leave the +river, so, less conscientious than I was, swam with Gerard to the east +bank first, and was about to land, but detected the officers and their +intent, chaffed them a little space, treading water, then turned and +swam wearily all across, and at last was obliged to get out, for very +shame, or else acknowledge himself a pike; so permitted himself to land, +exhausted: and the pressure relaxed. + + +It was eleven o'clock, an unheard-of hour, but they took no note of time +this night; and Denys had still much to tell them, when the door was +opened quietly, and in stole Cornelis and Sybrandt looking hang-dog. +They had this night been drinking the very last drop of their mysterious +funds. + +Catherine feared her husband would rebuke them before Denys; but he only +looked sadly at them, and motioned them to sit down quietly. + +Denys it was who seemed discomposed. He knitted his brows and eyed them +thoughtfully and rather gloomily. Then turned to Catherine. “What say +you, dame? the rest to-morrow; for I am somewhat weary, and it waxes +late.” + +“So be it,” said Eli. But when Denys rose to go to his inn, he was +instantly stopped by Catherine. “And think you to lie from this house? +Gerard's room has been got ready for you hours agone; the sheets I'll +not say much for, seeing I spun the flax and wove the web.” + +“Then would I lie in them blindfold,” was the gallant reply. “Ah, dame, +our poor Gerard was the one for fine linen. He could hardly forgive the +honest Germans their coarse flax, and whene'er my traitors of countrymen +did amiss, a would excuse them, saying, 'Well, well; bonnes toiles sont +en Bourgogne:' that means, there be good lenten cloths in Burgundy.' But +indeed he beat all for bywords and cleanliness. + +“Oh, Eli! Eli! doth not our son come back to us at each word?” + +“Ay. Buss me, my poor Kate. You and I know all that passeth in each +other's hearts this night. None other can, but God.” + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +Denys took an opportunity next day and told mother and daughter the +rest, excusing himself characteristically for not letting Cornelis and +Sybrandt hear of it. “It is not for me to blacken them; they come of +a good stock. But Gerard looks on them as no friends of his in this +matter; and I'm Gerard's comrade and it is a rule with us soldiers not +to tell the enemy aught--but lies.” + +Catherine sighed, but made no answer. + +The adventures he related cost them a tumult of agitation and grief, and +sore they wept at the parting of the friends, which even now Denys could +not tell without faltering. But at last all merged in the joyful hope +and expectation of Gerard's speedy return. In this Denys confidently +shared; but reminded them that was no reason why he should neglect his +friend's wishes and last words. In fact, should Gerard return next week, +and no Margaret to be found, what sort of figure should he cut? + +Catherine had never felt so kindly towards the truant Margaret as now; +and she was fully as anxious to find her, and be kind to her before +Gerard's return, as Denys was; but she could not agree with him that +anything was to be gained by leaving this neighbourhood to search for +her. “She must have told somebody whither she was going. It is not +as though they were dishonest folk flying the country; they owe not a +stiver in Sevenbergen; and dear heart, Denys, you can't hunt all Holland +for her.” + +“Can I not?” said Denys grimly. “That we shall see.” He added, after +some reflection, that they must divide their forces; she stay here with +eyes and ears wide open, and he ransack every town in Holland for her, +if need be. “But she will not be many leagues from here. They be three. +Three fly not so fast, nor far, as one.” + +“That is sense,” said Catherine. But she insisted on his going first to +the demoiselle Van Eyck. “She and our Margaret were bosom friends. She +knows where the girl is gone, if she will but tell us.” Denys was for +going to her that instant, so Catherine, in a turn of the hand, made +herself one shade neater, and took him with her. + +She was received graciously by the old lady sitting in a richly +furnished room; and opened her business. The tapestry dropped out of +Margaret Van Eyck's hands. “Gone? Gone from Sevenbergen and not told me; +the thankless girl.” + +This turn greatly surprised the visitors. “What, you know not? when was +she here last?” + +“Maybe ten days agone. I had ta'en out my brushes, after so many years, +to paint her portrait. I did not do it, though; for reasons.” + +Catherine remarked it was “a most strange thing she should go away bag +and baggage like this, without with your leave or by your leave, why, or +wherefore. Was ever aught so untoward; just when all our hearts are warm +to her; and here is Gerard's mate come from the ends of the earth with +comfort for her from Gerard, and can't find her, and Gerard himself +expected. What to do I know not. But sure she is not parted like this +without a reason. Can ye not give us the clue, my good demoiselle? +Prithee now. + +“I have it not to give,” said the elder lady, rather peevishly. + +“Then I can,” said Reicht Heynes, showing herself in the doorway, with +colour somewhat heightened. + +“So you have been hearkening all the time, eh?” + +“What are my ears for, mistress?” + +“True. Well, throw us the light of thy wisdom on this dark matter.” + +“There is no darkness that I see,” said Reicht. “And the clue, why, an +ye call't a two-plye twine, and the ends on't in this room e'en now, +ye'll not be far out. Oh, mistress, I wonder at you sitting there +pretending.” + +“Marry, come up.” and the mistress's cheek was now nearly as red as the +servant's. “So 'twas I drove the foolish girl away.” + +“You did your share, mistress. What sort of greeting gave you her +last time she came? Think you she could miss to notice it, and she all +friendless? And you said, 'I have altered my mind about painting of +you,' says you, a turning up your nose at her.” + +“I did not turn up my nose. It is not shaped like yours for looking +heavenward.” + +“Oh, all our nosen can follow our heartys bent, for that matter. Poor +soul. She did come into the kitchen to me. 'I am not to be painted now,' +said she, and the tears in her eyes. She said no more. But I knew well +what she did mean. I had seen ye.” + +“Well,” said Margaret Van Eyck, “I do confess so much, and I make you +the judge, madam. Know that these young girls can do nothing of their +own heads, but are most apt at mimicking aught their sweethearts do. Now +your Gerard is reasonably handy at many things, and among the rest at +the illuminator's craft. And Margaret she is his pupil, and a patient +one: what marvel? having a woman's eye for colour, and eke a lover to +ape. 'Tis a trick I despise at heart: for by it the great art of colour, +which should be royal, aspiring, and free, becomes a poor slave to the +petty crafts of writing and printing, and is fettered, imprisoned, and +made little, body and soul, to match the littleness of books, and go to +church in a rich fool's pocket. Natheless affection rules us all, and +when the poor wench would bring me her thorn leaves, and lilies, and +ivy, and dewberries, and ladybirds, and butterfly grubs, and all the +scum of Nature-stuck fast in gold-leaf like wasps in a honey-pot, and +withal her diurnal book, showing she had pored an hundred, or an hundred +and fifty, or two hundred hours over each singular page, certes I was +wroth that an immortal soul, and many hours of labour, and much manual +skill, should be flung away on Nature's trash, leaves, insects, grubs, +and on barren letters; but, having bowels, I did perforce restrain, and +as it were, dam my better feelings, and looked kindly at the work to +see how it might be bettered; and said I, 'Sith Heaven for our sins +hath doomed us to spend time, and soul, and colour on great letters and +little beetles, omitting such small fry as saints and heroes, their +acts and passions, why not present the scum naturally?' I told her 'the +grapes I saw, walking abroad, did hang i' the air, not stick in a wall; +and even these insects,' quo' I, 'and Nature her slime in general, pass +not their noxious lives wedged miserably in metal prisons like flies +in honey-pots and glue-pots, but do crawl or hover at large, infesting +air.' 'Ah my dear friend,' says she, 'I see now whither you drive; but +this ground is gold; whereon we may not shade.' 'Who said so?' quoth +I. 'All teachers of this craft,' says she; and (to make an end o' me at +once, I trow) 'Gerard himself!' 'That for Gerard himself,' quoth I, 'and +all the gang; gi'e me a brush!' + +“Then chose I, to shade her fruit and reptiles, a colour false in +nature, but true relatively to that monstrous ground of glaring gold; +and in five minutes out came a bunch of raspberries, stalk and all, and +a'most flew in your mouth; likewise a butterfly grub she had so truly +presented as might turn the stoutest stomach. My lady she flings her +arms round my neck, and says she, 'Oh!'” + +“Did she now?” + +“The little love!” observed Denys, succeeding at last in wedging in a +word. + +Margaret Van Eyck stared at him; and then smiled. She went on to tell +them how from step to step she had been led on to promise to resume the +art she had laid aside with a sigh when her brothers died, and to paint +the Madonna once more--with Margaret for model. Incidentally she even +revealed how girls are turned into saints. “Thy hair is adorable,” said +I. “Why, 'tis red,” quo' she. “Ay,” quoth I, “but what a red! how brown! +how glossy! most hair is not worth a straw to us painters; thine the +artist's very hue. But thy violet eyes, which smack of earth, being now +languid for lack of one Gerard, now full of fire in hopes of the same +Gerard, these will I lift to heaven in fixed and holy meditation, and +thy nose, which doth already somewhat aspire that way (though not so +piously as Reicht's), will I debase a trifle, and somewhat enfeeble thy +chin.” + +“Enfeeble her chin? Alack! what may that mean? Ye go beyond me, +mistress.” + +“'Tis a resolute chin. Not a jot too resolute for this wicked world; but +when ye come to a Madonna? No thank you.” + +“Well I never. A resolute chin.” + +Denys. “The darling!” + +“And now comes the rub. When you told me she was--the way she is, it +gave me a shock; I dropped my brushes. Was I going to turn a girl, that +couldn't keep her lover at a distance, into the Virgin Mary, at my time +of life? I love the poor ninny still. But I adore our blessed Lady. +Say you, 'a painter must not be peevish in such matters'? Well, most +painters are men; and men are fine fellows. They can do aught. Their +saints and virgins are neither more nor less than their lemans, saving +your presence. But know that for this very reason half their craft +is lost on me, which find beneath their angels' white wings the very +trollops I have seen flaunting it on the streets, bejewelled like Paynim +idols, and put on like the queens in a pack o' cards. And I am not a +fine fellow, but only a woman, and my painting is but one half craft, +and t'other half devotion. So now you may read me. 'Twas foolish, +maybe, but I could not help it; yet am I sorry.” And the old lady ended +despondently a discourse which she had commenced in a'mighty defiant +tone. + +“Well, you know, dame,” observed Catherine, “you must think it would go +to the poor girl's heart, and she so fond of ye?” + +Margaret Van Eyck only sighed. + +The Frisian girl, after biting her lips impatiently a little while, +turned upon Catherine. “Why, dame, think you 'twas for that alone +Margaret and Peter hath left Sevenbergen? Nay.” + +“For what else, then?” + +“What else? Why, because Gerard's people slight her so cruel. Who would +bide among hard-hearted folk that ha' driven her lad t' Italy, and now +he is gone, relent not, but face it out, and ne'er come anigh her that +is left?” + +“Reicht, I was going.” + +“Oh, ay, going, and going, and going. Ye should ha' said less or else +done more. But with your words you did uplift her heart and let it down +wi' your deeds. 'They have never been,' said the poor thing to me, with +such a sigh. Ay, here is one can feel for her: for I too am far from my +friends, and often, when first I came to Holland, I did used to take a +hearty cry all to myself. But ten times liever would I be Reicht Heynes +with nought but the leagues atw'een me and all my kith, than be as she +is i' the midst of them that ought to warm to her, and yet to fare as +lonesome as I.” + +“Alack, Reicht, I did go but yestreen, and had gone before, but one +plaguy thing or t'other did still come and hinder me.” + +“Mistress, did aught hinder ye to eat your dinner any one of those days? +I trow not. And had your heart been as good towards your own flesh and +blood, as 'twas towards your flesher's meat, nought had prevailed to +keep you from her that sat lonely, a watching the road for you and +comfort, wi' your child's child a beating 'neath her bosom.” + +Here this rude young woman was interrupted by an incident not uncommon +in a domestic's bright existence. The Van Eyck had been nettled by the +attack on her, but with due tact had gone into ambush. She now sprang +out of it. “Since you disrespect my guests, seek another place!” + +“With all my heart,” said Reicht stoutly. + +“Nay, mistress,” put in the good-natured Catherine. “True folk will +still speak out. Her tongue is a stinger.” Here the water came into +the speaker's eyes by way of confirmation. “But better she said it than +thought it. So now 't won't rankle in her. And part with her for me, +that shall ye not. Beshrew the wench, she wots she is a good servant, +and takes advantage. We poor wretches which keep house must still pay +'em tax for value. I had a good servant once, when I was a young +woman. Eh dear, how she did grind me down into the dust. In the end, +by Heaven's mercy, she married the baker, and I was my own woman again. +'So,' said I, 'no more good servants shall come hither, a hectoring o' +me.' I just get a fool and learn her; and whenever she knoweth her right +hand from her left, she sauceth me: then out I bundle her neck and +crop, and take another dunce in her place. Dear heart, 'tis wearisome, +teaching a string of fools by ones; but there--I am mistress:” here she +forgot that she was defending Reicht, and turning rather spitefully upon +her, added, “and you be mistress here, I trow.” + +“No more than that stool,” said the Van Eyck loftily. “She is neither +mistress nor servant; but Gone. She is dismissed the house, and there's +an end of her. What, did ye not hear me turn the saucy baggage off?” + +“Ay, ay. We all heard ye,” said Reicht, with vast indifference. + +“Then hear me!” said Denys solemnly. + +They all went round like things on wheels, and fastened their eyes on +him. + +“Ay, let us hear what the man says,” urged the hostess. “Men are fine +fellows, with their great hoarse voices.” + +“Mistress Reicht,” said Denys, with great dignity and ceremony, indeed +so great as to verge on the absurd, “you are turned off. If on a slight +acquaintance I might advise, I'd say, since you are a servant no more, +be a mistress, a queen.” + +“Easier said than done,” replied Reicht bluntly. + +“Not a jot. You see here one who is a man, though but half an +arbalestrier, owing to that devilish Englishman's arrow, in whose +carcass I have, however, left a like token, which is a comfort. I have +twenty gold pieces” (he showed them) “and a stout arm. In another +week or so I shall have twain. Marriage is not a habit of mine; but +I capitulate to so many virtues. You are beautiful, good-hearted, and +outspoken, and above all, you take the part of my she-comrade. Be then +an arbalestriesse!” + +“And what the dickens is that?” inquired Reicht. + +“I mean, be the wife, mistress, and queen of Denys of Burgundy here +present.” + +A dead silence fell on all. + +It did not last long, though; and was followed by a burst of +unreasonable indignation. + +Catherine. “Well, did you ever?” + +Margaret. “Never in all my born days.” + +Catherine. “Before our very faces.” + +Margaret. “Of all the absurdity, and insolence of this ridiculous sex--” + +Then Denys observed somewhat drily, that the female to whom he had +addressed himself was mute; and the others, on whose eloquence there was +no immediate demand, were fluent: on this the voices stopped, and the +eyes turned pivot-like upon Reicht. + +She took a sly glance from under her lashes at her military assailant, +and said, “I mean to take a good look at any man ere I leap into his +arms.” + +Denys drew himself up majestically. “Then look your fill, and leap +away.” + +This proposal led to a new and most unexpected result. A long white +finger was extended by the Van Eyck in a line with the speaker's eye, +and an agitated voice bade him stand, in the name of all the saints. +“You are beautiful, so,” cried she. “You are inspired--with folly. What +matters that? you are inspired. I must take off your head.” And in a +moment she was at work with her pencil. “Come out, hussy,” she screamed +to Reicht, “more in front of him, and keep the fool inspired and +beautiful. Oh, why had I not this maniac for my good centurion? They +went and brought me a brute with a low forehead and a shapeless beard.” + +Catherine stood and looked with utter amazement at this pantomime, +and secretly resolved that her venerable hostess had been a disguised +lunatic all this time, and was now busy throwing off the mask. As +for Reicht, she was unhappy and cross. She had left her caldron in a +precarious state, and made no scruple to say so, and that duties so +grave as hers left her no “time to waste a playing the statee and the +fool all at one time.” Her mistress in reply reminded her that it was +possible to be rude and rebellious to one's poor, old, affectionate, +desolate mistress, without being utterly heartless and savage; and a +trampler on arts. + +On this Reicht stopped, and pouted, and looked like a little basilisk +at the inspired model who caused her woe. He retorted with unshaken +admiration. The situation was at last dissolved by the artist's wrist +becoming cramped from disuse; this was not, however, until she had made +a rough but noble sketch. “I can work no more at present,” said she +sorrowfully. + +“Then, now, mistress, I may go and mind my pot?” + +“Ay, ay, go to your pot! And get into it, do; you will find your soul in +it: so then you will all be together.” + +“Well, but, Reicht,” said Catherine, laughing, “she turned you off.” + +“Boo, boo, boo!” said Reicht contemptuously. “When she wants to get rid +of me, let her turn herself off and die. I am sure she is old enough +for't. But take your time, mistress; if you are in no hurry, no more am +I. When that day doth come, 'twill take a man to dry my eyes; and if you +should be in the same mind then, soldier, you can say so; and if you are +not, why, 'twill be all one to Reicht Heynes.” + +And the plain speaker went her way. But her words did not fall to the +ground. Neither of her female hearers could disguise from herself that +this blunt girl, solitary herself, had probably read Margaret Brandt +aright, and that she had gone away from Sevenbergen broken-hearted. + +Catherine and Denys bade the Van Eyck adieu, and that same afternoon +Denys set out on a wild goose chase. His plan, like all great things, +was simple. He should go to a hundred towns and villages, and ask in +each after an old physician with a fair daughter, and an old long-bow +soldier. He should inquire of the burgomasters about all new-comers, and +should go to the fountains and watch the women and girls as they came +with their pitchers for water. + +And away he went, and was months and months on the tramp, and could not +find her. + +Happily, this chivalrous feat of friendship was in some degree its own +reward. + +Those who sit at home blindfolded by self-conceit, and think camel +or man out of the depths of their inner consciousness, alias their +ignorance, will tell you that in the intervals of war and danger, peace +and tranquil life acquire their true value and satisfy the heroic mind. +But those who look before they babble or scribble will see and say +that men who risk their lives habitually thirst for exciting pleasures +between the acts of danger, are not for innocent tranquility. + +To this Denys was no exception. His whole military life had been +half sparta, half Capua. And he was too good a soldier and too good a +libertine to have ever mixed either habit with the other. But now for +the first time he found himself mixed; at peace and yet on duty; for +he took this latter view of his wild goose chase, luckily. So all these +months he was a demi-Spartan; sober, prudent, vigilant, indomitable; and +happy, though constantly disappointed, as might have been expected. He +flirted gigantically on the road; but wasted no time about it. Nor in +these his wanderings did he tell a single female that “marriage was not +one of his habits, etc.” + +And so we leave him on the tramp, “Pilgrim of Friendship,” as his poor +comrade was of Love. + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +Catherine was in dismay when she reflected that Gerard must reach home +in another month at farthest, more likely in a week; and how should she +tell him she had not even kept an eye upon his betrothed? Then there was +the uncertainty as to the girl's fate; and this uncertainty sometimes +took a sickening form. + +“Oh, Kate,” she groaned, “if she should have gone and made herself +away!” + +“Mother, she would never be so wicked.” + +“Ah, my lass, you know not what hasty fools young lasses be, that have +no mothers to keep 'em straight. They will fling themselves into the +water for a man that the next man they meet would ha' cured 'em of in a +week. I have known 'em to jump in like brass one moment and scream for +help in the next. Couldn't know their own minds ye see even about such +a trifle as yon. And then there's times when their bodies ail like no +other living creatures ever I could hear of, and that strings up their +feelings so, the patience, that belongs to them at other times beyond +all living souls barring an ass, seems all to jump out of 'em at +one turn, and into the water they go. Therefore, I say that men are +monsters.” + +“Mother!” + +“Monsters, and no less, to go making such heaps o' canals just to tempt +the poor women in. They know we shall not cut our throats, hating the +sight of blood and rating our skins a hantle higher nor our lives; and +as for hanging, while she is a fixing of the nail and a making of the +noose she has time t' alter her mind. But a jump into a canal is no more +than into bed; and the water it does all the lave, will ye, nill ye. +Why, look at me, the mother o' nine, wasn't I agog to make a hole in our +canal for the nonce?” + +“Nay, mother, I'll never believe it of you.” + +“Ye may, though. 'Twas in the first year of our keeping house together. +Eli hadn't found out my weak stitches then, nor I his; so we made a +rent, pulling contrariwise; had a quarrel. So then I ran crying, to tell +some gabbling fool like myself what I had no business to tell out o' +doors except to the saints, and there was one of our precious canals in +the way; do they take us for teal? Oh, how tempting it did look! Says I +to myself, 'Sith he has let me go out of his door quarrelled, he shall +see me drowned next, and then he will change his key. He will blubber +a good one, and I shall look down from heaven' (I forgot I should be in +t'other part), 'and see him take on, and oh, but that will be sweet!' +and I was all a tiptoe and going in, only just then I thought I +wouldn't. I had got a new gown a making, for one thing, and hard upon +finished. So I went home instead, and what was Eli's first word, 'Let +yon flea stick i' the wall, my lass,' says he. 'Not a word of all I said +t' anger thee was sooth, but this, “I love thee.”' These were his very +words; I minded 'em, being the first quarrel. So I flung my arms about +his neck and sobbed a bit, and thought o' the canal; and he was no +colder to me than I to him, being a man and a young one; and so then +that was better than lying in the water; and spoiling my wedding kirtle +and my fine new shoon, old John Bush made 'em, that was uncle to him +keeps the shop now. And what was my grief to hers?” + +Little Kate hoped that Margaret loved her father too much to think of +leaving him so at his age. “He is father and mother and all to her, you +know.” + +“Nay, Kate, they do forget all these things in a moment o' despair when +the very sky seems black above them. I place more faith in him that +is unborn, than on him that is ripe for the grave, to keep her out o' +mischief. For certes it do go sore against us to die when there's a +little innocent a pulling at our hearts to let 'un live, and feeding at +our very veins.” + +“Well, then, keep up a good heart, mother.” She added, that very likely +all these fears were exaggerated. She ended by solemnly entreating her +mother at all events not to persist in naming the sex of Margaret's +infant. It was so unlucky, all the gossips told her; “dear heart, as if +there were not as many girls born as boys.” + +This reflection, though not unreasonable, was met with clamour. + +“Have you the cruelty to threaten me with a girl!!? I want no more +girls, while I have you. What use would a lass be to me? Can I set her +on my knee and see my Gerard again as I can a boy? I tell thee 'tis all +settled. + +“How may that be?” + +“In my mind. And if I am to be disappointed i' the end, 'tisn't for you +to disappoint me beforehand, telling me it is not to be a child, but +only a girl.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +MARGARET BRANDT had always held herself apart from Sevenbergen; and her +reserve had passed for pride; this had come to her ears, and she knew +many hearts were swelling with jealousy and malevolence. How would they +triumph over her when her condition could no longer be concealed! This +thought gnawed her night and day. For some time it had made her bury +herself in the house, and shun daylight even on those rare occasions +when she went abroad. + +Not that in her secret heart and conscience she mistook her moral +situation, as my unlearned readers have done perhaps. Though not +acquainted with the nice distinctions of the contemporary law, she knew +that betrothal was a marriage contract, and could no more be legally +broken on either side than any other compact written and witnessed; and +that marriage with another party than the betrothed had been formerly +annulled both by Church and State and that betrothed couples often +came together without any further ceremony, and their children were +legitimate. + +But what weighed down her simple mediaeval mind was this: that very +contract of betrothal was not forthcoming. Instead of her keeping it, +Gerard had got it, and Gerard was far, far away. She hated and despised +herself for the miserable oversight which had placed her at the mercy of +false opinion. + +For though she had never heard Horace's famous couplet, Segnius +irritant, etc., she was Horatian by the plain, hard, positive +intelligence, which, strange to say, characterizes the judgment of her +sex, when feeling happens not to blind it altogether. She gauged the +understanding of the world to a T. Her marriage lines being out +of sight, and in Italy, would never prevail to balance her visible +pregnancy, and the sight of her child when born. What sort of a tale was +this to stop slanderous tongues? “I have got my marriage lines, but I +cannot show them you.” What woman would believe her? or even pretend to +believe her? And as she was in reality one of the most modest girls in +Holland, it was women's good opinion she wanted, not men's. + +Even barefaced slander attacks her sex at a great advantage; but here +was slander with a face of truth. “The strong-minded woman” had not yet +been invented; and Margaret, though by nature and by having been early +made mistress of a family, she was resolute in some respects, was weak +as water in others, and weakest of all in this. Like all the elite +of her sex, she was a poor little leaf, trembling at each gust of the +world's opinion, true or false. Much misery may be contained in few +words. I doubt if pages of description from any man's pen could make +any human creature, except virtuous women (and these need no such aid), +realize the anguish of a virtuous woman foreseeing herself paraded as a +frail one. Had she been frail at heart, she might have brazened it out. +But she had not that advantage. She was really pure as snow, and saw the +pitch coming nearer her and nearer. The poor girl sat listless hours at +a time, and moaned with inner anguish. And often, when her father was +talking to her, and she giving mechanical replies, suddenly her cheek +would burn like fire, and the old man would wonder what he had said to +discompose her. Nothing. His words were less than air to her. It was the +ever-present dread sent the colour of shame into her burning cheek, no +matter what she seemed to be talking and thinking about. But both shame +and fear rose to a climax when she came back that night from Margaret +Van Eyck's. Her condition was discovered, and by persons of her own +sex. The old artist, secluded like herself, might not betray her; +but Catherine, a gossip in the centre of a family, and a thick +neighbourhood? One spark of hope remained. Catherine had spoken kindly, +even lovingly. The situation admitted no half course. Gerard's mother +thus roused must either be her best friend or worst enemy. She waited +then in racking anxiety to hear more. No word came. She gave up hope. +Catherine was not going to be her friend. Then she would expose her, +since she had no strong and kindly feeling to balance the natural love +of babbling. + +Then it was the wish to fly from this neighbourhood began to grow and +gnaw upon her, till it became a wild and passionate desire. But how +persuade her father to this? Old people cling to places. He was very old +and infirm to change his abode. There was no course but to make him her +confidant; better so than to run away from him; and she felt that would +be the alternative. And now between her uncontrollable desire to fly +and hide, and her invincible aversion to speak out to a man, even to her +father, she vibrated in a suspense full of lively torture. And presently +betwixt these two came in one day the fatal thought, “end all!” Things +foolishly worded are not always foolish; one of poor Catherine's +bugbears, these numerous canals, did sorely tempt this poor fluctuating +girl. She stood on the bank one afternoon, and eyed the calm deep water. +It seemed an image of repose, and she was so harassed. No more trouble. +No more fear of shame. If Gerard had not loved her, I doubt she had +ended there. + +As it was, she kneeled by the water side, and prayed fervently to God to +keep such wicked thoughts from her. “Oh! selfish wretch,” said she, “to +leave thy father. Oh, wicked wretch, to kill thy child, and make thy +poor Gerard lose all his pain and peril undertaken for thy sight. I will +tell father all, ay, ere this sun shall set.” And she went home with +eager haste, lest her good resolution should ooze out ere she got there. + +Now, in matters domestic the learned Peter was simple as a child, and +Margaret, from the age of sixteen, had governed the house gently +but absolutely. It was therefore a strange thing in this house, the +faltering, irresolute way in which its young but despotic mistress +addressed that person, who in a domestic sense was less important +than Martin Wittenhaagen, or even than the little girl who came in the +morning and for a pittance washed the vessels, etc., and went home at +night. + +“Father, I would speak to thee.” + +“Speak on, girl.” + +“Wilt listen to me? And--and--not--and try to excuse my faults?” + +“We have all our faults, Margaret, thou no more than the rest of us; but +fewer, unless parental feeling blinds me.” + +“Alas, no, father: I am a poor foolish girl, that would fain do well, +but have done ill, most ill, most unwisely; and now must bear the shame. +But, father, I love you, with all my faults, and will not you forgive my +folly, and still love your motherless girl?” + +“That ye may count on,” said Peter cheerfully. + +“Oh, well, smile not. For then how can I speak and make you sad?” + +“Why, what is the matter?” + +“Father, disgrace is coming on this house: it is at the door. And I +the culprit. Oh, father, turn your head away. I--I--father, I have let +Gerard take away my marriage lines.” + +“Is that all? 'Twas an oversight.” + +“'Twas the deed of a mad woman. But woe is me! that is not the worst.” + +Peter interrupted her. “The youth is honest, and loves you dear. You are +young. What is a year or two to you? Gerard will assuredly come back and +keep troth.” + +“And meantime know you what is coming?” + +“Not I, except that I shall be gone first for one.” + +“Worse than that. There is worse pain than death. Nay, for pity's sake +turn away your head, father.” + +“Foolish wench!” muttered Peter, but turned his head. + +She trembled violently, and with her cheeks on fire began to falter out, +“I did look on Gerard as my husband--we being betrothed-and he was in so +sore danger, and I thought I had killed him, and I-oh, if you were but +my mother I might find courage: you would question me. But you say not a +word.” + +“Why, Margaret, what is all this coil about? and why are thy cheeks +crimson, speaking to no stranger', but to thy old father?” + +“Why are my cheeks on fire? Because--because--father kill me; send me +to heaven! bid Martin shoot me with his arrow! And then the gossips will +come and tell you why I blush so this day. And then, when I am dead, I +hope you will love your girl again for her mother's sake.” + +“Give me thy hand, mistress,” said Peter, a little sternly. + +She put it out to him trembling. He took it gently and began with some +anxiety in his face to feel her pulse. + +“Alas, nay,” said she. “'Tis my soul that burns, not my body, with +fever. I cannot, will not, bide in Sevenbergen.” And she wrung her hands +impatiently. + +“Be calm now,” said the old man soothingly, “nor torment thyself for +nought. Not bide in Sevenbergen? What need to bide a day, as it vexes +thee, and puts thee in a fever: for fevered thou art, deny it not.” + +“What!” cried Margaret, “would you yield to go hence, and--and ask no +reason but my longing to be gone?” and suddenly throwing herself on her +knees beside him, in a fervour of supplication she clutched his sleeve, +and then his arm, and then his shoulder, while imploring him to quit +this place, and not ask her why. “Alas! what needs it? You will soon see +it. And I could never say it. I would liever die.” + +“Foolish child, who seeks thy girlish secrets? Is it I, whose life hath +been spent in searching Nature's? And for leaving Sevenbergen, what is +there to keep me in it, thee unwilling? Is there respect for me here, or +gratitude? Am I not yclept quacksalver by those that come not near me, +and wizard by those I heal? And give they not the guerdon and the honour +they deny me to the empirics that slaughter them? Besides, what is't to +me where we sojourn? Choose thou that, as did thy mother before thee.” + +Margaret embraced him tenderly, and wept upon his shoulder. + +She was respited. + +Yet as she wept, respited, she almost wished she had had the courage to +tell him. + +After a while nothing would content him but her taking a medicament he +went and brought her. She took it submissively, to please him. It +was the least she could do. It was a composing draught, and though +administered under an error, and a common one, did her more good than +harm: she awoke calmed by a long sleep, and that very day began her +preparations. + +Next week they went to Rotterdam, bag and baggage, and lodged above a +tailor's shop in the Brede-Kirk Straet. + +Only one person in Tergou knew whither they were gone. + +The Burgomaster. + +He locked the information in his own breast. + +The use he made of it ere long, my reader will not easily divine: for he +did not divine it himself. + +But time will show. + + + +CHAPTER L + +Among strangers Margaret Brandt was comparatively happy. And soon a new +and unexpected cause of content arose. A civic dignitary being ill, and +fanciful in proportion, went from doctor to doctor; and having arrived +at death's door, sent for Peter. Peter found him bled and purged to +nothing. He flung a battalion of bottles out of window, and left it +open; beat up yolks of eggs in neat Schiedam, and administered it in +small doses; followed this up by meat stewed in red wine and water, +shredding into both mild febrifugal herbs, that did no harm. Finally, +his patient got about again, looking something between a man and a +pillow-case, and being a voluble dignitary, spread Peter's fame in every +street; and that artist, who had long merited a reputation in vain, +made one rapidly by luck. Things looked bright. The old man's pride was +cheered at last, and his purse began to fill. He spent much of his gain, +however, in sovereign herbs and choice drugs, and would have so invested +them all, but Margaret white-mailed a part. The victory came too late. +Its happy excitement was fatal. + +One evening, in bidding her good-night, his voice seemed rather +inarticulate. + +The next morning he was found speechless, and only just sensible. + +Margaret, who had been for years her father's attentive pupil, saw at +once that he had had a paralytic stroke. But not trusting to herself, +she ran for a doctor. One of those who, obstructed by Peter, had not +killed the civic dignitary, came, and cheerfully confirmed her views. +He was for bleeding the patient. She declined. “He was always against +blooding,” said she, “especially the old.” Peter lived, but was never +the same man again. His memory became much affected, and of course he +was not to be trusted to prescribe; and several patients had come, +and one or two, that were bent on being cured by the new doctor and no +other, awaited his convalescence. Misery stared her in the face. She +resolved to go for advice and comfort to her cousin William Johnson, +from whom she had hitherto kept aloof out of pride and poverty. She +found him and his servant sitting in the same room, and neither of them +the better for liquor. Mastering all signs of surprise, she gave her +greetings, and presently told him she had come to talk on a family +matter, and with this glanced quietly at the servant by way of hint. The +woman took it, but not as expected. + +“Oh, you can speak before me, can she not, my old man?” + +At this familiarity Margaret turned very red, and said-- + +“I cry you mercy, mistress. I knew not my cousin had fallen into the +custom of this town. Well, I must take a fitter opportunity;” and she +rose to go. + +“I wot not what ye mean by custom o' the town,” said the woman, bouncing +up. “But this I know; 'tis the part of a faithful servant to keep her +master from being preyed on by his beggarly kin.” + +Margaret retorted: “Ye are too modest, mistress. Ye are no servant. Your +speech betrays you. 'Tis not till the ape hath mounted the tree that +she, shows her tail so plain. Nay, there sits the servant; God help him! +And while so it is, fear not thou his kin will ever be so poor in spirit +as come where the likes of you can flout their dole.” And casting one +look of mute reproach at her cousin for being so little of a man as to +sit passive and silent all this time, she turned and went haughtily out; +nor would she shed a single tear till she got home and thought of it. +And now here were two men to be lodged and fed by one pregnant girl; and +another mouth coming into the world. + +But this last, though the most helpless of all, was their best friend. + +Nature was strong in Margaret Brandt; that same nature which makes the +brutes, the birds, and the insects, so cunning at providing food and +shelter for their progeny yet to come. + +Stimulated by nature she sat and brooded, and brooded, and thought, and +thought, how to be beforehand with destitution. Ay, though she had still +five gold pieces left, she saw starvation coming with inevitable foot. + +Her sex, when, deviating from custom, it thinks with male intensity, +thinks just as much to the purpose as we do. She rose, bade Martin move +Peter to another room, made her own very neat and clean, polished the +glass globe, and suspended it from the ceiling, dusted the crocodile and +nailed him to the outside wall; and after duly instructing Martin, set +him to play the lounging sentinel about the street door, and tell the +crocodile-bitten that a great, and aged, and learned alchymist abode +there, who in his moments of recreation would sometimes amuse himself by +curing mortal diseases. + +Patients soon came, and were received by Margaret, and demanded to see +the leech. “That might not be. He was deep in his studies, searching for +the grand elixir, and not princes could have speech of him. They must +tell her their symptoms, and return in two hours.” And oh! mysterious +powers! when they did return, the drug or draught was always ready for +them. Sometimes, when it was a worshipful patient, she would carefully +scan his face, and feeling both pulse and skin, as well as hearing his +story, would go softly with it to Peter's room; and there think and +ask herself how her father, whose system she had long quietly observed, +would have treated the case. Then she would write an illegible scrawl +with a cabalistic letter, and bring it down reverently, and show it the +patient, and “Could he read that?” Then it would be either, “I am no +reader,” or, with admiration, “Nay, mistress, nought can I make on't.” + +“Ay, but I can. 'Tis sovereign. Look on thyself as cured!” If she had +the materials by her, and she was too good an economist not to favour +somewhat those medicines she had in her own stock, she would sometimes +let the patient see her compound it, often and anxiously consulting the +sacred prescription lest great Science should suffer in her hands. And +so she would send them away relieved of cash, but with their pockets +full of medicine, and minds full of faith, and humbugged to their +hearts' content. Populus vult decipi. And when they were gone, she would +take down two little boxes Gerard had made her; and on one of these +she had written To-day, and on the other To-morrow, and put the smaller +coins into “To-day,” and the larger into “To-morrow,” along with such +of her gold pieces as had survived the journey from Sevenbergen, and +the expenses of housekeeping in a strange place, and so she met current +expenses, and laid by for the rainy day she saw coming, and mixed drugs +with simples, and vice with virtue. On this last score her conscience +pricked her sore, and after each day's comedy, she knelt down and prayed +God to forgive her “for the sake of her child.” But lo and behold, cure +and cure was reported to her; so then her conscience began to harden. +Martin Wittenhaagen had of late been a dead weight on her hands. Like +most men who had endured great hardships, he had stiffened rather +suddenly. But though less supple, he was as strong as ever, and at his +own pace could have carried the doctor herself round Rotterdam city. He +carried her slops instead. + +In this new business he showed the qualities of a soldier: unreasoning +obedience, punctuality, accuracy, despatch, and drunkenness. + +He fell among “good fellows;” the blackguards plied him with Schiedam; +he babbled, he bragged. + +Doctor Margaret had risen very high in his estimation. All this +brandishing of a crocodile for a standard, and setting a dotard in +ambush, and getting rid of slops, and taking good money in exchange, +struck him not as Science but something far superior, Strategy. And he +boasted in his cups and before a mixed company how “me and my General we +are a biting of the burghers.” + +When this revelation had had time to leaven the city, his General, +Doctor Margaret, received a call from the constables; they took her, +trembling and begging subordinate machines to forgive her, before the +burgomaster; and by his side stood real physicians, a terrible row, in +long robes and square caps, accusing her of practising unlawfully on the +bodies of the duke's lieges. At first she was too frightened to say +a word. Novice like, the very name of “Law” paralyzed her. But being +questioned closely, but not so harshly as if she had been ugly, she told +the truth; she had long been her father's pupil, and had but followed +his system, and she had cured many; “and it is not for myself in very +deed, sirs, but I have two poor helpless honest men at home upon my +hands, and how else can I keep them? Ah, good sirs, let a poor girl make +her bread honestly; ye hinder them not to make it idly and shamefully; +and oh, sirs, ye are husbands, ye are fathers; ye cannot but see I have +reason to work and provide as best I may;” and ere this woman's appeal +had left her lips, she would have given the world to recall it, and +stood with one hand upon her heart and one before her face, hiding it, +but not the tears that trickled underneath it. All which went to the +wrong address. Perhaps a female bailiff might have yielded to such +arguments, and bade her practise medicine, and break law, till such time +as her child should be weaned, and no longer. + +“What have we to do with that,” said the burgomaster, “save and except +that if thou wilt pledge thyself to break the law no more, I will remit +the imprisonment, and exact but the fine?” + +On this Doctor Margaret clasped her hands together, and vowed most +penitently never, never, never to cure body or beast again; and being +dismissed with the constables to pay the fine, she turned at the +door, and curtsied, poor soul, and thanked the gentlemen for their +forbearance. + +And to pay the fine the “To-morrow box” must be opened on the instant; +and with excess of caution she had gone and nailed it up, that no slight +temptation might prevail to open it. And now she could not draw the +nails, and the constables grew impatient, and doubted its contents, and +said, “Let us break it for you.” But she would not let them. “Ye will +break it worse than I shall.” And she took a hammer, and struck too +faintly, and lost all strength for a minute, and wept hysterically; and +at last she broke it, and a little cry bubbled from her when it broke; +and she paid the fine, and it took all her unlawful gains and two gold +pieces to boot; and when the men were gone, she drew the broken pieces +of the box, and what little money they had left her, all together on the +table, and her arms went round them, and her rich hair escaped, and fell +down all loose, and she bowed her forehead on the wreck, and sobbed, +“My love's box it is broken, and my heart withal;” and so remained. And +Martin Wittenhaagen came in, and she could not lift her head, but sighed +out to him what had befallen her, ending, “My love his box is broken, +and so mine heart is broken.” + +And Martin was not so sad as wroth. Some traitor had betrayed him. What +stony heart had told and brought her to this pass? Whoever it was should +feel his arrow's point. The curious attitude in which he must deliver +the shaft never occurred to him. + +“Idle chat! idle chat!” moaned Margaret, without lifting her brow from +the table. “When you have slain all the gossips in this town, can we eat +them? Tell me how to keep you all, or prithee hold thy peace, and let +the saints get leave to whisper me.” Martin held his tongue, and cast +uneasy glances at his defeated General. + +Towards evening she rose, and washed her face and did up her hair, +and doggedly bade Martin take down the crocodile, and put out a basket +instead. + +“I can get up linen better than they seem to do it in this street,” said +she, “and you must carry it in the basket.” + +“That will I for thy sake,” said the soldier. + +“Good Martin! forgive me that I spake shrewishly to thee.” + +Even while they were talking came a male for advice. Margaret told it +the mayor had interfered and forbidden her to sell drugs. “But,” said +she, “I will gladly iron and starch your linen for you, and I will come +and fetch it from your house.” + +“Are ye mad, young woman?” said the male. “I come for a leech, and ye +proffer me a washerwoman;” and it went out in dudgeon. + +“There is a stupid creature,” said Margaret sadly. + +Presently came a female to tell the symptoms of her sick child. Margaret +stopped it. + +“We are forbidden by the bailiff to sell drugs. But I will gladly wash, +iron, and starch your linen for you-and-I will come and fetch it from +your house.” + +“Oh, ay,” said the female. “Well, I have some smocks and ruffs foul. +Come for them; and when you are there, you can look at the boy;” and it +told her where it lived, and when its husband would be out; yet it was +rather fond of its husband than not. + +An introduction is an introduction. And two or three patients out of +all those who came and were denied medicine made Doctor Margaret their +washerwoman. + +“Now, Martin, you must help. I'll no more cats than can slay mice.” + +“Mistress, the stomach is not awanting for't, but the headpiece, worst +luck.” + +“Oh! I mean not the starching and ironing; that takes a woman and a +handy one. But the bare washing; a man can surely contrive that. Why, a +mule has wit enough in's head to do't with his hoofs, an' ye could drive +him into the tub. Come, off doublet, and try.” + +“I am your man,” said the brave old soldier, stripping for the unwonted +toil. “I'll risk my arm in soapsuds, an you will risk your glory.” + +“My what?” + +“Your glory and honour as a--washerwoman.” + +“Gramercy! if you are man enough to bring me half-washed linen t' iron, +I am woman enough to fling't back i' the suds.” + +And so the brave girl and the brave soldier worked with a will, and kept +the wolf from the door. More they could not do. Margaret had repaired +the “To-morrow box,” and as she leaned over the glue, her tears mixed +with it, and she cemented her exiled lover's box with them, at which a +smile is allowable, but an intelligent smile tipped with pity, please, +and not the empty guffaw of the nineteenth-century-jackass, burlesquing +Bibles, and making fun of all things except fun. But when mended +it stood unreplenished. They kept the weekly rent paid, and the pot +boiling, but no more. + +And now came a concatenation. Recommended from one to another, Margaret +washed for the mayor. And bringing home the clean linen one day she +heard in the kitchen that his worship's only daughter was stricken +with disease, and not like to live, Poor Margaret could not help +cross-questioning, and a female servant gave her such of the symptoms as +she had observed. But they were too general. However, one gossip would +add one fact, and another another. And Margaret pondered them all. + +At last one day she met the mayor himself. He recognized her directly. +“Why, you are the unlicensed doctor.” “I was,” said she, “but now I'm +your worship's washerwoman.” The dignitary coloured, and said that was +rather a come down. “Nay, I bear no malice; for your worship might have +been harder. Rather would I do you a good turn. Sir, you have a sick +daughter. Let me see her.” + +The mayor shook his head. “That cannot be. The law I do enforce on +others I may not break myself.” Margaret opened her eyes. “Alack, sir, I +seek no guerdon now for curing folk; why, I am a washerwoman. I trow one +may heal all the world, an if one will but let the world starve one in +return.” “That is no more than just,” said the mayor: he added, “an' ye +make no trade on't, there is no offence.” “Then let me see her.” + +“What avails it? The learnedest leeches in Rotterdam have all seen her, +and bettered her nought. Her ill is inscrutable. One skilled wight saith +spleen; another, liver; another, blood; another, stomach; and another, +that she is possessed; and in very truth, she seems to have a demon; +shunneth all company; pineth alone; eateth no more victuals than might +diet a sparrow. Speaketh seldom, nor hearkens them that speak, and +weareth thinner and paler and nearer and nearer the grave, well-a-day.” + “Sir,” said Margaret, “an if you take your velvet doublet to +half-a-dozen of shops in Rotterdam, and speer is this fine or sorry +velvet, and worth how much the ell, those six traders will eye it and +feel it, and all be in one story to a letter. And why? Because they know +their trade. And your leeches are all in different stories. Why? Because +they know not their trade. I have heard my father say each is enamoured +of some one evil, and seeth it with his bat's eye in every patient. Had +they stayed at home, and never seen your daughter, they had answered all +the same, spleen, blood, stomach, lungs, liver, lunacy, or as they call +it possession. Let me see her. We are of a sex, and that is much.” And +when he still hesitated, “Saints of heaven!” cried she, giving way to +the irritability of a breeding woman, “is this how men love their own +flesh and blood? Her mother had ta'en me in her arms ere this, and +carried me to the sick room.” And two violet eyes flashed fire. + +“Come with me,” said the mayor hastily. + +“Mistress, I have brought thee a new doctor.” + +The person addressed, a pale young girl of eighteen, gave a contemptuous +wrench of her shoulder, and turned more decidedly to the fire she was +sitting over. + +Margaret came softly and sat beside her. “But 'tis one that will not +torment you. + +“A woman!” exclaimed the young lady, with surprise and some contempt. + +“Tell her your symptoms.” + +“What for? you will be no wiser.” + +“You will be none the worse.” + +“Well, I have no stomach for food, and no heart for any thing. Now cure +me, and go.” + +“Patience awhile! Your food, is it tasteless like in your mouth?” + +“Ay. How knew you that?” + +“Nay, I knew it not till you did tell me. I trow you would be better for +a little good company.” + +“I trow not. What is their silly chat to me?” + +Here Margaret requested the father to leave them alone; and in his +absence put some practical questions. Then she reflected. + +“When you wake i' the morning you find yourself quiver, as one may say?” + +“Nay. Ay. How knew you that?” + +“Shall I dose you, or shall I but tease you a bit with my silly chat?” + +“Which you will.” + +“Then I will tell you a story. 'Tis about two true lovers.” + +“I hate to hear of lovers,” said the girl; “nevertheless canst tell me, +'twill be less nauseous than your physic--maybe.” + +Margaret then told her a love story. The maiden was a girl called Ursel, +and the youth one Conrad; she an old physician's daughter, he the son of +a hosier at Tergou. She told their adventures, their troubles, their sad +condition. She told it from the female point of view, and in a sweet and +winning and earnest voice, that by degrees soon laid hold of this sullen +heart, and held it breathless; and when she broke it off her patient was +much disappointed. + +“Nay, nay, I must hear the end. I will hear it.” + +“Ye cannot, for I know it not; none knoweth that but God.” + +“Ah, your Ursel was a jewel of worth,” said the girl earnestly. “Would +she were here.” + +“Instead of her that is here?” + +“I say not that;” and she blushed a little. + +“You do but think it.” + +“Thought is free. Whether or no, an she were here, I'd give her a buss, +poor thing.” + +“Then give it me, for I am she.” + +“Nay, nay, that I'll be sworn y' are not.” + +“Say not so; in very truth I am she. And prithee, sweet mistress, go +not from your word, but give me the buss ye promised me, and with a good +heart, for oh, my own heart lies heavy: heavy as thine, sweet mistress.” + +The young gentlewoman rose and put her arms round Margaret's neck and +kissed her. “I am woe for you,” she sighed. “You are a good soul; you +have done me good--a little.” (A gulp came in her throat.) “Come again! +come again!” + +Margaret did come again, and talked with her, and gently, but keenly +watched what topics interested her, and found there was but one. +Then she said to the mayor, “I know your daughter's trouble, and 'tis +curable.” + +“What is't? the blood?” + +“Nay.” + +“The stomach?” + +“Nay.” + +“The liver?” + +“Nay.” + +“The foul fiend?” + +“Nay.” + +“What then?” + +“Love.” + +“Love? stuff, impossible! She is but a child; she never stirs abroad +unguarded. She never hath from a child.” + +“All the better; then we shall not have far to look for him.” + +“I vow not. I shall but command her to tell me the caitiff's name, that +hath by magic arts ensnared her young affections.” + +“Oh, how foolish be the wise!” said Margaret; “what, would ye go and put +her on her guard? Nay, let us work by art first; and if that fails, then +'twill still be time for violence and folly.” + +Margaret then with some difficulty prevailed on the mayor to take +advantage of its being Saturday, and pay all his people their salaries +in his daughter's presence and hers. + +It was done: some fifteen people entered the room, and received their +pay with a kind word from their employer. Then Margaret, who had sat +close to the patient all the time, rose and went out. The mayor followed +her. + +“Sir, how call you yon black-haired lad?” + +“That is Ulrich, my clerk.” + +“Well then, 'tis he.” + +“Now Heaven forbid a lad I took out of the streets.” + +“Well, but your worship is an understanding man. You took him not up +without some merit of his?” + +“Merit? not a jot! I liked the looks of the brat, that was all.” + +“Was that no merit? He pleased the father's eye. And now who had pleased +the daughter's. That has oft been seen since Adam.” + +“How know ye 'tis he?” + +“I held her hand, and with my finger did lightly touch her wrist; and +when the others came and went, 'twas as if dogs and cats had fared in +and out. But at this Ulrich's coming her pulse did leap, and her eye +shine; and when he went, she did sink back and sigh; and 'twas to be +seen the sun had gone out of the room for her. Nay, burgomaster, look +not on me so scared: no witch or magician I, but a poor girl that hath +been docile, and so bettered herself by a great neglected leech's art +and learning. I tell ye all this hath been done before, thousands of +years ere we were born. Now bide thou there till I come to thee, and +prithee, prithee, spoil not good work wi' meddling.” She then went back +and asked her patient for a lock of her hair. + +“Take it,” said she, more listlessly than ever. + +“Why, 'tis a lass of marble. How long do you count to be like that, +mistress?” + +“Till I am in my grave, sweet Peggy.” + +“Who knows? maybe in ten minutes you will be altogether as hot.” + +She ran into the shop, but speedily returned to the mayor and said, +“Good news! He fancies her and more than a little. Now how is't to be? +Will you marry your child, or bury her, for there is no third way, for +shame and love they do rend her virgin heart to death.” + +The dignitary decided for the more cheerful rite, but not without a +struggle; and with its marks on his face he accompanied Margaret to his +daughter. But as men are seldom in a hurry to drink their wormwood, he +stood silent. So Doctor Margaret said cheerfully, “Mistress, your lock +is gone; I have sold it.” + +“And who was so mad as to buy such a thing?” inquired the young lady +scornfully. + +“Oh, a black-haired laddie wi' white teeth. They call him Ulrich.” + +The pale face reddened directly, brow and all. + +“Says he, 'Oh, sweet mistress, give it me.' I had told them all whose +'twas. 'Nay,' said I, 'selling is my livelihood, not giving.' So he +offered me this, he offered me that, but nought less would I take than +his next quarter's wages. + +“Cruel,” murmured the girl, scarce audibly. + +“Why, you are in one tale with your father. Says he to me when I told +him, 'Oh, an he loves her hair so well, 'tis odd but he loves the rest +of her. Well,' quoth he, ''tis an honest lad, and a shall have her, gien +she will but leave her sulks and consent.' So, what say ye, mistress, +will you be married to Ulrich, or buried i' the kirkyard?” + +“Father! father!” + +“'Tis so, girl, speak thy mind.” + +“I will obey my father--in all things,” stammered the poor girl, trying +hard to maintain the advantageous position in which Margaret had placed +her. But nature, and the joy and surprise, were too strong even for a +virgin's bashful cunning. She cast an eloquent look on them both, and +sank at her father's knees, and begged his pardon, with many sobs for +having doubted his tenderness. + +He raised her in his arms, and took her, radiant through her tears with +joy, and returning life, and filial love, to his breast; and the pair +passed a truly sacred moment, and the dignitary was as happy as he +thought to be miserable; so hard is it for mortals to foresee. And they +looked round for Margaret, but she had stolen away softly. + +The young girl searched the house for her. + +“Where is she hid? Where on earth is she?” + +Where was she? why, in her own house, dressing meat for her two old +children, and crying bitterly the while at the living picture of +happiness she had just created. + +“Well-a-day, the odds between her lot and mine; well-a-day!” + +Next time she met the dignitary he hemm'd and hawed, and remarked what +a pity it was the law forbade him to pay her who had cured his daughter. +“However, when all is done, 'twas not art, 'twas but woman's wit.” + +“Nought but that, burgomaster,” said Margaret bitterly. “Pay the men of +art for not curing her: all the guerdon I seek, that cured her, is this: +go not and give your foul linen away from me by way of thanks.” + +“Why should I?” inquired he. + +“Marry, because there be fools about ye will tell ye she that hath wit +to cure dark diseases, cannot have wit to take dirt out o' rags; so +pledge me your faith.” + +The dignitary promised pompously, and felt all the patron. + + +Something must be done to fill “To-morrow's” box. She hawked her initial +letters and her illuminated vellums all about the town. Printing had by +this time dealt caligraphy in black and white a terrible blow in +Holland and Germany. But some copies of the printed books were usually +illuminated and fettered. The printers offered Margaret prices for work +in these two kinds. + +“I'll think on't,” said she. + +She took down her diurnal book, and calculated that the price of an +hour's work on those arts would be about one-fifth what she got for an +hour at the tub and mangle. “I'll starve first,” said she; “what, pay a +craft and a mystery five times less than a handicraft!” + +Martin, carrying the dry clothes-basket, got treated, and drunk. This +time he babbled her whole story. The girls got hold of it and gibed her +at the fountain. + +All she had gone through was light to her, compared with the pins and +bodkins her own sex drove into her heart, whenever she came near the +merry crew with her pitcher, and that was every day. Each sex has its +form of cruelty; man's is more brutal and terrible; but shallow women, +that have neither read nor suffered, have an unmuscular barbarity of +their own (where no feeling of sex steps in to overpower it). This +defect, intellectual perhaps rather than moral, has been mitigated in +our day by books, especially by able works of fiction; for there are +two roads to the highest effort of intelligence, Pity; Experience of +sorrows, and Imagination, by which alone we realize the grief we +never felt. In the fifteenth century girls with pitchers had but one; +Experience; and at sixteen years of age or so, that road had scarce been +trodden. These girls persisted that Margaret was deserted by her lover. +And to be deserted was a crime (They had not been deserted yet.) Not a +word against the Gerard they had created out of their own heads. For the +imaginary crime they fell foul of the supposed victim. Sometimes they +affronted her to her face. Oftener they talked at her backwards and +forwards with a subtle skill, and a perseverance which, “oh, that they +had bestowed on the arts,” as poor Aguecheek says. + +Now Margaret was brave, and a coward; brave to battle difficulties and +ill fortune; brave to shed her own blood for those she loved. Fortitude +she had. But she had no true fighting courage. She was a powerful young +woman, rather tall, full, and symmetrical; yet had one of those slips +of girls slapped her face, the poor fool's hands would have dropped +powerless, or gone to her own eyes instead of her adversary's. Nor was +she even a match for so many tongues; and besides, what could she say? +She knew nothing of these girls, except that somehow they had found out +her sorrows, and hated her; only she thought to herself they must be +very happy, or they would not be so hard on her. + +So she took their taunts in silence; and all her struggle was not to let +them see their power to make her writhe within. + +Here came in her fortitude; and she received their blows with +well-feigned, icy hauteur. They slapped a statue. + +But one day, when her spirits were weak, as happens at times to females +in her condition, a dozen assailants followed suit so admirably, that +her whole sex seemed to the dispirited one to be against her, and she +lost heart, and the tears began to run silently at each fresh stab. + +On this their triumph knew no bounds, and they followed her half way +home casting barbed speeches. + +After that exposure of weakness the statue could be assumed no more. So +then she would stand timidly aloof out of tongue-shot, till her young +tyrants' pitchers were all filled, and they gone; and then creep up with +hers. And one day she waited so long that the fount had ceased to flow. +So the next day she was obliged to face the phalanx, or her house go +dry. She drew near slowly, but with the less tremor, that she saw a +man at the well talking to them. He would distract their attention, and +besides, they would keep their foul tongues quiet if only to blind +the male to their real character. This conjecture, though shrewd, was +erroneous. They could not all flirt with that one man; so the outsiders +indemnified themselves by talking at her the very moment she came up. + +“Any news from foreign parts, Jacqueline?” + +“None for me, Martha. My lad goes no farther from me than the town +wall.” + +“I can't say as much,” says a third. + +“But if he goes t' Italy I have got another ready to take the fool's +place.” + +“He'll not go thither, lass. They go not so far till they are sick of us +that bide in Holland.” + +Surprise and indignation, and the presence of a man, gave Margaret a +moment's fighting courage. + +“Oh, flout me not, and show your ill nature before the very soldier. In +Heaven's name, what ill did I ever to ye? what harsh word cast back, for +all you have flung on me, a desolate stranger in your cruel town, +that ye flout me for my bereavement and my poor lad's most unwilling +banishment? Hearts of flesh would surely pity us both, for that ye cast +in my teeth these many days, ye brows of brass, ye bosoms of stone.” + +They stared at this novelty, resistance; and ere they could recover and +make mincement of her, she put her pitcher quietly down, and threw her +coarse apron over her head, and stood there grieving, her short-lived +spirit oozing fast. “Hallo!” cried the soldier, “why, what is your ill?” + She made no reply. But a little girl, who had long secretly hated the +big ones, squeaked out, “They did flout her, they are aye flouting her; +she may not come nigh the fountain for fear o' them, and 'tis a black +shame.” + +“Who spoke to her! Not I for one.” + +“Nor I. I would not bemean myself so far.” + +The man laughed heartily at this display of dignity. “Come, wife,” said +he, “never lower thy flag to such light skirmishers as these. Hast a +tongue i' thy head as well as they.” + +“Alack, good soldier, I was not bred to bandy foul terms.” + +“Well, but hast a better arm than these. Why not take 'em by twos across +thy knee, and skelp 'em till they cry Meculpee?” + +“Nay, I would not hurt their bodies for all their cruel hearts.” + +“Then ye must e'en laugh at them, wife. What! a woman grown, and not +see why mesdames give tongue? You are a buxom wife; they are a bundle of +thread-papers. You are fair and fresh; they have all the Dutch rim under +their bright eyes, that comes of dwelling in eternal swamps. There lies +your crime. Come, gie me thy pitcher, and if they flout me, shalt see +me scrub 'em all wi' my beard till they squeak holy mother.” The +pitcher was soon filled, and the soldier put it in Margaret's hand. She +murmured, “Thank you kindly, brave soldier.” + +He patted her on the shoulder. “Come, courage, brave wife; the divell +is dead!” She let the heavy pitcher fall on his foot directly. He cursed +horribly, and hopped in a circle, saying, “No, the Thief's alive and has +broken my great toe.” + +The apron came down, and there was a lovely face all flushed with' +emotion, and two beaming eyes in front of him, and two hands held out +clasped. + +“Nay, nay, 'tis nought,” said he good-humouredly, mistaking. + +“Denys?” + +“Well?--But--Hallo! How know you my name is--” + +“Denys of Burgundy!” + +“Why, ods bodikins! I know you not, and you know me.” + +“By Gerard's letter. Crossbow! beard! handsome! The divell is dead.” + +“Sword of Goliah! this must be she. Red hair, violet eyes, lovely face. +But I took ye for a married wife, seeing ye---” + +“Tell me my name,” said she quickly. + +“Margaret Brandt.” + +“Gerard? Where is he? Is he in life? Is he well? Is he coming? Is he +come? Why is he not here? Where have ye left him? Oh tell me! prithee, +prithee, prithee, tell me!” + +“Ay, ay, but not here. Oh, ye are all curiosity now, mesdames, eh? Lass, +I have been three months a-foot travelling all Holland to find ye, +and here you are. Oh, be joyful!” and he flung his cap in the air, and +seizing both her hands kissed them ardently. “Ah, my pretty she-comrade, +I have found thee at last. I knew I should. Shall be flouted no more. +I'll twist your necks at the first word, ye little trollops. And I have +got fifteen gold angels left for thee, and our Gerard will soon be here. +Shalt wet thy purple eyes no more.” + +But the fair eyes were wet even now, looking kindly and gratefully at +the friend that had dropped among her foes as if from heaven; Gerard's +comrade. “Prithee come home with me good, kind Denys. I cannot speak of +him before these.” They went off together, followed by a chorus. “She +has gotten a man. She has gotten a man at last. Boo! boo! boo!” + +Margaret quickened her steps; but Denys took down his crossbow and +pretended to shoot them all dead: they fled quadrivious, shrieking. + + + +CHAPTER LI + +The reader already knows how much these two had to tell one another. +It was a sweet yet bitter day for Margaret, since it brought her a true +friend, and ill news; for now first she learned that Gerard was all +alone in that strange land. She could not think with Denys that he would +come home; indeed he would have arrived before this. + +Denys was a balm. He called her his she-comrade, and was always cheering +her up with his formula and hilarities, and she petted him and made +much of him, and feebly hectored it over him as well as over Martin, and +would not let him eat a single meal out of her house, and forbade him to +use naughty words. “It spoils you, Denys. Good lack, to hear such ugly +words come forth so comely a head: forbear, or I shall be angry: so be +civil.” Whereupon Denys was upon his good behaviour, and ludicrous the +struggle between his native politeness and his acquired ruffianism. And +as it never rains but it pours, other persons now solicited Margaret's +friendship. She had written to Margaret Van Eyck a humble letter telling +her she knew she was no longer the favourite she had been, and would +keep her distance; but could not forget her benefactress's past +kindness. She then told her briefly how many ways she had battled for a +living, and in conclusion, begged earnestly that her residence might not +be betrayed, “least of all to his people. I do hate them, they drove +him from me. And even when he was gone, their hearts turned not to me as +they would an if they had repented their cruelty to him.” + +The Van Eyck was perplexed. At last she made a confidante of Reicht. The +secret ran through Reicht, as through a cylinder, to Catherine. + +“Ay, and is she turned that bitter against us?” said that good woman. +“She stole our son from us, and now she hates us for not running into +her arms. Natheless it is a blessing she is alive and no farther away +than Rotterdam.” + +The English princess, now Countess Charolois, made a stately +progress through the northern states of the duchy, accompanied by her +stepdaughter the young heiress of Burgundy, Marie de Bourgogne. Then the +old duke, the most magnificent prince in Europe, put out his splendour. +Troops of dazzling knights, and bevies of fair ladies gorgeously +attired, attended the two princesses; and minstrels, jongleurs, or +story-tellers, bards, musicians, actors, tumblers followed in the train; +and there was fencing, dancing, and joy in every town they shone on. +Richart invited all his people to meet him at Rotterdam and view the +pageant. + +They had been in Rotterdam some days, when Denys met Catherine +accidentally in the street, and after a warm greeting on both sides, +bade her rejoice, for he had found the she-comrade, and crowed; but +Catherine cooled him by showing him how much earlier he would have found +her by staying quietly at Tergou, than by vagabondizing it all over +Holland. “And being found, what the better are we? her heart is set dead +against us now.” + +“Oh, let that flea stick; come you with me to her house.” + +No, she would not go where she was sure of an ill welcome. “Them that +come unbidden sit unseated.” No, let Denys be mediator, and bring the +parties to a good understanding. He undertook the office at once, and +with great pomp and confidence. He trotted off to Margaret and said, +“She-comrade, I met this day a friend of thine.” + +“Thou didst look into the Rotter then, and see thyself.” + +“Nay, 'twas a female, and one that seeks thy regard; 'twas Catherine, +Gerard's mother.” + +“Oh, was it?” said Margaret; “then you may tell her she comes too late. +There was a time I longed and longed for her; but she held aloof in my +hour of most need, so now we will be as we ha' been.” + +Denys tried to shake this resolution. He coaxed her, but she was bitter +and sullen, and not to be coaxed. Then he scolded her well; then, at +that she went into hysterics. + +He was frightened at this result of his eloquence, and being off his +guard, allowed himself to be entrapped into a solemn promise never to +recur to the subject. He went back to Catherine crestfallen, and +told her. She fired up and told the family how his overtures had been +received. Then they fired up; it became a feud and burned fiercer every +day. Little Kate alone made some excuses for Margaret. + +The very next day another visitor came to Margaret, and found the +military enslaved and degraded, Martin up to his elbows in soapsuds, +and Denys ironing very clumsily, and Margaret plaiting ruffs, but with +a mistress's eye on her raw levies. To these there entered an old man, +venerable at first sight, but on nearer view keen and wizened. + +“Ah,” cried Margaret. Then swiftly turned her back on him and hid her +face with invincible repugnance. “Oh, that man! that man!” + +“Nay, fear me not,” said Ghysbrecht; “I come on a friend's errand. I +bring ye a letter from foreign parts.” + +“Mock me not, old man,” and she turned slowly round. + +“Nay, see;” and he held out an enormous letter. + +Margaret darted on it, and held it with trembling hands and glistening +eyes. It was Gerard's handwriting. + +“Oh, thank you, sir, bless you for this, I forgive you all the ill you +ever wrought me.” + +And she pressed the letter to her bosom with one hand, and glided +swiftly from the room with it. + +As she did not come back, Ghysbrecht went away, but not without a scowl +at Martha. Margaret was hours alone with her letter. + + + +CHAPTER LI + +When she came down again she was a changed woman. Her eyes were wet, but +calm, and all her bitterness and excitement charmed away. + +“Denys,” said she softly, “I have got my orders. I am to read my lover's +letter to his folk.” + +“Ye will never do that?” + +“Ay will I.” + +“I see there is something in the letter has softened ye towards them.” + +“Not a jot, Denys, not a jot. But an I hated them like poison I would +not disobey my love. Denys, 'tis so sweet to obey, and sweetest of all +to obey one who is far, far away, and cannot enforce my duty, but must +trust my love for my obedience. Ah, Gerard, my darling, at hand I might +have slighted thy commands, misliking thy folk as I have cause to do; +but now, didst bid me go into the raging sea and read thy sweet letter +to the sharks, there I'd go. Therefore, Denys, tell his mother I have +got a letter, and if she and hers would hear it, I am their servant; let +them say their hour, and I'll seat them as best I can, and welcome them +as best I may.” + +Denys went off to Catherine with this good news. He found the family at +dinner, and told them there was a long letter from Gerard. Then in the +midst of the joy this caused, he said, “And her heart is softened, and +she will read it to you herself; you are to choose your own time.” + +“What does she think there are none can read but her?” asked Catherine. +“Let her send the letter and we will read it.” + +“Nay, but, mother,” objected little Kate; “mayhap she cannot bear to +part it from her hand; she loves him dearly.” + +“What, thinks she we shall steal it?” + +Cornelis suggested that she would fain wedge herself into the family by +means of this letter. + +Denys cast a look of scorn on the speaker. “There spoke a bad heart,” + said he. “La camarade hates you all like poison. Oh, mistake me not, +dame; I defend her not, but so 'tis; yet maugre her spleen at a word +from Gerard she proffers to read you his letter with her own pretty +mouth, and hath a voice like honey--sure 'tis a fair proffer.” + +“'Tis so, mine honest soldier,” said the father of the family, “and +merits a civil reply, therefore hold your whisht ye that be women, and +I shall answer her. Tell her I, his father, setting aside all past +grudges, do for this grace thank her, and would she have double thanks, +let her send my son's letter by thy faithful hand, the which will I +read to his flesh and blood, and will then to her so surely and faithful +return, as I am Eli a Dierich a William a Luke, free burgher of Tergou, +like my forbears, and like them, a man of my word.” + +“Ay, and a man who is better than his word,” cried Catherine; “the only +one I ever did foregather.” + +“Hold thy peace, wife.” + +“Art a man of sense, Eli, a dirk, a chose, a chose(1),”' shouted Denys. +“The she-comrade will be right glad to obey Gerard and yet not face you +all, whom she hates as wormwood, saving your presence. Bless ye, the +world hath changed, she is all submission to-day: 'obedience is honey,' +quoth she; and in sooth 'tis a sweetmeat she cannot but savour, eating +so little on't, for what with her fair face, and her mellow tongue; and +what wi' flying in fits and terrifying us that be soldiers to death, an +we thwart her; and what wi' chiding us one while, and petting us like +lambs t' other, she hath made two of the crawlingest slaves ever you +saw out of two honest swashbucklers. I be the ironing ruffian, t' other +washes.” + +“What next? + +“What next? why, whenever the brat is in the world I shall rock cradle, +and t' other knave will wash tucker and bib. So, then, I'll go fetch +the letter on the instant. Ye will let me bide and hear it read, will ye +not?” + +“Else our hearts were black as coal,” said Catherine. + +So Denys went for the letter. He came back crestfallen. “She will not +let it out of her hand neither to me nor you, nor any he or she that +lives.” + +“I knew she would not,” said Cornelis. + +“Whisht! whisht!” said Eli, “and let Denys tell his story.” + +“'Nay,' said I, 'but be ruled by me.' 'Not I,' quoth she. 'Well, but,' +quoth I, 'that same honey Obedience ye spake of.' 'You are a fool,' says +she; 'obedience to Gerard is sweet, but obedience to any other body, who +ever said that was sweet?' + +“At last she seemed to soften a bit, and did give me a written paper for +you, mademoiselle. Here 'tis.” + +“For me?” said little Kate, colouring. + +“Give that here!” said Eli, and he scanned the writing, and said almost +in a whisper, “These be words from the letter Hearken! + +“'And, sweetheart, an if these lines should travel safe to thee, make +thou trial of my people's hearts withal. Maybe they are somewhat turned +towards me, being far away. If 'tis so they will show it to thee, since +now to me they may not. Read, then, this letter! But I do strictly +forbid thee to let it from thy hand; and if they still hold aloof from +thee, why, then say nought, but let them think me dead. Obey me in +this; for, if thou dost disrespect my judgment and my will in this, thou +lovest me not.'” + +There was a silence, and Gerard's words copied by Margaret here handed +round and inspected. + +“Well,” said Catherine, “that is another matter. But methinks 'tis for +her to come to us, not we to her.” + +“Alas, mother! what odds does that make?” + +“Much,” said Eli. “Tell her we are over many to come to her, and bid her +hither, the sooner the better.” + +When Denys was gone, Eli owned it was a bitter pill to him. + +“When that lass shall cross my threshold, all the mischief and misery +she hath made here will seem to come in adoors in one heap. But what +could I do, wife? We must hear the news of Gerard. I saw that in thine +eyes, and felt it in my own heart. And she is backed by our undutiful +but still beloved son, and so is she stronger than we, and brings our +noses down to the grindstone, the sly, cruel jade. But never heed. +We will hear the letter; and then let her go unblessed as she came +unwelcome.” + +“Make your mind easy,” said Catherine. “She will not come at all.” And a +tone of regret was visible. + +Shortly after Richart, who had been hourly expected, arrived from +Amsterdam grave and dignified in his burgher's robe and gold chain, +ruff, and furred cap, and was received not with affection only, but +respect; for he had risen a step higher than his parents, and such steps +were marked in mediaeval society almost as visibly as those in their +staircases. + +Admitted in due course to the family council, he showed plainly, though +not discourteously, that his pride was deeply wounded by their having +deigned to treat with Margaret Brandt. “I see the temptation,” said he. +“But which of us hath not at times to wish one way and do another?” This +threw a considerable chill over the old people. So little Kate put in a +word. “Vex not thyself, dear Richart. Mother says she will not come. + +“All the better, sweetheart. I fear me, if she do, I shall hie me back +to Amsterdam.” + +Here Denys popped his head in at the door, and said-- + +“She will be here at three on the great dial.” + +They all looked at one another in silence. + + (1) Anglice, a Thing-em-bob. + + +CHAPTER LIII + +“Nay, Richart,” said Catherine at last, “for Heaven's sake let not this +one sorry wench set us all by the ears: hath she not made ill blood +enough already?” + +“In very deed she hath. Fear me not, good mother. Let her come and read +the letter of the poor boy she hath by devilish arts bewitched and then +let her go. Give me your words to show her no countenance beyond decent +and constrained civility: less we may not, being in our own house; and +I will say no more.” On this understanding they waited the foe. She, for +her part, prepared for the interview in a spirit little less hostile. +When Denys brought word they would not come to her, but would receive +her, her lip curled, and she bade him observe how in them every feeling, +however small, was larger than the love for Gerard. “Well,” said she, “I +have not that excuse; so why mimic the pretty burgher's pride, the pride +of all unlettered folk? I will go to them for Gerard's sake. Oh, how I +loathe them!” + +Thus poor good-natured Denys was bringing into one house the materials +of an explosion. + +Margaret made her toilet in the same spirit that a knight of her day +dressed for battle--he to parry blows, and she to parry glances--glances +of contempt at her poverty, or of irony at her extravagance. Her kirtle +was of English cloth, dark blue, and her farthingale and hose of the +same material, but a glossy roan, or claret colour. Not an inch of +pretentious fur about her, but plain snowy linen wristbands, and +curiously plaited linen from the bosom of the kirtle up to the +commencement of the throat; it did not encircle her throat, but framed +it, being square, not round. Her front hair still peeped in two waves +much after the fashion which Mary Queen of Scots revived a century +later; but instead of the silver net, which would have ill become her +present condition, the rest of her head was covered with a very small +tight-fitting hood of dark blue cloth, hemmed with silver. Her shoes +were red; but the roan petticoat and hose prepared the spectator's mind +for the shock, and they set off the arched instep and shapely foot. + +Beauty knew its business then as now. + +And with all this she kept her enemies waiting, though it was three by +the dial. + +At last she started, attended by her he-comrade. And when they were +halfway, she stopped and said thoughtfully, “Denys!” + +“Well, she-general?” + +“I must go home” (piteously). + +“What, have ye left somewhat behind?” + +“What?” + +“My courage. Oh! oh! oh!” + +“Nay, nay, be brave, she-general. I shall be with you.” + +“Ay, but wilt keep close to me when I be there?” + +Denys promised, and she resumed her march, but gingerly. + +Meantime they were all assembled, and waiting for her with a strange +mixture of feelings. + +Mortification, curiosity, panting affection, aversion to her who came to +gratify those feelings, yet another curiosity to see what she was like, +and what there was in her to bewitch Gerard and make so much mischief. + +At last Denys came alone, and whispered, “The she-comrade is without.” + +“Fetch her in,” said Eli. “Now whisht, all of ye. None speak to her but +I.” + +They all turned their eyes to the door in dead silence. + +A little muttering was heard outside; Denys's rough organ and a woman's +soft and mellow voice. + +Presently that stopped; and then the door opened slowly, and Margaret +Brandt, dressed as I have described, and somewhat pale, but calm and +lovely, stood on the threshold, looking straight before her. + +They all rose but Kate, and remained mute and staring. + +“Be seated, mistress,” said Eli gravely, and motioned to a seat that had +been set apart for her. + +She inclined her head, and crossed the apartment; and in so doing her +condition was very visible, not only in her shape, but in her languor. + +Cornelis and Sybrandt hated her for it. Richart thought it spoiled her +beauty. + +It softened the women somewhat. + +She took her letter out of her bosom, and kissed it as if she had been +alone; then disposed herself to read it, with the air of one who knew +she was there for that single purpose. + +But as she began, she noticed they had seated her all by herself like a +leper. She looked at Denys, and putting her hand down by her side, made +him a swift furtive motion to come by her. + +He went with an obedient start as if she had cried “March!” and stood +at her shoulder like a sentinel; but this zealous manner of doing it +revealed to the company that he had been ordered thither; and at that +she coloured. And now she began to read her Gerard, their Gerard, to +their eager ears, in a mellow, clear voice, so soft, so earnest, so +thrilling, her very soul seemed to cling about each precious sound. It +was a voice as of a woman's bosom set speaking by Heaven itself. + +“I do nothing doubt, my Margaret, that long ere this shall meet thy +beloved eyes, Denys, my most dear friend, will have sought thee out, +and told thee the manner of our unlooked for and most tearful parting. +Therefore I will e'en begin at that most doleful day. What befell him +after, poor faithful soul, fain, fain would I hear, but may not. But I +pray for him day and night next after thee, dearest. Friend more stanch +and loving had not David in Jonathan, than I in him. Be good to him, for +poor Gerard's sake.” + +At these words, which came quite unexpectedly to him, Denys leaned his +head on Margaret's high chair, and groaned aloud. + +She turned quickly as she sat, and found his hand, and pressed it. + +And so the sweetheart and the friend held hands while the sweetheart +read. + +“I went forward all dizzied, like one in an ill dream; and presently a +gentleman came up with his servants, all on horseback, and had liked to +have rid o'er me. And he drew rein at the brow of the hill, and sent +his armed men back to rob me. They robbed me civilly enough and took my +purse and the last copper, and rid gaily away. I wandered stupid on, a +friendless pauper.” + +There was a general sigh, followed by an oath from Denys. + +“Presently a strange dimness came o'er me; I lay down to sleep on the +snow. 'Twas ill done, and with store of wolves hard by. Had I loved thee +as thou dost deserve, I had shown more manhood. But oh, sweet love, the +drowsiness that did crawl o'er me desolate, and benumb me, was more than +nature. And so I slept; and but that God was better to us, than I to +thee or to myself, from that sleep I ne'er had waked; so all do say. +I had slept an hour or two, as I suppose, but no more, when a hand did +shake me rudely. I awoke to my troubles. And there stood a servant girl +in her holiday suit. 'Are ye mad,' quoth she, in seeming choler, 'to +sleep in snow, and under wolves' nosen? Art weary o' life, and not long +weaned? Come, now, said she, more kindly, 'get up like a good lad;' so +I did rise up. 'Are ye rich, or are ye poor?' But I stared at her as one +amazed. 'Why, 'tis easy of reply,' quoth she. 'Are ye rich, or are ye +poor?' Then I gave a great, loud cry; that she did start back. 'Am I +rich, or am I poor? Had ye asked me an hour agone, I had said I am rich. +But now I am so poor as sure earth beareth on her bosom none poorer. +An hour agone I was rich in a friend, rich in money, rich in hope and +spirits of youth; but now the Bastard of Burgundy hath taken my friend, +and another gentleman my purse; and I can neither go forward to Rome nor +back to her I left in Holland. I am poorest of the poor.' 'Alack!' said +the wench. 'Natheless, an ye had been rich ye might ha' lain down again +in the snow for any use I had for ye; and then I trow ye had soon fared +out o' this world as bare as ye came into it. But, being poor, you are +our man: so come wi' me.' Then I went because she bade me, and because I +recked not now whither I went. And she took me to a fine house hard by, +and into a noble dining-hall hung with black; and there was set a table +with many dishes, and but one plate and one chair. 'Fall to!' said she, +in a whisper. 'What, alone?' said I. 'Alone? And which of us, think ye, +would eat out of the same dish with ye? Are we robbers o' the dead?' +Then she speered where I was born. 'At Tergou,' said I. Says she, 'And +when a gentleman dies in that country, serve they not the dead man's +dinner up as usual, till he be in the ground, and set some poor man to +it?' I told her, 'nay.' She blushed for us then. Here they were better +Christians.' So I behoved to sit down. But small was my heart for meat. +Then this kind lass sat by me and poured me out wine; and tasting it, +it cut me to the heart Denys was not there to drink with me. He doth so +love good wine, and women good, bad, or indifferent. The rich, strong +wine curled round my sick heart; and that day first I did seem to +glimpse why folk in trouble run to drink so. She made me eat of every +dish. ''Twas unlucky to pass one. Nought was here but her master's daily +dinner.' 'He had a good stomach, then,' said I. 'Ay, lad, and a good +heart. Leastways, so we all say now he is dead; but, being alive, no +word on't e'er heard I.' So I did eat as a bird, nibbling of every dish. +And she hearing me sigh, and seeing me like to choke at the food, took +pity and bade me be of good cheer. I should sup and lie there that +night. And she went to the hind, and he gave me a right good bed; and I +told him all, and asked him would the law give me back my purse. 'Law!' +quoth he; 'law there was none for the poor in Burgundy. Why, 'twas the +cousin of the Lady of the Manor, he that had robbed me. He knew the +wild spark. The matter must be judged before the lady; and she was quite +young, and far more like to hang me for slandering her cousin, and a +gentleman, and a handsome man, than to make him give me back my own. +Inside the liberties of a town a poor man might now and then see the +face of justice; but out among the grand seigneurs and dames--never.' +So I said, 'I'll sit down robbed rather than seek justice and find +gallows.' They were all most kind to me next day; and the girl proffered +me money from her small wage to help me towards Rhine.” + +“Oh, then, he is coming home! he is coming home!” shouted Denys, +interrupting the reader. She shook her head gently at him, by way of +reproof. + +“I beg pardon, all the company,” said he stiffly. + +“'Twas a sore temptation; but being a servant, my stomach rose against +it. 'Nay, nay,' said I. She told me I was wrong. ''Twas pride out o' +place; poor folk should help one another; or who on earth would?' I said +if I could do aught in return 'twere well; but for a free gift, nay: I +was overmuch beholden already. Should I write a letter for her? 'Nay, he +is in the house at present,' said she. 'Should I draw her picture, and +so earn my money?' 'What, can ye?' said she. I told her I could try; and +her habit would well become a picture. So she was agog to be limned, and +give it her lad. And I set her to stand in a good light, and soon made +sketches two, whereof I send thee one, coloured at odd hours. The other +I did most hastily, and with little conscience daub, for which may +Heaven forgive me; but time was short. They, poor things, knew no +better, and were most proud and joyous; and both kissing me after their +country fashion, 'twas the hind that was her sweetheart, they did bid me +God-speed; and I towards Rhine.” + +Margaret paused here, and gave Denys the coloured drawing to hand round. +It was eagerly examined by the females on account of the costume, which +differed in some respects from that of the Dutch domestic: the hair was +in a tight linen bag, a yellow half kerchief crossed her head from ear +to ear, but threw out a rectangular point that descended the centre of +her forehead, and it met in two more points over her bosom. She wore a +red kirtle with long sleeves, kilted very high in front, and showing a +green farthingale and a great red leather purse hanging down over it; +red stockings, yellow leathern shoes, ahead of her age; for they were +low-quartered and square-toed, secured by a strap buckling over the +instep, which was not uncommon, and was perhaps the rude germ of the +diamond buckle to come. + +Margaret continued:-- + +“But oh! how I missed my Denys at every step! often I sat down on the +road and groaned. And in the afternoon it chanced that I did so set me +down where two roads met, and with heavy head in hand, and heavy heart, +did think of thee, my poor sweetheart, and of my lost friend, and of the +little house at Tergou, where they all loved me once; though now it is +turned to hate.” + +Catherine. “Alas! that he will think so.” + +Eli. “Whisht, wife!” + +“And I did sigh loud, and often. And me sighing so, one came carolling +like a bird adown t' other road. 'Ay, chirp and chirp,' cried I +bitterly. 'Thou has not lost sweetheart, and friend, thy father's +hearth, thy mother's smile, and every penny in the world.' And at last +he did so carol, and carol, I jumped up in ire to get away from his most +jarring mirth. But ere I lied from it, I looked down the path to see +what could make a man so lighthearted in this weary world; and lo! the +songster was a humpbacked cripple, with a bloody bandage o'er his eye, +and both legs gone at the knee.” + +“He! he! he! he! he!” went Sybrandt, laughing and cackling. + +Margaret's eyes flashed: she began to fold the letter up. + +“Nay, lass,” said Eli, “heed him not! Thou unmannerly cur, offer't but +again and I put thee to the door.” + +“Why, what was there to gibe at, Sybrandt?” remonstrated Catherine more +mildly. “Is not our Kate afflicted? and is she not the most content of +us all, and singeth like a merle at times between her pains? But I am +as bad as thou; prithee read on, lass, and stop our gabble wi' somewhat +worth the hearkening.” + +“'Then,' said I, 'may this thing be?' And I took myself to task. +'Gerard, son of Eli, dost thou well to bemoan thy lot, thou hast youth +and health; and here comes the wreck of nature on crutches, praising +God's goodness with singing like a mavis?'” + +Catherine. “There you see.” + +Eli. “Whisht, dame, whisht!” + +“And whenever he saw me, he left carolling and presently hobbled up and +chanted, 'Charity, for love of Heaven, sweet master, charity,' with +a whine as piteous as wind at keyhole. 'Alack, poor soul,' said I, +'charity is in my heart, but not my purse; I am poor as thou.' Then he +believed me none, and to melt me undid his sleeve, and showed a sore +wound on his arm, and said he, 'Poor cripple though I be, I am like to +lose this eye to boot, look else.' I saw and groaned for him, and to +excuse myself let him wot how I had been robbed of my last copper. +Thereat he left whining all in a moment, and said, in a big manly voice, +'Then I'll e'en take a rest. Here, youngster, pull thou this strap: nay, +fear not!' I pulled, and down came a stout pair of legs out of his back; +and half his hump had melted away, and the wound in his eye no deeper +than the bandage. + +“Oh!” ejaculated Margaret's hearers in a body. + +“Whereat, seeing me astounded, he laughed in my face, and told me I +was not worth gulling, and offered me his protection. 'My face was +prophetic,' he said. 'Of what?' said I. 'Marry,' said he, 'that its +owner will starve in this thievish land.' Travel teaches e'en the young +wisdom. Time was I had turned and fled this impostor as a pestilence; +but now I listened patiently to pick up crumbs of counsel. And well I +did: for nature and his adventurous life had crammed the poor knave with +shrewdness and knowledge of the homelier sort--a child was I beside him. +When he had turned me inside out, said he, 'Didst well to leave France +and make for Germany; but think not of Holland again. Nay, on to +Augsburg and Nurnberg, the Paradise of craftsmen: thence to Venice, an +thou wilt. But thou wilt never bide in Italy nor any other land, having +once tasted the great German cities. Why, there is but one honest +country in Europe, and that is Germany; and since thou art honest, and +since I am a vagabone, Germany was made for us twain.' I bade him make +that good: how might one country fit true men and knaves! 'Why, thou +novice,' said he, 'because in an honest land are fewer knaves to bite +the honest man, and many honest men for the knave to bite. I was in +luck, being honest, to have fallen in with a friendly sharp. Be my pal,' +said he; 'I go to Nurnberg; we will reach it with full pouches. I'll +learn ye the cul de bois, and the cul de jatte, and how to maund, and +chaunt, and patter, and to raise swellings, and paint sores and ulcers +on thy body would take in the divell.' I told him shivering, I'd liever +die than shame myself and my folk so.” + +Eli. “Good lad! good lad!” + +“Why, what shame was it for such as I to turn beggar? Beggary was an +ancient and most honourable mystery. What did holy monks, and bishops, +and kings, when they would win Heaven's smile? why, wash the feet of +beggars, those favourites of the saints. 'The saints were no fools,' he +told me. Then he did put out his foot. 'Look at that, that was washed by +the greatest king alive, Louis, of France, the last Holy Thursday that +was. And the next day, Friday, clapped in the stocks by the warden of +a petty hamlet.' So I told him my foot should walk between such high +honour and such low disgrace, on the same path of honesty, please +God. Well then, since I had not spirit to beg, he would indulge my +perversity. I should work under him, he be the head, I the fingers. +And with that he set himself up like a judge, on a heap of dust by the +road's side, and questioned me strictly what I could do. I began to say +I was strong and willing. 'Ba!' said he, 'so is an ox. Say, what canst +do that Sir Ox cannot?' I could write; I had won a prize for it. 'Canst +write as fast as the printers?' quo' he, jeering. 'What else?' I could +paint. 'That was better.' I was like to tear my hair to hear him say so, +and me going to Rome to write. I could twang the psaltery a bit. 'That +was well. Could I tell stories?' Ay, by the score. 'Then,' said he, 'I +hire you from this moment.' 'What to do?' said I. 'Nought crooked, Sir +Candour,' says he. 'I will feed thee all the way and find thee work; and +take half thine earnings, no more.' 'Agreed,' said I, and gave my hand +on it, 'Now, servant,' said he, 'we will dine. But ye need not stand +behind my chair, for two reasons--first I ha' got no chair; and next, +good fellowship likes me better than state.' And out of his wallet he +brought flesh, fowl, and pastry, a good dozen of spices lapped in flax +paper, and wine fit for a king. Ne'er feasted I better than out of this +beggar's wallet, now my master. When we had well eaten I was for going +on. 'But,' said he, 'servants should not drive their masters too hard, +especially after feeding, for then the body is for repose, and the mind +turns to contemplation;' and he lay on his back gazing calmly at the +sky, and presently wondered whether there were any beggars up there. +I told him I knew but of one, called Lazarus. 'Could he do the cul de +jatte better than I?' said he, and looked quite jealous like. I told him +nay; Lazarus was honest, though a beggar, and fed daily of the crumbs +fal'n from a rich man's table, and the dogs licked his sores. 'Servant,' +quo' he, 'I spy a foul fault in thee. Thou liest without discretion: now +the end of lying being to gull, this is no better than fumbling with the +divell's tail. I pray Heaven thou mayest prove to paint better than thou +cuttest whids, or I am done out of a dinner. No beggar eats crumbs, but +only the fat of the land; and dogs lick not a beggar's sores, being made +with spearwort, or ratsbane, or biting acids, from all which dogs, and +even pigs, abhor. My sores are made after my proper receipt; but no dog +would lick e'en them twice. I have made a scurvy bargain: art a cozening +knave, I doubt, as well as a nincompoop.' I deigned no reply to this +bundle of lies, which did accuse heavenly truth of falsehood for not +being in a tale with him. He rose and we took the road; and presently +we came to a place where were two little wayside inns, scarce a furlong +apart. 'Halt,' said my master. 'Their armories are sore faded--all the +better. Go thou in; shun the master; board the wife; and flatter her inn +sky high, all but the armories, and offer to colour them dirt cheap.' +So I went in and told the wife I was a painter, and would revive her +armories cheap; but she sent me away with a rebuff. I to my master. He +groaned. 'Ye are all fingers and no tongue,' said he; 'I have made a +scurvy bargain. Come and hear me patter and flatter.' Between the two +inns was a high hedge. He goes behind it a minute and comes out a decent +tradesman. We went on to the other inn, and then I heard him praise it +so fulsome as the very wife did blush. 'But,' says he, 'there is one +little, little fault; your armories are dull and faded. Say but the +word, and for a silver franc my apprentice here, the cunningest e'er +I had, shall make them bright as ever. Whilst she hesitated, the rogue +told her he had done it to a little inn hard by, and now the inn's face +was like the starry firmament. 'D'ye hear that, my man?' cries she, +'“The Three Frogs” have been and painted up their armories; shall “The +Four Hedgehogs” be outshone by them?' So I painted, and my master stood +by like a lord, advising me how to do, and winking to me to heed him +none, and I got a silver franc. And he took me back to 'The Three +Frogs,' and on the way put me on a beard and disguised me, and +flattered 'The Three Frogs,' and told them how he had adorned 'The Four +Hedgehogs,' and into the net jumped the three poor simple frogs, and I +earned another silver franc. Then we went on and he found his crutches, +and sent me forward, and showed his “cicatrices d'emprunt,” as he called +them, and all his infirmities, at 'The Four Hedgehogs,' and got both +food and money. 'Come, share and share,' quoth he: so I gave him one +franc. 'I have made a good bargain,' said he. 'Art a master limner, but +takest too much time.' So I let him know that in matters of honest craft +things could not be done quick and well. 'Then do them quick,' quoth he. +And he told me my name was Bon Bec; and I might call him Cul de Jatte, +because that was his lay at our first meeting. And at the next town my +master, Cul de Jatte, bought me a psaltery, and set himself up again +by the roadside in state like him that erst judged Marsyas and Apollo, +piping for vain glory. So I played a strain. 'Indifferent well, +harmonious Bon Bec,' said he haughtily. 'Now tune thy pipes.' So I did +sing a sweet strain the good monks taught me; and singing it reminded +poor Bon Bec, Gerard erst, of his young days and home, and brought the +water to my een. But looking up, my master's visage was as the face of +a little boy whipt soundly, or sipping foulest medicine. 'Zounds, stop +that bellyache blether,' quoth he, 'that will ne'er wile a stiver out +o' peasants' purses; 'twill but sour the nurses' milk, and gar the kine +jump into rivers to be out of earshot on't. What, false knave, did I buy +thee a fine new psaltery to be minded o' my latter end withal? Hearken! +these be the songs that glad the heart, and fill the minstrel's purse.' +And he sung so blasphemous a stave, and eke so obscene, as I drew away +from him a space that the lightning might not spoil the new psaltery. +However, none came, being winter, and then I said, 'Master, the Lord +is debonair. Held I the thunder, yon ribaldry had been thy last, thou +foul-mouthed wretch.' + +“'Why, Bon Bec, what is to do?' quoth he. 'I have made an ill bargain. +Oh, perverse heart, that turneth from doctrine.' So I bade him keep +his breath to cool his broth, ne'er would I shame my folk with singing +ribald songs. 'Then,' says he sulkily, 'the first fire we light by the +wayside, clap thou on the music box! so 'twill make our pot boil for the +nonce; but with your, + + Good people, let us peak and pine, + Cut tristful mugs, and miaul and whine + Thorough our nosen chaunts divine, + +never, never, never. Ye might as well go through Lorraine crying, +Mulleygrubs, Mulleygrubs, who'll buy my Mulleygrubs!' So we fared on, +bad friends. But I took a thought, and prayed him hum me one of his +naughty ditties again. Then he brightened, and broke forth into ribaldry +like a nightingale. Finger in ears stuffed I. 'No words; naught but the +bare melody.' For oh, Margaret, note the sly malice of the Evil One! +Still to the scurviest matter he wedded the tunablest ditties.” + +Catherine. “That is true as Holy Writ.” + +Sybrandt. “How know you that, mother?” + +Cornelis. “He! he! he!” + +Eli. “Whisht, ye uneasy wights, and let me hear the boy. He is wiser +than ye; wiser than his years.” + +“'What tomfoolery is this,' said he; yet he yielded to me, and soon I +garnered three of his melodies; but I would not let Cul de Jatte wot the +thing I meditated. 'Show not fools nor bairns unfinished work,' saith +the byword. And by this time 'twas night, and a little town at hand, +where we went each to his inn; for my master would not yield to put +off his rags and other sores till morning; nor I to enter an inn with +a tatterdemalion. So we were to meet on the road at peep of day, and +indeed, we still lodged apart, meeting at morn and parting at eve +outside each town we lay at. And waking at midnight and cogitating, good +thoughts came down to me, and sudden my heart was enlightened. I called +to mind that my Margaret had withstood the taking of the burgomaster's +purse. ''Tis theft,' said you; 'disguise it how ye will.' But I must +be wiser than my betters; and now that which I had as good as stolen, +others had stolen from me. As it came so it was gone. Then I said, +'Heaven is not cruel, but just;' and I vowed a vow, to repay our +burgomaster every shilling an' I could. And I went forth in the morning +sad, but hopeful. I felt lighter for the purse being gone. My master was +at the gate becrutched. I told him I'd liever have seen him in another +disguise. 'Beggars must not be choosers,' said he. However, soon he bade +me untruss him, for he felt sadly. His head swam. I told him forcefully +to deform nature thus could scarce be wholesome. He answered none; but +looked scared, and hand on head. By-and-by he gave a groan, and rolled +on the ground like a ball, and writhed sore. I was scared, and wist +not what to do, but went to lift him; but his trouble rose higher and +higher, he gnashed his teeth fearfully, and the foam did fly from his +lips; and presently his body bended itself like a bow, and jerked and +bounded many times into the air. I exorcised him; it but made him +worse. There was water in a ditch hard by, not very clear; but the poor +creature struggling between life and death, I filled my hat withal, and +came flying to souse him. Then my lord laughed in my face. 'Come, Bon +Bec, by thy white gills, I have not forgotten my trade.' I stood with +watery hat in hand, glaring. 'Could this be feigning?' 'What else?' said +he. 'Why, a real fit is the sorriest thing; but a stroke with a feather +compared with mine. Art still betters nature.' 'But look, e'en now blood +trickleth from your nose,' said I. 'Ay, ay, pricked my nostrils with a +straw.' 'But ye foamed at the lips.' 'Oh, a little soap makes a mickle +foam.' And he drew out a morsel like a bean from his mouth. 'Thank thy +stars, Bon Bec,' says he, 'for leading thee to a worthy master. Each day +his lesson. To-morrow we will study the cul de bois and other branches. +To-day, own me prince of demoniacs, and indeed of all good fellows.' +Then, being puffed up, he forgot yesterday's grudge, and discoursed +me freely of beggars; and gave me, who eftsoons thought a beggar was a +beggar, and there an end, the names and qualities of full thirty sorts +of masterful and crafty mendicants in France and Germany and England; +his three provinces; for so the poor, proud knave yclept those kingdoms +three; wherein his throne it was the stocks I ween. And outside the next +village one had gone to dinner, and left his wheelbarrow. So says he, +'I'll tie myself in a knot, and shalt wheel me through; and what with +my crippledom and thy piety, a-wheeling of thy poor old dad, we'll bleed +the bumpkins of a dacha-saltee.' I did refuse. I would work for him; but +no hand would have in begging. 'And wheeling an “asker” in a barrow, is +not that work?' said he; 'then fling yon muckle stone in to boot: stay, +I'll soil it a bit, and swear it is a chip of the holy sepulchre; and +you wheeled us both from Jerusalem.' Said I, 'Wheeling a pair o' lies, +one stony, one fleshy, may be work, and hard work, but honest work 'tis +not. 'Tis fumbling with his tail you wot of. And,' said I, 'master, next +time you go to tempt me to knavery, speak not to me of my poor old dad.' +Said I, 'You have minded me of my real father's face, the truest man in +Holland. He and I are ill friends now, worse luck. But though I offend +him shame him I never will.' Dear Margaret, with this knave' saying, +'your poor old dad,' it had gone to my heart like a knife. ''Tis well,' +said my master gloomily; 'I have made a bad bargain.' Presently he +halts, and eyes a tree by the wayside. 'Go spell me what is writ on +yon tree.' So I went, and there was nought but a long square drawn in +outline. I told him so. 'So much for thy monkish lore,' quoth he. A +little farther, and he sent me to read a wall. There was nought but a +circle scratched on the stone with a point of nail or knife, and in the +circle two dots. I said so Then said he, 'Bon Bec, that square was a +warning. Some good Truand left it, that came through this village faring +west; that means “dangerous.” The circle with the two dots was writ by +another of our brotherhood; and it signifies as how the writer, soit +Rollin Trapu, soit Triboulet, soit Catin Cul de Bois, or what not, was +becked for asking here, and lay two months in Starabin.' Then he broke +forth. 'Talk: of your little snivelling books that go in pouch. Three +books have I, France, England, and Germany; and they are writ all over +in one tongue, that my brethren of all countries understand; and that +is what I call learning. So sith here they whip sores, and imprison +infirmities, I to my tiring room.' And he popped behind the hedge, and +came back worshipful. We passed through the village, and I sat me down +on the stocks, and even the barber's apprentice whets his razor on a +block, so did I flesh my psaltery on this village, fearing great cities. +I tuned it, and coursed up and down the wires nimbly with my two wooden +strikers; and then chanted loud and clear, as I had heard the minstrels +of the country, + +'Qui veut ouir qui veut Savoir,' + +some trash, I mind not what. And soon the villagers, male and female, +thronged about me; thereat I left singing, and recited them to the +psaltery a short but right merry tale out of 'the lives of the saints,' +which it is my handbook of pleasant figments and this ended, instantly +struck up and whistled one of Cul de Jatte's devil's ditties, and played +it on the psaltery to boot. Thou knowest Heaven hath bestowed on me a +rare whistle, both for compass and tune. And with me whistling bright +and full this sprightly air, and making the wires slow when the tune did +gallop, and tripping when the tune did amble, or I did stop and shake on +one note like a lark i' the air, they were like to eat me; but looking +round, lo! my master had given way to his itch, and there was his hat +on the ground, and copper pouring in. I deemed it cruel to whistle the +bread out of poverty's pouch; so broke off and away; yet could not get +clear so swift, but both men and women did slobber me sore, and smelled +all of garlic. 'There, master,' said I, 'I call that cleaving the divell +in twain and keeping his white half.' Said he, 'Bon Bec, I have made +a good bargain.' Then he bade me stay where I was while he went to the +Holy Land. I stayed, and he leaped the churchyard dike, and the sexton +was digging a grave, and my master chaffered with him, and came back +with a knuckle bone. But why he clept a churchyard Holy Land, that I +learned not then, but after dinner. I was colouring the armories of a +little inn; and he sat by me most peaceable, a cutting, and filing, and +polishing bones, sedately; so I speered was not honest work sweet? 'As +rain water,' said he, mocking. 'What was he a making?' 'A pair of bones +to play on with thee; and with the refuse a St. Anthony's thumb and +a St. Martin's little finger, for the devout.' The vagabone! And now, +sweet Margaret, thou seest our manner of life faring Rhineward. I with +the two arts I had least prized or counted on for bread was welcome +everywhere; too poor now to fear robbers, yet able to keep both master +and man on the road. For at night I often made a portraiture of the +innkeeper or his dame, and so went richer from an inn; the which it is +the lot of few. But my master despised this even way of life. 'I love +ups and downs,' said he. And certes he lacked them not. One day he would +gather more than I in three; another, to hear his tale, it had rained +kicks all day in lieu of 'saltees,' and that is pennies. Yet even then +at heart he despised me for a poor mechanical soul, and scorned my arts, +extolling his own, the art of feigning. + +“Natheless, at odd times was he ill at his ease. Going through the town +of Aix, we came upon a beggar walking, fast by one hand to a cart-tail, +and the hangman a lashing his bare bloody back. He, stout knave, so +whipt, did not a jot relent; but I did wince at every stroke; and my +master hung his head. + +“'Soon or late, Bon Bec,' quoth he. 'Soon or late.' I, seeing his +haggard face, knew what he meaned. And at a town whose name hath slipped +me, but 'twas on a fair river, as we came to the foot of the bridge he +halted, and shuddered. 'Why what is the coil?' said I. 'Oh, blind,' said +he, 'they are justifying there.' So nought would serve him but take a +boat, and cross the river by water. But 'twas out of the frying-pan, as +the word goeth. For the boatman had scarce told us the matter, and that +it was a man and a woman for stealing glazed windows out of housen, and +that the man was hanged at daybreak, and the quean to be drowned, when +lo! they did fling her off the bridge, and fell in the water not far +from us. And oh! Margaret, the deadly splash! It ringeth in mine ears +even now. But worse was coming; for, though tied, she came up and cried +'Help! help!' and I, forgetting all, and hearing a woman's voice cry +'Help!' was for leaping in to save her; and had surely done it, but the +boatman and Cul de Jatte clung round me, and in a moment the bourreau's +man, that waited in a boat, came and entangled his hooked pole in her +long hair, and so thrust her down and ended her. Oh! if the saints +answered so our cries for help! And poor Cul de Jatte groaned; and I +sat sobbing, and beat my breast, and cried, 'Of what hath God made men's +hearts?'” + +The reader stopped, and the tears trickled down her cheeks. Gerard +crying in Lorraine, made her cry at Rotterdam. The leagues were no more +to her heart than the breadth of a room. + +Eli, softened by many touches in the letter, and by the reader's womanly +graces, said kindly enough, “Take thy time, lass. And methinks some of +ye might find her a creepie to rest her foot, and she so near her own +trouble.” + +“I'd do more for her than that an I durst,” said Catherine. “Here, +Cornelis,” and she held out her little wooden stool, and that worthy, +who hated Margaret worse than ever, had to take the creepie and put it +carefully under her foot. + +“You are very kind, dame,” she faltered. “I will read on; 'tis all I can +do for you in turn. + +“Thus seeing my master ashy and sore shaken, I deemed this horrible +tragic act came timeously to warn him, so I strove sore to turn him from +his ill ways, discoursing of sinners and their lethal end. 'Too late!' +said he, 'too late!' and gnashed his teeth. Then I told him 'too late' +was the divell's favourite whisper in repentant ears. Said I-- + + 'The Lord is debonair, + Let sinners nought despair.' + +'Too late!' said he, and gnashed his teeth, and writhed his face, as +though vipers were biting his inward parts. But, dear heart, his was a +mind like running water. Ere we cleared the town he was carolling, and +outside the gate hung the other culprit, from the bough of a little +tree, and scarce a yard above the ground. And that stayed my vagabone's +music. But ere we had gone another furlong, he feigned to have dropped +his, rosary, and ran back, with no good intent, as you shall hear. +I strolled on very slowly, and often halting, and presently he came +stumping up on one leg, and that bandaged. I asked him how he could +contrive that, for 'twas masterly done. 'Oh, that was his mystery. Would +I know that, I must join the brotherhood.' And presently we did pass +a narrow lane, and at the mouth on't espied a written stone, telling +beggars by a word like a wee pitchfork to go that way. ''Tis yon +farmhouse,' said he: 'bide thou at hand.' And he went to the house, and +came back with money, food, and wine. 'This lad did the business,' said +he, slapping his one leg proudly. Then he undid the bandage, and with +prideful face showed me a hole in his calf you could have put your neef +in. Had I been strange to his tricks, here was a leg had drawn my last +penny. Presently another farmhouse by the road. He made for it. I stood, +and asked myself, should I run away and leave him, not to be shamed in +my own despite by him? But while I doubted, there was a great noise, +and my master well cudgelled by the farmer and his men, came towards me +hobbling and holloaing, for the peasants had laid on heartily. But more +trouble was at his heels. Some mischievous wight loosed a dog as big as +a jackass colt, and came roaring after him, and downed him momently. I, +deeming the poor rogue's death certain, and him least fit to die, drew +my sword and ran shouting. But ere I could come near, the muckle dog had +torn away his bad leg, and ran growling to his lair with it; and Cul de +Jatte slipped his knot, and came running like a lapwing, with his hair +on end, and so striking with both crutches before and behind at unreal +dogs as 'twas like a windmill crazed. He fled adown the road. I followed +leisurely, and found him at dinner. 'Curse the quiens,' said he. And not +a word all dinner time but 'Curse the quiens!' + +“I said, I must know who' they were, before I would curse them. + +“'Quiens? why, that was dogs. And I knew not even that much? He had made +a bad bargain. Well, well,' said he, 'to-morrow we shall be in Germany. +There the folk are music bitten, and they molest not beggars, unless +they fake to boot, and then they drown us out of hand that moment, curse +'em!' We came to Strasbourg. And I looked down Rhine with longing heart. +The stream how swift! It seemed running to clip Sevenbergen to its soft +bosom. With but a piece of timber and an oar I might drift at my ease to +thee, sleeping yet gliding still. 'Twas a sore temptation. But the fear +of an ill welcome from my folk, and of the neighbours' sneers, and the +hope of coming back to thee victorious, not, as now I must, defeated and +shamed, and thee with me, it did withhold me; and so, with many sighs, +and often turning of the head to look on beloved Rhine, I turned +sorrowful face and heavy heart towards Augsburg.” + +“Alas, dame, alas! Good master Eli, forgive me! But I ne'er can win over +this part all at one time. It taketh my breath away. Welladay! Why did +he not listen to his heart? Had he not gone through peril enow, sorrow +enow? Well-a-day! well-a-day!” + +The letter dropped from her hand, and she drooped like a wounded lily. + +Then there was a clatter on the floor, and it was little Kate going on +her crutches, with flushed face, and eyes full of pity, to console her. +“Water, mother,” she cried. “I am afeared she shall swoon.” + +“Nay, nay, fear me not,” said Margaret feebly. “I will not be so +troublesome. Thy good-will it maketh me stouter hearted, sweet mistress +Kate. For, if thou carest how I fare, sure Heaven is not against me.” + +Catherine. “D'ye hear that, my man!” + +Eli. “Ay, wife, I hear; and mark to boot.” + +Little Kate went back to her place, and Margaret read on. + +“The Germans are fonder of armorials than the French. So I found work +every day. And whiles I wrought, my master would leave me, and doff his +raiment and don his rags, and other infirmities, and cozen the world, +which he did clepe it 'plucking of the goose:' this done, would meet me +and demand half my earnings; and with restless piercing eye ask me would +I be so base as cheat my poor master by making three parts in lieu of +two, till I threatened to lend him a cuff to boot in requital of his +suspicion; and thenceforth took his due, with feigned confidence in my +good faith, the which his dancing eye belied. Early in Germany we had +a quarrel. I had seen him buy a skull of a jailer's wife, and mighty +zealous a polishing it. Thought I, 'How can he carry yon memento, +and not repent, seeing where ends his way?' Presently I did catch him +selling it to a woman for the head of St. Barnabas, with a tale had +cozened an Ebrew. So I snatched it out of their hands, and trundled it +into the ditch. 'How, thou impious knave,' said I, 'wouldst sell for +a saint the skull of some dead thief, thy brother?' He slunk away. But +shallow she did crawl after the skull, and with apron reverently dust +it for Barnabas, and it Barabbas; and so home with it. Said I, 'Non vult +anser velli, sed populus vult decipi.'” + +Catherine. “Oh, the goodly Latin!” + +Eli. “What meaneth it?” + +Catherine. “Nay, I know not; but 'tis Latin; is not that enow? He was +the flower of the flock.” + +“Then I to him, 'Take now thy psaltery, and part we here, for art a +walking prison, a walking hell.' But lo! my master fell on his knees, +and begged me for pity's sake not turn him off. 'What would become of +him? He did so love honesty.' 'Thou love honesty?' said I. 'Ay,' said +he, 'not to enact it; the saints forbid. But to look on. 'Tis so fair +a thing to look on. Alas, good Bon Bec,' said he; 'hadst starved +peradventure but for me. Kick not down thy ladder! Call ye that just? +Nay, calm thy choler! Have pity on me! I must have a pal; and how could +I bear one like myself after one so simple as thou? He might cut my +throat for the money that is hid in my belt. 'Tis not much; 'tis not +much. With thee I walk at mine ease; with a sharp I dare not go before +in a narrow way. Alas! forgive me. Now I know where in thy bonnet lurks +the bee, I will ware his sting; I will but pluck the secular goose. 'So +be it,' said I. 'And example was contagious: he should be a true man by +then we reached Nurnberg. 'Twas a long way to Nurnberg.' Seeing him so +humble, I said, 'well, doff rags, and make thyself decent; 'twill +help me forget what thou art.' And he did so; and we sat down to our +nonemete. Presently came by a reverend palmer with hat stuck round with +cockle shells from Holy Land, and great rosary of beads like eggs of +teal, and sandals for shoes. And he leaned a-weary on his long staff, +and offered us a shell apiece. My master would none. But I, to set him +a better example, took one, and for it gave the poor pilgrim two batzen, +and had his blessing. And he was scarce gone, when we heard savage +cries, and came a sorry sight, one leading a wild woman in a chain, all +rags and howling like a wolf. And when they came nigh us, she fell to +tearing her rags to threads. The man sought an alms of us, and told us +his hard case. 'Twas his wife stark raving mad; and he could not work in +the fields, and leave her in his house to fire it, nor cure her could +be without the Saintys' help, and had vowed six pounds of wax to St. +Anthony to heal her, and so was fain beg of charitable folk for the +money. And now she espied us, and flew at me with her long nails, and +I was cold with fear, so devilish showed, her face and rolling eyes and +nails like birdys talons. But he with the chain checked her sudden, +and with his whip did cruelly lash her for it, that I cried, 'Forbear! +forbear! She knoweth not what she doth;' and gave him a batz. And being +gone, said I, 'Master, of those twain I know not which is the more +pitiable.' And he laughed in my face, 'Behold thy justice, Bon Bec,' +said he. 'Thou railest on thy poor, good, within an ace of honest +master, and bestowest alms on a “vopper.”' 'Vopper,' said I, 'what is +a vopper?' 'why, a trull that feigns madness. That was one of us, that +sham maniac, and wow but she did it clumsily. I blushed for her and +thee. Also gavest two batzen for a shell from Holy Land, that came +no farther than Normandy. I have culled them myself on that coast by +scores, and sold them to pilgrims true and pilgrims false, to gull flats +like thee withal.' 'What!' said I; 'that reverend man?' 'One of us!' +cried Cul de Jatte; 'one of us! In France we call them “Coquillarts,” + but here “Calmierers.” Railest on me for selling a false relic now and +then, and wastest thy earnings on such as sell nought else. I tell thee, +Bon Bec,' said he, 'there is not one true relic on earth's face. The +Saints died a thousand years agone, and their bones mixed with the +dust; but the trade in relics, it is of yesterday; and there are forty +thousand tramps in Europe live by it; selling relics of forty or fifty +bodies; oh, threadbare lie! And of the true Cross enow to build Cologne +Minster. Why, then, may not poor Cul de Jatte turn his penny with the +crowd? Art but a scurvy tyrannical servant to let thy poor master from +his share of the swag with your whoreson pilgrims, palmers and friars, +black, grey, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood, and of +our art, only masters they, and we but poor apprentices, in guild.' For +his tongue was an ell and a half. + +“'A truce to thy irreverend sophistries,' said I, 'and say what company +is this a coming.' 'Bohemians,' cried he, 'Ay, ay, this shall be the +rest of the band.' With that came along so motley a crew as never your +eyes beheld, dear Margaret. Marched at their head one with a banner on +a steel-pointed lance, and girded with a great long sword, and in velvet +doublet and leathern jerkin, the which stuffs ne'er saw I wedded afore +on mortal flesh, and a gay feather in his lordly cap, and a couple of +dead fowls at his back, the which, an the spark had come by honestly, I +am much mistook. Him followed wives and babes on two lean horses, whose +flanks still rattled like parchment drum, being beaten by kettles and +caldrons. Next an armed man a-riding of a horse, which drew a cart full +of females and children; and in it, sitting backwards, a lusty +lazy knave, lance in hand, with his luxurious feet raised on a holy +water-pail, that lay along, and therein a cat, new kittened, sat glowing +o'er her brood, and sparks for eyes. And the cart-horse cavalier had on +his shoulders a round bundle, and thereon did perch a cock and crowed +with zeal, poor ruffler, proud of his brave feathers as the rest, and +haply with more reason, being his own. And on an ass another wife and +new-born child; and one poor quean a-foot scarce dragged herself along, +so near her time was she, yet held two little ones by the hand, and +helplessly helped them on the road. And the little folk were just a +farce; some rode sticks, with horses' heads, between their legs, which +pranced and caracoled, and soon wearied the riders so sore, they stood +stock still and wept, which cavaliers were presently taken into cart and +cuffed. And one, more grave, lost in a man's hat and feather, walked in +Egyptian darkness, handed by a girl; another had the great saucepan on +his back, and a tremendous three-footed clay-pot sat on his head +and shoulders, swallowing him so as he too went darkling led by his +sweetheart three foot high. When they were gone by, and we had both +laughed lustily, said I, 'Natheless, master, my bowels they yearn for +one of that tawdry band, even for the poor wife so near the downlying, +scarce able to drag herself, yet still, poor soul, helping the weaker on +the way.' + +Catherine. “Nay, nay, Margaret. Why, wench, pluck up heart. Certes thou +art no Bohemian.” + +Kate. “Nay, mother, 'tis not that, I trow, but her father. And, dear +heart, why take notice to put her to the blush?” + +Richart. “So I say.” + +“And he derided me. 'Why, that is a “biltreger,”' said he, 'and you +waste your bowels on a pillow, or so forth.' I told him he lied. 'Time +would show,' said he, 'wait till they camp.' And rising after meat and +meditation, and travelling forward, we found them camped between two +great trees on a common by the wayside; and they had lighted a great +fire, and on it was their caldron; and one of the trees slanting o'er +the fire, a kid hung down by a chain from the tree-fork to the fire, +and in the fork was wedged an urchin turning still the chain to keep the +meat from burning, and a gay spark with a feather in his cap cut up +a sheep; and another had spitted a leg of it on a wooden stake; and a +woman ended chanticleer's pride with wringing of his neck. And under +the other tree four rufflers played at cards and quarrelled, and no word +sans oath; and of these lewd gamblers one had cockles in his hat and was +my reverend pilgrim. And a female, young and comely, and dressed like a +butterfly, sat and mended a heap of dirty rags. And Cul de Jatte said, +'Yon is the “vopper,”' and I looked incredulous and looked again, and it +was so, and at her feet sat he that had so late lashed her; but I ween +he had wist where to strike, or woe betide him; and she did now oppress +him sore, and made him thread her very needle, the which he did with +all humility; so was their comedy turned seamy side without; and Cul de +Jatte told me 'twas still so with 'voppers' and their men in camp; they +would don their bravery though but for an hour, and with their tinsel, +empire, and the man durst not the least gainsay the 'vopper,' or she +would turn him off at these times, as I my master, and take another +tyrant more submissive. And my master chuckled over me. Natheless we +soon espied a wife set with her back against the tree, and her hair +down, and her face white, and by her side a wench held up to her eye a +newborn babe, with words of cheer, and the rough fellow, her husband, +did bring her hot wine in a cup, and bade her take courage. And just +o'er the place she sat, they had pinned from bough to bough of those +neighbouring trees two shawls, and blankets two, together, to keep the +drizzle off her. And so had another poor little rogue come into the +world; and by her own particular folk tended gipsywise, but of the +roasters, and boilers, and voppers, and gamblers, no more noticed, no, +not for a single moment, than sheep which droppeth her lamb in a field, +by travellers upon the way. Then said I, 'What of thy foul suspicions, +master? over-knavery blinds the eye as well as over-simplicity.' And he +laughed and said, 'Triumph, Bon Bec, triumph. The chances were nine in +ten against thee.' Then I did pity her, to be in a crowd at such a +time; but he rebuked me. 'I should pity rather your queens and royal +duchesses, which by law are condemned to groan in a crowd of nobles and +courtiers, and do writhe with shame as, well as sorrow, being come of +decent mothers, whereas these gipsy women have no more shame under their +skins than a wolf ruth, or a hare valour. And, Bon Bec,' quoth he, 'I +espy in thee a lamentable fault. Wastest thy bowels, wilt have none left +for thy poor good master which doeth thy will by night and day.' Then +we came forward; and he talked with the men in some strange Hebrew cant +whereof no word knew I; and the poor knaves bade us welcome and denied +us nought. With them, and all they had, 'twas lightly come and lightly +go; and when we left them, my master said to me 'This is thy first +lesson, but to-night we shall lie at Hansburgh. Come with me to the +“rotboss” there, and I'll show thee all our folk and their lays, +and especially “the lossners,” “the dutzers,” “the schleppers,” “the +gickisses,” “the schwanfelders, whom in England we call “shivering +Jemmies,” “the suntvegers,” “the schwiegers,” “the joners,” “the +sesseldegers,” “the gensscherers,” in France “marcandiers or rifodes,” + “the veranerins,” “the stabulers,” with a few foreigners like ourselves, +such as “pietres,” “francmitoux,” “polissons” “malingreux,” “traters,” + “rufflers,” “whipjalks,” “dommerars,” “glymmerars,” “jarkmen,” + “patricos,” “swadders,” “autem morts,” “walking morts” 'Enow,' cried I, +stopping him, 'art as gleesome as the Evil One a counting of his imps. +I'll jot down in my tablet all these caitiffs and their accursed names: +for knowledge is knowledge. But go among them, alive or dead, that will +I not with my good will. Moreover,' said I, 'what need? since I have a +companion in thee who is all the knaves on earth in one?' and thought to +abash him but his face shone with pride, and hand on breast he did bow +low to me. 'If thy wit be scant, good Bon Bec, thy manners are a charm. +I have made a good bargain.' So he to the 'rotboss,' and I to a decent +inn, and sketched the landlord's daughter by candle-light, and started +at morn batzen three the richer, but could not find my master, so +loitered slowly on, and presently met him coming west for me, and +cursing the quiens. Why so? Because he could blind the culls but not +the quiens. At last I prevailed on him to leave cursing and canting, +and tell me his adventure. Said he, 'I sat outside the gate of yon +monastery, full of sores, which I sho'ed the passers-by. Oh, Bon Bec, +beautifuller sores you never saw; and it rained coppers in my hat. +Presently the monks came home from some procession, and the convent dogs +ran out to meet them, curse the quiens!' 'What, did they fall on thee +and bite thee, poor soul?' 'Worse, worse, dear Bon Bec. Had they +bitten me I had earned silver. But the great idiots, being, as I think, +puppies, or little better, fell on me where I sat, downed me, and fell +a licking my sores among them. As thou, false knave, didst swear the +whelps in heaven licked the sores of Lazybones, a beggar of old.' 'Nay, +nay,' said I, 'I said no such thing. But tell me, since they bit thee +not, but sportfully licked thee, what harm?' 'What harm, noodle; why, +the sores came off.' 'How could that be?' 'How could aught else be? and +them just fresh put on. Did I think he was so weak as bite holes in his +flesh with ratsbane? Nay, he was an artist, a painter, like his servant, +and had put on sores made of pig's blood, rye meal, and glue. So when +the folk saw my sores go on tongues of puppies, they laughed, and I +saw cord or sack before me. So up I jumped, and shouted, “A miracle a +miracle! The very dogs of this holy convent be holy, and have cured me. +Good fathers,” cried I, “whose day is this?” “St. Isidore's,” said one. +“St. Isidore,” cried I, in a sort of rapture. “Why, St. Isidore is +my patron saint: so that accounts.” And the simple folk swallowed my +miracle as those accursed quiens my wounds. But the monks took me inside +and shut the gate, and put their heads together; but I have a quick ear, +and one did say, “Caret miraculo monasterium,” which is Greek patter, +leastways it is no beggar's cant. Finally they bade the lay brethren +give me a hiding, and take me out a back way and put me on the road, and +threatened me did I come back to the town to hand me to the magistrate +and have me drowned for a plain impostor. “Profit now by the Church's +grace,” said they, “and mend thy ways.” So forward, Bon Bec, for my life +is not sure nigh hand this town.' As we went he worked his shoulders, +'Wow but the brethren laid on. And what means yon piece of monk's cant, +I wonder?' So I told him the words meant 'the monastery is in want of a +miracle,' but the application thereof was dark to me. 'Dark,' cried +he, 'dark as noon. Why, it means they are going to work the miracle, +my miracle, and gather all the grain I sowed. Therefore these blows on +their benefactor's shoulders; therefore is he that wrought their scurry +miracle driven forth with stripes and threats. Oh, cozening knaves!' +Said I, 'Becomes you to complain of guile.' 'Alas, Bon Bec,' said he, 'I +but outwit the simple, but these monks would pluck Lucifer of his +wing feathers.' And went a league bemoaning himself that he was not +convent-bred like his servant 'He would put it to more profit;' and +railing on quiens. 'And as for those monks, there was one Above.' +'Certes,' said I, 'there is one Above. What then?' 'Who will call those +shavelings to compt, one day,' quoth he. 'And all deceitful men' said +I. At one that afternoon I got armories to paint: so my master took the +yellow jaundice and went begging through the town, and with his oily +tongue, and saffron-water face, did fill his hat. Now in all the towns +are certain licensed beggars, and one of these was an old favourite +with the townsfolk: had his station at St. Martin's porch, the greatest +church: a blind man: they called him blind Hans. He saw my master +drawing coppers on the other side the street, and knew him by his tricks +for an impostor, so sent and warned the constables, and I met my master +in the constables' hands, and going to his trial in the town hall. I +followed and many more; and he was none abashed, neither by the pomp +of justice, nor memory of his misdeeds, but demanded his accuser like a +trumpet. And blind Hans's boy came forward, but was sifted narrowly by +my master, and stammered and faltered, and owned he had seen nothing, +but only carried blind Hans's tale to the chief constable. 'This is but +hearsay,' said my master. 'Lo ye now, here standeth Misfortune backbit +by Envy. But stand thou forth, blind Envy, and vent thine own lie.' And +blind Hans behoved to stand forth, sore against his will. Him did my +master so press with questions, and so pinch and torture, asking him +again and again, how, being blind, he could see all that befell, and +some that befell not, across a way; and why, an he could not see, he +came there holding up his perjured hand, and maligning the misfortunate, +that at last he groaned aloud and would utter no word more. And an +alderman said, 'In sooth, Hans, ye are to blame; hast cast more dirt of +suspicion on thyself than on him.' But the burgomaster, a wondrous fat +man, and methinks of his fat some had gotten into his head, checked him, +and said, 'Nay, Hans we know this many years, and be he blind or not, +he hath passed for blind so long, 'tis all one. Back to thy porch, good +Hans, and let the strange varlet leave the town incontinent on pain of +whipping.' Then my master winked to me; but there rose a civic officer +in his gown of state and golden chain, a Dignity with us lightly prized, +and even shunned of some, but in Germany and France much courted, save +by condemned malefactors, to wit the hangman; and says he, 'Ant please +you, first let us see why he weareth his hair so thick and low.' And his +man went and lifted Cul de Jatte's hair, and lo, the upper gristle of +both ears was gone. 'How is this knave? quoth the burgomaster. My +master said carelessly, he minded not precisely: his had been a life of +misfortunes and losses. When a poor soul has lost the use of his leg, +noble sirs, these more trivial woes rest lightly in his memory.' When +he found this would not serve his turn, he named two famous battles, +in each of which he had lost half an ear, a fighting like a true man +against traitors and rebels. But the hangman showed them the two cuts +were made at one time, and by measurement. ''Tis no bungling soldiers' +work, my masters,' said he, ''tis ourn.' Then the burgomaster gave +judgment: 'The present charge is not proven against thee; but, an thou +beest not guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears. +Wherefore I send thee to prison for one month, and to give a florin +towards the new hall of the guilds now a building, and to be whipt +out of the town, and pay the hangman's fee for the same.' And all the +aldermen approved, and my master was haled to prison with one look of +anguish. It did strike my bosom. I tried to get speech of him, but the +jailer denied me. But lingering near the jail I heard a whistle, and +there was Cul de Jatte at a narrow window twenty feet from earth. I went +under, and he asked me what made I there? I told him I was loath to go +forward and not bid him farewell. He seemed quite amazed; but soon his +suspicious soul got the better. That was not all mine errand. I told him +not all: the psaltery: 'Well, what of that?' 'Twas not mine, but his; I +would pay him the price of it. 'Then throw me a rix dollar,' said he. +I counted out my coins, and they came to a rix dollar and two batzen. +I threw him up his money in three throws, and when he had got it all +he said, softly, 'Bon Bec.' 'Master,' said I. Then the poor rogue was +greatly moved. 'I thought ye had been mocking me,' said he; 'oh, Bon +Bec, Bon Bec, if I had found the world like thee at starting I had put +my wit to better use, and I had not lain here.' Then he whimpered out, +'I gave not quite a rix dollar for the jingler;' and threw me back that +he had gone to cheat me of; honest for once, and over late; and so, with +many sighs, bade me Godspeed. Thus did my master, after often baffling +men's justice, fall by their injustice; for his lost ears proved not his +guilt only, but of that guilt the bitter punishment: so the account was +even; yet they for his chastisement did chastise him. Natheless he was a +parlous rogue. Yet he holp to make a man of me. Thanks to his good wit +I went forward richer far with my psaltery and brush, than with yon as +good as stolen purse; for that must have run dry in time, like a big +trough, but these a little fountain.” + +Richart. “How pregnant his reflections be; and but a curly pated lad +when last I saw him. Asking your pardon, mistress. Prithee read on.” + +“One day I walked alone, and sooth to say, lighthearted, for mine honest +Denys sweetened the air on the way; but poor Cul de Jatte poisoned +it. The next day passing a grand house, out came on prancing steeds +a gentleman in brave attire and two servants; they overtook me. The +gentleman bade me halt. I laughed in my sleeve; for a few batzen were +all my store. He bade me doff my doublet and jerkin. Then I chuckled +no more. 'Bethink you, my lord,' said I, ''tis winter. How may a poor +fellow go bare and live? So he told me I shot mine arrow wide of his +thought, and off with his own gay jerkin, richly furred, and doublet to +match, and held them forth to me. Then a servant let me know it was a +penance. 'His lordship had had the ill luck to slay his cousin in their +cups.' Down to my shoes he changed with me; and set me on his horse like +a popinjay, and fared by my side in my worn weeds, with my psaltery on +his back. And said he, 'Now, good youth, thou art Cousin Detstein; and +I, late count, thy Servant. Play the part well, and help me save my +bloodstained soul! Be haughty and choleric, as any noble; and I will be +as humble as I may.' I said I would do my best to play the noble. But +what should I call him? He bade me call him nought but Servant. That +would mortify him most, he wist. We rode on a long way in silence; for +I was meditating this strange chance, that from a beggar's servant had +made me master to a count, and also cudgelling my brains how best I +might play the master, without being run through the body all at one +time like his cousin. For I mistrusted sore my spark's humility; your +German nobles being, to my knowledge, proud as Lucifer, and choleric +as fire. As for the servants, they did slily grin to one another to see +their master so humbled.” + +“What is that?” + +A lump, as of lead, had just bounced against the door, and the latch was +fumbled with unsuccessfully. Another bounce, and the door swung inwards +with Giles arrayed in cloth of gold sticking to it like a wasp. He +landed on the floor, and was embraced; but on learning what was going +on, trumpeted that he would much liever hear of Gerard than gossip. + +Sybrandt pointed to a diminutive chair. + +Giles showed his sense of this civility by tearing the said Sybrandt +out of a very big one, and there ensconced himself gorgeous and glowing. +Sybrandt had to wedge himself into the one, which was too small for the +magnificent dwarf's soul, and Margaret resumed. But as this part of the +letter was occupied with notices of places, all which my reader probably +knows, and if not, can find handled at large in a dozen well-known +books, from Munster to Murray, I skip the topography, and hasten to that +part where it occurred to him to throw his letter into a journal. The +personal narrative that intervened may be thus condensed. + +He spoke but little at first to his new companions, but listened to pick +up their characters. Neither his noble Servant nor his servants could +read or write; and as he often made entries in his tablets, he impressed +them with some awe. One of his entries was, “Le peu que sont les +hommes.” For he found the surly innkeepers licked the very ground +before him now; nor did a soul suspect the hosier's son in the count's +feathers, nor the count in the minstrel's weeds. + +This seems to have surprised him; for he enlarged on it with the naivete +and pomposity of youth. At one place, being humbly requested to present +the inn with his armorial bearings, he consented loftily; but painted +them himself, to mine host's wonder, who thought he lowered himself +by handling brush. The true count stood grinning by, and held the +paint-pot, while the sham count painted the shield with three +red herrings rampant under a sort of Maltese cross made with two +ell-measures. At first his plebeian servants were insolent. But this +coming to the notice of his noble one, he forgot what he was doing +penance for, and drew his sword to cut off their ears, heads included. +But Gerard interposed and saved them, and rebuked the count severely. +And finally they all understood one another, and the superior mind +obtained its natural influence. He played the barbarous noble of that +day vilely. For his heart would not let him be either tyrannical or +cold. Here were three human beings. He tried to make them all happier +than he was; held them ravished with stories and songs, and set Herr +Penitent and Co. dancing with his whistle and psaltery. For his own +convenience he made them ride and tie, and thus pushed rapidly through +the country, travelling generally fifteen leagues a day. + + +DIARY. + +“This first day of January I observed a young man of the country to meet +a strange maiden, and kissed his hand, and then held it out to her. She +took it with a smile, and lo! acquaintance made; and babbled like old +friends. Greeting so pretty and delicate I ne'er did see. Yet were they +both of the baser sort. So the next lass I saw a coming, I said to my +servant lord, 'For further penance bow thy pride; go meet yon base-born +girl; kiss thy homicidal hand, and give it her, and hold her in +discourse as best ye may.' And my noble Servant said humbly, 'I shall +obey my lord.' And we drew rein and watched while he went forward, +kissed his hand and held it out to her. Forthwith she took it smiling, +and was most affable with him, and he with her. Presently came up a band +of her companions. So this time I bade him doff his bonnet to them, as +though they were empresses; and he did so. And lo! the lasses drew up as +stiff as hedgestakes, and moved not nor spake.” + +Denys. “Aie! aie! aie Pardon, the company.” + +“This surprised me none; for so they did discountenance poor Denys. And +that whole day I wore in experimenting these German lasses; and 'twas +still the same. An ye doff bonnet to them they stiffen into statues; +distance for distance. But accost them with honest freedom, and with +that customary, and though rustical, most gracious proffer, of the +kissed hand, and they withhold neither their hands in turn nor their +acquaintance in an honest way. Seeing which I vexed myself that Denys +was not with us to prattle with them; he is so fond of women.” (“Are you +fond of women, Denys?”) And the reader opened two great violet eyes upon +him with gentle surprise. + +Denys. “Ahem! he says so, she-comrade. By Hannibal's helmet, 'tis their +fault, not mine. They will have such soft voices, and white skins, and +sunny hair, and dark blue eyes, and--” + +Margaret. (Reading suddenly.) “Which their affability I put to profit +thus. I asked them how they made shift to grow roses in yule? For know, +dear Margaret, that throughout Germany, the baser sort of lasses wear +for head-dress nought but a 'crantz,' or wreath of roses, encircling +their bare hair, as laurel Caesar's; and though of the worshipful, +scorned, yet is braver, I wist, to your eye and mine which painters be, +though sorry ones, than the gorgeous, uncouth, mechanical head-gear of +the time, and adorns, not hides her hair, that goodly ornament fitted +to her head by craft divine. So the good lasses, being questioned close, +did let me know, the rosebuds are cut in summer and laid then in great +clay-pots, thus ordered:--first bay salt, then a row of buds, and over +that row bay salt sprinkled; then, another row of buds placed crosswise; +for they say it is death to the buds to touch one another; and so on, +buds and salt in layers. Then each pot is covered and soldered tight, +and kept in cool cellar. And on Saturday night the master of the house, +or mistress, if master be none, opens a pot, and doles the rosebuds out +to every female in the house, high or low, withouten grudge; then +solders it up again. And such as of these buds would full-blown roses +make, put them in warm water a little space, or else in the stove, and +then with tiny brush and soft, wetted in Rhenish wine, do coax them till +they ope their folds. And some perfume them with rose-water. For, alack, +their smell it is fled with the summer; and only their fair bodyes lie +withouten soul, in tomb of clay, awaiting resurrection. + +“And some with the roses and buds mix nutmegs gilded, but not by my good +will; for gold, brave in itself, cheek by jowl with roses, is but yellow +earth. And it does the eye's heart good to see these fair heads of hair +come, blooming with roses, over snowy roads, and by snow-capt hedges, +setting winter's beauty by the side of summer's glory. For what so +fair as winter's lilies, snow yclept, and what so brave as roses? And +shouldst have had a picture here, but for their superstition. Leaned a +lass in Sunday garb, cross ankled, against her cottage corner, whose +low roof was snow-clad, and with her crantz did seem a summer flower +sprouting from winter's bosom. I drew rein, and out pencil and brush to +limn her for thee. But the simpleton, fearing the evil eye, or glamour, +claps both hands to her face and flies panic-stricken. But indeed, they +are not more superstitious than the Sevenbergen folk, which take thy +father for a magician. Yet softly, sith at this moment I profit by +this darkness of their minds; for, at first, sitting down to write this +diary, I could frame nor thought nor word, so harried and deaved was I +with noise of mechanical persons, and hoarse laughter at dull jests of +one of these particoloured 'fools,' which are so rife in Germany. But +oh, sorry wit, that is driven to the poor resource of pointed ear-caps, +and a green and yellow body. True wit, methinks, is of the mind. We +met in Burgundy an honest wench, though over free for my palate, a +chambermaid, had made havoc of all these zanies, droll by brute force. +Oh, Digressor! Well then, I to be rid of roaring rusticalls, and +mindless jests, put my finger in a glass and drew on the table a great +watery circle; whereat the rusticalls did look askant, like venison at +a cat; and in that circle a smaller circle. The rusticalls held their +peace; and besides these circles cabalistical, I laid down on the table +solemnly yon parchment deed I had out of your house. The rusticalls held +their breath. Then did I look as glum as might be, and muttered +slowly thus 'Videamus--quam diu tu fictus morio--vosque veri +stulti--audebitis--in hac aula morari, strepitantes ita--et olentes: ut +dulcissimae nequeam miser scribere.' They shook like aspens, and stole +away on tiptoe one by one at first, then in a rush and jostling, and +left me alone; and most scared of all was the fool: never earned jester +fairer his ass's ears. So rubbed I their foible, who first rubbed mine; +for of all a traveller's foes I dread those giants twain, Sir Noise, and +eke Sir Stench. The saints and martyrs forgive my peevishness. Thus I +write to thee in balmy peace, and tell thee trivial things scarce worthy +ink, also how I love thee, which there was no need to tell, for well +thou knowest it. And oh, dear Margaret, looking on their roses, which +grew in summer, but blow in winter, I see the picture of our true +affection; born it was in smiles and bliss, but soon adversity beset +us sore with many a bitter blast. Yet our love hath lost no leaf, thank +God, but blossoms full and fair as ever, proof against frowns, and +jibes, and prison, and banishment, as those sweet German flowers a +blooming in winter's snow. + +“January 2.--My servant, the count, finding me curious, took me to the +stables of the prince that rules this part. In the first court was a +horse-bath, adorned with twenty-two pillars, graven with the prince's +arms; and also the horse-leech's shop, so furnished as a rich apothecary +might envy. The stable is a fair quadrangle, whereof three sides filled +with horses of all nations. Before each horse's nose was a glazed +window, with a green curtain to be drawn at pleasure, and at his tail a +thick wooden pillar with a brazen shield, whence by turning of a pipe he +is watered, and serves too for a cupboard to keep his comb and rubbing +clothes. Each rack was iron, and each manger shining copper, and each +nag covered with a scarlet mantle, and above him his bridle and saddle +hung, ready to gallop forth in a minute; and not less than two hundred +horses, whereof twelve score of foreign breed. And we returned to our +inn full of admiration, and the two varlets said sorrowfully, 'Why were +we born with two legs?' And one of the grooms that was civil and had of +me trinkgeld, stood now at his cottage-door and asked us in. There we +found his wife and children of all ages, from five to eighteen, and had +but one room to bide and sleep in, a thing pestiferous and most uncivil. +Then I asked my Servant, knew he this prince? Ay, did he, and had often +drunk with him in a marble chamber above the stable, where, for table, +was a curious and artificial rock, and the drinking vessels hang on its +pinnacles, and at the hottest of the engagement a statue of a horseman +in bronze came forth bearing a bowl of liquor, and he that sat nearest +behoved to drain it. ''Tis well,' said I: 'now for thy penance, whisper +thou in yon prince's ear, that God hath given him his people freely, and +not sought a price for them as for horses. And pray him look inside the +huts at his horse-palace door, and bethink himself is it well to house +his horses, and stable his folk.' Said he, ''Twill give sore offence.' +'But,' said I, 'ye must do it discreetly and choose your time.' So he +promised. And riding on we heard plaintive cries. 'Alas,' said I, 'some +sore mischance hath befallen some poor soul: what may it be?' And we +rode up, and lo! it was a wedding feast, and the guests were plying the +business of drinking sad and silent, but ever and anon cried loud and +dolefully, 'Seyte frolich! Be merry.' + +“January 3.--Yesterday between Nurnberg and Augsburg we parted company. +I gave my lord, late Servant, back his brave clothes for mine, but his +horse he made me keep, and five gold pieces, and said he was still my +debtor, his penance it had been slight along of me, but profitable. But +his best word was this: 'I see 'tis more noble to be loved than feared.' +And then he did so praise me as I blushed to put on paper; yet, poor +fool, would fain thou couldst hear his words, but from some other pen +than mine. And the servants did heartily grasp my hand, and wish me good +luck. And riding apace, yet could I not reach Augsburg till the +gates were closed; but it mattered little, for this Augsburg it is +an enchanted city. For a small coin one took me a long way round to +a famous postern called der Einlasse. Here stood two guardians, like +statues. To them I gave my name and business. They nodded me leave to +knock; I knocked; and the iron gate opened with a great noise and hollow +rattling of a chain, but no hand seen nor chain; and he who drew the +hidden chain sits a butt's length from the gate; and I rode in, and the +gate closed with a clang after me. I found myself in a great building +with a bridge at my feet. This I rode over and presently came to a +porter's lodge, where one asked me again my name and business, then rang +a bell, and a great portcullis that barred the way began to rise, drawn +by a wheel overhead, and no hand seen. Behind the portcullis was a thick +oaken door studded with steel. It opened without hand, and I rode into a +hall as dark as pitch. Trembling there a while, a door opened and showed +me a smaller hall lighted. I rode into it: a tin goblet came down from +the ceiling by a little chain: I put two batzen into it, and it went +up again. Being gone, another thick door creaked and opened, and I +rid through. It closed on me with a tremendous clang, and behold me in +Augsburg city. I lay at an inn called 'The Three Moors,' over an hundred +years old; and this morning, according to my way of viewing towns to +learn their compass and shape, I mounted the highest tower I could +find, and setting my dial at my foot surveyed the beautiful city: whole +streets of palaces and churches tiled with copper burnished like gold; +and the house fronts gaily painted and all glazed, and the glass so +clean and burnished as 'tis most resplendent and rare; and I, now first +seeing a great city, did crow with delight, and like cock on his ladder, +and at the tower foot was taken into custody for a spy; for whilst I +watched the city the watchman had watched me. The burgomaster received +me courteously and heard my story; then rebuked he the officers. 'Could +ye not question him yourselves, or read in his face? This is to make our +city stink in strangers' report.' Then he told me my curiosity was of a +commendable sort; and seeing I was a craftsman and inquisitive, bade +his clerk take me among the guilds. God bless the city where the very +burgomaster is cut of Soloman's cloth! + +“January 5.--Dear Margaret, it is a noble city, and a kind mother to +arts. Here they cut in wood and ivory, that 'tis like spider's work, and +paint on glass, and sing angelical harmonies. Writing of books is quite +gone by; here be six printers. Yet was I offered a bountiful wage to +write fairly a merchant's accounts, one Fugger, a grand and wealthy +trader, and hath store of ships, yet his father was but a poor weaver. +But here in commerce, her very garden, men swell like mushrooms. And he +bought my horse of me, and abated me not a jot, which way of dealing is +not known in Holland. But oh, Margaret, the workmen of all the guilds +are so kind and brotherly to one another, and to me. Here, methinks, +I have found the true German mind, loyal, frank, and kindly, somewhat +choleric withal, but nought revengeful. Each mechanic wears a sword. The +very weavers at the loom sit girded with their weapons, and all Germans +on too slight occasion draw them and fight; but no treachery: challenge +first, then draw, and with the edge only, mostly the face, not with Sir +Point; for if in these combats one thrust at his adversary and hurt him, +'tis called ein schelemstucke, a heinous act, both men and women turn +their backs on him; and even the judges punish thrusts bitterly, but +pass over cuts. Hence in Germany be good store of scarred faces, three +in five at least, and in France scarce more than one in three. + +“But in arts mechanical no citizens may compare with these. Fountains +in every street that play to heaven, and in the gardens seeming trees, +which being approached, one standing afar touches a spring, and +every twig shoots water, and souses the guests to their host's much +delectation. Big culverins of war they cast with no more ado than our +folk horse-shoes, and have done this fourscore years. All stuffs they +weave, and linen fine as ours at home, or nearly, which elsewhere +in Europe vainly shall ye seek. Sir Printing Press--sore foe to poor +Gerard, but to other humans beneficial--plieth by night and day, and +casteth goodly words like sower afield; while I, poor fool, can but sow +them as I saw women in France sow rye, dribbling it in the furrow grain +by grain. And of their strange mechanical skill take two examples. For +ending of exemplary rogues they have a figure like a woman, seven feet +high, and called Jung Frau; but lo, a spring is touched, she seizeth the +poor wretch with iron arms, and opening herself, hales him inside +her, and there pierces him through and through with two score lances. +Secondly, in all great houses the spit is turned not by a scrubby boy, +but by smoke. Ay, mayst well admire, and judge me a lying knave. These +cunning Germans do set in the chimney a little windmill, and the smoke +struggling to wend past, turns it, and from the mill a wire runs through +the wall and turns the spit on wheels; beholding which I doffed my +bonnet to the men of Augsburg, for who but these had ere devised to bind +ye so dark and subtle a knave as Sir Smoke, and set him to roast Dame +Pullet? + +“This day, January 8, with three craftsmen of the town, I painted a pack +of cards. They were for a senator, in a hurry. I the diamonds. My queen +came forth with eyes like spring violets, hair a golden brown, and +witching smile. My fellow-craftsmen saw her, and put their arms round +my neck and hailed me master. Oh, noble Germans! No jealousy of a +brother-workman: no sour looks at a stranger; and would have me spend +Sunday with them after matins; and the merchant paid me so richly as I +was ashamed to take the guerdon; and I to my inn, and tried to paint +the queen of diamonds for poor Gerard; but no, she would not come like +again. Luck will not be bespoke. Oh, happy rich man that hath got her! +Fie! fie! Happy Gerard that shall have herself one day, and keep house +with her at Augsburg. + +“January 8.--With my fellows, and one Veit Stoss, a wood-carver, and +one Hafnagel, of the goldsmiths' guild, and their wives and lasses, +to Hafnagel's cousin, a senator of this free city, and his stupendous +wine-vessel. It is ribbed like a ship, and hath been eighteen months in +hand, and finished but now, and holds a hundred and fifty hogsheads, and +standeth not, but lieth; yet even so ye get not on his back, withouten +ladders two, of thirty steps. And we sat about the miraculous mass, and +drank Rhenish from it, drawn by a little artificial pump, and the lasses +pinned their crantzes to it, and we danced round it, and the senator +danced on its back, but with drinking of so many garausses, lost his +footing and fell off, glass in hand, and broke an arm and a leg in the +midst of us. So scurvily ended our drinking bout for this time. + +“January 10.--This day started for Venice with a company of merchants, +and among them him who had desired me for his scrivener; and so we are +now agreed, I to write at night the letters he shall dict, and other +matters, he to feed and lodge me on the road. We be many and armed, and +soldiers with us to boot, so fear not the thieves which men say lie on +the borders of Italy. But an if I find the printing press at Venice, I +trow I shall not go unto Rome, for man may not vie with iron. + +“Imprimit una dies quantum non scribitur anno. And, dearest, something +tells me you and I shall end our days at Augsburg, whence going, I shall +leave it all I can--my blessing. + +“January 12.--My master affecteth me much, and now maketh me sit with +him in his horse-litter. A grave good man, of all respected, but sad +for loss of a dear daughter, and loveth my psaltery: not giddy-faced +ditties, but holy harmonies such as Cul de Jatte made wry mouths at. So +many men, so many minds. But cooped in horse-litter and at night writing +his letters, my journal halteth. + +“January 14.--When not attending on my good merchant, I consort with +such of our company as are Italians, for 'tis to Italy I wend, and I +am ill seen in Italian tongue. A courteous and a subtle people, at meat +delicate feeders and cleanly: love not to put their left hand in the +dish. They say Venice is the garden of Lombardy, Lombardy the garden of +Italy, Italy of the world. + +“January 16.-Strong ways and steep, and the mountain girls so girded up, +as from their armpits to their waist is but a handful. Of all the garbs +I yet have seen, the most unlovely. + +“January 18.-In the midst of life we are in death. Oh! dear Margaret, +I thought I had lost thee. Here I lie in pain and dole, and shall +write thee that, which read you it in a romance ye should cry, 'Most +improbable!' And so still wondering that I am alive to write it, and +thanking for it God and the saints, this is what befell thy Gerard. +Yestreen I wearied of being shut up in litter, and of the mule's slow +pace, and so went forward; and being, I know not why, strangely full +of spirit and hope, as I have heard befall some men when on trouble's +brink, seemed to tread on air, and soon distanced them all. Presently I +came to two roads, and took the larger; I should have taken the smaller. +After travelling a good half-hour, I found my error, and returned; and +deeming my company had long passed by, pushed bravely on, but I could +not overtake them; and small wonder, as you shall hear. Then I was +anxious, and ran, but bare was the road of those I sought; and night +came down, and the wild beasts a-foot, and I bemoaned my folly; also I +was hungered. The moon rose clear and bright exceedingly, and presently +a little way off the road I saw a tall windmill. 'Come,' said I, 'mayhap +the miller will take ruth on me.' Near the mill was a haystack, and +scattered about were store of little barrels; but lo they were not +flour-barrels, but tar-barrels, one or two, and the rest of spirits, +Brant vein and Schiedam; I knew them momently, having seen the like in +Holland. I knocked at the mill-door, but none answered. I lifted the +latch, and the door opened inwards. I went in, and gladly, for the night +was fine but cold, and a rime on the trees, which were a kind of lofty +sycamores. There was a stove, but black; I lighted it with some of the +hay and wood, for there was a great pile of wood outside, and I know +not how, I went to sleep. Not long had I slept, I trow, when hearing a +noise, I awoke; and there were a dozen men around me, with wild faces, +and long black hair, and black sparkling eyes.” + +Catherine. “Oh, my poor boy! those black-haired ones do still scare me +to look on.” + +“I made my excuses in such Italian as I knew, and eking out by +signs. They grinned. 'I had lost my company.' They grinned. 'I was an +hungered.' Still they grinned, and spoke to one another in a tongue I +knew not. At last one gave me a piece of bread and a tin mug of wine, +as I thought, but it was spirits neat. I made a wry face and asked for +water: then these wild men laughed a horrible laugh. I thought to fly, +but looking towards the door it was bolted with two enormous bolts of +iron, and now first, as I ate my bread, I saw it was all guarded too, +and ribbed with iron. My blood curdled within me, and yet I could +not tell thee why; but hadst thou seen the faces, wild, stupid, and +ruthless. I mumbled my bread, not to let them see I feared them; but oh, +it cost me to swallow it and keep it in me. Then it whirled in my brain, +was there no way to escape? Said I, 'They will not let me forth by +the door; these be smugglers or robbers.' So I feigned drowsiness, and +taking out two batzen said, 'Good men, for our Lady's grace let me lie +on a bed and sleep, for I am faint with travel.' They nodded and grinned +their horrible grin, and bade one light a lanthorn and lead me. He took +me up a winding staircase, up, up, and I saw no windows, but the wooden +walls were pierced like a barbican tower, and methinks for the same +purpose, and through these slits I got glimpses of the sky, and thought, +'Shall I e'er see thee again?' He took me to the very top of the mill, +and there was a room with a heap of straw in one corner and many empty +barrels, and by the wall a truckle bed. He pointed to it, and went +downstairs heavily, taking the light, for in this room was a great +window, and the moon came in bright. I looked out to see, and lo, it +was so high that even the mill sails at their highest came not up to my +window by some feet, but turned very slow and stately underneath, for +wind there was scarce a breath; and the trees seemed silver filagree +made by angel craftsmen. My hope of flight was gone. + +“But now, those wild faces being out of sight, I smiled at my fears: +what an if they were ill men, would it profit them to hurt me? +Natheless, for caution against surprise, I would put the bed against the +door. I went to move it, but could not. It was free at the head, but at +the foot fast clamped with iron to the floor. So I flung my psaltery on +the bed, but for myself made a layer of straw at the door, so as none +could open on me unawares. And I laid my sword ready to my hand. And +said my prayers for thee and me, and turned to sleep. + +“Below they drank and made merry. And hearing this gave me confidence. +Said I, 'Out of sight, out of mind. Another hour and the good Schiedam +will make them forget that I am here.' And so I composed myself to +sleep. And for some time could not for the boisterous mirth below. +At last I dropped off. How long I slept I knew not; but I woke with a +start: the noise had ceased below, and the sudden silence woke me. And +scarce was I awake, when sudden the truckle bed was gone with a loud +clang all but the feet, and the floor yawned, and I heard my psaltery +fall and break to atoms, deep, deep, below the very floor of the mill. +It had fallen into a well. And so had I done, lying where it lay.” + +Margaret shuddered and put her face in her hands. But speedily resumed. + +“I lay stupefied at first. Then horror fell on me, and I rose, but stood +rooted there, shaking from head to foot. At last I found myself looking +down into that fearsome gap, and my very hair did bristle as I peered. +And then, I remember, I turned quite calm, and made up my mind to die +sword in hand. For I saw no man must know this their bloody secret and +live. And I said, 'Poor Margaret!' And I took out of my bosom, where +they lie ever, our marriage lines, and kissed them again and again. And +I pinned them to my shirt again, that they might lie in one grave with +me, if die I must. And I thought, 'All our love and hopes to end thus!'” + +Eli. “Whisht all! Their marriage lines? Give her time! But no word. I +can bear no chat. My poor lad!” + +During the long pause that ensued Catherine leaned forward and passed +something adroitly from her own lap under her daughter's apron who sat +next her. + +“Presently thinking, all in a whirl, of all that ever passed between us, +and taking leave of all those pleasant hours, I called to mind how one +day at Sevenbergen thou taughtest me to make a rope of straw. Mindest +thou? The moment memory brought that happy day back to me, I cried out +very loud: 'Margaret gives me a chance for life even here.' I woke from +my lethargy. I seized on the straw and twisted it eagerly, as thou didst +teach me, but my fingers trembled and delayed the task. Whiles I wrought +I heard a door open below. That was a terrible moment. Even as I twisted +my rope I got to the window and looked down at the great arms of the +mill coming slowly up, then passing, then turning less slowly down, as +it seemed; and I thought, 'They go not as when there is wind: yet, slow +or fast, what man rid ever on such steed as these, and lived. Yet,' said +I, 'better trust to them and God than to ill men.' And I prayed to Him +whom even the wind obeyeth. + +“Dear Margaret, I fastened my rope, and let myself gently down, and +fixed my eye on that huge arm of the mill, which then was creeping up +to me, and went to spring on to it. But my heart failed me at the pinch. +And methought it was not near enow. And it passed calm and awful by. I +watched for another; they were three. And after a little while one crept +up slower than the rest methought. And I with my foot thrust myself in +good time somewhat out from the wall, and crying aloud 'Margaret!' did +grip with all my soul the wood-work of the sail, and that moment was +swimming in the air.” + +Giles. “WELL DONE! WELL DONE!” + +“Motion I felt little; but the stars seemed to go round the sky, and then +the grass came up to me nearer and nearer, and when the hoary grass was +quite close I was sent rolling along it as if hurled from a catapult, +and got up breathless, and every point and tie about me broken. I rose, +but fell down again in agony. I had but one leg I could stand on.” + +Catherine. “Eh! dear! his leg is broke, my boy's leg is broke.” + +“And e'en as I lay groaning, I heard a sound like thunder. It was the +assassins running up the stairs. The crazy old mill shook under them. +They must have found that I had not fallen into their bloody trap, and +were running to despatch me. Margaret, I felt no fear, for I had now +no hope. I could neither run nor hide; so wild the place, so bright the +moon. I struggled up all agony and revenge, more like some wounded wild +beast than your Gerard. Leaning on my sword hilt I hobbled round; and +swift as lighting, or vengeance, I heaped a great pile of their hay +and wood at the mill door; then drove my dagger into a barrel of their +smuggled spirits, and flung it on; then out with my tinder and lighted +the pile. 'This will bring true men round my dead body,' said I. +'Aha!' I cried, 'think you I'll die alone, cowards, assassins! reckless +fiends!' and at each word on went a barrel pierced. But oh, Margaret! +the fire fed by the spirits surprised me: it shot up and singed my +very hair, it went roaring up the side of the mill, swift as falls +the lightning; and I yelled and laughed in my torture and despair, and +pierced more barrels and the very tar-barrels, and flung them on. The +fire roared like a lion for its prey, and voices answered it inside from +the top of the mill, and the feet came thundering down, and I stood +as near that awful fire as I could, with uplifted sword to slay and +be slain. The bolt was drawn. A tar-barrel caught fire. The door was +opened. What followed? Not the men came out, but the fire rushed in +at them like a living death, and the first I thought to fight with was +blackened and crumpled on the floor like a leaf. One fearsome yell, and +dumb for ever. The feet ran up again, but fewer. I heard them hack with +their swords a little way up at the mill's wooden sides; but they had +no time to hew their way out: the fire and reek were at their heels, and +the smoke burst out at every loophole, and oozed blue in the moonlight +through each crevice. I hobbled back, racked with pain and fury. There +were white faces up at my window. They saw me. They cursed me. I cursed +them back and shook my naked sword: 'Come down the road I came,' I +cried. 'But ye must come one by one, and as ye come, ye die upon this +steel.' Some cursed at that, but others wailed. For I had them all at +deadly vantage. And doubtless, with my smoke-grimed face and fiendish +rage, I looked a demon. And now there was a steady roar inside the mill. +The flame was going up it as furnace up its chimney. The mill caught +fire. Fire glimmered through it. Tongues of flame darted through each +loophole and shot sparks and fiery flakes into the night. One of the +assassins leaped on to the sail, as I had done. In his hurry he missed +his grasp and fell at my feet, and bounded from the hard ground like +a ball, and never spoke, nor moved again. And the rest screamed like +women, and with their despair came back to me both ruth for them and +hope of life for myself. And the fire gnawed through the mill in placen, +and shot forth showers of great flat sparks like flakes of fiery snow; +and the sails caught fire one after another; and I became a man again +and staggered away terror-stricken, leaning on my sword, from the sight +of my revenge, and with great bodily pain crawled back to the road. +And, dear Margaret, the rimy trees were now all like pyramids of +golden filagree, and lace, cobweb fine, in the red firelight. Oh! most +beautiful! And a poor wretch got entangled in the burning sails, and +whirled round screaming, and lost hold at the wrong time, and hurled +like stone from mangonel high into the air; then a dull thump; it was +his carcass striking the earth. The next moment there was a loud crash. +The mill fell in on its destroyer, and a million great sparks flew up, +and the sails fell over the burning wreck, and at that a million more +sparks flew up, and the ground was strewn with burning wood and men. I +prayed God forgive me, and kneeling with my back to that fiery shambles, +I saw lights on the road; a welcome sight. It was a company coming +towards me, and scarce two furlongs off. I hobbled towards them. Ere I +had gone far I heard a swift step behind me. I turned. One had escaped; +how escaped, who can divine? His sword shone in the moonlight. I feared +him. Methought the ghosts of all those dead sat on that glittering +glaive. I put my other foot to the ground, maugre the anguish, and fled +towards the torches, moaning with pain, and shouting for aid. But what +could I do He gained on me. Behooved me turn and fight. Denys had taught +me sword play in sport. I wheeled, our swords clashed. His clothes +they smelled all singed. I cut swiftly upward with supple hand, and his +dangled bleeding at the wrist, and his sword fell; it tinkled on the +ground. I raised my sword to hew him should he stoop for't. He stood +and cursed me. He drew his dagger with his left; I opposed my point and +dared him with my eye to close. A great shout arose behind me from true +men's throats. He started. He spat at me in his rage, then gnashed his +teeth and fled blaspheming. I turned and saw torches close at hand. +Lo, they fell to dancing up and down methought, and the +next-moment-all-was-dark. I had--ah!” + +Catherine. “Here, help! water! Stand aloof, you that be men!” + +Margaret had fainted away. + + + +CHAPTER LIV + +When she recovered, her head was on Catherine's arm, and the honest half +of the family she had invaded like a foe stood round her uttering rough +homely words of encouragement, especially Giles, who roared at her that +she was not to take on like that. “Gerard was alive and well, or he +could not have writ this letter, the biggest mankind had seen as yet, +and,” as he thought, “the beautifullest, and most moving, and smallest +writ.” + +“Ay, good Master Giles,” sighed Margaret feebly, “he was alive. But how +know I what hath since befallen him? Oh, why left he Holland to go among +strangers fierce as lions? And why did I not drive him from me sooner +than part him from his own flesh and blood? Forgive me, you that are his +mother!” + +And she gently removed Catherine's arm, and made a feeble attempt to +slide off the chair on to her knees, which, after a brief struggle with +superior force, ended in her finding herself on Catherine's bosom. Then +Margaret held out the letter to Eli, and said faintly but sweetly, “I +will trust it from my hand now. In sooth, I am little fit to read any +more-and-and--loth to leave my comfort;” and she wreathed her other arm +round Catherine's neck. + +“Read thou, Richart,” said Eli: “thine eyes be younger than mine.” + +Richart took the letter. “Well,” said he, “such writing saw I never. A +writeth with a needle's point; and clear to boot. Why is he not in my +counting-house at Amsterdam instead of vagabonding it out yonder!” + +“When I came to myself I was seated in the litter, and my good merchant +holding of my hand. I babbled I know not what, and then shuddered awhile +in silence. He put a horn of wine to my lips.” + +Catherine. “Bless him! bless him!” + +Eli. “Whisht!” + +“And I told him what had befallen. He would see my leg. It was sprained +sore, and swelled at the ankle; and all my points were broken, as I +could scarce keep up my hose, and I said, 'Sir, I shall be but a burden +to you, I doubt, and can make you no harmony now; my poor psaltery it +is broken;' and I did grieve over my broken music, companion of so many +weary leagues. But he patted me on the cheek, and bade me not fret; also +he did put up my leg on a pillow, and tended me like a kind father. + +“January 19.--I sit all day in the litter, for we are pushing forward +with haste, and at night the good, kind merchant sendeth me to bed, and +will not let me work. Strange! whene'er I fall in with men like fiends, +then the next moment God still sendeth me some good man or woman, lest I +should turn away from human kind. Oh, Margaret! how strangely mixed they +be, and how old I am by what I was three months agone. And lo! if good +Master Fugger hath not been and bought me a psaltery.” + +Catherine. “Eli, my man, an yon merchant comes our way let us buy a +hundred ells of cloth of him, and not higgle.” + +Eli. “That will I, take your oath on't!” + +While Richart prepared to read, Kate looked at her mother, and with a +faint blush drew out the piece of work from under her apron, and sewed +with head depressed a little more than necessary. On this her mother +drew a piece of work out of her pocket, and sewed too, while Richart +read. Both the specimens these sweet surreptitious creatures now first +exposed to observation were babies' caps, and more than half finished, +which told a tale. Horror! they were like little monks' cowls in shape +and delicacy. + +“January 20.--Laid up in the litter, and as good as blind, but halting +to bait, Lombardy plains burst on me. Oh, Margaret! a land flowing +with milk and honey; all sloping plains, goodly rivers, jocund meadows, +delectable orchards, and blooming gardens; and though winter, looks +warmer than poor beloved Holland at midsummer, and makes the wanderer's +face to shine, and his heart to leap for joy to see earth so kind and +smiling. Here be vines, cedars, olives, and cattle plenty, but three +goats to a sheep. The draught oxen wear white linen on their necks, and +standing by dark green olive-trees each one is a picture; and the folk, +especially women, wear delicate strawen hats with flowers and leaves +fairly imitated in silk, with silver mixed. This day we crossed a river +prettily in a chained ferry-boat. On either bank was a windlass, and a +single man by turning of it drew our whole company to his shore, whereat +I did admire, being a stranger. Passed over with us some country folk. +And an old woman looking at a young wench, she did hide her face with +her hand, and held her crucifix out like knight his sword in tourney +dreading the evil eye. + +“January 25.--Safe at Venice. A place whose strange and passing beauty +is well known to thee by report of our mariners. Dost mind too how Peter +would oft fill our ears withal, we handed beneath the table, and he +still discoursing of this sea-enthroned and peerless city, in shape a +bow, and its great canal and palaces on piles, and its watery ways plied +by scores of gilded boats; and that market-place of nations, orbis, +non urbis, forum, St. Mark, his place? And his statue with the peerless +jewels in his eyes, and the lion at his gate? But I, lying at my window +in pain, may see none of these beauties as yet, but only a street, +fairly paved, which is dull, and houses with oiled paper and linen, +in lieu of glass, which is rude; and the passers-by, their habits and +their gestures, wherein they are superfluous. Therefore, not to miss my +daily comfort of whispering to thee, I will e'en turn mine eyes inward, +and bind my sheaves of wisdom reaped by travel. For I love thee so, that +no treasure pleases me not shared with thee; and what treasure so good +and enduring as knowledge? This then have I, Sir Footsore, learned, that +each nation hath its proper wisdom, and its proper folly; and methinks, +could a great king, or duke, tramp like me, and see with his own eyes, +he might pick the flowers, and eschew the weeds of nations, and go home +and set his own folk on Wisdom's hill. The Germans in the north were +churlish, but frank and honest; in the south, kindly and honest too. +Their general blot is drunkenness, the which they carry even to mislike +and contempt of sober men. They say commonly, 'Kanstu niecht sauffen und +fressen so kanstu kienem hern wol dienen.' In England, the vulgar sort +drink as deep, but the worshipful hold excess in this a reproach, and +drink a health or two for courtesy, not gluttony, and still sugar the +wine. In their cups the Germans use little mirth or discourse, but ply +the business sadly, crying 'Seyte frolich!' The best of their drunken +sport is 'Kurlemurlehuff,' a way of drinking with touching deftly of the +glass, the beard, the table, in due turn, intermixed with whistlings +and snappings of the finger so curiously ordered as 'tis a labour of +Hercules, but to the beholder right pleasant and mirthful. Their topers, +by advice of German leeches, sleep with pebbles in their mouths. For, +as of a boiling pot the lid must be set ajar, so with these fleshy +wine-pots, to vent the heat of their inward parts: spite of which many +die suddenly from drink; but 'tis a matter of religion to slur it, and +gloze it, and charge some innocent disease therewith. Yet 'tis more a +custom than very nature, for their women come among the tipplers, and +do but stand a moment, and as it were, kiss the wine-cup; and are indeed +most temperate in eating and drinking, and of all women, modest and +virtuous, and true spouses and friends to their mates; far before our +Holland lasses, that being maids, put the question to the men, and being +wived, do lord it over them. Why, there is a wife in Tergou, not far +from our door. One came to the house and sought her man. Says she, +'You'll not find him: he asked my leave to go abroad this afternoon, and +I did give it him.'” + +Catherine. “'Tis sooth! 'tis sooth! 'Twas Beck Hulse, Jonah's wife. This +comes of a woman wedding a boy.” + +“In the south where wine is, the gentry drink themselves bare; but not +in the north: for with beer a noble shall sooner burst his body than +melt his lands. They are quarrelsome, but 'tis the liquor, not the mind; +for they are none revengeful. And when they have made a bad bargain +drunk, they stand to it sober. They keep their windows bright; and +judge a man by his clothes. Whatever fruit or grain or herb grows by the +roadside, gather and eat. The owner seeing you shall say, 'Art welcome, +honest man.' But an ye pluck a wayside grape, your very life is in +jeopardy. 'Tis eating of that Heaven gave to be drunken. The French are +much fairer spoken, and not nigh so true-hearted. Sweet words cost them +nought. They call it payer en blanche.” + +Denys. “Les coquins! ha! ha!” + +“Natheless, courtesy is in their hearts, ay, in their very blood. They +say commonly, 'Give yourself the trouble of sitting down.' And such +straws of speech show how blows the wind. Also at a public show, if you +would leave your seat, yet not lose it, tie but your napkin round the +bench, and no French man or woman will sit here; but rather keep the +place for you.” + +Catherine. “Gramercy! that is manners. France for me!” + +Denys rose and placed his hand gracefully to his breastplate. + +“Natheless, they say things in sport which are not courteous, but +shocking. 'Le diable t'emporte!' 'Allez au diable!' and so forth. But +I trow they mean not such dreadful wishes: custom belike. Moderate in +drinking, and mix water with their wine, and sing and dance over their +cups, and are then enchanting company. They are curious not to drink +in another man's cup. In war the English gain the better of them in the +field; but the French are their masters in attack and defence of cities; +witness Orleans, where they besieged their besiegers and hashed them +sore with their double and treble culverines; and many other sieges in +this our century. More than all nations they flatter their women, and +despise them. No. She may be their sovereign ruler. Also they often hang +their female malefactors, instead of drowning them decently, as other +nations use. The furniture in their inns is walnut, in Germany only +deal. French windows are ill. The lower half is of wood, and opens; the +upper half is of glass, but fixed; so that the servant cannot come at +it to clean it. The German windows are all glass, and movable, and shine +far and near like diamonds. In France many mean houses are not glazed +at all. Once I saw a Frenchman pass a church without unbonneting. This +I ne'er witnessed in Holland, Germany, or Italy. At many inns they show +the traveller his sheets, to give him assurance they are clean, and warm +them at the fire before him; a laudable custom. They receive him kindly +and like a guest; they mostly cheat him, and whiles cut his throat. +They plead in excuse hard and tyrannous laws. And true it is their law +thrusteth its nose into every platter, and its finger into every pie. +In France worshipful men wear their hats and their furs indoors, and +go abroad lighter clad. In Germany they don hat and furred cloak to go +abroad; but sit bareheaded and light clad round the stove. + +“The French intermix not the men and women folk in assemblies, as we +Hollanders use. Round their preachers the women sit on their heels in +rows, and the men stand behind them. Their harvests are rye, and flax, +and wine. Three mules shall you see to one horse, and whole flocks of +sheep as black as coal. + +“In Germany the snails be red. I lie not. The French buy minstrelsy, +but breed jests, and make their own mirth. The Germans foster their set +fools, with ear-caps, which move them to laughter by simulating madness; +a calamity that asks pity, not laughter. In this particular I deem that +lighter nation wiser than the graver German. What sayest thou? Alas! +canst not answer me now. + +“In Germany the petty laws are wondrous wise and just. Those against +criminals, bloody. In France bloodier still; and executed a trifle more +cruelly there. Here the wheel is common, and the fiery stake; and under +this king they drown men by the score in Paris river, Seine yclept. But +the English are as peremptory in hanging and drowning for a light fault; +so travellers report. Finally, a true-hearted Frenchman, when ye chance +on one, is a man as near perfect as earth affords; and such a man is my +Denys, spite of his foul mouth.” + +Denys. “My foul mouth! Is that so writ, Master Richart?” + +Richart. “Ay, in sooth; see else.” + +Denys (inspecting the letter gravely). “I read not the letter so.” + +Richart. “How then?” + +Denys. “Humph! ahem why just the contrary.” He added: “'Tis kittle work +perusing of these black scratches men are agreed to take for words. And +I trow 'tis still by guess you clerks do go, worthy sir. My foul mouth! +This is the first time e'er I heard on't. Eh, mesdames?” + +But the females did not seize the opportunity he gave them, and burst +into a loud and general disclaimer. Margaret blushed and said nothing; +the other two bent silently over their work with something very like a +sly smile. Denys inspected their countenances long and carefully. And +the perusal was so satisfactory, that he turned with a tone of injured, +but patient innocence, and bade Richart read on. + +“The Italians are a polished and subtle people. They judge a man, not by +his habits, but his speech and gesture. Here Sir Chough may by no +means pass for falcon gentle, as did I in Germany, pranked in my noble +servant's feathers. Wisest of all nations in their singular temperance +of food and drink. Most foolish of all to search strangers coming into +their borders, and stay them from bringing much money in. They should +rather invite it, and like other nations, let the traveller from taking +of it out. Also here in Venice the dames turn their black hair yellow by +the sun and art, to be wiser than Him who made them. Ye enter no Italian +town without a bill of health, though now is no plague in Europe. This +peevishness is for extortion's sake. The innkeepers cringe and fawn, and +cheat, and in country places murder you. Yet will they give you clean +sheets by paying therefor. Delicate in eating, and abhor from putting +their hand in the plate; sooner they will apply a crust or what not. +They do even tell of a cardinal at Rome, which armeth his guest's left +hand with a little bifurcal dagger to hold the meat, while his knife +cutteth it. But methinks this, too, is to be wiser than Him, who made +the hand so supple and prehensile.” + +Eli. “I am of your mind, my lad.” + +“They are sore troubled with the itch. And ointment for it, unguento per +la rogna, is cried at every corner of Venice. From this my window I saw +an urchin sell it to three several dames in silken trains, and to two +velvet knights.” + +Catherine. “Italy, my lass, I rede ye wash your body i' the tub +o' Sundays; and then ye can put your hand i' the plate o' Thursday +withouten offence.” + +“Their bread is lovely white. Their meats they spoil with sprinkling +cheese over them; O, perversity! Their salt is black; without a lie. In +commerce these Venetians are masters of the earth and sea; and govern +their territories wisely. Only one flaw I find; the same I once heard +a learned friar cast up against Plato his republic: to wit, that here +women are encouraged to venal frailty, and do pay a tax to the State, +which, not content with silk and spice, and other rich and honest +freights, good store, must trade in sin. Twenty thousand of these +Jezebels there be in Venice and Candia, and about, pampered and honoured +for bringing strangers to the city, and many live in princely palaces of +their own. But herein methinks the politic signors of Venice forget what +King David saith, 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh +but in vain.' Also, in religion, they hang their cloth according to the +wind, siding now with the Pope, now with the Turk; but aye with the god +of traders, mammon hight. Shall flower so cankered bloom to the world's +end? But since I speak of flowers, this none may deny them, that they +are most cunning in making roses and gilliflowers to blow unseasonably. +In summer they nip certain of the budding roses and water them not. Then +in winter they dig round these discouraged plants, and put in cloves; +and so with great art rear sweet-scented roses, and bring them to market +in January. And did first learn this art of a cow. Buds she grazed in +summer, and they sprouted at yule. Women have sat in the doctors' chairs +at their colleges. But she that sat in St. Peter's was a German. Italy +too, for artful fountains and figures that move by water and enact life. +And next for fountains is Augsburg, where they harness the foul knave +Smoke to good Sir Spit, and he turneth stout Master Roast. But lest any +one place should vaunt, two towns there be in Europe, which, scorning +giddy fountains, bring water tame in pipes to every burgher's door, and +he filleth his vessels with but turning of a cock. One is London, +so watered this many a year by pipes of a league from Paddington, a +neighbouring city; and the other is the fair town of Lubeck. Also the +fierce English are reported to me wise in that they will not share their +land and flocks with wolves; but have fairly driven those marauders into +their mountains. But neither in France, nor Germany, nor Italy, is a +wayfarer's life safe from the vagabones after sundown. I can hear of no +glazed house in all Venice; but only oiled linen and paper; and behind +these barbarian eyelets, a wooden jalosy. Their name for a cowardly +assassin is 'a brave man,' and for an harlot, 'a courteous person,' +which is as much as to say that a woman's worst vice, and a man's worst +vice, are virtues. But I pray God for little Holland that there an +assassin may be yclept an assassin, and an harlot an harlot, till +domesday; and then gloze foul faults with silken names who can!” + +Eli (with a sigh). “He should have been a priest, saving your presence, +my poor lass.” + +“January 26.--Sweetheart, I must be brief, and tell thee but a part of +that I have seen, for this day my journal ends. To-night it sails for +thee, and I, unhappy, not with it, but to-morrow, in another ship, to +Rome. + +“Dear Margaret, I took a hand litter, and was carried to St. Mark his +church. Outside it, towards the market-place, is a noble gallery, and +above it four famous horses, cut in brass by the ancient Romans, and +seem all moving, and at the very next step must needs leap down on the +beholder. About the church are six hundred pillars of marble, porphyry, +and ophites. Inside is a treasure greater than either, at St. Denys, +or Loretto, or Toledo. Here a jewelled pitcher given the seigniory by a +Persian king, also the ducal cap blazing with jewels, and on its crown +a diamond and a chrysolite, each as big as an almond; two golden crowns +and twelve golden stomachers studded with jewels, from Constantinople; +item, a monstrous sapphire; item, a great diamond given by a French +king; item, a prodigious carbuncle; item, three unicorns' horns. But +what are these compared with the sacred relics? + +“Dear Margaret, I stood and saw the brazen chest that holds the body of +St. Mark the Evangelist. I saw with these eyes and handled his ring, and +his gospel written with his own hand, and all my travels seemed light; +for who am I that I should see such things? Dear Margaret, his sacred +body was first brought from Alexandria, by merchants in 810, and then +not prized as now; for between 829, when this church was builded, and +1094, the very place where it lay was forgotten. Then holy priests +fasted and prayed many days seeking for light, and lo! the Evangelist's +body brake at midnight through the marble and stood before them. They +fell to the earth; but in the morning found the crevice the sacred body +had burst through, and peering through it saw him lie. Then they took +and laid him in his chest beneath the altar, and carefully put back the +stone with its miraculous crevice, which crevice I saw, and shall gape +for a monument while the world lasts. After that they showed me the +Virgin's chair, it is of stone; also her picture, painted by St. Luke, +very dark, and the features now scarce visible. This picture, in time of +drought, they carry in procession, and brings the rain. I wish I had +not seen it. Item, two pieces of marble spotted with John the Baptist's +blood; item, a piece of the true cross, and of the pillar to which +Christ was tied; item, the rock struck by Moses, and wet to this hour; +also a stone Christ sat on, preaching at Tyre; but some say it is the +one the patriarch Jacob laid his head on, and I hold with them, by +reason our Lord never preached at Tyre. Going hence, they showed me +the state nursery for the children of those aphrodisian dames, their +favourites. Here in the outer wall was a broad niche, and if they bring +them so little as they can squeeze them through it alive, the bairn +falls into a net inside, and the state takes charge of it, but if too +big, their mothers must even take them home again, with whom abiding +'tis like to be mali corvi mali ovum. Coming out of the church we met +them carrying in a corpse, with the feet and face bare. This I then +first learned is Venetian custom, and sure no other town will ever rob +them of it, nor of this that follows. On a great porphyry slab in the +piazza were three ghastly heads rotting and tainting the air, and in +their hot summers like to take vengeance with breeding of a plague. +These were traitors to the state, and a heavy price--two thousand +ducats--being put on each head, their friends had slain them and brought +all three to the slab, and so sold blood of others and their own faith. +No state buys heads so many, nor pays half so high a price for that +sorry merchandise. But what I most admired was to see over against the +Duke's palace a fair gallows in alabaster, reared express to bring him, +and no other, for the least treason to the state; and there it stands in +his eye whispering him memento mori. I pondered, and owned these signors +my masters, who will let no man, not even their sovereign, be above the +common weal. Hard by, on a wall, the workmen were just finishing, by +order of the seigniory, the stone effigy of a tragical and enormous act +enacted last year, yet on the wall looks innocent. Here two gentle folks +whisper together, and there other twain, their swords by their side. +Four brethren were they, which did on either side conspire to poison the +other two, and so halve their land in lieu of quartering it; and at a +mutual banquet these twain drugged the wine, and those twain envenomed a +marchpane, to such good purpose that the same afternoon lay four 'brave +men' around one table grovelling in mortal agony, and cursing of one +another and themselves, and so concluded miserably, and the land, for +which they had lost their immortal souls, went into another family. And +why not? it could not go into a worse. + +“But O, sovereign wisdom of bywords! how true they put the finger on +each nation's, or particular's, fault. + + “Quand Italie sera sans poison + Et France sans trahison + Et l'Angleterre sans guerre, + Lors sera le monde sans terre.” + +Richart explained this to Catherine, then proceeded: “And after this +they took me to the quay, and presently I espied among the masts one +garlanded with amaranth flowers. 'Take me thither,' said I, and I let +my guide know the custom of our Dutch skippers to hoist flowers to +the masthead when they are courting a maid. Oft had I scoffed at this +saying, 'So then his wooing is the earth's concern. But now, so far from +the Rotter, that bunch at a masthead made my heart leap with assurance +of a countryman. They carried me, and oh, Margaret! on the stern of that +Dutch boy, was written in muckle letters, + +RICHART ELIASSOEN, AMSTERDAM. + +'Put me down,' I said; 'for our Lady's sake put me down.' I sat on the +bank and looked, scarce believing my eyes, and looked, and presently +fell to crying, till I could see the words no more. Ah me, how they went +to my heart, those bare letters in a foreign land. Dear Richart! good, +kind brother Richart! often I have sat on his knee and rid on his back. +Kisses many he has given me, unkind word from him had I never. And there +was his name on his own ship, and his face and all his grave, but good +and gentle ways, came back to me, and I sobbed vehemently, and cried +aloud, 'Why, why is not brother Richart here, and not his name only?' I +spake in Dutch, for my heart was too full to hold their foreign tongues, +and + +Eli. “Well, Richart, go on, lad, prithee go on. Is this a place to halt +at?” + +Richart. “Father, with my duty to you, it is easy to say go on, but +think ye I am not flesh and blood? The poor boy's--simple grief and +brotherly love coming--so sudden-on me, they go through my heart and--I +cannot go on; sink me if I can even see the words, 'tis writ so fine.” + +Denys. “Courage, good Master Richart! Take your time. Here are more eyne +wet than yours. Ah, little comrade! would God thou wert here, and I at +Venice for thee.” + +Richart. “Poor little curly-headed lad, what had he done that we have +driven him so far?” + +“That is what I would fain know,” said Catherine drily, then fell to +weeping and rocking herself, with her apron over her head. + +“Kind dame, good friends,” said Margaret trembling, “let me tell you +how the letter ends. The skipper hearing our Gerard speak his grief in +Dutch, accosted him, and spake comfortably to him; and after a while +our Gerard found breath to say he was worthy Master Richart's brother. +Thereat was the good skipper all agog to serve him.” + +Richart. “So! so! skipper! Master Richart aforesaid will be at thy +wedding and bring's purse to boot.” + +Margaret. “Sir, he told Gerard of his consort that was to sail that +very night for Rotterdam; and dear Gerard had to go home and finish his +letter and bring it to the ship. And the rest, it is but his poor dear +words of love to me, the which, an't please you, I think shame to hear +them read aloud, and ends with the lines I sent to Mistress Kate, and +they would sound so harsh now and ungrateful.” + +The pleading tone, as much as the words, prevailed, and Richart said he +would read no more aloud, but run his eye over it for his own brotherly +satisfaction. She blushed and looked uneasy, but made no reply. + +“Eli,” said Catherine, still sobbing a little, “tell me, for our Lady's +sake, how our poor boy is to live at that nasty Rome. He is gone there +to write, but here he his own words to prove writing avails nought: a +had died o' hunger by the way but for paint-brush and psaltery. Well +a-day!” + +“Well,” said Eli, “he has got brush and music still. Besides, so many +men so many minds. Writing, though it had no sale in other parts, may be +merchandise at Rome.” + +“Father,” said little Kate, “have I your good leave to put in my word +'twixt mother and you?” + +“And welcome, little heart.” + +“Then, seems to me, painting and music, close at hand, be stronger than +writing, but being distant, nought to compare; for see what glamour +written paper hath done here but now. Our Gerard, writing at Venice, +hath verily put his hand into this room at Rotterdam, and turned all +our hearts. Ay, dear dear Gerard, methinks thy spirit hath rid hither on +these thy paper wings; and oh! dear father, why not do as we should do +were he here in the body?” + +“Kate,” said Eli, “fear not; Richart and I will give him glamour for +glamour. We will write him a letter, and send it to Rome by a sure hand +with money, and bid him home on the instant.” + +Cornelis and Sybrandt exchanged a gloomy look. + +“Ah, good father! And meantime?” + +“Well, meantime?” + +“Dear father, dear mother, what can we do to pleasure the absent, but be +kind to his poor lass; and her own trouble afore her?” + +“'Tis well!” said Eli; “but I am older than thou.” Then he turned +gravely to Margaret: “Wilt answer me a question, my pretty mistress?” + +“If I may, sir,” faltered Margaret. + +“What are these marriage lines Gerard speaks of in the letter?” + +“Our marriage lines, sir. His and mine. Know you not that we are +betrothed?” + +“Before witnesses?” + +“Ay, sure. My poor father and Martin Wittenhaagen.” + +“This is the first I ever heard of it. How came they in his hands? They +should be in yours.” + +“Alas, sir, the more is my grief; but I ne'er doubted him; and he said +it was a comfort to him to have them in his bosom.” + +“Y'are a very foolish lass.” + +“Indeed I was, sir. But trouble teaches the simple.” + +“'Tis a good answer. Well, foolish or no, y'are honest. I had shown ye +more respect at first, but I thought y'had been his leman, and that is +the truth.” + +“God forbid, sir! Denys, methinks 'tis time for us to go. Give me my +letter, sir!” + +“Bide ye! bide ye! be not so hot for a word! Natheless, wife, methinks +her red cheek becomes her.” + +“Better than it did you to give it her, my man.” + +“Softly, wife, softly. I am not counted an unjust man though I be +somewhat slow.” + +Here Richart broke in. “Why, mistress, did ye shed your blood for our +Gerard?” + +“Not I, sir. But maybe I would.” + +“Nay, nay. But he says you did. Speak sooth now!” + +“Alas! I know not what ye mean. I rede ye believe not all that my poor +lad says of me. Love makes him blind.” + +“Traitress!” cried Denys. “Let not her throw dust in thine eyes, +Master Richart. Old Martin tells me ye need not make signals to me, +she-comrade; I am as blind as love--Martin tells me she cut her arm, and +let her blood flow, and smeared her heels when Gerard was hunted by the +bloodhounds, to turn the scent from her lad.” + +“Well, and if I did, 'twas my own, and spilled for the good of my own,” + said Margaret defiantly. But Catherine suddenly clasping her, she began +to cry at having found a bosom to cry on, of one who would have also +shed her blood for Gerard in danger. + +Eli rose from his chair. “Wife,” said he solemnly, “you will set another +chair at our table for every meal: also another plate and knife. They +will be for Margaret and Peter. She will come when she likes, and stay +away when she pleases. None may take her place at my left hand. Such as +can welcome her are welcome to me. Such as cannot, I force them not to +abide with me. The world is wide and free. Within my walls I am master, +and my son's betrothed is welcome.” + +Catherine bustled out to prepare supper. Eli and Richart sat down and +concocted a letter to bring Gerard home. Richart promised it should go +by sea to Rome that very week. Sybrandt and Cornelis exchanged a gloomy +wink, and stole out. Margaret, seeing Giles deep in meditation, for the +dwarf's intelligence had taken giant strides, asked him to bring her the +letter. “You have heard but half, good master Giles,” said she. “Shall I +read you the rest?” + +“I shall be much beholden to you,” shouted the sonorous atom. + +She gave him her stool: curiosity bowed his pride to sit on it; and +Margaret murmured the first part of the letter into his ear very low, +not to disturb Eli and Richart. And to do this, she leaned forward and +put her lovely face cheek by jowl with Giles's hideous one: a strange +contrast, and worth a painter's while to try and represent. And in this +attitude Catherine found her, and all the mother warmed towards her, and +she exchanged an eloquent glance with little Kate. + +The latter smiled, and sewed, with drooping lashes. + +“Get him home on the instant,” roared Giles. “I'll make a man of him.” + +“Hear the boy!” said Catherine, half comically, half proudly. + +“We hear him,” said Richart; “a mostly makes himself heard when a do +speak.” + +Sybrandt. “Which will get to him first?” + +Cornelis (gloomily). “Who can tell?” + + + +CHAPTER LV + +About two months before this scene in Eli's home, the natives of a +little' maritime place between Naples and Rome might be seen flocking to +the sea beach, with eyes cast seaward at a ship, that laboured against a +stiff gale blowing dead on the shore. + +At times she seemed likely to weather the danger, and then the +spectators congratulated her aloud: at others the wind and sea drove +her visibly nearer, and the lookers-on were not without a secret +satisfaction they would not have owned even to themselves. + + Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas + Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est. + +And the poor ship, though not scientifically built for sailing, was +admirably constructed for going ashore, with her extravagant poop that +caught the wind, and her lines like a cocked hat reversed. To those +on the beach that battered labouring frame of wood seemed alive, and +struggling against death with a panting heart. But could they have been +transferred to her deck they would have seen she had not one beating +heart but many, and not one nature but a score were coming out clear in +that fearful hour. + +The mariners stumbled wildly about the deck, handling the ropes as each +thought fit, and cursing and praying alternately. + +The passengers were huddled together round the mast, some sitting, some +kneeling, some lying prostrate, and grasping the bulwarks as the vessel +rolled and pitched in the mighty waves. One comely young man, whose ashy +cheek, but compressed lips, showed how hard terror was battling in him +with self-respect, stood a little apart, holding tight by a shroud, and +wincing at each sea. It was the ill-fated Gerard. Meantime prayers and +vows rose from the trembling throng amid-ships, and to hear them, +it seemed there were almost as many gods about as men and women. The +sailors, indeed, relied on a single goddess. They varied her titles +only, calling on her as “Queen of Heaven,” “Star of the Sea,” “Mistress +of the World,” “Haven of Safety.” But among the landsmen Polytheism +raged. Even those who by some strange chance hit on the same divinity +did not hit on the same edition of that divinity. An English merchant +vowed a heap of gold to our lady of Walsingham. But a Genoese merchant +vowed a silver collar of four pounds to our lady of Loretto; and a +Tuscan noble promised ten pounds of wax lights to our lady of Ravenna; +and with a similar rage for diversity they pledged themselves, not on +the true Cross, but on the true Cross in this, that, or the other modern +city. + +Suddenly a more powerful gust than usual catching the sail at a +disadvantage, the rotten shrouds gave way, and the sail was torn out +with a loud crack, and went down the wind smaller and smaller, blacker +and blacker, and fluttered into the sea, half a mile off, like a sheet +of paper, and ere the helmsman could put the ship's head before the +wind, a wave caught her on the quarter and drenched the poor wretches to +the bone, and gave them a foretaste of chill death. Then one vowed aloud +to turn Carthusian monk, if St. Thomas would save him. Another would +go a pilgrim to Compostella, bareheaded, barefooted, with nothing but +a coat of mail on his naked skin, if St. James would save him. Others +invoked Thomas, Dominic, Denys, and above all, Catherine of Sienna. + +Two petty Neapolitan traders stood shivering. + +One shouted at the top of his voice, “I vow to St. Christopher at Paris +a waxen image of his own weight, if I win safe to land.” + +On this the other nudged him, and said, “Brother, brother, take heed +what you vow. Why, if you sell all you have in the world by public +auction, 'twill not buy his weight in wax.” + +“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said the vociferator. Then in a whisper: + +“Think ye I am in earnest? Let me but win safe to land, I'll not give +him a rush dip.” + +Others lay flat and prayed to the sea. + +“Oh, most merciful sea! oh, sea most generous! oh! bountiful sea! oh, +beautiful sea! be gentle, be kind, preserve us in this hour of peril.” + +And others wailed and moaned in mere animal terror each time the +ill-fated ship rolled or pitched more terribly than usual; and she was +now a mere plaything in the arms of the tremendous waves. + +A Roman woman of the humbler class sat with her child at her half-bared +breast, silent amid that wailing throng: her cheek ashy pale; her eye +calm; and her lips moved at times in silent prayer, but she neither +wept, nor lamented, nor bargained with the gods. Whenever the ship +seemed really gone under their feet, and bearded men squeaked, she +kissed her child; but that was all. And so she sat patient, and suckled +him in death's jaws; for why should he lose any joy she could give him; +moribundo? Ay, there I do believe, sat Antiquity among those mediaevals. +Sixteen hundred years had not tainted the old Roman blood in her veins; +and the instinct of a race she had perhaps scarce heard of taught her to +die with decent dignity. + +A gigantic friar stood on the poop with feet apart, like the Colossus of +Rhodes, not so much defying, as ignoring, the peril that surrounded him. +He recited verses from the Canticles with a loud unwavering voice; and +invited the passengers to confess to him. Some did so on their knees, +and he heard them and laid his hands on them, and absolved them as if +he had been in a snug sacristy, instead of a perishing ship. Gerard got +nearer and nearer to him, by the instinct that takes the wavering to +the side of the impregnable. And in truth, the courage of heroes facing +fleshly odds might have paled by the side of that gigantic friar, and +his still more gigantic composure. Thus, even here, two were found who +maintained the dignity of our race: a woman, tender, yet heroic, and a +monk steeled by religion against mortal fears. + +And now, the sail being gone, the sailors cut down the useless mast a +foot above the board, and it fell with its remaining hamper over the +ship's side. This seemed to relieve her a little. + +But now the hull, no longer impelled by canvas, could not keep ahead of +the sea. It struck her again and again on the poop, and the tremendous +blows seemed given by a rocky mountain, not by a liquid. + +The captain left the helm and came amidships pale as death. “Lighten +her,” he cried. “Fling all overboard, or we shall founder ere we strike, +and lose the one little chance we have of life.” While the sailors were +executing this order, the captain, pale himself, and surrounded by pale +faces that demanded to know their fate, was talking as unlike an English +skipper in like peril as can well be imagined. “Friends,” said he, “last +night when all was fair, too fair, alas! there came a globe of fire +close to the ship. When a pair of them come it is good luck, and nought +can drown her that voyage. We mariners call these fiery globes Castor +and Pollux. But if Castor come without Pollux, or Pollux without Castor, +she is doomed. Therefore, like good Christians, prepare to die.” + +These words were received with a loud wail. + +To a trembling inquiry how long they had to prepare, the captain +replied, “She may, or may not, last half an hour; over that, impossible; +she leaks like a sieve; bustle, men, lighten her.” + +The poor passengers seized on everything that was on deck and flung +it overboard. Presently they laid hold of a heavy sack; an old man was +lying on it, sea sick. They lugged it from under him. It rattled. Two +of them drew it to the side; up started the owner, and with an unearthly +shriek, pounced on it. “Holy Moses! what would you do? 'Tis my all; +'tis the whole fruits of my journey; silver candlesticks, silver plates, +brooches, hanaps--” + +“Let go, thou hoary villain,” cried the others; “shall all our lives be +lost for thy ill-gotten gear?” “Fling him in with it,” cried one; “'tis +this Ebrew we Christian men are drowned for.” Numbers soon wrenched it +from him, and heaved it over the side. It splashed into the waves. Then +its owner uttered one cry of anguish, and stood glaring, his white hair +streaming in the wind, and was going to leap after it, and would, had +it floated. But it sank, and was gone for ever; and he staggered to and +fro, tearing his hair, and cursed them and the ship, and the sea, and +all the powers of heaven and hell alike. + +And now the captain cried out: “See, there is a church in sight. Steer +for that church, mate, and you, friends, pray to the saint, whoe'er he +be.” + +So they steered for the church and prayed to the unknown god it was +named after. A tremendous sea pooped them, broke the rudder, and jammed +it immovable, and flooded the deck. + +Then wild with superstitious terror some of them came round Gerard. +“Here is the cause of all,” they cried. “He has never invoked a single +saint. He is a heathen; here is a pagan aboard.” + +“Alas, good friends, say not so,” said Gerard, his teeth chattering with +cold and fear. “Rather call these heathens, that lie a praying to +the sea. Friends, I do honour the saints--but I dare not pray to them +now--there is no time--(oh!) what avail me Dominic, and Thomas, and +Catherine? Nearer God's throne than these St. Peter sitteth; and if I +pray to him, it's odd, but I shall be drowned ere he has time to plead +my cause with God. Oh! oh! oh! I must need go straight to Him that made +the sea, and the saints, and me. Our Father which art in heaven, save +these poor souls and me that cry for the bare life! Oh, sweet Jesus, +pitiful Jesus, that didst walk Genezaret when Peter sank, and wept for +Lazarus dead when the apostles' eyes were dry, oh, save poor Gerard--for +dear Margaret's sake!” + +At this moment the sailors were seen preparing to desert the sinking +ship in the little boat, which even at that epoch every ship carried; +then there was a rush of egotists; and thirty souls crowded into it. +Remained behind three who were bewildered, and two who were paralyzed, +with terror. The paralyzed sat like heaps of wet rags, the bewildered +ones ran to and fro, and saw the thirty egotists put off, but made no +attempt to join them: only kept running to and fro, and wringing their +hands. Besides these there was one on his knees, praying over the wooden +statue of the Virgin Mary, as large as life, which the sailors had +reverently detached from the mast. It washed about the deck, as the +water came slushing in from the sea, and pouring out at the scuppers; +and this poor soul kept following it on his knees, with his hands +clasped at it, and the water playing with it. And there was the Jew +palsied, but not by fear. He was no longer capable of so petty a +passion. He sat cross-legged, bemoaning his bag, and whenever the +spray lashed him, shook his fist at where it came from, and cursed the +Nazarenes, and their gods, and their devils, and their ships, and their +waters, to all eternity. + +And the gigantic Dominican, having shriven the whole ship, stood calmly +communing with his own spirit. And the Roman woman sat pale and patient, +only drawing her child closer to her bosom as death came nearer. + +Gerard saw this, and it awakened his manhood. + +“See! see!” he said, “they have ta'en the boat and left the poor woman +and her child to perish.” + +His heart soon set his wit working. + +“Wife, I'll save thee yet, please God.” And he ran to find a cask or a +plank to float her. There was none. + +Then his eye fell on the wooden image of the Virgin. He caught it up in +his arms, and heedless of a wail that issued from its worshipper like a +child robbed of its toy, ran aft with it. “Come, wife,” he cried. +“I'll lash thee and the child to this. 'Tis sore worm eaten, but 'twill +serve.” + +She turned her great dark eye on him and said a single word: + +“Thyself?!” + +But with wonderful magnanimity and tenderness. + +“I am a man, and have no child to take care of.” + +“Ah!” said she, and his words seemed to animate her face with a desire +to live. He lashed the image to her side. Then with the hope of life she +lost something of her heroic calm; not much: her body trembled a little, +but not her eye. + +The ship was now so low in the water that by using an oar as a lever he +could slide her into the waves. + +“Come,” said he, “while yet there is time.” + +She turned her great Roman eyes, wet now, upon him. “Poor youth!--God +forgive me!--My child!” And he launched her on the surge, and with his +oar kept her from being battered against the ship. + +A heavy hand fell on him; a deep sonorous voice sounded in his ear: +“'Tis well. Now come with me.” + +It was the gigantic friar. + +Gerard turned, and the friar took two strides, and laid hold of the +broken mast. Gerard did the same, obeying him instinctively. Between +them, after a prodigious effort, they hoisted up the remainder of the +mast, and carried it off. “Fling it in,” said the friar, “and follow +it.” They flung it in; but one of the bewildered passengers had run +after them, and jumped first and got on one end. Gerard seized the +other, the friar the middle. + +It was a terrible situation. The mast rose and plunged with each wave +like a kicking horse, and the spray flogged their faces mercilessly, and +blinded them: to help knock them off. + +Presently was heard a long grating noise ahead. The ship had struck, and +soon after, she being stationary now, they were hurled against her with +tremendous force. Their companion's head struck against the upper part +of the broken rudder with a horrible crack, and was smashed like a +cocoa-nut by a sledge-hammer. He sunk directly, leaving no trace but +a red stain on the water, and a white clot on the jagged rudder, and a +death cry ringing in their ears, as they drifted clear under the lee of +the black hull. The friar uttered a short Latin prayer for the safety of +his soul, and took his place composedly. They rolled along; one moment +they saw nothing, and seemed down in a mere basin of watery hills: the +next they caught glimpses of the shore speckled bright with people, +who kept throwing up their arms with wild Italian gestures to encourage +them, and the black boat driving bottom upwards, and between it and +them the woman rising and falling like themselves. She had come across a +paddle, and was holding her child tight with her left arm, and paddling +gallantly with her right. + +When they had tumbled along thus a long time, suddenly the friar said +quietly-- + +“I touched the ground.” + +“Impossible, father,” said Gerard; “we are more than a hundred yards +from shore. Prithee, prithee, leave not our faithful mast.” + +“My son,” said the friar, “you speak prudently. But know that I have +business of Holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating when +I can walk, in her service. There I felt it with my toes again; see the +benefit of wearing sandals, and not shoon. Again; and sandy. Thy +stature is less than mine: keep to the mast! I walk.” He left the mast +accordingly and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water. +Gerard soon followed him. At each overpowering wave the monk stood like +a tower, and closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it, and +was entirely lost under it awhile: then emerged and ploughed lustily on. +At last they came close to the shore; but the suction outward baffled +all their attempts to land. Then the natives sent stout fishermen into +the sea, holding by long spears in a triple chain; and so dragged them +ashore. + +The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the +natives, and went on to Rome, with eyes bent on earth according to his +rule, and without pausing. He did not even cast a glance back upon that +sea, which had so nearly engulfed him, but had no power to harm him, +without his Master's leave. + +While he stalks on alone to Rome without looking back, I who am not in +the service of Holy Church, stop a moment to say that the reader and +I were within six inches of this giant once before; but we escaped him +that time. Now I fear we are in for him. Gerard grasped every hand upon +the beach. They brought him to an enormous fire, and with a delicacy +he would hardly have encountered in the north, left him to dry himself +alone: on this he took out of his bosom a parchment, and a paper, and +dried them carefully. When this was done to his mind, and not till then, +he consented to put on a fisherman's dress and leave his own by the +fire, and went down to the beach. What he saw may be briefly related. + +The captain stuck by the ship, not so much from gallantry, as from a +conviction that it was idle to resist Castor or Pollux, whichever it was +that had come for him in a ball of fire. + +Nevertheless the sea broke up the ship and swept the poop, captain and +all, clear of the rest, and took him safe ashore. Gerard had a principal +hand in pulling him out of the water. The disconsolate Hebrew landed on +another fragment, and on touching earth, offered a reward for his bag, +which excited little sympathy, but some amusement. Two more were saved +on pieces of the wreck. The thirty egotists came ashore, but one at +a time, and dead; one breathed still. Him the natives, with excellent +intentions, took to a hot fire. So then he too retired from this +shifting scene. + +As Gerard stood by the sea, watching, with horror and curiosity mixed, +his late companions washed ashore, a hand was laid lightly on his +shoulder. He turned. It was the Roman matron, burning with womanly +gratitude. She took his hand gently, and raising it slowly to her lips, +kissed it; but so nobly, she seemed to be conferring an honour on one +deserving hand. Then with face all beaming and moist eyes, she held her +child up and made him kiss his preserver. + +Gerard kissed the child more than once. He was fond of children. But he +said nothing. He was much moved; for she did not speak at all, except +with her eyes, and glowing cheeks, and noble antique gesture, so large +and stately. Perhaps she was right. Gratitude is not a thing of words. +It was an ancient Roman matron thanking a modern from her heart of +hearts. + +Next day towards afternoon, Gerard--twice as old as last year, thrice +as learned in human ways, a boy no more, but a man who had shed blood in +self-defence, and grazed the grave by land and sea--reached the Eternal +City; post tot naufragia tutus. + + + +CHAPTER LVI + +Gerard took a modest lodging on the west bank of the Tiber, and every +day went forth in search of work, taking a specimen round to every shop +he could hear of that executed such commissions. + +They received him coldly. “We make our letter somewhat thinner than +this,” said one. “How dark your ink is,” said another. But the main cry +was, “What avails this? Scant is the Latin writ here now. Can ye not +write Greek?” + +“Ay, but not nigh so well as Latin.” + +“Then you shall never make your bread at Rome.” + +Gerard borrowed a beautiful Greek manuscript at a high price, and went +home with a sad hole in his purse, but none in his courage. + +In a fortnight he had made vast progress with the Greek character; +so then, to lose no time, he used to work at it till noon, and hunt +customers the rest of the day. + +When he carried round a better Greek specimen than any they possessed, +the traders informed him that Greek and Latin were alike unsaleable; the +city was thronged with works from all Europe. He should have come last +year. + +Gerard bought a psaltery. His landlady, pleased with his looks and +manners, used often to speak a kind word in passing. One day she made +him dine with her, and somewhat to his surprise asked him what had +dashed his spirits. He told her. She gave him her reading of the matter. +“Those sly traders,” she would be bound, “had writers in their pay, +for whose work they received a noble price, and paid a sorry one. So no +wonder they blow cold on you. Methinks you write too well. How know I +that? say you. Marry--marry, because you lock not your door, like the +churl Pietro, and women will be curious. Ay, ay, you write too well for +them.” + +Gerard asked an explanation. + +“Why,” said she, “your good work might put out the eyes of that they are +selling.” + +Gerard sighed. “Alas! dame, you read folk on the ill side, and you so +kind and frank yourself.” + +“My dear little heart, these Romans are a subtle race. Me? I am a +Siennese, thanks to the Virgin.” + +“My mistake was leaving Augsburg,” said Gerard. + +“Augsburg?” said she haughtily: “is that a place to even to Rome? I +never heard of it, for my part.” + +She then assured him that he should make his fortune in spite of the +booksellers. “Seeing thee a stranger, they lie to thee without sense or +discretion. Why, all the world knows that our great folk are bitten with +the writing spider this many years, and pour out their money like water, +and turn good land and houses into writ sheepskins, to keep in a chest +or a cupboard. God help them, and send them safe through this fury, as +He hath through a heap of others; and in sooth hath been somewhat less +cutting and stabbing among rival factions, and vindictive eating of +their opposites' livers, minced and fried, since Scribbling came in. +Why, I can tell you two. There is his eminence Cardinal Bassarion, and +his holiness the Pope himself. There be a pair could keep a score such +as thee a writing night and day. But I'll speak to Teresa; she hears the +gossip of the court.” + +The next day she told him she had seen Teresa, and had heard of five +more signors who were bitten with the writing spider. Gerard took down +their names, and bought parchment, and busied himself for some days in +preparing specimens. He left one, with his name and address, at each of +these signors' doors, and hopefully awaited the result. + +There was none. + +Day after day passed and left him heartsick. + +And strange to say this was just the time when Margaret was fighting so +hard against odds to feed her male dependents at Rotterdam, and arrested +for curing without a licence instead of killing with one. + +Gerard saw ruin staring him in the face. + +He spent the afternoons picking up canzonets and mastering them. He laid +in playing cards to colour, and struck off a meal per day. + +This last stroke of genius got him into fresh trouble. + +In these “camere locande” the landlady dressed all the meals, though +the lodgers bought the provisions. So Gerard's hostess speedily detected +him, and asked him if he was not ashamed himself: by which brusque +opening, having made him blush and look scared, she pacified herself +all in a moment, and appealed to his good sense whether Adversity was a +thing to be overcome on an empty stomach. + +“Patienza, my lad! times will mend; meantime I will feed you for the +love of heaven.” (Italian for “gratis.”) + +“Nay, hostess,” said Gerard, “my purse is not yet quite void, and it +would add to my trouble an if true folk should lose their due by me.” + +“Why, you are as mad as your neighbour Pietro, with his one bad +picture.” + +“Why, how know you 'tis a bad picture?” + +“Because nobody will buy it. There is one that hath no gift. He will +have to don casque and glaive, and carry his panel for a shield.” + +Gerard pricked up his ears at this: so she told him more. Pietro had +come from Florence with money in his purse, and an unfinished picture; +had taken her one unfurnished room, opposite Gerard's, and furnished +it neatly. When his picture was finished, he received visitors and had +offers for it: though in her opinion liberal ones, he had refused so +disdainfully as to make enemies of his customers. Since then he had +often taken it out with him to try and sell, but had always brought it +back; and the last month, she had seen one movable after another go out +of his room, and now he wore but one suit, and lay at night on a great +chest. She had found this out only by peeping through the keyhole, for +he locked the door most vigilantly whenever he went out. “Is he afraid +we shall steal his chest, or his picture, that no soul in all Rome is +weak enough to buy?” + +“Nay, sweet hostess; see you not 'tis his poverty he would screen from +view?” + +“And the more fool he! Are all our hearts as ill as his? A might give us +a trial first, anyway.” + +“How you speak of him. Why, his case is mine; and your countryman to +boot.” + +“Oh, we Siennese love strangers. His case yours? Nay, 'tis just the +contrary. You are the comeliest youth ever lodged in this house; hair +like gold: he is a dark, sour-visaged loon. Besides, you know how to +take a woman on her better side; but not he. Natheless, I wish he would +not starve to death in my house, to get me a bad name. Anyway, one +starveling is enough in any house. You are far from home, and it is for +me, which am the mistress here, to number your meals--for me and the +Dutch wife, your mother, that is far away: we two women shall settle +that matter. Mind thou thine own business, being a man, and leave +cooking and the like to us, that are in the world for little else that +I see but to roast fowls, and suckle men at starting, and sweep their +grownup cobwebs.” + +“Dear kind dame, in sooth you do often put me in mind of my mother that +is far away.” + +“All the better; I'll put you more in mind of her before I have done +with you.” And the honest soul beamed with pleasure. + +Gerard not being an egotist, nor blinded by female partialities, saw his +own grief in poor proud Pietro; and the more he thought of it the more +he resolved to share his humble means with that unlucky artist; Pietro's +sympathy would repay him. He tried to waylay him; but without success. + +One day he heard a groaning in the room. He knocked at the door, but +received no answer. He knocked again. A surly voice bade him enter. + +He obeyed somewhat timidly, and entered a garret furnished with a chair, +a picture, face to wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest, +on which was coiled a haggard young man with a wonderfully bright eye. +Anything more like a coiled cobra ripe for striking the first comer was +never seen. + +“Good Signor Pietro,” said Gerard, “forgive me that, weary of my own +solitude, I intrude on yours; but I am your nighest neighbour in this +house, and methinks your brother in fortune. I am an artist too.” + +“You are a painter? Welcome, signer. Sit down on my bed.” + +And Pietro jumped off and waved him into the vacant throne with a +magnificent demonstration of courtesy. + +Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little. “I may not call +myself a painter. I am a writer, a caligraph. I copy Greek and Latin +manuscripts, when I can get them to copy.” + +“And you call that an artist?” + +“Without offence to your superior merit, Signor Pietro.” + +“No offence, stranger, none. Only, meseemeth an artist is one who +thinks, and paints his thought. Now a caligraph but draws in black and +white the thoughts of another.” + +“'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write the +thoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as +no man may paint: ay, and the thoughts of God, which angels could not +paint. But let that pass. I am a painter as well; but a sorry one.” + +“The better thy luck. 'They will buy thy work in Rome.” + +“But seeking to commend myself to one of thy eminence, I thought it well +rather to call myself a capable writer, than a scurvy painter.” + +At this moment a step was heard on the stair. “Ah! 'tis the good dame,” + cried Gerard. “What oh! hostess, I am here in conversation with Signor +Pietro. I dare say he will let me have my humble dinner here.” + +The Italian bowed gravely. + +The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner smoking and savoury. She put the +dish down on the bed with a face divested of all expression, and went. + +Gerard fell to. But ere he had eaten many mouthfuls, he stopped, and +said: “I am an ill-mannered churl, Signor Pietro. I ne'er eat to my mind +when I eat alone. For our Lady's sake put a spoon into this ragout with +me; 'tis not unsavoury, I promise you.” + +Pietro fixed his glittering eye on him. + +“What, good youth, thou a stranger, and offerest me thy dinner?” + +“Why, see, there is more than one can eat.” + +“Well, I accept,” said Pietro; and took the dish with some appearance of +calmness, and flung the contents out of window. + +Then he turned, trembling with mortification and ire, and said: “Let +that teach thee to offer alms to an artist thou knowest not, master +writer.” + +Gerard's face flushed with anger, and it cost him a bitter struggle not +to box this high-souled creature's ears. And then to go and destroy +good food! His mother's milk curdled in his veins with horror at such +impiety. Finally, pity at Pietro's petulance and egotism, and a touch of +respect for poverty-struck pride, prevailed. + +However, he said coldly, “Likely what thou hast done might pass in a +novel of thy countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but 'twas not honest.” + +“Make that good!” said the painter sullenly. + +“I offered thee half my dinner; no more. But thou hast ta'en it all. +Hadst a right to throw away thy share, but not mine. Pride is well, but +justice is better.” + +Pietro stared, then reflected. + +“'Tis well. I took thee for a fool, so transparent was thine artifice. +Forgive me! And prithee leave me! Thou seest how 'tis with me. The world +hath soured me. I hate mankind. I was not always so. Once more excuse +that my discourtesy, and fare thee well.” + +Gerard sighed, and made for the door. + +But suddenly a thought struck him. “Signor Pietro,” said he, “we +Dutchmen are hard bargainers. We are the lads 'een eij scheeren,' that +is, 'to shave an egg.' Therefore, I, for my lost dinner, do claim to +feast mine eyes on your picture, whose face is toward the wall.” + +“Nay, nay,” said the painter hastily, “ask me not that; I have already +misconducted myself enough towards thee. I would not shed thy blood.” + +“Saints forbid! My blood?” + +“Stranger,” said Pietro sullenly, “irritated by repeated insults to my +picture, which is my child, my heart, I did in a moment of rage make a +solemn vow to drive my dagger into the next one that should flout it, +and the labour and love that I have given to it.” + +“What, are all to be slain that will not praise this picture?” and he +looked at its back with curiosity. + +“Nay, nay; if you would but look at it, and hold your parrot tongues. +But you will be talking. So I have turned it to the wall for ever. Would +I were dead, and buried in it for my coffin!” + +Gerard reflected. + +“I accept the condition. Show me the picture! I can but hold my peace.” + +Pietro went and turned its face, and put it in the best light the room +afforded, and coiled himself again on his chest, with his eye, and +stiletto, glittering. + +The picture represented the Virgin and Christ, flying through the air in +a sort of cloud of shadowy cherubic faces; underneath was a landscape, +forty or fifty miles in extent, and a purple sky above. + +Gerard stood and looked at it in silence. Then he stepped close, and +looked. Then he retired as far off as he could, and looked; but said not +a word. + +When he had been at this game half an hour, Pietro cried out querulously +and somewhat inconsistently: “well, have you not a word to say about +it?” + +Gerard started. “I cry your mercy; I forgot there were three of us here. +Ay, I have much to say.” And he drew his sword. + +“Alas! alas!” cried Pietro, jumping in terror from his lair. “What +wouldst thou?” + +“Marry, defend myself against thy bodkin, signor; and at due odds, +being, as aforesaid, a Dutchman. Therefore, hold aloof, while I deliver +judgment, or I will pin thee to the wall like a cockchafer.” + +“Oh! is that all?” said Pietro, greatly relieved. “I feared you were +going to stab my poor picture with your sword, stabbed already by so +many foul tongues.” + +Gerard “pursued criticism under difficulties.” Put himself in a position +of defence, with his sword's point covering Pietro, and one eye glancing +aside at the picture. “First, signor, I would have you know that, in +the mixing of certain colours, and in the preparation of your oil, you +Italians are far behind us Flemings. But let that flea stick. For as +small as I am, I can show you certain secrets of the Van Eycks, that you +will put to marvellous profit in your next picture. Meantime I see in +this one the great qualities of your nation. Verily, ye are solis filii. +If we have colour, you have imagination. Mother of Heaven! an he hath +not flung his immortal soul upon the panel. One thing I go by is this; +it makes other pictures I once admired seem drossy, earth-born things. +The drapery here is somewhat short and stiff, why not let it float +freely, the figures being in air and motion? + +“I will! I will!” cried Pietro eagerly. “I will do anything for those +who will but see what I have done.” + +“Humph! This landscape it enlightens me. Henceforth I scorn those little +huddled landscapes that did erst content me. Here is nature's very face: +a spacious plain, each distance marked, and every tree, house, figure, +field, and river smaller and less plain, by exquisite gradation, till +vision itself melts into distance. O, beautiful! And the cunning rogue +hath hung his celestial figure in air out of the way of his little world +below. Here, floating saints beneath heaven's purple canopy. There, +far down, earth and her busy hives. And they let you take this painted +poetry, this blooming hymn, through the streets of Rome and bring it +home unsold. But I tell thee in Ghent or Bruges, or even in Rotterdam, +they would tear it out of thy hands. But it is a common saying that a +stranger's eye sees clearest. Courage, Pietro Vanucci! I reverence thee +and though myself a scurvy painter, do forgive thee for being a great +one. Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art; +and bow the knee to thee in just homage. Thy picture is immortal, and +thou, that hast but a chest to sit on, art a king in thy most royal art. +Viva, il maestro! Viva!” + +At this unexpected burst the painter, with all the abandon of his +nation, flung himself on Gerard's neck. “They said it was a maniac's +dream,” he sobbed. + +“Maniacs themselves! no, idiots!” shouted Gerard. + +“Generous stranger! I will hate men no more since the world hath such as +thee. I was a viper to fling thy poor dinner away; a wretch, a monster.” + +“Well, monster, wilt be gentle now, and sup with me?” + +“Ah! that I will. Whither goest thou?” + +“To order supper on the instant. We will have the picture for third +man.” + +“I will invite it whiles thou art gone. My poor picture, child of my +heart.” + +“Ah, master, 'twill look on many a supper after the worms have eaten you +and me.” + +“I hope so,” said Pietro. + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +About a week after this the two friends sat working together, but not in +the same spirit. Pietro dashed fitfully at his, and did wonders in a few +minutes, and then did nothing, except abuse it; then presently resumed +it in a fury, to lay it down with a groan. Through all which kept calmly +working, calmly smiling, the canny Dutchman. + +To be plain, Gerard, who never had a friend he did not master, had put +his Onagra in harness. The friends were painting playing cards to boil +the pot. + +When done, the indignant master took up his picture to make his daily +tour in search of a customer. + +Gerard begged him to take the cards as well, and try and sell them. +He looked all the rattle-snake, but eventually embraced Gerard in the +Italian fashion, and took them, after first drying the last-finished +ones in the sun, which was now powerful in that happy clime. + +Gerard, left alone, executed a Greek letter or two, and then mended +a little rent in his hose. His landlady found him thus employed, and +inquired ironically whether there were no women in the house. + +“When you have done that,” said she “come and talk to Teresa, my friend +I spoke to thee of, that hath a husband not good for much, which brags +his acquaintance with the great.” + +Gerard went down, and who should Teresa be but the Roman matron. + +“Ah, madama,” said he, “is it you? The good dame told me not that. And +the little fair-haired boy, is he well is he none the worse for his +voyage in that strange boat?” + +“He is well,” said the matron. + +“Why, what are you two talking about?” said the landlady, staring at +them both in turn; “and why tremble you so, Teresa mia?” + +“He saved my child's life,” said Teresa, making an effort to compose +herself. + +“What! my lodger? and he never told me a word of that. Art not ashamed +to look me in the face?” + +“Alas! speak not harshly to him,” said the matron. She then turned to +her friend and poured out a glowing description of Gerard's conduct, +during which Gerard stood blushing like a girl, and scarce recognizing +his own performance, gratitude painted it so fair. + +“And to think thou shouldst ask me to serve thy lodger, of whom I knew +nought but that he had thy good word, oh, Fiammina; and that was enough +for me. Dear youth, in serving thee I serve myself.” + +Then ensued an eager description, by the two women, of what had been +done, and what should be done, to penetrate the thick wall of fees, +commissions, and chicanery, which stood between the patrons of art and +an unknown artist in the Eternal City. + +Teresa smiled sadly at Gerard's simplicity in leaving specimens of his +skill at the doors of the great. + +“What!” said she, “without promising the servants a share--without even +feeing them, to let the signors see thy merchandise! As well have flung +it into Tiber.” + +“Well-a-day!” sighed Gerard. “Then how is an artist to find a patron? +for artists are poor, not rich.” + +“By going to some city nobler and not so greedy as this,” said Teresa. +“La corte Romana non vuol' pecora senza lana.” + +She fell into thought, and said she would come again to-morrow. + +The landlady felicitated Gerard. “Teresa has got something in her head,” + said she. + +Teresa was scarce gone when Pietro returned with his picture, looking +black as thunder. Gerard exchanged a glance with the landlady, and +followed him upstairs to console him. + +“What, have they let thee bring home thy masterpiece?” + +“As heretofore.” + +“More fools they, then.” + +“That is not the worse.” + +“Why, what is the matter?” + +“They have bought the cards,” yelled Pietro, and hammered the air +furiously right and left. + +“All the better,” said Gerard cheerfully. + +“They flew at me for them. They were enraptured with them. They tried +to conceal their longing for them, but could not. I saw, I feigned, I +pillaged; curse the boobies.” + +And he flung down a dozen small silver coins on the floor and jumped +on them, and danced on them with basilisk eyes, and then kicked them +assiduously, and sent them spinning and flying, and running all abroad. +Down went Gerard on his knees, and followed the maltreated innocents +directly, and transferred them tenderly to his purse. + +“Shouldst rather smile at their ignorance, and put it to profit,” said +he. + +“And so I will,” said Pietro, with concentrated indignation. “The +brutes! We will paint a pack a day; we will set the whole city gambling +and ruining itself, while we live like princes on its vices and +stupidity. There was one of the queens, though, I had fain have kept +back. 'Twas you limned her, brother. She had lovely red-brown hair and +sapphire eyes, and above all, soul.” + +“Pietro,” said Gerard softly, “I painted that one from my heart.” + +The quick-witted Italian nodded, and his eyes twinkled. + +“You love her so well, yet leave her.” + +“Pietro, it is because I love her so dear that I have wandered all this +weary road.” + +This interesting colloquy was interrupted by the landlady crying from +below, “Come down, you are wanted.” He went down, and there was Teresa +again. + +“Come with me, Ser Gerard.” + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +Gerard walked silently beside Teresa, wondering in his own mind, after +the manner of artists, what she was going to do with him; instead of +asking her. So at last she told him of her own accord. A friend had +informed her of a working goldsmith's wife who wanted a writer. “Her +shop is hard by; you will not have far to go.” + +Accordingly they soon arrived at the goldsmith's wife. + +“Madama,” said Teresa, “Leonora tells me you want a writer: I have +brought you a beautiful one; he saved my child at sea. Prithee look on +him with favour.” + +The goldsmith's wife complied in one sense. She fixed her eyes on +Gerard's comely face, and could hardly take them off again. But her +reply was unsatisfactory. “Nay, I have no use for a writer. Ah! I mind +now, it is my gossip, Claelia, the sausage-maker, wants one; she told +me, and I told Leonora.” + +Teresa made a courteous speech and withdrew. + +Claelia lived at some distance, and when they reached her house she was +out. Teresa said calmly, “I will await her return,” and sat so still, +and dignified, and statuesque, that Gerard was beginning furtively to +draw her, when Claelia returned. + +“Madama, I hear from the goldsmith's wife, the excellent Olympia, +that you need a writer” (here she took Gerard by the hand and led him +forward); “I have brought you a beautiful one; he saved my child from +the cruel waves. For our Lady's sake look with favour on him.” + +“My good dame, my fair Ser,” said Claelia, “I have no use for a writer; +but now you remind me, it was my friend Appia Claudia asked me for one +but the other day. She is a tailor, lives in the Via Lepida.” + +Teresa retired calmly. + +“Madama,” said Gerard, “this is likely to be a tedious business for +you.” + +Teresa opened her eyes. + +“What was ever done without a little patience?” She added mildly, “We +will knock at every door at Rome but you shall have justice.” + +“But, madama, I think we are dogged. I noticed a man that follows us, +sometimes afar, sometimes close.” + +“I have seen it,” said Teresa coldly; but her cheek coloured faintly. +“It is my poor Lodovico.” + +She stopped and turned, and beckoned with her finger. + +A figure approached them somewhat unwillingly. + +When he came up, she gazed him full in the face, and he looked sheepish. + +“Lodovico mio,” said she, “know this young Ser, of whom I have so often +spoken to thee. Know him and love him, for he it was who saved thy wife +and child.” + +At these last words Lodovico, who had been bowing and grinning +artificially, suddenly changed to an expression of heartfelt gratitude, +and embraced Gerard warmly. + +Yet somehow there was something in the man's original manner, and his +having followed his wife by stealth, that made Gerard uncomfortable +under this caress. However, he said, “We shall have your company, Ser +Lodovico?” + +“No, signor,” replied Lodovico, “I go not on that side Tiber.” + +“Addio, then,” said Teresa significantly. + +“When shall you return home, Teresa mia?” + +“When I have done mine errand, Lodovico.” + +They pursued their way in silence. Teresa now wore a sad and almost +gloomy air. + +To be brief, Appia Claudia was merciful, and did not send them over +Tiber again, but only a hundred yards down the street to Lucretia, who +kept the glove shop; she it was wanted a writer; but what for, Appia +Claudia could not conceive. Lucretia was a merry little dame, who +received them heartily enough, and told them she wanted no writer, kept +all her accounts in her head. “It was for my confessor, Father Colonna; +he is mad after them.” + +“I have heard of his excellency,” said Teresa. + +“Who has not?” + +“But, good dame, he is a friar; he has made vow of poverty. I cannot let +the young man write and not be paid. He saved my child at sea. + +“Did he now?” And Lucretia cast an approving look on Gerard. “Well, make +your mind easy; a Colonna never wants for money. The good father has +only to say the word, and the princes of his race will pour a thousand +crowns into his lap. And such a confessor, dame! the best in Rome. His +head is leagues and leagues away all the while; he never heeds what you +are saying. Why, I think no more of confessing my sins to him than of +telling them to that wall. Once, to try him, I confessed, along with +the rest, as how I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her in +a pie. Well, when my voice left off confessing, he started out of his +dream, and says he, a mustering up a gloom, 'My erring sister, say three +Paternosters and three Ave Marias kneeling, and eat no butter nor eggs +next Wednesday, and pax vobiscum!' and off a went with his hands behind +him, looking as if there was no such thing as me in the world.” + +Teresa waited patiently, then calmly brought this discursive lady back +to the point: “Would she be so kind as go with this good youth to the +friar and speak for him?” + +“Alack! how can I leave my shop? And what need? His door is aye open to +writers, and painters, and scholars, and all such cattle. Why, one day +he would not receive the Duke d'Urbino, because a learned Greek was +closeted with him, and the friar's head and his so close together over a +dusty parchment just come in from Greece, as you could put one cowl over +the pair. His wench Onesta told me. She mostly looks in here for a chat +when she goes an errand.” + +“This is the man for thee, my friend,” said Teresa. + +“All you have to do,” continued Lucretia, “is to go to his lodgings (my +boy shall show them you), and tell Onesta you come from me, and you are +a writer, and she will take you up to him. If you put a piece of silver +in the wench's hand, 'twill do you no harm: that stands to reason.” + +“I have silver,” said Teresa warmly. + +“But stay,” said Lucretia, “mind one thing. What the young man saith he +can do, that he must be able to do, or let him shun the good friar like +poison. He is a very wild beast against all bunglers. Why, 'twas but +t'other day, one brought him an ill-carved crucifix. Says he, 'Is this +how you present “Salvator Mundi?” who died for you in mortal agony; and +you go and grudge him careful work. This slovenly gimcrack, a crucifix? +But that it is a crucifix of some sort, and I am a holy man, I'd dust +your jacket with your crucifix,' says he. Onesta heard every word +through the key-hole; so mind.” + +“Have no fears, madama,” said Teresa loftily. “I will answer for his +ability; he saved my child.” + +Gerard was not subtle enough to appreciate this conclusion; and was so +far from sharing Teresa's confidence that he begged a respite. He would +rather not go to the friar to-day: would not to-morrow do as well? + +“Here is a coward for ye,” said Lucretia. + +“No, he is not a coward,” said Teresa, firing up; “he is modest.” + +“I am afraid of this high-born, fastidious friar,” said Gerard, +“Consider he has seen the handiwork of all the writers in Italy, dear +dame Teresa; if you would but let me prepare a better piece of work than +yet I have done, and then to-morrow I will face him with it.” + +“I consent,” said Teresa. + +They walked home together. + +Not far from his own lodging was a shop that sold vellum. There was a +beautiful white skin in the window. Gerard looked at it wistfully; but +he knew he could not pay for it; so he went on rather hastily. However, +he soon made up his mind where to get vellum, and parting with Teresa at +his own door, ran hastily upstairs, and took the bond he had brought all +the way from Sevenbergen, and laid it with a sigh on the table. He then +prepared with his chemicals to erase the old writing; but as this was +his last chance of reading it, he now overcame his deadly repugnance +to bad writing, and proceeded to decipher the deed in spite of its +detestable contractions. It appeared by this deed that Ghysbrecht Van +Swieten was to advance some money to Floris Brandt on a piece of land, +and was to repay himself out of the rent. + +On this Gerard felt it would be imprudent and improper to destroy the +deed. On the contrary, he vowed to decipher every word, at his leisure. +He went downstairs, determined to buy a small piece of vellum with his +half of the card-money. + +At the bottom of the stairs he found the landlady and Teresa talking. At +sight of him the former cried, “Here he is. You are caught, donna mia. +See what she has bought you?” And whipped out from under her apron the +very skin of vellum Gerard had longed for. + +“Why, dame! why, donna Teresa!” And he was speechless with pleasure and +astonishment. + +“Dear donna Teresa, there is not a skin in all Rome like it. However +came you to hit on this one? 'Tis glamour.” + +“Alas, dear boy, did not thine eye rest on it with desire? and didst thou +not sigh in turning away from it? And was it for Teresa to let thee want +the thing after that?” + +“What sagacity! what goodness, madama! Oh, dame, I never thought I +should possess this. What did you pay for it?” + +“I forget. Addio, Fiammina. Addio, Ser Gerard. Be happy, be prosperous, +as you are good.” And the Roman matron glided away while Gerard was +hesitating, and thinking how to offer to pay so stately a creature for +her purchase. + +The next day in the afternoon he went to Lucretia, and her boy took him +to Fra Colonna's lodgings. He announced his business, and feed Onesta, +and she took him up to the friar. Gerard entered with a beating heart. +The room, a large one, was strewed and heaped with objects of art, +antiquity, and learning, lying about in rich profusion, and confusion. +Manuscripts, pictures, carvings in wood and ivory, musical instruments; +and in this glorious chaos sat the friar, poring intently over an +Arabian manuscript. + +He looked up a little peevishly at the interruption. Onesta whispered in +his ear. + +“Very well,” said he. “Let him be seated. Stay; young man, show me how +you write?” And he threw Gerard a piece of paper, and pointed to an +inkhorn. + +“So please you, reverend father,” said Gerard, “my hand it trembleth too +much at this moment; but last night I wrote a vellum page of Greek, and +the Latin version by its side, to show the various character.” + +“Show it me?” + +Gerard brought the work to him in fear and trembling; then stood +heart-sick, awaiting his verdict. + +When it came it staggered him. For the verdict was, a Dominican falling +on his neck. + +The next day an event took place in Holland, the effect of which on +Gerard's destiny, no mortal at the time, nor even my intelligent reader +now, could, I think, foresee. + +Marched up to Eli's door a pageant brave to the eye of sense, and to the +vulgar judgment noble, but to the philosophic, pitiable more or less. + +It looked one animal, a centaur; but on severe analysis proved two. The +human half were sadly bedizened with those two metals, to clothe his +carcass with which and line his pouch, man has now and then disposed of +his soul: still the horse was the vainer brute of the two; he was far +worse beflounced, bebonneted, and bemantled, than any fair lady regnante +crinolina. For the man, under the colour of a warming-pan, retained +Nature's outline. But it was subaudi equum! Scarce a pennyweight of +honest horse-flesh to be seen. Our crinoline spares the noble parts of +women, and makes but the baser parts gigantic (why this preference?); +but this poor animal from stem to stern was swamped in finery. His ears +were hid in great sheaths of white linen tipped with silver and blue. +His body swaddled in stiff gorgeous cloths descending to the ground, +except just in front, where they left him room to mince. His tail, +though dear to memory, no doubt, was lost to sight, being tucked in +heaven knows how. Only his eyes shone out like goggles, through two +holes pierced in the wall of haberdashery, and his little front hoofs +peeped in and out like rats. + +Yet did this compound, gorgeous and irrational, represent power; +absolute power: it came straight from a tournament at the Duke's court, +which being on a progress, lay last night at a neighbouring town--to +execute the behests of royalty. + +“What ho!” cried the upper half, and on Eli emerging, with his wife +behind him, saluted them. “Peace be with you, good people. Rejoice! I am +come for your dwarf.” + +Eli looked amazed, and said nothing. But Catherine screamed over his +shoulder, “You have mistook your road, good man; here abides no dwarf.” + +“Nay, wife, he means our Giles, who is somewhat small of stature: why +gainsay what gainsayed may not be?” + +“Ay!” cried the pageant, “that is he, and discourseth like the big +taber. + +“His breast is sound for that matter,” said Catherine sharply. + +“And prompt with his fists though at long odds.” + +“Else how would the poor thing keep his head in such a world as this?” + +“'Tis well said, dame. Art as ready with thy weapon as he; art his +mother, likely. So bring him forth, and that presently. See, they lead a +stunted mule for him. The Duke hath need of him, sore need; we are clean +out o' dwarven, and tiger-cats, which may not be, whiles earth them +yieldeth. Our last hop o' my thumb tumbled down the well t'other day.” + +“And think you I'll let my darling go to such an ill-guided house as +you, where the reckless trollops of servants close not the well mouth, +but leave it open to trap innocents, like wolven?” + +The representative of autocracy lost patience at this unwonted +opposition, and with stern look and voice bade her bethink her whether +it was the better of the two; “to have your abortion at court fed like a +bishop and put on like a prince, or to have all your heads stricken off +and borne on poles, with the bellman crying, 'Behold the heads of hardy +rebels, which having by good luck a misbegotten son, did traitorously +grudge him to the Duke, who is the true father of all his folk, little +or mickle?' + +“Nay,” said Eli sadly, “miscall us not. We be true folk, and neither +rebels nor traitors. But 'tis sudden, and the poor lad is our true flesh +and blood, and hath of late given proof of more sense than heretofore.” + +“Avails not threatening our lives,” whimpered Catherine; “we grudge him +not to the Duke; but in sooth he cannot go; his linen is all in holes. +So there is an end.” + +But the male mind resisted this crusher. + +“Think you the Duke will not find linen, and cloth of gold to boot? None +so brave, none so affected, at court, as our monsters, big or wee.” + +How long the dispute might have lasted, before the iron arguments of +despotism achieved the inevitable victory, I know not; but it was cut +short by a party whom neither disputant had deigned to consult. + +The bone of contention walked out of the house, and sided with monarchy. + +“If my folk are mad, I am not,” he roared. “I'll go with you and on the +instant.” + +At this Catherine set up a piteous cry. She saw another of her brood +escaping from under her wing into some unknown element. Giles was not +quite insensible to her distress, so simple yet so eloquent. He said, +“Nay, take not on, mother! Why, 'tis a godsend. And I am sick of this, +ever since Gerard left it.” + +“Ah, cruel Giles! Should ye not rather say she is bereaved of Gerard: +the more need of you to stay aside her and comfort her.” + +“Oh! I am not going to Rome. Not such a fool. I shall never be farther +than Rotterdam; and I'll often come and see you; and if I like not the +place, who shall keep me there? Not all the dukes in Christendom.” + +“Good sense lies in little bulk,” said the emissary approvingly. +“Therefore, Master Giles, buss the old folk, and thank them for +misbegetting of thee; and ho! you--bring hither his mule.” + +One of his retinue brought up the dwarf mule. Giles refused it with +scorn. And on being asked the reason, said it was not just. + +“What! would ye throw all into one scale! Put muckle to muckle, and +little to wee! Besides, I hate and scorn small things. I'll go on the +highest horse here, or not at all.” + +The pursuivant eyed him attentively a moment. He then adopted a +courteous manner. “I shall study your will in all things reasonable. +(Dismount, Eric, yours is the highest horse.) And if you would halt in +the town an hour or so, while you bid them farewell, say but the word, +and your pleasure shall be my delight.” + +Giles reflected. + +“Master,” said he, “if we wait a month, 'twill be still the same: my +mother is a good soul, but her body is bigger than her spirit. We shall +not part without a tear or two, and the quicker 'tis done the fewer; so +bring yon horse to me.” + +Catherine threw her apron over her face and sobbed. The high horse was +brought, and Giles was for swarming up his tail, like a rope; but one +of the servants cried out hastily, “Forbear, for he kicketh.” “I'll kick +him,” said Giles. “Bring him close beneath this window, and I'll learn +you all how to mount a horse which kicketh, and will not be clomb by +the tail, the staircase of a horse.” And he dashed into the house, and +almost immediately reappeared at an upper window, with a rope in his +hand. He fastened an end somehow, and holding the other, descended +as swift and smooth as an oiled thunderbolt in a groove, and lighted +astride his high horse as unperceived by that animal as a fly settling +on him. + +The official lifted his hands to heaven in mawkish admiration. “I have +gotten a pearl,” thought he, “and wow but this will be a good day's work +for me.” + +“Come, father, come, mother, buss me, and bless me, and off I go.” + +Eli gave him his blessing, and bade him be honest and true, and a credit +to his folk. Catherine could not speak, but clung to him with many sobs +and embraces; and even through the mist of tears her eye detected in a +moment the little rent in his sleeve he had made getting out of window, +and she whipped out her needle and mended it then and there, and her +tears fell on his arm the while, unheeded--except by those unfleshly +eyes, with which they say the very air is thronged. + +And so the dwarf mounted the high horse, and rode away complacent with +the old hand laying the court butter on his back with a trowel. + +Little recked Perpusillus of two poor silly females that sat by the +bereaved hearth, rocking themselves, and weeping, and discussing all his +virtues, and how his mind had opened lately, and blind as two beetles to +his faults, who rode away from them, jocund and bold. + +Ingentes animos angusto pectore versans. + +Arrived at court he speedily became a great favourite. + +One strange propensity of his electrified the palace; but on account +of his small size, and for variety's sake, and as a monster, he was +indulged on it. In a word, he was let speak the truth. + +It is an unpopular thing. + +He made it an intolerable one. + +Bawled it. + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +Happy the man who has two chain-cables: Merit, and Women. + +Oh, that I, like Gerard, had a 'chaine des dames' to pull up by. + +I would be prose laureat, or professor of the spasmodic, or something, +in no time. En attendant, I will sketch the Fra Colonna. + +The true revivers of ancient learning and philosophy were two writers of +fiction--Petrarch and Boccaccio. + +Their labours were not crowned with great, public, and immediate +success; but they sowed the good seed; and it never perished, but +quickened in the soil, awaiting sunshine. + +From their day Italy was never without a native scholar or two, +versed in Greek; and each learned Greek who landed there was received +fraternally. The fourteenth century, ere its close, saw the birth +of Poggio, Valla, and the elder Guarino; and early in the fifteenth +Florence under Cosmo de Medici was a nest of Platonists. These, headed +by Gemistus Pletho, a born Greek, began about A.D. 1440 to write down +Aristotle. For few minds are big enough to be just to great A without +being unjust to capital B. + +Theodore Gaza defended that great man with moderation; George of +Trebizond with acerbity, and retorted on Plato. Then Cardinal Bessarion, +another born Greek, resisted the said George, and his idol, in a tract +“Adversus calumniatorem Platonis.” + +Pugnacity, whether wise or not, is a form of vitality. Born without +controversial bile in so zealous an epoch, Francesco Colonna, a young +nobleman of Florence, lived for the arts. At twenty he turned Dominican +friar. His object was quiet study. He retired from idle company, and +faction fights, the humming and the stinging of the human hive, to St. +Dominic and the Nine Muses. + +An eager student of languages, pictures, statues, chronology, coins, +and monumental inscriptions. These last loosened his faith in popular +histories. + +He travelled many years in the East, and returned laden with spoils; +master of several choice MSS., and versed in Greek and Latin, Hebrew and +Syriac. He found his country had not stood still. Other lettered princes +besides Cosmo had sprung up. Alfonso King of Naples, Nicolas d'Este, +Lionel d'Este, etc. Above all, his old friend Thomas of Sarzana had been +made Pope, and had lent a mighty impulse to letters; had accumulated +5000 MSS. in the library of the Vatican, and had set Poggio to translate +Diodorus Siculus and Xenophon's Cyropaedia, Laurentius Valla to +translate Herodotus and Thucydides, Theodore Gaza, Theophrastus; George +of Trebizond, Eusebius, and certain treatises of Plato, etc. etc. + +The monk found Plato and Aristotle under armistice, but Poggio and +Valla at loggerheads over verbs and nouns, and on fire with odium +philologicum. All this was heaven; and he settled down in his native +land, his life a rosy dream. None so happy as the versatile, +provided they have not their bread to make by it. And Fra Colonna was +Versatility. He knew seven or eight languages, and a little mathematics; +could write a bit, paint a bit, model a bit, sing a bit, strum a bit; +and could relish superior excellence in all these branches. For +this last trait he deserved to be as happy as he was. For, gauge the +intellects of your acquaintances, and you will find but few whose minds +are neither deaf, nor blind, nor dead to some great art or science-- + +“And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.” + +And such of them as are conceited as well as stupid shall even parade +instead of blushing for the holes in their intellects. + +A zealot in art, the friar was a sceptic in religion. + +In every age there are a few men who hold the opinions of another age, +past or future. Being a lump of simplicity, his sceptism was as naif as +his enthusiasm. He affected to look on the religious ceremonies of his +day as his models, the heathen philosophers, regarded the worship of +gods and departed heroes: mummeries good for the populace. But here his +mind drew unconsciously a droll distinction. Whatever Christian ceremony +his learning taught him was of purely pagan origin, that he respected, +out of respect for antiquity; though had he, with his turn of mind, +been a pagan and its contemporary, he would have scorned it from his +philosophic heights. + +Fra Colonna was charmed with his new artist, and having the run of half +the palaces in Rome, sounded his praises so, that he was soon called +upon to resign him. He told Gerard what great princes wanted him. “But I +am so happy with you, father,” objected Gerard. “Fiddlestick about being +happy with me,” said Fra Colonna; “you must not be happy; you must be a +man of the world; the grand lesson I impress on the young is, be a man +of the world. Now these Montesini can pay you three times as much as I +can, and they shall too-by Jupiter.” + +And the friar clapped a terrific price on Gerard's pen. It was acceded +to without a murmur. Much higher prices were going for copying than +authorship ever obtained for centuries under the printing press. + +Gerard had three hundred crowns for Aristotle's treatise on rhetoric. + +The great are mighty sweet upon all their pets, while the fancy lasts; +and in the rage for Greek MSS. the handsome writer soon became a pet, +and nobles of both sexes caressed him like a lap dog. + +It would have turned a vain fellow's head; but the canny Dutchman +saw the steel hand beneath the velvet glove, and did not presume. +Nevertheless it was a proud day for him when he found himself seated +with Fra Colonna at the table of his present employer, Cardinal +Bessarion. They were about a mile from the top of that table; but never +mind, there they were and Gerard had the advantage of seeing roast +pheasants dished up with all their feathers as if they had just flown +out of a coppice instead of off the spit: also chickens cooked in +bottles, and tender as peaches. But the grand novelty was the napkins, +surpassingly fine, and folded into cocked hats, and birds' wings, and +fans, etc., instead of lying flat. This electrified Gerard; though my +readers have seen the dazzling phenomenon without tumbling backwards +chair and all. + +After dinner the tables were split in pieces, and carried away, and lo, +under each was another table spread with sweetmeats. The signoras and +signorinas fell upon them and gormandized; but the signors eyed them +with reasonable suspicion. + +“But, dear father,” objected Gerard, “I see not the bifurcal daggers, +with which men say his excellency armeth the left hand of a man.” + +“Nay, 'tis the Cardinal Orsini which hath invented yon peevish +instrument for his guests to fumble their meat withal. One, being in +haste, did skewer his tongue to his palate with it, I hear; O tempora, +O mores! The ancients, reclining godlike at their feasts, how had they +spurned such pedantries.” + +As soon as the ladies had disported themselves among the sugar-plums, +the tables were suddenly removed, and the guests sat in a row against +the wall. Then came in, ducking and scraping, two ecclesiastics with +lutes, and kneeled at the cardinal's feet and there sang the service +of the day; then retired with a deep obeisance: In answer to which +the cardinal fingered his skull cap as our late Iron Duke his hat: the +company dispersed, and Gerard had dined with a cardinal and one that had +thrice just missed being pope. + +But greater honour was in store. + +One day the cardinal sent for him, and after praising the beauty of his +work took him in his coach to the Vatican; and up a private stair to a +luxurious little room, with a great oriel window. Here were inkstands, +sloping frames for writing on, and all the instruments of art. The +cardinal whispered a courtier, and presently the Pope's private +secretary appeared with a glorious grimy old MS. of Plutarch's Lives. +And soon Gerard was seated alone copying it, awe-struck, yet half +delighted at the thought that his holiness would handle his work and +read it. + +The papal inkstands were all glorious externally; but within the ink +was vile. But Gerard carried ever good ink, home-made, in a dirty little +inkhorn: he prayed on his knees for a firm and skilful hand, and set to +work. + +One side of his room was nearly occupied by a massive curtain divided +in the centre; but its ample folds overlapped. After a while Gerard +felt drawn to peep through that curtain. He resisted the impulse. It +returned. It overpowered him. He left Plutarch; stole across the matted +floor; took the folds of the curtain, and gently gathered them up with +his fingers, and putting his nose through the chink ran it against a +cold steel halbert. Two soldiers, armed cap-a-pie, were holding their +glittering weapons crossed in a triangle. Gerard drew swiftly back; but +in that instant he heard the soft murmur of voices, and saw a group of +persons cringing before some hidden figure. + +He never repeated his attempt to pry through the guarded curtain; but +often eyed it. Every hour or so an ecclesiastic peeped in, eyed him, +chilled him, and exit. All this was gloomy, and mechanical. But the next +day a gentleman, richly armed, bounced in, and glared at him. “What is +toward here?” said he. + +Gerard told him he was writing out Plutarch, with the help of the +saints. The spark said he did not know the signor in question. Gerard +explained the circumstances of time and space that had deprived the +Signor Plutarch of the advantage of the spark's conversation. + +“Oh! one of those old dead Greeks they keep such a coil about.” + +“Ay, signor, one of them, who, being dead, yet live.” + +“I understand you not, young man,” said the noble, with all the dignity +of ignorance. “What did the old fellow write? Love stories?” and his +eyes sparkled: “merry tales, like Boccaccio.” + +“Nay, lives of heroes and sages.” + +“Soldiers and popes?” + +“Soldiers and princes.” + +“Wilt read me of them some day?” + +“And willingly, signor. But what would they say who employ me, were I to +break off work?” + +“Oh, never heed that; know you not who I am? I am Jacques Bonaventura, +nephew to his holiness the Pope, and captain of his guards. And I came +here to look after my fellows. I trow they have turned them out of +their room for you.” Signor Bonaventura then hurried away. This lively +companion, however, having acquired a habit of running into that little +room, and finding Gerard good company, often looked in on him, and +chattered ephemeralities while Gerard wrote the immortal lives. + +One day he came a changed and moody man, and threw himself into chair, +crying, “Ah, traitress! traitress!” Gerard inquired what was his ill? +“Traitress! traitress!” was the reply. Whereupon Gerard wrote Plutarch. +Then says Bonaventura, “I am melancholy; and for our Lady's sake read +me a story out of Ser Plutarcho, to soothe my bile: in all that Greek is +there nought about lovers betrayed?” + +Gerard read him the life of Alexander. He got excited, marched about the +room, and embracing the reader, vowed to shun “soft delights,” that bed +of nettles, and follow glory. + +Who so happy now as Gerard? His art was honoured, and fabulous prices +paid for it; in a year or two he should return by sea to Holland, with +good store of money, and set up with his beloved Margaret in Bruges, or +Antwerp, or dear Augsburg, and end their days in peace, and love, and +healthy, happy labour. His heart never strayed an instant from her. + +In his prosperity he did not forget poor Pietro. He took the Fra Colonna +to see his picture. The friar inspected it severely and closely, fell on +the artist's neck, and carried the picture to one of the Colonnas, who +gave a noble price for it. + +Pietro descended to the first floor; and lived like a gentleman. + +But Gerard remained in his garret. To increase his expenses would have +been to postpone his return to Margaret. Luxury had no charms for the +single-hearted one, when opposed to love. + +Jacques Bonaventura made him acquainted with other gay young fellows. +They loved him, and sought to entice him into vice, and other expenses. +But he begged humbly to be excused. So he escaped that temptation. But a +greater was behind. + + + +CHAPTER LX + +FRA COLONNA had the run of the Pope's library, and sometimes left +off work at the same hour and walked the city with Gerard, on which +occasions the happy artist saw all things en beau, and was wrapped up in +the grandeur of Rome and its churches, palaces, and ruins. + +The friar granted the ruins, but threw cold water on the rest. + +“This place Rome? It is but the tomb of mighty Rome.” He showed Gerard +that twenty or thirty feet of the old triumphal arches were underground, +and that the modern streets ran over ancient palaces, and over the tops +of columns; and coupling this with the comparatively narrow limits of +the modern city, and the gigantic vestiges of antiquity that peeped +aboveground here and there, he uttered a somewhat remarkable simile. “I +tell thee this village they call Rome is but as one of those swallows' +nests ye shall see built on the eaves of a decayed abbey.” + +“Old Rome must indeed have been fair then,” said Gerard. + +“Judge for yourself, my son; you see the great sewer, the work of the +Romans in their very childhood, and shall outlast Vesuvius. You see the +fragments of the Temple of Peace. How would you look could you see also +the Capitol with its five-and-twenty temples? Do but note this Monte +Savello; what is it, an it pleases you, but the ruins of the ancient +theatre of Marcellus? and as for Testacio, one of the highest hills in +modern Rome, it is but an ancient dust heap; the women of old Rome flung +their broken pots and pans there, and lo--a mountain. + +“'Ex pede Herculem; ex ungue leonem.'” + +Gerard listened respectfully, but when the holy friar proceeded by +analogy to imply that the moral superiority of the heathen Romans was +proportionally grand, he resisted stoutly. “Has then the world lost +by Christ His coming?” said he; but blushed, for he felt himself +reproaching his benefactor. + +“Saints forbid!” said the friar. “'Twere heresy to say so.” And having +made this direct concession, he proceeded gradually to evade it by +subtle circumlocution, and reached the forbidden door by the spiral back +staircase. In the midst of all which they came to a church with a knot +of persons in the porch. A demon was being exorcised within. Now Fra +Colonna had a way of uttering a curious sort of little moan, when things +Zeno or Epicurus would not have swallowed were presented to him as +facts. This moan conveyed to such as had often heard it not only strong +dissent, but pity for human credulity, ignorance, and error, especially +of course when it blinded men to the merits of Pagandom. + +The friar moaned, and said, “Then come away. + +“Nay, father, prithee! prithee! I ne'er saw a divell cast out.” + +The friar accompanied Gerard into the church, but had a good shrug +first. There they found the demoniac forced down on his knees before the +altar with a scarf tied round his neck, by which the officiating priest +held him like a dog in a chain. + +Not many persons were present, for fame had put forth that the last +demon cast out in that church went no farther than into one of the +company: “as a cony ferreted out of one burrow runs to the next.” + +When Gerard and the friar came up, the priest seemed to think there were +now spectators enough; and began. + +He faced the demoniac, breviary in hand, and first set himself to learn +the individual's name with whom he had to deal. + +“Come out, Ashtaroth. Oho! it is not you then. Come out, Belial. Come +out, Tatzi. Come out, Eza. No; he trembles not. Come out, Azymoth. Come +out, Feriander. Come out, Foletho. Come out, Astyma. Come out, Nebul. +Aha! what, have I found ye? 'tis thou, thou reptile; at thine old +tricks. Let us pray! + +“Oh, Lord, we pray thee to drive the foul fiend Nebul out of this thy +creature: out of his hair, and his eyes, out of his nose, out of his +mouth, out of his ears, out of his gums, out of his teeth, out of his +shoulders, out of his arms, legs, loins, stomach, bowels, thighs, knees, +calves, feet, ankles, finger-nails, toe-nails, and soul. Amen.” + +The priest then rose from his knees, and turning to the company, said, +with quiet geniality, “Gentles, we have here as obstinate a divell as +you may see in a summer day.” Then, facing the patient, he spoke to +him with great rigour, sometimes addressing 'the man and sometimes the +fiend, and they answered him in turn through the same mouth, now saying +that they hated those holy names the priest kept uttering, and now +complaining they did feel so bad in their inside. + +It was the priest who first confounded the victim and the culprit in +idea, by pitching into the former, cuffing him soundly, kicking him, and +spitting repeatedly in his face. Then he took a candle and lighted it, +and turned it down, and burned it till it burned his fingers; when he +dropped it double quick. Then took the custodial; and showed the patient +the Corpus Domini within. Then burned another candle as before, but more +cautiously: then spoke civilly to the demoniac in his human character, +dismissed him, and received the compliments of the company. + +“Good father,” said Gerard, “how you have their names by heart. Our +northern priests have no such exquisite knowledge of the hellish +squadrons.” + +“Ay, young man, here we know all their names, and eke their ways, the +reptiles. This Nebul is a bitter hard one to hunt out.” + +He then told the company in the most affable way several of his +experiences; concluding with his feat of yesterday, when he drove a +great hulking fiend out of a woman by her mouth, leaving behind him +certain nails, and pins, and a tuft of his own hair, and cried out in a +voice of anguish, “'Tis not thou that conquers me. See that stone on +the window sill. Know that the angel Gabriel coming down to earth once +lighted on that stone: 'tis that has done my business.” + +The friar moaned. “And you believed him?” + +“Certes! who but an infidel has discredited a revelation so precise.” + +“What, believe the father of lies? That is pushing credulity beyond the +age.” + +“Oh, a liar does not always lie.” + +“Ay doth he whenever he tells an improbable story to begin, and shows +you a holy relic; arms you against the Satanic host. Fiends (if any) be +not so simple. Shouldst have answered him out of antiquity-- + +'Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.' + +Some blackguard chopped his wife's head off on that stone, young man; +you take my word for it.” And the friar hurried Gerard away. + +“Alack, father, I fear you abashed the good priest.” + +“Ay, by Pollux,” said the friar, with a chuckle; “I blistered him with +a single touch of 'Socratic interrogation.' What modern can parry the +weapons of antiquity.” + +One afternoon, when Gerard had finished his day's work, a fine lackey +came and demanded his attendance at the Palace Cesarini. He went, and +was ushered into a noble apartment; there was a girl seated in it, +working on a tapestry. She rose and left the room, and said she would +let her mistress know. + +A good hour did Gerard cool his heels in that great room, and at last +he began to fret. “These nobles think nothing of a poor fellow's time.” + However, just as he was making up his mind to slip out, and go about +his business, the door opened, and a superb beauty entered the room, +followed by two maids. It was the young princess of the house of +Cesarini. She came in talking rather loudly and haughtily to her +dependents, but at sight of Gerard lowered her voice to a very feminine +tone, and said, “Are you the writer, messer?” + +“I am, Signora. + +“'Tis well.” + +She then seated herself; Gerard and her maids remained standing. + +“What is your name, good youth?” + +“Gerard, signora.” + +“Gerard? body of Bacchus! is that the name of a human creature?” + +“It is a Dutch name, signora. I was born at Tergou, in Holland.” + +“A harsh name, girls, for so well-favoured a youth; what say you?” + +The maids assented warmly. + +“What did I send for him for?” inquired the lady, with lofty languor. +“Ah, I remember. Be seated, Ser Gerardo, and write me a letter to Ercole +Orsini, my lover; at least he says so.” + +Gerard seated himself, took out paper and ink, and looked up to the +princess for instructions. + +She, seated on a much higher chair, almost a throne, looked down at him +with eyes equally inquiring. + +“Well, Gerardo.” + +“I am ready, your excellence.” + +“Write, then.” + +“I but await the words.” + +“And who, think you, is to provide them?” + +“Who but your grace, whose letter it is to be?” + +“Gramercy! what, you writers, find you not the words? What avails your +art without the words? I doubt you are an impostor, Gerardo.” + +“Nay, Signora, I am none. I might make shift to put your highness's +speech into grammar, as well as writing. But I cannot interpret your +silence. Therefore speak what is in your heart, and I will empaper it +before your eyes.” + +“But there is nothing in my heart. And sometimes I think I have got no +heart.” + +“What is in your mind, then?” + +“But there is nothing in my mind; nor my head neither.” + +“Then why write at all?” + +“Why, indeed? That is the first word of sense either you or I have +spoken, Gerardo. Pestilence seize him! why writeth he not first? then I +could say nay to this, and ay to that, withouten headache. Also is it a +lady's part to say the first word?” + +“No, signora: the last.” + +“It is well spoken, Gerardo. Ha! ha! Shalt have a gold piece for thy +wit. Give me my purse!” And she paid him for the article on the nail a +la moyen age. Money never yet chilled zeal. Gerard, after getting a gold +piece so cheap, felt bound to pull her out of her difficulty, if the wit +of man might achieve it. “Signorina,” said he, “these things are only +hard because folk attempt too much, are artificial and labour phrases. +Do but figure to yourself the signor you love--” + +“I love him not.” + +“Well, then, the signor you love not-seated at this table, and dict to +me just what you would say to him.” + +“Well, if he sat there, I should say, 'Go away.'” + +Gerard, who was flourishing his pen by way of preparation, laid it down +with a groan. + +“And when he was gone,” said Floretta, “your highness would say, 'Come +back.'” + +“Like enough, wench. Now silence, all, and let me think. He pestered me +to write, and I promised; so mine honour is engaged. What lie shall I +tell the Gerardo to tell the fool?” and she turned her head away from +them and fell into deep thought, with her noble chin resting on her +white hand, half clenched. + +She was so lovely and statuesque, and looked so inspired with thoughts +celestial, as she sat thus, impregnating herself with mendacity, that +Gerard forgot all, except art, and proceeded eagerly to transfer that +exquisite profile to paper. + +He had very nearly finished when the fair statue turned brusquely round +and looked at him. + +“Nay, Signora,” said he, a little peevishly; “for Heaven's sake change +not your posture--'twas perfect. See, you are nearly finished.” + +All eyes were instantly on the work, and all tongues active. + +“How like! and done in a minute: nay, methinks her highness's chin is +not quite so.” + +“Oh, a touch will make that right.” + +“What a pity 'tis not coloured. I'm all for colours. Hang black and +white! And her highness hath such a lovely skin. Take away her skin, and +half her beauty is lost.” + +“Peace. Can you colour, Ser Gerardo?” + +“Ay, signorina. I am a poor hand at oils; there shines my friend Pietro; +but in this small way I can tint you to the life, if you have time to +waste on such vanity.” + +“Call you this vanity? And for time, it hangs on me like lead. Send for +your colours now--quick, this moment--for love of all the saints.” + +“Nay, signorina, I must prepare them. I could come at the same time.” + +“So be it. And you, Floretta, see that he be admitted at all hours. +Alack! Leave my head! leave my head!” + +“Forgive me, Signora; I thought to prepare it at home to receive the +colours. But I will leave it. And now let us despatch the letter.” + +“What letter?” + +“To the Signor Orsini.” + +“And shall I waste my time on such vanity as writing letters--and to +that empty creature, to whom I am as indifferent as the moon? Nay, not +indifferent, for I have just discovered my real sentiments. I hate him +and despise him. Girls, I here forbid you once for all to mention that +signor's name to me again; else I'll whip you till the blood comes. You +know how I can lay on when I'm roused.” + +“We do. We do.” + +“Then provoke me not to it;” and her eye flashed daggers, and she turned +to Gerard all instantaneous honey. “Addio, il Gerardo.” And Gerard bowed +himself out of this velvet tiger's den. + +He came next day and coloured her; and next he was set to make a +portrait of her on a large scale; and then a full-length figure; and +he was obliged to set apart two hours in the afternoon, for drawing and +painting this princess, whose beauty and vanity were prodigious, and +candidates for a portrait of her numerous. Here the thriving Gerard +found a new and fruitful source of income. + +Margaret seemed nearer and nearer. + + +It was Holy Thursday. No work this day. Fra Colonna and Gerard sat in a +window and saw the religious processions. Their number and pious ardour +thrilled Gerard with the devotion that now seemed to animate the whole +people, lately bent on earthly joys. + +Presently the Pope came pacing majestically at the head of his +cardinals, in a red hat, white cloak, a capuchin of red velvet, and +riding a lovely white Neapolitan barb, caparisoned with red velvet +fringed and tasselled with gold; a hundred horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, +rode behind him with their lances erected, the butt-end resting on the +man's thigh. The cardinals went uncovered, all but one, de Medicis, who +rode close to the Pope and conversed with him as with an equal. At every +fifteen steps the Pope stopped a single moment, and gave the people his +blessing, then on again. + +Gerard and the friar now came down, and threading some by-streets +reached the portico of one of the seven churches. It was hung with +black, and soon the Pope and cardinals, who had entered the church +by another door, issued forth, and stood with torches on the steps, +separated by barriers from the people; then a canon read a Latin Bull, +excommunicating several persons by name, especially such princes as were +keeping the Church out of any of her temporal possessions. + +At this awful ceremony Gerard trembled, and so did the people. But two +of the cardinals spoiled the effect by laughing unreservedly the whole +time. + +When this was ended, the black cloth was removed, and revealed a gay +panoply; and the Pope blessed the people, and ended by throwing his +torch among them: so did two cardinals. Instantly there was a scramble +for the torches: they were fought for, and torn in pieces by the +candidates, so devoutly that small fragments were gained at the price +of black eyes, bloody noses, and burnt fingers; In which hurtling his +holiness and suite withdrew in peace. + +And now there was a cry, and the crowd rushed to a square where was a +large, open stage: several priests were upon it praying. They rose, and +with great ceremony donned red gloves. Then one of their number kneeled, +and with signs of the lowest reverence drew forth from a shrine a square +frame, like that of a mirror, and inside was as it were the impression +of a face. + +It was the Verum icon, or true impression of our Saviour's face, taken +at the very moment of His most mortal agony for us. Received as it was +without a grain of doubt, imagine how it moved every Christian heart. + +The people threw themselves on their faces when the priest raised it on +high; and cries of pity were in every mouth, and tears in almost every +eye. After a while the people rose, and then the priest went round the +platform, showing it for a single moment to the nearest; and at each +sight loud cries of pity and devotion burst forth. + +Soon after this the friends fell in with a procession of Flagellants, +flogging their bare shoulders till the blood ran streaming down; but +without a sign of pain in their faces, and many of them laughing and +jesting as they lashed. The bystanders out of pity offered them wine; +they took it, but few drank it; they generally used it to free the tails +of the cat, which were hard with clotted blood, and make the next stroke +more effective. Most of them were boys, and a young woman took pity on +one fair urchin. “Alas! dear child,” said she, “why wound thy white skin +so?” “Basta,” said he, laughing, “'tis for your sins I do it, not for +mine.” + +“Hear you that?” said the friar. “Show me the whip that can whip +the vanity out of man's heart! The young monkey; how knoweth he that +stranger is a sinner more than he?” + +“Father,” said Gerard, “surely this is not to our Lord's mind. He was so +pitiful.” + +“Our Lord?” said the friar, crossing himself. “What has He to do with +this? This was a custom in Rome six hundred years before He was born. +The boys used to go through the streets, at the Lupercalia flogging +themselves. And the married women used to shove in, and try and get a +blow from the monkeys' scourges; for these blows conferred fruitfulness +in those days. A foolish trick this flagellation; but interesting to +the bystander; reminds him of the grand old heathen. We are so prone to +forget all we owe them.” + +Next they got into one of the seven churches, and saw the Pope give the +mass. The ceremony was imposing, but again--spoiled by the inconsistent +conduct of the cardinals and other prelates, who sat about the altar +with their hats on, chattering all through the mass like a flock of +geese. + +The eucharist in both kinds was tasted by an official before the Pope +would venture on it; and this surprised Gerard beyond measure. “Who is +that base man? and what doth he there?” + +“Oh, that is 'the Preguste,' and he tastes the eucharist by way of +precaution. This is the country for poison; and none fall oftener by it +than the poor Popes.” + +“Alas! so I have heard; but after the miraculous change of the bread +and wine to Christ His body and blood, poison cannot remain; gone is the +bread with all its properties and accidents; gone is the wine.” + +“So says Faith; but experience tells another tale. Scores have died in +Italy poisoned in the host.” + +“And I tell you, father, that were both bread and wine charged with +direst poison before his holiness had consecrated them, yet after +consecration I would take them both withouten fear.” + +“So would I, but for the fine arts.” + +“What mean you?” + +“Marry, that I would be as ready to leave the world as thou, were it not +for those arts, which beautify existence here below, and make it dear to +men of sense and education. No; so long as the Nine Muses strew my path +with roses of learning and art, me may Apollo inspire with wisdom and +caution, that knowing the wiles of my countrymen, I may eat poison +neither at God's altar nor at a friend's table, since, wherever I eat +it or drink it, it will assuredly cut short my mortal thread; and I am +writing a book--heart and soul in it--'The Dream of Polifilo,' the +man of many arts. So name not poison to me till that is finished and +copied.” + +And now the great bells of St. John Lateran's were rung with a clash at +short intervals, and the people hurried thither to see the heads of St. +Peter and St. Paul. + +Gerard and the friar got a good place in the church, and there was a +great curtain, and after long and breathless expectation of the people, +this curtain was drawn by jerks, and at a height of about thirty feet +were two human heads with bearded faces, that seemed alive. They were +shown no longer than the time to say an Ave Maria, and then the curtain +drawn. But they were shown in this fashion three times. St. Peter's +complexion was pale, his face oval, his beard grey and forked; his head +crowned with a papal mitre. St. Paul was dark skinned, with a thick, +square beard; his face also and head were more square and massive, and +full of resolution. + +Gerard was awe-struck. The friar approved after his fashion. + +“This exhibition of the 'imagines,' or waxen effigies of heroes and +demigods, is a venerable custom, and inciteth the vulgar to virtue by +great and invisible examples. + +“Waxen images? What, are they not the apostles themselves, embalmed, or +the like?” + +The friar moaned. + +“They did not exist in the year 800. The great old Roman families always +produced at their funerals a series of these 'imagines,' thereby tying +past and present history together, and showing the populace the +features of far-famed worthies. I can conceive nothing more thrilling or +instructive. But then the effigies were portraits made during life or +at the hour of death. These of St. Paul and St. Peter are moulded out of +pure fancy.” + +“Ah! say not so, father.” + +“But the worst is, this humour of showing them up on a shelf, and half +in the dark, and by snatches, and with the poor mountebank trick of a +drawn curtain. + +'Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic incredulus odi.' + +Enough; the men of this day are not the men of old. Let us have done +with these new-fangled mummeries, and go among the Pope's books; there +we shall find the wisdom we shall vainly hunt in the streets of modern +Rome.” + +And this idea having once taken root, the good friar plunged and tore +through the crowd, and looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, +till he had escaped the glories of the holy week, which had brought +fifty thousand strangers to Rome; and had got nice and quiet among the +dead in the library of the Vatican. + +Presently, going into Gerard's room, he found a hot dispute afoot +between him and Jacques Bonaventura. That spark had come in, all steel +from head to toe; doffed helmet, puffed, and railed most scornfully on a +ridiculous ceremony, at which he and his soldiers had been compelled to +attend the Pope; to wit the blessing of the beasts of burden. + +Gerard said it was not ridiculous; nothing a Pope did could be +ridiculous. + +The argument grew warm, and the friar stood grimly neuter, waiting like +the stork that ate the frog and the mouse at the close of their combat, +to grind them both between the jaws of antiquity; when lo, the curtain +was gently drawn, and there stood a venerable old man in a purple skull +cap, with a beard like white floss silk, looking at them with a kind +though feeble smile. + +“Happy youth,” said he, “that can heat itself over such matters.” + +They all fell on their knees. It was the Pope. + +“Nay, rise, my children,” said he, almost peevishly. “I came not into +this corner to be in state. How goes Plutarch?” + +Gerard brought his work, and kneeling on one knee presented it to his +holiness, who had seated himself, the others standing. + +His holiness inspected it with interest. + +“'Tis excellently writ,” said he. + +Gerard's heart beat with delight. + +“Ah! this Plutarch, he had a wondrous art, Francesco. How each character +standeth out alive on his page: how full of nature each, yet how unlike +his fellow!” + +Jacques Bonaventura. “Give me the Signor Boccaccio.” + +His Holiness. “An excellent narrator, capitano, and writeth exquisite +Italian. But in spirit a thought too monotonous. Monks and nuns were +never all unchaste: one or two such stories were right pleasant and +diverting; but five score paint his time falsely, and sadden the heart +of such as love mankind. Moreover, he hath no skill at characters. Now +this Greek is supreme in that great art: he carveth them with pen; and +turning his page, see into how real and great a world we enter of war, +and policy, and business, and love in its own place: for with him, as in +the great world, men are not all running after a wench. With this great +open field compare me not the narrow garden of Boccaccio, and his little +mill-round of dishonest pleasures.” + +“Your holiness, they say, hath not disdained to write a novel.” + +“My holiness hath done more foolish things than one, whereof it repents +too late. When I wrote novels I little thought to be head of the +Church.” + +“I search in vain for a copy of it to add to my poor library.” + +“It is well. Then the strict orders I gave four years ago to destroy +every copy in Italy have been well discharged. However, for your +comfort, on my being made Pope, some fool turned it into French: so that +you may read it, at the price of exile.” + +“Reduced to this strait we throw ourselves on your holiness's +generosity. Vouchsafe to give us your infallible judgment on it!” + +“Gently, gently, good Francesco. A Pope's novels are not matters of +faith. I can but give you my sincere impression. Well then the work +in question had, as far as I can remember, all the vices of Boccaccio, +without his choice Italian.” + +Fra Colonna. “Your holiness is known for slighting Aeneas Silvius as +other men never slighted him. I did him injustice to make you his +judge. Perhaps your holiness will decide more justly between these two +boys-about blessing the beasts.” + +The Pope demurred. In speaking of Plutarch he had brightened up for +a moment, and his eye had even flashed; but his general manner was as +unlike what youthful females expect in a Pope as you can conceive. I can +only describe it in French. Le gentilhomme blase. A highbred, and +highly cultivated gentleman, who had done, and said, and seen, and +known everything, and whose body was nearly worn out. But double languor +seemed to seize him at the father's proposal. + +“My poor Francesco,” said he, “bethink thee that I have had a life of +controversy, and am sick on't; sick as death. Plutarch drew me to this +calm retreat; not divinity.” + +“Nay, but, your holiness, for moderating of strife between two hot young +bloods, {Makarioi oi eirinopioi}.” + +“And know you nature so ill, as to think either of these high-mettled +youths will reck what a poor old Pope saith?” + +“Oh! your holiness,” broke in Gerard, blushing and gasping, “sure, here +is one who will treasure your words all his life as words from Heaven.” + +“In that case,” said the Pope, “I am fairly caught. As Francesco here +would say-- + +{ouk estin ostis est' anyr eleutheos}. + +I came to taste that eloquent heathen, dear to me e'en as to thee, thou +paynim monk; and I must talk divinity, or something next door to it. +But the youth hath a good and a winning face, and writeth Greek like an +angel. Well then, my children, to comprehend the ways of the Church, we +should still rise a little above the earth, since the Church is between +heaven and earth, and interprets betwixt them. + +“The question is then, not how vulgar men feel, but how the common +Creator of man and beast doth feel, towards the lower animals. This, if +we are too proud to search for it in the lessons of the Church, the next +best thing is to go to the most ancient history of men and animals.” + +Colonna. “Herodotus.” + +“Nay, nay; in this matter Herodotus is but a mushroom. Finely were we +sped for ancient history, if we depended on your Greeks, who did but +write on the last leaf of that great book, Antiquity.” + +The friar groaned. Here was a Pope uttering heresy against his demigods. + +“'Tis the Vulgate I speak of. A history that handles matters three +thousand years before him pedants call 'the Father of History.'” + +Colonna. “Oh! the Vulgate? I cry your holiness mercy. How you frightened +me. I quite forgot the Vulgate.” + +“Forgot it? art sure thou ever readst it, Francesco mio?” + +“Not quite, your holiness. 'Tis a pleasure I have long promised myself, +the first vacant moment. Hitherto these grand old heathen have left me +small time for recreation.” + +His Holiness. “First then you will find in Genesis that God, having +created the animals, drew a holy pleasure, undefinable by us, from +contemplating of their beauty. Was it wonderful? See their myriad forms; +their lovely hair and eyes, their grace, and of some the power and +majesty: the colour of others, brighter than roses, or rubies. And when, +for man's sin, not their own, they were destroyed, yet were two of each +kind spared. + +“And when the ark and its trembling inmates tumbled solitary on the +world of water, then, saith the word, 'God remembered Noah, and the +cattle that were with him in the ark.' + +“Thereafter God did write His rainbow in the sky as a bond that earth +should be flooded no more; and between whom the bond? between God and +man? nay, between God and man, and every living creature of all flesh: +or my memory fails me with age. In Exodus God commanded that the cattle +should share the sweet blessing of the one day's rest. Moreover He +'forbade to muzzle the ox that trod out the corn. 'Nay, let the poor +overwrought soul snatch a mouthful as he goes his toilsome round: the +bulk of the grain shall still be for man.' Ye will object perchance +that St. Paul, commenting this, saith rudely, 'Doth God care for oxen?' +Verily, had I been Peter, instead of the humblest of his successors, +I had answered him. 'Drop thy theatrical poets, Paul, and read the +Scriptures: then shalt thou know whether God careth only for men and +sparrows, or for all his creatures. O, Paul,' had I made bold to say, +'think not to learn God by looking into Paul's heart, nor any heart of +man, but study that which he hath revealed concerning himself.' + +“Thrice he forbade the Jews to boil the kid in his mother's milk; not +that this is cruelty, but want of thought and gentle sentiments, and so +paves the way for downright cruelty. A prophet riding on an ass did +meet an angel. Which of these two, Paulo judice, had seen the heavenly +spirit? marry, the prophet. But it was not so. The man, his vision +cloyed with sin, saw nought. The poor despised creature saw all. Nor is +this recorded as miraculous. Poor proud things, we overrate ourselves. +The angel had slain the prophet and spared the ass, but for that +creature's clearer vision of essences divine. He said so, methinks. +But in sooth I read it many years agone. Why did God spare repentant +Nineveh? Because in that city were sixty thousand children, besides much +cattle. + +“Profane history and vulgar experience add their mite of witness. The +cruel to animals end in cruelty to man; and strange and violent deaths, +marked with retribution's bloody finger, have in all ages fallen from +heaven on such as wantonly harm innocent beasts. This I myself have +seen. All this duly weighed, and seeing that, despite this Francesco's +friends, the Stoics, who in their vanity say the creatures all subsist +for man's comfort, there be snakes and scorpions which kill 'Dominum +terra' with a nip, musquitoes which eat him piecemeal, and tigers and +sharks which crack him like an almond, we do well to be grateful to +these true, faithful, patient, four-footed friends, which, in lieu of +powdering us, put forth their strength to relieve our toils, and do feed +us like mothers from their gentle dugs. + +“Methinks then the Church is never more divine than in this benediction +of our four-footed friends, which has revolted you great theological +authority, the captain of the Pope's guards; since here she inculcates +humility and gratitude, and rises towards the level of the mind divine, +and interprets God to man, God the Creator, parent, and friend of man +and beast. + +“But all this, young gentles, you will please to receive, not as +delivered by the Pope ex cathedra, but uttered carelessly, in a free +hour, by an aged clergyman. On that score you will perhaps do well to +entertain it with some little consideration. For old age must surely +bring a man somewhat, in return for his digestion (his 'dura puerorum +ilia,' eh, Francesco!), which it carries away.” + +Such was the purport of the Pope's discourse but the manner high bred, +languid, kindly, and free from all tone of dictation. He seemed to be +gently probing the matter in concert with his hearers, not playing +Sir Oracle. At the bottom of all which was doubtless a slight touch of +humbug, but the humbug that embellishes life; and all sense of it was +lost in the subtle Italian grace of the thing. + +“I seem to hear the oracle of Delphi,” said Fra Colonna +enthusiastically. + +“I call that good sense,” shouted Jacques Bonaventura. + +“Oh, captain, good sense!” said Gerard, with a deep and tender reproach. + +The Pope smiled on Gerard. “Cavil not at words; that was an unheard +of concession from a rival theologian.” He then asked for all Gerard's +work, and took it away in his hand. But before going, he gently pulled +Fra Colonna's ear, and asked him whether he remembered when they were +school-fellows together and robbed the Virgin by the roadside of the +money dropped into her box. “You took a flat stick and applied bird-lime +to the top, and drew the money out through the chink, you rogue,” said +his holiness severely. + +“To every signor his own honour,” replied Fra Colonna. “It was your +holiness's good wit invented the manoeuvre. I was but the humble +instrument.” + +“It is well. Doubtless you know 'twas sacrilege.” + +“Of the first water; but I did it in such good company, it troubles me +not.” + +“Humph! I have not even that poor consolation. What did we spend it in, +dost mind?” + +“Can your holiness ask? why, sugar-plums.” + +“What, all on't?” + +“Every doit.” + +“These are delightful reminiscences, my Francesco. Alas! I am getting +old. I shall not be here long. And I am sorry for it, for thy sake. They +will go and burn thee when I am gone. Art far more a heretic than Huss, +whom I saw burned with these eyes; and oh, he died like a martyr.” + +“Ay, your holiness; but I believe in the Pope; and Huss did not.” + +“Fox! They will not burn thee; wood is too dear. Adieu, old playmate; +adieu, young gentlemen; an old man's blessing be on you.” + +That afternoon the Pope's secretary brought Gerard a little bag: in it +were several gold pieces. + +He added them to his store. + +Margaret seemed nearer and nearer. + +For some time past, too, it appeared as if the fairies had watched over +him. Baskets of choice provisions and fruits were brought to his door by +porters, who knew not who had employed them, or affected ignorance; and +one day came a jewel in a letter, but no words. + + + +CHAPTER LXI + +The Princess Claelia ordered a full-length portrait of herself. Gerard +advised her to employ his friend Pietro Vanucci. + +But she declined. “'Twill be time to put a slight on the Gerardo, when +his work discontents me.” Then Gerard, who knew he was an excellent +draughtsman, but not so good a colourist, begged her to stand to him +as a Roman statue. He showed her how closely he could mimic marble +on paper. She consented at first; but demurred when this enthusiast +explained to her that she must wear the tunic, toga, and sandals of the +ancients. + +“Why, I had as lieve be presented in my smock,” said she, with mediaeval +frankness. + +“Alack! signorina,” said Gerard, “you have surely never noted the +ancient habit; so free, so ample, so simple, yet so noble; and most +becoming your highness, to whom Heaven hath given the Roman features, +and eke a shapely arm and hand, his in modern guise.” + +“What, can you flatter, like the rest, Gerardo? Well, give me time to +think on't. Come o' Saturday, and then I will say ay or nay.” + +The respite thus gained was passed in making the tunic and toga, etc., +and trying them on in her chamber, to see whether they suited her style +of beauty well enough to compensate their being a thousand years out of +date. + +Gerard, hurrying along to this interview, was suddenly arrested, and +rooted to earth at a shop window. + +His quick eye had discerned in that window a copy of Lactantius lying +open. “That is fairly writ, anyway,” thought he. + +He eyed it a moment more with all his eyes. + +It was not written at all. It was printed. + +Gerard groaned. + +“I am sped; mine enemy is at the door. The press is in Rome.” + +He went into the shop, and affecting nonchalance, inquired how long the +printing-press had been in Rome. The man said he believed there was no +such thing in the city. “Oh, the Lactantius; that was printed on the top +of the Apennines.” + +“What, did the printing-press fall down there out o' the moon?” + +“Nay, messer,” said the trader, laughing; “it shot up there out of +Germany. See the title-page!” + +Gerard took the Lactantius eagerly, and saw the following-- + + Opera et impensis Sweynheim et Pannartz + Alumnorum Joannis Fust. + Impressum Subiacis. A.D. 1465. + +“Will ye buy, messer? See how fair and even be the letters. Few are left +can write like that; and scarce a quarter of the price.” + +“I would fain have it,” said Gerard sadly, “but my heart will not let +me. Know that I am a caligraph, and these disciples of Fust run after me +round the world a-taking the bread out of my mouth. But I wish them no +ill. Heaven forbid!” And he hurried from the shop. + +“Dear Margaret,” said he to himself, “we must lose no time; we must +make our hay while shines the sun. One month more and an avalanche of +printer's type shall roll down on Rome from those Apennines, and lay us +waste that writers be.” + +And he almost ran to the Princess Claelia. + +He was ushered into an apartment new to him. It was not very large, +but most luxurious; a fountain played in the centre, and the floor was +covered with the skins of panthers, dressed with the hair, so that no +footfall could be heard. The room was an ante-chamber to the princess's +boudoir, for on one side there was no door, but an ample curtain of +gorgeous tapestry. + +Here Gerard was left alone till he became quite uneasy, and doubted +whether the maid had not shown him to the wrong place. + +These doubts were agreeably dissipated. + +A light step came swiftly behind the curtain; it parted in the middle, +and there stood a figure the heathens might have worshipped. It was not +quite Venus, nor quite Minerva; but between the two; nobler than Venus, +more womanly than Jupiter's daughter. Toga, tunic, sandals; nothing was +modern. And as for beauty, that is of all times. + +Gerard started up, and all the artist in him flushed with pleasure. + +“Oh!” he cried innocently, and gazed in rapture. + +This added the last charm to his model: a light blush tinted her cheeks, +and her eyes brightened, and her mouth smiled with delicious complacency +at this genuine tribute to her charms. + +When they had looked at one another so some time, and she saw Gerard's +eloquence was confined to ejaculating and gazing, she spoke. “Well, +Gerardo, thou seest I have made myself an antique monster for thee.” + +“A monster? I doubt Fra Colonna would fall down and adore your highness, +seeing you so habited.” + +“Nay, I care not to be adored by an old man. I would liever be loved by +a young one: of my own choosing.” + +Gerard took out his pencils, arranged his canvas, which he had covered +with stout paper, and set to work; and so absorbed was he that he had +no mercy on his model. At last, after near an hour in one posture, +“Gerardo,” said she faintly, “I can stand so no more, even for thee.” + +“Sit down and rest awhile, Signora.” + +“I thank thee,” said she; and sinking into a chair turned pale and +sighed. + +Gerard was alarmed, and saw also he had been inconsiderate. He took +water from the fountain and was about to throw it in her face; but she +put up a white hand deprecatingly: “Nay, hold it to my brow with thine +hand: prithee, do not fling it at me!” + +Gerard timidly and hesitating applied his wet hand to her brow. + +“Ah!” she sighed, “that is reviving. Again.” + +He applied it again. She thanked him, and asked him to ring a little +hand-bell on the table. He did so, and a maid came, and was sent to +Floretta with orders to bring a large fan. + +Floretta speedily came with the fan. + +She no sooner came near the princess, than that lady's highbred nostrils +suddenly expanded like a bloodhorse's. “Wretch!” said she; and rising +up with a sudden return to vigour, seized Floretta with her left hand, +twisted it in her hair, and with the right hand boxed her ears severely +three times. + +Floretta screamed and blubbered; but obtained no mercy. + +The antique toga left quite disengaged a bare arm, that now seemed as +powerful as it was beautiful: it rose and fell like the piston of a +modern steam-engine, and heavy slaps resounded one after another on +Floretta's shoulders; the last one drove her sobbing and screaming +through the curtain, and there she was heard crying bitterly for some +time after. + +“Saints of heaven!” cried Gerard, “what is amiss? what has she done?” + +“She knows right well. 'Tis not the first time. The nasty toad! I'll +learn her to come to me stinking of the musk-cat.” + +“Alas! Signora, 'twas a small fault, methinks.” + +“A small fault? Nay, 'twas a foul fault.” She added with an amazing +sudden descent to humility and sweetness, “Are you wroth with me for +beating her, Gerar-do?” + +“Signora, it ill becomes me to school you; but methinks such as Heaven +appoints to govern others should govern themselves.” + +“That is true, Gerardo. How wise you are, to be so young.” She then +called the other maid, and gave her a little purse. “Take that to +Floretta, and tell her 'the Gerardo' hath interceded for her; and so I +must needs forgive her. There, Gerardo.” + +Gerard coloured all over at the compliment; but not knowing how to +turn a phrase equal to the occasion, asked her if he should resume her +picture. + +“Not yet; beating that hussy hath somewhat breathed me. I'll sit awhile, +and you shall talk to me. I know you can talk, an it pleases you, as +rarely as you draw.” + +“That were easily done. + +“Do it then, Gerardo.” + +Gerard was taken aback. + +“But, signora, I know not what to say. This is sudden.” + +“Say your real mind. Say you wish you were anywhere but here.” + +“Nay, signora, that would not be sooth. I wish one thing though.” + +“Ay, and what is that?” said she gently. + +“I wish I could have drawn you as you were beating that poor lass. You +were awful, yet lovely. Oh, what a subject for a Pythoness!” + +“Alas! he thinks but of his art. And why keep such a coil about my +beauty, Gerardo? You are far fairer than I am. You are more like Apollo +than I to Venus. Also, you have lovely hair and lovely eyes--but you +know not what to do with them.” + +“Ay, do I. To draw you, signora.” + +“Ah, yes; you can see my features with them; but you cannot see what any +Roman gallant had seen long ago in your place. Yet sure you must have +noted how welcome you are to me, Gerardo?” + +“I can see your highness is always passing kind to me; a poor stranger +like me.” + +“No, I am not, Gerardo. I have often been cold to you; rude sometimes; +and you are so simple you see not the cause. Alas! I feared for my own +heart. I feared to be your slave. I who have hitherto made slaves. Ah! +Gerardo, I am unhappy. Ever since you came here I have lived upon +your visits. The day you are to come I am bright. The other days I am +listless, and wish them fled. You are not like the Roman gallants. You +make me hate them. You are ten times braver to my eye; and you are +wise and scholarly, and never flatter and lie. I scorn a man that lies. +Gerar-do, teach me thy magic; teach me to make thee as happy by my side +as I am still by thine.” + +As she poured out these strange words, the princess's mellow voice sunk +almost to a whisper, and trembled with half-suppressed passion, and her +white hand stole timidly yet earnestly down Gerard's arm, till it rested +like a soft bird upon his wrist, and as ready to fly away at a word. + +Destitute of vanity and experience, wrapped up in his Margaret and his +art, Gerard had not seen this revelation coming, though it had come by +regular and visible gradations. + +He blushed all over. His innocent admiration of the regal beauty that +besieged him, did not for a moment displace the absent Margaret's image. +Yet it was regal beauty, and wooing with a grace and tenderness he had +never even figured in imagination. How to check her without wounding +her? + +He blushed and trembled. + +The siren saw, and encouraged him. + +“Poor Gerardo,” she murmured, “fear not; none shall ever harm thee under +my wing. Wilt not speak to me, Gerar-do mio?” + +“Signora!” muttered Gerard deprecatingly. + +At this moment his eye, lowered in his confusion, fell on the shapely +white arm and delicate hand that curled round his elbow like a tender +vine, and it flashed across him how he had just seen that lovely limb +employed on Floretta. + +He trembled and blushed. + +“Alas!” said the princess, “I scare him. Am I then so very terrible? Is +it my Roman robe? I'll doff it, and habit me as when thou first camest +to me. Mindest thou? 'Twas to write a letter to yon barren knight Ercole +d'Orsini. Shall I tell thee? 'twas the sight of thee, and thy pretty +ways, and thy wise words, made me hate him on the instant. I liked the +fool well enough before; or wist I liked him. Tell me now how many times +hast thou been here since then. Ah! thou knowest not; lovest me not, I +doubt, as I love thee. Eighteen times, Gerardo. And each time dearer +to me. The day thou comest not 'tis night, not day, to Claelia. Alas! +I speak for both. Cruel boy, am I not worth a word? Hast every day a +princess at thy feet? Nay, prithee, prithee, speak to me, Gerar-do.” + +“Signora,” faltered Gerard, “what can I say, that were not better left +unsaid? Oh, evil day that ever I came here.” + +“Ah! say not so. 'Twas the brightest day ever shone on me or indeed on +thee. I'll make thee confess so much ere long, ungrateful one.” + +“Your highness,” began Gerard, in a low, pleading voice. + +“Call me Claelia, Gerar-do.” + +“Signora, I am too young and too little wise to know how I ought to +speak to you, so as not to seem blind nor yet ungrateful. But this I +know, I were both naught and ungrateful, and the worst foe e'er you had, +did I take advantage of this mad fancy. Sure some ill spirit hath had +leave to afflict you withal. For 'tis all unnatural that a princess +adorned with every grace should abase her affections on a churl.” + +The princess withdrew her hand slowly from Gerard's wrist. + +Yet as it passed lightly over his arm it seemed to linger a moment at +parting. + +“You fear the daggers of my kinsmen,” said she, half sadly, half +contemptuously. + +“No more than I fear the bodkins of your women,” said Gerard haughtily. +“But I fear God and the saints, and my own conscience.” + +“The truth, Gerardo, the truth! Hypocrisy sits awkwardly on thee. +Princesses, while they are young, are not despised for love of God, but +of some other woman. Tell me whom thou lovest; and if she is worthy thee +I will forgive thee.” + +“No she in Italy, upon my soul.” + +“Ah! there is one somewhere then. Where? where?” + +“In Holland, my native country.” + +“Ah! Marie de Bourgoyne is fair, they say. Yet she is but a child.” + +“Princess, she I love is not noble. She is as I am. Nor is she so +fair as thou. Yet is she fair; and linked to my heart for ever by her +virtues, and by all the dangers and griefs we have borne together, and +for one another. Forgive me; but I would not wrong my Margaret for all +the highest dames in Italy.” + +The slighted beauty started to her feet, and stood opposite him, as +beautiful, but far more terrible than when she slapped Floretta, for +then her cheeks were red, but now they were pale, and her eyes full of +concentrated fury. + +“This to my face, unmannered wretch,” she cried. “Was I born to be +insulted, as well as scorned, by such as thou? Beware! We nobles brook +no rivals. Bethink thee whether is better, the love of a Cesarini, or +her hate: for after all I have said and done to thee, it must be love or +hate between us, and to the death. Choose now!” + +He looked up at her with wonder and awe, as she stood towering over him +in her Roman toga, offering this strange alternative. + +He seemed to have affronted a goddess of antiquity; he a poor puny +mortal. + +He sighed deeply, but spoke not. + +Perhaps something in his deep and patient sigh touched a tender chord in +that ungoverned creature; or perhaps the time had come for one passion +to ebb and another to flow. The princess sank languidly into a seat, and +the tears began to steal rapidly down her cheeks. + +“Alas! alas!” said Gerard. “Weep not, sweet lady; your tears they +do accuse me, and I am like to weep for company. My kind patron, be +yourself; you will live to see how much better a friend I was to you +than I seemed.” + +“I see it now, Gerardo,” said the princess. “Friend is the word! the +only word can ever pass between us twain. I was mad. Any other man had +ta'en advantage of my folly. You must teach me to be your friend and +nothing more.” + +Gerard hailed this proposition with joy; and told her out of Cicero how +godlike a thing was friendship, and how much better and rarer and more +lasting than love: to prove to her he was capable of it, he even told +her about Denys and himself. + +She listened with her eyes half shut, watching his words to fathom his +character, and learn his weak point. + +At last, she addressed him calmly thus: “Leave me now, Gerardo, and come +as usual to-morrow. You will find your lesson well bestowed.” + +She held out her hand to him: he kissed it; and went away pondering +deeply this strange interview, and wondering whether he had done +prudently or not. + +The next day he was received with marked distance, and the princess +stood before him literally like a statue, and after a very short +sitting, excused herself and dismissed him. Gerard felt the chilling +difference; but said to himself, “She is wise.” So she was in her way. + +The next day he found the princess waiting for him surrounded by young +nobles flattering her to the skies. She and they treated him like a +dog that could do one little trick they could not. The cavaliers in +particular criticised his work with a mass of ignorance and insolence +combined that made his cheeks burn. + +The princess watched his face demurely with half-closed eyes at each +sting the insects gave him; and when they had fled, had her doors closed +against every one of them for their pains. + +The next day Gerard found her alone: cold and silent. After standing to +him so some time, she said, “You treated my company with less respect +than became you.” + +“Did I, Signora?” + +“Did you? you fired up at the comments they did you the honour to make +on your work.” + +“Nay, I said nought,” observed Gerard. + +“Oh, high looks speak as plain as high words. Your cheeks were red as +blood.” + +“I was nettled a moment at seeing so much ignorance and ill-nature +together.” + +“Now it is me, their hostess, you affront.” + +“Forgive me, Signora, and acquit me of design. It would ill become me to +affront the kindest patron and friend I have in Rome but one.” + +“How humble we are all of a sudden. In sooth, Ser Gerardo, you are a +capital feigner. You can insult or truckle at will.” + +“Truckle? to whom?” + +“To me, for one; to one, whom you affronted for a base-born girl like +yourself; but whose patronage you claim all the same.” + +Gerard rose, and put his hand to his heart. “These are biting words, +signora. Have I really deserved them?” + +“Oh, what are words to an adventurer like you? cold steel is all you +fear?” + +“I am no swashbuckler, yet I have met steel with steel and methinks I +had rather face your kinsmen's swords than your cruel tongue, lady. Why +do you use me so?” + +“Gerar-do, for no good reason, but because I am wayward, and shrewish, +and curst, and because everybody admires me but you.” + +“I admire you too, Signora. Your friends may flatter you more; but +believe me they have not the eye to see half your charms. Their babble +yesterday showed me that. None admire you more truly, or wish you +better, than the poor artist, who might not be your lover, but hoped +to be your friend; but no, I see that may not be between one so high as +you, and one so low as I.” + +“Ay! but it shall, Gerardo,” said the princess eagerly. “I will not be +so curst. Tell me now where abides thy Margaret; and I will give thee a +present for her; and on that you and I will be friends.” + +“She is a daughter of a physician called Peter, and they bide at +Sevenbergen; ah me, shall I e'er see it again?” + +“'Tis well. Now go.” And she dismissed him somewhat abruptly. + +Poor Gerard. He began to wade in deep waters when he encountered this +Italian princess; callida et calida selis filia. He resolved to go no +more when once he had finished her likeness. Indeed he now regretted +having undertaken so long and laborious a task. + +This resolution was shaken for a moment by his next reception, which was +all gentleness and kindness. + +After standing to him some time in her toga, she said she was fatigued, +and wanted his assistance in another way: would he teach her to draw a +little? He sat down beside her, and taught her to make easy lines. He +found her wonderfully apt. He said so. + +“I had a teacher before thee, Gerar-do. Ay, and one as handsome as +thyself.” She then went to a drawer, and brought out several heads +drawn with a complete ignorance of the art, but with great patience and +natural talent. They were all heads of Gerard, and full of spirit; and +really not unlike. One was his very image. “There,” said she. “Now thou +seest who was my teacher.” + +“Not I, signora.” + +“What, know you not who teaches us women to do all things? 'Tis love, +Gerar-do. Love made me draw because thou draweth, Gerar-do. Love prints +thine image in my bosom. My fingers touch the pen, and love supplies the +want of art, and lo thy beloved features lie upon the paper.” + +Gerard opened his eyes with astonishment at this return to an +interdicted topic. “Oh, Signora, you promised me to be friends and +nothing more.” + +She laughed in his face. “How simple you are: who believes a woman +promising nonsense, impossibilities? Friendship, foolish boy, who +ever built that temple on red ashes? Nay Gerardo,” she added gloomily, +“between thee and me it must be love or hate.” + +“Which you will, signora,” said Gerard firmly. “But for me I will +neither love nor hate you; but with your permission I will leave you.” + And he rose abruptly. + +She rose too, pale as death, and said, “Ere thou leavest me so, know thy +fate; outside that door are armed men who wait to slay thee at a word +from me.” + +“But you will not speak that word, signora.” + +“That word I will speak. Nay, more, I shall noise it abroad it was for +proffering brutal love to me thou wert slain; and I will send a special +messenger to Sevenbergen: a cunning messenger, well taught his lesson. +Thy Margaret shall know thee dead, and think thee faithless; now, go to +thy grave; a dog's. For a man thou art not.” + +Gerard turned pale, and stood dumb-stricken. “God have mercy on us +both.” + +“Nay, have thou mercy on her, and on thyself. She will never know in +Holland what thou dost in Rome; unless I be driven to tell her my tale. +Come, yield thee, Gerar-do mio: what will it cost thee to say thou +lovest me? I ask thee but to feign it handsomely. Thou art young: die +not for the poor pleasure of denying a lady what-the shadow of a heart. +Who will shed a tear for thee? I tell thee men will laugh, not weep +over thy tombstone-ah!” She ended in a little scream, for Gerard threw +himself in a moment at her feet, and poured out in one torrent of +eloquence the story of his love and Margaret's. How he had been +imprisoned, hunted with bloodhounds for her, driven to exile for her; +how she had shed her blood for him, and now pined at home. How he +had walked through Europe environed by perils, torn by savage brutes, +attacked by furious men with sword and axe and trap, robbed, shipwrecked +for her. + +The princess trembled, and tried to get away from him; but he held +her robe, he clung to her, he made her hear his pitiful story and +Margaret's; he caught her hand, and clasped it between both his, and his +tears fell fast on her hand, as he implored her to think on all the +woes of the true lovers she would part; and what but remorse, swift +and lasting, could come of so deep a love betrayed, and so false a love +feigned, with mutual hatred lurking at the bottom. + +In such moments none ever resisted Gerard. + +The princess, after in vain trying to get away from him, for she felt +his power over her, began to waver, and sigh, and her bosom to rise and +fall tumultuously, and her fiery eyes to fill. + +“You conquer me,” she sobbed. “You, or my better angel. Leave Rome!” + +“I will, I will.” + +“If you breathe a word of my folly, it will be your last.” + +“Think not so poorly of me. You are my benefactress once more. Is it for +me to slander you?” + +“Go! I will send you the means. I know myself; if you cross my path +again, I shall kill you. Addio; my heart is broken.” + +She touched her bell. “Floretta,” said she, in a choked voice, “take him +safe out of the house, through my chamber, and by the side postern.” + +He turned at the door; she was leaning with one hand on a chair, crying, +with averted head. Then he thought only of her kindness, and ran back +and kissed her robe. She never moved. + +Once clear of the house he darted home, thanking Heaven for his escape, +soul and body. + +“Landlady,” said he, “there is one would pick a quarrel with me. What is +to be done?” + +“Strike him first, and at vantage! Get behind him; and then draw.” + +“Alas, I lack your Italian courage. To be serious, 'tis a noble.” + +“Oh, holy saints, that is another matter. Change thy lodging awhile, and +keep snug; and alter the fashion of thy habits.” + +She then took him to her own niece, who let lodgings at some little +distance, and installed him there. + +He had little to do now, and no princess to draw, so he set himself +resolutely to read that deed of Floris Brandt, from which he had +hitherto been driven by the abominably bad writing. He mastered it, and +saw at once that the loan on this land must have been paid over and over +again by the rents, and that Ghysbrecht was keeping Peter Brandt out of +his own. + +“Fool! not to have read this before,” he cried. He hired a horse and +rode down to the nearest port. A vessel was to sail for Amsterdam in +four days. + +He took a passage; and paid a small sum to secure it. + +“The land is too full of cut-throats for me,” said he; “and 'tis lovely +fair weather for the sea. Our Dutch skippers are not shipwrecked like +these bungling Italians.” + +When he returned home there sat his old landlady with her eyes +sparkling. + +“You are in luck, my young master,” said she. “All the fish run to your +net this day methinks. See what a lackey hath brought to our house! This +bill and this bag.” + +Gerard broke the seals, and found it full of silver crowns. The letter +contained a mere slip of paper with this line, cut out of some MS.:--“La +lingua non ha osso, ma fa rompere il dosso.” + +“Fear me not!” said Gerard aloud. “I'll keep mine between my teeth.” + +“What is that?” + +“Oh, nothing. Am I not happy, dame? I am going back to my sweetheart +with money in one pocket, and land in the other.” And he fell to dancing +round her. + +“Well,” said she, “I trow nothing could make you happier.” + +“Nothing, except to be there.” + +“Well, that is a pity, for I thought to make you a little happier with a +letter from Holland.” + +“A letter? for me? where? how? who brought it?--Oh, dame!” + +“A stranger; a painter, with a reddish face and an outlandish name; +Anselmin, I trow.” + +“Hans Memling! a friend of mine. God bless him!” + +“Ay, that is it: Anselmin. He could scarce speak a word, but a had the +wit to name thee; and a puts the letter down, and a nods and smiles, and +I nods and smiles, and gives him a pint o' wine, and it went down him +like a spoonful.” + +“That is Hans, honest Hans. Oh, dame, I am in luck to-day; but I +deserve it. For, I care not if I tell you, I have just overcome a great +temptation for dear Margaret's sake.” + +“Who is she?” + +“Nay, I'd have my tongue cut out sooner than betray her, but oh, it was +a temptation. Gratitude pushing me wrong, Beauty almost divine pulling +me wrong: curses, reproaches, and hardest of all to resist, gentle tears +from eyes used to command. Sure some saint helped me Anthony belike. But +my reward is come.” + +“Ay, is it, lad; and no farther off than my pocket. Come out, Gerard's +reward,” and she brought a letter out of her capacious pocket. + +Gerard threw his arm round her neck and hugged her. + +“My best friend,” said he, “my second mother, I'll read it to you. + +“Ay, do, do.” + +“Alas! it is not from Margaret. This is not her hand.” And he turned it +about. + +“Alack; but maybe her bill is within. The lasses are aye for gliding in +their bills under cover of another hand.” + +“True. Whose hand is this? sure I have seen it. I trow 'tis my dear +friend the demoiselle Van Eyck. Oh, then Margaret's bill will be +inside.” He tore it open. “Nay, 'tis all in one writing. 'Gerard, my +well beloved son' (she never called me that before that I mind), 'this +letter brings thee heavy news from one would liever send thee joyful +tidings. Know that Margaret Brandt died in these arms on Thursday +sennight last.' (What does the doting old woman mean by that?) 'The last +word on her lips was “Gerard:” she said, “Tell him I prayed for him at +my last hour; and bid him pray for me.” She died very comfortable, and +I saw her laid in the earth, for her father was useless, as you shall +know. So no more at present from her that is with sorrowing heart thy +loving friend and servant, + +“MARGARET VAN EYCK.'” + +“Ay, that is her signature sure enough. Now what d'ye think of that, +dame?” cried Gerard, with a grating laugh. “There is a pretty letter to +send to a poor fellow so far from home. But it is Reicht Heynes I blame +for humouring the old woman and letting her do it; as for the old woman +herself, she dotes, she has lost her head, she is fourscore. Oh, my +heart, I'm choking. For all that she ought to be locked up, or her hands +tied. Say this had come to a fool; say I was idiot enough to believe +this; know ye what I should do? run to the top of the highest church +tower in Rome and fling myself off it, cursing Heaven. Woman! woman! +what are you doing?” And he seized her rudely by the shoulder. “What are +ye weeping for?” he cried, in a voice all unlike his own, and loud and +hoarse as a raven. “Would ye scald me to death with your tears? She +believes it. She believes it. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!--Then there is no +God.” + +The poor woman sighed and rocked herself. + +“And must be the one to bring it thee all smiling and smirking? I could +kill myself for't. Death spares none,” she sobbed. “Death spares none.” + +Gerard staggered against the window sill. “But He is master of death,” + he groaned. “Or they have taught me a lie. I begin to fear there is no +God, and the saints are but dead bones, and hell is master of the world. +My pretty Margaret; my sweet, my loving Margaret. The best daughter! the +truest lover! the pride of Holland! the darling of the world! It is a +lie. Where is this caitiff Hans? I'll hunt him round the town. I'll cram +his murdering falsehood down his throat.” + +And he seized his hat and ran furiously about the streets for hours. + +Towards sunset he came back white as a ghost. He had not found Memling; +but his poor mind had had time to realise the woman's simple words, that +Death spares none. + +He crept into the house bent, and feeble as an old man, and refused +all food. Nor would he speak, but sat, white, with great staring eyes, +muttering at intervals, “There is no God.” Alarmed both on his account +and on her own (for he looked a desperate maniac), his landlady ran for +her aunt. + +The good dame came, and the two women, braver together, sat one on each +side of him, and tried to soothe him with kind and consoling voices. +But he heeded them no more than the chairs they sat on. Then the younger +held a crucifix out before him, to aid her. “Maria, mother of heaven, +comfort him,” they sighed. But he sat glaring, deaf to all external +sounds. + +Presently, without any warning, he jumped up, struck the crucifix rudely +out of his way with a curse, and made a headlong dash at the door. The +poor women shrieked. But ere he reached the door, something seemed to +them to draw him up straight by his hair, and twirl him round like a +top. He whirled twice round with arms extended; then fell like a dead +log upon the floor, with blood trickling from his nostrils and ears. + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +Gerard returned to consciousness and to despair. + +On the second day he was raving with fever on the brain. + +On a table hard by lay his rich auburn hair, long as a woman's. + +The deadlier symptoms succeeded one another rapidly. + +On the fifth day his leech retired and gave him up. + +On the sunset of that same day he fell into a deep sleep. + +Some said he would wake only to die. + +But an old gossip, whose opinion carried weight (she had been a +professional nurse), declared that his youth might save him yet, could +he sleep twelve hours. + +On this his old landlady cleared the room and watched him alone. She +vowed a wax candle to the Virgin for every hour he should sleep. + +He slept twelve hours. + +The good soul rejoiced, and thanked the Virgin on her knees. + +He slept twenty-four hours. + +His kind nurse began to doubt. At the thirtieth hour she sent for the +woman of art. + +“Thirty hours! shall we wake him?” + +The other inspected him closely for some time. + +“His breath is even, his hand moist. I know there be learned leeches +would wake him, to look at his tongue, and be none the wiser; but we +that be women should have the sense to let bon Nature alone. When did +sleep ever harm the racked brain or the torn heart?” + +When he had been forty-eight hours asleep, it got wind, and they had +much ado to keep the curious out. But they admitted only Fra Colonna and +his friend the gigantic Fra Jerome. + +These two relieved the women, and sat silent; the former eyeing his +young friend with tears in his eyes, the latter with beads in his +hand looked as calmly on him as he had on the sea when Gerard and he +encountered it hand to hand. + +At last, I think it was about the sixtieth hour of this strange sleep, +the landlady touched Fra Colonna with her elbow. He looked. Gerard had +opened his eyes as gently as if he had been but dozing. + +He stared. + +He drew himself up a little in bed. + +He put his hand to his head, and found his hair was gone. + +He noticed his friend Colonna, and smiled with pleasure. + +But in the middle of smiling his face stopped, and was convulsed in a +moment with anguish unspeakable, and he uttered a loud cry, and turned +his face to the wall. + +His good landlady wept at this. She had known what it is to awake +bereaved. + +Fra Jerome recited canticles, and prayers from his breviary. + +Gerard rolled himself in the bed-clothes. + +Fra Colonna went to him, and whimpering, reminded him that all was not +lost. The divine Muses were immortal. He must transfer his affection to +them; they would never betray him nor fail him like creatures of clay. +The good, simple father then hurried away; for he was overcome by his +emotion. + +Fra Jerome remained behind. “Young man,” said he, “the Muses exist but +in the brains of pagans and visionaries. The Church alone gives repose +to the heart on earth, and happiness to the soul hereafter. Hath earth +deceived thee, hath passion broken thy heart after tearing it, the +Church opens her arms: consecrate thy gifts to her! The Church is peace +of mind.” + +He spoke these words solemnly at the door, and was gone as soon as they +were uttered. + +“The Church!” cried Gerard, rising furiously, and shaking his fist after +the friar. “Malediction on the Church! But for the Church I should +not lie broken here, and she lie cold, cold, cold, in Holland. Oh, my +Margaret! oh, my darling! my darling! And I must run from thee the few +months thou hadst to live. Cruel! cruel! The monsters, they let her die. +Death comes not without some signs. These the blind selfish wretches saw +not, or recked not; but I had seen them, I that love her. Oh, had I been +there, I had saved her, I had saved her. Idiot! idiot! to leave her for +a moment.” + +He wept bitterly a long time. + +Then, suddenly bursting into rage again, he cried vehemently “The +Church! for whose sake I was driven from her; my malison be on the +Church! and the hypocrites that name it to my broken heart. Accursed be +the world! Ghysbrecht lives; Margaret dies. Thieves, murderers, harlots, +live for ever. Only angels die. Curse life! curse death! and whosoever +made them what they are!” + +The friar did not hear these mad and wicked words; but only the yell of +rage with which they were flung after him. + +It was as well. For, if he had heard them, he would have had his late +shipmate burned in the forum with as little hesitation as he would have +roasted a kid. + +His old landlady who had accompanied Fra Colonna down the stair, heard +the raised voice, and returned in some anxiety. + +She found Gerard putting on his clothes, and crying. + +She remonstrated. + +“What avails my lying here?” said he gloomily. “Can I find here that +which I seek?” + +“Saints preserve us! Is he distraught again? What seek ye?” + +“Oblivion.” + +“Oblivion, my little heart? Oh, but y'are young to talk so.” + +“Young or old, what else have I to live for?” + +He put on his best clothes. + +The good dame remonstrated. “My pretty Gerard, know that it is Tuesday, +not Sunday.” + +“Oh, Tuesday is it? I thought it had been Saturday.” + +“Nay, thou hast slept long. Thou never wearest thy brave clothes on +working days. Consider.” + +“What I did, when she lived, I did. Now I shall do whatever erst I did +not. The past is the past. There lies my hair, and with it my way of +life. I have served one Master as well as I could. You see my reward. +Now I'll serve another, and give him a fair trial too.” + +“Alas!” sighed the woman, turning pale, “what mean these dark words? and +what new master is this whose service thou wouldst try?” + +“SATAN.” + +And with this horrible declaration on his lips the miserable creature +walked out with his cap and feather set jauntily on one side, and feeble +limbs, and a sinister face pale as ashes, and all drawn down as if by +age. + + + +CHAPTER LXIII + +A dark cloud fell on a noble mind. + +His pure and unrivalled love for Margaret had been his polar star. It +was quenched, and he drifted on the gloomy sea of no hope. + +Nor was he a prey to despair alone, but to exasperation at all his +self-denial, fortitude, perils, virtue, wasted and worse than wasted; +for it kept burning and stinging him, that, had he stayed lazily, +selfishly at home, he should have saved his Margaret's life. + +These two poisons, raging together in his young blood, maddened and +demoralized him. He rushed fiercely into pleasure. And in those days, +even more than now, pleasure was vice. Wine, women, gambling, whatever +could procure him an hour's excitement and a moment's oblivion. He +plunged into these things, as men tired of life have rushed among the +enemy's bullets. + +The large sums he had put by for Margaret gave him ample means for +debauchery, and he was soon the leader of those loose companions he had +hitherto kept at a distance. + +His heart deteriorated along with his morals. + +He sulked with his old landlady for thrusting gentle advice and warning +on him; and finally removed to another part of the town, to be clear of +remonstrance and reminiscences. When he had carried this game on some +time, his hand became less steady, and he could no longer write to +satisfy himself. Moreover, his patience declined as the habits of +pleasure grew on him. So he gave up that art, and took likenesses in +colours. + +But this he neglected whenever the idle rakes, his companions, came for +him. + +And so he dived in foul waters, seeking that sorry oyster-shell, +Oblivion. + +It is not my business to paint at full length the scenes of coarse vice +in which this unhappy young man now played a part. But it is my business +to impress the broad truth, that he was a rake, a debauchee, and a +drunkard, and one of the wildest, loosest, and wickedest young men in +Rome. + +They are no lovers of truth, nor of mankind, who conceal or slur the +wickedness of the good, and so by their want of candour rob despondent +sinners of hope. + +Enough, the man was not born to do things by halves. And he was not +vicious by halves. + +His humble female friends often gossiped about him. His old landlady +told Teresa he was going to the bad, and prayed her to try and find out +where he was. + +Teresa told her husband Lodovico his sad story, and bade him look about +and see if he could discover the young man's present abode. “Shouldst +remember his face, Lodovico mio?” + +“Teresa, a man in my way of life never forgets a face, least of all a +benefactor's. But thou knowest I seldom go abroad by daylight.” + +Teresa sighed. “And how long is it to be so, Lodovico?” + +“Till some cavalier passes his sword through me. They will not let a +poor fellow like me take to any honest trade.” + +Pietro Vanucci was one of those who bear prosperity worse than +adversity. + +Having been ignominiously ejected for late hours by their old landlady, +and meeting Gerard in the street, he greeted him warmly, and soon after +took up his quarters in the same house. + +He brought with him a lad called Andrea, who ground his colours, and +was his pupil, and also his model, being a youth of rare beauty, and as +sharp as a needle. + +Pietro had not quite forgotten old times, and professed a warm +friendship for Gerard. + +Gerard, in whom all warmth of sentiment seemed extinct, submitted coldly +to the other's friendship. + +And a fine acquaintance it was. This Pietro was not only a libertine, +but half a misanthrope, and an open infidel. + +And so they ran in couples, with mighty little in common. O, rare +phenomenon! + +One day, when Gerard had undermined his health, and taken the bloom +off his beauty, and run through most of his money, Vanucci got up a +gay party to mount the Tiber in a boat drawn by buffaloes. Lorenzo de' +Medici had imported these creatures into Florence about three years +before. But they were new in Rome, and nothing would content this beggar +on horseback, Vanucci, but being drawn by the brutes up the Tiber. + +Each libertine was to bring a lady and she must be handsome, or he +be fined. But the one that should contribute the loveliest was to be +crowned with laurel, and voted a public benefactor. Such was their +reading of “Vir bonus est quis?” They got a splendid galley, and twelve +buffaloes. And all the libertines and their female accomplices assembled +by degrees at the place of embarkation. But no Gerard. + +They waited for him some time, at first patiently, then impatiently. + +Vanucci excused him. “I heard him say he had forgotten to provide +himself with a fardingale. Comrades, the good lad is hunting for +a beauty fit to take rank among these peerless dames. Consider the +difficulty, ladies, and be patient!” + +At last Gerard was seen at some distance with a female in his hand. + +“She is long enough,” said one of her sex, criticising her from afar. + +“Gemini! what steps she takes,” said another. “Oh! it is wise to hurry +into good company,” was Pietro's excuse. + +But when the pair came up, satire was choked. + +Gerard's companion was a peerless beauty; she extinguished the +boat-load, as stars the rising sun. Tall, but not too tall; and straight +as a dart, yet supple as a young panther. Her face a perfect oval, her +forehead white, her cheeks a rich olive with the eloquent blood mantling +below and her glorious eyes fringed with long thick silken eyelashes, +that seemed made to sweep up sensitive hearts by the half dozen. Saucy +red lips, and teeth of the whitest ivory. + +The women were visibly depressed by this wretched sight; the men in +ecstasies; they received her with loud shouts and waving of caps, and +one enthusiast even went down on his knees upon the boat's gunwale, and +hailed her of origin divine. But his chere amie pulling his hair for +it--and the goddess giving him a little kick--cotemporaneously, he lay +supine; and the peerless creature frisked over his body without deigning +him a look, and took her seat at the prow. Pietro Vanucci sat in a sort +of collapse, glaring at her, and gaping with his mouth open like a dying +cod-fish. + +The drover spoke to the buffaloes, the ropes tightened, and they moved +up stream. + +“What think ye of this new beef, mesdames?” + +“We ne'er saw monsters so viley ill-favoured; with their nasty horns +that make one afeard, and, their foul nostrils cast up into the air. +Holes be they; not nostrils.” + +“Signorina, the beeves are a present from Florence the beautiful Would +ye look a gift beef i' the nose?” + +“They are so dull,” objected a lively lady. “I went up Tiber twice as +fast last time with but five mules and an ass.” + +“Nay, that is soon mended,” cried a gallant, and jumping ashore he drew +his sword, and despite the remonstrances of the drivers, went down the +dozen buffaloes goading them. + +They snorted and whisked their tails, and went no faster, at which the +boat-load laughed loud and long: finally he goaded a patriarch bull, +who turned instantly on the sword, sent his long horns clean through the +spark, and with a furious jerk of his prodigious neck sent him flying +over his head into the air. He described a bold parabola and fell +sitting, and unconsciously waving his glittering blade, into the yellow +Tiber. The laughing ladies screamed and wrung their hands, all but +Gerard's fair. She uttered something very like an oath, and seizing the +helm steered the boat out, and the gallant came up sputtering, griped +the gunwale, and was drawn in dripping. + +He glared round him confusedly. “I understand not that,” said he, a +little peevishly; puzzled, and therefore, it would seem, discontented. +At which, finding he was by some strange accident not slain, his doublet +being perforated, instead of his body, they began to laugh again louder +than ever. + +“What are ye cackling at?” remonstrated the spark, “I desire to know +how 'tis that one moment a gentleman is out yonder a pricking of African +beef, and the next moment--” + +Gerard's lady. “Disporting in his native stream.” + +“Tell him not, a soul of ye,” cried Vanucci. “Let him find out 's own +riddle.” + +Confound ye all. I might puzzle my brains till doomsday, I should ne'er +find it out. Also, where is my sword? + +Gerard's lady. “Ask Tiber! Your best way, signor, will be to do it over +again; and, in a word, keep pricking of Afric's beef, till your mind +receives light. So shall you comprehend the matter by degrees, as +lawyers mount heaven, and buffaloes Tiber.” + +Here a chevalier remarked that the last speaker transcended the sons of +Adam as much in wit as she did the daughters of Eve in beauty. + +At which, and indeed at all their compliments, the conduct of Pietro +Vanucci was peculiar. That signor had left off staring, and gaping +bewildered; and now sat coiled up snake-like, on each, his mouth +muffled, and two bright eyes fixed on the' lady, and twinkling and +scintillating most comically. + +He did not appear to interest or amuse her in return. Her glorious eyes +and eyelashes swept him calmly at times, but scarce distinguished him +from the benches and things. + +Presently the unanimity of the party suffered a momentary check. + +Mortified by the attention the cavaliers paid to Gerard's companion, the +ladies began to pick her to pieces sotto voce, and audibly. + +The lovely girl then showed that, if rich in beauty, she was poor in +feminine tact. Instead of revenging herself like a true woman through +the men, she permitted herself to overhear, and openly retaliate on her +detractors. + +“There is not one of you that wears Nature's colours,” said she. “Look +here,” and she pointed rudely in one's face. “This is the beauty that is +to be bought in every shop. Here is cerussa, here is stibium, and +here purpurissum. Oh, I know the articles bless you, I use them every +day--but not on my face, no thank you.” + +Here Vanucci's eyes twinkled themselves nearly out of sight. + +“Why, your lips are coloured, and the very veins in your forehead: not a +charm but would come off with a wet towel. And look at your great coarse +black hair like a horse's tail, drugged and stained to look like tow. +And then your bodies are as false as your heads and your cheeks, and +your hearts I trow. Look at your padded bosoms, and your wooden heeled +chopines to raise your little stunted limbs up and deceive the world. +Skinny dwarfs ye are, cushioned and stultified into great fat giants. +Aha, mesdames, well is it said of you, grande--di legni: grosse--di +straci: rosse--di bettito: bianche--di calcina.” + +This drew out a rejoinder. “Avaunt, vulgar toad, telling the men +everything. Your coarse, ruddy cheeks are your own, and your little +handful of African hair. But who is padded more? Why, you are shaped +like a fire-shovel.” + +“Ye lie, malapert.” + +“Oh, the well-educated young person! Where didst pick her up, Ser +Gerard?” + +“Hold thy peace, Marcia,” said Gerard, awakened by the raised trebles +from a gloomy reverie. “Be not so insolent! The grave shall close over +thy beauty as it hath over fairer than thee.” + +“They began,” said Marcia petulantly. + +“Then be thou the first to leave off.” + +“At thy request, my friend.” She then whispered Gerard, “It was only to +make you laugh; you are distraught, you are sad. Judge whether I care +for the quips of these little fools, or the admiration of these big +fools. Dear Signor Gerard, would I were what they take me for? You +should not be so sad.” + +Gerard sighed deeply; and shook his head. But touched by the earnest +young tones, caressed the jet black locks, much as one strokes the head +of an affectionate dog. + +At this moment a galley drifting slowly down stream got entangled for an +instant in their ropes: for, the river turning suddenly, they had shot +out into the stream; and this galley came between them and the bank. In +it a lady of great beauty was seated under a canopy with gallants and +dependents standing behind her. + +Gerard looked up at the interruption. It was the Princess Claelia. + +He coloured and withdrew his hand from Marcia's head. + +Marcia was all admiration. “Aha! ladies,” said she, “here is a rival an +ye will. Those cheeks were coloured by Nature-like mine.” + +“Peace, child! peace!” said Gerard. “Make not too free with the great.” + +“Why, she heard me not. Oh, Ser Gerard, what a lovely creature!” + +Two of the females had been for some time past putting their heads +together and casting glances at Marcia. + +One of them now addressed her. + +“Signorina, do you love almonds?” + +The speaker had a lapful of them. + +“Yes, I love them; when I can get them,” said Marcia pettishly, and +eyeing the fruit with ill-concealed desire; “but yours is not the hand +to give me any, I trow.” + +“You are much mistook,” said the other. “Here, catch!” And suddenly +threw a double handful into Marcia's lap. + +Marcia brought her knees together by an irresistible instinct. + +“Aha! you are caught, my lad,” cried she of the nuts. “'Tis a man; or a +boy. A woman still parteth her knees to catch the nuts the surer in her +apron; but a man closeth his for fear they should all between his hose. +Confess, now, didst never wear fardingale ere to-day?” + +“Give me another handful, sweetheart, and I'll tell thee.” + +“There! I said he was too handsome for a woman.” + +“Ser Gerard, they have found me out,” observed the Epicaene, calmly +cracking an almond. + +The libertines vowed it was impossible, and all glared at the goddess +like a battery. But Vanucci struck in, and reminded the gaping gazers +of a recent controversy, in which they had, with a unanimity not often +found among dunces, laughed Gerard and him to scorn, for saying that men +were as beautiful as women in a true artist's eye. + +“Where are ye now? This is my boy Andrea. And you have all been down on +your knees to him. Ha! ha! But oh, my little ladies, when he lectured +you and flung your stibium, your cerussa, and your purpurissum back in +your faces, 'tis then I was like to burst; a grinds my colours. Ha! ha! +he! he! he! ho!” + +“The little impostor! Duck him!” + +“What for, signors?” cried Andrea, in dismay, and lost his rich +carnation. + +But the females collected round him, and vowed nobody should harm a hair +of his head. + +“The dear child! How well his pretty little saucy ways become him.” + +“Oh, what eyes and teeth!” + +“And what eyebrows and hair!” + +“And what lashes!” + +“And what a nose!” + +“The sweetest little ear in the world!” + +“And what health! Touch but his cheek with a pin the blood should +squirt.” + +“Who would be so cruel?” + +“He is a rosebud washed in dew.” + +And they revenged themselves for their beaux' admiration of her by +lavishing all their tenderness on him. + +But one there was who was still among these butterflies, but no longer +of them. The sight of the Princess Claelia had torn open his wound. + +Scarce three months ago he had declined the love of that peerless +creature; a love illicit and insane; but at least refined. + +How much lower had he fallen now. + +How happy he must have been, when the blandishments of Claelia, that +might have melted an anchorite, could not tempt him from the path of +loyalty! + +Now what was he? He had blushed at her seeing him in such company. Yet +it was his daily company. + +He hung over the boat in moody silence. + +And from that hour another phase of his misery began; and grew upon him. + +Some wretched fools try to drown care in drink. + +The fumes of intoxication vanish; the inevitable care remains, and must +be faced at last--with an aching head, disordered stomach, and spirits +artificially depressed. + +Gerard's conduct had been of a piece with these maniacs'. To survive +his terrible blow he needed all his forces; his virtue, his health, his +habits of labour, and the calm sleep that is labour's satellite; above +all, his piety. + +Yet all these balms to wounded hearts he flung away and trusted to moral +intoxication. + +Its brief fumes fled; the bereaved heart lay still heavy as lead within +his bosom; but now the dark vulture Remorse sat upon it rending it. + +Broken health; means wasted; innocence fled; Margaret parted from him by +another gulf wider than the grave! The hot fit of despair passed away. + +The cold fit of despair came on. + +Then this miserable young man spurned his gay companions, and all the +world. + +He wandered alone. He drank wine alone to stupefy himself; and paralyze +a moment the dark foes to man that preyed upon his soul. He wandered +alone amidst the temples of old Rome, and lay stony eyed, woebegone, +among their ruins, worse wrecked than they. + +Last of all came the climax, to which solitude, that gloomy yet +fascinating foe of minds diseased, pushes the hopeless. + +He wandered alone at night by dark streams, and eyed them, and +eyed them, with decreasing repugnance. There glided peace; perhaps +annihilation. + +What else was left him? + +These dark spells have been broken by kind words, by loving and cheerful +voices. + +The humblest friend the afflicted one possesses may speak, or look, or +smile, a sunbeam between him and that worst madness Gerard now brooded. + +Where was Teresa? Where his hearty, kind old landlady? + +They would see with their homely but swift intelligence; they would see +and save. + +No; they knew not where he was, or whither he was gliding. + +And is there no mortal eye upon the poor wretch, and the dark road he is +going? + +Yes; one eye there is upon him; watching his every movement; following +him abroad; tracking him home. + +And that eye is the eye of an enemy. + +An enemy to the death. + + + +CHAPTER LXIV + +In an apartment richly furnished, the floor covered with striped and +spotted skins of animals, a lady sat with her arms extended before her, +and her hands half clenched. The agitation of her face corresponded with +this attitude; she was pale and red by turns; and her foot restless. + +Presently the curtain was drawn by a domestic. + +The lady's brow flushed. + +The maid said, in an awe-struck whisper: “Altezza, the man is here.” + +The lady bade her admit him, and snatched up a little black mask and put +it on; and in a moment her colour was gone, and the contrast between her +black mask and her marble cheeks was strange and fearful. + +A man entered bowing and scraping. It was such a figure as crowds seem +made of; short hair, roundish head, plain, but decent clothes; features +neither comely not forbidding. Nothing to remark in him but a singularly +restless eye. + +After a profusion of bows he stood opposite the lady, and awaited her +pleasure. + +“They have told you for what you are wanted?” + +“Yes, Signora.” + +“Did those who spoke to you agree as to what you are to receive?” + +“Yes, Signora. 'Tis the full price; and purchases the greater vendetta: +unless of your benevolence you choose to content yourself with the +lesser.” + +“I understand you not,” said the lady. + +“Ah; this is the Signora's first. The lesser vendetta, lady, is the +death of the body only. We watch our man come out of a church; or take +him in an innocent hour; and so deal with him. In the greater vendetta +we watch him, and catch him hot from some unrepented sin, and so slay +his soul as well as his body. But this vendetta is not so run upon now +as it was a few years ago.” + +“Man, silence me his tongue, and let his treasonable heart beat no more. +But his soul I have no feud with.” + +“So be it, signora. He who spoke to me knew not the man, nor his name, +nor his abode. From whom shall I learn these?” + +“From myself.” + +At this the man, with the first symptoms of anxiety he had shown, +entreated her to be cautious, and particular, in this part of the +business. + +“Fear me not,” said she. “Listen. It is a young man, tall of stature, +and auburn hair, and dark blue eyes, and an honest face, would deceive +a saint. He lives in the Via Claudia, at the corner house; the glover's. +In that house there lodge but three males: he; and a painter short of +stature and dark visaged, and a young, slim boy. He that hath betrayed +me is a stranger, fair, and taller than thou art.” + +The bravo listened with all his ears. “It is enough,” said he. + +“Stay, Signora; haunteth he any secret place where I may deal with him?” + +“My spy doth report me he hath of late frequented the banks of Tiber +after dusk; doubtless to meet his light o' love, who calls me her rival; +even there slay him! and let my rival come and find him; the smooth, +heartless, insolent traitor.” + +“Be calm, signora. He will betray no more ladies.” + +“I know not that. He weareth a sword, and can use it. He is young and +resolute.” + +“Neither will avail him.” + +“Are ye so sure of your hand? What are your weapons?” + +The bravo showed her a steel gauntlet. “We strike with such force +we need must guard our hand. This is our mallet.” He then undid his +doublet, and gave her a glimpse of a coat of mail beneath, and finally +laid his glittering stiletto on the table with a flourish. + +The lady shuddered at first, but presently took it up in her white hand +and tried its point against her finger. + +“Beware, madam,” said the bravo. + +“What, is it poisoned?” + +“Saints forbid! We steal no lives. We take them with steel point, not +drugs. But 'tis newly ground, and I feared for the Signora's white +skin.” + +“His skin is as white as mine,” said she, with a sudden gleam of pity. +It lasted but a moment. “But his heart is black as soot. Say, do I not +well to remove a traitor that slanders me?” + +“The signora will settle that with her confessor. I am but a tool in +noble hands; like my stiletto.” + +The princess appeared not to hear the speaker. “Oh, how I could have +loved him; to the death; as now I hate him. Fool! he will learn to +trifle with princes; to spurn them and fawn on them, and prefer the +scum of the town to them, and make them a by-word.” She looked up. “Why +loiter'st thou here? haste thee, revenge me.” + +“It is customary to pay half the price beforehand, Signora.” + +“Ah I forgot; thy revenge is bought. Here is more than half,” and she +pushed a bag across the table to him. “When the blow is struck, come for +the rest.” + +“You will soon see me again, signora.” + +And he retired bowing and scraping. + +The princess, burning with jealousy, mortified pride, and dread of +exposure (for till she knew Gerard no public stain had fallen on her), +sat where he left her, masked, with her arms straight out before her, +and the nails of her clenched hand nipping the table. + +So sat the fabled sphynx: so sits a tigress. + +Yet there crept a chill upon her now that the assassin was gone. And +moody misgivings heaved within her, precursors of vain remorse. Gerard +and Margaret were before their age. This was your true mediaeval. +Proud, amorous, vindictive, generous, foolish, cunning, impulsive, +unprincipled: and ignorant as dirt. + +Power is the curse of such a creature. + +Forced to do her own crimes, the weakness of her nerves would have +balanced the violence of her passions, and her bark been worse than her +bite. But power gives a feeble, furious woman, male instruments. And the +effect is as terrible as the combination is unnatural. + +In this instance it whetted an assassin's dagger for a poor forlorn +wretch just meditating suicide. + + + +CHAPTER LXV + +It happened, two days after the scene I have endeavoured to describe, +that Gerard, wandering through one of the meanest streets in Rome, was +overtaken by a thunderstorm, and entered a low hostelry. He called for +wine, and the rain continuing, soon drank himself into a half stupid +condition, and dozed with his head on his hands and his hands upon the +table. + +In course of time the room began to fill and the noise of the rude +guests to wake him. + +Then it was he became conscious of two figures near him conversing in a +low voice. + +One was a pardoner. The other by his dress, clean but modest, might have +passed for a decent tradesman; but the way he had slouched his hat over +his brows, so as to hide all his face except his beard, showed he was +one of those who shun the eye of honest men, and of the law. The pair +were driving a bargain in the sin market. And by an arrangement +not uncommon at that date, the crime to be forgiven was yet to be +committed--under the celestial contract. + +He of the slouched hat was complaining of the price pardons had reached. +“If they go up any higher we poor fellows shall be shut out of heaven +altogether.” + +The pardoner denied the charge flatly. “Indulgences were never cheaper +to good husbandmen.” + +The other inquired, “Who were they?” + +“Why, such as sin by the market, like reasonable creatures. But if you +will be so perverse as go and pick out a crime the Pope hath set his +face against, blame yourself, not me!” + +Then, to prove that crime of one sort or another was within the means of +all but the very scum of society, he read out the scale from a written +parchment. + +It was a curious list; but not one that could be printed in this book. +And to mutilate it would be to misrepresent it. It is to be found in +any great library. Suffice it to say that murder of a layman was much +cheaper than many crimes my lay readers would deem light by comparison. + +This told; and by a little trifling concession on each side, the bargain +was closed, the money handed over, and the aspirant to heaven's favour +forgiven beforehand for removing one layman. The price for disposing of +a clerk bore no proportion. + +The word assassination was never once uttered by either merchant. + +All this buzzed in Gerard's ear. But he never lifted his head from the +table; only listened stupidly. + +However, when the parties rose and separated, he half raised his head, +and eyed with a scowl the retiring figure of the purchaser. + +“If Margaret was alive,” muttered he, “I'd take thee by the throat and +throttle thee, thou cowardly stabber. But she is dead; dead; dead. Die +all the world; 'tis nought to me: so that I die among the first.” + +When he got home there was a man in a slouched hat walking briskly to +and fro on the opposite side of the way. + +“Why, there is that cur again,” thought Gerard. + +But in this state of mind, the circumstance made no impression whatever +on him. + + + +CHAPTER LXVI + +Two nights after this Pietro Vanucci and Andrea sat waiting supper for +Gerard. + +The former grew peevish. It was past nine o'clock. At last he sent +Andrea to Gerard's room on the desperate chance of his having come in +unobserved. Andrea shrugged his shoulders and went. + +He returned without Gerard, but with a slip of paper. Andrea could not +read, as scholars in his day and charity boys in ours understand the +art; but he had a quick eye, and had learned how the words Pietro +Vanucci looked on paper. + +“That is for you, I trow,” said he, proud of his intelligence. + +Pietro snatched it, and read it to Andrea, with his satirical comments. + +“'Dear Pietro, dear Andrea, life is too great a burden.' + +“So 'tis, my lad,' but that is no reason for being abroad at +supper-time. Supper is not a burden.” + +“'Wear my habits!' + +“Said the poplar to the juniper bush.” + +“'And thou, Andrea, mine amethyst ring; and me in both your hearts a +month or two.' + +“Why, Andrea?” + +“'For my body, ere this ye read, it will lie in Tiber. Trouble not to +look for it. 'Tis not worth the pains. Oh unhappy day that it was born +oh happy night that rids me of it. + +“'Adieu! adieu! + +“'The broken-hearted Gerard.' + +“Here is a sorry jest of the peevish rogue,” said Pietro. But his pale +cheek and chattering teeth belied his words. Andrea filled the house +with his cries. + +“O, miserable day! O, calamity of calamities! Gerard, my friend, my +sweet patron! Help! help! He is killing himself! Oh, good people, help +me save him!” And after alarming all the house he ran into the street, +bareheaded, imploring all good Christians to help him save his friend. + +A number of persons soon collected. + +But poor Andrea could not animate their sluggishness. Go down to the +river? No. It was not their business. What part of the river? It was a +wild goose chase. + +It was not lucky to go down to the river after sunset. Too many ghosts +walked those banks all night. + +A lackey, however, who had been standing some time opposite the house, +said he would go with Andrea; and this turned three or four of the +younger ones. + +The little band took the way to the river. + +The lackey questioned Andrea. + +Andrea, sobbing, told him about the letter, and Gerard's moody ways of +late. + +That lackey was a spy of the Princess Claelia. + +Their Italian tongues went fast till they neared the Tiber. + +But the moment they felt the air from the river, and the smell of the +stream in the calm spring night, they were dead silent. + +The moon shone calm and clear in a cloudless sky. Their feet sounded +loud and ominous. Their tongues were hushed. + +Presently hurrying round a corner they met a man. He stopped irresolute +at sight of them. + +The man was bareheaded, and his dripping hair glistened in the +moonlight; and at the next step they saw his clothes were drenched with +water. + +“Here he is,” cried one of the young men, unacquainted with Gerard's +face and figure. + +The stranger turned instantly and fled. + +They ran after him might and main, Andrea leading, and the princess's +lackey next. + +Andrea gained on him; but in a moment he twisted up a narrow alley. +Andrea shot by, unable to check himself; and the pursuers soon found +themselves in a labyrinth in which it was vain to pursue a quickfooted +fugitive who knew every inch of it, and could now only be followed by +the ear. + +They returned to their companions, and found them standing on the spot +where the man had stood, and utterly confounded. For Pietro had assured +them that the fugitive had neither the features nor the stature of +Gerard. + +“Are ye verily sure?” said they. “He had been in the river. Why, in the +saints' names, fled he at our approach?” + +Then said Vanucci, “Friends, methinks this has nought to do with him we +seek. What shall we do, Andrea?” + +Here the lackey put in his word. “Let us track him to the water's side, +to make sure. See, he hath come dripping all the way.” + +This advice was approved, and with very little difficulty they tracked +the man's course. + +But soon they encountered a new enigma. + +They had gone scarcely fifty yards ere the drops turned away from the +river, and took them to the gate of a large gloomy building. It was a +monastery. + +They stood irresolute before it, and gazed at the dark pile. + +It seemed to them to hide some horrible mystery. + +But presently Andrea gave a shout. “Here be the drops again,” cried he. +“And this road leadeth to the river.” + +They resumed the chase; and soon it became clear the drops were now +leading them home. The track became wetter and wetter, and took them +to the Tiber's edge. And there on the bank a bucketful appeared to have +been discharged from the stream. + +At first they shouted, and thought they had made a discovery: but +reflection showed them it amounted to nothing. Certainly a man had been +in the water, and had got out of it in safety; but that man was not +Gerard. One said he knew a fisherman hard by that had nets and drags. +They found the fisherman and paid him liberally to sink nets in the +river below the place, and to drag it above and below; and promised him +gold should he find the body. Then they ran vainly up and down the river +which flowed so calm and voiceless, holding this and a thousand more +strange secrets. Suddenly Andrea, with a cry of hope, ran back to the +house. + +He returned in less than half an hour. + +“No,” he groaned, and wrung his hands. + +“What is the hour?” asked the lackey. + +“Four hours past midnight.” + +“My pretty lad,” said the lackey solemnly, “say a mass for thy friend's +soul: for he is not among living men.” + +The morning broke. Worn out with fatigue, Andrea and Pietro went home, +heart sick. + +The days rolled on, mute as the Tiber as to Gerard's fate. + + + +CHAPTER LXVII + +It would indeed have been strange if with such barren data as they +possessed, those men could have read the handwriting on the river's +bank. + +For there on that spot an event had just occurred, which, take it +altogether, was perhaps without a parallel in the history of mankind, +and may remain so to the end of time. + +But it shall be told in a very few words, partly by me, partly by an +actor in the scene. + +Gerard, then, after writing his brief adieu to Pietro and Andrea, had +stolen down to the river at nightfall. + +He had taken his measures with a dogged resolution not uncommon in those +who are bent on self-destruction. He filled his pockets with all the +silver and copper he possessed, that he might sink the surer; and so +provided, hurried to a part of the stream that he had seen was little +frequented. + +There are some, especially women, who look about to make sure there is +somebody at hand. + +But this resolute wretch looked about him to make sure there was nobody. + +And to his annoyance, he observed a single figure leaning against +the corner of an alley. So he affected to stroll carelessly away; but +returned to the spot. + +Lo! the same figure emerged from a side street and loitered about. + +“Can he be watching me? Can he know what I am here for?” thought Gerard. +“Impossible.” + +He went briskly off, walked along a street or two, made a detour and +came back. + +The man had vanished. But lo! on Gerard looking all round, to make sure, +there he was a few yards behind, apparently fastening his shoe. + +Gerard saw he was watched, and at this moment observed in the moonlight +a steel gauntlet in his sentinel's hand. + +Then he knew it was an assassin. + +Strange to say, it never occurred to him that his was the life aimed at. +To be sure he was not aware he had an enemy in the world. + +He turned and walked up to the bravo. “My good friend,” said he eagerly, +“sell me thine arm! a single stroke! See, here is all I have;” and he +forced his money into the bravo's hands. + +“Oh, prithee! prithee! do one good deed, and rid me of my hateful life!” + and even while speaking he undid his doublet and bared his bosom. + +The man stared in his face. + +“Why do ye hesitate?” shrieked Gerard. “Have ye no bowels? Is it so much +pains to lift your arm and fall it? Is it because I am poor, and can't +give ye gold? Useless wretch, canst only strike a man behind; not look +one in the face. There, then, do but turn thy head and hold thy tongue!” + +And with a snarl of contempt he ran from him, and flung himself into the +water. + +“Margaret!” + +At the heavy plunge of his body in the stream the bravo seemed to +recover from a stupor. He ran to the bank, and with a strange cry the +assassin plunged in after the self-destroyer. + +What followed will be related by the assassin. + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII + +A woman has her own troubles, as a man has his. And we male writers +seldom do more than indicate the griefs of the other sex. The +intelligence of the female reader must come to our aid, and fill up our +cold outlines. So have I indicated, rather than described, what Margaret +Brandt went through up to that eventful day, when she entered Eli's +house an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and remained a friend. + +And now a woman's greatest trial drew near, and Gerard far away. + +She availed herself but little of Eli's sudden favour; for this reserve +she had always a plausible reason ready; and never hinted at the true +one, which was this; there were two men in that house at sight of +whom she shuddered with instinctive antipathy and dread. She had read +wickedness and hatred in their faces, and mysterious signals of secret +intelligence. She preferred to receive Catherine and her daughter at +home. The former went to see her every day, and was wrapped up in the +expected event. + +Catherine was one of those females whose office is to multiply, and rear +the multiplied: who, when at last they consent to leave off pelting +one out of every room in the house with babies, hover about the fair +scourges that are still in full swing, and do so cluck, they seem to +multiply by proxy. It was in this spirit she entreated Eli to let her +stay at Rotterdam, while he went back to Tergou. + +“The poor lass hath not a soul about her, that knows anything about +anything. What avail a pair o' soldiers? Why, that sort o' cattle should +be putten out o' doors the first, at such an a time.” + +Need I say that this was a great comfort to Margaret. + +Poor soul, she was full of anxiety as the time drew near. + +She should die; and Gerard away. + +But things balance themselves. Her poverty, and her father's +helplessness, which had cost her such a struggle, stood her in good +stead now. + +Adversity's iron hand had forced her to battle the lassitude that +overpowers the rich of her sex, and to be for ever on her feet, working. +She kept this up to the last by Catherine's advice. + +And so it was, that one fine evening, just at sunset, she lay weak +as water, but safe; with a little face by her side, and the heaven of +maternity opening on her. + +“Why dost weep, sweetheart? All of a sudden?” + +“He is not here to see it.” + +“Ah, well, lass, he will be here ere 'tis weaned. Meantime God hath +been as good to thee as to e'er a woman born; and do but bethink thee +it might have been a girl; didn't my very own Kate threaten me with one; +and here we have got the bonniest boy in Holland, and a rare heavy one, +the saints be praised for't.” + +“Ay, mother, I am but a sorry, ungrateful wretch to weep. If only Gerard +were here to see it. 'Tis strange; I bore him well enow to be away from +me in my sorrow; but oh, it does seem so hard he should not share my +joy. Prithee, prithee, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear Gerard!” And she +stretched out her feeble arms. + +Catherine hustled about, but avoided Margaret's eyes; for she could not +restrain her own tears at hearing her own absent child thus earnestly +addressed. + +Presently, turning round, she found Margaret looking at her with a +singular expression. “Heard you nought?” + +“No, my lamb. What?” + +“I did cry on Gerard, but now.” + +“Ay, ay, sure I heard that.” + +“Well, he answered me.” + +“Tush, girl: say not that.” + +“Mother, as sure as I lie here, with his boy by my side, his voice came +back to me, 'Margaret!' So. Yet methought 'twas not his happy voice. But +that might be the distance. All voices go off sad like at a distance. +Why art not happy, sweetheart? and I so happy this night? Mother, I seem +never to have felt a pain or known a care.” And her sweet eyes turned +and gloated on the little face in silence. + +That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And that very +hour she heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws and +despair's. + +“Margaret!” + +Account for it those who can. I cannot. + + + +CHAPTER LXIX + +In the guest chamber of a Dominican convent lay a single stranger, +exhausted by successive and violent fits of nausea, which had at last +subsided, leaving him almost as weak as Margaret lay that night in +Holland. + +A huge wood fire burned on the hearth, and beside it hung the patient's +clothes. + +A gigantic friar sat by his bedside, reading pious collects aloud from +his breviary. + +The patient at times eyed him, and seemed to listen: at others closed +his eyes and moaned. + +The monk kneeled down with his face touching the ground and prayed for +him; then rose and bade him farewell. “Day breaks,” said he; “I must +prepare for matins.” + +“Good Father Jerome, before you go, how came I hither?” + +“By the hand of Heaven. You flung away God's gift. He bestowed it on you +again. Think on it! Hast tried the world and found its gall. Now try the +Church! The Church is peace. Pax vobiscum.” + +He was gone. Gerard lay back, meditating and wondering, till weak and +wearied he fell into a doze. + +When he awoke again he found a new nurse seated beside him. It was a +layman, with an eye as small and restless as Friar Jerome's was calm and +majestic. + +The man inquired earnestly how he felt. + +“Very, very weak. Where have I seen you before, messer?” + +“None the worse for my gauntlet?” inquired the other, with considerable +anxiety; “I was fain to strike you withal, or both you and I should be +at the bottom of Tiber.” + +Gerard stared at him. “What, 'twas you saved me? How?” + +“Well, signor, I was by the banks of Tiber on-on an errand, no matter +what. You came to me and begged hard for a dagger stroke. But ere I +could oblige you, ay, even as you spoke to me, I knew you for the signor +that saved my wife and child upon the sea.” + +“It is Teresa's husband. And an assassin?!!?” + +“At your service. Well, Ser Gerard, the next thing was, you flung +yourself into Tiber, and bade me hold aloof.” + +“I remember that.” + +“Had it been any but you, believe me I had obeyed you, and not wagged a +finger. Men are my foes. They may all hang on one rope, or drown in one +river for me. But when thou, sinking in Tiber, didst cry 'Margaret!'” + +“Ah!” + +“My heart it cried 'Teresa!' How could I go home and look her in the +face, did I let thee die, and by the very death thou savedst her from? +So in I went; and luckily for us both I swim like a duck. You, seeing +me near, and being bent on destruction, tried to grip me, and so end us +both. But I swam round thee, and (receive my excuses) so buffeted thee +on the nape of the neck with my steel glove; that thou lost sense, and +I with much ado, the stream being strong, did draw thy body to land, but +insensible and full of water. Then I took thee on my back and made for +my own home. 'Teresa will nurse him, and be pleased with me,' thought I. +But hard by this monastery, a holy friar, the biggest e'er I saw, met us +and asked the matter. So I told him. He looked hard at thee. 'I know +the face,' quoth he. ''Tis one Gerard, a fair youth from Holland.' +'The same,' quo' I. Then said his reverence, 'He hath friends among our +brethren. Leave him with us! Charity, it is our office.' + +“Also he told me they of the convent had better means to tend thee than +I had. And that was true enow. So I just bargained to be let in to see +thee once a day, and here thou art.” + +And the miscreant cast a strange look of affection and interest upon +Gerard. + +Gerard did not respond to it. He felt as if a snake were in the room. He +closed his eyes. + +“Ah, thou wouldst sleep,” said the miscreant eagerly. “I go.” And he +retired on tip-toe with a promise to come every day. + +Gerard lay with his eyes closed: not asleep, but deeply pondering. + +Saved from death, by an assassin + +Was not this the finger of Heaven? + +Of that Heaven he had insulted, cursed, and defied. + +He shuddered at his blasphemies. He tried to pray. + +He found he could utter prayers. But he could not pray. + +“I am doomed eternally,” he cried, “doomed, doomed.” + +The organ of the convent church burst on his ear in rich and solemn +harmony. + +Then rose the voices of the choir chanting a full service. + +Among them was one that seemed to hover above the others, and tower +towards heaven; a sweet boy's voice, full, pure, angelic. + +He closed his eyes and listened. The days of his own boyhood flowed back +upon him in those sweet, pious harmonies. No earthly dross there, no +foul, fierce passions, rending and corrupting the soul. + +Peace, peace; sweet, balmy peace. + +“Ay,” he sighed, “the Church is peace of mind. Till I left her bosom I +ne'er knew sorrow, nor sin.” + +And the poor torn, worn creature wept. + +And even as he wept, there beamed on him the sweet and reverend face of +one he had never thought to see again. It was the face of Father Anselm. + +The good father had only reached the convent the night before last. +Gerard recognized him in a moment, and cried to him, “Oh, Father Anselm, +you cured my wounded body in Juliers: now cure my hurt soul in Rome! +Alas, you cannot.” + +Anselm sat down by the bedside, and putting a gentle hand on his head, +first calmed him with a soothing word or two. + +He then (for he had learned how Gerard came there) spoke to him kindly +but solemnly, and made him feel his crime, and urged him to repentance, +and gratitude to that Divine Power which had thwarted his will to save +his soul. + +“Come, my son,” said he, “first purge thy bosom of its load.” + +“Ah, father,” said Gerard, “in Juliers I could; then I was innocent but +now, impious monster that I am, I dare not confess to you.” + +“Why not, my son? Thinkest thou I have not sinned against Heaven in my +time, and deeply? oh, how deeply! Come, poor laden soul, pour forth thy +grief, pour forth thy faults, hold back nought! Lie not oppressed and +crushed by hidden sins.” + +And soon Gerard was at Father Anselm's knees confessing his every sin +with sighs and groans of penitence. + +“Thy sins are great,” said Anselm. “Thy temptation also was great, +terribly great. I must consult our good prior.” + +The good Anselm kissed his brow, and left him, to consult the superior +as to his penance. + +And lo! Gerard could pray now. + +And he prayed with all his heart. + +The phase, through which this remarkable mind now passed, may be summed +in a word--Penitence. + +He turned with terror and aversion from the world, and begged +passionately to remain in the convent. To him, convent nurtured, it was +like a bird returning wounded, wearied, to its gentle nest. + +He passed his novitiate in prayer, and mortification, and pious reading +and meditation. + + +The Princess Claelia's spy went home and told her that Gerard was +certainly dead, the manner of his death unknown at present. + +She seemed literally stunned. When, after a long time, she found breath +to speak at all, it was to bemoan her lot, cursed with such ready tools. +“So soon,” she sighed; “see how swift these monsters are to do ill +deeds. They come to us in our hot blood, and first tempt us with their +venal daggers, then enact the mortal deeds we ne'er had thought on but +for them.” + +Ere many hours had passed, her pity for Gerard and hatred of his +murderer had risen to fever heat; which with this fool was blood heat. + +“Poor soul! I cannot call thee back to life. But he shall never live +that traitorously slew thee.” + +And she put armed men in ambush, and kept them on guard all day, ready, +when Lodovico should come for his money, to fall on him in a certain +antechamber and hack him to pieces. + +“Strike at his head,” said she, “for he weareth a privy coat of mail; +and if he goes hence alive your own heads shall answer it.” + +And so she sat weeping her victim, and pulling the strings of machines +to shed the blood of a second for having been her machine to kill the +first. + + + +CHAPTER LXX + +One of the novice Gerard's self-imposed penances was to receive Lodovico +kindly, feeling secretly as to a slimy serpent. + +Never was self-denial better bestowed; and like most rational penances, +it soon became no penance at all. At first the pride and complacency, +with which the assassin gazed on the one life he had saved, was perhaps +as ludicrous as pathetic; but it is a great thing to open a good door in +a heart. One good thing follows another through the aperture. Finding it +so sweet to save life, the miscreant went on to be averse to taking +it; and from that to remorse; and from remorse to something very like +penitence. And here Teresa cooperated by threatening, not for the first +time, to leave him unless he would consent to lead an honest life. The +good fathers of the convent lent their aid, and Lodovico and Teresa +were sent by sea to Leghorn, where Teresa had friends, and the assassin +settled down and became a porter. + +He found it miserably dull work at first; and said so. + +But methinks this dull life of plodding labour was better for him, than +the brief excitement of being hewn in pieces by the Princess Claelia's +myrmidons. His exile saved the unconscious penitent from that fate; and +the princess, balked of her revenge, took to brooding, and fell into a +profound melancholy; dismissed her confessor, and took a new one with +a great reputation for piety, to whom she confided what she called her +griefs. The new confessor was no other than Fra Jerome. She could not +have fallen into better hands. + +He heard her grimly out. Then took her and shook the delusions out of +her as roughly as if she had been a kitchen-maid. For, to do this hard +monk justice, on the path of duty he feared the anger of princes as +little as he did the sea. He showed her in a few words, all thunder and +lightning, that she was the criminal of criminals. + +“Thou art the devil, that with thy money hath tempted one man to slay +his fellow, and then, blinded with self-love, instead of blaming and +punishing thyself, art thirsting for more blood of guilty men, but not +so guilty as thou.” + +At first she resisted, and told him she was not used to be taken to task +by her confessors. But he overpowered her, and so threatened her with +the Church's curse here and hereafter, and so tore the scales off her +eyes, and thundered at her, and crushed her, that she sank down and +grovelled with remorse and terror at the feet of the gigantic Boanerges. + +“Oh, holy father, have pity on a poor weak woman, and help me save my +guilty soul. I was benighted for want of ghostly counsel like thine, +good father. I waken as from a dream. + +“Doff thy jewels,” said Fra Jerome sternly. + +“I will. I will.” + +“Doff thy silk and velvet; and in humbler garb than wears thy meanest +servant, wend thou instant to Loretto.” + +“I will,” said the princess faintly. + +“No shoes; but a bare sandal.' + +“No father.” + +“Wash the feet of pilgrims both going and coming; and to such of them as +be holy friars tell thy sin, and abide their admonition.” + +“Oh, holy father, let me wear my mask.” + +“Humph!” + +“Oh, mercy! Bethink thee! My features are known through Italy.” + +“Ay. Beauty is a curse to most of ye. Well, thou mayst mask thine eyes; +no more.” + +On this concession she seized his hand, and was about to kiss it; but he +snatched it rudely from her. + +“What would ye do? That hand handled the eucharist but an hour agone: is +it fit for such as thou to touch it?” + +“Ah, no. But oh, go not without giving your penitent daughter your +blessing.” + +“Time enow to ask it when you come back from Loretto.” + + +Thus that marvellous occurrence by Tiber's banks left its mark on all +the actors, as prodigies are said to do. The assassin, softened by +saving the life he was paid to take, turned from the stiletto to the +porter's knot. The princess went barefoot to Loretto, weeping her crime +and washing the feet of base-born men. + +And Gerard, carried from the Tiber into that convent a suicide, now +passed for a young saint within its walls. + +Loving but experienced eyes were on him. + +Upon a shorter probation than usual he was admitted to priest's orders. + +And soon after took the monastic vows, and became a friar of St. +Dominic. + +Dying to the world, the monk parted with the very name by which he had +lived in it, and so broke the last link of association with earthly +feelings. + +Here Gerard ended, and Brother Clement began. + + + +CHAPTER LXXI + +“As is the race of leaves so is that of men.” And a great man budded +unnoticed in a tailor's house at Rotterdam this year, and a large man +dropped to earth with great eclat. + +Philip, Duke of Burgundy, Earl of Holland, etc., etc., lay sick at +Bruges. Now paupers got sick and got well as Nature pleased; but woe +betided the rich in an age when, for one Mr. Malady killed three fell by +Dr. Remedy. + +The Duke's complaint, nameless then, is now diphtheria. It is, and was, +a very weakening malady, and the Duke was old; so altogether Dr. Remedy +bled him. + +The Duke turned very cold: wonderful! + +Then Dr. Remedy had recourse to the arcana of science. + +“Ho! This is grave. Flay me an ape incontinent, and clap him to the +Duke's breast!” + +Officers of state ran septemvious, seeking an ape, to counteract the +bloodthirsty tomfoolery of the human species. + +Perdition! The duke was out of apes. There were buffaloes, lizards, +Turks, leopards; any unreasonable beast but the right one. + +“Why, there used to be an ape about,” said one. “If I stand here I saw +him.” + +So there used; but the mastiff had mangled the sprightly creature for +stealing his supper; and so fulfilled the human precept, “Soyez de votre +siecle!” + +In this emergency the seneschal cast his despairing eyes around; and not +in vain. A hopeful light shot into them. + +“Here is this,” said he, sotto voce. “Surely this will serve: 'tis +altogether apelike, doublet and hose apart.” + +“Nay,” said the chancellor peevishly, “the Princess Marie would hang us. +She doteth on this.” + +Now this was our friend Giles, strutting, all unconscious, in cloth of +gold. + +Then Dr. Remedy grew impatient, and bade flay a dog. + +“A dog is next best to an ape; only it must be a dog all of one colour.” + +So they flayed a liver-coloured dog, and clapped it, yet palpitating, to +their sovereign's breast and he died. + +Philip the Good, thus scientifically disposed of, left thirty-one +children: of whom one, somehow or another, was legitimate; and reigned +in his stead. + +The good duke provided for nineteen out of the other thirty; the rest +shifted for themselves. + +According to the Flemish chronicle the deceased prince was descended +from the kings of Troy through Thierry of Aquitaine, and Chilperic, +Pharamond, etc., the old kings of Franconia. + +But this in reality was no distinction. Not a prince of his day have +I been able to discover who did not come down from Troy. “Priam” was +mediaeval for “Adam.” + +The good duke's, body was carried into Burgundy, and laid in a noble +mausoleum of black marble at Dijon. + +Holland rang with his death; and little dreamed that anything as +famous was born in her territory that year. That judgment has been long +reversed. Men gaze at the tailor's house, here the great birth of the +fifteenth century took place. In what house the good duke died “no one +knows and no one cares,” as the song says. + +And why? + +Dukes Philip the Good come and go, and leave mankind not a halfpenny +wiser, nor better, nor other than they found it. + +But when, once in three hundred years, such a child is born to the world +as Margaret's son, lo! a human torch lighted by fire from heaven; and +“FIAT LUX” thunder's from pole to pole. + + + +CHAPTER LXXII + +The Cloister + +The Dominicans, or preaching friars, once the most powerful order in +Europe, were now on the wane; their rivals and bitter enemies, the +Franciscans, were overpowering them throughout Europe; even in England, +a rich and religious country, where under the name of the Black Friars, +they had once been paramount. + +Therefore the sagacious men, who watched and directed the interests of +the order, were never so anxious to incorporate able and zealous sons +and send them forth to win back the world. + +The zeal and accomplishments of Clement, especially his rare mastery of +language (for he spoke Latin, Italian, French, high and low Dutch), +soon transpired, and he was destined to travel and preach in England, +corresponding with the Roman centre. + +But Jerome, who had the superior's ear, obstructed this design. + +“Clement,” said he, “has the milk of the world still in his veins, its +feelings, its weaknesses let not his new-born zeal and his humility +tempt us to forego our ancient wisdom. Try him first, and temper him, +lest one day we find ourselves leaning on a reed for a staff. + +“It is well advised,” said the prior. “Take him in hand thyself.” + +Then Jerome, following the ancient wisdom, took Clement and tried him. + +One day he brought him to a field where the young men amused themselves +at the games of the day; he knew this to be a haunt of Clement's late +friends. + +And sure enough ere long Pietro Vanucci and Andrea passed by them, and +cast a careless glance on the two friars. They did not recognize their +dead friend in a shaven monk. + +Clement gave a very little start, and then lowered his eyes and said a +paternoster. + +“Would ye not speak with them, brother?” said Jerome, trying him. + +“No brother: yet was it good for me to see them. They remind me of the +sins I can never repent enough.” + +“It is well,” said Jerome, and he made a cold report in Clement's +favour. + +Then Jerome took Clement to many death-beds. And then into noisome +dungeons; places where the darkness was appalling, and the stench +loathsome, pestilential; and men looking like wild beasts lay coiled +in rags and filth and despair. It tried his body hard; but the soul +collected all its powers to comfort such poor wretches there as were +not past comfort. And Clement shone in that trial. Jerome reported that +Clement's spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak. + +“Good!” said Anselm; “his flesh is weak, but his spirit is willing.” + +But there was a greater trial in store. + +I will describe it as it was seen by others. + +One morning a principal street in Rome was crowded, and even the avenues +blocked up with heads. It was an execution. No common crime had been +done, and on no vulgar victim. + +The governor of Rome had been found in his bed at daybreak, slaughtered. +His hand, raised probably in self-defence, lay by his side severed at +the wrist; his throat was cut, and his temples bruised with some blunt +instrument. The murder had been traced to his servant, and was to be +expiated in kind this very morning. + +Italian executions were not cruel in general. But this murder was +thought to call for exact and bloody retribution. + +The criminal was brought to the house of the murdered man and fastened +for half an hour to its wall. After this foretaste of legal vengeance +his left hand was struck off, like his victim's. A new-killed fowl was +cut open and fastened round the bleeding stump; with what view I really +don't know; but by the look of it, some mare's nest of the poor dear +doctors; and the murderer, thus mutilated and bandaged, was hurried to +the scaffold; and there a young friar was most earnest and affectionate +in praying with him, and for him, and holding the crucifix close to his +eyes. + +Presently the executioner pulled the friar roughly on one side, and in +a moment felled the culprit with a heavy mallet, and falling on him, cut +his throat from ear to ear. + +There was a cry of horror from the crowd. + +The young friar swooned away. + +A gigantic monk strode forward, and carried him off like a child. + +Brother Clement went back to the convent sadly discouraged. He confessed +to the prior, with tears of regret. + +“Courage, son Clement,” said the prior. “A Dominican is not made in +a day. Thou shalt have another trial. And I forbid thee to go to it +fasting.” Clement bowed his head in token of obedience. He had not long +to wait. A robber was brought to the scaffold; a monster of villainy +and cruelty, who had killed men in pure wantonness, after robbing them. +Clement passed his last night in prison with him, accompanied him to +the scaffold, and then prayed with him and for him so earnestly that the +hardened ruffian shed tears and embraced him Clement embraced him +too, though his flesh quivered with repugnance; and held the crucifix +earnestly before his eyes. The man was garotted, and Clement lost sight +of the crowd, and prayed loud and earnestly while that dark spirit was +passing from earth. He was no sooner dead than the hangman raised his +hatchet and quartered the body on the spot. And, oh, mysterious heart +of man! the people who had seen the living body robbed of life with +indifference, almost with satisfaction, uttered a piteous cry at each +stroke of the axe upon his corpse that could feel nought. Clement too +shuddered then, but stood firm, like one of those rocks that vibrate but +cannot be thrown down. But suddenly Jerome's voice sounded in his ear. + +“Brother Clement, get thee on that cart and preach to the people. Nay, +quickly! strike with all thy force on all this iron, while yet 'tis hot, +and souls are to be saved.” + +Clement's colour came and went; and he breathed hard. But he obeyed, and +with ill-assured step mounted the cart, and preached his first sermon +to the first crowd he had ever faced. Oh, that sea of heads! His throat +seemed parched, his heart thumped, his voice trembled. + +By-and-by the greatness of the occasion, the sight of the eager upturned +faces, and his own heart full of zeal, fired the pale monk. He told them +this robber's history, warm from his own lips in the prison, and showed +his hearers by that example the gradations of folly and crime, and +warned them solemnly not to put foot on the first round of that fatal +ladder. And as alternately he thundered against the shedders of blood, +and moved the crowd to charity and pity, his tremors left him, and he +felt all strung up like a lute, and gifted with an unsuspected force; he +was master of that listening crowd, could feel their very pulse, +could play sacred melodies on them as on his psaltery. Sobs and groans +attested his power over the mob already excited by the tragedy before +them. Jerome stared like one who goes to light a stick; and fires a +rocket. After a while Clement caught his look of astonishment, and +seeing no approbation in it, broke suddenly off, and joined him. + +“It was my first endeavour,” said he apologetically. “Your behest came +on me like a thunderbolt. Was I?--Did I?--Oh, correct me, and aid me +with your experience, Brother Jerome.” + +“Humph!” said Jerome doubtfully. He added, rather sullenly after long +reflection, “Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; my opinion is thou +art an orator born.” + +He reported the same at headquarters, half reluctantly. For he was an +honest friar though a disagreeable one. + +One Julio Antonelli was accused of sacrilege; three witnesses swore they +saw him come out of the church whence the candle-sticks were stolen, and +at the very time. Other witnesses proved an alibi for him as positively. +Neither testimony could be shaken. In this doubt Antonelli was permitted +the trial by water, hot or cold. By the hot trial he must put his bare +arm into boiling water, fourteen inches deep, and take out a pebble; by +the cold trial his body must be let down into eight feet of water. +The clergy, who thought him innocent, recommended the hot water trial, +which, to those whom they favoured, was not so terrible as it sounded. +But the poor wretch had not the nerve, and chose the cold ordeal. And +this gave Jerome another opportunity of steeling Clement. Antonelli took +the sacrament, and then was stripped naked on the banks of the Tiber, +and tied hand and foot, to prevent those struggles by which a man, +throwing his arms out of the water, sinks his body. + +He was then let down gently into the stream, and floated a moment, with +just his hair above water. A simultaneous roar from the crowd on +each bank proclaimed him guilty. But the next moment the ropes, +which happened to be new, got wet, and he settled down. Another roar +proclaimed his innocence. They left him at the bottom of the river +the appointed time, rather more than half a minute, then drew him up, +gurgling and gasping, and screaming for mercy; and after the appointed +prayers, dismissed him, cleared of the charge. + +During the experiment Clement prayed earnestly on the bank. + +When it was over he thanked God in a loud but slightly quavering voice. + +By-and-by he asked Jerome whether the man ought not to be compensated. + +“For what?” + +“For the pain, the dread, the suffocation. Poor soul, he liveth, but +hath tasted all the bitterness of death. Yet he had done no ill.” + +“He is rewarded enough in that he is cleared of his fault.” + +“But being innocent of that fault, yet hath he drunk Death's cup, though +not to the dregs; and his accusers, less innocent than he, do suffer +nought.” + +Jerome replied somewhat sternly-- + +“It is not in this world men are really punished, Brother Clement. +Unhappy they who sin yet suffer not. And happy they who suffer such ills +as earth hath power to inflict; 'tis counted to them above, ay, and a +hundred-fold.” + +Clement bowed his head submissively. + +“May thy good words not fall to the ground, but take root in my heart, +Brother Jerome.” + +But the severest trial Clement underwent at Jerome's hands was +unpremeditated. It came about thus. Jerome, in an indulgent moment, went +with him to Fra Colonna, and there “The Dream of Polifilo” lay on the +table just copied fairly. The poor author, in the pride of his heart, +pointed out a master-stroke in it. + +“For ages,” said he, “fools have been lavishing poetic praise and +amorous compliment on mortal women, mere creatures of earth, smacking +palpably of their origin; Sirens at the windows, where our Roman women +in particular have by lifelong study learned the wily art to show their +one good feature, though but an ear or an eyelash, at a jalosy, and +hide all the rest; Magpies at the door, Capre n' i giardini, Angeli in +Strada, Sante in chiesa, Diavoli in casa. Then come I and ransack the +minstrels' lines for amorous turns, not forgetting those which Petrarch +wasted on that French jilt Laura, the sliest of them all; and I lay you +the whole bundle of spice at the feet of the only females worthy amorous +incense; to wit, the Nine Muses.” + +“By which goodly stratagem,” said Jerome, who had been turning the pages +all this time, “you, a friar of St. Dominic, have produced an obscene +book.” And he dashed Polifilo on the table. + +“Obscene? thou discourteous monk!” And the author ran round the table, +snatched Polifilo away, locked him up, and trembling with mortification, +said, “My Gerard, pshaw! Brother What's-his-name had not found Polifilo +obscene. Puris omnia pura.” + +“Such as read your Polifilo--Heaven grant they may be few--will find him +what I find him.” + +Poor Colonna gulped down this bitter pill as he might; and had he +not been in his own lodgings, and a high-born gentleman as well as a +scholar, there might have been a vulgar quarrel. + +As it was, he made a great effort, and turned the conversation to +a beautiful chrysolite the Cardinal Colonna had lent him; and while +Clement handled it, enlarged on its moral virtues: for he went the whole +length of his age as a worshipper of jewels. + +But Jerome did not, and expostulated with him for believing that one +dead stone could confer valour on its wearer, another chastity, another +safety from poison, another temperance. + +“The experience of ages proves they do,” said Colonna. “As to the last +virtue you have named, there sits a living proof. This Gerard--I beg +pardon, Brother Thingemy--comes from the north, where men drink like +fishes; yet was he ever most abstemious. And why? Carried an amethyst, +the clearest and fullest coloured e'er I saw on any but noble finger. +Where, in Heaven's name, is thine amethyst? Show it this unbeliever!” + +“And 'twas that amethyst made the boy temperate?” asked Jerome +ironically. + +“Certainly. Why, what is the derivation and meaning of amethyst? {a} +negative, and {methua} to tipple. Go to, names are but the signs of +things. A stone is not called {amethustos} for two thousand years out of +mere sport, and abuse of language.” + +He then went through the prime jewels, illustrating their moral +properties, especially of the ruby, the sapphire, the emerald, and the +opal, by anecdotes out of grave historians. + +“These be old wives' fables,” said Jerome contemptuously. “Was ever such +credulity as thine?” + +Now credulity is a reproach sceptics have often the ill-luck to incur; +but it mortifies them none the less for that. + +The believer in stones writhed under it, and dropped the subject. Then +Jerome, mistaking his silence, exhorted him to go a step farther, and +give up from this day his vain pagan lore, and study the lives of the +saints. “Blot out these heathen superstitions from thy mind, brother, as +Christianity hath blotted them from the earth.” + +And in this strain he proceeded, repeating, incautiously, some current +but loose theological statements. Then the smarting Polifilo revenged +himself. He flew out, and hurled a mountain of crude, miscellaneous +lore upon Jerome, of which, partly for want of time, partly for lack of +learning, I can reproduce but a few fragments. + +“The heathen blotted out? Why, they hold four-fifths of the world. And +what have we Christians invented without their aid? painting? sculpture? +these are heathen arts, and we but pigmies at them. What modern mind +can conceive and grave so god-like forms as did the chief Athenian +sculptors, and the Libyan Licas, and Dinocrates of Macedon, and Scopas, +Timotheus, Leochares, and Briaxis; Chares, Lysippus, and the immortal +three of Rhodes, that wrought Laocoon from a single block? What prince +hath the genius to turn mountains into statues, as was done at Bagistan, +and projected at Athos? What town the soul to plant a colossus of brass +in the sea, for the tallest ships to sail in and out between his legs? +Is it architecture we have invented? Why, here too we are but children. +Can we match for pure design the Parthenon, with its clusters of double +and single Doric columns? (I do adore the Doric when the scale is +large), and for grandeur and finish, the theatres of Greece and Rome, +or the prodigious temples of Egypt, up to whose portals men walked +awe-struck through avenues a mile long of sphinxes, each as big as a +Venetian palace. And all these prodigies of porphyry cut and polished +like crystal, not rough hewn as in our puny structures. Even now their +polished columns and pilasters lie o'erthrown and broken, o'ergrown with +acanthus and myrtle, but sparkling still, and flouting the slovenly art +of modern workmen. Is it sewers, aqueducts, viaducts? + +“Why, we have lost the art of making a road--lost it with the world's +greatest models under our very eye. Is it sepulchres of the dead? Why, +no Christian nation has ever erected a tomb, the sight of which does not +set a scholar laughing. Do but think of the Mausoleum, and the Pyramids, +and the monstrous sepulchres of the Indus and Ganges, which outside are +mountains, and within are mines of precious stones. Ah, you have not +seen the East, Jerome, or you could not decry the heathen.” + +Jerome observed that these were mere material things. True greatness was +in the soul. + +“Well then,” replied Colonna, “in the world of mind, what have we +discovered? Is it geometry? Is it logic? Nay, we are all pupils of +Euclid and Aristotle. Is it written characters, an invention almost +divine? We no more invented it than Cadmus did. Is it poetry? Homer hath +never been approached by us, nor hath Virgil, nor Horace. Is it tragedy +or comedy? Why, poets, actors, theatres, all fell to dust at our +touch. Have we succeeded in reviving them? Would you compare our little +miserable mysteries and moralities, all frigid personification, and dog +Latin, with the glories of a Greek play (on the decoration of which +a hundred thousand crowns had been spent) performed inside a marble +miracle, the audience a seated city, and the poet a Sophocles? + +“What then have we invented? Is it monotheism? Why, the learned and +philosophical among the Greeks and Romans held it; even their more +enlightened poets were monotheists in their sleeves. + + {Zeus estin ouranos, Zeus te gy Zeus toi panta} + saith the Greek, and Lucan echoes him: + 'Jupiter est quod cunque vides quo cunque moveris.' + +“Their vulgar were polytheists; and what are ours? We have not invented +'invocation of the saints.' Our sancti answers to their Daemones and +Divi, and the heathen used to pray their Divi or deified mortal to +intercede with the higher divinity; but the ruder minds among them, +incapable of nice distinctions, worshipped those lesser gods they should +have but invoked. And so do the mob of Christians in our day, following +the heathen vulgar or by unbroken tradition. For in holy writ is no +polytheism of any sort or kind. + +“We have not invented so much as a form or variety of polytheism. The +pagan vulgar worshipped all sorts of deified mortals, and each had his +favourite, to whom he prayed ten times for once to the Omnipotent. Our +vulgar worship canonized mortals, and each has his favourite, to whom he +prays ten times for once to God. Call you that invention? Invention is +confined to the East. Among the ancient vulgar only the mariners were +monotheists; they worshipped Venus; called her 'Stella maris,' and +'Regina caelorum.' Among our vulgar only the mariners are monotheists; +they worship the Virgin Mary, and call her the 'Star of the Sea,' and +the 'Queen of Heaven.' Call you theirs a new religion? An old doubtlet +with a new button. Our vulgar make images, and adore them, which is +absurd; for adoration is the homage due from a creature to its creator; +now here man is the creator; so the statues ought to worship him, and +would, if they had brains enough to justify a rat in worshipping them. +But even this abuse, though childish enough to be modern, is ancient. +The pagan vulgar in these parts made their images, then knelt before +them, adorned them with flowers, offered incense to them, lighted tapers +before them, carried them in procession, and made pilgrimages to them +just to the smallest tittle as we their imitators do.” + +Jerome here broke in impatiently, and reminded him that the images the +most revered in Christendom were made by no mortal hand, but had dropped +from heaven. + +“Ay,” cried Colonna, “such are the tutelary images of most great Italian +towns. I have examined nineteen of them, and made drafts of them. If +they came from the sky, our worst sculptors are our angels. But my mind +is easy on that score. Ungainly statue or villainous daub fell never yet +from heaven to smuggle the bread out of capable workmen's mouths. All +this is Pagan, and arose thus. The Trojans had Oriental imaginations, +and feigned that their Palladium, a wooden statue three cubits long, +fell down from heaven. The Greeks took this fib home among the spoils +of Troy, and soon it rained statues on all the Grecian cities, and their +Latin apes. And one of these Palladia gave St. Paul trouble at Ephesus; +'twas a statue of Diana that fell down from Jupiter: credat qui credere +possit.” + +“What, would you cast your profane doubts on that picture of our blessed +Lady, which scarce a century agone hung lustrous in the air over this +very city, and was taken down by the Pope and bestowed in St. Peter's +Church?” + +“I have no profane doubts on the matter, Jerome. This is the story of +Numa's shield, revived by theologians with an itch for fiction, but no +talent that way; not being orientals. The 'ancile' or sacred shield +of Numa hung lustrous in the air over this very city, till that pious +prince took it down and hung it in the temple of Jupiter. Be just, +swallow both stories or neither. The 'Bocca della Verita' passes for a +statue of the Virgin, and convicted a woman of perjury the other day; +it is in reality an image of the goddess Rhea, and the modern figment is +one of its ancient traditions; swallow both or neither. + +'Qui Bavium non odit amet tua carmina, Mavi.' + +“But indeed we owe all our Palladiuncula, and all our speaking, nodding, +winking, sweating, bleeding statues, to these poor abused heathens; the +Athenian statues all sweated before the battle of Chaeronea, so did the +Roman statues during Tully's consulship, viz., the statue of Victory at +Capua, of Mars at Rome, and of Apollo outside the gates. The Palladium +itself was brought to Italy by Aeneas, and after keeping quiet three +centuries, made an observation in Vesta's Temple: a trivial one, I fear, +since it hath not survived; Juno's statue at Veii assented with a nod to +go to Rome. Antony's statue on Mount Alban bled from every vein in its +marble before the fight of Actium. Others cured diseases: as that of +Pelichus, derided by Lucian; for the wiser among the heathen believed in +sweating marble, weeping wood, and bleeding brass--as I do. Of all our +marks and dents made in stone by soft substances, this saint's knee, and +that saint's finger, and t'other's head, the original is heathen. Thus +the footprints of Hercules were shown on a rock in Scythia. Castor and +Pollux fighting on white horses for Rome against the Latians, left the +prints of their hoofs on a rock at Regillum. A temple was built to them +on the spot, and the marks were to be seen in Tully's day. You may see, +near Venice, a great stone cut nearly in half by St. George's sword. +This he ne'er had done but for the old Roman who cut the whetstone in +two with his razor. + +'Qui Bavium non odit amet tua carmina, Mavi.' + +“Kissing of images, and the Pope's toe, is Eastern Paganism. The +Egyptians had it of the Assyrians, the Greeks of the Egyptians, the +Romans of the Greeks, and we of the Romans, whose Pontifex Maximus had +his toe kissed under the Empire. The Druids kissed the High Priest's toe +a thousand years B.C. The Mussulmans, who, like you, profess to abhor +Heathenism, kiss the stone of the Caaba: a Pagan practice. + +“The Priests of Baal kissed their idols so. + +“Tully tells us of a fair image of Hercules at Agrigentum, whose chin +was worn by kissing. The lower parts of the statue we call Peter are +Jupiter. The toe is sore worn, but not all by Christian mouths. The +heathen vulgar laid their lips there first, for many a year, and ours +have but followed them, as monkeys their masters. And that is why, down +with the poor heathen! + +Pereant qui ante nos nostra fecerint. + +“Our infant baptism is Persian, with the font and the signing of the +child's brow. Our throwing three handfuls of earth on the coffin, and +saying dust to dust, is Egyptian. + +“Our incense is Oriental, Roman, Pagan; and the early Fathers of the +Church regarded it with superstitious horror, and died for refusing to +handle it. Our Holy water is Pagan, and all its uses. See, here is a +Pagan aspersorium. Could you tell it from one of ours? It stood in the +same part of their temples, and was used in ordinary worship as ours, +and in extraordinary purifications. They called it Aqua lustralis. Their +vulgar, like ours, thought drops of it falling on the body would wash +out sin; and their men of sense, like ours, smiled or sighed at such +credulity. What saith Ovid of this folly, which hath outlived him? + + 'Ah nimium faciles, qui tristia crimina coedis + Fluminea tolli posse putetis aqua.' + +Thou seest the heathen were not all fools. No more are we. Not all.” + +Fra Colonna uttered all this with such volubility, that his hearers +could not edge in a word of remonstrance; and not being interrupted +in praising his favourites, he recovered his good humour, without any +diminution of his volubility. + +“We celebrate the miraculous Conception of the Virgin on the 2nd of +February. The old Romans celebrated the Miraculous Conception of Juno on +the 2nd of February. Our feast of All Saints is on the 2nd November. The +Festum Dei Mortis was on the 2nd November. Our Candlemas is also an old +Roman feast; neither the date nor the ceremony altered one tittle. +The patrician ladies carried candles about the city that night as our +signoras do now. At the gate of San Croce our courtesans keep a feast +on the 20th August. Ask them why! The little noodles cannot tell you. On +that very spot stood the Temple of Venus. Her building is gone; but her +rite remains. Did we discover Purgatory? On the contrary, all we really +know about it is from two treatises of Plato, the Gorgias and the +Phaedo, and the sixth book of Virgil's Aeneid. + +“I take it from a holier source: St. Gregory,” said Jerome sternly. + +“Like enough,” replied Colonna drily. “But St. Gregory was not so nice; +he took it from Virgil. Some souls, saith Gregory, are purged by fire, +others by water, others by air. + +“Says Virgil-- + + 'Aliae panduntur inanes, + Suspensae ad ventous, aliis sub gurgite vasto + Infectum eluitur scelus, aut exuritur igni.' + +But peradventure, you think Pope Gregory I lived before Virgil, and +Virgil versified him. + +“But the doctrine is Eastern, and as much older than Plato as Plato +than Gregory. Our prayers for the dead came from Asia with Aeneas. Ovid +tells, that when he prayed for the soul of Anchises, the custom was +strange in Italy. + + 'Hunc morem Aeneas, pietatis idoneus auctor + Attulit in terras, juste Latine, tuas.' + +The 'Biblicae' Sortes,' which I have seen consulted on the altar, are +a parody on the 'Sortes Virgilianae.' Our numerous altars in one church +are heathen: the Jews, who are monotheists, have but one altar in a +church. But the Pagans had many, being polytheists. In the temple of +Pathian Venus were a hundred of them. 'Centum que Sabaeo thure calent +arae.' Our altar's and our hundred lights around St. Peter's tomb are +Pagan. 'Centum aras posuit vigilemque sacraverat ignem.' We invent +nothing, not even numerically. Our very Devil is the god Pan, horns and +hoofs and all; but blackened. For we cannot draw; we can but daub the +figures of Antiquity with a little sorry paint or soot. Our Moses hath +stolen the horns of Ammon; our Wolfgang the hook of Saturn; and Janus +bore the keys of heaven before St. Peter. All our really old Italian +bronzes of the Virgin and Child are Venuses and Cupids. So is the wooden +statue, that stands hard by this house, of Pope Joan and the child +she is said to have brought forth there in the middle of a procession. +Idiots! are new-born children thirteen years old? And that boy is not a +day younger. Cupid! Cupid! Cupid! And since you accuse me of credulity, +know that to my mind that Papess is full as mythological, born of froth, +and every way unreal, as the goddess who passes for her in the next +street, or as the saints you call St. Baccho and St. Quirina: or St. +Oracte, which is a dunce-like corruption of Mount Soracte, or St. +Amphibolus, an English saint, which is a dunce-like corruption of the +cloak worn by their St. Alban, Or as the Spanish saint, St. Viar: which +words on his tombstone, written thus, 'S. Viar,' prove him no saint, +but a good old nameless heathen, and 'praefectus Viarum,' or overseer +of roads (would he were back to earth, and paganizing of our Christian +roads!), or as our St. Veronica of Benasco, which Veronica is a +dunce-like corruption of the 'Vera icon,' which this saint brought +into the church. I wish it may not be as unreal as the donor, Or as the +eleven thousand virgins of Cologne, who were but a couple.” + +Clement interrupted him to inquire what he meant. “I have spoken with +those have seen their bones.” + +“What, of eleven thousand virgins all collected in one place and at one +time? Do but bethink thee, Clement. Not one of the great Eastern cities +of antiquity could collect eleven thousand Pagan virgins at one time, +far less a puny Western city. Eleven thousand Christian virgins in a +little, wee, Paynim city! + +'Quod cunque ostendis mihi sic incredulus odi.' + +The simple sooth is this. The martyrs were two: the Breton princess +herself, falsely called British, and her maid, Onesimilla, which is +a Greek name, Onesima, diminished. This some fool did mis-pronounce +undecim mille, eleven thousand: loose tongue found credulous ears, and +so one fool made many; eleven thousand of them, an' you will. And you +charge me with credulity, Jerome? and bid me read the Lives of the +Saints. Well, I have read them, and many a dear old Pagan acquaintance +I found there. The best fictions in the book are Oriental, and are known +to have been current in Persia and Arabia eight hundred years and more +before the dates the Church assigns to them as facts. As for the true +Western figments, they lack the Oriental plausibility. Think you I am +credulous enough to believe that St. Ida joined a decapitated head to +its body? that Cuthbert's carcass directed his bearers where to go, and +where to stop; that a city was eaten up of rats to punish one Hatto +for comparing the poor to mice; that angels have a little horn in +their foreheads, and that this was seen and recorded at the time by +St. Veronica of Benasco, who never existed, and hath left us this +information and a miraculous handkercher? For my part, I think the +holiest woman the world ere saw must have an existence ere she can have +a handkercher or an eye to take unicorns for angels. Think you I believe +that a brace of lions turned sextons and helped Anthony bury Paul of +Thebes? that Patrick, a Scotch saint, stuck a goat's beard on all the +descendants of one that offended him? that certain thieves, having +stolen the convent ram, and denying it, St. Pol de Leon bade the ram +bear witness, and straight the mutton bleated in the thief's belly? +Would you have me give up the skilful figments of antiquity for such old +wives' fables as these? The ancients lied about animals, too; but then +they lied logically; we unreasonably. Do but compare Ephis and his +lion, or, better still, Androcles and his lion, with Anthony and his two +lions. Both the Pagan lions do what lions never did' but at the least +they act in character. A lion with a bone in his throat, or a thorn +in his foot, could not do better than be civil to a man. But Anthony's +lions are asses in a lion's skin. What leonine motive could they have in +turning sextons? A lion's business is to make corpses, not inter them.” + He added, with a sigh, “Our lies are as inferior to the lies of the +ancients as our statues, and for the same reason; we do not study nature +as they did. We are imitatores, servum pecus. Believe you 'the lives of +the saints;' that Paul the Theban was the first hermit, and Anthony the +first Caenobite? Why, Pythagoras was an Eremite, and under ground for +seven years; and his daughter was an abbess. Monks and hermits were in +the East long before Moses, and neither old Greece nor Rome was ever +without them. As for St. Francis and his snowballs, he did but mimic +Diogenes, who, naked, embraced statues on which snow had fallen. The +folly without the poetry. Ape of an ape--for Diogenes was but a mimic +therein of the Brahmins and Indian gymnosophists. Natheless, the +children of this Francis bid fair to pelt us out of the Church with +their snowballs. Tell me now, Clement, what habit is lovelier than +the vestments of our priests? Well, we owe them all to Numa Pompilius, +except the girdle and the stole, which are judaical. As for the amice +and the albe, they retain the very names they bore in Numa's day. The +'pelt' worn by the canons comes from primeval Paganism. 'Tis a relic +of those rude times when the sacrificing priest wore the skins of the +beasts with the fur outward. Strip off thy black gown, Jerome, thy +girdle and cowl, for they come to us all three from the Pagan ladies. +Let thy hair grow like Absolom's, Jerome! for the tonsure is as Pagan as +the Muses.” + +“Take care what thou sayest,” said Jerome sternly. “We know the very +year in which the Church did first ordain it.” + +“But not invent it, Jerome. The Brahmins wore it a few thousands years +ere that. From them it came through the Assyrians to the priests of Isis +in Egypt, and afterwards of Serapis at Athens. The late Pope (the saints +be good to him) once told me the tonsure was forbidden by God to the +Levites in the Pentateuch. If so, this was because of the Egyptian +priests wearing it. I trust to his holiness. I am no biblical scholar. +The Latin of thy namesake Jerome is a barrier I cannot overleap. 'Dixit +ad me Dominus Dens. Dixi ad Dominum Deum.' No, thank you, holy Jerome; +I can stand a good deal, but I cannot stand thy Latin. Nay; give me the +New Testament! 'Tis not the Greek of Xenophon; but 'tis Greek. And there +be heathen sayings in it too. For St. Paul was not so spiteful against +them as thou. When the heathen said a good thing that suited his matter, +by Jupiter he just took it, and mixed it to all eternity with the +inspired text.” + +“Come forth, Clement, come forth!” said Jerome, rising; “and thou, +profane monk, know that but for the powerful house that upholds thee, +thy accursed heresy should go no farther, for I would have thee burned +at the stake.” And he strode out white with indignation. + +Colonna's reception of this threat did credit to him as an enthusiast. +He ran and hallooed joyfully after Jerome. “And that is Pagan. Burning +of men's bodies for the opinions of their souls is a purely Pagan +custom--as Pagan as incense, holy water, a hundred altars in one church, +the tonsure, the cardinal's, or flamen's hat, the word Pope, the--” + +Here Jerome slammed the door. + +But ere they could get clear of the house a jalosy was flung open, and +the Paynim monk came out head and shoulders, and overhung the street +shouting, + + “Affecti suppliciis Chrisitiani, genus hominum + Novas superstitionis ac maleficae,'” + +And having delivered this parting blow, he felt a great triumphant joy, +and strode exultant to and fro; and not attending with his usual care +to the fair way (for his room could only be threaded by little paths +wriggling among the antiquities), tripped over the beak of an Egyptian +stork, and rolled upon a regiment of Armenian gods, which he found tough +in argument though small in stature. + +“You will go no more to that heretical monk,” said Jerome to Clement. + +Clement sighed. “Shall we leave him and not try to correct him? Make +allowance for heat of discourse! he was nettled, His words are worse +than his acts. Oh 'tis a pure and charitable soul.” + +“So are all arch-heretics. Satan does not tempt them like other men. +Rather he makes them more moral, to give their teaching weight. Fra +Colonna cannot be corrected; his family is all-powerful in Rome, Pray we +the saints he blasphemes to enlighten him, 'Twill not be the first time +they have returned good for evil, Meantime thou art forbidden to consort +with him, From this day go alone through the city! Confess and absolve +sinners! exorcise demons! comfort the sick! terrify the impenitent! +preach wherever men are gathered and occasion serves! and hold no +converse with the Fra Colonna!” + +Clement bowed his head. + +Then the prior, at Jerome's request, had the young friar watched. And +one day the spy returned with the news that Brother Clement had passed +by the Fra Colonna's lodging, and had stopped a little while in the +street, and then gone on, but with his hand to his eyes and slowly. + +This report Jerome took to the prior. The prior asked his opinion, +and also Anselm's, who was then taking leave of him on his return to +Juliers. + +Jerome. “Humph! He obeyed, but with regret, ay, with childish repining.” + +Anselm, “He shed a natural tear at turning his back on a friend and a +benefactor, But he obeyed.” + +Now Anselm was one of your gentle irresistibles, He had at times a mild +ascendant even over Jerome. + +“Worthy Brother Anselm,” said Jerome, “Clement is weak to the very +bone, He will disappoint thee, He will do nothing, great, either for the +Church or for our holy order. Yet he is an orator, and hath drunken of +the spirit of St. Dominic. Fly him, then, with a string.” + +That same day it was announced to Clement that he was to go to England +immediately with Brother Jerome. + +Clement folded his hands on his breast, and bowed his head in calm +submission. + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII + +THE HEARTH + +A Catherine is not an unmixed good in a strange house. The governing +power is strong in her. She has scarce crossed the threshold ere the +utensils seem to brighten; the hearth to sweep itself; the windows to +let in more light; and the soul of an enormous cricket to animate +the dwelling-place. But this cricket is a Busy Body. And that is a +tremendous character. It has no discrimination. It sets everything to +rights, and everybody. Now many things are the better for being set to +rights. But everything is not. Everything is the one thing that won't +stand being set to rights; except in that calm and cool retreat, the +grave. + +Catherine altered the position of every chair and table in Margaret's +house; and perhaps for the better. + +But she must go farther, and upset the live furniture. + +When Margaret's time was close at hand, Catherine treacherously invited +the aid of Denys and Martin; and on the poor, simple-minded fellows +asking her earnestly what service they could be, she told them they +might make themselves comparatively useful by going for a little walk. +So far so good. But she intimated further that should the promenade +extend into the middle of next week all the better. This was not +ingratiating. The subsequent conduct of the strong under the yoke of the +weak might have propitiated a she-bear with three cubs, one sickly. +They generally slipped out of the house at daybreak; and stole in like +thieves at night; and if by any chance they were at home, they went +about like cats on a wall tipped with broken glass, and wearing +awe-struck visages, and a general air of subjugation and depression. + +But all would not do. Their very presence was ill-timed; and jarred upon +Catherine's nerves. + +Did instinct whisper, a pair of depopulators had no business in a house +with multipliers twain? + +The breastplate is no armour against a female tongue; and Catherine ran +infinite pins and needles of speech into them. In a word, when Margaret +came down stairs, she found the kitchen swept of heroes. + +Martin, old and stiff, had retreated no farther than the street, and +with the honours of war: for he had carried off his baggage, a stool; +and sat on it in the air. + +Margaret saw he was out in the sun; but was not aware he was a fixture +in that luminary. She asked for Denys. “Good, kind Denys; he will be +right pleased to see me about again.” + +Catherine, wiping a bowl with now superfluous vigour, told her Denys was +gone to his friends in Burgundy. “And high time, Hasn't been anigh them +this three years, by all accounts.” + +“What, gone without bidding me farewell?” said Margaret, uplifting two +tender eyes like full-blown violets. + +Catherine reddened. For this new view of the matter set her conscience +pricking her. + +But she gave a little toss and said, “Oh, you were asleep at the time: +and I would not have you wakened.” + +“Poor Denys,” said Margaret, and the dew gathered visibly on the open +violets. + +Catherine saw out of the corner of her eye, and without taking a bit of +open notice, slipped off and lavished hospitality and tenderness on the +surviving depopulator. + +It was sudden: and Martin old and stiff in more ways than one-- + +“No, thank you, dame. I have got used to out o' doors. And I love not +changing and changing. I meddle wi' nobody here; and nobody meddles wi' +me.” + +“Oh, you nasty, cross old wretch!” screamed Catherine, passing in a +moment from treacle to sharpest vinegar. And she flounced back into the +house. + +On calm reflection she had a little cry. Then she half reconciled +herself to her conduct by vowing to be so kind, Margaret should never +miss her plagues of soldiers. But feeling still a little uneasy, she +dispersed all regrets by a process at once simple and sovereign. + +She took and washed the child. + +From head to foot she washed him in tepid water; and heroes, and their +wrongs, became as dust in an ocean--of soap and water. + +While this celestial ceremony proceeded, Margaret could not keep quiet. +She hovered round the fortunate performer. She must have an apparent +hand in it, if not a real. She put her finger into the water--to pave +the way for her boy, I suppose; for she could not have deceived herself +so far as to think Catherine would allow her to settle the temperature. +During the ablution she kneeled down opposite the little Gerard, and +prattled to him with amazing fluency; taking care, however, not to +articulate like grown-up people; for, how could a cherub understand +their ridiculous pronunciation? + +“I wish you could wash out THAT,” said she, fixing her eyes on the +little boy's hand. + +“What?” + +“What, have you not noticed? on his little finger.” + +Granny looked, and there was a little brown mole, + +“Eh, but this is wonderful!” she cried. “Nature, my lass, y'are strong; +and meddlesome to boot. Hast noticed such a mark on some one else? Tell +the truth, girl!” + +“What, on him? Nay, mother, not I.” + +“Well then he has; and on the very spot. And you never noticed that +much. But, dear heart, I forgot; you han't known him from child to man +as I have, I have had him hundreds o' times on my knees, the same +as this, and washed him from top to toe in luke-warm water.” And she +swelled with conscious superiority; and Margaret looked meekly up to her +as a woman beyond competition. + +Catherine looked down from her dizzy height and moralized. She differed +from other busy-bodies in this, that she now and then reflected: not +deeply; or of course I should take care not to print it. + +“It is strange,” said she, “how things come round and about, Life is but +a whirligig. Leastways, we poor women, our lives are all cut upon one +pattern. Wasn't I for washing out my Gerard's mole in his young days? +'Oh, fie! here's a foul blot,' quo' I; and scrubbed away at it I did +till I made the poor wight cry; so then I thought 'twas time to give +over. And now says you to me, 'Mother,' says you, 'do try and wash you +out o' my Gerard's finger,' says you. Think on't!” + +“Wash it out?” cried Margaret; “I wouldn't for all the world, Why, it is +the sweetest bit in his little darling body. I'll kiss it morn and night +till he that owned it first comes back to us three, Oh, bless you, +my jewel of gold and silver, for being marked like your own daddy, to +comfort me.” + +And she kissed little Gerard's little mole; but she could not stop +there; she presently had him sprawling on her lap, and kissed his +back all over again and again, and seemed to worry him as wolf a lamb; +Catherine looking on and smiling. She had seen a good many of these +savage onslaughts in her day. + +And this little sketch indicates the tenor of Margaret's life for +several months, One or two small things occurred to her during that time +which must be told; but I reserve them, since one string will serve for +many glass beads. But while her boy's father was passing through those +fearful tempests of the soul, ending in the dead monastic calm, her life +might fairly be summed in one great blissful word--Maternity. + +You, who know what lies in that word, enlarge my little sketch, and see +the young mother nursing and washing, and dressing and undressing, and +crowing and gambolling with her first-born; then swifter than lightning +dart your eye into Italy, and see the cold cloister; and the monks +passing like ghosts, eyes down, hands meekly crossed over bosoms dead to +earthly feelings. + +One of these cowled ghosts is he, whose return, full of love, and youth, +and joy, that radiant young mother awaits. + + +In the valley of Grindelwald the traveller has on one side the +perpendicular Alps, all rock, ice, and everlasting snow, towering above +the clouds, and piercing to the sky; on his other hand little every-day +slopes, but green as emeralds, and studded with cows and pretty cots, +and life; whereas those lofty neighbours stand leafless, lifeless, +inhuman, sublime. Elsewhere sweet commonplaces of nature are apt to pass +unnoticed; but, fronting the grim Alps, they soothe, and even gently +strike, the mind by contrast with their tremendous opposites. Such, in +their way, are the two halves of this story, rightly looked at; on +the Italian side rugged adventure, strong passion, blasphemy, vice, +penitence, pure ice, holy snow, soaring direct at heaven. On the Dutch +side, all on a humble scale and womanish, but ever green. And as a +pathway parts the ice towers of Grindelwald, aspiring to the sky, from +its little sunny braes, so here is but a page between + +“the Cloister and the Hearth.” + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV + +THE CLOISTER + +THE new pope favoured the Dominican order. The convent received a +message from the Vatican, requiring a capable friar to teach at the +University of Basle. Now Clement was the very monk for this: well versed +in languages, and in his worldly days had attended the lectures of +Guarini the younger. His visit to England was therefore postponed though +not resigned; and meantime he was sent to Basle; but not being wanted +there for three months, he was to preach on the road. + +He passed out of the northern gate with his eyes lowered, and the whole +man wrapped in pious contemplation. + +Oh, if we could paint a mind and its story, what a walking fresco was +this barefooted friar! + +Hopeful, happy love, bereavement, despair, impiety, vice, suicide, +remorse, religious despondency, penitence, death to the world, +resignation. + +And all in twelve short months. + +And now the traveller was on foot again. But all was changed: no +perilous adventures now. The very thieves and robbers bowed to the +ground before him, and instead of robbing him, forced stolen money on +him, and begged his prayers. + +This journey therefore furnished few picturesque incidents. I have, +however, some readers to think of, who care little for melodrama, and +expect a quiet peep at what passes inside a man, To such students things +undramatic are often vocal, denoting the progress of a mind. + +The first Sunday of Clement's journey was marked by this. He prayed for +the soul of Margaret. He had never done so before. Not that her eternal +welfare was not dearer to him than anything on earth. It was his +humility. The terrible impieties that burst from him on the news of her +death horrified my well-disposed readers; but not as on reflection they +horrified him who had uttered them. For a long time during his novitiate +he was oppressed with religious despair. He thought he must have +committed that sin against the Holy Spirit which dooms the soul for +ever, By degrees that dark cloud cleared away, Anselmo juvante; but +deep self-abasement remained. He felt his own salvation insecure, and +moreover thought it would be mocking Heaven, should he, the deeply +stained, pray for a soul so innocent, comparatively, as Margaret's. So +he used to coax good Anselm and another kindly monk to pray for her. +They did not refuse, nor do it by halves. In general the good old monks +(and there were good, bad, and indifferent in every convent) had a pure +and tender affection for their younger brethren, which, in truth, was +not of this world. + +Clement then, having preached on Sunday morning in a small Italian town, +and being mightily carried onward, was greatly encouraged; and that day +a balmy sense of God's forgiveness and love descended on him. And he +prayed for the welfare of Margaret's soul. And from that hour this +became his daily habit, and the one purified tie, that by memory +connected his heart with earth. + +For his family were to him as if they had never been. + +The Church would not share with earth. Nor could even the Church cure +the great love without annihilating the smaller ones. + +During most of this journey Clement rarely felt any spring of life +within him, but when he was in the pulpit. The other exceptions were, +when he happened to relieve some fellow-creature. + +A young man was tarantula bitten, or perhaps, like many more, fancied +it. Fancy or reality, he had been for two days without sleep, and in +most extraordinary convulsions, leaping, twisting, and beating the +walls. The village musicians had only excited him worse with their +music. Exhaustion and death followed the disease, when it gained such a +head. Clement passed by and learned what was the matter. He sent for a +psaltery, and tried the patient with soothing melodies; but if the other +tunes maddened him, Clement's seemed to crush him. He groaned and moaned +under them, and grovelled on the floor. At last the friar observed that +at intervals his lips kept going. He applied his ear, and found the +patient was whispering a tune; and a very singular one, that had no +existence. He learned this tune and played it. The patient's face +brightened amazingly. He marched about the room on the light fantastic +toe enjoying it; and when Clement's fingers ached nearly off with +playing it, he had the satisfaction of seeing the young man sink +complacently to sleep to this lullaby, the strange creation of his own +mind; for it seems he was no musician, and never composed a tune before +or after. This sleep saved his life. And Clement, after teaching the +tune to another, in case it should be wanted again, went forward with +his heart a little warmer. On another occasion he found a mob haling +a decently dressed man along, who struggled and vociferated, but in +a strange language. This person had walked into their town erect and +sprightly, waving a mulberry branch over his head. Thereupon the natives +first gazed stupidly, not believing their eyes, then pounced on him and +dragged him before the podesta, Clement went with them; but on the way +drew quietly near the prisoner and spoke to him in Italian; no answer. +In French' German; Dutch; no assets. Then the man tried Clement +in tolerable Latin, but with a sharpish accent. He said he was an +Englishman, and oppressed with the heat of Italy, had taken a bough off +the nearest tree, to save his head. “In my country anybody is welcome to +what grows on the highway. Confound the fools; I am ready to pay for it. +But here is all Italy up in arms about a twig and a handful of leaves.” + +The pig-headed podesta would have sent the dogged islander to prison; +but Clement mediated, and with some difficulty made the prisoner +comprehend that silkworms, and by consequence mulberry leaves, were +sacred, being under the wing of the Sovereign, and his source of income; +and urged on the podesta that ignorance of his mulberry laws was natural +in a distant country, where the very tree perhaps was unknown, The +opinionative islander turned the still vibrating scale by pulling' out +a long purse and repeating his original theory, that the whole question +was mercantile. “Quid damni?” said he, “Dic; et cito solvam.” The +podesta snuffed the gold: fined him a ducat for the duke; about the +value of the whole tree; and pouched the coin. + +The Englishman shook off his ire the moment he was liberated, and +laughed heartily at the whole thing; but was very grateful to Clement. + +“You are too good for this hole of a country, father,” said he, “Come +to England! That is the only place in the world, I was an uneasy fool to +leave it, and wander among mulberries and their idiots. I am a Kentish +squire, and educated at Cambridge University. My name it is Rolfe, my +place Betshanger, The man and the house are both at your service. Come +over and stay till domesday. We sit down forty to dinner every day at +Betshanger. One more or one less at the board will not be seen. You +shall end your days with me and my heirs if you will, Come now! What an +Englishman says he means.” And he gave him a great hearty grip of the +hand to confirm it, + +“I will visit thee some day, my son,” said Clement; “but not to weary +thy hospitality.” + +The Englishman then begged Clement to shrive him. “I know not what +will become of my soul,” said he, “I live like a heathen since I left +England.” + +Clement consented gladly, and soon the islander was on his knees to him +by the roadside, confessing the last month's sins. + +Finding him so pious a son of the Church, Clement let him know he was +really coming to England. He then asked him whether it was true that +country was overrun with Lollards and Wickliffites. + +The other coloured up a little. “There be black sheep in every land,” + said he. Then after some reflection he said gravely, “Holy father, hear +the truth about these heretics. None are better disposed towards Holy +Church than we English. But we are ourselves, and by ourselves. We love +our own ways, and above all, our own tongue. The Norman could conquer +our bill-hooks, but not our tongues; and hard they tried it for many a +long year by law and proclamation. Our good foreign priests utter God +to plain English folk in Latin, or in some French or Italian lingo, like +the bleating of a sheep. Then come the fox Wickliff and his crew, and +read him out of his own book in plain English, that all men's hearts +warm to. Who can withstand this? God forgive me, I believe the English +would turn deaf ears to St, Peter himself, spoke he not to them in the +tongue their mothers sowed in their ears and their hearts along with +mothers' kisses.” He added hastily, “I say not this for myself; I am +Cambridge bred; and good words come not amiss to me in Latin; but for +the people in general. Clavis ad corda Anglorum est lingua materna.” + +“My son,” said Clement, “blessed be the hour I met thee; for thy words +are sober and wise. But alas! how shall I learn your English tongue? No +book have I.” + +“I would give you my book of hours, father. 'Tis in English and Latin, +cheek by jowl. But then, what would become of my poor soul, wanting my +'hours' in a strange land? Stay, you are a holy man, and I am an honest +one; let us make a bargain; you to pray for me every day for two months, +and I to give you my book of hours. Here it is. What say you to that?” + And his eyes sparkled, and he was all on fire with mercantility. + +Clement smiled gently at this trait; and quietly detached a MS. from his +girdle, and showed him that it was in Latin and Italian. + +“See, my son,” said he, “Heaven hath foreseen our several needs, and +given us the means to satisfy them: let us change books; and, my dear +son, I will give thee my poor prayers and welcome, not sell them thee. I +love not religious bargains.” + +The islander was delighted. “So shall I learn the Italian tongue without +risk to my eternal weal, Near is my purse, but nearer is my soul.” + +He forced money on Clement. In vain the friar told him it was contrary +to his vow to carry more of that than was barely necessary. + +“Lay it out for the good of the Church and of my soul,” said the +islander. “I ask you not to keep it, but take it you must and shall.” + And he grasped Clement's hand warmly again; and Clement kissed him on +the brow, and blessed him, and they went each his way. + +About a mile from where they parted, Clement found two tired wayfarers +lying in the deep shade of a great chestnut-tree, one of a thick +grove the road skirted. Near the men was a little cart, and in it +a printing-press, rude and clumsy as a vine-press, A jaded mule was +harnessed to the cart. + +And so Clement stood face to face with his old enemy. + +And as he eyed it, and the honest, blue-eyed faces of the wearied +craftsmen, he looked back as on a dream at the bitterness he had once +felt towards this machine. He looked kindly down on them, and said +softly-- + +“Sweynheim!” + +The men started to their feet. + +“Pannartz!” + +They scuttled into the wood, and were seen no more. + +Clement was amazed, and stood puzzling himself. + +Presently a face peeped from behind a tree. + +Clement addressed it, “What fear ye?” + +A quavering voice replied-- + +“Say, rather, by what magic you, a stranger, can call us by our names! I +never clapt eyes on you till now.” + +“O, superstition! I know ye, as all good workmen are known--by your +works. Come hither and I will tell ye.” + +They advanced gingerly from different sides; each regulating his advance +by the other's. + +“My children,” said Clement, “I saw a Lactantius in Rome, printed by +Sweynheim and Pannartz, disciples of Fust.” + +“D'ye hear that, Pannartz? our work has gotten to Rome already.” + +“By your blue eyes and flaxen hair I wist ye were Germans; and the +printing-press spoke for itself. Who then should ye be but Fust's +disciples, Pannartz and Sweynheim?” + +The honest Germans were now astonished that they had suspected magic in +so simple a matter. + +“The good father hath his wits about him, that is all,” said Pannartz. + +“Ay,” said Sweynheim, “and with those wits would he could tell us how to +get this tired beast to the next town.” + +“Yea,” said Sweynheim, “and where to find money to pay for his meat and +ours when we get there.” + +“I will try,” said Clement. “Free the mule of the cart, and of all +harness but the bare halter.” + +This was done, and the animal immediately lay down and rolled on his +back in the dust like a kitten. Whilst he was thus employed, Clement +assured them he would rise up a new mule. + +“His Creator hath taught him this art to refresh himself, which the +nobler horse knoweth not. Now, with regard to money, know that a worthy +Englishman hath entrusted me with a certain sum to bestow in charity. +To whom can I better give a stranger's money than to strangers? Take it, +then, and be kind to some Englishman or other stranger in his need; and +may all nations learn to love one another one day.” + +The tears stood in the honest workmen's eyes. They took the money with +heartfelt thanks. + +“It is your nation we are bound to thank and bless, good father, if we +but knew it.” + +“My nation is the Church.” + +Clement was then for bidding them farewell, but the honest fellows +implored him to wait a little; they had no silver nor gold, but they had +something they could give their benefactor, They took the press out of +the cart, and while Clement fed the mule, they hustled about, now on the +white hot road, now in the deep cool shade, now half in and half out, +and presently printed a quarto sheet of eight pages, which was already +set up. They had not type enough to print two sheets at a time. When, +after the slower preliminaries, the printed sheet was pulled all in a +moment, Clement was amazed in turn. + +“What, are all these words really fast upon the paper?” said he. “Is it +verily certain they will not go as swiftly as they came? And you took +me for a magician! 'Tis 'Augustine de civitate Dei.' My sons, you carry +here the very wings of knowledge. Oh, never abuse this great craft! +Print no ill books! They would fly abroad countless as locusts, and lay +waste men's souls.” + +The workmen said they would sooner put their hands under the screw than +so abuse their goodly craft. + +And so they parted. + +There is nothing but meeting and parting in this world. + +At a town in Tuscany the holy friar had a sudden and strange recontre +with the past. He fell in with one of those motley assemblages of +patricians and plebeians, piety and profligacy, “a company of pilgrims;” + a subject too well painted by others for me to go and daub. + +They were in an immense barn belonging to the inn, Clement, dusty and +wearied, and no lover of idle gossip, sat in a corner studying the +Englishman's hours, and making them out as much by his own Dutch as by +the Latin version. + +Presently a servant brought a bucket half full of water, and put it down +at his feet. A female servant followed with two towels. And then a woman +came forward, and crossing herself, kneeled down without a word at the +bucket-side, removed her sleeves entirely, and motioned to him to put +his feet into the water. It was some lady of rank doing penance. She +wore a mask scarce an inch broad, but effectual. Moreover, she handled +the friar's feet more delicately than those do who are born to such +offices. + +These penances were not uncommon; and Clement, though he had little +faith in this form of contrition, received the services of the incognita +as a matter of course. But presently she sighed deeply, and with her +heartfelt sigh and her head bent low over her menial office, she seemed +so bowed with penitence, that he pitied her, and said calmly but gently, +“Can I aught for your soul's weal, my daughter?” + +She shook her head with a faint sob. “Nought, holy father, nought; only +to hear the sin of her who is most unworthy to touch thy holy feet. 'Tis +part of my penance to tell sinless men how vile I am.” + +“Speak, my daughter.” + +“Father,” said the lady, bending lower and lower, “these hands of mine +look white, but they are stained with blood--the blood of the man I +loved. Alas! you withdraw your foot. Ah me! What shall I do? All holy +things shrink from me.” + +“Culpa mea! culpa mea!” said Clement eagerly. “My daughter, it was an +unworthy movement of earthly weakness, for which I shall do penance. +Judge not the Church by her feebler servants, Not her foot, but her +bosom, is offered to thee, repenting truly. Take courage, then, and +purge thy conscience of its load.” + +On this the lady, in a trembling whisper, and hurriedly, and cringing a +little, as if she feared the Church would strike her bodily for what she +had done, made this confession. + +“He was a stranger, and base-born, but beautiful as Spring, and wise +beyond his years. I loved him, I had not the prudence to conceal my +love. Nobles courted me. I ne'er thought one of humble birth could +reject me. I showed him my heart oh, shame of my sex! He drew back; yet +he admired me; but innocently, He loved another; and he was constant. I +resorted to a woman's wiles, They availed not. I borrowed the wickedness +of men, and threatened his life, and to tell his true lover he died +false to her, Ah! you shrink your foot trembles. Am I not a monster? +Then he wept and prayed to me for mercy; then my good angel helped me; I +bade him leave Rome. Gerard, Gerard, why did you not obey me? I thought +he was gone. But two months after this I met him, Never shall I forget +it. I was descending the Tiber in my galley, when he came up it with a +gay company, and at his side a woman beautiful as an angel, but bold and +bad. That woman claimed me aloud for her rival. Traitor and hypocrite, +he had exposed me to her, and to all the loose tongues in Rome. In +terror and revenge I hired-a bravo. When he was gone on his bloody +errand, I wavered too late. The dagger I had hired struck, He never came +back to his lodgings. He was dead. Alas! perhaps he was not so much to +blame: none have ever cast his name in my teeth. His poor body is not +found: or I should kiss its wounds; and slay myself upon it. All around +his very name seems silent as the grave, to which this murderous hand +hath sent him.” (Clement's eye was drawn by her movement. He recognized +her shapely arm, and soft white hand.) “And oh! he was so young to die. +A poor thoughtless boy, that had fallen a victim to that bad woman's +arts, and she had made him tell her everything. Monster of cruelty, what +penance can avail me? Oh, holy father, what shall I do?” + +Clement's lips moved in prayer, but he was silent. He could not see his +duty clear. + +Then she took his feet and began to dry them. She rested his foot +upon her soft arm, and pressed it with the towel so gently she seemed +incapable of hurting a fly. Yet her lips had just told another story, +and a true one. + +While Clement was still praying for wisdom, a tear fell upon his foot. +It decided him. “My daughter,” said he, “I myself have been a great +sinner.” + +“You, father?” + +“I; quite as great a sinner as thou; though not in the same way. The +devil has gins and snares, as well as traps. But penitence softened my +impious heart, and then gratitude remoulded it. Therefore, seeing you +penitent, I hope you can be grateful to Him, who has been more merciful +to you than you have to your fellow-creature. Daughter, the Church sends +you comfort.” + +“Comfort to me? ah! never! unless it can raise my victim from the dead.” + +“Take this crucifix in thy hand, fix thine eyes on it, and listen to +me,” was all the reply. + +“Yes, father; but let me thoroughly dry your feet first; 'tis ill +sitting in wet feet; and you are the holiest man of all whose feet I +have washed. I know it by your voice.” + +“Woman, I am not. As for my feet, they can wait their turn. Obey thou +me. + +“Yes, father,” said the lady humbly. But with a woman's evasive +pertinacity she wreathed one towel swiftly round the foot she was +drying, and placed his other foot on the dry napkin; then obeyed his +command. + +And as she bowed over the crucifix, the low, solemn tones of the friar +fell upon her ear, and his words soon made her whole body quiver with +various emotion, in quick succession. + +“My daughter, he you murdered--in intent--was one Gerard, a Hollander. +He loved a creature, as men should love none but their Redeemer and His +Church. Heaven chastised him. A letter came to Rome. She was dead.” + +“Poor Gerard! Poor Margaret!” moaned the penitent. + +Clement's voice faltered at this a moment. But soon, by a strong effort, +he recovered all his calmness. + +“His feeble nature yielded, body and soul, to the blow, He was stricken +down with fever. He revived only to rebel against Heaven. He said, +'There is no God.'” + +“Poor, poor Gerard!” + +“Poor Gerard? thou feeble, foolish woman! Nay, wicked, impious Gerard. +He plunged into vice, and soiled his eternal jewel: those you met +him with were his daily companions; but know, rash creature, that the +seeming woman you took to be his leman was but a boy, dressed in woman's +habits to flout the others, a fair boy called Andrea. What that Andrea +said to thee I know not; but be sure neither he, nor any layman, knows +thy folly, This Gerard, rebel against Heaven, was no traitor to thee, +unworthy.” + +The lady moaned like one in bodily agony, and the crucifix began to +tremble in her trembling hands. + +“Courage!” said Clement. “Comfort is at hand.” + +“From crime he fell into despair, and bent on destroying his soul, he +stood one night by Tiber, resolved on suicide. He saw one watching him. +It was a bravo.” + +“Holy saints!” + +“He begged the bravo to despatch him; he offered him all his money, to +slay him body and soul. The bravo would not. Then this desperate sinner, +not softened even by that refusal, flung himself into Tiber.” + +“Ah!” + +“And the assassin saved his life. Thou hadst chosen for the task +Lodovico, husband of Teresa, whom this Gerard had saved at sea, her and +her infant child.” + +“He lives! he lives! he lives! I am faint.” + +The friar took the crucifix from her hands, fearing it might fall, A +shower of tears relieved her. The friar gave her time; then continued +calmly, “Ay, he lives; thanks to thee and thy wickedness, guided to his +eternal good by an almighty and all-merciful hand. Thou art his greatest +earthly benefactor.” + +“Where is he? where? where?” + +“What is that to thee?” + +“Only to see him alive. To beg him on my knees forgive me. I swear to +you I will never presume again to--How could I? He knows all. Oh, shame! +Father, does he know?” + +“All.” + +“Then never will I meet his eye; I should sink into the earth. But I +would repair my crime. I would watch his life unseen. He shall rise in +the world, whence I so nearly thrust him, poor soul; the Caesare, my +family, are all-powerful in Rome; and I am near their head.” + +“My daughter,” said Clement coldly, “he you call Gerard needs nothing +man can do for him. Saved by a miracle from double death, he has left +the world, and taken refuge from sin and folly in the bosom of the +Church.” + +“A priest?” + +“A priest, and a friar.” + +“A friar? Then you are not his confessor? Yet you know all. That gentle +voice!” + +She raised her head slowly, and peered at him through her mask. + +The next moment she uttered a faint shriek, and lay with her brow upon +his bare feet. + + + +CHAPTER LXXV + +Clement sighed. He began to doubt whether he had taken the wisest course +with a creature so passionate. + +But young as he was, he had already learned many lessons of +ecclesiastical wisdom. For one thing he had been taught to pause, ie., +in certain difficulties, neither to do nor to say anything, until the +matter should clear itself a little. + +He therefore held his peace and prayed for wisdom. + +All he did was gently to withdraw his foot. + +But his penitent flung her arms round it with a piteous cry, and held it +convulsively, and wept over it. + +And now the agony of shame, as well as penitence, she was in, showed +itself by the bright red that crept over her very throat, as she lay +quivering at his feet. + +“My daughter,” said Clement gently, “take courage. Torment thyself no +more about this Gerard, who is not. As for me, I am Brother Clement, +whom Heaven hath sent to thee this day to comfort thee, and help thee +save thy soul. Thou last made me thy confessor, I claim, then, thine +obedience.” + +“Oh, yes,” sobbed the penitent. + +“Leave this pilgrimage, and instant return to Rome. Penitence abroad is +little worth. There where we live lie the temptations we must defeat, or +perish; not fly in search of others more showy, but less lethal. Easy to +wash the feet of strangers, masked ourselves, Hard to be merely meek and +charitable with those about us.” + +“I'll never, never lay finger on her again.” + +“Nay, I speak not of servants only, but of dependents, kinsmen, friends. +This be thy penance; the last thing at night, and the first thing after +matins, call to mind thy sin, and God His goodness; and so be humble and +gentle to the faults of those around thee. The world it courts the rich; +but seek thou the poor: not beggars; these for the most are neither +honest nor truly poor. But rather find out those who blush to seek thee, +yet need thee sore. Giving to them shalt lend to Heaven. Marry a good +son of the Church.” + +“Me? I will never marry.” + +“Thou wilt marry within the year. I do entreat and command thee to marry +one that feareth God. For thou art very clay. Mated ill thou shalt be +naught. But wedding a worthy husband thou mayest, Dei gratia, live a +pious princess; ay, and die a saint.” + +“I?” + +“Thou.” + +He then desired her to rise and go about the good work he had set her. + +She rose to her knees, and removing her mask, cast an eloquent look upon +him, then lowered her eyes meekly. + +“I will obey you as I would an angel. How happy I am, yet unhappy; for +oh, my heart tells me I shall never look on you again. I will not go +till I have dried your feet.” + +“It needs not. I have excused thee this bootless penance.” + +“'Tis no penance to me. Ah! you do not forgive me, if you will not let +me dry your poor feet.” + +“So be it then,” said Clement resignedly; and thought to himself, +“Levius quid foemina.” + +But these weak creatures, that gravitate towards the small, as heavenly +bodies towards the great, have yet their own flashes of angelic +intelligence. + +When the princess had dried the friar's feet, she looked at him with +tears in her beautiful eyes, and murmured with singular tenderness and +goodness-- + +“I will have masses said for her soul. May I?” she added timidly. + +This brought a faint blush into the monk's cheek, and moistened his cold +blue eye. It came so suddenly from one he was just rating so low. + +“It is a gracious thought,” he said. “Do as thou wilt: often such acts +fall back on the doer like blessed dew. I am thy confessor, not hers; +thine is the soul I must now do my all to save, or woe be to my own. My +daughter, my dear daughter, I see good and ill angels fighting for thy +soul this day, ay, this moment; oh, fight thou on thine own side. Dost +thou remember all I bade thee?” + +“Remember!” said the princess. “Sweet saint, each syllable of thine is +graved in my heart.” + +“But one word more, then. Pray much to Christ, and little to his +saints.” + +“I will.” + +“And that is the best word I have light to say to thee. So part we on +it. Thou to the place becomes thee best, thy father's house, I to my +holy mother's work.” + +“Adieu,” faltered the princess. “Adieu, thou that I have loved too well, +hated too ill, known and revered too late; forgiving angel, adieu--for +ever.” + +The monk caught her words, though but faltered in a sigh. + +“For ever?” he cried aloud, with sudden ardour. “Christians live 'for +ever,' and love 'for ever,' but they never part 'for ever. They part, as +part the earth and sun, to meet more brightly in a little while. You and +I part here for life. And what is our life? One line in the great story +of the Church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the sand of +time, one drop in the ocean of 'For ever.' Adieu--for the little moment +called 'a life!' We part in trouble, we shall meet in peace: we part +creatures of clay, we shall meet immortal spirits: we part in a world of +sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is purity and love divine; where +no ill passions are, but Christ is, and His saints around Him clad in +white. There, in the turning of an hour-glass, in the breaking of a +bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, and thou, and I, shall meet +again; and sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles and +saints, and beam like them with joy unspeakable, in the light of the +shadow of God upon His throne, FOR EVER--AND EVER--AND EVER.” + +And so they parted. The monk erect, his eyes turned heavenwards and +glowing with the sacred fire of zeal; the princess slowly retiring and +turning more than once to cast a lingering glance of awe and tender +regret on that inspired figure. + +She went home subdued, and purified. Clement, in due course, reached +Basle, and entered on his duties, teaching in the University, and +preaching in the town and neighbourhood. He led a life that can be +comprised in two words; deep study, and mortification. My reader has +already a peep into his soul. At Basle he advanced in holy zeal and +knowledge. + +The brethren of his order began to see in him a descendant of the saints +and martyrs. + + + +CHAPTER LXXVI + +THE HEARTH + +When little Gerard was nearly three months old, a messenger came hot +from Tergou for Catherine. + +“Now just you go back,” said she, “and tell them I can't come, and I +won't: they have got Kate,” So he departed, and Catherine continued her +sentence; “there, child, I must go: they are all at sixes and sevens: +this is the third time of asking; and to-morrow my man would come +himself and take me home by the ear, with a flea in't.” She then +recapitulated her experiences of infants, and instructed Margaret what +to do in each coming emergency, and pressed money upon her, Margaret +declined it with thanks, Catherine insisted, and turned angry. Margaret +made excuses all so reasonable that Catherine rejected them with calm +contempt; to her mind they lacked femininity, + +“Come, out with your heart,” said she “and you and me parting; and +mayhap shall never see one another's face again.” + +“Oh! mother, say not so.” + +“Alack, girl, I have seen it so often; 'twill come into my mind now at +each parting, When I was your age, I never had such a thought, Nay, we +were all to live for ever then: so out wi' it.” + +“Well, then, mother--I would rather not have told you--your Cornelis +must say to me, 'So you are come to share with us, eh, mistress?' those +were his words, I told him I would be very sorry. + +“Beshrew his ill tongue! What signifies it? He will never know, + +“Most likely he would sooner or later, But whether or no, I will take +no grudged bounty from any family; unless I saw my child starving, +and--Heaven only knows what I might do, Nay, mother, give me but thy +love--I do prize that above silver, and they grudge me not that, by all +I can find--for not a stiver of money will I take out of your house.” + +“You are a foolish lass, Why, were it me, I'd take it just to spite +him.” + +“No, you would not, You and I are apples off one tree” + +Catherine yielded with a good grace; and when the actual parting came, +embraces and tears burst forth on both sides. + +When she was gone the child cried a good deal; and all attempts to +pacify him failing, Margaret suspected a pin, and searching between his +clothes and his skin, found a gold angel incommoding his backbone. + +“There, now, Gerard,” said she to the babe; “I thought granny gave in +rather sudden.” + +She took the coin and wrapped it in a piece of linen, and laid it at the +bottom of her box, bidding the infant observe she could be at times as +resolute as granny herself. + +Catherine told Eli of Margaret's foolish pride, and how she had baffled +it. Eli said Margaret was right, and she was wrong. + +Catherine tossed her head. Eli pondered. + +Margaret was not without domestic anxieties. She had still two men to +feed, and could not work so hard as she had done. She had enough to do +to keep the house, and the child, and cook for them all. But she had a +little money laid by, and she used to tell her child his father would be +home to help them before it was spent. And with these bright hopes, and +that treasury of bliss, her boy, she spent some happy months. + +Time wore on; and no Gerard came; and stranger still, no news of him. + +Then her mind was disquieted, and contrary to her nature, which was +practical, she was often lost in sad reverie; and sighed in silence. And +while her heart was troubled, her money was melting. And so it was, +that one day she found the cupboard empty, and looked in her dependents' +faces; and at the sight of them, her bosom was all pity; and she +appealed to the baby whether she could let grandfather and poor old +Martin want a meal; and went and took out Catherine's angel. As she +unfolded the linen a tear of gentle mortification fell on it. She sent +Martin out to change it. While he was gone a Frenchman came with one of +the dealers in illuminated work, who had offered her so poor a price. +He told her he was employed by his sovereign to collect masterpieces for +her book of hours. Then she showed him the two best things she had; and +he was charmed with one of them, viz., the flowers and raspberries and +creeping things, which Margaret Van Eyck had shaded. He offered her an +unheard-of price. “Nay, flout not my need, good stranger,” said she; +“three mouths there be in this house, and none to fill them but me.” + +Curious arithmetic! Left out No. 1. + +“I'd out thee not, fair mistress. My princess charged me strictly, 'Seek +the best craftsmen'; but I will no hard bargains; make them content with +me, and me with them.'” + +The next minute Margaret was on her knees kissing little Gerard in +the cradle, and showering four gold pieces on him again and again, and +relating the whole occurrence to him in very broken Dutch, + +“And oh, what a good princess: wasn't she? We will pray for her, won't +we, my lambkin; when we are old enough?” + +Martin came in furious. “They will not change it. I trow they think I +stole it.” + +“I am beholden to thee,” said Margaret hastily, and almost snatched +it from Martin, and wrapped it up again, and restored it to its +hiding-place. + +Ere these unexpected funds were spent, she got to her ironing and +starching again. In the midst of which Martin sickened; and died after +an illness of nine days. + +Nearly all her money went to bury him decently. + +He was gone; and there was an empty chair by her fireside, For he had +preferred the hearth to the sun as soon as the Busy Body was gone. + +Margaret would not allow anybody to sit in this chair now. Yet whenever +she let her eye dwell too long on it vacant, it was sure to cost her a +tear. + +And now there was nobody to carry her linen home, To do it herself she +must leave little Gerard in charge of a neighbour, But she dared not +trust such a treasure to mortal; and besides she could not bear him out +of her sight for hours and hours. So she set inquiries on foot for a boy +to carry her basket on Saturday and Monday. + +A plump, fresh-coloured youth, called Luke Peterson, who looked fifteen, +but was eighteen, came in, and blushing, and twiddling his bonnet, asked +her if a man would not serve her turn as well as a boy. + +Before he spoke she was saying to herself, “This boy will just do.” + +But she took the cue, and said, “Nay; but a man will maybe seek more +than I can well pay. + +“Not I,” said Luke warmly. “Why, Mistress Margaret, I am your neighbour, +and I do very well at the coopering. I can carry your basket for you +before or after my day's work, and welcome, You have no need to pay me +anything. 'Tisn't as if we were strangers, ye know.” + +“Why, Master Luke, I know your face, for that matter; but I cannot call +to mind that ever a word passed between us.” + +“Oh yes, you did, Mistress Margaret. What, have you forgotten? One day +you were trying to carry your baby and eke your pitcher full o' water; +and quo' I, 'Give me the baby to carry.' 'Nay, says you, 'I'll give you +the pitcher, and keep the bairn myself;' and I carried the pitcher home, +and you took it from me at this door, and you said to me, 'I am muckle +obliged to you, young man,' with such a sweet voice; not like the folk +in this street speak to a body.” + +“I do mind now, Master Luke; and methinks it was the least I could say.” + +“Well, Mistress Margaret, if you will say as much every time I carry +your basket, I care not how often I bear it, nor how far.” + +“Nay, nay,” said Margaret, colouring faintly. “I would not put upon +good nature, You are young, Master Luke, and kindly. Say I give you +your supper on Saturday night, when you bring the linen home, and your +dawn-mete o' Monday; would that make us anyways even?” + +“As you please; only say not I sought a couple o' diets! for such a +trifle as yon.” + +With chubby-faced Luke's timely assistance, and the health and strength +which Heaven gave this poor young woman, to balance her many ills, the +house went pretty smoothly awhile. But the heart became more and more +troubled by Gerard's long, and now most mysterious silence. + +And then that mental torturer, Suspense, began to tear her heavy heart +with his hot pincers, till she cried often and vehemently, “Oh, that I +could know the worst.” + +Whilst she was in this state, one day she heard a heavy step mount +the stair. She started and trembled, “That is no step that I know. Ill +tidings?” + +The door opened, and an unexpected visitor, Eli, came in, looking grave +and kind. + +Margaret eyed him in silence, and with increasing agitation, + +“Girl.” said he, “the skipper is come back.” + +“One word,” gasped Margaret; “is he alive?” + +“Surely I hope so. No one has seen him dead.” + +“Then they must have seen him alive.” + +“No, girl; neither dead nor alive hath he been seen this many months in +Rome. My daughter Kate thinks he is gone to some other city. She bade me +tell you her thought.” + +“Ay, like enough,” said Margaret gloomily; “like enough. My poor babe!” + +The old man in a faintish voice asked her for a morsel to eat: he had +come fasting. + +The poor thing pitied him with the surface of her agitated mind, and +cooked a meal for him, trembling, and scarce knowing what she was about. + +Ere he went he laid his hand upon her head, and said, “Be he alive, or +be he dead, I look on thee as my daughter. Can I do nought for thee this +day? bethink thee now?” + +“Ay, old man. Pray for him; and for me!” + +Eli sighed, and went sadly and heavily down the stairs. + +She listened half stupidly to his retiring footsteps till they ceased. +Then she sank moaning down by the cradle, and drew little Gerard tight +to her bosom. “Oh, my poor fatherless boy; my fatherless boy!” + + + +CHAPTER LXXVII + +Not long after this, as the little family at Tergou sat at dinner, Luke +Peterson burst in on them, covered with dust. “Good people, Mistress +Catherine is wanted instantly at Rotterdam.” + +“My name is Catherine, young man. Kate, it will be Margaret.” + +“Ay, dame, she said to me, 'Good Luke, hie thee to Tergou, and ask for +Eli the hosier, and pray his wife Catherine to come to me, for God His +love.' I didn't wait for daylight.” + +“Holy saints! He has come home, Kate. Nay, she would sure have said so. +What on earth can it be?” And she heaped conjecture on conjecture. + +“Mayhap the young man can tell us,” hazarded Kate timidly. + +“That I can,” said Luke, “Why, her babe is a-dying, And she was so +wrapped up in it!” + +Catherine started up: “What is his trouble?” + +“Nay, I know not. But it has been peaking and pining worse and worse +this while.” + +A furtive glance of satisfaction passed between Cornelis and Sybrandt. +Luckily for them Catherine did not see it. Her face was turned towards +her husband. “Now, Eli,” cried she furiously, “if you say a word against +it, you and I shall quarrel, after all these years.' + +“Who gainsays thee, foolish woman? Quarrel with your own shadow, while I +go borrow Peter's mule for ye.” + +“Bless thee, my good man! Bless thee! Didst never yet fail me at a +pinch, Now eat your dinners who can, while I go and make ready.” + +She took Luke back with her in the cart, and on the way questioned and +cross-questioned him severely and seductively by turns, till she had +turned his mind inside out, what there was of it. + +Margaret met her at the door, pale and agitated, and threw her arms +round her neck, and looked imploringly in her face. + +“Come, he is alive, thank God,” said Catherine, after scanning her +eagerly. + +She looked at the failing child, and then at the poor hollow-eyed +mother, alternately, “Lucky you sent for me,” said she, “The child is +poisoned.” + +“Poisoned! by whom?” + +“By you. You have been fretting.” + +“Nay, indeed, mother. How can I help fretting?” + +“Don't tell me, Margaret. A nursing mother has no business to fret. She +must turn her mind away from her grief to the comfort that lies in her +lap. Know you not that the child pines if the mother vexes herself? This +comes of your reading and writing. Those idle crafts befit a man; +but they keep all useful knowledge out of a woman. The child must be +weaned.” + +“Oh, you cruel woman,” cried Margaret vehemently; “I am sorry I sent for +you. Would you rob me of the only bit of comfort I have in the world? +A-nursing my Gerard, I forget I am the most unhappy creature beneath the +sun.” + +“That you do not,” was the retort, “or he would not be the way he is.” + +“Mother!” said Margaret imploringly. + +“'Tis hard,” replied Catherine, relenting. “But bethink thee; would it +not be harder to look down and see his lovely wee face a-looking up at +you out of a little coffin?” + +“Oh, Jesu!” + +“And how could you face your other troubles with your heart aye full, +and your lap empty?” + +“Oh, mother, I consent to anything. Only save my boy.” + +“That is a good lass, Trust to me! I do stand by, and see clearer than +thou.” + +Unfortunately there was another consent to be gained--the babe's; and he +was more refractory than his mother. + +“There,” said Margaret, trying to affect regret at his misbehaviour; “he +loves me too well.” + +But Catherine was a match for them both. As she came along she had +observed a healthy young woman, sitting outside her own door, with an +infant, hard by. She went and told her the case; and would she nurse the +pining child for the nonce, till she had matters ready to wean him? + +The young woman consented with a smile, and popped her child into the +cradle, and came into Margaret's house. She dropped a curtsey, and +Catherine put the child into her hands. She examined, and pitied it, and +purred over it, and proceeded to nurse it, just as if it had been her +own. + +Margaret, who had been paralyzed at her assurance, cast a rueful look at +Catherine, and burst out crying. + +The visitor looked up. “What is to do? Wife, ye told me not the mother +was unwilling.” + +“She is not: she is only a fool. Never heed her; and you, Margaret, I am +ashamed of you.” + +“You are a cruel, hard-hearted woman,” sobbed Margaret. + +“Them as take in hand to guide the weak need be hardish. And you will +excuse me; but you are not my flesh and blood; and your boy is.” + +After giving this blunt speech time to sink, she added, “Come now, she +is robbing her own to save yours, and you can think of nothing better +than bursting out a-blubbering in the woman's face. Out fie, for shame!” + +“Nay, wife,” said the nurse. “Thank Heaven, I have enough for my own +and for hers to boot. And prithee wyte not on her! Maybe the troubles o' +life ha' soured her own milk.” + +“And her heart into the bargain,” said the remorseless Catherine. + +Margaret looked her full in the face; and down went her eyes. + +“I know I ought to be very grateful to you,” sobbed Margaret to the +nurse: then turned her head and leaned away over the chair, not to +witness the intolerable sight of another nursing her Gerard, and Gerard +drawing no distinction between this new mother and her the banished one. + +The nurse replied, “You are very welcome, my poor woman. And so are you, +Mistress Catherine, which are my townswoman, and know it not.” + +“What, are ye from Tergou? all the better, But I cannot call your face +to mind.” + +“Oh, you know not me: my husband and me, we are very humble folk by you. +But true Eli and his wife are known of all the town; and respected, +So, I am at your call, dame; and at yours, wife; and yours, my pretty +poppet; night or day.” + +“There's a woman of the right old sort,” said Catherine, as the door +closed upon her. + +“I HATE her. I HATE her. I HATE her,” said Margaret, with wonderful +fervour. + +Catherine only laughed at this outburst. + +“That is right,” said she; “better say it, as set sly and think it. It +is very natural after all, Come, here is your bundle o' comfort. Take +and hate that, if ye can;” and she put the child in her lap. + +“No, no,” said Margaret, turning her head half way from him; she could +not for her life turn the other half. “He is not my child now; he is +hers. I know not why she left him here, for my part. It was very good of +her not to take him to her house, cradle and all; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh +oh! oh!” + +“Ah! well, one comfort, he is not dead. This gives me light: some other +woman has got him away from me; like father, like son; oh! oh! oh! oh! +oh!” + +Catherine was sorry for her, and let her cry in peace. And after that, +when she wanted Joan's aid, she used to take Gerard out, to give him +a little fresh air. Margaret never objected; nor expressed the least +incredulity; but on their return was always in tears. + +This connivance was short-lived. She was now altogether as eager to +wean little Gerard. It was done; and he recovered health and vigour; and +another trouble fell upon him directly teething, But here Catherine's +experience was invaluable; and now, in the midst of her grief and +anxiety about the father, Margaret had moments of bliss, watching the +son's tiny teeth come through. “Teeth, mother? I call them not teeth, +but pearls of pearls.” And each pearl that peeped and sparkled on his +red gums, was to her the greatest feat Nature had ever achieved. + +Her companion partook the illusion. And had we told them standing corn +was equally admirable, Margaret would have changed to a reproachful +gazelle, and Catherine turned us out of doors; so each pearl's arrival +was announced with a shriek of triumph by whichever of them was the +fortunate discoverer. + +Catherine gossiped with Joan, and learned that she was the wife of +Jorian Ketel of Tergou, who had been servant to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, +but fallen out of favour, and come back to Rotterdam, his native place. +His friends had got him the place of sexton to the parish, and what with +that and carpentering, he did pretty well. + +Catherine told Joan in return whose child it was she had nursed, and all +about Margaret and Gerard, and the deep anxiety his silence had plunged +them in. “Ay,” said Joan, “the world is full of trouble.” One day she +said to Catherine, “It's my belief my man knows more about your Gerard +than anybody in these parts; but he has got to be closer than ever of +late. Drop in some day just afore sunset, and set him talking. And for +our Lady's sake say not I set you on. The only hiding he ever gave me +was for babbling his business; and I do not want another. Gramercy! I +married a man for the comfort of the thing, not to be hided.” + +Catherine dropped in. Jorian was ready enough to tell her how he had +befriended her son and perhaps saved his life. But this was no news to +Catherine; and the moment she began to cross-question him as to whether +he could guess why her lost boy neither came nor wrote, he cast a grim +look at his wife, who received it with a calm air of stolid candour and +innocent unconsciousness; and his answers became short and sullen. + +“What should he know more than another?” and so on. He added, after a +pause, “Think you the burgomaster takes such as me into his secrets?” + +“Oh, then the burgomaster knows something?” said Catherine sharply. + +“Likely. Who else should?” + +“I'll ask him.” + +“I would.” + +“And tell him you say he knows.” + +“That is right, dame. Go make him mine enemy. That is what a poor fellow +always gets if he says a word to you women.” + +And Jorian from that moment shrunk in and became impenetrable as a +hedgehog, and almost as prickly. + +His conduct caused both the poor women agonies of mind, alarm, and +irritated curiosity. Ghysbrecht was for some cause Gerard's mortal +enemy; had stopped his marriage, imprisoned him, hunted him. And here +was his late servant, who when off his guard had hinted that this enemy +had the clue to Gerard's silence. After sifting Jorian's every word and +look, all remained dark and mysterious. Then Catherine told Margaret to +go herself to him. “You are young, you are fair. You will maybe get more +out of him than I could.” + +The conjecture was a reasonable one. + +Margaret went with her child in her arms and tapped timidly at Jorian's +door just before sunset. “Come in,” said a sturdy voice. She entered, +and there sat Jorian by the fireside. At sight of her he rose, snorted, +and burst out of the house. “Is that for me, wife?” inquired Margaret, +turning very red. + +“You must excuse him,” replied Joan, rather coldly; “he lays it to your +door that he is a poor man instead of a rich one. It is something about +a piece of parchment, There was one amissing, and he got nought from the +burgomaster all along of that one.” + +“Alas! Gerard took it.” + +“Likely, But my man says you should not have let him: you were pledged +to him to keep them all safe. And sooth to Say, I blame not my Jorian +for being wroth, 'Tis hard for a poor man to be so near fortune and lose +it by those he has befriended. However, I tell him another story. Says +I, 'Folk that are out o' trouble like you and me didn't ought to be too +hard on folk that are in trouble; and she has plenty. Going already? +What is all your hurry, mistress?” + +“Oh, it is not for me to drive the goodman out of his own house.” + +“Well, let me kiss the bairn afore ye go. He is not in fault anyway, +poor innocent.” + +Upon this cruel rebuff Margaret came to a resolution, which she did not +confide even to Catherine. + +After six weeks' stay that good woman returned home. + +On the child's birthday, which occurred soon after, Margaret did no +work; but put on her Sunday clothes, and took her boy in her arms and +went to the church and prayed there long and fervently for Gerard's safe +return. + +That same day and hour Father Clement celebrated a mass and prayed for +Margaret's departed soul in the minster church at Basle. + + + +CHAPTER LXXVIII + +Some blackguard or other, I think it was Sybrandt, said, “A lie is not +like a blow with a curtal axe.” + +True: for we can predict in some degree the consequences of a stroke +with any material weapon. But a lie has no bounds at all. The nature of +the thing is to ramify beyond human calculation. + +Often in the everyday world a lie has cost a life, or laid waste two or +three. + +And so, in this story, what tremendous consequences of that one +heartless falsehood! + +Yet the tellers reaped little from it. + +The brothers, who invented it merely to have one claimant the less for +their father's property, saw little Gerard take their brother's place +in their mother's heart. Nay, more, one day Eli openly proclaimed that, +Gerard being lost, and probably dead, he had provided by will for little +Gerard, and also for Margaret, his poor son's widow. + +At this the look that passed between the black sheep was a caution to +traitors. Cornelis had it on his lips to say. Gerard was most likely +alive, But he saw his mother looking at him, and checked himself in +time. + +Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the other partner in that lie, was now a failing +man. He saw the period fast approaching when all his wealth would drop +from his body, and his misdeeds cling to his soul. + +Too intelligent to deceive himself entirely, he had never been free +from gusts of remorse. In taking Gerard's letter to Margaret he had +compounded. “I cannot give up land and money,” said his giant Avarice. +“I will cause her no unnecessary pain,” said his dwarf Conscience. + +So, after first tampering with the seal, and finding there was not a +syllable about the deed, he took it to her with his own hand; and made a +merit of it to himself: a set-off; and on a scale not uncommon where the +self-accuser is the judge. + +The birth of Margaret's child surprised and shocked him, and put his +treacherous act in a new light. Should his letter take effect he should +cause the dishonour of her who was the daughter of one friend, the +granddaughter of another, and whose land he was keeping from her too. + +These thoughts preying on him at that period of life when the strength +of body decays, and the memory of old friends revives, filled him with +gloomy horrors. Yet he was afraid to confess. For the cure was an honest +man, and would have made him disgorge. And with him Avarice was an +ingrained habit, Penitence only a sentiment. + +Matters were thus when, one day, returning from the town hall to his own +house, he found a woman waiting for him in the vestibule, with a child +in her arms. She was veiled, and so, concluding she had something to +be ashamed of, he addressed her magisterially, On this she let down her +veil and looked him full in the face. + +It was Margaret Brandt. + +Her sudden appearance and manner startled him, and he could not conceal +his confusion. + +“Where is my Gerard?” cried she, her bosom heaving. “Is he alive?” + +“For aught I know,” stammered Ghysbrecht. “I hope so, for your sake. +Prithee come into this room. The servants!” + +“Not a step,” said Margaret, and she took him by the shoulder, and held +him with all the energy of an excited woman. “You know the secret of +that which is breaking my heart. Why does not my Gerard come, nor send +a line this many months? Answer me, or all the town is like to hear me, +let alone thy servants, My misery is too great to be sported with.” + +In vain he persisted he knew nothing about Gerard. She told him those +who had sent her to him told her another tale. + +“You do know why he neither comes nor sends,” said she firmly. + +At this Ghysbrecht turned paler and paler; but he summoned all his +dignity, and said, “Would you believe those two knaves against a man of +worship?” + +“What two knaves?” said she keenly. + +He stammered, “Said ye not--? There I am a poor old broken man, whose +memory is shaken. And you come here, and confuse me so, I know not what +I say.” + +“Ay, sir, your memory is shaken, or sure you would not be my enemy. My +father saved you from the plague, when none other would come anigh you; +and was ever your friend. My grandfather Floris helped you in your early +poverty, and loved you, man and boy. Three generations of us you have +seen; and here is the fourth of us; this is your old friend Peter's +grandchild, and your old friend Floris his great-grandchild. Look down +on his innocent face, and think of theirs!” + +“Woman, you torture me,” sighed Ghysbrecht, and sank upon a bench. But +she saw her advantage, and kneeled before him, and put the boy on his +knees. “This fatherless babe is poor Margaret Brandt's, that never did +you ill, and comes of a race that loved you. Nay, look at his face. +'Twill melt thee more than any word of mine, Saints of heaven, what can +a poor desolate girl and her babe have done to wipe out all memory of +thine own young days, when thou wert guiltless as he is, that now looks +up in thy face and implores thee to give him back his father?” + +And with her arms under the child she held him up higher and higher, +smiling under the old man's eyes. + +He cast a wild look of anguish on the child, and another on the kneeling +mother, and started up shrieking, “Avaunt, ye pair of adders.” + +The stung soul gave the old limbs a momentary vigour, and he walked +rapidly, wringing his hands and clutching at his white hair. “Forget +those days? I forget all else. Oh, woman, woman, sleeping or waking I +see but the faces of the dead, I hear but the voices of the dead, and I +shall soon be among the dead, There, there, what is done is done. I am +in hell. I am in hell.” + +And unnatural force ended in prostration. + +He staggered, and but for Margaret would have fallen, With her one +disengaged arm she supported him as well as she could and cried for +help. + +A couple of servants came running, and carried him away in a state +bordering on syncope, The last Margaret saw of him was his old furrowed +face, white and helpless as his hair that hung down over the servant's +elbow. + +“Heaven forgive me,” she said. “I doubt I have killed the poor old man.” + +Then this attempt to penetrate the torturing mystery left it as dark, +or darker than before. For when she came to ponder every word, her +suspicion was confirmed that Ghysbrecht did know something about Gerard. +“And who were the two knaves he thought had done a good deed, and told +me? Oh, my Gerard, my poor deserted babe, you and I are wading in deep +waters.” + +The visit to Tergou took more money than she could well afford; and a +customer ran away in her debt. She was once more compelled to unfold +Catherine's angel. But strange to say, as she came down stairs with it +in her hand she found some loose silver on the table, with a written +line-- + +For Gerard his wife. + +She fell with a cry of surprise on the writing; and soon it rose into a +cry of joy. + +“He is alive. He sends me this by some friendly hand.” + +She kissed the writing again and again, and put it in her bosom. + +Time rolled on, and no news of Gerard. + +And about every two months a small sum in silver found its way into the +house. Sometimes it lay on the table. Once it was flung in through the +bedroom window in a purse. Once it was at the bottom of Luke's basket. +He had stopped at the public-house to talk to a friend. The giver or his +agent was never detected. Catherine disowned it. Margaret Van Eyck swore +she had no hand in it. So did Eli. And Margaret, whenever it came, used +to say to little Gerard, “Oh, my poor deserted child, you and I are +wading in deep waters.” + +She applied at least half this modest, but useful supply, to dressing +the little Gerard beyond his station in life. “If it does come from +Gerard, he shall see his boy neat.” All the mothers in the street began +to sneer, especially such as had brats out at elbows. + +The months rolled on, and dead sickness of heart succeeded to these +keener torments. She returned to her first thought: “Gerard must be +dead. She should never see her boy's father again, nor her marriage +lines.” This last grief, which had been somewhat allayed by Eli and +Catherine recognizing her betrothal, now revived in full force; others +would not look so favourably on her story. And often she moaned over her +boy's illegitimacy. + +“Is it not enough for us to be bereaved? Must we be dishonoured too? Oh, +that we had ne'er been born.” + +A change took place in Peter Brandt. His mind, clouded for nearly two +years, seemed now to be clearing; he had intervals of intelligence; and +then he and Margaret used to talk of Gerard, till he wandered again. But +one day, returning after an absence of some hours, Margaret found +him conversing with Catherine, in a way he had never done since his +paralytic stroke. “Eh, girl, why must you be out?” said she. “But +indeed I have told him all; and we have been a-crying together over thy +troubles.” + +Margaret stood silent, looking joyfully from one to the other. + +Peter smiled on her, and said, “Come, let me bless thee.” + +She kneeled at his feet, and he blessed her most eloquently. + +He told her she had been all her life the lovingest, truest, and most +obedient daughter Heaven ever sent to a poor old widowed man. “May thy +son be to thee what thou hast been to me!” + +After this he dozed. Then the females whispered together; and Catherine +said--“All our talk e'en now was of Gerard. It lies heavy on his mind. +His poor head must often have listened to us when it seemed quite dark. +Margaret, he is a very understanding man; he thought of many things: 'He +may be in prison, says he, 'or forced to go fighting for some king, +or sent to Constantinople to copy books there, or gone into the Church +after all.' He had a bent that way.” + +“Ah, mother,” whispered Margaret, in reply, “he doth but deceive himself +as we do.” + +Ere she could finish the sentence, a strange interruption occurred. + +A loud voice cried out, “I SEE HIM, I SEE HIM.” + +And the old man with dilating eyes seemed to be looking right through +the wall of the house. + +“IN A BOAT; ON A GREAT RIVER; COMING THIS WAY. Sore disfigured; but I +knew him. Gone! gone! all dark.” + +And he sank back, and asked feebly where was Margaret. + +“Dear father, I am by thy side, Oh, mother! mother, what is this?” + +“I cannot see thee, and but a moment agone I saw all round the world, +Ay, ay. Well, I am ready. Is this thy hand? Bless thee, my child, bless +thee! Weep not! The tree is ripe.” + +The old physician read the signs aright. These calm words were his last. +The next moment he drooped his head, and gently, placidly, drifted away +from earth, like an infant sinking to rest, The torch had flashed up +before going out. + + + +CHAPTER LXXIX + +She who had wept for poor old Martin was not likely to bear this blow so +stoically as the death of the old is apt to be borne. In vain Catherine +tried to console her with commonplaces; in vain told her it was a happy +release for him; and that, as he himself had said, the tree was ripe. +But her worst failure was, when she urged that there were now but two +mouths to feed; and one care the less. + +“Such cares are all the joys I have,” said Margaret. “They fill my +desolate heart, which now seems void as well as waste. Oh, empty chair, +my bosom it aches to see thee. Poor old man, how could I love him by +halves, I that did use to sit and look at him and think, 'But for me +thou wouldst die of hunger.' He, so wise, so learned erst, was got to +be helpless as my own sweet babe, and I loved him as if he had been +my child instead of my father. Oh, empty chair! Oh, empty heart! +Well-a-day! well-a-day!” + +And the pious tears would not be denied. + +Then Catherine held her peace; and hung her head. And one day she made +this confession, “I speak to thee out o' my head, and not out o' my +bosom; thou dost well to be deaf to me. Were I in thy place I should +mourn the old man all one as thou dost.” + +Then Margaret embraced her, and this bit of true sympathy did her a +little good. The commonplaces did none. + +Then Catherine's bowels yearned over her, and she said, “My poor girl, +you were not born to live alone. I have got to look on you as my own +daughter. Waste not thine youth upon my son Gerard. Either he is dead or +he is a traitor. It cuts my heart to say it; but who can help seeing it? +Thy father is gone; and I cannot always be aside thee. And here is +an honest lad that loves thee well this many a day. I'd take him and +Comfort together. Heaven hath sent us these creatures to torment us and +comfort us and all; we are just nothing in the world without 'em,” Then +seeing Margaret look utterly perplexed, she went on to say, “Why, sure +you are not so blind as not to see it?” + +“What? Who?” + +“Who but this Luke Peterson.” + +“What, our Luke? The boy that carries my basket?” + +“Nay, he is over nineteen, and a fine healthy lad; and I have made +inquiries for you; and they all do say he is a capable workman, and +never touches a drop; and that is much in a Rotterdam lad, which they +are mostly half man, half sponge.” + +Margaret smiled for the first time this many days. “Luke loves dried +puddings dearly,” said she, “and I make them to his mind, 'Tis them he +comes a-courting here.” Then she suddenly turned red. “But if I thought +he came after your son's wife that is, or ought to be, I'd soon put him +to the door.” + +“Nay, nay; for Heaven's sake let me not make mischief. Poor lad! Why, +girl, Fancy will not be bridled, Bless you, I wormed it out of him near +a twelvemonth agone.” + +“Oh, mother, and you let him?” + +“Well, I thought of you. I said to myself, 'If he is fool enough to +be her slave for nothing, all the better for her. A lone woman is lost +without a man about her to fetch and carry her little matters,' But now +my mind is changed, and I think the best use you can put him to is to +marry him.” + +“So then, his own mother is against him, and would wed me to the first +comer. An, Gerard, thou hast but me; I will not believe thee dead till +I see thy tomb, nor false till I see thee with another lover in thine +hand. Foolish boy, I shall ne'er be civil to him again.” + +Afflicted with the busybody's protection, Luke Peterson met a cold +reception in the house where he had hitherto found a gentle and kind +one. And by-and-by, finding himself very little spoken to at all, and +then sharply and irritably, the great soft fellow fell to whimpering, +and asked Margaret plump if he had done anything to offend her. + +“Nothing. I am to blame. I am curst. If you will take my counsel you +will keep out of my way awhile.” + +“It is all along of me, Luke,” said the busybody. + +“You, Mistress Catherine, Why, what have I done for you to set her +against me?” + +“Nay, I meant all for the best. I told her I saw you were looking +towards her through a wedding ring, But she won't hear of it.” + +“There was no need to tell her that, wife; she knows I am courting her +this twelvemonth.” + +“Not I,” said Margaret; “or I should never have opened the street door +to you. + +“Why, I come here every Saturday night. And that is how the lads in +Rotterdam do court. If we sup with a lass o' Saturdays, that wooing.” + +“Oh, that is Rotterdam, is it? Then next time you come, let it be +Thursday or Friday. For my part, I thought you came after my puddings, +boy.” + +“I like your puddings well enough. You make them better than mother +does, But I like you still better than the puddings,” said Luke +tenderly. + +“Then you have seen the last of them. How dare you talk so to another +man's wife, and him far away?” She ended gently, but very firmly, “You +need not trouble yourself to come here any more, Luke; I can carry my +basket myself.” + +“Oh, very well,” said Luke; and after sitting silent and stupid for a +little while, he rose, and said sadly to Catherine, “Dame, I daresay I +have got the sack;” and went out. + +But the next Saturday Catherine found him seated on the doorstep +blubbering. He told her he had got used to come there, and every other +place seemed strange. She went in, and told Margaret; and Margaret +sighed, and said, “Poor Luke, he might come in for her, if he could +know his place, and treat her like a married wife.” On this being +communicated to Luke, he hesitated, “Pshaw!” said Catherine, “promises +are pie-crusts. Promise her all the world, sooner than sit outside +like a fool, when a word will carry you inside, now you humour her in +everything, and then, if Poor Gerard come not home and claim her, you +will be sure to have her--in time. A lone woman is aye to be tired out, +thou foolish boy.” + + + +CHAPTER LXXX + +THE CLOISTER + +Brother Clement had taught and preached in Basle more than a +twelvemonth, when one day Jerome stood before him, dusty, with a +triumphant glance in his eye. + +“Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; thou canst now wend to England +with me.” + +“I am ready, Brother Jerome; and expecting thee these many months, have +in the intervals of teaching and devotion studied the English tongue +somewhat closely.” + +“'Twas well thought of,” said Jerome. He then told him he had but +delayed till he could obtain extraordinary powers from the Pope to +collect money for the Church's use in England, and to hear confession +in all the secular monasteries. “So now gird up thy loins, and let us go +forth and deal a good blow for the Church, and against the Franciscans.” + +The two friars went preaching down the Rhine for England. In the larger +places they both preached. At the smaller they often divided, and took +different sides of the river, and met again at some appointed spot. Both +were able orators, but in different styles. + +Jerome's was noble and impressive, but a little contracted in religious +topics, and a trifle monotonous in delivery compared with Clement's, +though in truth not so, compared with most preachers. + +Clement's was full of variety, and often remarkably colloquial. In its +general flow, tender and gently winning, it curled round the reason and +the heart. But it always rose with the rising thought; and so at times +Clement soared as far above Jerome as his level speaking was below him. +Indeed, in these noble heats he was all that we hue read of inspired +prophet or heathen orator: Vehemens ut procella, excitatus ut torrens, +incensus ut fulmen, tonabat, fulgurabat, et rapidis eloquentiae +fiuctibus cuncta proruebat et perturbabat. + +I would give literal specimens, but for five objections; it is +difficult; time is short; I have done it elsewhere; an able imitator +has since done it better and similarity, a virtue in peas, is a vice in +books. + +But (not to evade the matter entirely) Clement used secretly to try and +learn the recent events and the besetting sin of each town he was to +preach in. + +But Jerome, the unbending, scorned to go out of his way for any people's +vices. At one great town, some leagues from the Rhine, they mounted +the same pulpit in turn. Jerome preached against vanity in dress, a +favourite theme of his. He was eloquent and satirical, and the people +listened with complacency. It was a vice that they were little given to. + +Clement preached against drunkenness. It was a besetting sin, and sacred +from preaching in these parts: for the clergy themselves were infected +with it, and popular prejudice protected it, Clement dealt it merciless +blows out of Holy Writ and worldly experience. A crime itself, it was +the nursing mother of most crimes, especially theft and murder. He +reminded them of a parricide that had lately been committed in their +town by all honest man in liquor; and also how a band of drunkards had +roasted one of their own comrades alive at a neighbouring village. “Your +last prince,” said he, “is reported to have died of apoplexy, but well +you know he died of drink; and of your aldermen one perished miserably +last month dead drunk, suffocated in a puddle. Your children's backs go +bare that you may fill your bellies with that which makes you the +worst of beasts, silly as calves, yet fierce as boars; and drives your +families to need, and your souls to hell. I tell ye your town, ay, and +your very nation, would sink to the bottom of mankind did your women +drink as you do. And how long will they be temperate, and contrary to +nature, resist the example of their husbands and fathers? Vice ne'er +yet stood still. Ye must amend yourselves, or see them come down to +your mark, Already in Bohemia they drink along with the men. How shows +a drunken woman? Would you love to see your wives drunken, your mothers +drunken?” At this there was a shout of horror, for mediaeval audiences +had not learned to sit mumchance at a moving sermon. “Ah, that comes +home to you,” cried the friar. “What madmen! think you it doth not +more shock the all-pure God to see a man, His noblest work, turned to +a drunken beast, than it can shock you creatures of sin and unreason to +see a woman turned into a thing no better nor worse than yourselves.” + +He ended with two pictures: a drunkard's house and family, and a sober +man's; both so true and dramatic in all their details that the wives +fell all to “ohing” and “ahing,” and “Eh, but that is a true word.” + +This discourse caused quite all uproar. The hearers formed knots; the +men were indignant; so the women flattered them and took their part +openly against the preacher. A married man had a right to a drop; he +needed it, working for all the family. And for their part they did not +care to change their men for milksops. + +The double faces! That very evening a hand of men caught near a hundred +of them round Brother Clement, filling his wallet with the best, and +offering him the very roses off their heads, and kissing his frock, and +blessing him “for taking in hand to mend their sots.” + +Jerome thought this sermon too earthly. + +“Drunkenness is not heresy, Clement, that a whole sermon should be +preached against it.” + +As they went on, he found to his surprise that Clement's sermons sank +into his hearers deeper than his own; made them listen, think, cry, and +sometimes even amend their ways. “He hath the art of sinking to their +peg,” thought Jerome, “Yet he can soar high enough at times.” + +Upon the whole it puzzled Jerome, who had a secret sense of superiority +to his tenderer brother. And after about two hundred miles of it, it +got to displease him as well as puzzle him. But he tried to check this +sentiment as petty and unworthy. “Souls differ like locks,” said he, +“and preachers must differ like keys, or the fewer should the Church +open for God to pass in. And certes, this novice hath the key to these +northern souls, being himself a northern man.” + +And so they came slowly down the Rhine, sometimes drifting a few miles +down the stream; but in general walking by the banks preaching, and +teaching, and confessing sinners in the towns and villages; and they +reached the town of Dusseldorf. + +There was the little quay where Gerard and Denys had taken boat up the +Rhine, The friars landed on it. There were the streets, there was +“The Silver Lion.” Nothing had changed but he, who walked through it +barefoot, with his heart calm and cold, his hands across his breast, +and his eyes bent meekly on the ground, a true son of Dominic and Holy +Church. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXI + +THE HEARTH + +“Eli,” said Catherine, “answer me one question like a man, and I'll ask +no more to-day. What is wormwood?” + +Eli looked a little helpless at this sudden demand upon his faculties; +but soon recovered enough to say it was something that tasted main +bitter. + +“That is a fair answer, my man, but not the one I look for.” + +“Then answer it yourself.” + +“And shall. Wormwood is--to have two in the house a-doing nought, but +waiting for thy shoes and mine,” Eli groaned. The shaft struck home. + +“Methinks waiting for their best friend's coffin, that and nothing to +do, are enow to make them worse than Nature meant. Why not set them up +somewhere, to give 'em a chance?” + +Eli said he was willing, but afraid they would drink and gamble their +very shelves away. + +“Nay,” said Catherine, “Dost take me for a simpleton? Of course I mean +to watch them at starting, and drive them wi' a loose rein, as the +saying is.” + +“Where did you think of? Not here; to divide our own custom.” + +“Not likely. I say Rotterdam against the world. Then I could start +them.” + +Oh, self-deception! The true motive of all this was to get near little +Gerard. + +After many discussions and eager promises of amendment on these terms +from Cornelis and Sybrandt, Catherine went to Rotterdam shop-hunting, +and took Kate with her; for a change, They soon found one, and in a good +street; but it was sadly out of order. However, they got it cheaper for +that, and instantly set about brushing it up, fitting proper shelves for +the business, and making the dwelling-house habitable. + + +Luke Peterson was always asking Margaret what he could do for her. The +answer used to be in a sad tone, “Nothing, Luke, nothing.” + +“What, you that are so clever, can you think of nothing for me to do for +you?” + +“Nothing, Luke, nothing.” + +But at last she varied the reply thus: “If you could make something to +help my sweet sister Kate about.” + +The slave of love consented joyfully, and soon made Kate a little cart, +and cushioned it, and yoked himself into it, and at eventide drew her +out of the town, and along the pleasant boulevard, with Margaret and +Catherine walking beside. It looked a happier party than it was. + +Kate, for one, enjoyed it keenly, for little Gerard was put in her +lap, and she doted on him; and it was like a cherub carried by a little +angel, or a rosebud lying in the cup of a lily. + +So the vulgar jeered; and asked Luke how a thistle tasted, and if his +mistress could not afford one with four legs, etc. + +Luke did not mind these jeers; but Kate minded them for him. + +“Thou hast made the cart for me, good Luke,” said she, “'Twas much. I +did ill to let thee draw me too; we can afford to pay some poor soul for +that. I love my rides, and to carry little Gerard; but I'd liever ride +no more than thou be mocked fort.” + +“Much I care for their tongues,” said Luke; “if I did care I'd knock +their heads together. I shall draw you till my mistress says give over. + +“Luke, if you obey Kate, you will oblige me.” + +“Then I will obey Kate.” + +An honourable exception to popular humour was Jorian Ketel's wife. “That +is strength well laid out, to draw the weak. And her prayers will be +your guerdon; she is not long for this world; she smileth in pain.” + These were the words of Joan. + +Single-minded Luke answered that he did not want the poor lass's prayers +he did it to please his mistress, Margaret. + +After that Luke often pressed Margaret to give him something to +do--without success. + +But one day, as if tired with his importuning, she turned on him, and +said with a look and accent I should in vain try to convey: + +“Find me my boy's father.” + + + +CHAPTER LXXXII + +“Mistress, they all say he is dead.” + +“Not so. They feed me still with hopes.” + +“Ay, to your face, but behind your back they all say he is dead.” + +At this revelation Margaret's tears began to flow'. + +Luke whimpered for company. He had the body of a man but the heart of a +girl. + +“Prithee, weep not so, sweet mistress,” said he. “I'd bring him back to +life an I could, rather than see thee weed so sore.” + +Margaret said she thought she was weeping because they were so +double-tongued with her. + +She recovered herself, and laying her hand on his shoulder, said +solemnly, “Luke, he is not dead. Dying men are known to have a strange +sight. And listen, Luke! My poor father, when he was a-dying, and I, +simple fool, was so happy, thinking he was going to get well altogether, +he said to mother and me--he was sitting in that very chair where you +are now, and mother was as might be here, and I was yonder making a +sleeve--said he, 'I see him!' I see him! Just so. Not like a failing man +at all, but all o' fire. 'Sore disfigured-on a great river-coming this +way.' + +“Ah, Luke, if you were a woman, and had the feeling for me you think you +have, you would pity me, and find him for me. Take a thought! The father +of my child!” + +“Alack, I would if I knew how,” said Luke, “but how can I?” + +“Nay, of course you cannot. I am mad to think it. But oh, if any one +really cared for me, they would; that is all I know.” + +Luke reflected in silence for some time. + +“The old folk all say dying men can see more than living wights. Let me +think: for my mind cannot gallop like thine. On a great river Well, the +Maas is a great river.” He pondered on. + +“Coming this way? Then if it 'twas the Maas, he would have been here +by this time, so 'tis not the Maas. The Rhine is a great river, greater +than the Maas; and very long. I think it will be the Rhine.” + +“And so do I, Luke; for Denys bade him come down the Rhine. But even if +it is, he may turn off before he comes anigh his birthplace. He does not +pine for me as I for him; that is clear. Luke, do you not think he has +deserted me?” She wanted him to contradict her, but he said, “It looks +very like it; what a fool he must be!” + +“What do we know?” objected Margaret imploringly. + +“Let me think again,” said Luke. “I cannot gallop.” + +The result of this meditation was this. He knew a station about sixty +miles up the Rhine, where all the public boats put in; and he would go +to that station, and try and cut the truant off. To be sure he did not +even know him by sight; but as each boat came in he would mingle with +the passengers, and ask if one Gerard was there. “And, mistress, if you +were to give me a bit of a letter to him; for, with us being strangers, +mayhap a won't believe a word I say.” + +“Good, kind, thoughtful Luke, I will (how I have undervalued thee!). +But give me till supper-time to get it writ.” At supper she put a letter +into his hand with a blush; it was a long letter, tied round with silk +after the fashion of the day, and sealed over the knot. + +Luke weighed it in his hand, with a shade of discontent, and said to her +very gravely, “Say your father was not dreaming, and say I have the luck +to fall in with this man, and say he should turn out a better bit of +stuff than I think him, and come home to you then and there--what is to +become o' me?” + +Margaret coloured to her very brow. “Oh, Luke, Heaven will reward thee. +And I shall fall on my knees and bless thee; and I shall love thee all +my days, sweet Luke, as a mother does her son. I am so old by thee: +trouble ages the heart. Thou shalt not go 'tis not fair of me. Love +maketh us to be all self.” + +“Humph!” said Luke. “And if,” resumed he, in the same grave way, “yon +scapegrace shall read thy letter, and hear me tell him how thou pinest +for him, and yet, being a traitor, or a mere idiot, will not turn to +thee what shall become of me then? Must I die a bachelor, and thou fare +lonely to thy grave, neither maid, wife, nor widow?” + +Margaret panted with fear and emotion at this terrible piece of good +sense, and the plain question which followed it. But at last she +faltered out, “If, which our Lady be merciful to me, and forbid--Oh!” + +“Well, mistress?” + +“If he should read my letter, and hear thy words--and, sweet Luke, be +just and tell him what a lovely babe he hath, fatherless, fatherless. +Oh, Luke, can he be so cruel?” + +“I trow not but if?” + +“Then he will give thee up my marriage lines, and I shall be an honest +woman, and a wretched one, and my boy will not be a bastard; and of +course, then we could both go into any honest man's house that would +be troubled with us; and even for thy goodness this day, I will--I +will--ne'er be so ungrateful as go past thy door to another man's.” + +“Ay, but will you come in at mine? Answer me that!” + +“Oh, ask me not! Some day, perhaps, when my wounds leave bleeding. Alas, +I'll try. If I don't fling myself and my child into the Maas. Do not go, +Luke! do not think of going! 'Tis all madness from first to last.” + +But Luke was as slow to forego an idea as to form one. + +His reply showed how fast love was making a man of him. “Well,” said he, +“madness is something, anyway; and I am tired of doing nothing for thee; +and I am no great talker. To-morrow, at peep of day, I start. But hold, +I have no money. My mother, she takes care of all mine; and I ne'er see +it again.” + +Then Margaret took out Catherine's gold angel, which had escaped so +often, and gave it to Luke; and he set out on his mad errand. + +It did not, however, seem so mad to him as to us. It was a superstitious +age; and Luke acted on the dying man's dream, or vision, or illusion, or +whatever it was, much as we should act on respectable information. + +But Catherine was downright angry when she heard of it, “To send the +poor lad on such a wild-goose chase! But you are like a many more +girls; and mark my words; by the time you have worn that Luke fairly +out, and made him as sick of you as a dog, you will turn as fond on him +as a cow on a calf, and 'Too late' will be the cry.” + + +THE CLOISTER + +The two friars reached Holland from the south just twelve hours after +Luke started up the Rhine. + +Thus, wild-goose chase or not, the parties were nearing each other, and +rapidly too. For Jerome, unable to preach in low Dutch, now began +to push on towards the coast, anxious to get to England as soon as +possible. + +And having the stream with them, the friars would in point of fact have +missed Luke by passing him in full stream below his station, but for the +incident which I am about to relate. + +About twenty miles above the station Luke was making for, Clement landed +to preach in a large village; and towards the end of his sermon he +noticed a grey nun weeping. + +He spoke to her kindly, and asked her what was her grief. + +“Nay,” said she, “'tis not for myself flow these tears; 'tis for my lost +friend. Thy words reminded me of what she was, and what she is, poor +wretch, But you are a Dominican, and I am a Franciscan nun.” + +“It matters little, my sister, if we are both Christians, and if I can +aid thee in aught.” + +The nun looked in his face, and said, “These are strange words, but +methinks they are good; and thy lips are oh, most eloquent, I will tell +thee our grief.” + +She then let him know that a young nun, the darling of the convent, and +her bosom friend, had been lured away from her vows, and after various +gradations of sin, was actually living in a small inn as chambermaid, +in reality as a decoy, and was known to be selling her favours to the +wealthier customers, She added, “Anywhere else we might, by kindly +violence, force her away from perdition, But this innkeeper was the +servant of the fierce baron on the height there, and hath his ear still, +and he would burn our convent to the ground, were we to take her by +force.” + +“Moreover, souls will not be saved by brute force,” said Clement. + +While they were talking Jerome came up, and Clement persuaded him to lie +at the convent that night, But when in the morning Clement told him he +had had a long talk with the abbess, and that she was very sad, and he +had promised her to try and win back her nun, Jerome objected, and said, +“It was not their business, and was a waste of time,” Clement, however, +was no longer a mere pupil. He stood firm, and at last they agreed that +Jerome should go forward, and secure their passage in the next ship for +England, and Clement be allowed time to make his well-meant but idle +experiment. + +About ten o'clock that day, a figure in a horseman's cloak, and great +boots to match, and a large flapping felt hat, stood like a statue near +the auberge, where was the apostate nun, Mary. The friar thus disguised +was at that moment truly wretched. These ardent natures undertake +wonders; but are dashed when they come hand to hand with the sickening +difficulties. But then, as their hearts are steel, though their nerves +are anything but iron, they turn not back, but panting and dispirited, +struggle on to the last. + +Clement hesitated long at the door, prayed for help and wisdom, and at +last entered the inn and sat down faint at heart, and with his body in a +cold perspiration, But inside he was another man. He called lustily for +a cup of wine: it was brought him by the landlord, He paid for it with +money the convent had supplied him; and made a show of drinking it. + +“Landlord,” said he, “I hear there is a fair chambermaid in thine +house.” + +“Ay, stranger, the buxomest in Holland. But she gives not her company to +all comers only to good customers.” + +Friar Clement dangled a massive gold chain in the landlord's sight. He +laughed, and shouted, “Here, Janet, here is a lover for thee would +bind thee in chains of gold; and a tall lad into the bargain, I promise +thee.” + +“Then I am in double luck,” said a female voice; “send him hither.” + +Clement rose, shuddered, and passed into the room, where Janet was +seated playing with a piece of work, and laying it down every minute, to +sing a mutilated fragment of a song. For, in her mode of life, she had +not the patience to carry anything out. + +After a few words of greeting, the disguised visitor asked her if they +could not be more private somewhere. + +“Why not?” said she. And she rose and smiled, and went tripping before +him, He followed, groaning inwardly, and sore perplexed. + +“There,” said she. “Have no fear! Nobody ever comes here, but such as +pay for the privilege.” + +Clement looked round the room, and prayed silently for wisdom. Then he +went softly, and closed the window-shutters carefully. + +“What on earth is that for?” said Janet, in some uneasiness. + +“Sweetheart,” whispered the visitor, with a mysterious air, “it is that +God may not see us. + +“Madman,” said Janet; “think you a wooden shutter can keep out His eye?” + +“Nay, I know not. Perchance He has too much on hand to notice us, But I +would not the saints and angels should see us. Would you?” + +“My poor soul, hope not to escape their sight! The only way is not to +think of them; for if you do, it poisons your cup. For two pins I'd run +and leave thee. Art pleasant company in sooth.” + +“After all, girl, so that men see us not, what signify God and the +saints seeing us? Feel this chain! 'Tis virgin gold. I shall cut two of +these heavy links off for thee.” + +“Ah! now thy discourse is to the point,” And she handled the chain +greedily. “Why, 'tis as massy as the chain round the virgin's neck at +the conv--” She did not finish the word. + +“Whisht! whisht! whisht! 'Tis it. And thou shalt have thy share. But +betray me not.” + +“Monster!” cried Janet, drawing back from him with repugnance; “what, +rob the blessed Virgin of her chain, and give it to an--” + +“You are none,” cried Clement exultingly, “or you had not recked for +that-Mary!” + +“Ah! ah! ah!” + +“Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee” + +She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters. + +Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of his +boots and his hat before the light streamed in upon him, He then let his +cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and +majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with a +loving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physical +part of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. She +crouched and cowered against the wall. + +“Mary,” said he gently; “one word! Are you happy?” + +“As happy as I shall be in hell.” + +“And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you.” + +“For me?” + +“Day and night; above all, the Sister Ursula.” + +“Poor Ursula!” And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thought +of her friend. + +“The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth and +heaven and save thyself?” + +“Ay! would I could; but it is too late.” + +“Satan avaunt,” cried the monk sternly. “'Tis thy favourite temptation; +and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, and +whispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greater +sinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet, e'n in +this world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door.” + +“How can they ever receive me again?” + +“'Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine for +thee. 'Twas in pity of their tears that I, a Dominican, undertook this +task; and broke the rule of my order by entering an inn; and broke it +again by donning these lay vestments. But all is well done, and quit for +a light penance, if thou wilt let us rescue thy soul from this den of +wolves, and bring thee back to thy vows.” + +The nun gazed at him with tears in her eyes. “And thou, a Dominican, +hast done this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why, the Franciscans and +Dominicans hate one another.” + +“Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic love one another.” + +The recreant nun seemed struck and affected by this answer + +Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been that the Virgin should +be robbed of her chain. “But see now,” said he, “the convent, and +the Virgin too, think ten times more of their poor nun than of golden +chains; for they freely trusted their chain to me a stranger, that +peradventure the sight of it might touch their lost Mary and remind her +of their love,” Finally he showed her with such terrible simplicity the +end of her present course, and on the other hand so revived her dormant +memories and better feelings, that she kneeled sobbing at his feet, and +owned she had never known happiness nor peace since she betrayed her +vows; and said she would go back if he would go with her; but alone +she dared not, could not: even if she reached the gate she could never +enter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her he +would go with her as joyfully as the shepherd bears a strayed lamb to +the fold. + +But when he urged her to go at once, up sprung a crop of those +prodigiously petty difficulties that entangle her sex, like silken nets, +liker iron cobwebs. + +He quietly swept them aside. + +“But how can I walk beside thee in this habit?” + +“I have brought the gown and cowl of thy holy order. Hide thy bravery +with them. And leave thy shoes as I leave these” (pointing to his +horseman's boots). + +She collected her jewels and ornaments. + +“What are these for?” inquired Clement. + +“To present to the convent, father.” + +“Their source is too impure.” + +“But,” objected the penitent, “it would be a sin to leave them here. +They can be sold to feed the poor.” + +“Mary, fix thine eye on this crucifix, and trample those devilish +baubles beneath thy feet.” + +She hesitated; but soon threw them down and trampled on them. + +“Now open the window and fling them out on that dunghill. 'Tis well +done. So pass the wages of sin from thy hands, its glittering yoke from +thy neck, its pollution from thy soul. Away, daughter of St. Francis, we +tarry in this vile place too long.” She followed him. + +But they were not clear yet. + +At first the landlord was so astounded at seeing a black friar and a +grey nun pass through his kitchen from the inside, that he gaped, and +muttered, “Why, what mummery is this?” But he soon comprehended the +matter, and whipped in between the fugitives and the door. “What ho! +Reuben! Carl! Gavin! here is a false friar spiriting away our Janet.” + +The men came running in with threatening looks. The friar rushed at them +crucifix in hand. “Forbear,” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “She is +a holy nun returning to her vows. The hand that touches her cowl or her +robe to stay her, it shall wither, his body shall lie unburied, cursed +by Rome, and his soul shall roast in eternal fire.” They shrank back as +if a flame had met them. “And thou--miserable panderer!” + +He did not end the sentence in words, but seized the man by the neck, +and strong as a lion in his moments of hot excitement, hurled him +furiously from the door and sent him all across the room, pitching head +foremost on to the stone floor; then tore the door open and carried the +screaming nun out into the road. + +“Hush! poor trembler,” he gasped; “they dare not molest thee on the +highroad. Away!” + +The landlord lay terrified, half stunned, and bleeding; and Mary, though +she often looked back apprehensively, saw no more of him. + +On the road he bade her observe his impetuosity. + +“Hitherto,” said he, “we have spoken of thy faults: now for mine. My +choler is ungovernable; furious. It is by the grace of God I am not a +murderer, I repent the next moment; but a moment too late is all too +late. Mary, had the churls laid finger on thee, I should have scattered +their brains with my crucifix, Oh, I know myself; go to; and tremble at +myself. There lurketh a wild beast beneath this black gown of mine.” + +“Alas, father,” said Mary, “were you other than you are I had been lost. +To take me from that place needed a man wary as a fox; yet bold as a +lion.” + +Clement reflected. “This much is certain: God chooseth well his fleshly +instruments; and with imperfect hearts doeth His perfect work, Glory be +to God!” + +When they were near the convent Mary suddenly stopped, and seized the +friar's arm, and began to cry. He looked at her kindly, and told her she +had nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever spent. +He then made her sit down and compose herself till he should return, He +entered the convent, and desired to see the abbess. + +“My sister, give the glory to God: Mary is at the gate.” + +The astonishment and delight of the abbess were unbounded. + +She yielded at once to Clement's earnest request that the road of +penitence might be smoothed at first to this unstable wanderer, and +after some opposition, she entered heartily into his views as to her +actual reception. To give time for their little preparations Clement +went slowly back, and seating himself by Mary soothed her; and heard her +confession. + +“The abbess has granted me that you shall propose your own penance.” + +“It shall be none the lighter,” said she. + +“I trow not,” said he; “but that is future: to-day is given to joy +alone.” + +He then led her round the building to the abbess's postern. + +As they went they heard musical instruments and singing. + +“'Tis a feastday,” said Mary; “and I come to mar it.” + +“Hardly,” said Clement, smiling; “seeing that you are the queen of the +fete.” + +“I, father? what mean you?” + +“What, Mary, have you never heard that there is more joy in heaven over +one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons which need +no repentance? Now this convent is not heaven; nor the nuns angels; yet +are there among then, some angelic spirits; and these sing and exult +at thy return. But here methinks comes one of them; for I see her hand +trembles at the keyhole.” + +The postern was flung open, and in a moment Sister Ursula clung sobbing +and kissing round her friend's neck. The abbess followed more sedately, +but little less moved. + +Clement bade them farewell. They entreated him to stay; but he told them +with much regret he could not. He had already tried his good Brother +Jerome's patience, and must hasten to the river; and perhaps sail for +England to-morrow. + +So Mary returned to the fold, and Clement strode briskly on towards the +Rhine, and England. + +This was the man for whom Margaret's boy lay in wait with her letter. + + +THE HEARTH + +And that letter was one of those simple, touching appeals only her sex +can write to those who have used them cruelly, and they love them. She +began by telling him of the birth of the little boy, and the comfort he +had been to her in all the distress of mind his long and strange silence +had caused her. She described the little Gerard minutely, not forgetting +the mole on his little finger. + +“Know you any one that hath the like on his? If you only saw him you +could not choose but be proud of him; all the mothers in the street do +envy me; but I the wives; for thou comest not to us. My own Gerard, some +say thou art dead. But if thou wert dead, how could I be alive? Others +say that thou, whom I love so truly, art false. But this will I believe +from no lips but thine. My father loved thee well; and as he lay a-dying +he thought he saw thee on a great river, with thy face turned towards +thy Margaret, but sore disfigured. Is't so, perchance? Have cruel men +scarred thy sweet face? or hast thou lost one of thy precious limbs? +Why, then thou hast the more need of me, and I shall love thee not +worse, alas! thinkest thou a woman's love is light as a man's? but +better, than I did when I shed those few drops from my arm, not worth +the tears, thou didst shed for them; mindest thou? 'tis not so very long +agone, dear Gerard.” + +The letter continued in this strain, and concluded without a word of +reproach or doubt as to his faith and affection. Not that she was free +from most distressing doubts; but they were not certainties; and to show +them might turn the scale, and frighten him away from her with fear of +being scolded. And of this letter she made soft Luke the bearer. + +So she was not an angel after all. + +Luke mingled with the passengers of two boats, and could hear nothing of +Gerard Eliassoen. Nor did this surprise him. + +He was more surprised when, at the third attempt, a black friar said +to him, somewhat severely, “And what would you with him you call Gerard +Eliassoen?” + +“Why, father, if he is alive I have got a letter for him.” + +“Humph!” said Jerome. “I am sorry for it, However, the flesh is weak. +Well, my son, he you seek will be here by the next boat, or the next +boat after. And if he chooses to answer to that name--After all, I am +not the keeper of his conscience.” + +“Good father, one plain word, for Heaven's sake, This Gerard Eliassoen +of Tergou--is he alive?” + +“Humph! Why, certes, he that went by that name is alive.” + +“Well, then, that is settled,” said Luke drily. But the next moment he +found it necessary to run out of sight and blubber. + +“Oh, why did the Lord make any women?” said he to himself. “I was +content with the world till I fell in love. Here his little finger is +more to her than my whole body, and he is not dead, And here I have got +to give him this.” He looked at the letter and dashed it on the ground. +But he picked it up again with a spiteful snatch, and went to the +landlord, with tears in his eyes, and begged for work, The landlord +declined, said he had his own people. + +“Oh, I seek not your money,” said Luke, “I only want some work to keep +me from breaking my heart about another man's lass.” + +“Good lad! good lad!” exploded the landlord; and found him lots of +barrels to mend--on these terms, And he coopered with fury in the +interval of the boats coming down the Rhine. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIII + +THE HEARTH + +Waiting an earnest letter seldom leaves the mind in statu quo. + +Margaret, in hers, vented her energy and her faith in her dying father's +vision, or illusion; and when this was done, and Luke gone, she wondered +at her credulity, and her conscience pricked her about Luke; and +Catherine came and scolded her, and she paid the price of false hopes, +and elevation of spirits, by falling into deeper despondency. She was +found in this state by a staunch friend she had lately made, Joan Ketel. +This good woman came in radiant with an idea. + +“Margaret, I know the cure for thine ill: the hermit of Gouda a wondrous +holy man, Why, he can tell what is coming, when he is in the mood.” + +“Ay, I have heard of him,” said Margaret hopelessly. Joan with some +difficulty persuaded her to walk out as far as Gouda, and consult the +hermit. They took some butter and eggs in a basket, and went to his +cave. + +What had made the pair such fast friends? Jorian some six weeks ago fell +ill of a bowel disease; it began with raging pain; and when this went +off, leaving him weak, an awkward symptom succeeded; nothing, either +liquid or solid, would stay in his stomach a minute. The doctor said: +“He must die if this goes on many hours; therefore boil thou now a +chicken with a golden angel in the water, and let him sup that!” + Alas! Gilt chicken broth shared the fate of the humbler viands, its +predecessors. Then the cure steeped the thumb of St. Sergius in beef +broth. Same result. Then Joan ran weeping to Margaret to borrow some +linen to make his shroud. “Let me see him,” said Margaret. She came in +and felt his pulse. “Ah!” said she, “I doubt they have not gone to the +root. Open the window! Art stifling him; now change all his linen. + +“Alack, woman, what for? Why foul more linen for a dying man?” objected +the mediaeval wife. + +“Do as thou art bid,” said Margaret dully, and left the room. + +Joan somehow found herself doing as she was bid. Margaret returned with +her apron full of a flowering herb. She made a decoction, and took it +to the bedside; and before giving it to the patient, took a spoonful +herself, and smacked her lips hypocritically. “That is fair,” said he, +with a feeble attempt at humour. “Why, 'tis sweet, and now 'tis bitter.” + She engaged him in conversation as soon as he had taken it. This +bitter-sweet stayed by him. Seeing which she built on it as cards are +built: mixed a very little schiedam in the third spoonful, and a little +beaten yoke of egg in the seventh. And so with the patience of her sex +she coaxed his body out of Death's grasp; and finally, Nature, being +patted on the back, instead of kicked under the bed, set Jorian Ketel +on his legs again. But the doctress made them both swear never to tell a +soul her guilty deed. “They would put me in prison, away from my child.” + +The simple that saved Jorian was called sweet feverfew. She gathered it +in his own garden. Her eagle eye had seen it growing out of the window. + +Margaret and Joan, then, reached the hermit's cave, and placed their +present on the little platform. Margaret then applied her mouth to the +aperture, made for that purpose, and said: “Holy hermit, we bring thee +butter and eggs of the best; and I, a poor deserted girl, wife, yet no +wife, and mother of the sweetest babe, come to pray thee tell me whether +he is quick or dead, true to his vows or false.” + +A faint voice issued from the cave: “Trouble me not with the things of +earth, but send me a holy friar, I am dying.” + +“Alas!” cried Margaret. “Is it e'en so, poor soul? Then let us in to +help thee.” + +“Saints forbid! Thine is a woman's voice. Send me a holy friar.” + +They went back as they came. Joan could not help saying, “Are women imps +o' darkness then, that they must not come anigh a dying bed?” + +But Margaret was too deeply dejected to say anything. Joan applied rough +consolation. But she was not listened to till she said: “And Jorian will +speak out ere long; he is just on the boil, He is very grateful to thee, +believe it.” + +“Seeing is believing,” replied Margaret, with quiet bitterness. + +“Not but what he thinks you might have saved him with something more out +o' the common than yon. 'A man of my inches to be cured wi' feverfew,' +says he. 'Why, if there is a sorry herb,' says he. 'Why, I was thinking +o' pulling all mine up, says he. I up and told him remedies were none +the better for being far-fetched; you and feverfew cured him, when the +grand medicines came up faster than they went down. So says I, 'You may +go down on your four bones to feverfew.' But indeed, he is grateful at +bottom; you are all his thought and all his chat. But he sees Gerard's +folk coming around ye, and good friends, and he said only last night--” + +“Well?” + +“He made me vow not to tell ye.” + +“Prithee, tell me.” + +“Well, he said: 'An' if I tell what little I know, it won't bring +him back, and it will set them all by the ears. I wish I had more +headpiece,' said he; 'I am sore perplexed. But least said is soonest +mended.' Yon is his favourite word; he comes back to't from a mile off.” + +Margaret shook her head. “Ay, we are wading in deep waters, my poor babe +and me.” + +It was Saturday night and no Luke. + +“Poor Luke!” said Margaret. “It was very good of him to go on such an +errand.” + +“He is one out of a hundred,” replied Catherine warmly. + +“Mother, do you think he would be kind to little Gerard?” + +“I am sure he would. So do you be kinder to him when he comes back! Will +ye now?” + +“Ay.” + + +THE CLOISTER + +Brother Clement, directed by the nuns, avoided a bend in the river, and +striding lustily forward, reached a station some miles nearer the coast +than that where Luke lay in wait for Gerard Eliassoen. And the next +morning he started early, and was in Rotterdam at noon. He made at once +for the port, not to keep Jerome waiting. + +He observed several monks of his order on the quay; he went to them; +but Jerome was not amongst them. He asked one of them whether Jerome had +arrived? “Surely, brother, was the reply. + +“Prithee, where is he?” + +“Where? Why, there!” said the monk, pointing to a ship in full sail. And +Clement now noticed that all the monks were looking seaward. + +“What, gone without me! Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” cried he, in a voice of +anguish. Several of the friars turned round and stared. + +“You must be brother Clement,” said one of them at length; and on this +they kissed him and greeted him with brotherly warmth, and gave him a +letter Jerome had charged them with for him. It was a hasty scrawl. The +writer told him coldly a ship was about to sail for England, and he was +loth to lose time. He (Clement) might follow if he pleased, but he would +do much better to stay behind, and preach to his own country folk. “Give +the glory to God, brother; you have a wonderful power over Dutch hearts; +but you are no match for those haughty islanders: you are too tender. + +“Know thou that on the way I met one, who asked me for thee under the +name thou didst bear in the world. Be on thy guard! Let not the world +catch thee again by any silken net, And remember, Solitude, Fasting, and +Prayer are the sword, spear, and shield of the soul. Farewell.” + +Clement was deeply shocked and mortified at this contemptuous desertion, +and this cold-blooded missive. + +He promised the good monks to sleep at the convent, and to preach +wherever the prior should appoint for Jerome had raised him to the skies +as a preacher, and then withdrew abruptly, for he was cut to the quick, +and wanted to be alone. He asked himself, was there some incurable fault +in him, repulsive to so true a son of Dominic? Or was Jerome himself +devoid of that Christian Love which St. Paul had placed above Faith +itself? Shipwrecked with him, and saved on the same fragment of the +wreck: his pupil, his penitent, his son in the Church, and now for four +hundred miles his fellow-traveller in Christ; and to be shaken off like +dirt, the first opportunity, with harsh and cold disdain. “Why worldly +hearts are no colder nor less trusty than this,” said he. “The only +one that ever really loved me lies in a grave hard by. Fly me, fly to +England, man born without a heart; I will go and pray over a grave at +Sevenbergen.” + +Three hours later he passed Peter's cottage. A troop of noisy children +were playing about the door, and the house had been repaired, and a +new outhouse added. He turned his head hastily away, not to disturb a +picture his memory treasured; and went to the churchyard. + +He sought among the tombstones for Margaret's. He could not find it. +He could not believe they had grudged her a tombstone, so searched the +churchyard all over again. + +“Oh poverty! stern poverty! Poor soul, thou wert like me no one was left +that loved thee, when Gerard was gone.” + +He went into the church, and after kissing the steps, prayed long and +earnestly for the soul of her whose resting-place he could not find. + +Coming out of the church he saw a very old man looking over the little +churchyard gate. He went towards him, and asked him did he live in the +place. + +“Four score and twelve years, man and boy. And I come here every day +of late, holy father, to take a peep. This is where I look to bide ere +long.” + +“My son, can you tell me where Margaret lies?” + +“Margaret? There's a many Margarets here.” + +“Margaret Brandt. She was daughter to a learned physician.” + +“As if I didn't know that,” said the old man pettishly. “But she doesn't +lie here. Bless you, they left this a longful while ago. Gone in a +moment, and the house empty. What, is she dead? Margaret a Peter dead? +Now only think on't. Like enow; like enow, They great towns do terribly +disagree wi' country folk.” + +“What great towns, my son?” + +“Well, 'twas Rotterdam they went to from here, so I heard tell; or was +it Amsterdam? Nay, I trow 'twas Rotterdam? And gone there to die!” + +Clement sighed. + +“'Twas not in her face now, that I saw. And I can mostly tell, Alack, +there was a blooming young flower to be cut off so soon, and all old +weed like me left standing still. Well, well, she was a May rose yon; +dear heart, what a winsome smile she had, and--” + +“God bless thee, my son,” said Clement; “farewell!” and he hurried away. + +He reached the convent at sunset, and watched and prayed in the chapel +for Jerome and Margaret till it was long past midnight, and his soul had +recovered its cold calm. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIV + +THE HEARTH + +The next day, Sunday, after mass, was a bustling day at Catherine's +house in the Hoog Straet. The shop was now quite ready, and Cornelis and +Sybrandt were to open it next day; their names were above the door; also +their sign, a white lamb sucking a gilt sheep. Eli had come, and brought +them some more goods from his store to give them a good start. The +hearts of the parents glowed at what they were doing, and the pair +themselves walked in the garden together, and agreed they were sick of +their old life, and it was more pleasant to make money than waste it; +they vowed to stick to business like wax. Their mother's quick and ever +watchful ear overheard this resolution through an open window, and she +told Eli, The family supper was to include Margaret and her boy, and be +a kind of inaugural feast, at which good trade advice was to flow from +the elders, and good wine to be drunk to the success of the converts +to Commerce from Agriculture in its unremunerative form--wild oats. So +Margaret had come over to help her mother-in-law, and also to shake +off her own deep languor; and both their faces were as red as the fire. +Presently in came Joan with a salad from Jorian's garden. + +“He cut it for you, Margaret; you are all his chat; I shall be jealous. +I told him you were to feast to-day. But oh, lass, what a sermon in the +new kerk! Preaching? I never heard it till this day.” + +“Would I had been there then,” said Margaret; “for I am dried up for +want of dew from heaven.” + +“Why, he preacheth again this afternoon. But mayhap you are wanted +here.” + +“Not she,” said Catherine. “Come, away ye go, if y'are minded.” + +“Indeed,” said Margaret, “methinks I should not be such a damper at +table if I could come to 't warm from a good sermon.” + +“Then you must be brisk,” observed Joan. “See the folk are wending that +way, and as I live, there goes the holy friar. Oh, bless us and save us, +Margaret; the hermit! We forgot.” And this active woman bounded out of +the house, and ran across the road, and stopped the friar. She returned +as quickly. “There, I was bent on seeing him nigh hand.” + +“What said he to thee?” + +“Says he, 'My daughter, I will go to him ere sunset, God willing.' The +sweetest voice. But oh, my mistresses, what thin cheeks for a young man, +and great eyes, not far from your colour, Margaret.” + +“I have a great mind to go hear him,” said Margaret. “But my cap is not +very clean, and they will all be there in their snow-white mutches.” + +“There, take my handkerchief out of the basket,” said Catherine; “you +cannot have the child, I want him for my poor Kate. It is one of her ill +days.” + +Margaret replied by taking the boy upstairs. She found Kate in bed. + +“How art thou, sweetheart? Nay, I need not ask. Thou art in sore pain; +thou smilest so, See,' I have brought thee one thou lovest.” + +“Two, by my way of counting,” said Kate, with an angelic smile. She had +a spasm at that moment would have made some of us roar like bulls. + +“What, in your lap?” said Margaret, answering a gesture of the suffering +girl. “Nay, he is too heavy, and thou in such pain.” + +“I love him too dear to feel his weight,” was the reply. + +Margaret took this opportunity, and made her toilet. “I am for the +kerk,” said she, “to hear a beautiful preacher.” Kate sighed. “And a +minute ago, Kate, I was all agog to go; that is the way with me this +month past; up and down, up and down, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee. +I'd as lieve stay aside thee; say the word!” + +“Nay,” said Kate, “prithee go; and bring me back every word. Well-a-day +that I cannot go myself.” And the tears stood in the patient's eyes. +This decided Margaret, and she kissed Kate, looked under her lashes at +the boy, and heaved a little sigh. “I trow I must not,” said she. “I +never could kiss him a little; and my father was dead against waking +a child by day or night When 'tis thy pleasure to wake, speak thy aunt +Kate the two new words thou hast gotten.” And she went out, looking +lovingly over her shoulder, and shut the door inaudibly. + + +“Joan, you will lend me a hand, and peel these?” said Catherine. + +“That I will, dame.” And the cooking proceeded with silent vigour. + +“Now, Joan, them which help me cook and serve the meat, they help me eat +it; that's a rule.” + +“There's worse laws in Holland than that. Your will is my pleasure, +mistress; for my Luke hath got his supper i' the air. He is digging +to-day by good luck.” (Margaret came down.) + +“Eh, woman, yon is an ugly trade. There she has just washed her face +and gi'en her hair a turn, and now who is like her? Rotterdam, that for +you!” and Catherine snapped her fingers at the capital. “Give us a buss, +hussy! Now mind, Eli won't wait supper for the duke. Wherefore, loiter +not after your kerk is over.” + +Joan and she both followed her to the door, and stood at it watching +her a good way down the street. For among homely housewives going out +o' doors is half an incident. Catherine commented on the launch: “There, +Joan, it is almost to me as if I had just started my own daughter for +kerk, and stood a looking after: the which I've done it manys and manys +the times. Joan, lass, she won't hear a word against our Gerard; and +he be alive, he has used her cruel; that is why my bowels yearn for the +poor wench. I'm older and wiser than she; and so I'll wed her to yon +simple Luke, and there an end. What's one grandchild?” + + + +CHAPTER LXXXV + +THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH + +The sermon had begun when Margaret entered the great church of St. +Laurens. It was a huge edifice, far from completed. Churches were not +built in a year. The side aisles were roofed, but not the mid aisle nor +the chancel; the pillars and arches were pretty perfect, and some of +them whitewashed. But only one window in the whole church was glazed; +the rest were at present great jagged openings in the outer walls. + +But to-day all these uncouth imperfections made the church beautiful. +It was a glorious summer afternoon, and the sunshine came broken into +marvellous forms through those irregular openings, and played bewitching +pranks upon so many broken surfaces. + +It streamed through the gaping walls, and clove the dark cool side +aisles with rivers of glory, and dazzled and glowed on the white pillars +beyond. + +And nearly the whole central aisle was chequered with light and shade in +broken outlines; the shades seeming cooler and more soothing than ever +shade was, and the lights like patches of amber diamond animated with +heavenly fire. And above, from west to east the blue sky vaulted the +lofty aisle, and seemed quite close. + +The sunny caps of the women made a sea of white contrasting exquisitely +with that vivid vault of blue. + +For the mid aisle, huge as it was, was crammed, yet quite still. The +words and the mellow, gentle, earnest voice of the preacher held them +mute. + +Margaret stood spellbound at the beauty, the devotion, “the great calm,” + She got behind a pillar in the north aisle; and there, though she could +hardly catch a word, a sweet devotional langour crept over her at the +loveliness of the place and the preacher's musical voice; and balmy oil +seemed to trickle over the waves in her heart and smooth them. So she +leaned against the pillar with eyes half closed, and all seemed soft and +dreamy. + +She felt it good to be there. + +Presently she saw a lady leave an excellent place opposite to get out of +the sun, which was indeed pouring on her head from the window. Margaret +went round softly but swiftly; and was fortunate enough to get the +place. She was now beside a pillar of the south aisle, and not above +fifty feet from the preacher. She was at his side, a little behind him, +but could hear every word. + +Her attention, however, was soon distracted by the shadow of a man's +head and shoulders bobbing up and down so drolly she had some ado to +keep from smiling. + +Yet it was nothing essentially droll. + +It was the sexton digging. + +She found that out in a moment by looking behind her, through the +window, to whence the shadow came. + +Now as she was looking at Jorian Ketel digging, suddenly a tone of the +preacher's voice fell upon her ear and her mind so distinctly, it seemed +literally to strike her, and make her vibrate inside and out. + +Her hand went to her bosom, so strange and sudden was the thrill. Then +she turned round, and looked at the preacher. His back was turned, and +nothing visible but his tonsure. She sighed. That tonsure, being all she +saw, contradicted the tone effectually. + +Yet she now leaned a little forward with downcast eyes, hoping for that +accent again. It did not come. But the whole voice grew strangely upon +her. It rose and fell as the preacher warmed; and it seemed to waken +faint echoes of a thousand happy memories. She would not look to dispel +the melancholy pleasure this voice gave her. + +Presently, in the middle of an eloquent period, the preacher stopped. + +She almost sighed; a soothing music had ended. Could the sermon be ended +already? No; she looked round; the people did not move. + +A good many faces seemed now to turn her way.' She looked behind her +sharply. There was nothing there. + +Startled countenances near her now eyed the preacher. She followed their +looks; and there, in the pulpit, was a face as of a staring corpse. The +friar's eyes, naturally large, and made larger by the thinness of his +cheeks, were dilated to supernatural size, and glaring her way out of a +bloodless face. + +She cringed and turned fearfully round: for she thought there must be +some terrible thing near her. No; there was nothing; she was the outside +figure of the listening crowd. + +At this moment the church fell into commotion, Figures got up all over +the building, and craned forward; agitated faces by hundreds gazed from +the friar to Margaret, and from Margaret to the friar. The turning to +and fro of so many caps made a loud rustle. Then came shrieks of nervous +women, and buzzing of men; and Margaret, seeing so many eyes levelled at +her, shrank terrified behind the pillar, with one scared, hurried glance +at the preacher. + +Momentary as that glance was, it caught in that stricken face an +expression that made her shiver. + +She turned faint, and sat down on a heap of chips the workmen had left, +and buried her face in her hands, The sermon went on again. She heard +the sound of it; but not the sense. She tried to think, but her mind was +in a whirl, Thought would fix itself in no shape but this: that on that +prodigy-stricken face she had seen a look stamped. And the recollection +of that look now made her quiver from head to foot. + +For that look was “RECOGNITION.” + +The sermon, after wavering some time, ended in a strain of exalted, +nay, feverish eloquence, that went far to make the crowd forget the +preacher's strange pause and ghastly glare. Margaret mingled hastily +with the crowd, and went out of the church with them. + +They went their ways home. But she turned at the door, and went into the +churchyard; to Peter's grave. Poor as she was, she had given him a slab +and a headstone. She sat down on the slab, and kissed it. Then threw her +apron over her head that no one might distinguish her by her hair. + +“Father,” she said, “thou hast often heard me say I am wading in deep +waters; but now I begin to think God only knows the bottom of them. I'll +follow that friar round the world, but I'll see him at arm's length. And +he shall tell me why he looked towards me like a dead man wakened; and +not a soul behind me. Oh, father; you often praised me here: speak a +word for me there. For I am wading in deep waters.” + +Her father's tomb commanded a side view of the church door. And on that +tomb she sat, with her face covered, waylaying the holy preacher. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVI + +THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH + +The cool church chequered with sunbeams and crowned with heavenly +purple, soothed and charmed Father Clement, as it did Margaret; and +more, it carried his mind direct to the Creator of all good and pure +delights. Then his eye fell on the great aisle crammed with his country +folk; a thousand snowy caps, filigreed with gold. Many a hundred leagues +he had travelled; but seen nothing like them, except snow. In the +morning he had thundered; but this sweet afternoon seemed out of tune +with threats. His bowels yearned over that multitude; and he must tell +them of God's love: poor souls, they heard almost as little of it +from the pulpit then a days as the heathen used. He told them the glad +tidings of salvation. The people hung upon his gentle, earnest tongue. + +He was not one of those preachers who keep gyrating in the pulpit like +the weathercock on the steeple. He moved the hearts of others more than +his own body. But on the other hand he did not entirely neglect those +who were in bad places. And presently, warm with this theme, that none +of all that multitude might miss the joyful tidings of Christ's love, he +turned him towards the south aisle. + +And there, in a stream of sunshine from the window, was the radiant face +of Margaret Brandt. He gazed at it without emotion. It just benumbed +him, soul and body. + +But soon the words died in his throat, and he trembled as he glared at +it. + +There, with her auburn hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like the +gloriola of a saint, and her face glowing doubly, with its own beauty, +and the sunshine it was set in-stood his dead love. + +She was leaning very lightly against a white column. She was listening +with tender, downcast lashes. + +He had seen her listen so to him a hundred times. + +There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left: +only a shade riper and more lovely. + +He started at her with monstrous eyes and bloodless cheeks. + +The people died out of his sight. He heard, as in a dream, a rustling +and rising all over the church; but could not take his prodigy-stricken +eyes off that face, all life, and bloom, and beauty, and that wondrous +auburn hair glistening gloriously in the sun. + +He gazed, thinking she must vanish. + +She remained. + +All in a moment she was looking at him, full. + +Her own violet eyes!! + +At this he was beside himself, and his lips parted to shriek out her +name, when she turned her head swiftly, and soon after vanished, but not +without one more glance, which, though rapid as lightning, encountered +his, and left her couching and quivering with her mind in a whirl, and +him panting and gripping the pulpit convulsively. For this glance of +hers, though not recognition, was the startled inquiring, nameless, +indescribable look that precedes recognition. He made a mighty effort, +and muttered something nobody could understand: then feebly resumed his +discourse; and stammered and babbled on a while, till by degrees forcing +himself, now she was out of sight, to look on it as a vision from the +other world, he rose into a state of unnatural excitement, and concluded +in a style of eloquence that electrified the simple; for it bordered on +rhapsody. + +The sermon ended, he sat down on the pulpit stool, terribly shaken, But +presently an idea very characteristic of the time took possession of +him, He had sought her grave at Sevenbergen in vain. She had now been +permitted to appear to him, and show him that she was buried here; +probably hard by that very pillar, where her spirit had showed itself to +him. + +This idea once adopted soon settled on his mind with all the Certainty +of a fact. And he felt he had only to speak to the sexton (whom to his +great disgust he had seen working during the sermon), to learn the spot +where she was laid. + +The church was now quite empty. He came down from the pulpit and stepped +through an aperture in the south wall on to the grass, and went up to +the sexton. He knew him in a moment. But Jorian never suspected the +poor lad, whose life he had saved, in this holy friar. The loss of his +shapely beard had wonderfully altered the outline of his face. This had +changed him even more than his tonsure, his short hair sprinkled with +premature grey, and his cheeks thinned and paled by fasts and vigils. + +“My son,” said Friar Clement softly, “if you keep any memory of those +whom you lay in the earth, prithee tell me is any Christian buried +inside the church, near one of the pillars?” + +“Nay, father,” said Jorian, “here in the churchyard lie buried all that +buried be. Why?” + +“No matter, Prithee tell me then where lieth Margaret Brandt.” + +“Margaret Brandt?” And Jorian stared stupidly at the speaker. + +“She died about three years ago, and was buried here.” + +“Oh, that is another matter,” said Jorian; “that was before my time; the +vicar could tell you, likely; if so be she was a gentlewoman, or at the +least rich enough to pay him his fee.” + +“Alas, my son, she was poor (and paid a heavy penalty for it); but born +of decent folk. Her father, Peter, was a learned physician; she came +hither from Sevenbergen--to die.” + +When Clement had uttered these words his head sunk upon his breast, and +he seemed to have no power nor wish to question Jorian more. I doubt +even if he knew where he was. He was lost in the past. + +Jorian put down his spade, and standing upright in the grave, set his +arms akimbo, and said sulkily, “Are you making a fool of me, holy sir, +or has some wag been making a fool of you!” And having relieved his mind +thus, he proceeded to dig again, with a certain vigour that showed his +somewhat irritable temper was ruffled. + +Clement gazed at him with a puzzled but gently reproachful eye, for +the tone was rude, and the words unintelligible. Good-natured, though +crusty, Jorian had not thrown up three spadefuls ere he became ashamed +of it himself. “Why, what a base churl am I to speak thus to thee, holy +father; and thou a standing there, looking at me like a lamb. Aha! I +have it; 'tis Peter Brandt's grave you would fain see, not Margaret's. +He does lie here; hard by the west door. There; I'll show you.” And he +laid down his spade, and put on his doublet and jerkin to go with the +friar. + +He did not know there was anybody sitting on Peter's tomb. Still less +that she was watching for this holy friar. + +Pietro Vanucci and Andrea did not recognize him without his beard. The +fact is, that the beard which has never known a razor grows in a very +picturesque and characteristic form, and becomes a feature in the face; +so that its removal may in some cases be an effectual disguise. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVII + +While Jorian was putting on his doublet and jerkin to go to Peter's +tomb, his tongue was not idle. “They used to call him a magician out +Sevenbergen way. And they do say he gave 'em a touch of his trade at +parting; told 'em he saw Margaret's lad a-coming down Rhine in brave +clothes and store o' money, but his face scarred by foreign glaive, +and not altogether so many arms and legs as a went away wi'. But, dear +heart, nought came on't. Margaret is still wearying for her lad; and +Peter, he lies as quiet as his neighbours; not but what she hath put a +stone slab over him, to keep him where he is: as you shall see.” + +He put both hands on the edge of the grave, and was about to raise +himself out of it, but the friar laid a trembling hand on his shoulder, +and said in a strange whisper-- + +“How long since died Peter Brandt?” + +“About two months, Why?” + +“And his daughter buried him, say you?” + +“Nay, I buried him, but she paid the fee and reared the stone.” + +“Then--but he had just one daughter; Margaret?” + +“No more leastways, that he owned to.” + +“Then you think Margaret is--is alive?” + +“Think? Why, I should be dead else. Riddle me that.” + +“Alas, how can I? You love her!” + +“No more than reason, being a married man, and father of four more +sturdy knaves like myself. Nay, the answer is, she saved my life scarce +six weeks agone. Now had she been dead she couldn't ha' kept me alive. +Bless your heart, I couldn't keep a thing on my stomach; nor doctors +couldn't make me. My Joan says, ''Tis time to buy thee a shroud.' 'I dare +say, so 'tis,' says I; but try and borrow one first.' In comes my lady, +this Margaret, which she died three years ago, by your way on't, +opens the windows, makes 'em shift me where I lay, and cures me in the +twinkling of a bedpost; but wi' what? there pinches the shoe; with the +scurviest herb, and out of my own garden, too; with sweet feverfew. A +herb, quotha, 'tis a weed; leastways it was a weed till it cured me, +but now whene'er I pass my hunch I doff bonnet, and says I, 'fly service +t'ye.' Why, how now, father, you look wondrous pale, and now you are +red, and now you are white? Why, what is the matter? What, in Heaven's +name, is the matter?” + +“The surprise--the joy--the wonder--the fear,” gasped Clement. + +“Why, what is it to thee? Art thou of kin to Margaret Brandt?” + +“Nay; but I knew one that loved her well, so well her death nigh killed +him, body and soul. And yet thou sayest she lives. And I believe thee.” + +Jorian stared, and after a considerable silence said very gravely, +“Father, you have asked me many questions, and I have answered them +truly; now for our Lady's sake answer me but two. Did you in very sooth +know one who loved this poor lass? Where?” + +Clement was on the point of revealing himself, but he remembered +Jerome's letter, and shrank from being called by the name he had borne +in the world. + +“I knew him in Italy,” said he. + +“If you knew him you can tell me his name,” said Jorian cautiously. + +“His name was Gerard Eliassoen.” + +“Oh, but this is strange. Stay, what made thee say Margaret Brandt was +dead?” + +“I was with Gerard when a letter came from Margaret Van Eyck. The letter +told him she he loved was dead and buried. Let me sit down, for my +strength fails me, Foul play! Foul play!” + +“Father,” said Jorian, “I thank Heaven for sending thee to me, Ay, sit +ye down; ye do look like a ghost; ye fast overmuch to be strong. My mind +misgives me; methinks I hold the clue to this riddle, and if I do, there +be two knaves in this town whose heads I would fain batter to pieces as +I do this mould;” and he clenched his teeth and raised his long spade +above his head, and brought it furiously down upon the heap several +times. “Foul play? You never said a truer word i' your life; and if you +know where Gerard is now, lose no time, but show him the trap they have +laid for him. Mine is but a dull head, but whiles the slow hound puzzles +out the scent--go to, And I do think you and I ha' got hold of two ends +o' one stick, and a main foul one.” + +Jorian then, after some of those useless preliminaries men of his class +always deal in, came to the point of the story. He had been employed by +the burgomaster of Tergou to repair the floor of an upper room in his +house, and when it was almost done, Coming suddenly to fetch away his +tools, curiosity had been excited by some loud words below, and he had +lain down on his stomach, and heard the burgomaster talking about a +letter which Cornelis and Sybrandt were minded to convey into the place +of one that a certain Hans Memling was taking to Gerard; “and it seems +their will was good, but their stomach was small; so to give them +courage the old man showed them a drawer full of silver, and if they did +the trick they should each put a hand in, and have all the silver they +could hold in't. Well, father,” continued Jorian, “I thought not much +on't at the time, except for the bargain itself, that kept me awake +mostly all night. Think on't! Next morning at peep of day who should I +see but my masters Cornelis and Sybrandt come out of their house each +with a black eye. 'Oho,' says I, 'what yon Hans hath put his mark on ye; +well now I hope that is all you have got for your pains.' Didn't they +make for the burgomaster's house? I to my hiding-place.” + +At this part of Jorian's revelation the monk's nostril dilated, and his +restless eye showed the suspense he was in. + +“Well, father,” continued Jorian, “the burgomaster brought them into +that same room. He had a letter in his hand; but I am no scholar; +however, I have got as many eyes in my head as the Pope hath, and I saw +the drawer opened, and those two knaves put in each a hand and draw it +out full. And, saints in glory, how they tried to hold more, and more, +and more o' yon stuff! And Sybrandt, he had daubed his hand in something +sticky, I think 'twas glue, and he made shift to carry one or two pieces +away a sticking to the back of his hand, he! he! he! 'Tis a sin to +laugh. So you see luck was on the wrong side as usual; they had done +the trick; but how they did it, that, methinks, will never be known till +doomsday. Go to, they left their immortal jewels in yon drawer. Well, +they got a handful of silver for them; the devil had the worst o' yon +bargain. There, father, that is off my mind; often I longed to tell it +some one, but I durst not to the women; or Margaret would not have had +a friend left in the world; for those two black-hearted villains are the +favourites, 'Tis always so. Have not the old folk just taken a brave new +shop for them in this very town, in the Hoog Straet? There may you see +their sign, a gilt sheep and a lambkin; a brace of wolves sucking their +dam would be nigher the mark. And there the whole family feast this day; +oh, 'tis a fine world. What, not a word, holy father; you sit there like +stone, and have not even a curse to bestow on them, the stony-hearted +miscreants. What, was it not enough the poor lad was all alone in a +strange land; must his own flesh and blood go and lie away the one +blessing his enemies had left him? And then think of her pining and +pining all these years, and sitting at the window looking adown the +street for Gerard! and so constant, so tender, and true: my wife says +she is sure no woman ever loved a man truer than she loves the lad those +villains have parted from her; and the day never passes but she weeps +salt tears for him. And when I think, that, but for those two greedy +lying knaves, yon winsome lad, whose life I saved, might be by her side +this day the happiest he in Holland; and the sweet lass, that saved my +life, might be sitting with her cheek upon her sweetheart's shoulder, +the happiest she in Holland in place of the saddest; oh, I thirst for +their blood, the nasty, sneaking, lying, cogging, cowardly, heartless, +bowelless--how now?” + +The monk started wildly up, livid with fury and despair, and rushed +headlong from the place with both hands clenched and raised on high. +So terrible was this inarticulate burst of fury, that Jorian's puny ire +died out at sight of it, and he stood looking dismayed after the human +tempest he had launched. + +While thus absorbed he felt his arm grasped by a small, tremulous hand. + +It was Margaret Brandt. + +He started; her coming there just then seemed so strange. She had waited +long on Peter's tombstone, but the friar did not come, So she went into +the church to see if he was there still. She could not find him. + +Presently, going up the south aisle, the gigantic shadow of a friar came +rapidly along the floor and part of a pillar, and seemed to pass through +her. She was near screaming; but in a moment remembered Jorian's shadow +had come in so from the churchyard; and tried to clamber out the nearest +way. She did so, but with some difficulty; and by that time Clement was +just disappearing down the street; yet, so expressive at times is the +body as well as the face, she could see he was greatly agitated. Jorian +and she looked at one another, and at the wild figure of the distant +friar. + +“Well?” said she to Jorian, trembling. + +“Well,” said he, “you startled me. How come you here of all people?” + +“Is this a time for idle chat? What said he to you? He has been speaking +to you; deny it not.” + +“Girl, as I stand here, he asked me whereabout you were buried in this +churchyard.” + +“Ah!” + +“I told him, nowhere, thank Heaven: you were alive and saving other folk +from the churchyard.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, the long and the short is, he knew thy Gerard in Italy; and a +letter came saying you were dead; and it broke thy poor lad's heart. Let +me see; who was the letter written by? Oh, by the demoiselle van +Eyck. That was his way of it. But I up and told him nay; 'twas neither +demoiselle nor dame that penned yon lie, but Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and +those foul knaves, Cornelis and Sybrandt; these changed the true letter +for one of their own; I told him as how I saw the whole villainy done +through a chink; and now, if I have not been and told you!” + +“Oh, cruel! cruel! But he lives. The fear of fears is gone. Thank God!” + +“Ay, lass; and as for thine enemies, I have given them a dig. For yon +friar is friendly to Gerard, and he is gone to Eli's house, methinks. +For I told him where to find Gerard's enemies and thine, and wow but he +will give them their lesson. If ever a man was mad with rage, its yon. +He turned black and white, and parted like a stone from a sling. Girl, +there was thunder in his eye and silence on his lips. Made me cold a +did.” + +“Oh, Jorian, what have you done?” cried Margaret. “Quick! quick! help me +thither, for the power is gone all out of my body. You know him not as +I do. Oh, if you had seen the blow he gave Ghysbrecht; and heard the +frightful crash! Come, save him from worse mischief. The water is deep +enow; but not bloody yet, come!” + +Her accents were so full of agony that Jorian sprang out of the grave +and came with her, huddling on his jerkin as he went. + +But as they hurried along, he asked her what on earth she meant? “I talk +of this friar, and you answer me of Gerard.” + +“Man, see you not, this is Gerard!” + +“This, Gerard? what mean ye?” + +“I mean, yon friar is my boy's father. I have waited for him long, +Jorian. Well, he is come to me at last. And thank God for it. Oh, my +poor child! Quicker, Jorian, quicker!” + +“Why, thou art mad as he. Stay! By St. Bavon, yon was Gerard's face; +'twas nought like it; yet somehow--'twas it. Come on! come on! let me +see the end of this.” + +“The end? How many of us will live to see that?” + +They hurried along in breathless silence, till they reached Hoog Straet. + +Then Jorian tried to reassure her. “You are making your own trouble,” + said he; “who says he has gone thither? more likely to the convent to +weep and pray, poor soul. Oh, cursed, cursed villains!” + +“Did not you tell him where those villains bide?” + +“Ay, that I did.” + +“Then quicker, oh, Jorian, quicker. I see the house. Thank God and all +the saints, I shall be in time to calm him. I know what I'll say to him; +Heaven forgive me! Poor Catherine; 'tis of her I think: she has been a +mother to me.” + +The shop was a corner house, with two doors; one in the main street, for +customers, and a house-door round the corner. + +Margaret and Jorian were now within twenty yards of the shop, when they +heard a roar inside, like as of some wild animal, and the friar burst +out, white and raging, and went tearing down the street. + +Margaret screamed, and sank fainting on Jorian's arm. + +Jorian shouted after him, “Stay, madman, know thy friends.” But he was +deaf, and went headlong, shaking his clenched fists high, high in the +air. + +“Help me in, good Jorian,” moaned Margaret, turning suddenly calm. “Let +me know the worst; and die.” + +He supported her trembling limbs into the house. + +It seemed unnaturally still; not a sound. + +Jorian's own heart beat fast. + +A door was before him, unlatched. He pushed it softly with his left +hand, and Margaret and he stood on the threshold. + +What they saw there you shall soon know. + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVIII + +It was supper-time. Eli's family were collected round the board; +Margaret only was missing. To Catherine's surprise, Eli said he would +wait a bit for her. + +“Why, I told her you would not wait for the duke.” + +“She is not the duke; she is a poor, good lass, that hath waited not +minutes, but years, for a graceless son of mine. You can put the meat +on the board all the same; then we can fall to, without farther loss o' +time, when she does come.” + +The smoking dishes smelt so savoury that Eli gave way. “She will come if +we begin,” said he; “they always do, Come, sit ye down, Mistress Joan; +y'are not here for a slave, I trow, but a guest. There, I hear a quick +step off covers, and fall to.” + +The covers were withdrawn, and the knives brandished. + +Then burst into the room, not the expected Margaret, but a Dominican +friar, livid with rage. + +He was at the table in a moment, in front of Cornelis and Sybrandt, +threw his tall body over the narrow table, and with two hands hovering +above their shrinking heads, like eagles over a quarry, he cursed +them by name, soul and body, in this world and the next. It was an age +eloquent in curses; and this curse was so full, so minute, so blighting, +blasting, withering, and tremendous, that I am afraid to put all the +words on paper. “Cursed be the lips,” he shrieked, “which spoke the +lie that Margaret was dead; may they rot before the grave, and kiss +white-hot iron in hell thereafter; doubly cursed be the hands that +changed those letters, and be they struck off by the hangman's knife, +and handle hell fire for ever; thrice accursed be the cruel hearts +that did conceive that damned lie, to part true love for ever; may they +sicken and wither on earth joyless, loveless, hopeless; and wither to +dust before their time; and burn in eternal fire,” He cursed the meat +at their mouths and every atom of their bodies, from their hair to the +soles of their feet. Then turning from the cowering, shuddering pair, +who had almost hid themselves beneath the table, he tore a letter out of +his bosom, and flung it down before his father. + +“Read that, thou hard old man, that didst imprison thy son, read, and +see what monsters thou hast brought into the world, The memory of my +wrongs and hers dwell with you all for ever! I will meet you again at +the judgment day; on earth ye will never see me more.” + +And in a moment, as he had come, so he was gone, leaving them stiff, and +cold, and white as statues round the smoking board. + +And this was the sight that greeted Margaret's eyes and Jorian's--pale +figures of men and women petrified around the untasted food, as Eastern +poets feigned. + +Margaret glanced her eye round, and gasped out, “Oh, joy! all here; no +blood hath been shed. Oh, you cruel, cruel men! I thank God he hath not +slain you.” + +At sight of her Catherine gave an eloquent scream; then turned her head +away. But Eli, who had just cast his eye over the false letter, and +begun to understand it all, seeing the other victim come in at that very +moment with her wrongs reflected in her sweet, pale face, started to his +feet in a transport of rage, and shouted, “Stand clear, and let me get +at the traitors, I'll hang for them,” And in a moment he whipped out his +short sword, and fell upon them. + +“Fly!” screamed Margaret. “Fly!” + +They slipped howling under the table, and crawled out the other side. + +But ere they could get to the door, the furious old man ran round and +intercepted them. Catherine only screamed and wrung her hands; your +notables are generally useless at such a time; and blood would certainly +have flowed, but Margaret and Jorian seized the fiery old man's arms, +and held them with all their might, whilst the pair got clear of the +house; then they let him go; and he went vainly raging after them out +into the street. + +They were a furlong off, running like hares. + +He hacked down the board on which their names were written, and brought +it indoors, and flung it into the chimney-place. Catherine was sitting +rocking herself with her apron over her head. Joan had run to her +husband. Margaret had her arms round Catherine's neck; and pale and +panting, was yet making efforts to comfort her. + +But it was not to be done, “Oh, my poor children!” she cried. “Oh, +miserable mother! 'Tis a mercy Kate was ill upstairs. There, I have +lived to thank God for that!” she cried, with a fresh burst of sobs. “It +would have killed her. He had better have stayed in Italy, as come home +to curse his own flesh and blood and set us all by the ears. + +“Oh, hold your chat, woman,” cried Eli angrily; “you are still on the +side of the ill-doer, You are cheap served; your weakness made the +rogues what they are; I was for correcting them in their youth: for +sore ills, sharp remedies; but you still sided with their faults, and +undermined me, and baffled wise severity. And you, Margaret, leave +comforting her that ought rather to comfort you; for what is her hurt +to yours? But she never had a grain of justice under her skin; and never +will. So come thou to me, that am thy father from this hour.” + +This was a command; so she kissed Catherine, and went tottering to him, +and he put her on a chair beside him, and she laid her feeble head on +his honest breast; but not a tear: it was too deep for that. + +“Poor lamb,” said he. After a while--“Come, good folks,” said true Eli, +in a broken voice, to Jorian and Joan, “we are in a little trouble, as +you see; but that is no reason you should starve. For our Lady's sake, +fall to; and add not to my grief the reputation of a churl. What the +dickens!” added he, with a sudden ghastly attempt at stout-heartedness, +“the more knaves I have the luck to get shut of, the more my need of +true men and women, to help me clear the dish, and cheer mine eye with +honest faces about me where else were gaps. Fall to, I do entreat ye.” + +Catherine, sobbing, backed his request. Poor, simple, antique, +hospitable souls! Jorian, whose appetite, especially since his illness, +was very keen, was for acting on this hospitable invitation; but Joan +whispered a word in his ear, and he instantly drew back, “Nay, I'll +touch no meat that Holy Church hath cursed.” + +“In sooth, I forgot,” said Eli apologetically. “My son, who was reared +at my table, hath cursed my victuals. That seems strange. Well, what God +wills, man must bow to.” + +The supper was flung out into the yard. + +Jorian took his wife home, and heavy sadness reigned in Eli's house that +night. + +Meantime, where was Clement? + +Lying at full length upon the floor of the convent church, with his lips +upon the lowest step of the altar, in an indescribable state of terror, +misery, penitence, and self-abasement: through all which struggled +gleams of joy that Margaret was alive. + +Night fell and found him lying there weeping and praying; and morning +would have found him there too; but he suddenly remembered that, +absorbed in his own wrongs and Margaret's, he had committed another sin +besides intemperate rage. He had neglected a dying man. + +He rose instantly, groaning at his accumulated wickedness, and set out +to repair the omission. The weather had changed; it was raining hard, +and when he got clear of the town, he heard the wolves baying; they were +on the foot, But Clement was himself again, or nearly; he thought little +of danger or discomfort, having a shameful omission of religious duty to +repair: he went stoutly forward through rain and darkness. + +And as he went, he often beat his breast, and cried, “MEA CULPA! MEA +CULPA!” + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIX + +What that sensitive mind, and tender conscience, and loving heart, and +religious soul, went through even in a few hours, under a situation so +sudden and tremendous, is perhaps beyond the power of words to paint. + +Fancy yourself the man; and then put yourself in his place! Were I to +write a volume on it, we should have to come to that at last. + +I shall relate his next two overt acts. They indicate his state of mind +after the first fierce tempest of the soul had subsided. After +spending the night with the dying hermit in giving and receiving holy +consolations, he set out not for Rotterdam, but for Tergou. He went +there to confront his fatal enemy the burgomaster, and by means of that +parchment, whose history, by-the-by was itself a romance, to make him +disgorge; and give Margaret her own. + +Heated and dusty, he stopped at the fountain, and there began to eat his +black bread and drink of the water. But in the middle of his frugal meal +a female servant came running, and begged him to come and shrive her +dying master, He returned the bread to his wallet, and followed her +without a word. + +She took him--to the Stadthouse. + +He drew back with a little shudder when he saw her go in. + +But he almost instantly recovered himself, and followed her into the +house, and up the stairs. And there in bed, propped up by pillows, lay +his deadly enemy, looking already like a corpse. + +Clement eyed him a moment from the door, and thought of all the tower, +the wood, the letter. Then he said in a low voice, “Pax vobiscum!” He +trembled a little while he said it. + +The sick man welcomed him as eagerly as his weak state permitted. “Thank +Heaven, thou art come in time to absolve me from my sins, father, and +pray for my soul, thou and thy brethren.” + +“My son,” said Clement, “before absolution cometh confession. In which +act there must be no reservation, as thou valuest thy soul's weal. +Bethink thee, therefore, wherein thou hast most offended God and the +Church, while I offer up a prayer for wisdom to direct thee.” + +Clement then kneeled and prayed; and when he rose from his knees, he +said to Ghysbrecht, with apparent calmness, “My son, confess thy sins.” + +“Ah, father,” said the sick man, “they are many and great.” + +“Great, then, be thy penitence, my son; so shalt thou find God's mercy +great.” + +Ghysbrecht put his hands together, and began to confess with every +appearance of contrition. + +He owned he had eaten meat in mid-Lent. He had often absented himself +from mass on the Lord's day, and saints' days; and had trifled with +other religious observances, which he enumerated with scrupulous +fidelity. + +When he had done, the friar said quietly, “'Tis well, my son, These be +faults. Now to thy crimes, Thou hadst done better to begin with them.” + +“Why, father, what crimes lie to my account if these be none?” + +“Am I confessing to thee, or thou to me?” said Clement somewhat +severely. + +“Forgive me, father! Why, surely, I to you. But I know not what you call +crimes.” + +“The seven deadly sins, art thou clear of them?” + +“Heaven forefend I should be guilty of them. I know them not by name.” + +“Many do them all that cannot name them. Begin with that one which leads +to lying, theft, and murder.” + +“I am quit of that one, any way. How call you it?” + +“AVARICE, my son.” + +“Avarice? Oh, as to that, I have been a saving man all my day; but I +have kept a good table, and not altogether forgotten the poor. But, +alas, I am a great sinner, Mayhap the next will catch me, What is the +next?” + +“We have not yet done with this one. Bethink thee, the Church is not to +be trifled with.” + +“Alas! am I in a condition to trifle with her now? Avarice? Avarice?” + +He looked puzzled and innocent. + +“Hast thou ever robbed the fatherless?” inquired the friar. + +“Me? robbed the fatherless?” gasped Ghysbrecht; “not that I mind.” + +“Once more, my son, I am forced to tell thee thou art trifling with the +Church. Miserable man! another evasion, and I leave thee, and fiends +will straightway gather round thy bed, and tear thee down to the +bottomless pit.” + +“Oh, leave me not! leave me not!” shrieked the terrified old man. “The +Church knows all. I must have robbed the fatherless. I will confess. Who +shall I begin with? My memory for names is shaken.” + +The defence was skilful, but in this case failed. + +“Hast thou forgotten Floris Brandt?” said Clement stonily. + +The sick man reared himself in bed in a pitiable state of terror. “How +knew you that?” said he. + +“The Church knows many things,” said Clement coldly, “and by many ways +that are dark to thee, Miserable impenitent, you called her to your +side, hoping to deceive her, You said, 'I will not confess to the cure +but to some friar who knows not my misdeeds. So will I cheat the Church +on my deathbed, and die as I have lived,' But God, kinder to thee than +thou art to thyself, sent to thee one whom thou couldst not deceive. He +has tried thee; He was patient with thee, and warned thee not to trifle +with Holy Church; but all is in vain; thou canst not confess; for thou +art impenitent as a stone. Die, then, as thou hast lived. Methinks I see +the fiends crowding round the bed for their prey. They wait but for me +to go. And I go.” + +He turned his back; but Ghysbrecht, in extremity of terror, caught him +by the frock. “Oh, holy man, mercy! stay. I will confess all, all. I +robbed my friend Floris, Alas! would it had ended there; for he lost +little by me; but I kept the land from Peter his son, and from Margaret, +Peter's daughter. Yet I was always going to give it back; but I +couldn't, I couldn't.” + +“Avarice, my son, avarice, Happy for thee 'tis not too late.” + +“No; I will leave it her by will. She will not have long to wait for it +now; not above a month or two at farthest.” + +“For which month's possession thou wouldst damn thy soul for ever, Thou +fool!” + +The sick man groaned, and prayed the friar to be reasonable. + +The friar firmly, but gently and persuasively, persisted, and with +infinite patience detached the dying man's gripe from another's +property. There were times when his patience was tried, and he was on +the point of thrusting his hand into his bosom and producing the deed, +which he had brought for that purpose; but after yesterday's outbreak +he was on his guard against choler; and to conclude, he conquered his +impatience; he conquered a personal repugnance to the man, so strong +as to make his own flesh creep all the time he was struggling with this +miser for his soul; and at last, without a word about the deed, he won +upon him to make full and prompt restitution. + +How the restitution was made will be briefly related elsewhere: also +certain curious effects produced upon Ghysbrecht by it; and when and on +what terms Ghysbrecht and Clement parted. + +I promised to relate two acts of the latter, indicative of his mind. + +This is one. The other is told in two words. + +As soon as he was quite sure Margaret had her own, and was a rich +woman-- + +He disappeared. + + + +CHAPTER XC + +It was the day after that terrible scene: the little house in the +Hoog Straet was like a grave, and none more listless and dejected than +Catherine, so busy and sprightly by nature, After dinner, her eyes red +with weeping, she went to the convent to try and soften Gerard, and lay +the first stone at least of a reconciliation. + +It was some time before she could make the porter understand whom she +was seeking. Eventually she learned he had left late last night, and was +not expected back, She went sighing with the news to Margaret. She found +her sitting idle, like one with whom life had lost its savour; she had +her boy clasped so tight in her arms, as if he was all she had left, and +she feared some one would take him too. Catherine begged her to come to +the Hoog Straet. + +“What for?” sighed Margaret. “You cannot but say to yourselves, she is +the cause of all.” + +“Nay, nay,” said Catherine, “we are not so ill-hearted, and Eli is so +fond on you; you will maybe soften him.” + +“Oh, if you think I can do any good, I'll come,” said Margaret, with a +weary sigh. + +They found Eli and a carpenter putting up another name in place of +Cornelis and Sybrandt's; and what should that name be but Margaret +Brandt's. + +With all her affection for Margaret, this went through poor Catherine +like a knife. “The bane of one is another's meat,” said she. + +“Can he make me spend the money unjustly?” replied Margaret coldly. + +“You are a good soul,” said Catherine. “Ay, so best, sith he is the +strongest.” + +The next day Giles dropped in, and Catherine told the story all in +favour of the black sheep, and invited his pity for them, anathematized +by their brother, and turned on the wide world by their father. But +Giles's prejudices ran the other way; he heard her out, and told her +bluntly the knaves had got off cheap; they deserved to be hanged at +Margaret's door into the bargain, and dismissing them with contempt, +crowed with delight at the return of his favourite. “I'll show him,” + said he, “what 'tis to have a brother at court with a heart to serve a +friend, and a head to point the way.” + +“Bless thee, Giles,” murmured Margaret softly. + +“Thou wast ever his stanch friend, dear Giles,” said little Kate; “but +alack, I know not what thou canst do for him now.” + +Giles had left them, and all was sad and silent again, when a +well-dressed man opened the door softly, and asked was Margaret Brandt +here. + +“D'ye hear, lass? You are wanted,” said Catherine briskly. In her the +Gossip was indestructible. + +“Well, mother,” said Margaret listlessly, “and here I am.” + +A shuffling of feet was heard at the door, and a colourless, feeble old +man was assisted into the room. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. At +sight of him Catherine shrieked, and threw her apron over her head, and +Margaret shuddered violently, and turned her head swiftly away, not to +see him. + +A feeble voice issued from the strange visitor's lips, “Good people, a +dying man hath come to ask your forgiveness.” + +“Come to look on your work, you mean,” said Catherine, taking down her +apron and bursting out sobbing. “There, there, she is fainting; look to +her, Eli, quick.” + +“Nay,” said Margaret, in a feeble voice, “the sight of him gave me a +turn, that is all, Prithee, let him say his say, and go; for he is the +murderer of me and mine.” + +“Alas,” said Ghysbrecht, “I am too feeble to say it standing and no one +biddeth me sit down.” + +Eli, who had followed him into the house, interfered here, and said, +half sullenly, half apologetically, “Well, burgomaster, 'tis not our +wont to leave a visitor standing whiles we sit. But man, man, you have +wrought us too much ill.” And the honest fellow's voice began to shake +with anger he fought hard to contain, because it was his own house. + +Then Ghysbrecht found an advocate in one who seldom spoke in vain in +that family. + +It was little Kate. “Father, mother,” said she, “my duty to you, but +this is not well. Death squares all accounts, And see you not death in +his face? I shall not live long, good friends; and his time is shorter +than mine.” + +Eli made haste and set a chair for their dying enemy with his own hands. +Ghysbrecht's attendants put him into it. “Go fetch the boxes,” said he. +They brought in two boxes, and then retired, leaving their master alone +in the family he had so cruelly injured. + +Every eye was now bent on him, except Margaret's. He undid the boxes +with unsteady fingers, and brought out of one the title-deeds of a +property at Tergou. “This land and these houses belonged to Floris +Brandt, and do belong to thee of right, his granddaughter. These I did +usurp for a debt long since defrayed with interest. These I now restore +their rightful owner with penitent tears. In this other box are three +hundred and forty golden angels, being the rent and fines I have +received from that land more than Floris Brandt's debt to me, I have +kept it compt, still meaning to be just one day; but Avarice withheld +me, pray, good people, against temptation! I was not born dishonest: yet +you see.” + +“Well, to be sure!” cried Catherine. “And you the burgomaster! Hast +whipt good store of thieves in thy day. However,” said she, on second +thoughts, “'tis better late than never, What, Margaret, art deaf? The +good man hath brought thee back thine own. Art a rich woman. Alack, what +a mountain o' gold!” + +“Bid him keep land and gold, and give me back my Gerard, that he stole +from me with his treason,” said Margaret, with her head still averted. + +“Alas!” said Ghysbrecht, “would I could, what I can I have done. Is it +nought? It cost me a sore struggle; and I rose from my last bed to do it +myself, lest some mischance should come between her and her rights.” + +“Old man,” said Margaret, “since thou, whose idol is pelf, hast done +this, God and the saints will, as I hope, forgive thee. As for me, I am +neither saint nor angel, but only a poor woman, whose heart thou hast +broken, Speak to him, Kate, for I am like the dead.” + +Kate meditated a little while; and then her soft silvery voice fell +like a soothing melody upon the air, “My poor sister hath a sorrow that +riches cannot heal, Give her time, Ghysbrecht; 'tis not in nature she +should forgive thee all. Her boy is fatherless; and she is neither maid, +wife, nor widow; and the blow fell but two days syne, that laid her +heart a bleeding.” + +A single heavy sob from Margaret was the comment to these words. + +“Therefore, give her time! And ere thou diest, she will forgive thee +all, ay, even to pleasure me, that haply shall not be long behind thee, +Ghysbrecht. Meantime, we, whose wounds be sore, but not so deep as hers, +do pardon thee, a penitent and a dying man; and I, for one, will pray +for thee from this hour; go in peace!” + +Their little oracle had spoken; it was enough. Eli even invited him +to break a manchet and drink a stoup of wine to give him heart for his +journey. + +But Ghysbrecht declined, and said what he had done was a cordial to him, +“Man seeth but a little way before him, neighbour. This land I clung +so to it was a bed of nettles to me all the time. 'Tis gone; and I feel +happier and livelier like for the loss on't.” + +He called his men, and they lifted him into the litter. + +When he was gone Catherine gloated over the money. She had never seen +so much together, and was almost angry with Margaret, for “sitting out +there like an image.” And she dilated on the advantages of money. + +And she teased Margaret till at last she prevailed on her to come and +look at it. + +“Better let her be, mother,” said Kate, “How can she relish gold, with a +heart in her bosom liker lead?” But Catherine persisted. + +The result was, Margaret looked down at all her wealth with wondering +eyes. Then suddenly wrung her hands and cried with piercing anguish, +“TOO LATE! TOO LATE!” And shook off her leaden despondency, only to go +into strong hysterics over the wealth that came too late to be shared +with him she loved. + +A little of this gold, a portion of this land, a year or two ago, when +it was as much her own as now; and Gerard would have never left her side +for Italy or any other place. + +“Too late! Too late!” + + + +CHAPTER XCI + +Not many days after this came the news that Margaret Van Eyck was dead +and buried. By a will she had made a year before, she left all her +property, after her funeral expenses and certain presents to Reicht +Heynes, to her dear daughter Margaret Brandt, requesting her to keep +Reicht as long as unmarried. + +By this will Margaret inherited a furnished house, and pictures and +sketches that in the present day would be a fortune: among the pictures +was one she valued more than a gallery of others. + +It represented “A Betrothal.” The solemnity of the ceremony was marked +in the grave face of the man, and the demure complacency of the woman. +She was painted almost entirely by Margaret Van Eyck, but the rest +of the picture by Jan. The accessories were exquisitely finished, and +remain a marvel of skill to this day. Margaret Brandt sent word to +Reicht to stay in the house till such time as she could find the heart +to put foot in it, and miss the face and voice that used to meet her +there; and to take special care of the picture “in the little cubboord:” + meaning the diptych. + +The next thing was, Luke Peterson came home, and heard that Gerard was a +monk. + +He was like to go mad with joy. He came to Margaret, and said--“heed, +mistress. If he cannot marry you I can.” + +“You?” said Margaret. “Why, I have seen him.” + +“But he is a friar.” + +“He was my husband, and my boy's father long ere he was a friar. And I +have seen him, I've seen him.” + +Luke was thoroughly puzzled. “I'll tell you what,” said he; “I have +got a cousin a lawyer. I'll go and ask him whether you are married or +single.” + +“Nay, I shall ask my own heart, not a lawyer. So that is your regard for +me; to go making me the town talk, oh, fie!” + +“That is done already without a word from me.” + +“But not by such as seek my respect. And if you do it, never come nigh +me again.” + +“Ay,” said Luke, with a sigh, “you are like a dove to all the rest; but +you are a hardhearted tyrant to me.” + +“'Tis your own fault, dear Luke, for wooing me. That is what lets me +from being as kind to you as I desire, Luke, my bonny lad, listen to +me. I am rich now; I can make my friends happy, though not myself. Look +round the street, look round the parish. There is many a quean in it +fairer than I twice told, and not spoiled with weeping. Look high; and +take your choice. Speak you to the lass herself, and I'll speak to the +mother; they shall not say thee nay; take my word for't.” + +“I see what ye mean,” said Luke, turning very red. “But if I can't have +your liking, I will none o' your money. I was your servant when you were +poor as I; and poorer. No; if you would liever be a friar's leman than +an honest man's wife, you are not the woman I took you for: so part we +withouten malice: seek you your comfort on yon road, where never a she +did find it yet, and for me, I'll live and die a bachelor. Good even, +mistress.” + +“Farewell, dear Luke; and God forgive you for saying that to me.” + +For some days Margaret dreaded, almost as much as she desired, the +coming interview with Gerard. She said to herself, “I wonder not he +keeps away a while; for so should I.” However, he would hear he was +a father; and the desire to see their boy would overcome everything. +“And,” said the poor girl to herself, “if so be that meeting does not +kill me, I feel I shall be better after it than I am now.” + +But when day after day went by, and he was not heard of, a freezing +suspicion began to crawl and creep towards her mind. What if his absence +was intentional? What if he had gone to some cold-blooded monks his +fellows, and they had told him never to see her more? The convent had +ere this shown itself as merciless to true lovers as the grave itself. + +At this thought the very life seemed to die out of her. + +And now for the first time deep indignation mingled at times with her +grief and apprehension. “Can he have ever loved me? To run from me and +his boy without a word! Why, this poor Luke thinks more of me than he +does.” + +While her mind was in this state, Giles came roaring. “I've hit the +clout; our Gerard is Vicar of Gouda.” + + +A very brief sketch of the dwarf's court life will suffice to prepare +the reader for his own account of this feat. Some months before he went +to court his intelligence had budded. He himself dated the change from +a certain 8th of June, when, swinging by one hand along with the week's +washing on a tight rope in the drying ground, something went crack +inside his head; and lo! intellectual powers unchained. At court his +shrewdness and bluntness of speech, coupled with his gigantic voice and +his small stature, made him a Power: without the last item I fear they +would have conducted him to that unpopular gymnasium, the gallows. The +young Duchess of Burgundy, and Marie the heiress apparent, both petted +him, as great ladies have petted dwarfs in all ages; and the court poet +melted butter by the six-foot rule, and poured enough of it down his +back to stew Goliah in. He even amplified, versified, and enfeebled +certain rough and ready sentences dictated by Giles. + +The centipedal prolixity that resulted went to Eli by letter, thus +entitled-- + + “The high and puissant Princess Marie + of Bourgogne her lytel jantilman hys + complaynt of y' Coort, and + praise of a rusticall lyfe, versificated, and empapyred + by me the lytel jantilman's right lovynge + and obsequious servitor, etc.” + +But the dwarf reached his climax by a happy mixture of mind and muscle; +thus: + +The day before a grand court joust he challenged the Duke's giant to +a trial of strength. This challenge made the gravest grin, and aroused +expectation. + +Giles had a lofty pole planted ready, and at the appointed hour went up +it like a squirrel, and by strength of arm made a right angle with his +body, and so remained: then slid down so quickly, that the high and +puissant princess squeaked, and hid her face in her hands, not to see +the demise of her pocket-Hercules. + +The giant effected only about ten feet, then looked ruefully up and +ruefully down, and descended, bathed in perspiration to argue the +matter. + +“It was not the dwarf's greater strength, but his smaller body.” + +The spectators received this excuse with loud derision. There was the +fact, the dwarf was great at mounting a pole: the giant only great at +excuses. In short Giles had gauged their intellects: with his own body +no doubt. + +“Come,” said he, “an ye go to that, I'll wrestle ye, my lad, if so be +you will let me blindfold your eyne.” + +The giant, smarting under defeat, and thinking he could surely recover +it by this means, readily consented. + +“Madam,” said Giles, “see you yon blind Samson? At a signal from me he +shall make me a low obeisance, and unbonnet to me.” + +“How may that be, being blinded?” inquired a maid of honour. + +“I'll wager on Giles for one,” said the princess. + +“That is my affair.” + +When several wagers were laid pro and con, Giles hit the giant in the +bread-basket. He went double (the obeisance), and his bonnet fell off. + +The company yelled with delight at this delicate stroke of wit, and +Giles took to his heels. The giant followed as soon as he could recover +his breath and tear off his bandage. But it was too late; Giles had +prepared a little door in the wall, through which he could pass, but not +a giant, and had coloured it so artfully, it looked like a wall; this +door he tore open, and went headlong through, leaving no vestige but +this posy, written very large upon the reverse of his trick door-- + + Long limbs, big body, panting wit + By wee and wise is bet and bit + +After this Giles became a Force. + +He shall now speak for himself. + +Finding Margaret unable to believe the good news, and sceptical as to +the affairs of Holy Church being administered by dwarfs, he narrated as +follows: + +“When the princess sent for me to her bedroom as of custom, to keep her +out of languor, I came not mirthful nor full of country dicts, as is my +wont, but dull as lead. + +“'Why, what aileth thee?' quo' she. 'Art sick?' 'At heart,' quo' I. +'Alas, he is in love,' quo' she. Whereat five brazen hussies, which they +call them maids of honour, did giggle loud. 'Not so mad as that,' said +I, 'seeing what I see at court of women folk.' + +“'There, ladies,' quo' the princess, 'best let him a be. 'Tis a liberal +mannikin, and still giveth more than he taketh of saucy words.' + +“'In all sadness,' quo' she, 'what is the matter?' + +“I told her I was meditating, and what perplexed me was, that other folk +could now and then keep their word, but princes never. + +“'Heyday,' says she, 'thy shafts fly high this morn.' I told her, 'Ay, +for they hit the Truth.' + +“She said I was as keen as keen; but it became not me to put riddles to +her, nor her to answer them. 'Stand aloof a bit, mesdames,' said she, +'and thou speak withouten fear;' for she saw I was in sad earnest. + +“I began to quake a bit; for mind ye, she can doff freedom and don +dignity quicker than she can slip out of her dressing-gown into kirtle +of state. But I made my voice so soft as honey (wherefore smilest?), and +I said 'Madam, one evening, a matter of five years agone, as ye sat +with your mother, the Countess of Charolois, who is now in heaven, worse +luck, you wi' your lute, and she wi' her tapestry, or the like, do ye +mind there came came into ye a fair youth with a letter from a painter +body, one Margaret Van Eyck?” + +“She said she thought she did, 'Was it not a tall youth, exceeding +comely?' + +“'Ay, madam,' said I; 'he was my brother.' + +“'Your brother?' said she, and did eye me like all over, (What dost +smile at?”) + +“So I told her all that passed between her and Gerard, and how she was +for giving him a bishopric; but the good countess said, 'Gently, Marie! +he is too young; and with that they did both promise him a living: +'Yet,' said I, 'he hath been a priest a long while, and no living. Hence +my bile.' + +“'Alas!' said she, ''tis not by my good will; for all this thou hast said +is sooth, and more. I do remember my dear mother said to me, “See thou +to it if I be not here.”' So then she cried out, 'Ay, dear mother, no +word of thine shall ever fall to the ground.' + +“I, seeing her so ripe, said quickly, 'Madam, the Vicar of Gouda died +last week.' (For when ye seek favours of the great, behoves ye know the +very thing ye aim at.) + +“'Then thy brother is vicar of Gouda,' quo' she, 'so sure as I am +heiress of Burgundy and the Netherlands. Nay, thank me not, good Giles,' +quo' she, 'but my good mother. And I do thank thee for giving of me +somewhat to do for her memory. And doesn't she fall a weeping for her +mother? And doesn't that set me off a-snivelling for my good brother +that I love so dear, and to think that a poor little elf like me could +yet speak in the ear of princes, and make my beautiful brother vicar of +Gouda; eh, lass, it is a bonny place, and a bonny manse, and hawthorn in +every bush at spring-tide, and dog-roses and eglantine in every summer +hedge. I know what the poor fool affects, leave that to me.” + +The dwarf began his narrative strutting to and fro before Margaret, but +he ended it in her arms; for she could not contain herself, but caught +him, and embraced him warmly. “Oh, Giles,” she said, blushing, and +kissing him, “I cannot keep my hands off thee, thy body it is so little, +and thy heart so great. Thou art his true friend. Bless thee! bless +thee! bless thee! Now we shall see him again. We have not set eyes on +him since that terrible day.” + +“Gramercy, but that is strange,” said Giles. “Maybe he is ashamed of +having cursed those two vagabones, being our own flesh and blood, worse +luck.” + +“Think you that is why he hides?” said Margaret eagerly; + +“Ay, if he is hiding at all. However, I'll cry him by bellman. + +“Nay, that might much offend him.” + +“What care I? Is Gouda to go vicarless and the manse in nettles?” + +And to Margaret's secret satisfaction, Giles had the new vicar cried in +Rotterdam and the neighbouring towns. He easily persuaded Margaret that +in a day or two Gerard would be sure to hear, and come to his benefice. +She went to look at his manse, and thought how comfortable it might be +made for him, and how dearly she should love to do it. + +But the days rolled on, and Gerard came neither to Rotterdam nor Gouda. +Giles was mortified, Margaret indignant, and very wretched. She said to +herself, “Thinking me dead, he comes home, and now, because I am alive, +he goes back to Italy, for that is where he has gone.” + +Joan advised her to consult the hermit of Gouda. + +“Why, sure he is dead by this time.” + +“Yon one, belike. But the cave is never long void; Gouda ne'er wants a +hermit.” + +But Margaret declined to go again to Gouda on such an errand, “What can +he know, shut up in a cave? less than I, belike. Gerard hath gone back +t' Italy. He hates me for not being dead.” + +Presently a Tergovian came in with a word from Catherine that Ghysbrecht +Van Swieten had seen Gerard later than any one else. On this Margaret +determined to go and see the house and goods that had been left her, and +take Reicht Heynes home to Rotterdam. And as may be supposed, her steps +took her first to Ghysbrecht's house. She found him in his garden, +seated in a chair with wheels. He greeted her with a feeble voice, but +cordially; and when she asked him whether it was true he had seen +Gerard since the fifth of August, he replied, “Gerard no more, but Friar +Clement. Ay, I saw him; and blessed be the day he entered my house.” + +He then related in his own words his interview with Clement. + +He told her, moreover, that the friar had afterwards acknowledged he +came to Tergou with the missing deed in his bosom on purpose to make him +disgorge her land; but that finding him disposed towards penitence, he +had gone to work the other way. + +“Was not this a saint; who came to right thee, but must needs save his +enemy's soul in the doing it?” + +To her question, whether he had recognized him, he said, “I ne'er +suspected such a thing. 'Twas only when he had been three days with me +that he revealed himself, Listen while I speak my shame and his praise. + +“I said to him, 'The land is gone home, and my stomach feels lighter; +but there is another fault that clingeth to me still;' then told I him +of the letter I had writ at request of his brethren, I whose place it +was to check them. Said I, 'Yon letter was writ to part two lovers, and +the devil aiding, it hath done the foul work. Land and houses I can +give back, but yon mischief is done for ever.' 'Nay,' quoth he, 'not for +ever, but for life. Repent it then while thou livest.' 'I shall,' said +I, 'but how can God forgive it? I would not,' said I, 'were I He.' + +“'Yet will He certainly forgive it,' quoth he; 'for He is ten times more +forgiving than I am, and I forgive thee.' I stared at him; and then he +said softly, but quavering like, 'Ghysbrecht, look at me closer. I am +Gerard, the son of Eli.' And I looked, and looked, and at last, lo! it +was Gerard. Verily I had fallen at his feet with shame and contrition, +but he would not suffer me. 'That became not mine years and his, for a +particular fault. I say not I forgive thee without a struggle,' said he, +'not being a saint. But these three days thou hast spent in penitence, +I have worn under thy roof in prayer; and I do forgive thee.' Those were +his very words.” + +Margaret's tears began to flow, for it was in a broken and contrite +voice the old man told her this unexpected trait in her Gerard. He +continued, “And even with that he bade me farewell. + +“'My work here is done now,' said he. I had not the heart to stay him; +for let him forgive me ever so, the sight of me must be wormwood to +him. He left me in peace, and may a dying man's blessing wait on him, go +where he will. Oh, girl, when I think of his wrongs, and thine, and how +he hath avenged himself by saving this stained soul of mine, my heart is +broken with remorse, and these old eyes shed tears by night and day.” + +“Ghysbrecht,” said Margaret, weeping, “since he hath forgiven thee, I +forgive thee too: what is done, is done; and thou hast let me know this +day that which I had walked the world to hear. But oh, burgomaster, thou +art an understanding man, now help a poor woman, which hath forgiven +thee her misery.” + +She then told him all that had befallen, “And,” said she, “they will not +keep the living for him for ever. He bids fair to lose that, as well as +break all our hearts.” + +“Call my servant,” cried the burgomaster, with sudden vigour. + +He sent him for a table and writing materials, and dictated letters to +the burgomasters in all the principal towns in Holland, and one to a +Prussian authority, his friend. His clerk and Margaret wrote them, +and he signed them. “There,” said he, “the matter shall be despatched +throughout Holland by trusty couriers, and as far as Basle in +Switzerland; and fear not, but we will soon have the vicar of Gouda to +his village.” + +She went home animated with fresh hopes, and accusing herself of +ingratitude to Gerard. “I value my wealth now,” said she. + +She also made a resolution never to blame his conduct till she should +hear from his own lips his reason. + +Not long after her return from Tergou a fresh disaster befell. +Catherine, I must premise, had secret interviews with the black sheep, +the very day after they were expelled; and Cornelis followed her to +Tergou, and lived there on secret contributions, but Sybrandt chose to +remain in Rotterdam. Ere Catherine left, she asked Margaret to lend her +two gold angels. “For,” said she, “all mine are spent.” Margaret was +delighted to lend them or give them; but the words were scarce out of +her mouth ere she caught a look of regret and distress on Kate's face, +and she saw directly whither her money was going. She gave Catherine the +money, and went and shut herself up with her boy. Now this money was to +last Sybrandt till his mother could make some good excuse for visiting +Rotterdam again, and then she would bring the idle dog some of her own +industrious savings. + +But Sybrandt, having gold in his pocket, thought it inexhaustible: and +being now under no shadow of restraint, led the life of a complete sot; +until one afternoon, in a drunken frolic, he climbed on the roof of the +stable at the inn he was carousing in, and proceeded to walk along it, a +feat he had performed many times when sober. But now his unsteady brain +made his legs unsteady, and he rolled down the roof and fell with a +loud thwack on to an horizontal paling, where he hung a moment in a +semicircle; then toppled over and lay silent on the ground, amidst roars +of laughter from his boon companions. When they came to pick him up he +could not stand; but fell down giggling at each attempt. + +On this they went staggering and roaring down the street with him, +and carried him at great risk of another fall to the shop in the Hoog +Straet. For he had babbled his own shame all over the place. + +As soon as he saw Margaret he hiccupped out, “Here is the doctor that +cures all hurts, a bonny lass.” He also bade her observe he bore her no +malice, for he was paying her a visit sore against his will. “Wherefore, +prithee send away these drunkards, and let you and me have t'other +glass, to drown all unkindness.” + +All this time Margaret was pale and red by turns at sight of her enemy +and at his insolence; but one of the men whispered what had happened, +and a streaky something in Sybrandt's face arrested her attention. + +“And he cannot stand up, say you?” + +“A couldn't just now. Try, comrade! Be a man now!” + +“I am a better man than thou,” roared Sybrandt. “I'll stand up and fight +ye all for a crown.” + +He started to his feet, and instantly rolled into his attendant's arms +with a piteous groan. He then began to curse his boon companions, and +declare they had stolen away his legs. “He could feel nothing below the +waist.” + +“Alas, poor wretch,” said Margaret. She turned very gravely to the men, +and said, “Leave him here. And if you have brought him to this, go on +your knees, for you have spoiled him for life. He will never walk again; +his back is broken.” + +The drunken man caught these words, and the foolish look of intoxication +fled, and a glare of anguish took its place. “The curse,” he groaned; +“the curse!” + +Margaret and Reicht Heynes carried him carefully, and laid him on the +softest bed. + +“I must do as he would do,” whispered Margaret. “He was kind to +Ghysbrecht.” + +Her opinion was verified, Sybrandt's spine was fatally injured; and +he lay groaning and helpless, fed and tended by her he had so deeply +injured. + +The news was sent to Tergou, and Catherine came over. + +It was a terrible blow to her. Moreover, she accused herself as the +cause. “Oh, false wife; oh, weak mother,” she cried, “I am rightly +punished for my treason to my poor Eli.” + +She sat for hours at a time by his bedside rocking herself in silence, +and was never quite herself again; and the first grey hairs began to +come in her poor head from that hour. + +As for Sybrandt, all his cry was now for Gerard, He used to whine +to Margaret like a suffering hound, “Oh, sweet Margaret, oh, bonny +Margaret, for our Lady's sake find Gerard, and bid him take his curse +off me. Thou art gentle, thou art good; thou wilt entreat for me, and he +will refuse thee nought.” + +Catherine shared his belief that Gerard could cure him, and joined her +entreaties to his, Margaret hardly needed this. The burgomaster and his +agents having failed, she employed her own, and spent money like water. +And among these agents poor Luke enrolled himself. She met him one day +looking very thin, and spoke to him compassionately. On this he began +to blubber, and say he was more miserable than ever; he would like to be +good friends again upon almost any terms. + +“Dear heart,” said Margaret sorrowfully, “why can you not say to +yourself, now I am her little brother, and she is my old, married +sister, worn down with care? Say so, and I will indulge thee, and pet +thee, and make thee happier than a prince.” + +“Well, I will,” said Luke savagely, “sooner than keep away from you +altogether. But above all give me something to do. Perchance I may have +better luck this time.” + +“Get me my marriage lines,” said Margaret, turning sad and gloomy in a +moment. + +“That is as much as to say, get me him! for where they are, he is.” + +“Not so. He may refuse to come nigh me; but certes he will not deny a +poor woman, who loved him once, her lines of betrothal. How can she go +without them into any honest man's house?” + +“I'll get them you if they are in Holland,” said Luke. + +“They are as like to be in Rome,” replied Margaret. + +“Let us begin with Holland,” observed Luke prudently. + +The slave of love was furnished with money by his soft tyrant, and +wandered hither and thither, Coopering, and carpentering, and looking +for Gerard. “I can't be worse if I find the vagabone,” said he, “and I +may be a hantle better.” + +The months rolled on, and Sybrandt improved in spirit, but not in body; +he was Margaret's pensioner for life; and a long-expected sorrow fell +upon poor Catherine, and left her still more bowed down; and she lost +her fine hearty bustling way, and never went about the house singing +now; and her nerves were shaken, and she lived in dread of some terrible +misfortune falling on Cornelis. The curse was laid on him as well as +Sybrandt. She prayed Eli, if she had been a faithful partner all these +years, to take Cornelis into his house again, and let her live awhile at +Rotterdam. + +“I have good daughters here,” said she; “but Margaret is so tender, +and thoughtful, and the little Gerard, he is my joy; he grows liker his +father every day, and his prattle cheers my heavy heart; and I do love +children.” + +And Eli, sturdy but kindly, consented sorrowfully. + +And the people of Gouda petitioned the duke for a vicar, a real vicar. +“Ours cometh never nigh us,” said they, “this six months past; our +children they die unchristened, and our folk unburied, except by some +chance comer.” Giles' influence baffled this just complaint once; but a +second petition was prepared, and he gave Margaret little hope that the +present position could be maintained a single day. + +So then Margaret went sorrowfully to the pretty manse to see it for the +last time, ere it should pass for ever into stranger's hands. + +“I think he would have been happy here,” she said, and turned heart-sick +away. + +On their return, Reicht Heynes proposed to her to go and consult the +hermit. + +“What,” said Margaret, “Joan has been at you. She is the one for +hermits. I'll go, if 'tis but to show thee they know no more than we +do.” And they went to the cave. + +It was an excavation partly natural, partly artificial, in a bank of +rock overgrown by brambles. There was a rough stone door on hinges, and +a little window high up, and two apertures, through one of which the +people announced their gifts to the hermit, and put questions of all +sorts to him; and when he chose to answer, his voice came dissonant and +monstrous out at another small aperture. + +On the face of the rock this line was cut-- + +Felix qui in Domino nixus ab orbe fugit. + +Margaret observed to her companion that this was new since she was here +last. + +“Ay,” said Reicht, “like enough;” and looked up at it with awe. Writing +even on paper she thought no trifle; but on rock! She whispered, “Tis +a far holier hermit than the last; he used to come in the town now and +then, but this one ne'er shows his face to mortal man.” + +“And that is holiness?” + +“Ay, sure.” + +“Then what a saint a dormouse must be?” + +“Out, fie, mistress. Would ye even a beast to a man?” + +“Come, Reicht,” said Margaret, “my poor father taught me overmuch, So I +will e'en sit here, and look at the manse once more. Go thou forward and +question thy solitary, and tell me whether ye get nought or nonsense +out of him, for 'twill be one.” + +As Reicht drew near the cave a number of birds flew out of it., She gave +a little scream, and pointed to the cave to show Margaret they had come +thence, On this Margaret felt sure there was no human being in the cave, +and gave the matter no further attention, She fell into a deep reverie +while looking at the little manse. + +She was startled from it by Reicht's hand upon her shoulder, and a faint +voice saying, “Let us go home.” + +“You got no answer at all, Reicht,” said Margaret calmly. + +“No, Margaret,” said Reicht despondently. And they returned home. + +Perhaps after all Margaret had nourished some faint secret hope in her +heart, though her reason had rejected it, for she certainly went home +more dejectedly. + +Just as they entered Rotterdam, Reicht said, “Stay! Oh, Margaret, I am +ill at deceit; but 'tis death to utter ill news to thee; I love thee so +dear.” + +“Speak out, sweetheart,” said Margaret. “I have gone through so much, I +am almost past feeling any fresh trouble.” + +“Margaret, the hermit did speak to me.” + +“What, a hermit there? among all those birds.” + +“Ay; and doth not that show him a holy man?” + +“I' God's name, what said he to thee, Reicht?” + +“Alas! Margaret, I told him thy story, and I prayed him for our Lady's +sake tell me where thy Gerard is, And I waited long for an answer, and +presently a voice came like a trumpet: 'Pray for the soul of Gerard the +son of Eli!” + +“Ah!” + +“Oh, woe is me that I have this to tell thee, sweet Margaret! bethink +thee thou hast thy boy to live for yet.” + +“Let me get home,” said Margaret faintly. + +Passing down the Brede Kirk Straet they saw Joan at the door. Reicht +said to her, “Eh, woman, she has been to your hermit, and heard no good +news.” + +“Come in,” said Joan, eager for a gossip. + +Margaret would not go in; but she sat down disconsolate on the lowest +step but one of the little external staircase that led into Joan's +house, and let the other two gossip their fill at the top of it. + +“Oh,” said Joan, “what yon hermit says is sure to be sooth, He is that +holy, I am told, that the very birds consort with him.” + +“What does that prove?” said Margaret deprecatingly. “I have seen my +Gerard tame the birds in winter till they would eat from his hand.” + +A look of pity at this parallel passed between the other two, but they +were both too fond of her to say what they thought. + +Joan proceeded to relate all the marvellous tales she had heard of this +hermit's sanctity; how he never came out but at night, and prayed among +the wolves, and they never molested him; and now he bade the people not +bring him so much food to pamper his body, but to bring him candles. + +“The candles are to burn before his saint,” whispered Reicht solemnly. + +“Ay, lass; and to read his holy books wi'. A neighbour o' mine saw his +hand come out, and the birds sat thereon and pecked crumbs. She went +for to kiss it, but the holy man whippit it away in a trice. They can't +abide a woman to touch 'en, or even look at 'em, saints can't.” + +“What like was his hand, wife? Did you ask her?” + +“What is my tongue for, else? Why, dear heart, all one as yourn; by the +same token a had a thumb and four fingers.” + +“Look ye there now.” + +“But a deal whiter nor yourn and mine.” + +“Ay, ay.” + +“And main skinny.” + +“Alas.” + +“What could ye expect? Why, a live upon air, and prayer, and candles.” + +“Ah, well,” continued Joan; “poor thing, I whiles think 'tis best for +her to know the worst. And now she hath gotten a voice from heaven, Or +almost as good, and behoves her pray for his soul. One thing, she is not +so poor now as she was; and never fell riches to a better hand; and she +is only come into her own for that matter, so she can pay the priest to +say masses for him, and that is a great comfort.” + +In the midst of their gossip, Margaret, in whose ears it was all +buzzing, though she seemed lost in thought, got softly up, and crept +away with her eyes on the ground, and her brows bent. + +“She hath forgotten I am with her,” said Reicht Heynes ruefully. + +She had her gossip out with Joan, and then went home. + +She found Margaret seated cutting out a pelisse of grey cloth, and a +cape to match. Little Gerard was standing at her side, inside her left +arm, eyeing the work, and making it more difficult by wriggling about, +and fingering the arm with which she held the cloth steady, to all which +she submitted with imperturbable patience and complacency, Fancy a male +workman so entangled, impeded, worried! + +“Ot's that, mammy?” + +“A pelisse, my pet.” + +“Ot's a p'lisse?” + +“A great frock. And this is the cape to't.” + +“Ot's it for?” + +“To keep his body from the cold; and the cape is for his shoulders, or +to go over his head like the country folk. 'Tis for a hermit.” + +“Ot's a 'ermit?” + +“A holy man that lives in a cave all by himself.” + +“In de dark?” + +“Ay, whiles.” + +“Oh.” + +In the morning Reicht was sent to the hermit with the pelisse, and a +pound of thick candles. + +As she was going out of the door Margaret said to her, “Said you whose +son Gerard was?” + +“Nay, not I.” + +“Think, girl! How could he call him Gerard, son of Eli, if you had not +told him?” + +Reicht persisted she had never mentioned him but as plain Gerard. But +Margaret told her flatly she did not believe her; at which Reicht was +affronted, and went out with a little toss of the head. However, she +determined to question the hermit again, and did not doubt he would be +more liberal in his communication when he saw his nice new pelisse and +the candles. + +She had not been gone long when Giles came in with ill news. + +The living of Gouda would be kept vacant no longer. + +Margaret was greatly distressed at this. + +“Oh, Giles,” said she, “ask for another month. They will give thee +another month, maybe.” + +He returned in an hour to tell her he could not get a month. + +“They have given me a week,” said he. “And what is a week?” + +“Drowning bodies catch at strawen,” was her reply. “A week? a little +week?” + +Reicht came back from her errand out of spirits. Her oracle had declined +all further communication. So at least its obstinate silence might +fairly be interpreted. + +The next day Margaret put Reicht in charge of the shop, and disappeared +all day. So the next day, and so the next. Nor would she tell any one +where she had been. Perhaps she was ashamed. The fact is, she spent all +those days on one little spot of ground. When they thought her dreaming, +she was applying to every word that fell from Joan and Reicht the whole +powers of a far acuter mind than either of them possessed. + +She went to work on a scale that never occurred to either of them. She +was determined to see the hermit, and question him face to face, not +through a wall. She found that by making a circuit she could get above +the cave, and look down without being seen by the solitary. But when she +came to do it, she found an impenetrable mass of brambles. After tearing +her clothes, and her hands and feet, so that she was soon covered with +blood, the resolute, patient girl took out her scissors and steadily +snipped and cut till she made a narrow path through the enemy. But so +slow was the work that she had to leave it half done. The next day she +had her scissors fresh ground, and brought a sharp knife as well, and +gently, silently, cut her way to the roof of the cave. There she made an +ambush of some of the cut brambles, so that the passers-by might not see +her, and couched with watchful eye till the hermit should come out. She +heard him move underneath her. But he never left his cell. She began to +think it was true that he only came out at night. + +The next day she came early and brought a jerkin she was making for +little Gerard, and there she sat all day, working, and watching with +dogged patience. + +At four o'clock the birds began to feed; and a great many of the smaller +kinds came fluttering round the cave, and one or two went in. But most +of them, taking a preliminary seat on the bushes, suddenly discovered +Margaret, and went off with an agitated flirt of their little wings. And +although they sailed about in the air, they would not enter the cave. +Presently, to encourage them, the hermit, all unconscious of the cause +of their tremors, put out a thin white hand with a few crumbs in it, +Margaret laid down her work softly, and gliding her body forward like a +snake, looked down at it from above; it was but a few feet from her. It +was as the woman described it, a thin, white hand. + +Presently the other hand came out with a piece of bread, and the two +hands together broke it and scattered the crumbs. + +But that other hand had hardly been out two seconds ere the violet eyes +that were watching above dilated; and the gentle bosom heaved, and the +whole frame quivered like a leaf in the wind. + +What her swift eye had seen I leave the reader to guess. She suppressed +the scream that rose to her lips, but the effort cost her dear. Soon the +left hand of the hermit began to swim indistinctly before her gloating +eyes; and with a deep sigh her head drooped, and she lay like a broken +lily. + +She was in a deep swoon, to which perhaps her long fast to-day and the +agitation and sleeplessness of many preceding days contributed. + +And there lay beauty, intelligence, and constancy, pale and silent, And +little that hermit guessed who was so near him. The little birds hopped +on her now, and one nearly entangled his little feet in her rich auburn +hair. + +She came back to her troubles. The sun was set. She was very cold, She +cried a little, but I think it was partly from the remains of physical +weakness. And then she went home, praying God and the saints to +enlighten her and teach her what to do for the best. + +When she got home she was pale and hysterical, and would say nothing in +answer to all their questions but her favourite word, “We are wading in +deep waters.” + +The night seemed to have done wonders for her. + +She came to Catherine, who was sitting sighing by the fireside, and +kissed her, and said-- + +“Mother, what would you like best in the world?” + +“Eh, dear,” replied Catherine despondently, “I know nought that would +make me smile now; I have parted from too many that were dear to me. +Gerard lost again as soon as found; Kate in heaven; and Sybrandt down +for life.” + +“Poor mother! Mother dear, Gouda manse is to be furnished, and cleaned, +and made ready all in a hurry, See, here be ten gold angels. Make them +go far, good mother; for I have ta'en over many already from my boy for +a set of useless loons that were aye going to find him for me.” + +Catherine and Reicht stared at her a moment in silence, and then out +burst a flood of questions, to none of which would she give a reply. +“Nay,” said she, “I have lain on my bed and thought, and thought, and +thought whiles you were all sleeping; and methinks I have got the clue +to all, I love you, dear mother; but I'll trust no woman's tongue. If I +fail this time, I'll have none to blame but Margaret Brandt.” + +A resolute woman is a very resolute thing. And there was a deep, dogged +determination in Margaret's voice and brow that at once convinced +Catherine it would be idle to put any more questions at that time, +She and Reicht lost themselves in conjectures; and Catherine whispered +Reicht, “Bide quiet; then 'twill leak out;” a shrewd piece of advice, +founded on general observation. + +Within an hour Catherine was on the road to Gouda in a cart, with two +stout girls to help her, and quite a siege artillery of mops, and pails, +and brushes, She came back with heightened colour, and something of the +old sparkle in her eye, and kissed Margaret with a silent warmth that +spoke volumes, and at five in the morning was off again to Gouda. + +That night as Reicht was in her first sleep a hand gently pressed +her shoulder, and she awoke, and was going to scream, “Whisht,” said +Margaret, and put her finger to her lips. + +She then whispered, “Rise softly, don thy habits, and come with me!” + +When she came down, Margaret begged her to loose Dragon and bring him +along. Now Dragon was a great mastiff, who had guarded Margaret Van Eyck +and Reicht, two lone women, for some years, and was devotedly attached +to the latter. + +Margaret and Reicht went out, with Dragon walking majestically behind +them. They came back long after midnight, and retired to rest. + +Catherine never knew. + +Margaret read her friends: she saw the sturdy, faithful Frisian could +hold her tongue, and Catherine could not. Yet I am not sure she would +have trusted even Reicht had her nerve equalled her spirit; but with +all her daring and resolution, she was a tender, timid woman, a little +afraid of the dark, very afraid of being alone in it, and desperately +afraid of wolves. Now Dragon could kill a wolf in a brace of shakes; but +then Dragon would not go with her, but only with Reicht; so altogether +she made one confidante. + +The next night they made another moonlight reconnaissance, and as I +think, with some result. For not the next night (it rained that night +and extinguished their courage), but the next after they took with them +a companion, the last in the world Reicht Heynes would have thought of; +yet she gave her warm approval as soon as she was told he was to go with +them. + +Imagine how these stealthy assailants trembled and panted when the +moment of action came; imagine, if you can, the tumult in Margaret's +breast, the thrilling hopes, chasing, and chased by sickening fears; +the strange and perhaps unparalleled mixture of tender familiarity and +distant awe with which a lovely and high-spirited, but tender, adoring +woman, wife in the eye of the Law, and no wife in the eye of the +Church, trembling, blushing, paling, glowing, shivering, stole at night, +noiseless as the dew, upon the hermit of Gouda. + +And the stars above seemed never so bright and calm. + + + +CHAPTER XCII + +Yes, the hermit of Gouda was the vicar of Gouda, and knew it not, so +absolute was his seclusion. + +My reader is aware that the moment the frenzy of his passion passed, he +was seized with remorse for having been betrayed into it. But perhaps +only those who have risen as high in religious spirit as he had, and +suddenly fallen, can realize the terror at himself that took possession +of him. He felt like one whom self-confidence had betrayed to the very +edge of a precipice. + +“Ah, good Jerome,” he cried, “how much better you knew me than I knew +myself! How bitter yet wholesome was your admonition!” + +Accustomed to search his own heart, he saw at once that the true cause +of his fury was Margaret. “I love her then better than God,” said he +despairingly; “better than the Church, From such a love what can spring +to me, or to her?” He shuddered at the thought. “Let the strong battle +temptation; 'tis for the weak to flee. And who is weaker than I have +shown myself? What is my penitence, my religion? A pack of cards built +by degrees into a fair-seeming structure; and lo! one breath of earthly +love, and it lies in the dust, I must begin again, and on a surer +foundation.” He resolved to leave Holland at once, and spend years of +his life in some distant convent before returning to it. By that time +the temptations of earthly passion would be doubly baffled; and older +and a better monk, he should be more master of his earthly affections, +and Margaret, seeing herself abandoned, would marry, and love another, +The very anguish this last thought cost him showed the self-searcher and +self-denier that he was on the path of religious duty. + +But in leaving her for his immortal good and hers, he was not to +neglect her temporal weal. Indeed, the sweet thought, he could make her +comfortable for life, and rich in this world's goods, which she was not +bound to despise, sustained him in the bitter struggle it cost him to +turn his back on her without one kind word or look, “Oh, what will she +think of me?” he groaned. “Shall I not seem to her of all creatures the +most heartless, inhuman? but so best; ay, better she should hate me, +miserable that I am, Heaven is merciful, and giveth my broken heart this +comfort; I can make that villain restore her own, and she shall never +lose another true lover by poverty. Another? Ah me! ah me! God and the +saints to mine aid!” + +How he fared on this errand has been related. But first, as you may +perhaps remember, he went at night to shrive the hermit of Gouda. He +found him dying, and never left him till he had closed his eyes and +buried him beneath the floor of the little oratory attached to his cell. +It was the peaceful end of a stormy life. The hermit had been a soldier, +and even now carried a steel corselet next his skin, saying he was now +Christ's soldier as he had been Satan's. When Clement had shriven him +and prayed by him, he, in his turn, sought counsel of one who was dying +in so pious a frame, The hermit advised him to be his successor in this +peaceful retreat. “His had been a hard fight against the world, the +flesh, and the devil, and he had never thoroughly baffled them till he +retired into the citadel of Solitude.” + +These words and the hermit's pious and peaceful death, which speedily +followed, and set as it were the seal of immortal truth on them, made a +deep impression upon Clement. Nor in his case had they any prejudice to +combat; the solitary recluse was still profoundly revered in the Church, +whether immured as an anchorite or anchoress in some cave or cell +belonging to a monastery, or hidden in the more savage but laxer +seclusion of the independent hermitage. And Clement knew more about the +hermits of the Church than most divines at his time of life; he had read +much thereon at the monastery near Tergou, had devoured their lives +with wonder and delight in the manuscripts of the Vatican, and conversed +earnestly about them with the mendicant friars of several nations. +Before Printing these friars were the great circulators of those local +annals and biographies which accumulated in the convents of every land. +Then his teacher, Jerome, had been three years an anchorite on the +heights of Camaldoli, where for more than four centuries the Thebaid had +been revived; and Jerome, cold and curt on most religious themes, was +warm with enthusiasm on this one. He had pored over the annals of +St. John Baptist's abbey, round about which the hermit's caves were +scattered, and told him the names of many a noble, and many a famous +warrior who had ended his days there a hermit, and of many a bishop and +archbishop who had passed from the see to the hermitage, or from the +hermitage to the see. Among the former the Archbishop of Ravenna; among +the latter Pope Victor the Ninth. He told him too, with grim delight, of +their multifarious austerities, and how each hermit set himself to find +where he was weakest, and attacked himself without mercy or remission +till there, even there, he was strongest. And how seven times in the +twenty-four hours, in thunder, rain, or snow, by daylight, twilight, +moonlight, or torchlight, the solitaries flocked from distant points, +over rugged precipitous ways, to worship in the convent church; at +matins, at prime, tierce, sexte, nones, vespers, and compline. He +even, under eager questioning, described to him the persons of famous +anchorites he had sung the Psalter and prayed with there; the only +intercourse their vows allowed, except with special permission. Moncata, +Duke of Moncata and Cardova, and Hidalgo of Spain, who in the flower of +his youth had retired thither from the pomps, vanities, and pleasures of +the world; Father John Baptist of Novara, who had led armies to +battle, but was now a private soldier of Christ; Cornelius, Samuel, +and Sylvanus. This last, when the great Duchess de' Medici obtained the +Pope's leave, hitherto refused, to visit Camaldoli, went down and met +her at the first wooden cross, and there, surrounded as she was with +courtiers and flatterers, remonstrated with her, and persuaded her, and +warned her, not to profane that holy mountain, where no woman for so +many centuries had placed her foot; and she, awed by the place and the +man, retreated with all her captains, soldiers, courtiers, and pages +from that one hoary hermit. At Basle Clement found fresh materials, +especially with respect to German and English anchorites; and he had +even prepared a “Catena Eremitarum” from the year of our Lord 250, when +Paul of Thebes commenced his ninety years of solitude, down to the year +1470. He called them Angelorum amici et animalium, i.e. + +FRIENDS OF ANGELS AND ANIMALS. + +Thus, though in those days he never thought to be a recluse, the road +was paved, so to speak; and when the dying hermit of Gouda blessed the +citadel of Solitude, where he had fought the good fight and won it, and +invited him to take up the breast-plate of faith that now fell off his +own shrunken body, Clement said within himself: “Heaven itself led my +foot hither to this end.” It struck him, too, as no small coincidence +that his patron, St. Bavon, was a hermit, and an austere one, a +cuirassier of the solitary cell. + +As soon as he was reconciled to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, he went eagerly +to his abode, praying Heaven it might not have been already occupied in +these three days. The fear was not vain; these famous dens never wanted +a human tenant long. He found the rude stone door ajar; then he made +sure he was too late; he opened the door and went softly in. No; the +cell was vacant, and there were the hermit's great ivory crucifix, his +pens, ink, seeds, and, memento mori, a skull; his cilice of hair, and +another of bristles; his well-worn sheepskin pelisse and hood; his +hammer, chisel, and psaltery, etc. Men and women had passed that +way, but none had ventured to intrude, far less to steal. Faith and +simplicity had guarded that keyless door more securely than the houses +of the laity were defended by their gates like a modern gaol, and think +iron bars at every window, and the gentry by moat, bastion, chevaux de +frise, and portcullis. + +As soon as Clement was fairly in the cell there was a loud flap, and a +flutter, and down came a great brown owl from a corner, and whirled out +of the window, driving the air cold on Clement's face, He started and +shuddered. + +Was this seeming owl something diabolical? trying to deter him from his +soul's good? On second thoughts, might it not be some good spirit +the hermit had employed to keep the cell for him, perhaps the hermit +himself? Finally he concluded that it was just an owl, and that he would +try and make friends with it. + +He kneeled down and inaugurated his new life with prayer. + +Clement had not only an earthly passion to quell, the power of which +made him tremble for his eternal weal, but he had a penance to do for +having given way to ire, his besetting sin, and cursed his own brothers. + +He looked round this roomy cell furnished with so many comforts, and +compared it with the pictures in his mind of the hideous place, eremus +in eremo, a desert in a desert, where holy Jerome, hermit, and the +Plutarch of hermits, had wrestled with sickness, temptation, and despair +four mortal years; and with the inaccessible and thorny niche, a hole +in a precipice, where the boy hermit Benedict buried himself, and lived +three years on the pittance the good monk Romanus could spare him from +his scanty commons, and subdivided that mouthful with his friend, a +raven; and the hollow tree of his patron St. Bavon; and the earthly +purgatory at Fribourg, where lived a nameless saint in a horrid cavern, +his eyes chilled with perpetual gloom, and his ears stunned with an +eternal waterfall; and the pillar on which St. Simeon Stylita existed +forty-five years; and the destina, or stone box, of St. Dunstan, where, +like Hilarion in his bulrush hive, sepulchro potius quam domu, he could +scarce sit, stand, or lie; and the living tombs, sealed with lead, of +Thais, and Christina, and other recluses; and the damp dungeon of St. +Alred. These and scores more of the dismal dens in which true hermits +had worn out their wasted bodies on the rock, and the rock under their +sleeping bodies, and their praying knees, all came into his mind, and he +said to himself, “This sweet retreat is for safety of the soul; but what +for penance Jesu aid me against faults to come; and for the fault I rue, +face of man I will not see for a twelvemonth and a day.” He had famous +precedents in his eye even for this last and unusual severity. In fact +the original hermit of this very cell was clearly under the same vow. +Hence the two apertures, through which he was spoken to, and replied. + +Adopting, in other respects, the uniform rule of hermits and anchorites, +he divided his day into the seven offices, ignoring the petty +accidents of light and dark, creations both of Him to whom he prayed so +unceasingly. He learned the psalter by heart, and in all the intervals +of devotion, not occupied by broken slumbers, he worked hard with his +hands. No article of the hermit's rule was more strict or more ancient +than this. And here his self-imposed penance embarrassed him, for +what work could he do, without being seen, that should benefit his +neighbours? for the hermit was to labour for himself in those cases only +where his subsistence depended on it. Now Clement's modest needs were +amply supplied by the villagers. + +On moonlight nights he would steal out like a thief, and dig some +poor man's garden on the outskirts of the village. He made baskets and +dropped them slily at humble doors. + +And since he could do nothing for the bodies of those who passed by his +cell in daytime, he went out in the dead of the night with his hammer +and his chisel, and carved moral and religious sentences all down the +road upon the sandstone rocks. “Who knows?” said he, “often a chance +shaft strikes home.” + +Oh, sore heart, comfort thou the poor and bereaved with holy words of +solace in their native tongue; for he said “well, 'tis 'clavis ad corda +plebis.'” Also he remembered the learned Colonna had told him of +the written mountains in the east, where kings had inscribed their +victories, “What,” said Clement, “are they so wise, those Eastern +monarchs, to engrave their war-like glory upon the rock, making a blood +bubble endure so long as earth; and shall I leave the rocks about me +silent on the King of Glory, at whose word they were, and at whose +breath they shall be dust? Nay, but these stones shall speak to weary +wayfarers of eternal peace, and of the Lamb, whose frail and afflicted +yet happy servant worketh them among.” + +Now at this time the inspired words that have consoled the poor and the +afflicted for so many ages were not yet printed in Dutch, so that these +sentences of gold from the holy evangelists came like fresh oracles +from heaven, or like the dew on parched flowers; and the poor hermit's +written rocks softened a heart Or two, and sent the heavy laden singing +on their way(1). + +These holy oracles that seemed to spring up around him like magic; his +prudent answers through his window to such as sought ghostly counsel; +and above all, his invisibility, soon gained him a prodigious +reputation, This was not diminished by the medical advice they now and +then extorted from him sore against his will, by tears and entreaties; +for if the patients got well they gave the holy hermit the credit, and +if not they laid all the blame on the devil. “I think he killed nobody, +for his remedies were womanish and weak.” Sage and wormwood, sion, +hyssop, borage, spikenard, dog's-tongue, our Lady's mantle, feverfew, +and Faith, and all in small quantities except the last. + +Then his abstinence, sure sign of a saint. The eggs and milk they +brought him at first he refused with horror. Know ye not the hermit's +rule is bread, or herbs, and water? Eggs, they are birds in disguise; +for when the bird dieth, then the egg rotteth. As for milk, it is little +better than white blood. And when they brought him too much bread he +refused it. Then they used to press it on him. “Nay, holy father; give +the overplus to the poor.” + +“You who go among the poor can do that better. Is bread a thing to fling +haphazard from an hermit's window?” And to those who persisted after +this: “To live on charity, yet play Sir Bountiful, is to lie with the +right hand. Giving another's to the poor, I should beguile them of their +thanks, and cheat thee the true giver. Thus do thieves, whose boast it +is they bleed the rich into the lap of the poor. Occasio avaritiae nomen +pauperum.” + +When nothing else would convince the good souls, this piece of Latin +always brought them round. So would a line of Virgil's Aeneid. + +This great reputation of sanctity was all external. Inside the cell was +a man who held the hermit of Gouda as cheap as dirt. + +“Ah!” said he, “I cannot deceive myself; I cannot deceive God's animals. +See the little birds, how coy they be; I feed and feed them, and long +for their friendship, yet will they never come within, nor take my hand, +by lighting on't. For why? No Paul, no Benedict, no Hugh of Lincoln, no +Columba, no Guthlac bides in this cell. Hunted doe flieth not hither, +for here is no Fructuosus, nor Aventine, nor Albert of Suabia; nor e'en +a pretty squirrel cometh from the wood hard by for the acorns I have +hoarded; for here abideth no Columban. The very owl that was here hath +fled. They are not to be deceived; I have a Pope's word for that; Heaven +rest his soul.” + +Clement had one advantage over her whose image in his heart he was bent +on destroying. + +He had suffered and survived the pang of bereavement, and the mind +cannot quite repeat such anguish. Then he had built up a habit of +looking on her as dead. After that strange scene in the church and +churchyard of St. Laurens, that habit might be compared to a structure +riven by a thunderbolt. It was shattered, but stones enough stood to +found a similar habit on; to look on her as dead to him. + +And by severe subdivision of his time and thoughts, by unceasing prayers +and manual labour, he did in about three months succeed in benumbing the +earthly half of his heart. + +But lo! within a day or two of this first symptom of mental peace +returning slowly, there descended upon his mind a horrible despondency. + +Words cannot utter it, for words never yet painted a likeness of +despair. Voices seemed to whisper in his ear, “Kill thyself! kill! kill! +kill!” + +And he longed to obey the voices, for life was intolerable. + +He wrestled with his dark enemy with prayers and tears; he prayed God +but to vary his temptation. “Oh let mine enemy have power to scourge me +with red-hot whips, to tear me leagues and leagues over rugged places +by the hair of my head, as he has served many a holy hermit, that yet +baffled him at last; to fly on me like a raging lion; to gnaw me with +a serpent's fangs; any pain, any terror, but this horrible gloom of the +soul that shuts me from all light of Thee and of the saints.” + +And now a freezing thought crossed him. What if the triumphs of the +powers of darkness over Christian souls in desert places had been +suppressed, and only their defeats recorded, or at least in full; for +dark hints were scattered about antiquity that now first began to grin +at him with terrible meaning. + +“THEY WANDERED IN THE DESERT AND PERISHED BY SERPENTS,” said an ancient +father of hermits that went into solitude, “and were seen no more.” And +another at a more recent epoch wrote: Vertuntur ad melancholiam: “they +turn to gloomy madness.” These two statements, were they not one? for +the ancient fathers never spoke with regret of the death of the body. +No, the hermits so lost were perished souls, and the serpents were +diabolical (2) thoughts, the natural brood of solitude. + +St. Jerome went into the desert with three companions; one fled in the +first year, two died; how? The single one that lasted was a gigantic +soul with an iron body. + +The cotemporary who related this made no comment, expressed no wonder, +What, then, if here was a glimpse of the true proportion in every age, +and many souls had always been lost in solitude for one gigantic mind +and iron body that survived this terrible ordeal. + +The darkened recluse now cast his despairing eyes over antiquity to see +what weapons the Christian arsenal contained that might befriend him. +The greatest of all was prayer. Alas! it was a part of his malady to +be unable to pray with true fervour. The very system of mechanical +supplication he had for months carried out so severely by rule had +rather checked than fostered his power of originating true prayer. + +He prayed louder than ever, but the heart hung back cold and gloomy, and +let the words go up alone. + +“Poor wingless prayers,” he cried, “you will not get half-way to +heaven.” + +A fiend of this complexion had been driven out of King Saul by music. + +Clement took up the hermit's psaltery, and with much trouble mended the +strings and tuned it. + +No, he could not play it. His soul was so out of tune. The sounds jarred +on it, and made him almost mad. + +“Ah, wretched me!” he cried; “Saul had a saint to play to him. He was +not alone with the spirits of darkness; but here is no sweet bard of +Israel to play to me; I, lonely, with crushed heart, on which a black +fiend sitteth mountain high, must make the music to uplift that heart +to heaven; it may not be.” And he grovelled on the earth weeping and +tearing his hair. + +VERTEBATUR AD MELANCHOLIAM. + + (1) It requires nowadays a strong effort of the imagination + to realize the effect on poor people who had never seen them + before of such sentences as this + + “Blessed are the poor” etc. + + (2) The primitive writer was so interpreted by others + besides Clement; and in particular by Peter of Blois, a + divine of the twelfth century, whose comment is noteworthy, + as he himself was a forty-year hermit. + + + +CHAPTER XCIII + +One day as he lay there sighing and groaning, prayerless, tuneless, +hopeless, a thought flashed into his mind. What he had done for the +poor and the wayfarer, he would do for himself. He would fill his den of +despair with the name of God and the magic words of holy writ, and the +pious, prayerful consolations of the Church. + +Then, like Christian at Apollyon's feet, he reached his hand suddenly +out and caught, not his sword, for he had none, but peaceful labour's +humbler weapon, his chisel, and worked with it as if his soul depended +on his arm. + +They say that Michael Angelo in the next generation used to carve +statues, not like our timid sculptors, by modelling the work in clay, +and then setting a mechanic to chisel it, but would seize the block, +conceive the image, and at once, with mallet and steel, make the marble +chips fly like mad about him, and the mass sprout into form. Even so +Clement drew no lines to guide his hand. He went to his memory for the +gracious words, and then dashed at his work and eagerly graved them in +the soft stone, between working and fighting. + +He begged his visitors for candle ends, and rancid oil. + +“Anything is good enough for me,” he said, “if 'twill but burn.” So at +night the cave glowed afar off like a blacksmith's forge, through the +window and the gaping chinks of the rude stone door, and the rustics +beholding crossed themselves and suspected deviltries, and within the +holy talismans, one after another, came upon the walls, and the sparks +and the chips flew day and night, night and day, as the soldier of +Solitude and of the Church plied, with sighs and groans, his bloodless +weapon, between working and fighting. + +Kyrie Eleison. + +Christe Eleison. + +{ton Satanan suntripson upo tous pothas ymwn}(1) + +Sursum Corda.(2) + +Deus Refugium nostrum et virtus.(3) + +Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi miserere mihi.(4) + +Sancta Trinitas unus Deus, miserere nobis.(5) + +Ab infestationibus Daemonum, a ventura ira, a damnatione perpetua. +Libera nos Domine.(6) + +Deus, qui miro ordine Angelorum ministeria, etc, (the whole collect).(7) + +Quem quaerimus adjutorem nisi te Domine qui pro peccatis nostris juste +irascaris? (8) + +Sancte Deus, Sancte fortis, Sancte et misericors Salvator, amarae morti +ne tradas nos. + +And underneath the great crucifix, which was fastened to the wall, he +graved this from Augustine: + +O anima Christiana, respice vulnera patientis, sanguinem morientis, +pretium redemptionis. Haec quanta sint cogitate, et in statera mentis +vestrae appendite, ut totus vobis figatur in corde, qui pro vobis totus +fixus est in cruce. Nam si passio Christi ad memoriam revocetur, nihil +est tam durum quod non aequo animo toleretur. + +Which may be thus rendered: O Christian soul, look on the wounds of +the suffering One, the blood of the dying One, the price paid for our +redemption! These things, oh, think how great they be, and weigh them in +the balance of thy mind: that He may be wholly nailed to thy heart, +who for thee was all nailed unto the cross. For do but call to mind the +sufferings of Christ, and there is nought on earth too hard to endure +with composure. + +Soothed a little, a very little, by the sweet and pious words he was +raising all round him, and weighed down with watching and working night +and day, Clement one morning sank prostrate with fatigue, and a deep +sleep overpowered him for many hours. Awaking quietly, he heard a little +cheep; he opened his eyes, and lo! upon his breviary, which was on a low +stool near his feet, ruffling all his feathers with a single pull, and +smoothing them as suddenly, and cocking his bill this way and that with +a vast display of cunning purely imaginary, perched a robin redbreast. + +Clement held his breath. + +He half closed his eyes lest they should frighten the airy guest. + +Down came robin on the floor. + +When there he went through his pantomime of astuteness; and then, +pim, pim, pim, with three stiff little hops, like a ball of worsted on +vertical wires, he was on the hermit's bare foot. On this eminence he +swelled and contracted again, with ebb and flow of feathers; but Clement +lost this, for he quite closed his eyes and scarce drew his breath in +fear of frightening and losing his visitor. He was content to feel the +minute claw on his foot. He could but just feel it, and that by help of +knowing it was there. + +Presently a little flirt with two little wings, and the feathered +busybody was on the breviary again. + +Then Clement determined to try and feed this pretty little fidget +without frightening it away. But it was very difficult. + +He had a piece of bread within reach, but how get at it? I think he was +five minutes creeping his hand up to that bread, and when there he must +not move his arm. + +He slily got a crumb between a finger and thumb and shot it as boys do +marbles, keeping the hand quite still. + +Cockrobin saw it fall near him, and did sagacity, but moved not. + +When another followed, and then another, he popped down and caught up +one of the crumbs, but not quite understanding this mystery fled with +it, for more security, to an eminence; to wit, the hermit's knee. + +And so the game proceeded till a much larger fragment than usual rolled +along. + +Here was a prize. Cockrobin pounced on it, bore it aloft, and fled so +swiftly into the world with it, the cave resounded with the buffeted +air. + +“Now, bless thee, sweet bird,” sighed the stricken solitary; “thy wings +are music, and thou a feathered ray camedst to light my darkened soul.” + +And from that to his orisons, and then to his tools with a little bit of +courage, and this was his day's work: + + Veni, Creator Spiritus, + Mentes tuorem visita, + Imple superna gratia + Quae tu creasti pectora + + Accende lumen sensibus, + Mentes tuorum visita, + Infirma nostri corporis, + Virtute firmans perpeti. + +And so the days rolled on; and the weather got colder, and Clement's +heart got warmer, and despondency was rolling away; and by-and-by, +somehow or another, it was gone. He had outlived it. + +It had come like a cloud, and it went like one. + +And presently all was reversed; his cell seemed illuminated with joy. +His work pleased him; his prayers were full of unction; his psalms of +praise. Hosts of little birds followed their crimson leader, and flying +from snow, and a parish full of Cains, made friends one after another +with Abel; fast friends. And one keen frosty night as he sang the +praises of God to his tuneful psaltery, and his hollow cave rang forth +the holy psalmody upon the night, as if that cave itself was Tubal's +surrounding shell, or David's harp, he heard a clear whine, not +unmelodious; it became louder and less in tune. He peeped through +the chinks of his rude door, and there sat a great red wolf moaning +melodiously with his nose high in the air. + +Clement was rejoiced. “My sins are going,” he cried, “and the creatures +of God are owning me, one after another.” And in a burst of enthusiasm +he struck up the laud: + +“Praise Him all ye creatures of His! + +“Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.” + +And all the time he sang the wolf bayed at intervals. + +But above all he seemed now to be drawing nearer to that celestial +intercourse which was the sign and the bliss of the true hermit; for he +had dreams about the saints and angels, so vivid, they were more like +visions. He saw bright figures clad in woven snow. They bent on him eyes +lovelier than those of the antelope's he had seen at Rome, and fanned +him with broad wings hued like the rainbow, and their gentle voices bade +him speed upon his course. + +He had not long enjoyed this felicity when his dreams began to take +another and a strange complexion. He wandered with Fra Colonna over the +relics of antique nations, and the friar was lame and had a staff, +and this staff he waved over the mighty ruins, and were they Egyptian, +Greek, or Roman, straightway the temples and palaces, whose wrecks they +were, rose again like an exhalation, and were thronged with the famous +dead. Songsters that might have eclipsed both Apollo and his rival +poured forth their lays; women, god-like in form, and draped like +Minerva, swam round the marble courts in voluptuous but easy and +graceful dances. Here sculptors carved away amidst admiring pupils, and +forms of supernatural beauty grew out of Parian marble in a quarter of +an hour; and grave philosophers conversed on high and subtle matters, +with youth listening reverently; it was a long time ago. And still +beneath all this wonderful panorama a sort of suspicion or expectation +lurked in the dreamer's mind. “This is a prologue, a flourish, there is +something behind; something that means me no good, something mysterious, +awful.” + +And one night that the wizard Colonna had transcended himself, he +pointed with his stick, and there was a swallowing up of many great +ancient cities, and the pair stood on a vast sandy plain with a huge +crimson sun sinking to rest, There were great palm-trees; and there +were bulrush hives, scarce a man's height, dotted all about to the sandy +horizon, and the crimson sun. + +“These are the anchorites of the Theban desert,” said Colonna calmly; +“followers not of Christ and His apostles, and the great fathers, but +of the Greek pupils of the Egyptian pupils of the Brachmans and +Gymnosophists.” + +And Clement thought that he burned to go and embrace the holy men and +tell them his troubles, and seek their advice. But he was tied by the +feet somehow, and could not move, and the crimson sun sank, and it got +dusk, and the hives scarce visible, And Colonna's figure became shadowy +and shapeless, but his eyes glowed ten times brighter; and this thing +all eyes spoke and said: “Nay, let them be, a pack of fools I see how +dismal it all is.” Then with a sudden sprightliness, “But I hear one of +them has a manuscript of Petronius, on papyrus; I go to buy it; farewell +for ever, for ever, for ever.” + +And it was pitch dark, and a light came at Clement's back like a gentle +stroke, a glorious roseate light. It warmed as well as brightened. It +loosened his feet from the ground; he turned round, and there, her face +irradiated with sunshine, and her hair glittering like the gloriola of a +saint, was Margaret Brandt. + +She blushed and smiled and cast a look of ineffable tenderness on him, +“Gerard,” she murmured, “be whose thou wilt by day, but at night be +mine!” + +Even as she spoke, the agitation of seeing her so suddenly awakened him, +and he found himself lying trembling from head to foot. + +That radiant figure and mellow voice seemed to have struck his nightly +keynote. + +Awake he could pray, and praise, and worship God; he was master of his +thoughts. But if he closed his eyes in sleep, Margaret, or Satan in her +shape, beset him, a seeming angel of light. He might dream of a thousand +different things, wide as the poles asunder, ere he woke the imperial +figure was sure to come and extinguish all the rest in a moment, stellas +exortus uti aetherius sol; for she came glowing with two beauties never +before united, an angel's radiance and a woman's blushes. + +Angels cannot blush. So he knew it was a fiend. + +He was alarmed, but not so much surprised as at the demon's last +artifice. From Anthony to Nicholas of the Rock scarce hermit that had +not been thus beset; sometimes with gay voluptuous visions, sometimes +with lovely phantoms, warm, tangible, and womanly without, demons +within, nor always baffled even by the saints. Witness that “angel form +with a devil's heart” that came hanging its lovely head, like a bruised +flower, to St. Macarius, with a feigned tale, and wept, and wept, and +wept, and beguiled him first of his tears and then of half his virtue. + +But with the examples of Satanic power and craft had come down copious +records of the hermits' triumphs and the weapons by which they had +conquered. + +Domandum est Corpus; the body must be tamed; this had been their +watchword for twelve hundred years. It was a tremendous war-cry; for +they called the earthly affections, as well as appetites, body, and +crushed the whole heart through the suffering and mortified flesh. + +Clement then said to himself that the great enemy of man had retired +but to spring with more effect, and had allowed him a few days of +true purity and joy only to put him off his guard against the soft +blandishments he was pouring over the soul that had survived the +buffeting of his black wings. He applied himself to tame the body, he +shortened his sleep, lengthened his prayers, and increased his severe +temperance to abstinence. Hitherto, following the ordinary rule, he had +eaten only at sunset. Now he ate but once in forty-eight hours, drinking +a little water every day. + +On this the visions became more distinct. + +Then he flew to a famous antidote, to “the grand febrifuge” of +anchorites--cold water. + +He found the deepest part of the stream that ran by his cell; it rose +not far off at a holy well; and clearing the bottom of the large stones, +made a hole where he could stand in water to the chin, and fortified by +so many examples, he sprang from his rude bed upon the next diabolical +assault, and entered the icy water. + +It made him gasp and almost shriek with the cold. It froze his marrow. +“I shall die,” he cried, “I shall die; but better this than fire +eternal.” + +And the next day he was so stiff in all his joints he could not move, +and he seemed one great ache. And even in sleep he felt that his very +bones were like so many raging teeth, till the phantom he dreaded came +and gave one pitying smile, and all the pain was gone. + +Then, feeling that to go into the icy water again, enfeebled by fasts +as he was, might perhaps carry the guilt of suicide, he scourged himself +till the blood ran, and so lay down smarting. And when exhaustion began +to blunt the smart down to a throb, that moment the present was away, +and the past came smiling back. He sat with Margaret at the duke's +feast, the minstrels played divinely, and the purple fountains gushed. +Youth and love reigned in each heart, and perfumed the very air. + +Then the scene shifted, and they stood at the altar together man and +wife. And no interruption this time, and they wandered hand in hand, and +told each other their horrible dreams. As for him, “he had dreamed she +was dead, and he was a monk; and really the dream had been so vivid and +so full of particulars that only his eyesight could even now convince +him it was only a dream, and they were really one.” + +And this new keynote once struck, every tune ran upon it. Awake he +was Clement the hermit, risen from unearthly visions of the night, as +dangerous as they were sweet; asleep he was Gerard Eliassoen, the happy +husband of the loveliest and best, and truest girl in Holland: all the +happier that he had been for some time the sport of hideous dreams, in +which he had lost her. + +His constant fasts, coupled with other austerities, and the deep mental +anxiety of a man fighting with a supernatural foe, had now reduced +him nearly to a skeleton; but still on those aching bones hung flesh +unsubdued, and quivering with an earthly passion; so, however, he +thought; “or why had ill spirits such power over him?” His opinion was +confirmed, when one day he detected himself sinking to sleep actually +with a feeling of complacency, because now Margaret would come and he +should feel no more pain, and the unreal would be real, and the real +unreal, for an hour. + +On this he rose hastily with a cry of dismay, and stripping to the skin +climbed up to the brambles above his cave, and flung himself on them, +and rolled on them writhing with the pain: then he came into his den a +mass of gore, and lay moaning for hours; till, out of sheer exhaustion, +he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. + +He awoke to bodily pain, and mental exultation; he had broken the fatal +spell. Yes, it was broken; another and another day passed, and her image +molested him no more. But he caught himself sighing at his victory. + +The birds got tamer and tamer, they perched upon his hand. Two of them +let him gild their little claws. Eating but once in two days he had more +to give them. + +His tranquility was not to last long. + +A woman's voice came in from the outside, told him his own story in a +very few words, and asked him to tell her where Gerard was to be found. + +He was so astounded he could only say, with an instinct of self-defence, +“Pray for the soul of Gerard the son of Eli!” meaning that he was dead +to the world. And he sat wondering. + +When the woman was gone, he determined, after an inward battle, to risk +being seen, and he peeped after her to see who it could be; but he took +so many precautions, and she ran so quickly back to her friend, that the +road was clear. + +“Satan!” said he directly. + +And that night back came his visions of earthly love and happiness so +vividly, he could count every auburn hair in Margaret's head, and see +the pupils of her eyes. + +Then he began to despair, and said, “I must leave this country; here I +am bound fast in memory's chain;” and began to dread his cell. He said, +“A breath from hell hath infected it, and robbed even these holy words +of their virtue.” And unconsciously imitating St. Jerome, a victim +of earthly hallucinations, as overpowering, and coarser, he took his +warmest covering out into the wood hard by, and there flung down under +a tree that torn and wrinkled leather bag of bones, which a little ago +might have served a sculptor for Apollo. + +Whether the fever of his imagination intermitted, as a master mind of +our day has shown that all things intermit(9) or that this really broke +some subtle link, I know not, but his sleep was dreamless. + +He awoke nearly frozen, but warm with joy within. + +“I shall yet be a true hermit, Dei gratia,” said he. + +The next day some good soul left on his little platform a new lambs-wool +pelisse and cape, warm, soft, and ample. + +He had a moment's misgiving on account of its delicious softness and +warmth; but that passed. It was the right skin(10), and a mark that +Heaven approved his present course. + +It restored warmth to his bones after he came in from his short rest. + +And now, at one moment he saw victory before him if he could but live +to it; at another, he said to himself, “'Tis but another lull; be on thy +guard, Clement.” + +And this thought agitated his nerves and kept him in continual awe. + +He was like a soldier within the enemy's lines. + +One night, a beautiful clear frosty night, he came back to his cell, +after a short rest. The stars were wonderful. Heaven seemed a thousand +times larger as well as brighter than earth, and to look with a thousand +eyes instead of one. + +“Oh, wonderful,” he cried, “that there should be men who do crimes by +night; and others scarce less mad, who live for this little world, and +not for that great and glorious one, which nightly, to all eyes not +blinded by custom, reveals its glowing glories. Thank God I am a +hermit.” + +And in this mood he came to his cell door. + +He paused at it; it was closed. + +“Why, methought I left it open,” said he, “The wind. There is not a +breath of wind. What means this?” + +He stood with his hand upon the rugged door. He looked through one of +the great chinks, for it was much smaller in places than the aperture +it pretended to close, and saw his little oil wick burning just where he +had left it. + +“How is it with me,” he sighed, “when I start and tremble at nothing? +Either I did shut it, or the fiend hath shut it after me to disturb my +happy soul. Retro Sathanas!” + +And he entered his cave rapidly, and began with somewhat nervous +expedition to light one of his largest tapers. While he was lighting it, +there was a soft sigh in the cave. + +He started and dropped the candle just as it was lighting, and it went +out. + +He stooped for it hurriedly and lighted it, listening intently. + +When it was lighted he shaded it with his hand from behind, and threw +the faint light all round the cell. + +In the farthest corner the outline of the wall seemed broken. + +He took a step towards the place with his heart beating. + +The candle at the same time getting brighter, he saw it was the figure +of a woman. + +Another step with his knees knocking together. + +IT WAS MARGARET BRANDT. + + (1) Beat down Satan under our feet. + + (2) Up, hearts! + + (3) O God our refuge and strength. + + (4) O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, + have mercy upon me! + + (5) O Holy Trinity, one God, have mercy upon us. + + (6) From the assaults of demons--from the wrath to come-- + from everlasting damnation, deliver us, O Lord! + + (7) See the English collect, St., Michael and all Angels. + + (8) Of whom may we seek succour but of Thee, O Lord, who for + our sins art justly displeased (and that torrent of prayer, + the following verse). + + (9) Dr. Dickson, author of Fallacies of the Faculty, etc. + + (10) It is related of a mediaeval hermit, that being offered + a garment made of cats' skins, he rejected it, saying, “I + have heard of a lamb of God but I never heard of a cat of + God.” + + + +CHAPTER XCIV + +HER attitude was one to excite pity rather than terror, in eyes not +blinded by a preconceived notion. Her bosom was fluttering like a bird, +and the red and white coming and going in her cheeks, and she had her +hand against the wall by the instinct of timid things, she trembled +so; and the marvellous mixed gaze of love, and pious awe, and pity, and +tender memories, those purple eyes cast on the emaciated and glaring +hermit, was an event in nature. + +“Aha!” he cried. “Thou art come at last in flesh and blood; come to me +as thou camest to holy Anthony. But I am ware of thee. I thought thy +wiles were not exhausted. I am armed.” With this he snatched up his +small crucifix and held it out at her, astonished, and the candle in the +other hand, both crucifix and candle shaking violently. “Exorcizo te.” + +“Ah, no!” cried she piteously; and put out two pretty deprecating palms. +“Alas! work me no ill! It is Margaret.” + +“Liar!” shouted the hermit. “Margaret was fair, but not so supernatural +fair as thou. Thou didst shrink at that sacred name, thou subtle +hypocrite. In Nomine Dei exorcizo vos.” + +“Ah, Jesu!” gasped Margaret, in extremity of terror, “curse me not! I +will go home. I thought I might come. For very manhood be-Latin me not! +Oh, Gerard, is it thus you and I meet after all, after all?” + +And she cowered almost to her knees and sobbed with superstitious fear +and wounded affection. + +Impregnated as he was with Satanophobia he might perhaps have doubted +still whether this distressed creature, all woman and nature, was +not all art and fiend. But her spontaneous appeal to that sacred name +dissolved his chimera; and let him see with his eyes, and hear with his +ears. + +He uttered a cry of self-reproach, and tried to raise her but what with +fasts, what with the overpowering emotion of a long solitude so broken, +he could not. “What,” he gasped, shaking over her, “and is it thou? And +have I met thee with hard words? Alas!” And they were both choked with +emotion and could not speak for a while. + +“I heed it not much,” said Margaret bravely, struggling with her tears; +“you took me for another: for a devil; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!” + +“Forgive me, sweet soul!” And as soon as he could speak more than a word +at a time, he said, “I have been much beset by the evil one since I came +here.” + +Margaret looked round with a shudder. “Like enow. Then oh take my hand, +and let me lead thee from this foul place.” + +He gazed at her with astonishment. + +“What, desert my cell; and go into the world again? Is it for that thou +hast come to me?” said he sadly and reproachfully. + +“Ay, Gerard, I am come to take thee to thy pretty vicarage: art vicar +of Gouda, thanks to Heaven and thy good brother Giles; and mother and +I have made it so neat for thee, Gerard. 'Tis well enow in winter I +promise thee. But bide a bit till the hawthorn bloom, and anon thy +walls put on their kirtle of brave roses, and sweet woodbine, Have we +forgotten thee, and the foolish things thou lovest? And, dear Gerard, +thy mother is waiting; and 'tis late for her to be out of her bed: +prithee, prithee, come! And the moment we are out of this foul hole I'll +show thee a treasure thou hast gotten, and knowest nought on't, or sure +hadst never fled from us so. Alas! what is to do? What have I ignorantly +said, to be regarded thus?” + +For he had drawn himself all up into a heap, and was looking at her with +a strange gaze of fear and suspicion blended. + +“Unhappy girl,” said he solemnly, yet deeply agitated, “would you have +me risk my soul and yours for a miserable vicarage and the flowers that +grow on it? But this is not thy doing: the bowelless fiend sends thee, +poor simple girl, to me with this bait. But oh, cunning fiend, I will +unmask thee even to this thine instrument, and she shall see thee, and +abhor thee as I do, Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because I +love thee.” + +“Oh! no, Gerard, you love me not or you would not have hidden from me; +there was no need.” + +“Let there be no deceit between us twain, that have loved so true; and +after this night, shall meet no more on earth.” + +“Now God forbid!” said she. + +“I love thee, and thou hast not forgotten me, or thou hadst married ere +this, and hadst not been the one to find me, buried here from sight of +man. I am a priest, a monk: what but folly or sin can come of you and +me living neighbours, and feeding a passion innocent once, but now (so +Heaven wills it) impious and unholy? No, though my heart break I must be +firm. 'Tis I that am the man, 'tis I that am the priest. You and I must +meet no more, till I am schooled by solitude, and thou art wedded to +another.” + +“I consent to my doom but not to thine. I would ten times liever die; +yet I will marry, ay, wed misery itself sooner than let thee lie in +this foul dismal place, with yon sweet manse awaiting for thee.” Clement +groaned; at each word she spoke out stood clearer and clearer two +things--his duty, and the agony it must cost. + +“My beloved,” said he, with a strange mixture of tenderness and dogged +resolution, “I bless thee for giving me one more sight of thy sweet +face, and may God forgive thee, and bless thee, for destroying in a +minute the holy peace it hath taken six months of solitude to build. No +matter. A year of penance will, Dei gratia, restore me to my calm. My +poor Margaret, I seem cruel: yet I am kind: 'tis best we part; ay, this +moment.” + +“Part, Gerard? Never: we have seen what comes of parting. Part? Why, you +have not heard half my story; no, nor the tithe, 'Tis not for thy mere +comfort I take thee to Gouda manse. Hear me!” + +“I may not. Thy very voice is a temptation with its music, memory's +delight.” + +“But I say you shall hear me, Gerard, for forth this place I go not +unheard.” + +“Then must we part by other means,” said Clement sadly. + +“Alack! what other means? Wouldst put me to thine own door, being the +stronger?” + +“Nay, Margaret, well thou knowest I would suffer many deaths rather than +put force on thee; thy sweet body is dearer to me than my own; but a +million times dearer to me are our immortal souls, both thine and mine. +I have withstood this direst temptation of all long enow. Now I must fly +it: farewell! farewell!” + +He made to the door, and had actually opened it and got half out, when +she darted after and caught him by the arm. + +“Nay, then another must speak for me. I thought to reward thee for +yielding to me; but unkind that thou art, I need his help I find; turn +then this way one moment.” + +“Nay, nay.” + +“But I say ay! And then turn thy back on us an thou canst.” She somewhat +relaxed her grasp, thinking he would never deny her so small a favour. +But at this he saw his opportunity and seized it. + +“Fly, Clement, fly!” he almost shrieked; and his religious enthusiasm +giving him for a moment his old strength, he burst wildly away from her, +and after a few steps bounded over the little stream and ran beside it, +but finding he was not followed stopped, and looked back. + +She was lying on her face, with her hands spread out. + +Yes, without meaning it, he had thrown her down and hurt her. + +When he saw that, he groaned and turned back a step; but suddenly, by +another impulse flung himself into the icy water instead. + +“There, kill my body!” he cried, “but save my soul!” + +Whilst he stood there, up to his throat in liquid ice, so to speak, +Margaret uttered one long, piteous moan, and rose to her knees. + +He saw her as plain almost as in midday. Saw her pale face and her eyes +glistening; and then in the still night he heard these words: + +“Oh, God! Thou that knowest all, Thou seest how I am used. Forgive me +then! For I will not live another day.” With this she suddenly started +to her feet, and flew like some wild creature, wounded to death, +close by his miserable hiding-place, shrieking: + +“CRUEL!--CRUEL!--CRUEL!--CRUEL!” + +What manifold anguish may burst from a human heart in a single syllable. +There were wounded love, and wounded pride, and despair, and coming +madness all in that piteous cry. Clement heard, and it froze his heart +with terror and remorse, worse than the icy water chilled the marrow of +his bones. + +He felt he had driven her from him for ever, and in the midst of +his dismal triumph, the greatest he had won, there came an almost +incontrollable impulse to curse the Church, to curse religion itself, +for exacting such savage cruelty from mortal man. At last he crawled +half dead out of the water, and staggered to his den. “I am safe here,” + he groaned; “she will never come near me again; unmanly, ungrateful +wretch that I am.” And he flung his emaciated, frozen body down on the +floor, not without a secret hope that it might never rise thence alive. + +But presently he saw by the hour-glass that it was past midnight. + +On this, he rose slowly and took off his wet things, and moaning all +the time at the pain he had caused her he loved, put on the old hermit's +cilice of bristles, and over that his breastplate. He had never worn +either of these before, doubting himself worthy to don the arms of that +tried soldier. But now he must give himself every aid; the bristles +might distract his earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be +holy virtue in the breastplate. Then he kneeled down and prayed God +humbly to release him that very night from the burden of the flesh. Then +he lighted all his candles, and recited his psalter doggedly; each word +seemed to come like a lump of lead from a leaden heart, and to fall +leaden to the ground; and in this mechanical office every now and then +he moaned with all his soul. In the midst of which he suddenly observed +a little bundle in the corner he had not seen before in the feebler +light, and at one end of it something like gold spun into silk. + +He went to see what it could be; and he had no sooner viewed it closer, +than he threw up his hands with rapture. “It is a seraph,” he whispered, +“a lovely seraph. Heaven hath witnessed my bitter trial, and approves +my cruelty; and this flower of the skies is sent to cheer me, fainting +under my burden.” + +He fell on his knees, and gazed with ecstasy on its golden hair, and its +tender skin, and cheeks like a peach. + +“Let me feast my sad eyes on thee ere thou leavest me for thine +ever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at thy parting, as it did +at hers.” + +With all this, the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He opened wide +two eyes, the colour of heaven; and seeing a strange figure kneeling +over him, he cried piteously, “MUMMA! MUM-MA!” And the tears began to +run down his little cheeks. + +Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had not looked +on the human face divine, estimated childish beauty more justly than we +can; and in truth, this fair northern child, with its long golden hair, +was far more angelic than any of our imagined angels. But now the spell +was broken. + +Yet not unhappily. Clement it may be remembered, was fond of children, +and true monastic life fosters this sentiment. The innocent distress on +the cherubic face, the tears that ran so smoothly from those transparent +violets, his eyes, and his pretty, dismal cry for his only friend, his +mother, went through the hermit's heart. He employed all his gentleness +and all his art to soothe him; and as the little soul was wonderfully +intelligent for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased to +cry out, and wonder took the place of fear; while, in silence, broken +only in little gulps, he scanned, with great tearful eyes, this strange +figure that looked so wild, but spoke so kindly, and wore armour, yet +did not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement was equally perplexed +to know how this little human flower came to lie sparkling and blooming +in his gloomy cave. But he remembered he had left the door wide open, +and he was driven to conclude that, owing to this negligence, some +unfortunate creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunity +to get rid of her child for ever.(1). At this his bowels yearned so over +the poor deserted cherub, that the tears of pure tenderness stood in +his eyes, and still, beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the divine +goodness, which had so directed her heartlessness as to comfort His +servant's breaking heart. + +“Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I would not +change thee for e'en a cherub in heaven.” + +“At's pooty,” replied the infant, ignoring contemptuously, after the +manner of infants, all remarks that did not interest him. + +“What is pretty here, my love, besides thee?” + +“Ookum-gars,(2) said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breastplate. + +“Quot liberi, tot sententiunculae!” Hector's child screamed at his +father's glittering casque and nodding crest; and here was a mediaeval +babe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs assuaged. + +“There are prettier things here than that,” said Clement, “there are +little birds; lovest thou birds?” + +“Nay. Ay. En um ittle, ery ittle? Not ike torks. Hate torks um bigger an +baby.” + +He then confided, in very broken language, that the storks with their +great flapping wings scared him, and were a great trouble and worry to +him, darkening his existence more or less. + +“Ay, but my birds are very little, and good, and oh, so pretty!” + +“Den I ikes 'm,” said the child authoritatively, “I ont my mammy.” + +“Alas, sweet dove! I doubt I shall have to fill her place as best I may. +Hast thou no daddy as well as mammy, sweet one?” + +Now not only was this conversation from first to last, the relative +ages, situations, and all circumstances of the parties considered, as +strange a one as ever took place between two mortal creatures, but at +or within a second or two of the hermit's last question, to turn the +strange into the marvellous, came an unseen witness, to whom every +word that passed carried ten times the force it did to either of the +speakers. + +Since, therefore, it is with her eyes you must now see, and hear with +her ears, I go back a step for her. + +Margaret, when she ran past Gerard, was almost mad. She was in that +state of mind in which affectionate mothers have been known to kill +their children, sometimes along with themselves, sometimes alone, which +last is certainly maniacal, She ran to Reicht Heynes pale and trembling, +and clasped her round the neck, “Oh, Reicht! oh, Reicht!” and could say +no more. + +Reicht kissed her, and began to whimper; and would you believe it, the +great mastiff uttered one long whine: even his glimmer of sense taught +him grief was afoot. + +“Oh, Reicht!” moaned the despised beauty, as soon as she could utter a +word for choking, “see how he has served me!” and she showed her hands, +that were bleeding with falling on the stony ground. “He threw me down, +he was so eager to fly from me, He took me for a devil; he said I came +to tempt him. Am I the woman to tempt a man? you know me, Reicht.” + +“Nay, in sooth, sweet Mistress Margaret, the last i' the world.” + +“And he would not look at my child. I'll fling myself and him into the +Rotter this night.” + +“Oh, fie! fie! eh, my sweet woman, speak not so. Is any man that +breathes worth your child's life?” + +“My child! where is he? Why, Reicht, I have left him behind. Oh, shame! +is it possible I can love him to that degree as to forget my child? Ah! +I am rightly served for it.” + +And she sat down, and faithful Reicht beside her, and they sobbed in one +another's arms. + +After a while Margaret left off sobbing and said doggedly, “let us go +home.” + +“Ay, but the bairn?” + +“Oh! he is well where he is. My heart is turned against my very child, +He cares nought for him; wouldn't see him, nor hear speak of him; and I +took him there so proud, and made his hair so nice, I did, and put his +new frock and cowl on him. Nay, turn about: it's his child as well as +mine; let him keep it awhile: mayhap that will learn him to think more +of its mother and his own.” + +“High words off an empty stomach,” said Reicht. + +“Time will show. Come you home.” + +They departed, and Time did show quicker than he levels abbeys, for at +the second step Margaret stopped, and could neither go one way nor the +other, but stood stock still. + +“Reicht,” said she piteously, “what else have I on earth? I cannot.” + +“Whoever said you could? Think you I paid attention? Words are woman's +breath. Come back for him without more ado; 'tis time we were in our +beds, much more he.” + +Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in that +direction; but as they drew near the cell, she stopped again. + +“Reicht, go you and ask him, will he give me back my boy; for I could +not bear the sight of him.” + +“Alas! mistress, this do seem a sorry ending after all that hath been +betwixt you twain. Bethink thee now, doth thine heart whisper no excuse +for him? dost verily hate him for whom thou hast waited so long? Oh, +weary world!” + +“Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head for all that is +in nature; but look on him I cannot; I have taken a horror of him. Oh! +when I think of all I have suffered for him, and what I came here this +night to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call +him father. Ah, Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I have +thought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised; and +now my own is despised, Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he would +have a good chance.” + +“Well, he is not far off,” said Reicht Heynes; but somehow she did not +say it with alacrity. + +“Speak not to me of any man,” said Margaret bitterly; “I hate them all.” + +“For the sake of one?” + +“Flout me not, but prithee go forward, and get me what is my own, my +sole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to my +bosom again.” + +Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her face +with her apron, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, for +her soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was the +internal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, and +started violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder. + +“Mistress Margaret!” said Reicht quietly, “take a fool's advice that +loves ye. Go softly to yon cave, wi' all the ears and eyes your mother +ever gave you.” + +“Why? Reicht?” stammered Margaret. + +“I thought the cave was afire, 'twas so light inside; and there were +voices.” + +“Voices?” + +“Ay, not one, but twain, and all unlike--a man's and a little child's +talking as pleasant as you and me. I am no great hand at a keyhole for +my part, 'tis paltry work; but if so be voices were a talking in yon +cave, and them that owned those voices were so near to me as those are +to thee, I'd go on all fours like a fox, and I'd crawl on my belly like +a serpent, ere I'd lose one word that passes atwixt those twain.” + +“Whisht, Reicht! Bless thee! Bide thou here. Buss me! Pray for me!” + +And almost ere the agitated words had left her lips, Margaret was flying +towards the hermitage as noiselessly as a lapwing. + +Arrived near it, she crouched, and there was something truly serpentine +in the gliding, flexible, noiseless movements by which she reached the +very door, and there she found a chink, and listened. And often it cost +her a struggle not to burst in upon them; but warned by defeat, she was +cautious, and resolute, let well alone, And after a while, slowly and +noiselessly she reared her head, like a snake its crest, to where she +saw the broadest chink of all, and looked with all her eyes and soul, as +well as listened. + +The little boy then being asked whether he had no daddy, at first shook +his head, and would say nothing; but being pressed he suddenly seemed to +remember something, and said he, “Dad-da ill man; run away and left poor +mum-ma.” + +She who heard this winced. It was as new to her as to Clement. Some +interfering foolish woman had gone and said this to the boy, and now out +it came in Gerard's very face. His answer surprised her; he burst out, +“The villain! the monster! he must be born without bowels to desert +thee, sweet one, Ah! he little knows the joy he has turned his back on. +Well, my little dove, I must be father and mother to thee, since the one +runs away, and t'other abandons thee to my care. Now to-morrow I shall +ask the good people that bring me my food to fetch some nice eggs +and milk for thee as well; for bread is good enough for poor old +good-for-nothing me, but not for thee. And I shall teach thee to read.” + +“I can yead, I can yead.” + +“Ay, verily, so young? all the better; we will read good books together, +and I shall show thee the way to heaven. Heaven is a beautiful place, a +thousand times fairer and better than earth, and there be little cherubs +like thyself, in white, glad to welcome thee and love thee. Wouldst like +to go to heaven one day?” + +“Ay, along wi'-my-mammy.” + +“What, not without her then?” + +“Nay. I ont my mammy. Where is my mammy?” + +(Oh! what it cost poor Margaret not to burst in and clasp him to her +heart!) + +“Well, fret not, sweetheart, mayhap she will come when thou art asleep. +Wilt thou be good now and sleep?” + +“I not eepy. Ikes to talk.” + +“Well, talk we then; tell me thy pretty name.” + +“Baby.” And he opened his eyes with amazement at this great hulking +creature's ignorance. + +“Hast none other?” + +“Nay.” + +“What shall I do to pleasure thee, baby? Shall I tell thee a story?” + +“I ikes tories,” said the boy, clapping his hands. + +“Or sing thee a song?” + +“I ikes tongs,” and he became excited. + +“Choose then, a song or a story.” + +“Ting I a tong. Nay, tell I a tory. Nay, ting I a tong. Nay--And the +corners of his little mouth turned down and he had half a mind to weep +because he could not have both, and could not tell which to forego. +Suddenly his little face cleared: “Ting I a tory,” said he. + +“Sing thee a story, baby? Well, after all, why not? And wilt thou sit o' +my knee and hear it?” + +“Yea.” + +“Then I must e'en doff this breastplate, 'Tis too hard for thy soft +cheek. So. And now I must doff this bristly cilice; they would prick thy +tender skin, perhaps make it bleed, as they have me, I see. So. And now +I put on my best pelisse, in honour of thy worshipful visit. See how +soft and warm it is; bless the good soul that sent it; and now I sit +me down; so. And I take thee on my left knee, and put my arm under thy +little head; so, And then the psaltery, and play a little tune; so, not +too loud.” + +“I ikes dat.” + +“I am right glad on't. Now list the story.” + +He chanted a child's story in a sort of recitative, singing a little +moral refrain now and then. The boy listened with rapture. + +“I ikes oo,” said he, “Ot is oo? is oo a man?” + +“Ay, little heart, and a great sinner to boot.” + +“I ikes great tingers. Ting one other tory.” + +Story No. 2 was Chanted. + +“I ubbs oo,” cried the child impetuously, “Ot caft(3) is oo?” + +“I am a hermit, love.” + +“I ubbs vermins. Ting other one.” + +But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her leaden +sceptre over the youthful eyelids. “I is not eepy,” whined he very +faintly, and succumbed. + +Clement laid down his psaltery softly and began to rock his new treasure +in his arms, and to crone over him a little lullaby well known in +Tergou, with which his own mother had often sent him off. + +And the child sank into a profound sleep upon his arm. And he stopped +croning and gazed on him with infinite tenderness, yet sadness; for at +that moment he could not help thinking what might have been but for a +piece of paper with a lie in it. + +He sighed deeply. + +The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with it, and in +it, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was down at his knee with +a timorous hand upon his shoulder. + +“GERARD, YOU DO NOT REJECT US, YOU CANNOT.” + + (1) More than one hermit had received a present of this + kind. + + (2) Query, “looking glass.” + + (3) Craft. He means trade or profession. + + + +CHAPTER XCV + +The startled hermit glared from his nurseling to Margaret, and from +her to him, in amazement, equalled only by his agitation at her so +unexpected return. The child lay asleep on his left arm, and she was +at his right knee; no longer the pale, scared, panting girl he had +overpowered so easily an hour or two ago, but an imperial beauty, with +blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and lips sweetly parted in triumph, +and her whole face radiant with a look he could not quite read; for he +had never yet seen it on her: maternal pride. + +He stared and stared from the child to her, in throbbing amazement. + +“Us?” he gasped at last. And still his wonder-stricken eyes turned to +and fro. + +Margaret was surprised in her turn, It was an age of impressions not +facts, “What!” she cried, “doth not a father know his own child? and a +man of God, too? Fie, Gerard, to pretend! nay, thou art too wise, too +good, not to have--why, I watched thee; and e'en now look at you twain! +'Tis thine own flesh and blood thou holdest to thine heart.” + +Clement trembled, “What words are these,” he stammered, “this angel +mine?” + +“Whose else? since he is mine.” + +Clement turned on the sleeping child, with a look beyond the power of +the pen to describe, and trembled all over, as his eyes seemed to absorb +the little love. + +Margaret's eyes followed his. “He is not a bit like me,” said she +proudly; “but oh, at whiles he is thy very image in little; and see this +golden hair. Thine was the very colour at his age; ask mother else. And +see this mole on his little finger; now look at thine own; there! 'Twas +thy mother let me weet thou wast marked so before him; and oh, Gerard, +'twas this our child found thee for me; for by that little mark on thy +finger I knew thee for his father, when I watched above thy window and +saw thee feed the birds.” Here she seized the child's hand, and kissed +it eagerly, and got half of it into her mouth, Heaven knows how, “Ah! +bless thee, thou didst find thy poor daddy for her, and now thou hast +made us friends again after our little quarrel; the first, the last. +Wast very cruel to me but now, my poor Gerard, and I forgive thee; for +loving of thy child.” + +“Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!” sobbed Clement, choking. And lowered by fasts, +and unnerved by solitude, the once strong man was hysterical, and nearly +fainting. + +Margaret was alarmed, but having experience, her pity was greater than +her fear. “Nay, take not on so,” she murmured soothingly, and put a +gentle hand upon his brow. “Be brave! So, so. Dear heart, thou art not +the first man that hath gone abroad and come back richer by a lovely +little self than he went forth. Being a man of God, take courage, and +say He sends thee this to comfort thee for what thou hast lost in me; +and that is not so very much, my lamb; for sure the better part of love +shall ne'er cool here to thee; though it may in thine, and ought, being +a priest, and parson of Gouda.” + +“I? priest of Gouda? Never!” murmured Clement in a faint voice; “I am +a friar of St. Dominic: yet speak on, sweet music, tell me all that has +happened thee, before we are parted again.” + +Now some would on this have exclaimed against parting at all, and raised +the true question in dispute. But such women as Margaret do not repeat +their mistakes. It is very hard to defeat them twice, where their hearts +are set on a thing. + +She assented, and turned her back on Gouda manse as a thing not to +be recurred to; and she told him her tale, dwelling above all on the +kindness to her of his parents; and while she related her troubles, his +hand stole to hers, and often she felt him wince and tremble with ire, +and often press her hand, sympathizing with her in every vein. + +“Oh, piteous tale of a true heart battling alone against such bitter +odds,” said he. + +“It all seems small, when I see thee here again, and nursing my boy. We +have had a warning, Gerard. True friends like you and me are rare, and +they are mad to part, ere death divideth them.” + +“And that is true,” said Clement, off his guard. + +And then she would have him tell her what he had suffered for her, and +he begged her to excuse him, and she consented; but by questions quietly +revoked her consent and elicited it all; and many a sigh she heaved for +him, and more than once she hid her face in her hands with terror at his +perils, though past. And to console him for all he had gone through, +she kneeled down and put her arms under the little boy, and lifted him +gently up. “Kiss him softly,” she whispered. “Again, again kiss thy fill +if thou canst; he is sound. 'Tis all I can do to comfort thee till thou +art out of this foul den and in thy sweet manse yonder.” + +Clement shook his head. + +“Well,” said she, “let that pass. Know that I have been sore affronted +for want of my lines.” + +“Who hath dared affront thee?” + +“No matter, those that will do it again if thou hast lost them, which +the saints forbid.” + +“I lose them? nay, there they lie, close to thy hand.” + +“Where, where, oh, where?” + +Clement hung his head. “Look in the Vulgate. Heaven forgive me: I +thought thou wert dead, and a saint in heaven.” + +She looked, and on the blank leaves of the poor soul's Vulgate she found +her marriage lines. + +“Thank God!” she cried, “thank God! Oh, bless thee, Gerard, bless thee! +Why, what is here, Gerard?” + +On the other leaves were pinned every scrap of paper she had ever sent +him, and their two names she had once written together in sport, and +the lock of her hair she had given him, and half a silver coin she had +broken with him, and a straw she had sucked her soup with the first day +he ever saw her. + +When Margaret saw these proofs of love and signs of a gentle heart +bereaved, even her exultation at getting back her marriage lines was +overpowered by gushing tenderness. She almost staggered, and her hand +went to her bosom, and she leaned her brow against the stone cell and +wept so silently that he did not see she was weeping; indeed she would +not let him, for she felt that to befriend him now she must be the +stronger; and emotion weakens. + +“Gerard,” said she, “I know you are wise and good. You must have a +reason for what you are doing, let it seem ever so unreasonable. Talk we +like old friends. Why are you buried alive?” + +“Margaret, to escape temptation. My impious ire against those two had +its root in the heart; that heart then I must deaden, and, Dei gratia, I +shall. Shall I, a servant of Christ and of the Church, court temptation? +Shall I pray daily to be led out on't, and walk into it with open eyes?” + +“That is good sense anyway,” said Margaret, with a consummate +affectation of candour. + +“'Tis unanswerable,” said Clement, with a sigh. + +“We shall see. Tell me, have you escaped temptation here? Why I ask +is, when I am alone, my thoughts are far more wild and foolish than in +company. Nay, speak sooth; come!” + +“I must needs own I have been worse tempted here with evil imaginations +than in the world.” + +“There now.” + +“Ay, but so were Anthony and Jerome, Macarius and Hilarion, Benedict, +Bernard, and all the saints. 'Twill wear off.” + +“How do you know?” + +“I feel sure it will.” + +“Guessing against knowledge. Here 'tis men folk are sillier than us that +be but women. Wise in their own conceits, they will not let themselves +see; their stomachs are too high to be taught by their eyes. A woman, if +she went into a hole in a bank to escape temptation, and there found it, +would just lift her farthingale and out on't, and not e'en know how wise +she was, till she watched a man in like plight.” + +“Nay, I grant humility and a teachable spirit are the roads to wisdom; +but when all is said, here I wrestle but with imagination. At Gouda she +I love as no priest or monk must love any but the angels, she will tempt +a weak soul, unwilling, yet not loth to be tempted.” + +“Ay, that is another matter; I should tempt thee then? to what, i' God's +name?” + +“Who knows? The flesh is weak.” + +“Speak for yourself, my lad. Why, you are thinking of some other +Margaret, not Margaret a Peter. Was ever my mind turned to folly and +frailty? Stay, is it because you were my husband once, as these lines +avouch? Think you the road to folly is beaten for you more than another? +Oh! how shallow are the wise, and how little able are you to read me, +who can read you so well from top to toe, Come, learn thine A B C. Were +a stranger to proffer me unchaste love, I should shrink a bit, no doubt, +and feel sore, but I should defend myself without making a coil; for +men, I know, are so, the best of them sometimes. But if you, that have +been my husband, and are my child's father, were to offer to humble me +so in mine own eyes, and thine, and his, either I should spit in thy +face, Gerard, or, as I am not a downright vulgar woman, I should snatch +the first weapon at hand and strike thee dead.” + +And Margaret's eyes flashed fire, and her nostrils expanded, that it was +glorious to see; and no one that did see her could doubt her sincerity. + +“I had not the sense to see that,” said Gerard quietly. And he pondered. + +Margaret eyed him in silence, and soon recovered her composure. + +“Let not you and I dispute,” said she gently; “speak we of other things. +Ask me of thy folk.” + +“My father?” + +“Well, and warms to thee and me. Poor soul, a drew glaive on those twain +that day, but Jorian Ketel and I we mastered him, and he drove them +forth his house for ever.” + +“That may not be; he must take them back.” + +“That he will never do for us. You know the man; he is dour as iron; yet +would he do it for one word from one that will not speak it.” + +“Who?” + +“The vicar of Gouda, The old man will be at the manse to-morrow, I +hear.” + +“How you come back to that.” + +“Forgive me: I am but a woman. It is us for nagging; shouldst keep me +from it wi' questioning of me.” + +“My sister Kate?” + +“Alas!” + +“What, hath ill befallen e'en that sweet lily? Out and alas!” + +“Be calm, sweetheart, no harm hath her befallen. Oh, nay, nay, far fro' +that.” Then Margaret forced herself to be composed, and in a low, sweet, +gentle voice she murmured to him thus: + +“My poor Gerard, Kate hath left her trouble behind her. For the manner +on't, 'twas like the rest. Ah, such as she saw never thirty, nor ever +shall while earth shall last. She smiled in pain too. A well, then, thus +'twas: she was took wi' a languor and a loss of all her pains.” + +“A loss of her pains? I understand you not.” + +“Ay, you are not experienced; indeed, e'en thy mother almost blinded +herself and said, ''Tis maybe a change for the better.' But Joan Ketel, +which is an understanding woman, she looked at her and said, 'Down sun, +down wind!' And the gossips sided and said, 'Be brave, you that are her +mother, for she is half way to the saints.' And thy mother wept sore, +but Kate would not let her; and one very ancient woman, she said to thy +mother, 'She will die as easy as she lived hard.' And she lay painless +best part of three days, a sipping of heaven afore-hand, And, my dear, +when she was just parting, she asked for 'Gerard's little boy,' and +I brought him and set him on the bed, and the little thing behaved as +peaceably as he does now. But by this time she was past speaking; but +she pointed to a drawer, and her mother knew what to look for: it was +two gold angels thou hadst given her years ago. Poor soul! she had kept +then, till thou shouldst come home. And she nodded towards the little +boy, and looked anxious; but we understood her, and put the pieces in +his two hands, and when his little fingers closed on them, she smiled +content. And so she gave her little earthly treasures to her favourite's +child--for you were her favourite--and her immortal jewel to God, +and passed so sweetly we none of us knew justly when she left us. +Well-a-day, well-a-day!” + +Gerard wept. + +“She hath not left her like on earth,” he sobbed. “Oh, how the +affections of earth curl softly round my heart! I cannot help it; God +made them after all. Speak on, sweet Margaret at thy voice the past +rolls its tides back upon me; the loves and the hopes of youth come fair +and gliding into my dark cell, and darker bosom, on waves of memory and +music.” + +“Gerard, I am loth to grieve you, but Kate cried a little when she first +took ill at you not being there to close her eyes.” + +Gerard sighed. + +“You were within a league, but hid your face from her.” + +He groaned. + +“There, forgive me for nagging; I am but a woman; you would not have +been so cruel to your own flesh and blood knowingly, would you?” + +“Oh, no.” + +“Well, then, know that thy brother Sybrandt lies in my charge with a +broken back, fruit of thy curse.” + +“Mea culpa! mea culpa!” + +“He is very penitent; be yourself and forgive him this night.” + +“I have forgiven him long ago.” + +“Think you he can believe that from any mouth but yours? Come! he is but +about two butts' length hence.” + +“So near? Why, where?” + +“At Gouda manse. I took him there yestreen. For I know you, the curse +was scarce cold on your lips when you repented it” (Gerard nodded +assent), “and I said to myself, Gerard will thank me for taking Sybrandt +to die under his roof; he will not beat his breast and cry mea culpa, +yet grudge three footsteps to quiet a withered brother on his last bed. +He may have a bee in his bonnet, but he is not a hypocrite, a thing all +pious words and uncharitable deeds.” + +Gerard literally staggered where he sat at this tremendous thrust. + +“Forgive me for nagging,” said she. “Thy mother too is waiting for thee. +Is it well done to keep her on thorns so long She will not sleep this +night, Bethink thee, Gerard, she is all to thee that I am to this sweet +child. Ah, I think so much more of mothers since I had my little Gerard. +She suffered for thee, and nursed thee, and tended thee from boy to man. +Priest monk, hermit, call thyself what thou wilt, to her thou art but +one thing; her child.” + +“Where is she?” murmured Gerard, in a quavering voice. + +“At Gouda manse, wearing the night in prayer and care.” + +Then Margaret saw the time was come for that appeal to his reason she +had purposely reserved till persuasion should have paved the way for +conviction. So the smith first softens the iron by fire, and then brings +down the sledge hammer. + +She showed him, but in her own good straightforward Dutch, that his +present life was only a higher kind of selfishness, spiritual egotism; +whereas a priest had no more right to care only for his own soul than +only for his own body. That was not his path to heaven. “But,” said she, +“whoever yet lost his soul by saving the souls of others! the Almighty +loves him who thinks of others; and when He shall see thee caring for +the souls of the folk the duke hath put into thine hand, He will care +ten times more for thy soul than He does now.” + +Gerard was struck by this remark. “Art shrewd in dispute,” said he. + +“Far from it,” was the reply, “only my eyes are not bandaged with +conceit.(1) So long as Satan walks the whole earth, tempting men, and +so long as the sons of Belial do never lock themselves in caves, but run +like ants to and fro corrupting others, the good man that skulks apart +plays the devil's game, or at least gives him the odds: thou a soldier +of Christ? ask thy Comrade Denys, who is but a soldier of the duke, ask +him if ever he skulked in a hole and shunned the battle because forsooth +in battle is danger as well as glory and duty. For thy sole excuse is +fear; thou makest no secret on't, Go to, no duke nor king hath such +cowardly soldiers as Christ hath. What was that you said in the church +at Rotterdam about the man in the parable that buried his talent in the +earth, and so offended the giver? Thy wonderful gift for preaching, is +it not a talent, and a gift from thy Creator?” + +“Certes; such as it is.” + +“And hast thou laid it out? or buried it? To whom hast thou preached +these seven months? to bats and owls? Hast buried it in one hole with +thyself and thy once good wits? + +“The Dominicans are the friars preachers. 'Tis for preaching they were +founded, so thou art false to Dominic as well as to his Master. + +“Do you remember, Gerard, when we were young together, which now are old +before our time, as we walked handed in the fields, did you but see a +sheep cast, ay, three fields off, you would leave your sweetheart (by +her good will) and run and lift the sheep for charity? Well, then, at +Gouda is not one sheep in evil plight, but a whole flock; some cast, +some strayed, some sick, some tainted, some a being devoured, and all +for the want of a shepherd. Where is their shepherd? lurking in a den +like a wolf, a den in his own parish; out fie! out fie! + +“I scented thee out, in part, by thy kindness to the little birds. Take +note, you Gerard Eliassoen must love something, 'tis in your blood; you +were born to't. Shunning man, you do but seek earthly affection a peg +lower than man.” + +Gerard interrupted her. “The birds are God's creatures, His innocent +creatures, and I do well to love them, being God's creatures.” + +“What, are they creatures of the same God that we are, that he is who +lies upon thy knee?” + +“You know they are.” + +“Then what pretence for shunning us and being kind to them? Sith man +is one of the animals, why pick him out to shun? Is't because he is of +animals the paragon? What, you court the young of birds, and abandon +your own young? Birds need but bodily food, and having wings, deserve +scant pity if they cannot fly and find it. But that sweet dove upon thy +knee, he needeth not carnal only, but spiritual food. He is thine as +well as mine; and I have done my share. He will soon be too much for me, +and I look to Gouda's parson to teach him true piety and useful lore. Is +he not of more value than many sparrows?” + +Gerard started and stammered an affirmation. For she waited for his +reply. + +“You wonder,” continued she, “to hear me quote holy writ so glib. I have +pored over it this four years, and why? Not because God wrote it, but +because I saw it often in thy hands ere thou didst leave me. Heaven +forgive me, I am but a woman. What thinkest thou of this sentence? 'Let +your work so shine before men that they may see your good works and +glorify your Father which is in heaven!' What is a saint in a sink +better than 'a light under a bushel!' + +“Therefore, since the sheep committed to thy charge bleat for thee and +cry, 'Oh desert us no longer, but come to Gouda manse;' since I, who +know thee ten times better than thou knowest thyself, do pledge my soul +it is for thy soul's weal to go to Gouda manse--since duty to thy child, +too long abandoned, calls thee to Gouda manse--since thy sovereign, whom +holy writ again bids thee honour, sends thee to Gouda manse--since the +Pope, whom the Church teaches thee to revere hath absolved thee of thy +monkish vows, and orders thee to Gouda manse--” + +“Ah!” + +“Since thy grey-haired mother watches for thee in dole and care, and +turneth oft the hour-glass and sigheth sore that thou comest so slow to +her at Gouda manse--since thy brother, withered by thy curse, awaits thy +forgiveness and thy prayers for his soul, now lingering in his body, at +Gouda manse--take thou in thine arms the sweet bird wi' crest of gold +that nestles to thy bosom, and give me thy hand; thy sweetheart erst and +wife, and now thy friend, the truest friend to thee this night that ere +man had, and come with me to Gouda manse!” + +“IT IS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!” cried Clement loudly. + +“Then hearken it, and come forth to Gouda manse!” + +The battle was won. + +Margaret lingered behind, cast her eye rapidly round the furniture, and +selected the Vulgate and the psaltery. The rest she sighed at, and let +it lie. The breastplate and the cilice of bristles she took and dashed +with feeble ferocity on the floor. + +Then seeing Gerard watch her with surprise from the outside, +she coloured and said, “I am but a woman: 'little' will still be +'spiteful.'” + +“Why encumber thyself with those? They are safe.” + +“Oh, she had a reason.” + +And with this they took the road to Gouda parsonage, The moon and stars +were so bright, it seemed almost as light as day. + +Suddenly Gerard stopped. “My poor little birds!” + +“What of them?” + +“They will miss their food. I feed them every day.” + +“The child hath a piece of bread in his cowl, Take that, and feed them +now against the morn.” + +“I will. Nay, I will not, He is as innocent, and nearer to me and to +thee.” + +Margaret drew a long breath, “'Tis well, Hadst taken it, I might have +hated thee; I am but a woman.” + +When they had gone about a quarter of a mile, Gerard sighed. + +“Margaret,” said he, “I must e'en rest; he is too heavy for me.” + +“Then give him me, and take thou these. Alas! alas! I mind when thou +wouldst have run with the child on one shoulder, and the mother on +t'other.” + +And Margaret carried the boy. + +“I trow,” said Gerard, looking down, “overmuch fasting is not good for a +man.” + +“A many die of it each year, winter time,” replied Margaret. + +Gerard pondered these simple words, and eyed her askant, carrying the +child with perfect ease. When they had gone nearly a mile he said with +considerable surprise, “You thought it was but two butts' length.” + +“Not I.” + +“Why, you said so.” + +“That is another matter.” She then turned on him the face of a Madonna. +“I lied,” said she sweetly. “And to save your soul and body, I'd maybe +tell a worse lie than that, at need. I am but a woman, Ah, well, it is +but two butts' length from here at any rate.” + +“Without a lie?” + +“Humph! Three, without a lie.” + +And sure enough, in a few minutes they came up to the manse. + +A candle was burning in the vicar's parlour. “She is waking still,” + whispered Margaret. + +“Beautiful! beautiful!” said Clement, and stopped to look at it. + +“What, in Heaven's name?” + +“That little candle, seen through the window at night. Look an it be +not like some fair star of size prodigious: it delighteth the eyes, and +warmeth the heart of those outside.” + +“Come, and I'll show thee something better,” said Margaret, and led him +on tiptoe to the window. + +They looked in, and there was Catherine kneeling on the hassock, with +her “hours” before her. + +“Folk can pray out of a cave,” whispered Margaret. “Ay and hit heaven +with their prayers; for 'tis for a sight of thee she prayeth, and thou +art here. Now, Gerard, be prepared; she is not the woman you knew her; +her children's troubles have greatly broken the brisk, light-hearted +soul. And I see she has been weeping e'en now; she will have given thee +up, being so late.” + +“Let me get to her,” said Clement hastily, trembling all over. + +“That door! I will bide here.” + +When Gerard was gone to the door, Margaret, fearing the sudden surprise, +gave one sharp tap at the window and cried, “Mother!” in a loud, +expressive voice that Catherine read at once. She clasped her hands +together and had half risen from her kneeling posture when the door +burst open and Clement flung himself wildly on his knees at her knees, +with his arms out to embrace her. She uttered a cry such as only a +mother could, “Ah! my darling, my darling!” and clung sobbing round his +neck. And true it was, she saw neither a hermit, a priest, nor a monk, +but just her child, lost, and despaired of, and in her arms, And after a +little while Margaret came in, with wet eyes and cheeks, and a holy calm +of affection settled by degrees on these sore troubled ones. And +they sat all three together, hand in hand, murmuring sweet and loving +converse; and he who sat in the middle drank right and left their true +affection and their humble but genuine wisdom, and was forced to eat a +good nourishing meal, and at daybreak was packed off to a snowy bed, +and by and by awoke, as from a hideous dream, friar and hermit no more, +Clement no more, but Gerard Eliassoen, parson of Gouda. + + (1) I think she means prejudice. + + + +CHAPTER XCVI + +Margaret went back to Rotterdam long ere Gerard awoke, and actually left +her boy behind her. She sent the faithful, sturdy Reicht off to Gouda +directly with a vicar's grey frock and large felt hat, and with minute +instructions how to govern her new master. + +Then she went to Jorian Ketel; for she said to herself, “he is the +closest I ever met, so he is the man for me,” and in concert with him +she did two mortal sly things; yet not, in my opinion, virulent, though +she thought they were; but if I am asked what were these deeds without +a name, the answer is, that as she, who was, 'but a woman,' kept them +secret till her dying day, I, who am a man--“Verbum non amplius addam.” + +She kept away from Gouda parsonage. + +Things that pass little noticed in the heat of argument sometimes rankle +afterwards; and when she came to go over all that had passed, she was +offended at Gerard thinking she could ever forget the priest in the some +time lover, “For what did he take me?” said she. And this raised a great +shyness which really she would not otherwise have felt, being downright +innocent, And pride sided with modesty, and whispered, “Go no more to +Gouda parsonage.” + +She left little Gerard there to complete the conquest her maternal heart +ascribed to him, not to her own eloquence and sagacity, and to anchor +his father for ever to humanity. + +But this generous stroke of policy cost her heart dear. She had never +yet been parted from her boy an hour, and she felt sadly strange as well +as desolate without him. After the first day it became intolerable; and +what does the poor soul do, but creep at dark up to Gouda parsonage, and +lurk about the premises like a thief till she saw Reicht Heynes in the +kitchen alone, Then she tapped softly at the window and said, “Reicht, +for pity's sake bring him out to me unbeknown.” With Margaret the person +who occupied her thoughts at the time ceased to have a name, and sank to +a pronoun. + +Reicht soon found an excuse for taking little Gerard out, and there was +a scene of mutual rapture, followed by mutual tears when mother and boy +parted again. + +And it was arranged that Reicht should take him half way to Rotterdam +every day, at a set hour, and Margaret meet them. And at these meetings, +after the raptures, and after mother and child had gambolled together +like a young cat and her first kitten, the boy would sometimes amuse +himself alone at their feet, and the two women generally seized this +opportunity to talk very seriously about Luke Peterson, This began thus: + +“Reicht,” said Margaret, “I as good as promised him to marry Luke +Peterson. 'Say you the word,' quoth I, 'and I'll wed him.'” + +“Poor Luke!” + +“Prithee, why poor Luke?” + +“To be bandied about so, atwixt yea and nay.” + +“Why, Reicht, you have not ever been so simple as to cast an eye of +affection on the boy, that you take his part?” + +“Me?” said Reicht, with a toss of the head. + +“Oh, I ask your pardon. Well, then, you can do me a good turn.” + +“Whisht! whisper! that little darling is listening to every word, and +eyes like saucers.” + +On this both their heads would have gone under one cap. + +Two women plotting against one boy? Oh, you great cowardly serpents! + +But when these stolen meetings had gone on for about five days Margaret +began to feel the injustice of it, and to be irritated as well as +unhappy. + +And she was crying about it when a cart came to her door, and in it, +clean as a new penny, his beard close shaved, his hands white as snow, +and a little colour in his pale face, sat the Vicar of Gouda in the grey +frock and large felt hat she had sent him. + +She ran upstairs directly, and washed away all traces of her tears, +and put on a cap, which being just taken out of the drawer was cleaner, +theoretically, than the one she had on, and came down to him. + +He seized both her hands and kissed them, and a tear fell upon them. She +turned her head away at that to hide her own which started. + +“My sweet Margaret,” he cried, “why is this? Why hold you aloof from +your own good deed? we have been waiting for you every day, and no +Margaret.” + +“You said things.” + +“What! when I was a hermit, and a donkey.” + +“Ay! no matter, you said things. And you had no reason.” + +“Forget all I said there. Who hearkens the ravings of a maniac? for I +see now that in a few months more I should have been a gibbering idiot; +yet no mortal could have persuaded me away but you. Oh what an outlay of +wit and goodness was yours! But it is not here I can thank and bless +you as I ought. No, it is in the home you have given me, among the sheep +whose shepherd you have made me; already I love them dearly; there it +is I must thank 'the truest friend ever man had.' So now I say to you as +erst you said to me, come to Gouda manse.” + +“Humph! we will see about that.” + +“Why, Margaret, think you I had ever kept the dear child so long, but +that I made sure you would be back to him from day to day? Oh he curls +round my very heartstrings, but what is my title to him compared to +thine? Confess now, thou hast had hard thoughts of me for this.” + +“Nay, nay, not I. Ah! thou art thyself again; wast ever thoughtful of +others. I have half a mind to go to Gouda manse, for your saying that.” + +“Come then, with half thy mind, 'tis worth the whole of other folk's.” + +“Well, I dare say I will; but there is no such mighty hurry,” said she +coolly (she was literally burning to go). “Tell me first how you agree +with your folk.” + +“Why, already my poor have taken root in my heart.” + +“I thought as much.” + +“And there are such good creatures among them; simple and rough, and +superstitious, but wonderfully good.” + +“Oh I leave you alone for seeing a grain of good among a bushel of ill.” + +“Whisht! whisht! And Margaret, two of them have been ill friends for +four years, and came to the manse each to get on my blind side. But give +the glory to God I got on their bright side, and made them friends, and +laugh at themselves for their folly.” + +“But are you in very deed their vicar? answer me that.” + +“Certes; have I not been to the bishop and taken the oath, and rung the +church bell, and touched the altar, the missal, and the holy cup before +the church-wardens? And they have handed me the parish seal; see, here +it is. Nay, 'tis a real vicar inviting a true friend to Gouda manse.” + +“Then my mind is at ease. Tell me oceans more.” + +“Well, sweet one, nearest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple that +my guardian angel and his (her name thou knowest even by this turning of +thy head away) hath placed beneath my roof. Sybrandt and I are that we +never were till now, brothers. 'Twould gladden thee, yet sadden thee to +hear how we kissed and forgave one another. He is full of thy praises, +and wholly in a pious mind; he says he is happier since his trouble than +e'er he was in the days of his strength. Oh! out of my house he ne'er +shall go to any place but heaven.” + +“Tell me somewhat that happened thyself, poor soul! All this is good, +but yet no tidings to me. Do I not know thee of old?” + +“Well, let me see. At first I was much dazzled by the sun-light, +and could not go abroad (owl!), but that is passed; and good Reicht +Heynes--humph!” + +“What of her?” + +“This to thine ear only, for she is a diamond. Her voice goes through +me like a knife, and all voices seem loud but thine, which is so mellow +sweet. Stay, now I'll fit ye with tidings; I spake yesterday with an old +man that conceits he is ill-tempered, and sweats to pass for such with +others, but oh! so threadbare, and the best good heart beneath.” + +“Why, 'tis a parish of angels,” said Margaret ironically. + +“Then why dost thou keep out on't?” retorted Gerard. “Well, he was +telling me there was no parish in Holland where the devil hath such +power as at Gouda; and among his instances, says he, 'We had a hermit, +the holiest in Holland; but being Gouda, the devil came for him this +week, and took him, bag and baggage; not a ha'porth of him left but a +goodish piece of his skin, just for all the world like a hedgehog's, and +a piece o' old iron furbished up.'” + +Margaret smiled. + +“Ay, but,” continued Gerard, “the strange thing is, the cave has verily +fallen in; and had I been so perverse as resist thee, it had assuredly +buried me dead there where I had buried myself alive. Therefore in +this I see the finger of Providence, condemning my late, approving my +present, way of life. What sayest thou?” + +“Nay, can I pierce the like mysteries? I am but a woman.” + +“Somewhat more, methinks. This very tale proves thee my guardian angel, +and all else avouches it, so come to Gouda manse.” + +“Well, go you on, I'll follow.” + +“Nay, in the cart with me.” + +“Not so.” + +“Why?” + +“Can I tell why and wherefore, being a woman? All I know is I seem--to +feel--to wish--to come alone.” + +“So be it then. I leave thee the cart, being, as thou sayest, a woman, +and I'll go a-foot, being a man again, with the joyful tidings of thy +coming.” + +When Margaret reached the manse the first thing she saw was the two +Gerards together, the son performing his capriccios on the plot, and the +father slouching on a chair, in his great hat, with pencil and paper, +trying very patiently to sketch him. + +After a warm welcome he showed her his attempts. “But in vain I strive +to fix him,” said he, “for he is incarnate quick silver, Yet do but note +his changes, infinite, but none ungracious; all is supple and easy; and +how he melteth from one posture to another,” He added presently, “Woe to +illuminators I looking on thee, sir baby, I see what awkward, lopsided, +ungainly toads I and my fellows painted missals with, and called them +cherubs and seraphs,” Finally he threw the paper away in despair, and +Margaret conveyed it secretly into her bosom. + +At night when they sat round the peat fire he bade them observe how +beautiful the brass candlesticks and other glittering metals were in +the glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this observation, +“And oh the sheets I lie in here,” said he, “often my conscience +pricketh me, and saith, 'Who art thou to lie in lint like web of snow?' +Dives was ne'er so flaxed as I. And to think that there are folk in +the world that have all the beautiful things which I have here yet not +content. Let them pass six months in a hermit's cell, seeing no face of +man, then will they find how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is, +and eke that men and women are God's fairest creatures. Margaret was +always fair, but never to my eye so bright as now.” Margaret shook her +head incredulously, Gerard continued, “My mother was ever good and kind, +but I noted not her exceeding comeliness till now.” + +“Nor I neither,” said Catherine; “a score years ago I might pass in a +crowd, but not now.” + +Gerard declared to her that each age had its beauty. “See this mild grey +eye,” said he, “that hath looked motherly love upon so many of us, +all that love hath left its shadow, and that shadow is a beauty which +defieth Time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See this +well-shaped brow, where comliness Just passeth into reverence. Art +beautiful in my eyes, mother dear.” + +“And that is enough for me, my darling, 'Tis time you were in bed, +child. Ye have to preach the morn.” + +And Reicht Heynes and Catherine interchanged a look which said, “We two +have an amiable maniac to superintend; calls everything beautiful.” + +The next day was Sunday, and they heard him preach in his own church. It +was crammed with persons, who came curious, but remained devout. Never +was his wonderful gift displayed more powerfully; he was himself deeply +moved by the first sight of all his people, and his bowels yearned over +this flock he had so long neglected. In a single sermon, which lasted +two hours and seemed to last but twenty minutes, he declared the whole +scripture: he terrified the impenitent and thoughtless, confirmed the +wavering, consoled the bereaved and the afflicted, uplifted the heart +of the poor, and when he ended, left the multitude standing rapt, and +unwilling to believe the divine music of his voice and soul had ceased. + +Need I say that two poor women in a corner sat entranced, with streaming +eyes. + +“Wherever gat he it all?” whispered Catherine, with her apron to her +eyes. “By our Lady not from me.” + +As soon as they were by themselves Margaret threw her arms round +Catherine's neck and kissed her. + +“Mother, mother, I am not quite a happy woman, but oh I am a proud one.” + +And she vowed on her knees never by word or deed to let her love come +between this young saint and Heaven. + +Reader, did you ever stand by the seashore after a storm, when the wind +happens to have gone down suddenly? The waves cannot cease with their +cause; indeed, they seem at first to the ear to lash the sounding shore +more fiercely than while the wind blew. Still we are conscious that +inevitable calm has begun, and is now but rocking them to sleep. So it +was with those true and tempest-tossed lovers from that eventful night +when they went hand in hand beneath the stars from Gouda hermitage to +Gouda manse. + +At times a loud wave would every now and then come roaring, but it was +only memory's echo of the tempest that had swept their lives; the storm +itself was over, and the boiling waters began from that moment to go +down, down, down, gently, but inevitably. + +This image is to supply the place of interminable details that would be +tedious and tame. What best merits attention at present is the general +situation, and the strange complication of feeling that arose from it. +History itself, though a far more daring story-teller than romance, +presents few things so strange(1) as the footing on which Gerard and +Margaret now lived for many years. United by present affection, past +familiarity, and a marriage irregular but legal; separated by Holy +Church and by their own consciences, which sided unreservedly with +Holy Church; separated by the Church, but united by a living pledge of +affection, lawful in every sense at its date. + +And living but a few miles from one another, and she calling his mother +“mother,” For some years she always took her boy to Gouda on Sunday, +returning home at dark, Go when she would, it was always fete at Gouda +manse, and she was received like a little queen. Catherine in these days +was nearly always with her, and Eli very often, Tergou had so little to +tempt them compared with Rotterdam; and at last they left it altogether, +and set up in the capital. + +And thus the years glided; so barren now of striking incidents, so void +of great hopes, and free from great fears, and so like one another, +that without the help of dates I could scarcely indicate the progress of +time. + +However, early next year, 1471, the Duchess of Burgundy, with the open +dissent, but secret connivance of the Duke, raised forces to enable her +dethroned brother, Edward the Fourth of England, to invade that kingdom; +our old friend Denys thus enlisted, and passing through Rotterdam to the +ships, heard on his way that Gerard was a priest, and Margaret alone. On +this he told Margaret that marriage was not a habit of his, but that as +his comrade had put it out of his own power to keep troth, he felt bound +to offer to keep it for him; “for a comrade's honour is dear to us as +our own,” said he. + +She stared, then smiled, “I choose rather to be still thy she-comrade,” + said she; “closer acquainted, we might not agree so well,” And in her +character of she-comrade she equipped him with a new sword of Antwerp +make, and a double handful of silver. “I give thee no gold,” said she, +“for 'tis thrown away as quick as silver, and harder to win back. Heaven +send thee safe out of all thy perils; there be famous fair women yonder +to beguile thee, with their faces, as well as men to hash thee with +their axes.” + +He was hurried on board at La Vere, and never saw Gerard at that time. + +In 1473 Sybrandt began to fail. His pitiable existence had been +sweetened by his brother's inventive tenderness and his own contented +spirit, which, his antecedents considered, was truly remarkable, As for +Gerard, the day never passed that he did not devote two hours to him; +reading or singing to him, praying with him, and drawing him about in a +soft carriage Margaret and he had made between them. When the poor soul +found his end near, he begged Margaret might be sent for. She came +at once, and almost with his last breath he sought once more that +forgiveness she had long ago accorded. She remained by him till the +last; and he died, blessing and blessed, in the arms of the two true +lovers he had parted for life. Tantum religio scit suadere boni. + +1474 there was a wedding in Margaret's house, Luke Peterson and Reicht +Heynes. + +This may seem less strange if I give the purport of the dialogue +interrupted some time back. + +Margaret went on to say, “Then in that case you can easily make him +fancy you, and for my sake you must, for my conscience it pricketh me, +and I must needs fit him with a wife, the best I know.” Margaret then +instructed Reicht to be always kind and good-humoured to Luke; and she +would be a model of peevishness to him, “But be not thou so simple as +run me down,” said she, “Leave that to me. Make thou excuses for me; I +will make myself black enow.” + +Reicht received these instructions like an order to sweep a room, and +obeyed them punctually. + +When they had subjected poor Luke to this double artillery for a couple +of years, he got to look upon Margaret as his fog and wind, and Reicht +as his sunshine; and his affections transferred themselves, he scarce +knew how or when. + +On the wedding day Reicht embraced Margaret, and thanked her almost +with tears. “He was always my fancy,” said she, “from the first hour I +clapped eyes on him.” + +“Heyday, you never told me that. What, Reicht, are you as sly as the +rest?” + +“Nay, nay,” said Reicht eagerly; “but I never thought you would really +part with him to me. In my country the mistress looks to be served +before the maid.” + +Margaret settled them in her shop, and gave them half the profits. + +1476 and 7 were years of great trouble to Gerard, whose conscience +compelled him to oppose the Pope. His Holiness, siding with the Grey +Friars in their determination to swamp every palpable distinction +between the Virgin Mary and her Son, bribed the Christian world into his +crotchet by proffering pardon of all sins to such as would add to +the Ave Mary this clause: “and blessed be thy Mother Anna, from whom, +without blot of sin, proceeded thy virgin flesh.” + +Gerard, in common with many of the northern clergy, held this sentence +to be flat heresy. He not only refused to utter it in his church, but +warned his parishioners against using it in private; and he refused to +celebrate the new feast the Pope invented at the same time, viz., “the +feast of the miraculous conception of the Virgin.” + +But this drew upon him the bitter enmity of the Franciscans, and they +were strong enough to put him into more than one serious difficulty, and +inflict many a little mortification on him. In emergencies he consulted +Margaret, and she always did one of two things, either she said, “I do +not see my way,” and refused to guess; or else she gave him advice that +proved wonderfully sagacious. He had genius, but she had marvellous +tact. + +And where affection came in and annihilated the woman's judgment, he +stepped in his turn to her aid. Thus though she knew she was spoiling +little Gerard, and Catherine was ruining him for life, she would not +part with him, but kept him at home, and his abilities uncultivated. And +there was a shrewd boy of nine years, instead of learning to work +and obey, playing about and learning selfishness from their infinite +unselfishness, and tyrannizing with a rod of iron over two women, both +of them sagacious and spirited, but reduced by their fondness for him to +the exact level of idiots. + +Gerard saw this with pain, and interfered with mild but firm +remonstrance; and after a considerable struggle prevailed, and got +little Gerard sent to the best school in Europe, kept by one Haaghe at +Deventer: this was in 1477. Many tears were shed, but the great progress +the boy made at that famous school reconciled Margaret in some degree, +and the fidelity of Reicht Heynes, now her partner in business, enabled +her to spend weeks at a time hovering over her boy at Deventer. + +And so the years glided; and these two persons, subjected to as strong +and constant a temptation as can well be conceived, were each other's +guardian angels, and not each other's tempters. + +To be sure the well-greased morality of the next century, which taught +that solemn vows to God are sacred in proportion as they are reasonable, +had at that time entered no single mind; and the alternative to these +two minds was self-denial or sacrilege. + +It was a strange thing to hear them talk with unrestrained tenderness to +one another of their boy, and an icy barrier between themselves all the +time. + +Eight years had now passed thus, and Gerard, fairly compared with men in +general, was happy. + +But Margaret was not. + +The habitual expression of her face was a sweet pensiveness, but +sometimes she was irritable and a little petulant. She even snapped +Gerard now and then. And when she went to see him, if a monk was with +him she would turn her back and go home. She hated the monks for having +parted Gerard and her, and she inoculated her boy with a contempt for +them which lasted him till his dying day. + +Gerard bore with her like an angel. He knew her heart of gold, and hoped +this ill gust would blow over. + +He himself being now the right man in the right place this many years, +loving his parishioners, and beloved by them, and occupied from morn +till night in good works, recovered the natural cheerfulness of his +disposition. To tell the truth, a part of his jocoseness was a blind; he +was the greatest peace-maker, except Mr. Harmony in the play, that ever +was born. He reconciled more enemies in ten years than his predecessors +had done in three hundred; and one of his manoeuvres in the peacemaking +art was to make the quarrellers laugh at the cause of quarrel. So did +he undermine the demon of discord. But independently of that, he really +loved a harmless joke. He was a wonderful tamer of animals, squirrels, +bares, fawns, etc. So half in jest a parishioner who had a mule supposed +to be possessed with a devil gave it him and said, “Tame this vagabone, +parson, if ye can.” Well, in about six months, Heaven knows how, he +not only tamed Jack, but won his affections to such a degree, that Jack +would come running to his whistle like a dog. + +One day, having taken shelter from a shower on the stone settle outside +a certain public-house, he heard a toper inside, a stranger, boasting he +could take more at a draught than any man in Gouda. He instantly marched +in and said, “What, lads, do none of ye take him up for the honour of +Gouda? Shall it be said that there came hither one from another parish a +greater sot than any of us? Nay, then, I your parson do take him up. +Go to, I'll find thee a parishioner shall drink more at a draught than +thou.” + +A bet was made; Gerard whistled; in clattered Jack--for he was taught +to come into a room with the utmost composure--and put his nose into his +backer's hand. + +“A pair of buckets!” shouted Gerard, “and let us see which of these two +sons of asses can drink most at a draught.” + +On another occasion two farmers had a dispute whose hay was the best. +Failing to convince each other, they said, “We'll ask parson;” for by +this time he was their referee in every mortal thing. + +“How lucky you thought of me!” said Gerard, “Why, I have got one staying +with me who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a double +handful apiece.” + +So when they came, he had them into the parlour, and put each bundle on +a chair. Then he whistled, and in walked Jack. + +“Lord a mercy!” said one of the farmers. + +“Jack,” said the parson, in the tone of conversation, “just tell us +which is the best hay of these two.” + +Jack sniffed them both, and made his choice directly, proving his +sincerity by eating every morsel. The farmers slapped their thighs, and +scratched their heads. “To think of we not thinking o' that,” And they +each sent Jack a truss. + +So Gerard got to be called the merry parson of Gouda. But Margaret, who +like most loving women had no more sense of humour than a turtle-dove, +took this very ill. “What!” said she to herself, “is there nothing sore +at the bottom of his heart that he can go about playing the zany?” She +could understand pious resignation and content, but not mirth, in true +lovers parted. And whilst her woman's nature was perturbed by this +gust (and women seem more subject to gusts than men) came that terrible +animal, a busybody, to work upon her. Catherine saw she was not happy, +and said to her, “Your boy is gone from you. I would not live alone all +my days if I were you.” + +“He is more alone than I,” sighed Margaret. + +“Oh, a man is a man, but a woman is a woman. You must not think all of +him and none of yourself. Near is your kirtle, but nearer is your smock. +Besides, he is a priest, and can do no better. But you are not a priest. +He has got his parish, and his heart is in that. Bethink thee! Time +flies; overstay not thy market. Wouldst not like to have three or four +more little darlings about thy knee now they have robbed thee of poor +little Gerard, and sent him to yon nasty school?” And so she worked upon +a mind already irritated. + +Margaret had many suitors ready to marry her at a word or even a +look, and among them two merchants of the better class, Van Schelt and +Oostwagen. “Take one of those two,” said Catherine. + +“Well, I will ask Gerard if I may,” said Margaret one day, with a flood +of tears; “for I cannot go on the way I am.” + +“Why, you would never be so simple as ask him?” + +“Think you I would be so wicked as marry without his leave?” + +Accordingly she actually went to Gouda, and after hanging her head, and +blushing, and crying, and saying she was miserable, told him his mother +wished her to marry one of those two; and if he approved of her marrying +at all, would he use his wisdom, and tell her which he thought would be +the kindest to the little Gerard of those two; for herself, she did not +care what became of her. + +Gerard felt as if she had put a soft hand into his body and torn his +heart out with it. But the priest with a mighty effort mastered the man. +In a voice scarcely audible he declined this responsibility. “I am not a +saint or a prophet,” said he; “I might advise thee ill. I shall read the +marriage service for thee,” faltered he; “it is my right. No other would +pray for thee as I should. But thou must choose for thyself; and oh! let +me see thee happy. This four months past thou hast not been happy.” + +“A discontented mind is never happy,” said Margaret. + +She left him, and he fell on his knees, and prayed for help from above. + +Margaret went home pale and agitated. “Mother,” said she, “never mention +it to me again, or we shall quarrel.” + +“He forbade you? Well, more shame for him, that is all.” + +“He forbid me? He did not condescend so far. He was as noble as I +was paltry. He would not choose for me for fear of choosing me an ill +husband. But he would read the service for my groom and me; that was his +right. Oh, mother, what a heartless creature I was!” + +“Well, I thought not he had that much sense.” + +“Ah, you go by the poor soul's words, but I rate words as air when +the face speaketh to mine eye. I saw the priest and the true lover +a-fighting in his dear face, and his cheek pale with the strife, and oh! +his poor lip trembled as he said the stout-hearted words--Oh! oh! oh! +oh! oh! oh! oh!” And Margaret burst into a violent passion of tears. + +Catherine groaned. “There, give it up without more ado,” said she. “You +two are chained together for life; and if God is merciful, that won't be +for long; for what are you neither maid, wife, nor widow.” + +“Give it up?” said Margaret; “that was done long ago. All I think of now +is comforting him; for now I have been and made him unhappy too, wretch +and monster that I am.” + +So the next day they both went to Gouda. And Gerard, who had been +praying for resignation all this time, received her with peculiar +tenderness as a treasure he was to lose; but she was agitated and eager +to let him see without words that she would never marry, and she fawned +on him like a little dog to be forgiven. And as she was going away she +murmured, “Forgive! and forget! I am but a woman.” + +He misunderstood her, and said, “All I bargain for is, let me see thee +content; for pity's sake, let me not see thee unhappy as I have this +while.” + +“My darling, you never shall again,” said Margaret, with streaming eyes, +and kissed his hand. + +He misunderstood this too at first; but when month after month +passed, and he heard no more of her marriage, and she came to Gouda +comparatively cheerful, and was even civil to Father Ambrose, a mild +benevolent monk from the Dominican convent hard by--then he understood +her; and one day he invited her to walk alone with him in the sacred +paddock; and before I relate what passed between them, I must give its +history. + +When Gerard had been four or five days at the manse, looking out of +window he uttered an exclamation of joy. “Mother, Margaret, here is one +of my birds: another, another: four, six, nine. A miracle! a miracle!” + +“Why, how can you tell your birds from their fellows?” said Catherine. + +“I know every feather in their wings. And see; there is the little +darling whose claw I gilt, bless it!” + +And presently his rapture took a serious turn, and he saw Heaven's +approbation in this conduct of the birds as he did in the fall of the +cave. This wonderfully kept alive his friendship for animals; and he +enclosed a paddock, and drove all the sons of Cain from it with threats +of excommunication, “On this little spot of earth we'll have no murder,” + said he. He tamed leverets and partridges, and little birds, and hares, +and roe-deer. He found a squirrel with a broken leg; he set it with +infinite difficulty and patience; and during the cure showed it +repositories of acorns, nuts, chestnuts, etc. And this squirrel got well +and went off, but visited him in hard weather, and brought a mate, and +next year little squirrels were found to have imbibed their parents' +sentiments, and of all these animals each generation was tamer than the +last. This set the good parson thinking, and gave him the true clue to +the great successes of mediaeval hermits in taming wild animals. + +He kept the key of this paddock, and never let any man but himself +enter it; nor would he even let little Gerard go there without him or +Margaret. “Children are all little Cains,” said he. In this oasis, then, +he spoke to Margaret, and said, “Dear Margaret, I have thought more than +ever of thee of late, and have asked myself why I am content, and thou +unhappy.” + +“Because thou art better, wiser, holier than I; that is all,” said +Margaret promptly. + +“Our lives tell another tale,” said Gerard thoughtfully. “I know thy +goodness and thy wisdom too well to reason thus perversely. Also I know +that I love thee as dear as thou, I think, lovest me. Yet am I happier +than thou. Why is this so?” + +“Dear Gerard, I am as happy as a woman can hope to be this side of the +grave.” + +“Not so happy as I. Now for the reason. First, then, I am a priest, and +this, the one great trial and disappointment God giveth me along with so +many joys, why, I share it with a multitude. For alas! I am not the only +priest by thousands that must never hope for entire earthly happiness. +Here, then, thy lot is harder than mine.” + +“But Gerard, I have my child to love. Thou canst not fill thy heart with +him as his mother can, So you may set this against you.” + +“And I have ta'en him from thee; it was cruel; but he would have broken +thy heart one day if I had not. Well then, sweet one, I come to where +the shoe pincheth, methinks. I have my parish, and it keeps my heart +in a glow from morn till night. There is scarce an emotion that my folk +stir not up in me many times a day. Often their sorrows make me weep, +sometimes their perversity kindles a little wrath, and their absurdity +makes me laugh, and sometimes their flashes of unexpected goodness do +set me all of a glow, and I could hug 'em. Meantime thou, poor soul, +sittest with heart-- + +“Of lead, Gerard; of very lead.” + +“See now how unkind thy lot compared with mine, Now how if thou couldst +be persuaded to warm thyself at the fire that warmeth me.” + +“Ah, if I could?” + +“Hast but to will it. Come among my folk. Take in thine hand the alms I +set aside, and give it with kind words; hear their sorrows: they shall +show you life is full of troubles, and as thou sayest truly, no man or +woman without their thorn this side the grave. Indoors I have a map of +Gouda parish. Not to o'erburden thee at first, I will put twenty housen +under thee with their folk. What sayest thou? but for thy wisdom I had +died a dirty maniac,' and ne'er seen Gouda manse, nor pious peace. Wilt +profit in turn by what little wisdom I have to soften her lot to whom I +do owe all?” + +Margaret assented warmly, and a happy thing it was for the little +district assigned to her; it was as if an angel had descended on them. +Her fingers were never tired of knitting or cutting for them, her +heart of sympathizing with them. And that heart expanded and waved its +drooping wings; and the glow of good and gentle deed began to spread +over it; and she was rewarded in another way by being brought into more +contact with Gerard, and also with his spirit. All this time malicious +tongues had not been idle. “If there is nought between them more than +meets the eye, why doth she not marry?” etc. And I am sorry to say our +old friend Joan Ketel was one of these coarse sceptics. And now one +winter evening she got on a hot scent. She saw Margaret and Gerard +talking earnestly together on the Boulevard. She whipped behind a tree. +“Now I'll hear something,” said she; and so she did. It was winter; +there had been one of those tremendous floods followed by a sharp +frost, and Gerard in despair as to where he should lodge forty or fifty +houseless folk out of the piercing cold. And now it was, “Oh, dear, dear +Margaret, what shall I do? The manse is full of them, and a sharp frost +coming on this night.” + +Margaret reflected, and Joan listened. + +“You must lodge them in the church,” said Margaret quietly. + +“In the church? Profanation.” + +“No; charity profanes nothing, not even a church; soils nought, not even +a church. To-day is but Tuesday. Go save their lives, for a bitter night +is coming. Take thy stove into the church, and there house them. We will +dispose of them here and there ere the lord's day.” + +“And I could not think of that; bless thee, sweet Margaret, thy mind is +stronger than mine, and readier.” + +“Nay, nay, a woman looks but a little way, therefore she sees clear. +I'll come over myself to-morrow.” + +And on this they parted with mutual blessings. + +Joan glided home remorseful. + +And after that she used to check all surmises to their discredit. +“Beware,” she would say, “lest some angel should blister thy tongue. +Gerard and Margaret paramours? I tell ye they are two saints which meet +in secret to plot charity to the poor.” + +In the summer of 1481 Gerard determined to provide against similar +disasters recurring to his poor. Accordingly he made a great hole in his +income, and bled his friends (zealous parsons always do that) to build a +large Xenodochium to receive the victims of flood or fire. Giles and all +his friends were kind, but all was not enough; when lo! the Dominican +monks of Gouda to whom his parlour and heart had been open for years, +came out nobly, and put down a handsome sum to aid the charitable vicar. + +“The dear good souls,” said Margaret; “who would have thought it?” + +“Any one who knows them,” said Gerard, “Who more charitable than monks?” + +“Go to! They do but give the laity back a pig of their own sow.” + +“And what more do I? What more doth the duke?” + +Then the ambitious vicar must build almshouses for decayed true men in +their old age close to the manse, that he might keep and feed them, as +well as lodge them. And his money being gone, he asked Margaret for a +few thousand bricks and just took off his coat and turned builder; and +as he had a good head, and the strength of a Hercules, with the zeal of +an artist, up rose a couple of almshouses parson built. + +And at this work Margaret would sometimes bring him his dinner, and +add a good bottle of Rhenish. And once seeing him run up a plank with a +wheelbarrow full of bricks which really most bricklayers would have +gone staggering under, she said, “Times are changed since I had to carry +little Gerard for thee.” + +“Ay, dear one, thanks to thee.” + +When the first home was finished, the question was who they should put +into it; and being fastidious over it like a new toy, there was much +hesitation. But an old friend arrived in time to settle this question. + +As Gerard was passing a public-house in Rotterdam one day, he heard a +well-known voice, He looked up, and there was Denys of Burgundy, but +sadly changed; his beard stained with grey, and his clothes worn and +ragged; he had a cuirass still, and gauntlets, but a staff instead of an +arbalest, To the company he appeared to be bragging and boasting, but in +reality he was giving a true relation of Edward the Fourth's invasion of +an armed kingdom with 2000 men, and his march through the country with +armies capable of swallowing him looking on, his battles at Tewkesbury +and Barnet, and reoccupation of his capital and kingdom in three months +after landing at the Humber with a mixed handful of Dutch, English, and +Burgundians. + +In this, the greatest feat of arms the century had seen, Denys had +shone; and whilst sneering at the warlike pretensions of Charles the +Bold, a duke with an itch but no talent for fighting, and proclaiming +the English king the first captain of the age, did not forget to exalt +himself. + +Gerard listened with eyes glittering affection and fun. “And now,” said +Denys, “after all these feats, patted on the back by the gallant young +Prince of Gloucester, and smiled on by the great captain himself, here +I am lamed for life; by what? by the kick of a horse, and this night I +know not where I shall lay my tired bones. I had a comrade once in these +parts that would not have let me lie far from him; but he turned priest +and deserted his sweetheart, so 'tis not likely he would remember his +comrade. And ten years play sad havoc with our hearts, and limbs, and +all.” Poor Denys sighed, and Gerard's bowels yearned over him. + +“What words are these?” he said, with a great gulp in his throat. “Who +grudges a brave soldier supper and bed? Come home with me!” + +“Much obliged, but I am no lover of priests.” + +“Nor I of soldiers; but what is supper and bed between two true men?” + +“Not much to you, but something to me. I will come.” + +“In one hour,” said Gerard, and went in high spirits to Margaret, and +told her the treat in store, and she must come and share it. She must +drive his mother in his little carriage up to the manse with all speed, +and make ready an excellent supper. Then he himself borrowed a cart, and +drove Denys up rather slowly, to give the women time. + +On the road Denys found out this priest was a kind soul, so told him his +trouble, and confessed his heart was pretty near broken. “The great use +our stout hearts, and arms, and lives till we are worn out, and then +fling us away like broken tools.” He sighed deeply, and it cost Gerard +a great struggle not to hug him then and there, and tell him. But he +wanted to do it all like a story book. Who has not had this fancy once +in his life? Why Joseph had it; all the better for us. + +They landed at the little house. It was as clean as a penny, the hearth +blazing, and supper set. + +Denys brightened up. “Is this your house, reverend sir?” + +“Well, 'tis my work, and with these hands, but 'tis your house.” + +“Ah, no such luck,” said Denys, with a sigh. + +“But I say ay,” shouted Gerard. “And what is more I--” (gulp) “say--” + (gulp) “COURAGE, CAMARADE, LE DIABLE EST MORT!” + +Denys started, and almost staggered. “Why, what?” he stammered, +“w-wh-who art thou, that bringest me back the merry words and merry days +of my youth?” and he was greatly agitated. + +“My poor Denys, I am one whose face is changed, but nought else; to my +heart, dear, trusty comrade, to my heart,” And he opened his arms, with +the tears in his eyes. But Denys came close to him, and peered in his +face, and devoured every feature; and when he was sure it was really +Gerard, he uttered a cry so vehement it brought the women running from +the house, and fell upon Gerard's neck, and kissed him again and again, +and sank on his knees, and laughed and sobbed with joy so terribly, +that Gerard mourned his folly in doing dramas. But the women with their +gentle soothing ways soon composed the brave fellow, and he sat smiling, +and holding Margaret's hand and Gerard's, And they all supped together, +and went to their beds with hearts warm as a toast; and the broken +soldier was at peace, and in his own house, and under his comrade's +wing. + +His natural gaiety returned, and he resumed his consigne after eight +years' disuse, and hobbled about the place enlivening it; but offended +the parish mortally by calling the adored vicar comrade, and nothing but +comrade. + +When they made a fuss about this to Gerard, he just looked in their +faces and said, “What does it matter? Break him of swearing, and you +shall have my thanks.” + +This year Margaret went to a lawyer to make her will, for without this, +she was told, her boy might have trouble some day to get his own, not +being born in lawful wedlock. The lawyer, however, in conversation, +expressed a different opinion. + +“This is the babble of churchmen,” said he, “Yours is a perfect +marriage, though an irregular one.” + +He then informed her that throughout Europe, excepting only the southern +part of Britain, there were three irregular marriages, the highest of +which was hers, viz., a betrothal before witnesses, “This,” said he, “if +not followed by matrimonial intercourse, is a marriage complete in form, +but incomplete in substance. A person so betrothed can forbid any other +banns to all eternity. It has, however, been set aside where a party +so betrothed contrived to get married regularly, and children were born +thereafter. But such a decision was for the sake of the offspring, +and of doubtful justice. However, in your case the birth of your +child closes that door, and your marriage is complete both in form and +substance. Your course, therefore, is to sue for your conjugal rights; +it will be the prettiest case of the century. The law is all on our +side, the Church all on theirs. If you come to that, the old Batavian +law, which compelled the clergy to marry, hath fallen into disuse, but +was never formally repealed.” + +Margaret was quite puzzled. “What are you driving at, sir? Who am I to +go to law with?” + +“Who is the defendant? Why, the vicar of Gouda.” + +“Alas, poor soul! And for what shall I law him?” + +“Why, to make him take you into his house, and share bed and board with +you, to be sure.” + +Margaret turned red as fire, “Gramercy for your rede,” said she, “What, +is yon a woman's part? Constrain a man to be hers by force? That is +men's way of wooing, not ours. Say I were so ill a woman as ye think me, +I should set myself to beguile him, not to law him;” and she departed, +crimson with shame and indignation. + +“There is an impracticable fool for you,” said the man of art. + +Margaret had her will drawn elsewhere, and made her boy safe from +poverty, marriage or no marriage. + +These are the principal incidents that in ten whole years befell two +peaceful lives, which in a much shorter period had been so thronged with +adventures and emotions. + +Their general tenor was now peace, piety, the mild content that lasts, +not the fierce bliss ever on tiptoe to depart, and above all, Christian +charity. + +On this sacred ground these two true lovers met with an uniformity and +a kindness of sentiment which went far to soothe the wound in their own +hearts, To pity the same bereaved; to hunt in couples all the ills +in Gouda, and contrive and scheme together to remedy all that were +remediable; to use the rare insight into troubled hearts which their +own troubles had given them, and use it to make others happier than +themselves--this was their daily practice. And in this blessed cause +their passions for one another cooled a little, but their affection +increased. + +From this time Margaret entered heart and soul into Gerard's pious +charities, that affection purged itself of all mortal dross. And as +it had now long out-lived scandal and misapprehension, one would have +thought that so bright an example of pure self-denying affection was to +remain long before the world, to show men how nearly religious faith, +even when not quite reasonable, and religious charity, which is always +reasonable, could raise two true lovers' hearts to the loving hearts +of the angels of heaven. But the great Disposer of events ordered +otherwise. + +Little Gerard rejoiced both his parents' hearts by the extraordinary +progress he made at Alexander Haaghe's famous school at Deventer. + +The last time Margaret returned from visiting him, she came to Gerard +flushed with pride. “Oh, Gerard, he will be a great man one day, thanks +to thy wisdom in taking him from us silly women. A great scholar, one +Zinthius, came to see the school and judge the scholars, and didn't our +Gerard stand up, and not a line in Horace or Terence could Zinthius cite +but the boy would follow him with the rest. 'Why, 'tis a prodigy,' says +that great scholar; and there was his poor mother stood by and heard it. +And he took our Gerard in his arms, and kissed him; and what think you +he said?” + +“Nay, I know not.” + +“'Holland will hear of thee one day; and not Holland only, but all the +world,' Why what a sad brow!” + +“Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child is +wise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heaven +doth often break our idols.” + +“Make thy mind easy,” said Margaret. “Heaven will never rob me of my +child. What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if any +ill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week. The Lord He +knows this, and He will leave me my boy.” + +A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing in +his ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he was +told quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was at +Deventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh. + +His heart turned cold within him. News did not gallop in those days. The +fatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings would +reach Gouda. He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her that +he was gone to fetch little Gerard to stay at the manse a little while, +and would she see a bed prepared, for he should be back next day. And so +he hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happily +over. He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reached +Deventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went at once to the school. +The boy had been taken away. + +As he left the school he caught sight of Margaret's face at the window +of a neighbouring house she always lodged at when she came to Deventer. + +He ran hastily to scold her and pack both her and the boy out of the +place. + +To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margaret +had been there, but was gone. + +“Gone, woman?” said Gerard indignantly, “art not ashamed to say so? Why, +I saw her but now at the window.” + +“Oh, if you saw her--” + +A sweet voice above said, “Stay him not, let him enter.” It was +Margaret. + +Gerard ran up the stairs to her, and went to take her hand, She drew +back hastily. + +He looked astounded. + +“I am displeased,” she said coldly. “What makes you here? Know you not +the plague is in the town?” + +“Ay, dear Margaret; and came straightway to take our boy away.” + +“What, had he no mother?” + +“How you speak to me! I hoped you knew not.” + +“What, think you I leave my boy unwatched? I pay a trusty woman that +notes every change in his cheek when I am not here, and lets me know, I +am his mother.” + +“Where is he?” + +“In Rotterdam, I hope, ere this.” + +“Thank Heaven! And why are you not there?” + +“I am not fit for the journey; never heed me; go you home on the +instant; I'll follow. For shame of you to come here risking your +precious life.” + +“It is not so precious as thine,” said Gerard. “But let that pass; we +will go home together, and on the instant.” + +“Nay, I have some matters to do in the town. Go thou at once, and I will +follow forthwith.” + +“Leave thee alone in a plague-stricken town? To whom speak you, dear +Margaret?” + +“Nay, then, we shall quarrel, Gerard.” + +“Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard quarrelling! Why, it takes two to +quarrel, and we are but one.” + +With this Gerard smiled on her sweetly. But there was no kind responsive +glance. She looked cold, gloomy, and troubled. + +He sighed, and sat patiently down opposite her with his face all puzzled +and saddened. He said nothing, for he felt sure she would explain her +capricious conduct, or it would explain itself. + +Presently she rose hastily, and tried to reach her bedroom, but on the +way she staggered and put out her hand. He ran to her with a cry of +alarm. She swooned in his arms. He laid her gently on the ground, and +beat her cold hands, and ran to her bedroom, and fetched water, and +sprinkled her pale face. His own was scarce less pale, for in a basin he +had seen water stained with blood; it alarmed him, he knew not why. +She was a long time ere she revived, and when she did she found Gerard +holding her hand, and bending over her with a look of infinite concern +and tenderness. She seemed at first as if she responded to it, but the +next moment her eyes dilated, and she cried--“Ah, wretch, leave my hand; +how dare you touch me?” + +“Heaven help her!” said Gerard. “She is not herself.” + +“You will not leave me, then, Gerard?” said she faintly. “Alas! why do I +ask? Would I leave thee if thou wert--At least touch me not, and then I +will let thee bide, and see the last of poor Margaret. She ne'er spoke +harsh to thee before, sweetheart, and she never will again.” + +“Alas! what mean these dark words, these wild and troubled looks?” said +Gerard, clasping his hands. + +“My poor Gerard,” said Margaret, “forgive me that I spoke so to thee. I +am but a woman, and would have spared thee a sight will make thee weep.” + She burst into tears. “Ah, me!” she cried, weeping, “that I cannot keep +grief from thee; there is a great sorrow before my darling, and this +time I shall not be able to come and dry his eyes.” + +“Let it come, Margaret, so it touch not thee,” said Gerard, trembling. + +“Dearest,” said Margaret solemnly, “call now religion to thine aid and +mine. I must have died before thee one day, or else outlived thee and so +died of grief.” + +“Died? thou die? I will never let thee die. Where is thy pain? What is +thy trouble?” + +“The plague,” she said calmly. Gerard uttered a cry of horror, and +started to his feet; she read his thought. “Useless,” said she quietly. +“My nose hath bled; none ever yet survived to whom that came along with +the plague. Bring no fools hither to babble over the body they cannot +save. I am but a woman; I love not to be stared at; let none see me die +but thee.” + +And even with this a convulsion seized her, and she remained sensible +but speechless a long time. + +And now for the first time Gerard began to realize the frightful truth, +and he ran wildly to and fro, and cried to Heaven for help, as drowning +men cry to their fellow-creatures. She raised herself on her arm, and +set herself to quiet him. + +She told him she had known the torture of hopes and fears, and was +resolved to spare him that agony. “I let my mind dwell too much on the +danger,” said she, “and so opened my brain to it, through which door +when this subtle venom enters it makes short work. I shall not be +spotted or loathsome, my poor darling; God is good, and spares thee +that; but in twelve hours I shall be a dead woman. Ah, look not so, but +be a man; be a priest! Waste not one precious minute over my body! it is +doomed; but comfort my parting soul.” + +Gerard, sick and cold at heart, kneeled down, and prayed for help from +Heaven to do his duty. + +When he rose from his knees his face was pale and old, but deadly calm +and patient. He went softly and brought her bed into the room, and laid +her gently down and supported her head with pillows. Then he prayed by +her side the prayers for the dying, and she said Amen to each prayer. +Then for some hours she wandered, but when the fell disease had quite +made sure of its prey, her mind cleared, and she begged Gerard to shrive +her. “For oh, my conscience it is laden,” she said sadly. + +“Confess thy sins to me, my daughter: let there be no reserve.” + +“My father,” said she sadly, “I have one great sin on my breast this +many years. E'en now that death is at my heart I can scarce own it. But +the Lord is debonair; if thou wilt pray to Him, perchance He may forgive +me.” + +“Confess it first, my daughter.” + +“I--alas!” + +“Confess it!” + +“I deceived thee. This many years I have deceived thee.” + +Here tears interrupted her speech. + +“Courage, my daughter, courage,” said Gerard kindly, overpowering the +lover in the priest. + +She hid her face in her hands, and with many sighs told him it was she +who had broken down the hermit's cave with the help of Jorian Ketel, “I, +shallow, did it but to hinder thy return thither; but when thou sawest +therein the finger of God, I played the traitress, and said, 'While he +thinks so, he will ne'er leave Gouda manse;' and I held my tongue. Oh, +false heart.” + +“Courage, my daughter; thou dost exaggerate a trivial fault.” + +“Ah, but 'tis not all, The birds.” + +“Well?” + +“They followed thee not to Gouda by miracle, but by my treason. I said, +he will ne'er be quite happy without his birds that visited him in his +cell; and I was jealous of them, and cried, and said, these foul little +things, they are my child's rivals. And I bought loaves of bread, and +Jorian and me we put crumbs at the cave door, and thence went sprinkling +them all the way to the manse, and there a heap. And my wiles succeeded, +and they came, and thou wast glad, and I was pleased to see thee +glad; and when thou sawest in my guile the finger of Heaven, wicked, +deceitful, I did hold my tongue. But die deceiving thee? ah, no, I could +not. Forgive me if thou canst; I was but a woman; I knew no better at +the time. 'Twas writ in my bosom with a very sunbeam. ''Tis good for him +to bide at Gouda manse.'” + +“Forgive thee, sweet innocent?” sobbed Gerard; “what have I to forgive? +Thou hadst a foolish froward child to guide to his own weal, and +didst all this for the best, I thank thee and bless thee. But as thy +confessor, all deceit is ill in Heaven's pure eyes. Therefore thou +hast done well to confess and report it; and even on thy confession +and penitence the Church through me absolves thee. Pass to thy graver +faults.” + +“My graver faults? Alas! alas! Why, what have I done to compare? I am +not an ill woman, not a very ill one. If He can forgive me deceiving +thee, He can well forgive me all the rest ever I did.” + +Being gently pressed, she said she was to blame not to have done more +good in the world. “I have just begun to do a little,” she said, “and +now I must go. But I repine not, since 'tis Heaven's will, only I am so +afeard thou wilt miss me.” And at this she could not restrain her tears, +though she tried hard. + +Gerard struggled with his as well as he could; and knowing her life of +piety, purity, and charity, and seeing that she could not in her +present state realise any sin but her having deceived him, gave her +full absolution, Then he put the crucifix in her hand, and while he +consecrated the oil, bade her fix her mind neither on her merits nor her +demerits, but on Him who died for her on the tree. + +She obeyed him with a look of confiding love and submission. + +And he touched her eyes with the consecrated oil, and prayed aloud +beside her. + +Soon after she dosed. + +He watched beside her, more dead than alive himself. + +When the day broke she awoke, and seemed to acquire some energy. She +begged him to look in her box for her marriage lines and for a picture, +and bring them both to her. He did so. She then entreated him by all +they had suffered for each other, to ease her mind by making a solemn +vow to execute her dying requests. + +He vowed to obey them to the letter. + +“Then, Gerard, let no creature come here to lay me out. I could not bear +to be stared at; my very corpse would blush. Also I would not be made +a monster of for the worms to sneer at as well as feed on. Also my very +clothes are tainted, and shall to earth with me. I am a physician's +daughter; and ill becomes me kill folk, being dead, which did so little +good to men in the days of health; wherefore lap me in lead, the way I +am, and bury me deep! yet not so deep but what one day thou mayst find +the way, and lay thy bones by mine. + +“Whiles I lived I went to Gouda but once or twice a week. It cost me not +to go each day. Let me gain this by dying, to be always at dear Gouda, +in the green kirkyard. + +“Also they do say the spirit hovers where the body lies; I would have my +spirit hover near thee, and the kirkyard is not far from the manse. I am +so afeard some ill will happen thee, Margaret being gone. + +“And see, with mine own hands I place my marriage lines in my bosom. Let +no living hand move them, on pain of thy curse and mine. Then when the +angel comes for me at the last day, he shall say, this is an honest +woman, she hath her marriage lines (for you know I am your lawful wife, +though Holy Church hath come between us), and he will set me where the +honest women be. I will not sit among ill women, no, not in heaven +for their mind is not my mind, nor their soul my soul. I have stood, +unbeknown, at my window, and heard their talk.” + +For some time she was unable to say any more, but made signs to him that +she had not done. + +At last she recovered her breath, and bade him look at the picture. + +It was the portrait he had made of her when they were young together, +and little thought to part so soon. He held it in his hands and looked +at it, but could scarce see it. He had left it in fragments, but now it +was whole. + +“They cut it to pieces, Gerard; but see, Love mocked at their knives. + +“I implore thee with my dying breath, let this picture hang ever in +thine eye. + +“I have heard that such as die of the plague, unspotted, yet after death +spots have been known to come out; and oh, I could not bear thy last +memory of me to be so. Therefore, as soon as the breath is out of my +body, cover my face with this handkerchief, and look at me no more till +we meet again, 'twill not be so very long. O promise.” + +“I promise,” said Gerard, sobbing. + +“But look on this picture instead. Forgive me; I am but a woman. I could +not bear my face to lie a foul thing in thy memory. Nay, I must have +thee still think me as fair as I was true. Hast called me an angel once +or twice; but be just! did I not still tell thee I was no angel, but +only a poor simple woman, that whiles saw clearer than thou because she +looked but a little way, and that loves thee dearly, and never loved but +thee, and now with her dying breath prays thee indulge her in this, thou +that art a man.” + +“I will, I will. Each word, each wish, is sacred.” + +“Bless thee! Bless thee! So then the eyes that now can scarce see thee, +they are so troubled by the pest, and the lips that shall not touch thee +to taint thee, will still be before thee as they were when we were young +and thou didst love me.” + +“When I did love thee, Margaret! Oh, never loved I thee as now.” + +“Hast not told me so of late.” + +“Alas! hath love no voice but words? I was a priest; I had charge of +thy soul; the sweet offices of a pure love were lawful; words of love +imprudent at the least. But now the good fight is won, ah me! Oh my +love, if thou hast lived doubting of thy Gerard's heart, die not so; for +never was woman loved so tenderly as thou this ten years past.” + +“Calm thyself, dear one,” said the dying woman, with a heavenly smile. +“I know it; only being but a woman, I could not die happy till I had +heard thee say so. Ah! I have pined ten years for those sweet words. +Hast said them, and this is the happiest hour of my life. I had to die +to get them; well, I grudge not the price.” + +From this moment a gentle complacency rested on her fading features. But +she did not speak. + +Then Gerard, who had loved her soul so many years, feared lest she +should expire with a mind too fixed on earthly affection. + +“Oh my daughter,” he cried, “my dear daughter, if indeed thou lovest me +as I love thee, give me not the pain of seeing thee die with thy pious +soul fixed on mortal things. + +“Dearest lamb of all my fold, for whose soul I must answer, oh think not +now of mortal love, but of His who died for thee on the tree. Oh, let +thy last look be heavenwards, thy last word a word of prayer.” + +She turned a look of gratitude and obedience on him. “What saint?” + she murmured: meaning doubtless, “what saint should she invoke as an +intercessor.” + +“He to whom the saints themselves do pray.” + +She turned on him one more sweet look of love and submission, and put +her pretty hands together in a prayer like a child. + +“Jesu!” + +This blessed word was her last. She lay with her eyes heavenwards, and +her hands put together. + +Gerard prayed fervently for her passing spirit. And when he had prayed a +long time with his head averted, not to see her last breath, all seemed +unnaturally still. He turned his head fearfully. It was so. + +She was gone. + +Nothing left him now but the earthly shell of as constant, pure, and +loving a spirit as eve' adorned the earth. + + (1) Let me not be understood to apply this to the bare + outline of the relation. Many bishops and priests, and not a + few popes, had wives and children as laymen; and entering + orders were parted from the wives and not from the children. + But in the case before the reader are the additional + features of a strong surviving attachment on both sides, and + of neighbourhood, besides that here the man had been led + into holy orders by a false statement of the woman's death. + On a summary of all the essential features, the situation + was, to the best of my belief, unique. + + +CHAPTER XCVII + +A priest is never more thoroughly a priest than in the chamber of death, +Gerard did the last offices of the Church for the departed, just as +he should have done them for his smallest parishioner. He did this +mechanically, then sat down stupefied by the sudden and tremendous blow, +and not yet realizing the pangs of bereavement. Then in a transport of +religious enthusiasm he kneeled and thanked Heaven for her Christian +end. + +And then all his thought was to take her away from strangers, and lay +her in his own churchyard. That very evening a covered cart with one +horse started for Gouda, and in it was a coffin, and a broken-hearted +man lying with his arms and chin resting on it. + +The mourner's short-lived energy had exhausted itself in the necessary +preparations, and now he lay crushed, clinging to the cold lead that +held her. + +The man of whom the cart was hired walked by the horse's head and did +not speak to him, and when he baited the horse spoke but in a whisper +respecting that mute agony. But when he stopped for the night, he and +the landlord made a well-meaning attempt to get the mourner away to take +some rest and food. But Gerard repulsed them, and when they persisted, +almost snarled at them, like a faithful dog, and clung to the cold lead +all night. So then they drew a cloak over him, and left him in peace. + +And at noon the sorrowful cart came up to the manse, and there were +full a score of parishioners collected with one little paltry trouble or +another. They had missed the parson already. And when they saw what it +was, and saw their healer so stricken down, they raised a loud wail of +grief, and it roused him from his lethargy of woe, and he saw where he +was, and their faces, and tried to speak to them, “Oh, my children! my +children!” he cried; but choked with anguish, could say no more. + +Yet the next day, spite of all remonstrances, he buried her himself, +and read the service with a voice that only trembled now and then, Many +tears fell upon her grave. And when the service ended he stayed there +standing like a statue, and the people left the churchyard out of +respect. + +He stood like one in a dream till the sexton, who was, as most men are, +a fool, began to fill in the grave without giving him due warning. + +But at the sound of earth falling on her Gerard uttered a piercing +scream. + +The sexton forbore. + +Gerard staggered and put his hand to his breast. The sexton supported +him, and called for help. + +Jorian Ketel, who lingered near mourning his benefactress, ran into the +churchyard, and the two supported Gerard into the manse. + +“Ah, Jorian! good Jorian!” said he, “something snapped within me; I +felt it, and I heard it; here, Jorian, here;” and he put his hand to his +breast. + + + +CHAPTER XCVIII + +A fortnight after this a pale bowed figure entered the Dominican convent +in the suburbs of Gouda, and sought speech with Brother Ambrose, who +governed the convent as deputy, the prior having lately died, and his +successor, though appointed, not having arrived. + +The sick man was Gerard, come to end life as he began it. + +He entered as a novice, on probation; but the truth was, he was a +failing man, and knew it, and came there to die in peace, near kind and +gentle Ambrose, his friend, and the other monks to whom his house and +heart had always been open. + +His manse was more than he could bear; it was too full of reminiscences +of her. + +Ambrose, who knew his value, and his sorrow, was not without a kindly +hope of curing him, and restoring him to his parish. With this view he +put him in a comfortable cell over the gateway, and forbade him to fast +or practice any austerities. + +But in a few days the new prior arrived, and proved a very Tartar. +At first he was absorbed in curing abuses, and tightening the general +discipline; but one day hearing the vicar of Gouda had entered the +convent as a novice, he said, “'Tis well; let him first give up his +vicarage then, or go; I'll no fat parsons in my house.” The prior then +sent for Gerard, and he went to him; and the moment they saw one another +they both started. + +“Clement!” + +“Jerome!” + + + +CHAPTER XCIX + +Jerome was as morose as ever in his general character, but he had +somewhat softened towards Gerard. All the time he was in England he +had missed him more then he thought possible, and since then had often +wondered what had become of him. What he heard in Gouda raised his +feeble brother in his good opinion; above all, that he had withstood +the Pope and the Minorites on “the infernal heresy of the immaculate +conception,” as he called it. But when one of his young monks told him +with tears in his eyes the Cause of Gerard's illness, all his contempt +revived. “Dying for a woman?” + +He determined to avert this scandal; he visited Clement twice a day +in his cell, and tried all his old influence and all his eloquence to +induce him to shake off this unspiritual despondency, and not rob the +church of his piety and his eloquence at so critical a period. + +Gerard heard him, approved his reasoning, admired his strength, +confessed his own weakness, and continued visibly to wear away to the +land of the leal. One day Jerome told him he had heard his story, and +heard it with pride. “But now,” said he, “you spoil it all, Clement; for +this is the triumph of earthly passion. Better have yielded to it and +repented, than resist it while she lived, and succumb under it now, body +and soul.” + +“Dear Jerome,” said Clement, so sweetly as to rob his remonstrance of +the tone of remonstrance, “here, I think, you do me some injustice. +Passion there is none; but a deep affection, for which I will not blush +here, since I shall not blush for it in heaven. Bethink thee, Jerome, +the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave, is he guilty of +passion? Neither am I. Passion had saved my life, and lost my soul, She +was my good angel; she sustained me in my duty and charity; her face +encouraged me in the pulpit; her lips soothed me under ingratitude. She +intertwined herself with all that was good in my life; and after leaning +on her so long, I could not go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe me +I am no rebel against Heaven. It is God's will to release me. When they +threw the earth upon her poor coffin, something snapped within my bosom +here that mended may not be. I heard it, and I felt it. And from that +time, Jerome, no food that I put in my mouth had any savour. With my +eyes bandaged now I could not tell thee which was bread, and which was +flesh, by eating of it.” + +“Holy saints!” + +“And again, from that same hour my deep dejection left me, and I smiled +again. I often smile--why? I read it thus: He in whose hands are the +issues of life and death gave me that minute the great summons; 'twas +some cord of life snapped in me. He is very pitiful. I should have lived +unhappy; but He said, 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poor +feeble, loving servant, thy shortcomings are forgiven, thy sorrows touch +thine end; come thou to thy rest!' I come, Lord, I come!” + +Jerome groaned. “The Church had ever her holy but feeble servants,” he +said. “Now would I give ten years of my life to save thine. But I see it +may not be. Die in peace.” + +And so it was that in a few days more Gerard lay a-dying in a frame +of mind so holy and happy, that more than one aged saint was there to +garner his dying words. In the evening he had seen Giles, and begged him +not to let poor Jack starve; and to see that little Gerard's trustees +did their duty, and to kiss his parents for him, and to send Denys +to his friends in Burgundy: “Poor thing, he will feel so strange here +without his comrade.” And after that he had an interview with Jerome +alone. What passed between them was never distinctly known; but it must +have been something remarkable, for Jerome went from the door with his +hands crossed on his breast, his high head lowered, and sighing as he +went. + +The two monks that watched with him till matins related that all through +the night he broke out from time to time in pious ejaculations, and +praises, and thanksgivings; only once they said he wandered, and thought +he saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits clad in white, +and beckoning him; and they all smiled and beckoned him. And both these +monks said (but it might have been fancy) that just before dawn there +came three light taps against the wall, one after another, very slow; +and the dying man heard them, and said. + +“I come, love, I come.” + +This much is certain, that Gerard did utter these words, and prepare +for his departure, having uttered them. He sent for all the monks who at +that hour were keeping vigil. They came, and hovered like gentle spirits +round him with holy words. Some prayed in silence for him with their +faces touching the ground, others tenderly supported his head. But when +one of them said something about his life of self-denial and charity, he +stopped him, and addressing them all said, “My dear brethren, take note +that he who here dies so happy holds not these new-fangled doctrines of +man's merit. Oh, what a miserable hour were this to me an if I did! +Nay, but I hold, with the Apostles, and their pupils in the Church, the +ancient fathers, that we are justified not by our own wisdom, or piety, +or the works we have done in holiness of heart, but by faith.'”(1) + +Then there was silence, and the monks looked at one another +significantly. + +“Please you sweep the floor,” said the dying Christian, in a voice to +which all its clearance and force seemed supernaturally restored. + +They instantly obeyed, not without a sentiment of awe and curiosity. + +“Make me a great cross with wood ashes.” + +They strewed the ashes in form of a great Cross upon the floor. + +“Now lay me down on it, for so will I die.” + +And they took him gently from his bed, and laid him on the cross of wood +ashes. + +“Shall we spread out thine arms, dear brother?” + +“Now God forbid! Am I worthy of that?” + +He lay silent, but with his eyes raised in ecstasy. + +Presently he spoke half to them, half to himself, “Oh,” he said, with +a subdued but concentrated rapture, “I feel it buoyant. It lifts me +floating in the sky whence my merits had sunk me like lead.” + +Day broke; and displayed his face cast upward in silent rapture, and his +hands together; like Margaret's. + +And just about the hour she died he spoke his last word in this world. + +“Jesu!” + +And even with that word--he fell asleep. + +They laid him out for his last resting-place. + +Under his linen they found a horse-hair shirt. + +“Ah!” cried the young monks, “behold a saint!” + +Under the hair cloth they found a long thick tress of auburn hair. + +They started, and were horrified; and a babel of voices arose, some +condemning, some excusing. + +In the midst of which Jerome came in, and hearing the dispute, turned to +an ardent young monk called Basil, who was crying scandal the loudest, +“Basil,” said he, “is she alive or dead that owned this hair?” + +“How may I know, father?” + +“Then for aught you know it may be the relic of a saint?” + +“Certes it may be,” said Basil sceptically. + +“You have then broken our rule, which saith, 'Put ill construction on no +act done by a brother which can be construed innocently.' Who are you +to judge such a man as this was? go to your cell, and stir not out for a +week by way of penance.” + +He then carried off the lock of hair. + +And when the coffin was to be closed, he cleared the cell: and put the +tress upon the dead man's bosom. “There, Clement,” said he to the dead +face. And set himself a penance for doing it; and nailed the coffin up +himself. + +The next day Gerard was buried in Gouda churchyard. The monks followed +him in procession from the convent. Jerome, who was evidently carrying +out the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was a deep +one, and at the bottom of it was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light as +a feather (so wasted was he), was lowered, and placed by the side of it. + +After the service Jerome said a few words to the crowd of parishioners +that had come to take the last look at their best friend. When he spoke +of the virtues of the departed loud wailing and weeping burst forth, and +tears fell upon the coffin like rain. + +The monks went home. Jerome collected them in the refectory and spoke to +them thus: “We have this day laid a saint in the earth. The convent will +keep his trentals, but will feast, not fast; for our good brother is +freed from the burden of the flesh; his labours are over, and he has +entered into his joyful rest. I alone shall fast, and do penance; for to +my shame I say it, I was unjust to him, and knew not his worth till it +was too late. And you, young monks, be not curious to inquire whether a +lock he bore on his bosom was a token of pure affection or the relic of +a saint; but remember the heart he wore beneath: most of all, fix your +eyes upon his life and conversation, and follow them an ye may: for he +was a holy man.” + +Thus after life's fitful fever these true lovers were at peace. + +The grave, kinder to them than the Church, united them for ever; and now +a man of another age and nation, touched with their fate, has laboured +to build their tombstone, and rescue them from long and unmerited +oblivion. + +He asks for them your sympathy, but not your pity. + +No, put this story to a wholesome use. + +Fiction must often give false views of life and death. Here as it +happens, curbed by history, she gives you true ones. Let the barrier +that kept these true lovers apart prepare you for this, that here on +earth there will nearly always be some obstacle or other to your perfect +happiness; to their early death apply your Reason and your Faith, by +way of exercise and preparation. For if you cannot bear to be told that +these died young, who had they lived a hundred years would still be +dead, how shall you bear to see the gentle, the loving, and the true +glide from your own bosom to the grave, and fly from your house to +heaven? + +Yet this is in store for you. In every age the Master of life and death, +who is kinder as well as wiser than we are, has transplanted to heaven, +young, earth's sweetest flowers. + +I ask your sympathy, then, for their rare constancy and pure affection, +and their cruel separation by a vile heresy(2) in the bosom of the +Church; but not your pity for their early but happy end. + +'Beati sunt qui in Domino moriuntur. + + (1) He was citing from Clement of Rome-- + + {ou di eautwn dikaioumetha oude dia tys ymeteras + sophias, y eusebeias y ergwn wn kateirgasametha en + osioteeti karthias, alla dia tys pistews}. + --Epist.ad Corinth, i. 32. + +(2) Celibacy of the clergy, an invention truly fiendish. + + + +CHAPTER C + +In compliance with a Custom I despise, but have not the spirit to +resist, I linger on the stage to pick up the smaller fragments of +humanity I have scattered about; i.e. some of them, for the wayside +characters have no claim on me; they have served their turn if they have +persuaded the reader that Gerard travelled from Holland to Rome through +human beings, and not through a population of dolls. + +Eli and Catherine lived to a great age: lived so long, that both Gerard +and Margaret grew to be dim memories. Giles also was longaevous; he went +to the court of Bavaria, and was alive there at ninety, but had somehow +turned into bones and leather, trumpet toned. + +Cornelis, free from all rivals, and forgiven long ago by his mother, who +clung to him more and more now all her brood was scattered, waited and +waited and waited for his parents' decease. But Catherine's shrewd word +came true; ere she and her mate wore out, this worthy rusted away. At +sixty-five he lay dying of old age in his mother's arms, a hale woman +of eighty-six. He had lain unconscious a while, but came to himself +in articulo mortis, and seeing her near him, told her how he would +transform the shop and premises as soon as they should be his. “Yes, my +darling,” said the poor old woman soothingly, and in another minute he +was clay, and that clay was followed to the grave by all the feet whose +shoes he had waited for. + +Denys, broken-hearted at his comrade's death, was glad to return to +Burgundy, and there a small pension the court allowed him kept him until +unexpectedly he inherited a considerable sum from a relation. He was +known in his native place for many years as a crusty old soldier, +who could tell good stories of war when he chose, and a bitter railer +against women. + +Jerome, disgusted with northern laxity, retired to Italy, and having +high connections became at seventy a mitred abbot. He put on the screw +of discipline; his monks revered and hated him. He ruled with iron rod +ten years. And one night he died, alone; for he had not found the way to +a single heart. The Vulgate was on his pillow, and the crucifix in his +hand, and on his lips something more like a smile than was ever seen +there while he lived; so that, methinks, at that awful hour he was not +quite alone. Requiescat in pace. The Master he served has many servants, +and they have many minds, and now and then a faithful one will be a +surly one, as it is in these our mortal mansions. + +The yellow-haired laddie, Gerard Gerardson, belongs not to Fiction but +to History. She has recorded his birth in other terms than mine. Over +the tailor's house in the Brede Kirk Straet she has inscribed: + +“HAEC EST PARVA DOMUS NATUS QUA MAGNUS ERASMUS,” + +and she has written half-a-dozen lives of him. But there is something +left for her yet to do. She has no more comprehended magnum Erasmum, +than any other pigmy comprehends a giant, or partisan a judge. + +First scholar and divine of his epoch, he was also the heaven-born +dramatist of his century. Some of the best scenes in this new book are +from his mediaeval pen, and illumine the pages where they come; for the +words of a genius so high as his are not born to die: their immediate +work upon mankind fulfilled, they may seem to lie torpid; but at each +fresh shower of intelligence Time pours upon their students, they prove +their immortal race: they revive, they spring from the dust of great +libraries; they bud, they flower, they fruit, they seed, from generation +to generation, and from age to age. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Cloister and the Hearth, by Charles Reade + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH *** + +***** This file should be named 1366-0.txt or 1366-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/6/1366/ + +Produced by Neil McLachlan and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |