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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/789-0.txt b/789-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..351c4c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/789-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3715 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gathering of Brother Hilarius, by Michael +Fairless + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Gathering of Brother Hilarius + + +Author: Michael Fairless + + + +Release Date: November 11, 2014 [eBook #789] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER +HILARIUS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + +FIRST EDITION, _October_ 1901. +Reprinted, _January_ 1902. +Reprinted, _January_ 1903. +Reprinted, _January_ 1905. +Reprinted, _August_ 1908. +Reprinted, _August_ 1910. +POPULAR EDITION, (1/-) _February_ 1912. + + THE GATHERING OF + BROTHER HILARIUS + + + By MICHAEL FAIRLESS + AUTHOR OF “THE ROADMENDER” + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + LONDON + JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET + 1912 + + * * * * * + + A. M. D. G. + + “To those dearworthy ones + to whom I owe all; + I give that which is theirs already.” + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE + + +THROUGH this little book runs the road of life, the common road of men, +the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and +Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart. + +The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of the Black Death +and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but for the author it is a romance of +the Image of God. While the Divine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius +in the masque that shocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and +sin, of death and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying +“little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again the Road mender’s +epilogue to the story of the man of this earth, the man of the common +highway:—“‘Dust and ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there +comes back for answer, ‘_Rex concupiscet decorem tuum_.’” + + + + +CONTENTS + + _PART I_ + THE SEED +CHAP. PAGE + I. BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST 3 + II. THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN 15 + III. THE KING’S SONG-BIRD 22 + _PART II_ + THE FLOWER + I. THE CITY OF PURE GOLD 39 + II. THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW 49 + III. A SENDING FROM THE LORD 55 + IV. BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE 64 + V. THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED 72 + VI. A DARK FINDING 82 + VII. THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE 97 + _PART III_ + THE FRUIT + I. HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! 117 + II. MARY’S LILIES 124 + III. OPEN EYES AT THE GATE 133 + IV. THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN 141 + V. “GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE 147 + VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16. + VI. THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN 154 + VII. THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING 160 + VIII. “BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE” 165 + + + + +_PART I_ +THE SEED + + +CHAPTER I +BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST + + +HILARIUS stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, +well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in the +June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a dust +cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules +laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the good +Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores in the +farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had bespoken +precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these the thoughts of +Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation. + +On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The +Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great trees +peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. Twice had +Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and +silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and the +occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St Benedict’s Day +and Our Lady’s Festivals. Away to the right, within the great enclosure, +stretched the Monastery lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful +field, teeming with glad, unhurried labour. + +At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory +buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing +the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren, +itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, ever unfinished +because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it was a page in +the history of the life of the Order, written in stone, blazoned with +beauty of the world’s treasure; a page on which each generation might +spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and +St Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching out eager hands +for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, +finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an +uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle and +fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money +and time in the service of the House of the Lord. + +The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of insistent +peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons circling the +cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their niches over +the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed the +garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately acquired—on his face was +great peace. It rested everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, +where the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of the Office +bell. + +Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign of +the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior’s lips would take a +thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue; and it was +ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept the fragrance of +Mary’s lilies across to the lad; he turned his dreamy, blue eyes from the +highway to the forest. The scent of the pinewoods rushed to meet his +sudden thought. Should he, dare he, break cloister, and taste the +wondrous delight of an unwalled world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a +newly-made novice, cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered +him; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the +voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, +with bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles. + +At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame in +the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared city of +mystery and wonder. + +It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and a +woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius’ eyes shone as +he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great, +green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her gracious robe +across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty soul in the great +sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting colours, the sense of +his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced it—joy so great that +his heart ached with it. He went on his way, singing _Lauda Syon_, his +eyes following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open +glade, halted in amazement. + +A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced in the wind. Over +the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other in +rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the deep +blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, +lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ eyes travelled +upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet +bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling +lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding +the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not +for untutored novices such as Hilarius. + +His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St +Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured +“_Apage Sataas_!” + +The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind. + +“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing truant, I dare wager. +Come and dance!” + +Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” he said, and his +voice trembled somewhat, “art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this +devil’s guise?” + +The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily. + +“No more devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted, eyeing his +semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can a poor maid not practise her +steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must cry +devil’s guise?” + +As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke into +peal on peal of joyous laughter. “Poor lad, with thy talk of devils; +hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?” + +Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in the +eyes, and now he drops his own. + +“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice men’s +souls to their undoing?” + +“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind sir?” +she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a scolded child. + +“It is wrong to deck the body,” began Hilarius, softening at her +attitude, “because, because—” + +Again the merry laugh rang out. + +“Because, because—nay, Father” (with a mock reverence), “methinks thy +sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and _I_ will catechise. How +old art thou?” She held up her small finger admonishingly. + +“Seventeen,” replied Hilarius, surprised into reply. + +“Art thou a monk?” + +“Nay, a novice only.” + +“Hast thou ever loved?” + +Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on +unconcerned— + +“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writ large for any maid to read. +But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?” + +Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet. + +“There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and the +Saints and the Brethren—” + +“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laugh pealed out. “Poor +sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the Saints +and the Brethren, and it is good—good—good!” She opened her arms wide. +“’Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen the +birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?” + +“It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child. That +is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God and the +Saints!” quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of yesterday’s homily in +the Frater. + +“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?” the dancer +persisted. + +How did he know? + +“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?” he cried triumphantly, +forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and anxious only to +come well out of the wordy war. + +But the unexpected happened. + +“Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?—I _hate_ her;” +and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of weeping. + +Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman’s tears. + +“Maid, maid,” said Hilarius, in deep distress, “indeed I did not mean to +vex thee;” and he came up and laid his hand on her shoulder. + +So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief! + +The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and more +flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up at him +through shining lashes. + +“There, boy, ’tis naught. How could’st thou know? But what of thine own +mother?” + +“I know not.” + +“Nay, what is this? And thy father?” + +“He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I came a +little child to the Monastery, and know no other place.” + +“Ah,”—vindictively,—“then _thy_ mother may have been a light o’ love.” + +“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,” said Hilarius with a +smile. + +The maid looked at him speechless. + +“_Go home_, _Boy_,” she said at last emphatically. + +Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the +undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair. + +“So, Gia!” he said. “We must make haste; the others wait.” + +“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer, “and”—pointing to the bag slung +across the youth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fat hen from thy +Monastery for our meal.” + +Hilarius broke into a cold sweat. + +The Convent’s hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred, and +were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the Monasteries? + +“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly. + +“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. “Hast thou another sermon ready, Sir +Preacher?” + +“Empty bellies make light fingers,” quoth the youth. “Did’st thou ever +hunger, master?” + +“There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat,” said Hilarius. + +“But ever a meal certain once in the day?” queried the girl. + +“Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast.” + +The mischievous apes laughed—how they laughed! + +“So, good Preacher,” said the dancer at last, rising to her feet, “thou +dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger. Thou dost +know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thy mother; but +thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to love. Blind +eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee these things an thou +would’st learn. Farewell, good novice, back to thy Saints and thy +nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger and love—love—love!” + +She seized her brother’s hand and together they danced away like two +bright butterflies among the trees. + +Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with dazed +eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. The train of +mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and explanation; and in the +thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly +conscious of this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned +desolation and doubt, and in his ears rang the dancer’s parting cry, +“Hunger and love—love—love!” + + + +CHAPTER II +THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + +BROTHER BERNARD, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum with +generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast look. + +“Methinks this gold is dull, Brother,” said Hilarius one day, fretfully, +to his old master. + +And again— + +“’Tis very poor vermilion.” + +The Brother looked at him enquiry. + +“Nay, nay, boy; ’tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours.” + +Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius was +setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady. + +“Now may God be good to us!” he cried with uplifted hands. “Since when +did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black hair—curly too, +i’ faith?” + +Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and gold, he +faltered. + +It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him through +chant and psalm. Did he really _love_ the Saints—St Benedict, St +Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left him untouched; but +his lips quivered as he thought of the great love between the holy +brother and sister of his Order. If he had had a sister would they have +loved like that? + +The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the repeated +question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from which tears were +not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. “Light of Love,” the girl +had called his mother; what more beautiful name could he find for the +Queen of Saints herself? So he prayed in his simplicity:—“Great Light of +Love, Mother of my mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful +son!” + +The question came in his daily life. + +Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for Hilarius as +the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him too; Brother +John’s tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard, old, half-blind? +Surely he loved Brother Richard?—sad, helpless, and lonely, by reason of +his infirmities—or was it only pity he felt for him? + +Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the Prior +his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words of the witch +in the forest? And yet what was it she had said? “For me the wide +world, hunger, and love—love—love!” + +He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its beauties. +Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white lilies at the +farmery door. Did they love? + +He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business and +cheerful bickerings. Did they love? + +_She_ had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wandered +staring, wide-eyed but sightless. + +At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship-wrecked +mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and unhurt above +the devouring waves. + +The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd question. +When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his stern blue eyes grew +tender, and a little smile troubled the firm line of his mouth. + +“My son,” he said at length, “thou art in the wrong school; nursery, was +it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to the hen. Thou art a +limner at heart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous skill with the +brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger and to love as the maid +said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, though alack, men gainsay it.” + +“Father,” said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, “did’st thou +ever love as the maid meant?” + +“Ay, boy—thy mother.” + +There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:— + +“The maid said she might be light of love; ’tis a beautiful thought.” + +The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:— + +“What didst thou tell the maid?” + +“That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who died +ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was light of +love.” + +“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis a weary tale, and sad of telling. +Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, +knew it not for the holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily lusts. +Pray for her soul”—his voice grew stern—“as for one of those upon whom +God, in His great pity, may have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many +years.” + +Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:— + +“She was evil, wicked, my mother?” + +“Ay—a light woman, that was what the maid meant.” + +Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped the +Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a little child. + + * * * * * + +“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for a time thou shalt go out into the +world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a care that thou +art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure shall see God, and +seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set in order thy going; and +send the Chamberlain hither to me.” + +That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, and +then at St Mary Maudlin’s altar he did penance for his dead mother’s sin. + +A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, is +pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors of the +great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; a letter to +a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron; and another +to the Prior’s good friend, the Abbat of St Alban’s. The Convent bade +him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been with them +from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look +his last at the young face he would never see again. + +The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to the +gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, overmastered +by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might stay and learn some +other way, however hard. The Prior shook his head. + +“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master for +this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us—an thou can’st—let +no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are opened and the +great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the +faithful heart of a little child.” + +Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart-strings, +must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and along the highway, +without daring to look back, and so out into the wide, wide world. + + + +CHAPTER III +THE KING’S SONG-BIRD + + +MARTIN THE MINSTREL sat under a wayside oak singing softly to himself as +he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight black +locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smouldered in +hollow cavities. He wore the King’s colours, and broke a manchet of +white bread with his mid-day repast. + +“Heigh-ho!” sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him, +“another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe-leather +already, and not another penny piece in my pocket ’til I win back to good +King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free +to sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead of +palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of a king’s +banquet. Now but another few leagues and the cage again. Money in my +pocket, true; but a song here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of +the Court gentles, not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! ’tis +a poor bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if +Edward did but know it. + +“Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a light +heart from his song; and no ill voice either.” + +It was Hilarius, and he sang the _Alma Redemptoris_ as he sped along the +green grass which bordered the highway. + +When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up at the +sight of the vielle. + +“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeing him with interest. + +“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen,” answered +Hilarius. + +“But thou art no monk!” + +“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to see the +world. It is wondrous fair,” he added sincerely. + +“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” said Martin, and as Hilarius made +sign of assent, “’tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave thee +letters to the Abbat of St Peter’s, I doubt not; thy face is set for +Westminster.” + +“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir John +Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere now but that +two days ago I met strange company. They took my purse and hat and +shoes, and kept me with them all night until the late dawn. Then they +gave me my goods again, and bade me God-speed.’ + +“But kept thy purse?” Martin laughed. + +“Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing strange, and +I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me no wrong, and +set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision, which I lacked.” + +“Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God’s judgments for once,” +muttered Martin; then aloud, “Well, young sir, we shall do well if we win +Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is +the same?” + +Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court and +King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. He +listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard +eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, a man +of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; “and,” added Martin, +“three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, +of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager +one or other will claim thee for page.” + +“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilarius soberly, “but I have never +spoken but to one maid ’til yesterday, when a woman gave me good-morrow.” + +Martin looked at his companion queerly. + +“And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this Prior of +thine is a strange master!” + +“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “then I shall go back to the +Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I have +some small skill with the brush,” he added simply. + +Martin stared. + +“Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now, not +wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and banquet and +revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and little reason, +much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk.” + +Hilarius smiled. + +“Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write for +him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the Court? It +seems a fine thing to be the King’s Minstrel.” + +“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily, “give me the open country and +the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King is a good +master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; ’tis +ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the +Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again.” + +He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the +minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with tears, for he was still +heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing +tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song +itself was sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive +to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; +then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:— + +“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?” + +“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He stopped suddenly, louted low to the +sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. “A fair +mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns +himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, +chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears, then with +boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her buffets. She gives +all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of her hair across a +man’s face only to elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of +all his children; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or she +flouts him.” + +Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant—the “wide +wide world, hunger and love”? + +“Did’st thou ever hunger, good Martin?” + +“Ay, lad,” said the minstrel, surprised, “and ’tis good sauce for the +next meal” + +“Did’st thou ever love?” + +Martin broke into a great laugh. + +“Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here comes one +who knows little enough of hunger or love.” Round the bend of the road +came a man in hermit’s dress carrying a staff and a well-filled wallet. +His carriage seemed suddenly to become less upright, and he leaned +heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from the two travellers. + +Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him. + +“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help to +fill the skin of this lazy rogue; ’tis not the first time we have met. +See here,” and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit’s wallet. + +This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful of +oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung the +bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the road, +while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a cudgel. + +Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing +companion, who answered the unspoken question. + +“A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest of +every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand’s turn and yet +live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff in that +larder of his to make merry with.” + +Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head. + +“I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness,” he said at +last. + +“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tis true enough that +godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit’s robe may cover a +rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and +tongue. See, lad,” as another turn in the road brought them in sight of +Westminster, “there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!” + +He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’s edge, with roof +and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western sky; +in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold. + +Hilarius gave a little cry. + +“’Tis like the New Jerusalem!” he said, and Martin smiled grimly. + +An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and +Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’s side. Around him he +saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, +falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; +it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly +blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, +life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored eyes, wild confusion. +Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of men, drinking, +gossiping, singing, for the day’s work was done. In the courtyard of the +“Black Boar” a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius +crossed himself anxiously—was the devil about to beset him under all +guises at once? He raised a fervent _Ora __pro me_ to St Benedict as he +hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk +flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the +pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the man in him +stayed the indignant tears. “Martin, Martin!” he cried; but the minstrel +was on his own ground now, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, +and news given and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, +his ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by +the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the late salute, took +refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious heart until the +minstrel should have done with the crowd. + +Martin did not forget him. + +“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how they welcome the King’s bird back to his +cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a homing +pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey’s end.” Then, +apprehending for the first time Hilarius’ white face and piteous eyes, +Martin strode across, swept him under the archway into a quiet courtyard +where a fountain rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s +steward, left him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise of +speedy meeting. + +Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed the steward into a +rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy with +preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and dejected, +his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being crying out for +the busied peace and silent orderliness of his cloister home. The +servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly +noticed when the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked +him slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and drank +thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the pages and squires +among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, +something restored by the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the +hall. + +It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far loftier +and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through high lancet +windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which the morrow’s sun +would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork—a man’s thought in every +quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guarding saint. A +raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, and here gaily dressed +pages waited on the master of the house and his honoured guests. +Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of distinguished presence +to be no other than Sir John himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes +wandered carelessly over the rest of the company until they were caught +and held by a woman’s face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight’s +three fair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary +traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land. + +“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had,” he thought, his mind +reverting to his favourite Saint; “she is like the lilies in the garth at +home.” + +It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed in +costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the foolish +French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she looked a nun. +Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when she was +much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an unknown soul; her mouth, +delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; her head drooped slightly on +her long, slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious humility. She +was like a pictured saint: Hilarius’ gaze clung to her, followed her as +she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat apart while the serving +men cleared the lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the +night. He lay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows +the moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do on +bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay sleeping +soundly after the day’s toils; there was none to heed, and he sobbed like +a little homesick child, until his tired youth triumphed, and he fell +asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, the lady at the raised table, +and the pale, sweet lilies in the cloister garth. + + + + +_PART II_ +THE FLOWER + + +CHAPTER I +THE CITY OF PURE GOLD + + +“BLIND eyes, blind eyes!” sang the dancer. + +Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench in the sunny +courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. He sat +rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his hair into a +halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly on her +perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching +its great limbs, came towards him. + +It was four o’clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard was +deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his +household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady +Eleanor, Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John had so +appointed it. + +It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had +seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise; but +he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets full of the +righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the Babylon of Blessed +John’s Vision—with a few holy ones who would surely be caught up ere +judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor. + +A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to his children, +gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God and King Edward; shrewd +withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and because of the love he +bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilarius to attend his eldest daughter, who +seemed to belong as little to this world as the lad himself; and felt +that in so doing he had achieved the best possible for his old friend, +according to his asking. + +Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends the +chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a saint, by +reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he watched her at +banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a revel as to the +Sacrament, and sat at a mummers’ show with eyes fixed on the Unseen. She +moved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and joyous maidens +like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at her coming. + +It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning—brother of that Hugh +de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius—a gentle knight with mild +blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly things. +The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up with +preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, and their +speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to lovers’ vows. +It was small wonder, therefore, that another year saw them both by glad +consent in the cloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine +House of which her aunt was Prioress. + +Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just as he +had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’s Abbey: “With all its +straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks ’tis like the forest at +home” (forgetting that his more intimate knowledge of the forest partook +of the nature of sin). “The Lady Eleanor, my honoured mistress,” he +wrote, “is a most saintly and devout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and +caring nought for the things of this world;” and he added, “’tis +beautiful to see such devotion where for the most part are sinful and +light-minded persons.” + +The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and when Brother +Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, “Nay, Brother, he +still sleeps;” and indeed there seemed no waking him to a world of +men—living, striving, sorely-tried men. + +He dwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour and light and +shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the gorgeous +pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by angels; while +the knights at a tourney in their brave armour pictured St George, St +Michael, or St Martin in his dreams. + +It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress, not a +page attending a great lady to the Court functions. He yearned ever +after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and stores of colour and +gold. It lay but a stone’s throw away behind the jealous Monastery +walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that the lad should go +straight from one cloister to another. + +To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor’s +tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and followed +her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a gallery hung with +wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower where Eleanor sat with two +of her women busied with their needle. + +Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He louted low, +and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her. + +“I am weary,” she said; “this life is weariness. Tell me of the +Monastery and the forest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem that +Brother Ambrose saw and limned.” + +Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee, and +chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out of the +window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles. + +“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever a saintly man, approved of God +and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, save that of late +his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay a-bed in the +dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: “Come, and I will show thee +the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and was carried +to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision of Blessed John. +’Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a +radiant path in the heavens; and lo! the stars gathered themselves +together on either side until they stood as walls of light, and the four +winds lapped him about as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous +gleaming roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof +and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly +limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of +Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, and a +face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding radiance. + +“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great +longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between the +walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but heard only a +sound as of a great multitude crying, ‘Alleluia’; and suddenly the winds +came about him again, and lo! he found himself in bed in the dormitory, +and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and he rose and +went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left the choir, Brother +Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and seeing nothing because of +the Vision of God; and at Lauds they found him and told the Prior. + +“He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the +Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the +Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours he +asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair city of +gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and +green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame with +the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he set the +rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; +and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding great longing he +had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but our Prior bade him thank +God and remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey +cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight.” + +There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veined hands +under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing. + +“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick,” she said, +at length. + +Hilarius nodded: + +“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and often he +would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the Office +bell.” + +“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that Holy +City.” + +“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surely thou hast had a vision even +as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like unto his.” + +Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadow of her +eyes. + +“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though my desire is +great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reason I would get me +to a cloister where I might fast and pray unhindered.” + +Hilarius looked at her with great compassion. + +“Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thou art +already as one of His saints.” + +“Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world,” she answered. “Sing to me, +Hilarius.” + +And he sang her the _Salve Regina_, and when it was ended she bade him +go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon her primer. + +“Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!” he said, and left +her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of her tender childlike +heart. + + + +CHAPTER II +THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW + + +HILARIUS went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. He leant +against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fell with +monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The cloudless sky +smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed, and the +glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him strangely. He too had a vision +which he longed to limn; but it was of earth, not Heaven, like that +vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; and yet none the less precious, for was it +not the Monastery at home which so haunted him, the grey, familiar walls +with their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling forest which bowed +and swayed at the will of the whispering wind? + +“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love in +this light-minded, deceitful city,” Hilarius said to himself a little +bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and learnt the +full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company and +diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. +A prentice lad’s homely brawl set him shivering; a woman’s jest painted +his cheeks ’til they rivalled a young maid’s at her first wooing. He +plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank +or juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would +push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose +mother, like his own, was light o’ love: a strange link truly to bind +Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity. + +Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a gay +young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. He reined +up by Hilarius: + +“Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?” + +“That will I, Hal, an it be in my power.” + +“Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. ’Tis +Luke Langland’s reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head +was full of feast and tourney, and ’tis yet undelivered. Mine host will +not let the serving men and the two horses go ’til he hath seen Luke’s +money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me.” + +Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a good +comrade, clattered back through the gateway. + +The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery of +Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors dicing, +gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to shut eyes +and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only +to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than the +reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet +by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less +frequented way. + +The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly +traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place +of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard +over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. +Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors +silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket +gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither +laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from +this dismal sordid place. + +Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:— + +“How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?” + +He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, +the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm. + +“Sanctuary,” stammered Hilarius, “nay, good sir, I—” + +The other laughed. + +“Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could’st stray into these +precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may +flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of +treason, seditious talk, or slander—a strange place in which to see such +a face as thine.” + +“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning,” said Hilarius; +“in sooth, ’tis a fearful place.” + +“Ay, boy, ’tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety—even +the King’s arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but from +himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say +’tis a place of darkness and despair.” + +The unspoken question shone in Hilarius’ eyes, and the other answered it. + +“Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. ’Twas good advice I gave, +well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools +and the foolishness of wisdom.” + +“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter of +Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed. + +“Most surely he knows; but what would’st thou have? It hath ever been +the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest they +repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should +he set foot in the city without, he is the law’s, and no man may gainsay +it.” + +“Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance,” said Hilarius. + +“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the other cheerfully, “but then ’tis not +for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man’s law may fail to reach, +but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner.” + +Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with the +North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty. + +“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody +hands.” + +“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many of them are kindly folk, and many +have slain in anger without thought. ’Tis a sad place, though, and thy +young face is like a sunbeam on a winter’s day. Come, I will show thee +thy road.” + +He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on the +edge of the city’s stir and hum. + +“I can no further,” he said. “Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee! +An old man’s blessing ne’er harmed any one.” + +Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets +crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang out +above the shouts and din. + +“’Tis an evil, evil world,” quoth young Hilarius. + + + +CHAPTER III +A SENDING FROM THE LORD + + +OCTOBER and November came and sped, and Hilarius’ longing to be a limner +waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he met Martin, of +whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel followed the Court. + +“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, as he stood with +Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; “ay, and I love +one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away to my +mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my heart break.” + +“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said Hilarius sadly; “I too would +fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is barred, and I +may not open it from within.” + +Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder. + +“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this Martinmas, +say you? In truth ’tis a great age, but still leaves time and to spare. +‘_All things come to a waiting man_,’ saith the proverb.” + +A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the south +wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, and suited +the Minstrel’s mood. + +He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius had +once more cried his longing, he said gravely:— + +“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad—and yet +earn no welcome.” + +Hilarius looked at him questioningly. + +“Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?” + +“Nay, good Martin.” + +“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the Plague +once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out with a clean +skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in the south, and +creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere the winter +is out, and such as God keep thee from.” + +Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and +turned to speak of other things. + +Martin looked at him gloomily. + +“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad.” + +“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for the +Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set me +free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, +“for I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks there are few +folk to love in this wicked city.” + +Martin laughed and then grew grave again. + +“Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain find thee +a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban’s an it be +possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior +Stephen may say.” + +And he went off singing— + + “Three felons hung from a roadside tree, + One black and one white and one grey; + And the ravens plucked their eyes away + From one and two and three, + That honest men might see + And thievish knaves should pay; + Lest these might be + As blind as they. + Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day! + One—two—three! On the gallows-tree hung they.” + +Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin’s voice had +died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the dancer and the +Prior. + +Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say: + +“I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger—I hunger, and +I love.” + +He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again the shrill +quavering voice called: + +“Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, pray for me! +Blessed Michael, defend me!” + +Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixty years +had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of the cloister. +He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, and wondrous wise; +the King himself had sought his counsel, and the Convent held him in high +esteem. + +Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window of the +cell—it was too high above him. An overpowering desire came upon him to +ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he caught at the window’s +upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sun behind +him, gazing into the cell. + +On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted locks +upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle. The skin +of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-set eyes glowed +strangely in their hollow cavities. + +Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him. + +The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its +aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!” he cried, +gaining strength from the vision. + +“What would’st thou, Father!” said Hilarius, afraid. + +“Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet—” the old man’s +voice grew weaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in peace.” + +He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore +perplexed. + +“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?” + +The Ankret looked troubled. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmured entreatingly. + +Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man saw some +wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain time to speech of him. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered the old, tired voice. + +Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast and +braced himself against the wall. + +“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—The appeal in the half-dead face was +awful. + +Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from the +unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no counsel +from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man—ay, even when he was +visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring a +blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to him. There was +no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry from the tired old saint. +Hilarius doffed his cap again and his fresh young voice rose clear and +sweet through the thin still air:— + + “_Iesu_, _dulcis memoria_, + _Dans vera cordis gaudia_; + _Sed super mel et omnia_ + _Dulcis ejus praesentia_.” + +At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the Ankret +crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly like a +little child. + +Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of what had +befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub-Prior gave him +the last sacraments. + +Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy man +before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought his +message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that the +Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his own counsel. + +He told Lady Eleanor of Martin’s words. + +“God save the King!” she said, and went into her oratory to pray: and +there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel’s foreboding was no idle one. +Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King, undeterred, +came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not in his train. +Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason of the terror they would not recognise. +Banquet and revel, allegory and miracle play; pageant of beautiful women +and brave men; junketing, ay, and rioting—thus they flung a defiance at +the enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bells sounded +the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem. + +Eleanor, knowing Hilarius’ ardent longing for school and master, prayed +her father to set him on the way to St Alban’s instead of keeping him +with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight, feeling one page +more or less mattered little when Death was so ready to serve, and +anxious for the lad’s safety and well-being, assented gladly enough. So +it came to pass that on the Feast of the Three Kings Hilarius found +himself on the Watling Street Way, a well-filled purse in his pocket, but +a fearful heart under his jerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed +large, a great king, and by all accounts a most mighty hunter. + + + +CHAPTER IV +BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE + + +It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face of +Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, in the +field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door wide for +the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass that while the +stricken poor agonised in the grip of unknown horror, bishop and +merchant, prince and chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses +with their train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and west, from +the pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much traffic. One +procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its way to London. + +It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or snow, +and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and stricken +skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey sky. Suddenly +the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still air, music and words +alike strange. The singers came slowly up the roadway, men of foreign +aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding +their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. They were stripped to +the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried each a bloody +scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third step they signed +the sign of the Cross with their prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus +in blood and penitence they went towards London. + +Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it. These +strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back with the +rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off jerkin +and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob. + +“I left wife and children to perish alone,” he cried, “and fled to save +my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for I go back. +Smite, and smite hard, brother!” and he stepped in front of the first +flagellant. + +At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many fell on +their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with groanings +and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned and fled +blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the blood drumming +in his ears, a great horror at his heels—a horror that could drive a man +from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the +wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to save that which most +men count dearer than either. + +At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming +towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way in the +hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was a small, +mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and staff; his face +upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he came up with Hilarius, +and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire burnt in the dead ashes. + +“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord +promised me?” + +Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar laid +one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against his +shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with the light and practised touch of +the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while. + +“Son, thou wilt come with me?” + +“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban’s.” + +“Whence, my son?” + +“From Westminster, good Father.” + +“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery but +now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from the +pestilent cities. What would’st thou with the Abbat?” + +Hilarius told him. + +The friar flung up his hands. + +“_Laus Deo_! _Laus Deo_!” he cried, “now I know thou art in very truth +the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice +has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me carried away, +struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and Hell is near at +hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many hideous devils; yet the +place is little Bungay, where my mother hath a cot by the river. When +first the dream came I lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh +quaked and my hair stood up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; +then as I mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might +wrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was ever inclined to +evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught save gain. + +“Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague at my +heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach its coming in +every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as I tarried on the +seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because I had preached its +coming, the people rose in wrath, and, falling upon me, roughly handled +me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing my +eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat. + +“Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darkness and +light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flames of hell +burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because of my mother’s +soul.” + +“And then, and then?” tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of pure pity in +his eyes. + +“Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas, and +sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. The shipmen were +kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by a great wind, and at +last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have come south thus far by the aid +of Christian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here to guide +me.” + +“But, my Father,” said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier in the +way of his desires, “’tis a limner I would be; and I am from Westminster, +not London, and then there is Prior Stephen’s letter—” + +The friar held up his hand: + +“Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me. Last +night the vision came again, and a voice cried: ‘Speed, for a son of +Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,’ and lo! thou art here, +waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, an thou wilt come +thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham—’tis a cell of this Abbey—for +there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hath wondrous skill with the +brush; he will teach thee, for thou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus +sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; +but first thou shalt set me in that village of Bungay, where my mother +dwelleth.” + +Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that vainly +questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, in +this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was even as one of the blessed +martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner! How should he, Hilarius, +gainsay one with a vision from the Lord? + +“I obey, my Father,” he cried joyously, taking the friar’s hand; and they +two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east. + + + +CHAPTER V +THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED + + +IT was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes’ Eve; the snow fell heavily, +caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius and the +Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the full +force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the darkness +more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten, exhausted and +lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the other across his +bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the wind. + +Suddenly he stood fast. + +“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snow is as a wall; there is naught +to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way.” His voice was +very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support. + +“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He opened +the eyes of the prophet’s servant in the besieged city; so shalt thou see +a host of angels encompassing us, for we are about the Lord’s business.” + +“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “I see no angels, and I perish.” +He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms. +A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away his +staff and lifted him to his shoulder. + +With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a white +figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once the wind +dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, +spoke:— + +“Is it thou, my Father?” + +“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to guide. +The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?” + +He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars alight! + +The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion’s darkness, pointed to +the left where lay a snow-clad village. + +“A miracle, a miracle, my Father!” + +“A miracle, i’ faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to the blind +as He promised. Let us go down.” + +They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full of awe +and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on a poor friar. + +At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment and +several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and Hilarius +made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a morsel of bread. + +A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright black +eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with despatches from +the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful tales to tell of the +Plague; how in London they piled the dead in trenches, while many who +escaped the pest died of want and cold; it was a city of the dead rather +than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste from Westminster, +had been found by his servants to have the disorder, and they fled, +leaving him by the wayside to perish. + +Hilarius heard horror-struck. + +“’Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master,” he said. + +“Nay, lad,” said a chapman in the corner, “but a man loves his own skin +best.” + +“Ay, ay,” said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm on his +way to a neighbouring village, “a man’s own skin before all. Fill your +belly first and your neighbour’s afterwards. Live and let live.” + +“Ay, let live,” chimed in mine host, bustling in with a stoop of cider +for the chapman, “but, by the Rood, ’tis cruel work when two lone women +are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon and a lump of bread; for I’se +warrant ’tis a long day sin’ they had more than that at best.” + +The chapman took his cider. + +“Where was this work done?” he said. + +“Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found Wednesday +se’n-night by the herd as he went folding. They lay on the floor in +their blood.” + +Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had been +spared the sight of violent death—ay, or of death in any form—and had +seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sight he had +thanked Heaven piously. + +“’Tis the fault of the rich,” said a voice, and Hilarius saw, to his +surprise, that there was a second friar in the room; a tall, +bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented with a scanty +fringe of black hair. + +“The rich grow fat, and the poor starve,” he went on, “’tis hunger makes +a man kill his brother for a mouthful of mouldy bacon.” + +“Nay,” said the miller, “there was no need to kill, Father. A man could +have taken the meat from two lone women and left them their lives.” + +“Why take from folk as poor as themselves?” said mine host. “Let them +rob the rich an they must rob.” + +“Ay,” said the friar, “rob the rich, say you, take their own, say I. God +did not make this world that one man should be over full and another go +empty; nor is it religion that the monks’ should live on the fat o’ the +land and grind the faces of the poor. How many manors, think you, has +the Abbat of St Edmund’s, and how many on his land lack bread?” + +Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathful defence +pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraining hand on his +sleeve. + +Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching was seditious, and +made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but it tickled the ears of the +common folk and ’twas ill to quarrel with the Mendicants. Help came to +him in his perplexity: a loud knocking on the barred door made the guests +within start. + +“’Tis eight o’ the clock,” said the miller, affrighted, for he had a +heavy purse on him. + +“Let them knock and cool their hot heads,” said the seditious friar +composedly. + +The rest nodded approval. + +Then a man’s voice threatened without. + +“What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man without? Open, +open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it.” + +Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; he moved +slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout wooden bar. +As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst in, at sight of whom +mine host turned yet paler. + +“Food and drink,” said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on a bench +by the fire. + +Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hair was +close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very small and near +together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up showed two rat-like +teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the chapman who had been +searching amongst his goods for something wherewith to pay his +hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, looking up, +caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares. +He plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tender liquid +notes—a thrush’s roundelay. Then a blackbird called and his mate +answered; a cuckoo cried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting +cadence; a nightingale poured forth her deathless love. + +Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the man +threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to ravenously on the +victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly amid dead silence; then +he looked up and cursed at them for their sorry mood. + +“What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? Damn you all +for dull dogs!” + +The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man’s dreadful +face. + +“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” he said, and at his voice the man leapt to +his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. “Piping Hugh of +Mildenhall,” said the Friar again, “I have a message for thee from the +Lord God. I cried thee damned in my own name once, when thou did’st take +my little sister to shame and death; now I cry thee thrice damned in the +name of the Lord, for the cup of thine iniquity is full and thy hands red +with blood. Man hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and +all men shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but it +shall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt live on +with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou shalt herd; thou +shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men shall hunt thee from their +doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought and found it not, +because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy +speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; +thou art given over to the Evil One, and he shall torment thee with +remembrance.” + +There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore open +the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the +whiteness of the night. + +The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, +full of pride at his Friar’s powers, stepped forward to close the door. +He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the sound of doom. +The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the company began in +silence to make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, +Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad’s voice and touch. +Then he crossed to where the others stood apart eyeing him fearfully. + +He laid his hand on the miller’s breast and said in a clear, low voice: +“Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on the messenger’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on the chapman’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +He laid his hand on mine host’s breast: “Thou wilt die, brother.” + +Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his face +dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: “Thou wilt +live, my brother—and repent.” + + + +CHAPTER VI +A DARK FINDING + + +IT is a far cry from St Alban’s to Bungay—which village of the good ford +lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant—and the journey +is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the +road, for January’s turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and +early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, +light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul +jest were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the +wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to +repent and be saved, for Death’s shadow was already upon them. Folk +wondered and gaped—the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of +London—but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some +heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had +come with the same message half a man’s lifetime before, and that no evil +had followed his preaching. + +At last St Matthias’ Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund’s Abbey. +There were many guests for the Convent’s hospitality that night, and as +Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house—a brother had charged +himself with the care of the Friar—he heard the sound of the vielle, and +a rich voice which sang in good round English against the fashion of the +day. + +“Martin, Martin!” he cried. + +The vielle was instantly silent. + +“Holà, lad!” cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught +Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily. + +“Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the Plague +would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed farther +afield.” Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the song was +not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his +vielle. “Be still now, lad, ’til I have finished my ditty for this +worshipful company; then, an’t please thee to tell it, I will hear thy +tale.” + +The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed +their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:— + + “The fair maid came to the old oak tree + (Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), + The throstle he sang merrily—merrily—merrily, + But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, + Her sweet knight—Oh! where was he? + + He lay dead in the cold, cold ground + (Moon and stars and rain on the hill), + In his side and breast were bloody wounds. + Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, + The poor knight—Ah! cold was he. + + The maiden sat her down to die + (Cold, cold earth on her lover’s breast), + And the little birds rang mournfully, + And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, + And the stars looked down right pityingly + On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight. + Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!” + +This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and the +company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught sight of the +seditious friar making short work of the Convent’s victuals, and +marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given so evil a name. + +Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently to his +tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar he companied +with preached in each village that men should repent ere the scourge of +God fell upon them; “but there is naught of it as yet,” said the lad. + +“Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and then +the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a bruit of +London that it was but a heap of graves—nay, one grave rather, for they +flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do otherwise: +Black Death is swift with his stroke.” + +Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar’s death-words to the +guests. + +Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh. + +“Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on +Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black deed +to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet there was +never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never heard tell that +he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?” + +When he had heard the story of the Friar’s twice-repeated vision and +quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head sunk on +his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly. + +“Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay with +thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. Also I like +not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end of it.” + +That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried: “Haste, +haste, ere it be too late.” And so Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, +the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own. None of the three ever +saw St Edmund’s Abbey again, for in one short month the minster with its +sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while the dead lay in +heaps, silently waiting to summon to their ghastly company the living +that sought to make them a bed. + +Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low +vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar +strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and +Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his +companions. + +“What is that?” he said shrilly. + +A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself +fearfully. + +“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when they told him; and so at full +pace they came to Bungay town. + +The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the roar +and hum of an angry crowd. + +“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his face was very grave, “no +doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the common. +Prithee, where is thy mother’s dwelling, good Father, and I will go and +ask news of her?” + +“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate; Goody +Wooten thou shalt ask for.” + +Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar +followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood +fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to +make his ears do a double service. + +Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar’s business as +the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full +of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him +throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he +fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to catch +what was said. + +“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was saying vehemently; “yon holy friar +hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, +and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his +mother’s soul—and now, and now—” + +The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman lay +on the ground by the river’s edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged rags +crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth +and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied +to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in +their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her. + +Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful crowd: + +“By Christ’s Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought,” he said. + +“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. +For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this place, ay, +and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her means. Near +two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and +never seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us for +meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and swear she +knew naught of the misbegotten brat.” + +“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” said Martin. “I hate these rough-cast +witch-findings—’tis not a matter for man’s judgment, unless ’tis sworn +and proven in court before the Justiciary.” + +“Nay,” joined in an old man, “what need of a Justice when God speaks? We +did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or swim. The +witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing +that, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies, and say whether +the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?” + +Martin wrung his hands. + +“For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no word +of this to yon holy man.” + +Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied +themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and +bore her to her wretched bed. + +The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of the +miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor place and +its dead dishonoured mistress. + +Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius and the +Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. March +mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled +dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started +nervously when Martin spoke. + +“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too +late to speed thy mother’s soul; she passed to-day, and lies even now +awaiting burial at thy faithful hands.” + +The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a +look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads abashed +in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing. + +They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin. + +“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people feared +her?” + +“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, and muttered, “now God forgive +me!” under his breath. + +As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through the +lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It lighted each +vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face, and +betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid fear. + +Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death? The +Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him. + +“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst read +in thy dream.” + +The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was heard +the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth floor. +The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look +up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he +knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry. It was +answered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child that is found. + + * * * * * + +The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to the +cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the +down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned his blind, +anguished face to the setting sun. + +“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel but +not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon them; +Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them no more. Let them +bare their backs to the scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit +them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain. + +“O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged falsely +withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even according to your +measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh swiftly and maketh no long +tarrying. It shall come; it shall snatch men’s souls away, even as ye +have torn away my mother’s soul, leaving no space for repentance.” + +He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the little +town. + +“Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps. Ye +shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none; for the +arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the wickedness of the +earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people! Woe, woe, +woe, a people hating righteousness and loving iniquity! The Lord shall +straightway destroy them from off the face of the earth.” + +He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then +another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling, +growling, but afraid. + +Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched den; and +the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the else unhallowed +grave, and Martin prayed beside him. + +Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; for what +availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had met her due, damned +alike by God and man? + +Martin came up to him. + +“She was his mother,” he said, as if making excuse. + +Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evil liver; and +the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending her to her own +place. He crossed himself piously at the thought of the near +neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul. + +Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar clung to +him like a little child, for the strength of his vision was spent. They +lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only one slept, and that one +Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet-smelling hay, and dreamt of +Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrous +pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine forest at home +swept across his quiet sleep. + +On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all aglow +for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar at least as +far as Norwich. + +“As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another’s bidding,” he +said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never to meet +again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to Yarmouth, not +Norwich, and there they perished among the first when the east wind swept +the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. And Hilarius—once +again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path of his desires. + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE + + +HILARIUS fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in good +weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!—that was a time to commend +oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, picking his way +in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which was all that +remained to show where the piety of the past once kept a road. The low +land to his left was submerged, a desolate tract giving back a sullen +grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a +sunken ship broke the waste of waters. + +The sight brought Hilarius’ thoughts sharply back to the events of the +evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of God! A +witch—plainly proved to be such—had been struck dead in the midst of her +sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap of +graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the justice of the +Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, there to learn to be a +cunning limner; and having so learnt would joyfully hie him back to Prior +Stephen and his own monastery. + +Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a small +hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp-set, for the +shepherd’s fare had been meagre; and so turned aside in the hope of an +ale-house. There was no side road visible, and he struck across the +dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude track which led to the +group of cottages. The place struck him as strangely quiet; no smoke +rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously at a +stranger’s advent. The first hovel he passed was empty, the open door +showed a fireless hearth. At the second he knocked and heard a sound of +scuffling within. As no one answered his repeated summons he pushed the +door open; the low room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him +from a corner,—’twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his +heart, and passed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence. + +Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat larger +cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the door: it was the +ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he would find some one. As he +came up he heard a child crying, and lo! on the doorstep sat a dirty +little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear life. + +Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the grimy +tears. + +The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill cry of +joy, she held out her thin arms. + +At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a woman +still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a little babe. +She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to her in the doorway, +waved him away. + +“Stand off, fool!—’tis the Plague.” + +Hilarius shrank back. + +“And thy neighbours?” he asked. + +“Nay, they were light-footed eno’ when they saw what was to do, and left +us three to die like rats in a hole.” Then eagerly: “Hast thou any +bread?” + +He shook his head. + +“Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?” + +She threw out her hands. + +“’Tis two days sin’ I had bite or sup.” + +“Where lies the nearest village? and how far?” + +“A matter of an hour, over yonder.” + +“See, goodwife,” said Hilarius, “I will go buy thee food and come again.” + +She looked at him doubtfully. + +“So said another, and he never came back.” + +“Nay, but perchance some evil befell him,” said gentle Hilarius. + +“Well, I will trust thee.” She went in and returned with a few small +coins. “’Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, else they will +hunt thee from their doors.” + +Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in the +direction of the village. + +The woman watched him. + +“Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?” she muttered, as she sat +down to wait. + +It was love. + +Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little money he +had to the woman’s scanty store, bought bread, a flask of wine, flour and +beans, and a jug of milk. + +“’Tis for a sick child,” he said when he asked for it, and the woman +pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed. + +The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of his +precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a snare, lay a +fine coney. + +“Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!” cried +Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store. + +When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke into +loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving up the +struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with her +fast-failing babe in her arms. + +Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine—not for nothing had he +served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe for some +weak Brother—and then turned his attention to the little maid who sat +patient, eyeing the food. + +For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking the +child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. At last +the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen head against +her nurse’s shoulder, and fell fast asleep. + +Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to her, +thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little sister, the child +he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had guided him to her, and her +great Mother-love would shield this little one from a foul and horrid +death. In that dirty, neglected room, the child warm against his breast, +Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his life. + +Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little pale +cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed eyes, and laid +his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother. + +The woman was half-asleep, but started awake. + +“Art thou going?” she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes. + +“Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together,” he said soothingly. “I +would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter.” + +Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth. The +poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and +stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her tale. + +“’Twas Gammer Harden’s son who first heard tell of a strange new sickness +at Caxton’s; and then Jocell had speech with a herd from those parts, who +was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill he had done. Next day +Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out of boils, +and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden fell sick and died +likewise. Then one cried ’twas the Plague, and the wrath of God; and +they fled—the women to the nuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or +shelter on the Manor; but us they left, for I was with child.” + +“And thy husband?’ said Hilarius. + +“Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his and mine. +Some hold ’tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of it this evil +hath fallen upon me.” + +She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and shrunk +with the stress of its short life. + +Hilarius spoke gently:— + +“It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to live together +out of holy wedlock, and perchance ’tis true that for this very thing +thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. But since thou +didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent me to serve thee in thy +sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady herself showed me where the +coney lay snared. Let us pray God by His dear Mother to forgive us our +sins and to have mercy on these little ones.” + +And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father for his +new-found family. + +Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. Hilarius +dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at last the pinch +came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the babe scarce in +life—there could be no thought of flight—and the little maid grew white, +and wan and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that he would once again +beg food in the village where he had sought help before. + +He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the better +fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he found his +errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming from many parts, +and each man feared for his own skin. At every house they questioned +him: “Art thou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?” and when he +answered “Yea,” the door was shut. + +Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. He +gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the Saviour and His +holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and her mother. Let them +set it in the street, he would take it and cross no man’s threshold. +Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child die of want? + +“Nay, ’tis better they die, so are we safe,” cried a voice; then they +fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with blows and +curses. + +Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; +breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge. + +A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius +shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed for +food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of +those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance a +coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were not his nestlings +agape? + +Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape and +gaily painted. + +He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in his +awful need. + +The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse +took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart to ask +an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If he begged +and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the sack and +the hen had changed owners—but not unobserved; a clear voice called a +halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: +and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway—a thief. + +“Seize the knave!” cried the girl sharply. + +Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she knew +him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him. + +“What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, ’tis a rare +jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?” + +But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and hunger, +sudden darkness fell upon him. + +When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; the +waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother stood +watching him. + +“Fetch bread and wine,” said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to +speak, “Peace, ’til thou hast eaten.” + +Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:— + +“Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints and +thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?” + +Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of his +little maid, and his were not the only tears. + +The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken from her +store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder. + +“But, Gia,” grumbled her brother, “there will be naught for us to-night.” + +“Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry,” she retorted, and filled a +small sack with the victuals. + +Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to him: +“Now up and off to thy little maid.” + +Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took +both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed them. + +“Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the forest? +God help me for a poor, blind fool!” + +“Nay,” she answered, “there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast +learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here +again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little maid. +Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old +grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her.” + +Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet +greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God. + +When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened to +make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely eat. +Then he went out to find the woman. + +He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried to +him to keep back. + +“My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the houses +seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden’s; and I must die. As for thee, thou +shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; so maybe God will spare +the innocent.” + +Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to bring +her food, but she would not. + +“Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone that I +may die the sooner.” + +Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the little +maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept +heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child awake. + +He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings of the +poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of the hovel +in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he searched the +fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of +garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead +babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the +silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was peace. + +Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and +covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his +fatherless, motherless maid. + +She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; but +each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not even sit, +but lay white and silent in Hilarius’ tender arms; and he fought with +death for his little maid. + +Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny morsels +in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the long hours, +his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The darkness came, +and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke +and the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he might +see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came to pass that +when the light kissed her little white face she opened her eyes and +smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died. + +The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew near +the place of Hilarius’ first and last theft: he was standing by the +wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer +looked but once on his face and asked no question. + + + + +_PART III_ +THE FRUIT + + +CHAPTER I +HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! + + +THE Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great +event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to +be more than a terrible name. + +True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by +the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub-Prior. For lo! the +Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved +harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had +fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his +hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, +and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the +Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the +Brethren that when he began to sing the _Verba mea_ on leaving the +chapter, the Convent—yea, even the novices—were silent, to show their +displeasure. + +When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only +he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, +and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a +gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the +Convent was at peace. + +Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped +through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; +Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; +and Brother Thomas the Cellarer—but of him let us say little and think +with charity; for ’tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and +is come to judgment. + +Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent +fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming +their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was +very pleasant to them. + +“Since Brother Thomas died—” began Brother Paul. + +“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Brother Anselm. + +“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paul again—a little +impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough—“methinks the +provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother.” + +“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. “Methinks our Cellarer draws +the half of it from the Convent’s well.” + +They shook their heads sadly. + +“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a short silence, “our Cellarer is +most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of his office—while +Brother Thomas, alack—” + +“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties,” said +Brother Paul. “The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of these things. +On Sunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in the +refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he ate the meat +in great content, and seemingly with appetite.” + +“He is but young, he is but young—sixty come Michaelmas—sixty, and +twenty-two years Prior—’tis a long term,” and Brother Anselm nodded his +head. + +“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” said Brother Paul, “whereas +thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas—God +rest his soul!—was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder +Brethren.” + +“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” said Brother Anselm, +fingering his toothless gums. “Think you ’twould be well to speak of +this matter to the Prior?” + +“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is ever against any store being set on +the things of this world—‘’tis well for the greater discipline of the +flesh,’ so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to +us elder Brethren.” + +“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died,” said +Brother Anselm ruefully. + +“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him—maybe he will +hear a word in season,” and the two old monks moved slowly away to the +Cellarer’s office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk. + +He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government +sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the +lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full +six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas +after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St +Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another +well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set +blind-eyed without the gate? + +He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that +Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with +the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the +resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk’s dying speech had +been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see. + +Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary’s flowers +came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his +hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was +all passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle +breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows +where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. +Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty +as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for +the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own +helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for the boy whose +mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand. + +Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this world +to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself +in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait. + +The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air +calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place. + +“_Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent_,” chanted the deep +voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in +the Psalmody. + +“_Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua_. _Venientes autem +venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos_.” + +He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting +was not yet. + + + +CHAPTER II +MARY’S LILIES + + +IT came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se’nnight later, that Prior +Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him. + +It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the noon +repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of the bees +busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air +overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice he +knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, for it was +the voice of God. He arose in haste and went out into the garth, and lo! +under the lilies Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great +wonder, his heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little +piece of grass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door. + +As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly +from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and +marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave +scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. He +strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were as lead. + +The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to arouse +him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as the calling +of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then, +in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay; +and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and cried +out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior +Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the woman’s side: there was +but one lily left. He laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was +still far from him: and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with +a cry of fear—and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he +was sore troubled. + +“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his mother, +on whom God have mercy!” And sighing heavily he took his way to the +great Rood and made supplication for his son. + + * * * * * + +Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of Florence, +there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched hands, whose +many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under +threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling upper lip. Great, +alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving favour. +Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every ruddy strand that hung a +shimmering mantle to her knee. Her beauty—nay, men had slain themselves +gladly to escape the torment of her look. She stood in the curtained +doorway, a heavy purple hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her +paled as he saw her vengeful face. + +It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender height, +and bowed. + +Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued marble +floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies caught in her +draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and +faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause the Angelus sounded +from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the +stillness fled before a woman’s scornful laugh. + +“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly, “is ours to be a war of signs +and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with judgment, +though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all that is said of +thee be true, I will e’en have thee whipped at the gibbet for thy gibes! +Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; ’tis a last asking. Wilt +thou paint this face of mine that is, it seems, so little to thy liking? +Strain not my patience over much—’tis a slender cord at best, and +somewhat tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?” + +Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruised and scattered on +the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and clear:— + +“‘It is nay.’” + +She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was a +stain where her teeth had been busy. + +“‘It is nay,’” she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him. “May a +poor Princess ask the Signor’s reason?” + +Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies. + +“It lies there.” + +For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her cheek; +then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered in her +wrath:— + +“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to my face—to me, who stooped to +ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched beauty; I, who hold +the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men +kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such +a behest as mine? ’Tis small wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish +dress; of a truth the tale they brought savoured of little else. Hear +me, thou prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this +face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of +forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my +serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou +art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield +the rod and lace thy shoulders.” + +She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peacocks +on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog +to which she had likened him, for he had no word. + +There was silence a while. + +Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting of a +lash:— + +“Bring me yon flowers.” + +He obeyed. + +“Set them at my feet.” + +He bent his knee and did so, wondering. + +A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the air, +as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed lad at +the Monastery gate. + +One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble was yellow +with stolen gold. + +Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some living +thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet. + +It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows. + +“So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will soil thy brush to +limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the Queen of Love—but thy lips, +say they, burnt with another name! Bethink thee, faint heart, there is +not a man in all this city but would count death a small price to pay for +my favours; and I ask of thee one little service, and thou shalt name +thine own reward. Surely ’tis churlish to gainsay!” + +Her voice was suddenly sweet. + +Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, fingering +the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. She glanced up at +Hilarius through her lashes’ net. “Maybe I was over hasty,” she said +softly, and a sob swelled the round of her wonderful throat—“and yet how +couldst thou call me wanton?” Her mouth drooped a little—she was very +fair. + +“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against the roses +in love’s garden? For I love thee,” she added, and then suddenly she was +still. + +Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over-mastering +beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in the heart of every +man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as he had never before +desired aught in all the world, and he knew, to his shame, that she was +his for the asking. The blood thudded and rang in his veins; he feasted +his eyes on the curve of her neck and the radiance of her sun-swept hair. +He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised a white, +terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder. + +“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, “who touched +me?” And she sprang to her feet. + +There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they stared into each +other’s eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrank back and covered +his face with his hands. Clear and distinct he heard the Prior’s voice: +“_A light woman—a light woman_.” + +Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” and without word or look +Hilarius went. + + * * * * * + +The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with the devil +for his son’s soul, and knew that he had prevailed. + + + +CHAPTER III +OPEN EYES AT THE GATE + + +ANOTHER year wrote its record on forest and field. The weeks passed; +summer sped to autumn, the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. The Convent’s +lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; and the Prior, watching +the last great wain piled high with wealth of golden treasure, saw the +porter coming to him. + +Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty spirit; and the +Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his hurried gait and wrathful +countenance. + +“Domine,” he gasped, “Domine, there is a ragged man at the gate, a +vagabond by his own showing, and he craves speech of thee. I bade him go +to the guest-house, but he will not budge, and hath waited already an +hour despite my—” + +The porter stayed, staring; he spoke to the wind; the Prior was already +halfway to the gate. + +“This my son was dead and is alive again,” sang his heart. The porter, +afraid, hasted after him with the keys, and had scarce time to do his +office ere the sunburnt vagabond was clasped in the Prior’s arms. It was +a harvesting indeed. + +That night Hilarius went across to the Prior’s house to tell the tale of +his journeyings. He found him seated in a great oak chair by the open +window; the sky was ablaze with stars, and the flame of the oil lamp +jarred like a splash of yellow paint on the moonlight which flooded the +room; the Prior’s eyes smiled measureless content, and the murmured +“_Laus Deo_” of his lips voiced the gladness of his heart. Thus, in the +shelter of peace and a great love, Hilarius told his tale, while the +forest waved a welcome to him over the Monastery wall, and the late +lilies burned white in the garth below. + +The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the lad’s +face, pale against the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told of his +journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath been recorded in this +chronicle; and the Prior’s eyes were wet as he heard of the little maid. + +“And then, my son?” said the Prior. + +“Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as far as the +sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in the train of my lord +Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was hasting to Rome. He knew thee, +my Father, and bade his people supply my needs.” + +“Ay, he knows me,” said the Prior briefly. “The Lord reward him +according to his works, but show him mercy forasmuch as he had compassion +on my son!” + +“Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous city full of +treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I did not see, being let. +Methinks life in that country is as one long pageant; but I marked that +great holiness and an evil life, much riches and much penury, dwelt there +side by side, and men reeked little of death but much of pleasure. Then +one bade me go to Florence an I would be a limner; therefore I hasted +thither, and gave my last coin for bread as I entered the city.” + +The Prior’s brows contracted; the lad had seen some schooling. + +“But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?” + +“Ay, my Father, in God’s time: at first I must herd goats and sell melons +in the market-place for a lump of bread. Day by day I strove to gain +enough to buy colours, but could not, for the Lord sent me ever a +neighbour poorer than myself. Nevertheless I was of good courage, +knowing the Lord’s ways are not as ours; and mindful how Brother Ambrose +held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laid with fair colours ’twere +no sin to deem that a man may limn perfect pictures there, for the gift +is from the Lord.” + +“My son, ’tis a great lesson thou hast learnt,” said the Prior, “for the +Word was made Flesh; and as Blessed John hath it, a man cannot love God +unseen, if he love not the brother whom He hath given him. What next, +dear lad?” + +“My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to me. One day a great +limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, whom men call d’Orcagna, stayed by me +where I stood with my melons in the shadow of the Shepherd’s Tower, and +bade me follow him to his house, for he would fain use me for an angel’s +head in the great Altar-piece he was e’en then concerned with for the +Church of the White Friars. Later he heard my story; and when he found I +had some small skill with the brush, he kept me with him, and taught me +as only such an one can teach: him I served five years. And many times +Satan desired my soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but the +Lord was with me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I will +speak anon, at my shriving, as is meet.” + +The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and Hilarius took up +his tale. + +“Then one day my master cried there was an end to teaching; nevertheless +he would have me bide with him in honour for the work. But my heart was +full of longing for home and the scent of the forest; and, above all, for +thee, my Father; therefore I set my face north, that I might bring back +my gift to St Benedict and our Church; and should have been here long ere +this, but I was let by the way.” + +The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at the +question in his face. + +“’Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow of the great mountains +beyond Florence; and I was taken by robbers, who bore me and others of +our company to their fastness in the hills: there I lay in a little cave +many days; but what befell the rest I know not. The robbers brought me +forth to serve them, and by God’s mercy handled me kindly, though they +thought little of bloodshedding. + +“Then one of them was troubled in his spirit, and minded to forsake this +evil manner of life. Therefore one night he fled, carrying me with him, +when the others had gone forth; and we made good our way to Mantua. +There Pietro, for so was the robber called, left me that he might give +himself to the service of God and men, inasmuch as he had formerly abused +them. Never saw I man so changed, my Father; his speech, formerly +profane, was all of God and the Saints; he did penance and confessed his +sins publicly; ay, by the Justice’s order he received one hundred lashes +in the market-place, and at every lash he cried with upturned face, ‘_Deo +Gratias_!’ And I was there, because he besought of me to stand in the +crowd and pray for him that his courage failed not. But it came to pass +that even the people marvelled at his joyful endurance; and indeed ’twas +more like a scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor sinful +robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, for such was his +desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved his blessing.” + +“The Lord fulfil all his mind!” said the Prior with clasped hands. + +“Amen,” said Hilarius. + +“Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my son?” + +“Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and kindly men by the +way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but at Genoa I took service +with a merchant then beginning his journey, and travelled with him +through Flanders, a strange, flat country with many canals and tall +poplar trees; and so we came to Bruges in safety, after a most prosperous +course. There he commended me to a good friend of his, a wool merchant +travelling to Salisbury; and at first all things went well with us; but +later the winds proved contrary, and we were driven hither and thither in +great peril of our lives, but at last made the Bristol Channel, and so +came safe into port. Thence I have come hither afoot begging my bread.” + +When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms and blessed +him for his dear son; praising God that the lad had come back a child at +heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed. + +Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank the wine of +the “wayfaring man,” his heart merry for the joy of his home-coming. +When the Lady-Mass was ended he knelt on in her Chapel. + +“Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine from thy poor son,” +sang his heart; and then he prayed for his little maid. + + + +CHAPTER IV +THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + +THE Convent welcomed Hilarius gladly, and on the Feast of St Michael he +made his profession, for the Prior deemed that he had served his +noviciate and been found faithful; and the Brethren assented eagerly, for +they were fain to keep this wondrous limner for the service of their own +Church. + +Then, by the Prior’s command, Hilarius set himself to limn a great +picture for the High Altar. It was a Crucifixion, and all his heart and +all his love were in it. When the Brethren first saw the fair proportion +and fine colours that Hilarius brought to the work, they rejoiced in that +their Church should be glorified above other Churches of the Order; but +when the picture was near completing, and they gazed up into the wondrous +face of the Great King who looked down from the throne of His triumphant +suffering, with a world of hunger and love in His eyes for those who had +so enthroned Him, they hung their heads for shame because of the +emulation in their hearts; and lo! the Cellarer, for very love, was +careful for the needs of the elder Brethren; and the monks, for very +love, laid hold gladly of suffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and +lived together in unity. + +In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a grey-eyed girl, +a woman with a babe at the breast, and clinging to her skirts, a little +flaxen-headed maid. None but the Prior knew the meaning of these three, +and their names, with that of a poor light-o’-love, were ever on his lips +when he offered the Holy Sacrifice. + +Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of all his +world. The years sped, and he became in turn Almoner, Novice-master, and +Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for he reckoned himself ever as least +of all and servant of all. + +Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Convent wisely and +well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, his call coming as it +might be straight from the mouth of the Lord. + +On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and said as +always: “_The souls of the deceased brethren and believers rest in +peace_!” to which the Convent replied, “_Amen_.” Then with his hands +raised to bless he cried, “_Benedicite_,” and again with loud and joyful +voice “_Domine_,” and again, “_Domine_!” as of one who answers to his +name—and so passed to his place in the Kingdom of Christ. + +The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, which election the +Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace. + +Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of the exceeding +beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom he taught, set fair +pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof with the blue of heaven and +gold of the wakeful stars. In the span over the High Altar he set +Blessed Benedict himself with the face of Prior Stephen, and round him +the angel virtues; even as one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had limned them in +the Church of the Little Brothers. + +Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our Lady above the +Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with ever-increasing fervour and +much fasting that this boon might be vouchsafed him for her glory and the +Convent’s greater good. And one day—’twas her Nativity—he set his hand +to the work, for it seemed to him that she would have it so; and he was +greatly humbled that such heavenly kindness should attend so vile a +sinner. Day by day he set apart some hours for this service; and he +limned a face so fair and radiant, with woman’s love and light of heaven, +that it was whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely +been blessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother in +so wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well give credence to +such a story, for the joy that shone in the Prior’s eyes and might not be +hid. + +Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but softly, for he +would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours vouchsafed him. + +When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him crooning their +peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the meadows ceased browsing +when he passed, and needs must company with him a little way. + +Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy sickness by +reason of the sun’s great heat; and Satan strove with him for his +undoing, so that the poor soul foamed at the mouth and roared out +blasphemy; yea, verily, and must be held with cords also, lest he do +himself or his fellows some grievous hurt. But when the Prior laid his +hand between the man’s troubled eyes sweet sleep came upon him, and his +madness forsook him. + +The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, even if the +Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the villages round had aught +against his neighbour he would come to the Prior for a just hearing. + +Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent’s peace began to be +troubled. Men sought the Monastery for its famous name, caring but +little for religion; there were many young novices within its walls, and +the strong hand of Prior Stephen was lacking. Hilarius was of gentler +build; he would speak ever in love, thinking no evil, whereas it is not +given to all men to understand that tongue. So it came to pass that the +younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and the elder Brethren murmured. + + + +CHAPTER V +“GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16. + + +ONE day the Novice-master, Brother Adam, a most worthy man, came in sore +trouble to the Prior and would resign his office. + +“Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find shelter in a +monastery!” he cried. “They grow fat, idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never +at peace among themselves; never a Pater or an Ave too many, or a task +fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. I would that the time of +blood-letting were here that their high stomachs might be brought low. I +am no longer young, my Father, and this burden tries me sorely. Prithee, +let it be shifted to another and a stronger back.” + +The Prior listened with many an inward _mea culpa_. “’Tis a sad hearing, +Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybe this ill mood +will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle and decorous? He hath a +most beauteous voice.” + +The Novice-master threw up his hands. + +“Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, but methinks his +body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will sing an it please him—or +when thou art by, my Father,—but, an it please him not, he is silent; ay, +even under grievous stripes. The Precentor giveth him as negligent and +ill-conditioned; and in choir, when he looketh most like to one of God’s +Saints, he is but plotting mischief for the day.” + +The Prior heard him sadly. + +“And Hubert?” he said. “Hubert methinks hath a great love of colour and +a fine hand with the brush.” + +Brother Adam was almost speechless. + +“Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even this very Hubert but +yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into Brother Edmund’s mess, +whereby he was like to break his teeth or take some more grievous hurt. +And indeed the peace of the Brethren is much troubled, wherefore they +complain bitterly.” + +“Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity evil,” said the Prior. +Then, seeing the Novice-master’s aggrieved face, he bade him have +patience yet a little, for he himself would speak to the novices; and +with this Brother Adam must fain be content. + + * * * * * + +The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke. + +It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made curious by +it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may be, long after. +Even thus it happened on this day in the Chapter; and when Prior Hilarius +was gathered to his rest the Brethren remembered how they had marked and +marvelled at the strange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one who +sees the face of the Lord. + +“My children,” he cried—“for my children ye are, though I see among you +many it were more fitting I should hail as father, but that the ruling of +the Lord cannot be gainsaid—my children, I am minded to think that I have +this day a message on my lips that is not mine own. + +“Last night a vision came to me as I slept. Blessed Benedict, our +Father, stood at my side, and his face was troubled. + +“‘Arise, my son,’ he cried, ‘arise, for the Lord is at hand and hath need +of thee.’ + +“And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang up in shame and +fear that the Master should find me sleeping. + +“Then cried Blessed Benedict again:— + +“‘If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He hath called thee these +many times,’ and so saying passed from my sight. + +“Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made haste to the Church +lest peradventure I should find Him; but the lamps burnt dim and all was +silent. Then I turned aside and went out into the night, and it was very +dark, with no sound but the wind in the forest trees. + +“My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in cloister and garth; and as I +hasted to the gate I cried aloud, even as she cried who sought Him in a +garden—‘They have taken away my Lord.’ + +“At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a sign; and lo, in +the darkness one came and led me by the hand away from the gate, across +the garth and up the dormitory stair, nor loosed me until I passed within +where the Brethren lay sleeping, and the chamber was bright with +exceeding radiance. + +“I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his face was wet +with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder the mark of many +stripes. + +“Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another of our Brethren, +and on every face lay the shadow of a great need, but in every face there +was somewhat of the Christ; and the lesson burnt in my heart. + +“Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy Robert; but I +fled, for I might not see Him; and I awoke sore troubled—ay, and the +trouble is on me still. + +“My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to me. Great is the +rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it stripes, grievous and many as our +sins, have their rightful place; but mayhap we forget that love, and love +alone, should strike. Ay, and I mind me how Prior Stephen, my Father, +said that to be monk a man must learn before all things to hunger and to +love. Love should draw the water and build the fire, till the field and +attend the sanctuary; and hunger we should cherish in our hearts, hunger +for righteousness and for the souls of our brethren, for this is the +hunger of God. + +“Men come over lightly to the Lord’s work; and lo! pride and emulation, +jealousy and discontent, spring up and thrive, and the end is shame and +confusion. + +“I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the Lord is at hand: +let us see that we love while there is yet time.” + +Then he turned to the novices and stretched out his hands to where they +stood amazed, and it may be ashamed—not after this manner was Brother +Adam wont to rebuke them. + +“And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, give heed to your +ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this service. Better far go +forth, yea, even to death, than mock the Lord with froward feet and a +heart that is full of vanity. Remember the sacrifice which Cain offered +and the Lord rejected, for he gainsayed the voice of the Lord and +disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the wrath of God fell upon him. + +“I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, and let fear +befriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a thief in the night, and +lo! stripes bitter and many await that servant whom the Master finds +sleeping.” + +Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his hand to bless, +and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in his place, for they knew +that the Lord had spoken and were afraid. + + + +CHAPTER VI +THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN + + +JUNE was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges were white, +the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from the trees as at +autumn’s touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and twisted on the +bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud. + +Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrap of +mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog from some +neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill-hook beside +him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gone contrary with him. + +His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leaving six +hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing had befallen +him; his gold was gone—his gold to which he had no right, for ’twas +blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and something beside; but +Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world—above Heaven and his own +soul—and it was gone. + +A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which he had +deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i’ faith ’twas easy +carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon minded how he had changed +his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back at the fair. Maybe it was +Thomas the charcoal burner had served him this ill turn; or William +Crookleg, the miller’s man; he was a sly, prying fellow, and there had +been ill blood between them. + +He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the forest, and +crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might say ’twas ill-got +gain and well rid of. + +Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill-fed, +unkempt. The day’s work was done, and on the village green he found men +and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, standing about in +groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house door, thin and +peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for any man in those +parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressed them. + +A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry horse by +the bridle, was talking eagerly. + +“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw I this very day on the +churchyard wall—it bodes ill to some of us.” + +“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have it thine own way. Methinks the +ill hath outrun the omen, for there will be naught for man or beast +shortly—but fine pickings for thy three crows.” + +The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up. + +“What’s to do?” he said curtly. + +“Nay,” said mine host, “Robin will have it that some further evil is upon +us—tho’ methinks we have got our fill and to spare with this drought—ay, +and ’twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw the corpse-light.” + +“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to fill them,” +said Dickon surlily. “Whither away, Robin? ’Tis not far this beast will +travel.” + +“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with the +carcass,” answered the little man; “give me my reckoning, friend John. I +must needs haste if I would see the Forester’s ere nightfall.” + +He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon saw it his +eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the piece in his cheek. + +“Hard-earned money—’tis blood out of a stone to draw wages from my +master. Better it should light in my belly than in a rogue’s pocket. +’Tis as well for me that John o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at the +cross-roads. Godden, my masters!” And leading his weary beast, he took +the road that skirted the forest. + +The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely way before +him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise. + +“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robin angrily, tugging in vain at the +creature on whom death had taken pity. “I must e’en leave him by the +wayside and tell Richard what hath befallen.” + +He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a man slipped +from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. There was a thud, +a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across the horse’s neck—a pace beyond +him in the moonlight shone the gleam of gold. + +Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other five followed with scant +time between the buryings. Another had fathered them and filled the +gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it was the Black Death +that they had deemed far from them. + +Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come of +Robin—he was dead when they found him—but no man gave heed. Death was in +the air, death held them safe in walls they might not scale. The heavens +were brass, food failed for man and beast, God and man alike had forsaken +them. The forest lay one side, the river, now but a shallow sluggish +stream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick and the springe tightened. + +No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest and murmured, +cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house. + +“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there is liquor +enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded to go dry throat to +Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e’en swill a bucket to the +devil’s health, and so to hell.” + +Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who strove to bar +the door. Some of the women fell on their knees and clamoured in half +delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed to their pestilent homes. + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING + + +MEANWHILE, news came to the Monastery of the ill case of the village, for +it lay scarce a league away across the forest; but the pine-trees stood +as guardian angels in between. + +The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling of Blessed +Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told the tidings. + +Then he went on to give reason for their assembling. + +“My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave these poor, +stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; moreover, in their fear +and desolation, they may flee to other villages, and so the terror and +pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch as Charity is +greater than Faith or Hope, so it is greater than obedience also. +Wherefore I purpose to set aside the Rule of our Order in the letter that +I may hold to it in the spirit, and go forth to serve these perishing +brethren; and I will take with me whosoever hears the call of God in this +visitation.” + +When he had made an end, there was silence in the Chapter. Break +cloister, the Prior himself urging them thereto? The Convent might +scarce credit its ears. + +Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on his white +face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have its triumph. + +Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven novices sprang +also to their feet. + +“Nay, Brother Walter,” said Hilarius, turning to the Sub-Prior, “this +flock must have its shepherd also; thy place is here. But I will take +with me Brother Simon and Brother Leo, who will doubtless suffice at +first for the ministry, and—” smiling at the novices—“all these dear lads +to tend the sick and bury the dead.” + +The Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance. + +“Good Father, it is not fitting that thou should’st go on such an errand; +send me in thy stead, for my life is a small thing as compared with +thine. Moreover these novices, ’tis but the other day the Master gave +them as lazy and ill-conditioned, and—” + +The Prior held up his hand. + +“Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for me; but my call has +come. As for these—” he stretched out his hand towards the waiting +novices—“maybe they are in the wrong school, and the Lord hath even +opened the door that they may serve Him, perchance die for Him, +elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser than Prior Stephen, who set me +without the gate to learn my lesson? Let us go in peace, my children, +for we are about the Lord’s business.” + + * * * * * + +Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the little band +embraced their brethren and set out, laden with food and wine and herbs +from the farmery; and the Prior appointed a place to which the Convent +should send daily all things needed. + +The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, breathless sunshine, +and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, pungent, rose at each +footfall from the silent path. The Brethren chanted the Gradual Psalms +as they paced two and two through the sun-lit aisles, full of the Prior’s +memories; and he looked up again to see Our Lady’s robe across the +tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalm broke, and Brother Simon, who was +leading, stayed suddenly. + +Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthy rags; his +hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyes sunk, his lips drawn +apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made haste to kneel beside him, and +lo! sudden remembrance lighted the fast-glazing eyes, but his own +answered not. + +“My son, my son,” said the Prior, and his voice was very pitiful, “thou +art indeed in evil case; let me shrive thee ere it be too late.” + +He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy head upon his +shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the parched lips. + +At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached him. + +“The Convent’s hens!” + +The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured voice— + +“Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?” + +Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were wiped away. + +“Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry plight! But see, stay +not thy shriving, for the time is short, and the Lord ever ready to +pardon.” + +The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite clearly: “I +hunger,” and so saying died. + +The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in prayer, while +the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, and lo! before +him lay the open glade where his schooling had begun, and he had seen a +flower incarnate dance in the wind. + +He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the glade under +fallen branches until they could return and give him burial. Then, as +they went on their way, he told the tale of his little maid; and when the +telling was ended, the village they had come to succour was in sight, and +lo! they saw it through a mist. + + + +CHAPTER VIII +“BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE” + + +THE Prior’s heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed up the +village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his little maid led +him by the hand. + +Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speak comfort +and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury the dead; for +three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. Hilarius made +straight for the ale-house. + +As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled blindly down +the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, and suddenly sobered, +dropped on his knees, while the topers and roysterers staring from the +open doorway fell into silence. + +Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorching sun +of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was very weary. + +“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, lest ye go +down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, for the arms of His +love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and the very hairs of your +head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confess each one of you his +sins, that I may prepare him for the work of the Lord; and take comfort +also, for they that are with us are mighty.” + +One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, confessed and +were shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon was not among +them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as he should direct; and he +set a watch that no man should flee the village; and all obeyed him. + +Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band of +workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying the pestilent +dwellings. + +Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered it like a +soldier at his post. + +As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade him come +quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon. + +The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to the hovel +where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear his muttered +words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, for a gold +piece lay on the man’s tongue. The Prior drew back dismayed, and behold, +the Lord’s hand struck swiftly, and Dickon died with a barren shriving—on +whom may Christ take pity! + +Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and at even +came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of the novices, +who lay a-dying in the Prioir’s arms, heard it as he passed, and fell +back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on his young face. + +“‘_Esurientes implevit bonis_,’” said the Prior, as he laid him down, +blessing God. + +A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was no +need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was stayed. +Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season; rarely such a +blessed one. + +The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior was +minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, for his +work was done. + +Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings +reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the +cloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had given +their lives for their brethren. + +The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed the pines +in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because of the face +of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue dome, and earth +shone with pale reflection of his glory. + +The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch the +signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the word came that +voices were heard in the distance; and monks and novices hastened two and +two to the gate. On the wind was borne the sound of a chant. + +“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” said Brother Anselm; and crossing +themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorous response: + + “_Et lux perpetua luceat eis_.” + +As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for came +slowly down the forest pathway. + +Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a rude +bier of pine-branches. + +This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs for his +last bed; Mary’s lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censer of the forest +swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face of the Lord. + +He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, and having +kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, for his time +had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. Prior Hilarius +lay and watched for the light, and as dawn parted night’s veil with the +long foregleam of the coming day, he shut his eyes like a tired child and +went home. + +It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior cried through +his tears:— + +“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son.” + +They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on his +forest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the tender +smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, “The Prior hath +found his little maid.” And the Convent made Hilarius a wondrous fair +tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved him lying thereon with +Mary’s lilies across his breast. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS*** + + +******* This file should be named 789-0.txt or 789-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/8/789 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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. 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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Gathering of Brother Hilarius + + +Author: Michael Fairless + + + +Release Date: November 11, 2014 [eBook #789] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER +HILARIUS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">First Edition</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>October</i> 1901.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reprinted,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>January</i> 1902.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reprinted,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>January</i> 1903.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reprinted,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>January</i> 1905.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reprinted,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>August</i> 1908.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Reprinted,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>August</i> 1910.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Popular Edition</span>, (1/-)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>February</i> 1912.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h1>THE GATHERING OF<br /> +BROTHER HILARIUS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">By MICHAEL FAIRLESS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF “THE +ROADMENDER”</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET<br /> +1912</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagev"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. v</span><b>A. M. D. G.</b></p> +<blockquote><p>“To those dearworthy ones<br /> + to whom I owe all;<br /> +I give that which is theirs already.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>PREFACE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Through</span> this little book runs the +road of life, the common road of men, the white highway that +Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and Brother Ambrose saw +nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart.</p> +<p>The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of +the Black Death and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but for +the author it is a romance of the Image of God. While the +Divine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius in the masque that +shocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and sin, of +death and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying +“little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again the +Road mender’s epilogue to the story of the man of this +earth, the man of the common highway:—“‘Dust +and ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there comes +back for answer, ‘<i>Rex concupiscet decorem +tuum</i>.’”</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>PART I</i><br /> +THE SEED</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">CHAP.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Blind Eyes in the Forest</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Love of Prior Stephen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The King’s Song-bird</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>PART II</i><br +/> +THE FLOWER</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The City of Pure Gold</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The City that Hilarius saw</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Sending from the Lord</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Blind Eyes which could see</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The White Way and where it +Led</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Dark Finding</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Coming of Hunger and +Love</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span><i>PART +III</i><br /> +THE FRUIT</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How Long, O Lord, How Long</span>!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mary’s Lilies</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Open Eyes at the Gate</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Passing of Prior +Stephen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page141">141</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Gabriel, Make this Man to +Understand the Vision</span>.”—<span +class="smcap">Dan</span>. viii. 16.</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Hunger of Dickon the +Woodman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Vision of the Evening and the +Morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page160">160</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Behold the Fields are +White</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span><i>PART +I</i><br /> +THE SEED</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>CHAPTER +I<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Hilarius</span> stood at the Monastery +gate, looking away down the smooth, well-kept road to the highway +beyond. It lay quiet and serene in the June sunshine, the +white way to the outer world, and not even a dust cloud on the +horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules laden +with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the good +Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores +in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, the +Precentor had bespoken precious <a name="page4"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 4</span>colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and +on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious +expectation.</p> +<p>On his left lay the forest, home of his longing +imaginings. The Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and +over the top the great trees peered and beckoned with their +tossing, feathery branches. Twice had Hilarius walked +there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and silently along +the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and the +occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St +Benedict’s Day and Our Lady’s Festivals. Away +to the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery +lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teeming +with glad, unhurried labour.</p> +<p>At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the +Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the +place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work +of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of +that work, ever unfinished because love <a name="page5"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 5</span>knows not how to make an end. To +the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order, +written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world’s +treasure; a page on which each generation might spell out a word, +perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and St +Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching out +eager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men +brought from overseas, finding a place for the best of every +ordered craft; their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch, +their glory each completed pinnacle and fretted spire; ever +restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time in +the service of the House of the Lord.</p> +<p>The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of +insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white +pigeons circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured +saints in their niches over the west door gave the blessing of +peace; an old, blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating +gait of habit lately acquired—on his face was great +peace. It rested everywhere, <a name="page6"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 6</span>this peace of prayerful service, where +the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of the +Office bell.</p> +<p>Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for +sign of the belated train. It was vexatious; the +Prior’s lips would take a thinner line, for the mules were +already some days overdue; and it was ill to keep the Prior +waiting. The soft June wind swept the fragrance of +Mary’s lilies across to the lad; he turned his dreamy, blue +eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of the +pinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, +dare he, break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an +unwalled world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made +novice, cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered +him; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; +the voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked +swiftly away, with bowed head and beating heart, between the +sunburnt pine-boles.</p> +<p>At last he ventured to stop and look <a name="page7"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 7</span>around him, his fair hair aflame in +the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared +city of mystery and wonder.</p> +<p>It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out +and fled, and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective +stroke. Hilarius’ eyes shone as he lifted his head +and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great, +green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her +gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his +thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and +shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, +and joy replaced it—joy so great that his heart ached with +it. He went on his way, singing <i>Lauda Syon</i>, his eyes +following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open +glade, halted in amazement.</p> +<p>A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced +in the wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad +feet chased each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown +hands spread the folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, +silver-laced, <a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>served as stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the +flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ eyes travelled +upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, +lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes +curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, +blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level brow. A +sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for untutored +novices such as Hilarius.</p> +<p>His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady +of St Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a +murmured “<i>Apage Sataas</i>!”</p> +<p>The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the +wind.</p> +<p>“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. +“Playing truant, I dare wager. Come and +dance!”</p> +<p>Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. +“Woman,” he said, and his voice trembled somewhat, +“art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this devil’s +guise?”</p> +<p>The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe +angrily.</p> +<p><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>“No +more devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted, +eyeing his semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can +a poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but +a cloister-bred youngster must cry devil’s +guise?”</p> +<p>As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she +broke into peal on peal of joyous laughter. “Poor +lad, with thy talk of devils; hast thou never looked a maid in +the eyes before?”</p> +<p>Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a +maid in the eyes, and now he drops his own.</p> +<p>“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and +entice men’s souls to their undoing?”</p> +<p>“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please +you, kind sir?” she asked demurely, and stood with downcast +eyes, like a scolded child.</p> +<p>“It is wrong to deck the body,” began Hilarius, +softening at her attitude, “because, +because—”</p> +<p>Again the merry laugh rang out.</p> +<p><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>“Because, because—nay, Father” (with a +mock reverence), “methinks thy sermon is not ready; let it +simmer awhile, and <i>I</i> will catechise. How old art +thou?” She held up her small finger +admonishingly.</p> +<p>“Seventeen,” replied Hilarius, surprised into +reply.</p> +<p>“Art thou a monk?”</p> +<p>“Nay, a novice only.”</p> +<p>“Hast thou ever loved?”</p> +<p>Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she +went on unconcerned—</p> +<p>“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writ +large for any maid to read. But tell me, why art thou angry +at the thought of love?”</p> +<p>Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet.</p> +<p>“There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to +love God and the Saints and the Brethren—”</p> +<p>“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laugh +pealed out. “Poor sisters! Why, boy, the world +is full of love, and not all for <a name="page11"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 11</span>the Saints and the Brethren, and it +is good—good—good!” She opened her arms +wide. “’Tis the devil and the monks who call it +evil. Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the +springtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?”</p> +<p>“It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother +her child. That is love in measure, but not so high as the +love we bear to God and the Saints!” quoth Hilarius +sententiously, mindful of yesterday’s homily in the +Frater.</p> +<p>“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest the +Saints?” the dancer persisted.</p> +<p>How did he know?</p> +<p>“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?” +he cried triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the +catechist, and anxious only to come well out of the wordy +war.</p> +<p>But the unexpected happened.</p> +<p>“Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? +<i>I</i>, love her?—I <i>hate</i> her;” and she flung +herself down on the grass in a passion of weeping.</p> +<p><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>Even a +master of theology is helpless before a woman’s tears.</p> +<p>“Maid, maid,” said Hilarius, in deep distress, +“indeed I did not mean to vex thee;” and he came up +and laid his hand on her shoulder.</p> +<p>So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!</p> +<p>The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked +fairer and more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green +sward, looking up at him through shining lashes.</p> +<p>“There, boy, ’tis naught. How could’st +thou know? But what of thine own mother?”</p> +<p>“I know not.”</p> +<p>“Nay, what is this? And thy father?”</p> +<p>“He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew +him. I came a little child to the Monastery, and know no +other place.”</p> +<p>“Ah,”—vindictively,—“then +<i>thy</i> mother may have been a light o’ love.”</p> +<p>“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,” +said Hilarius with a smile.</p> +<p><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>The +maid looked at him speechless.</p> +<p>“<i>Go home</i>, <i>Boy</i>,” she said at last +emphatically.</p> +<p>Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through +the undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.</p> +<p>“So, Gia!” he said. “We must make +haste; the others wait.”</p> +<p>“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer, +“and”—pointing to the bag slung across the +youth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fat +hen from thy Monastery for our meal.”</p> +<p>Hilarius broke into a cold sweat.</p> +<p>The Convent’s hens! The Saints preserve us! +Was nothing sacred, and were the Ten Commandments written solely +for use in the Monasteries?</p> +<p>“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly.</p> +<p>“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. +“Hast thou another sermon ready, Sir Preacher?”</p> +<p>“Empty bellies make light fingers,” quoth the +youth. “Did’st thou ever hunger, +master?”</p> +<p>“There is the fast of Lent which presses +somewhat,” said Hilarius.</p> +<p><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>“But ever a meal certain once in the day?” +queried the girl.</p> +<p>“Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no +fast.”</p> +<p>The mischievous apes laughed—how they laughed!</p> +<p>“So, good Preacher,” said the dancer at last, +rising to her feet, “thou dost know it is wrong to steal; +but hast never felt hunger. Thou dost know it is wrong to +love any but God, the Saints, and thy mother; but thou hast never +known a mother, nor felt what it was to love. Blind +eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee these +things an thou would’st learn. Farewell, good novice, +back to thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; +hunger and love—love—love!”</p> +<p>She seized her brother’s hand and together they danced +away like two bright butterflies among the trees.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then +with dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the <a +name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Monastery. The train of mules had just arrived; +all was stir, bustle, and explanation; and in the thick of it he +slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious of +this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned desolation +and doubt, and in his ears rang the dancer’s parting cry, +“Hunger and love—love—love!”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Brother Bernard</span>, the Precentor, +dealt out gold, paint and vellum with generous hand to his +favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast look.</p> +<p>“Methinks this gold is dull, Brother,” said +Hilarius one day, fretfully, to his old master.</p> +<p>And again—</p> +<p>“’Tis very poor vermilion.”</p> +<p>The Brother looked at him enquiry.</p> +<p><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>“Nay, nay, boy; ’tis thine eyes at fault; +naught ails the colours.”</p> +<p>Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border +Hilarius was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.</p> +<p>“Now may God be good to us!” he cried with +uplifted hands. “Since when did man paint the Blessed +Mother with grey eyes and black hair—curly too, i’ +faith?”</p> +<p>Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and +gold, he faltered.</p> +<p>It was the same in chapel. The insistent question +pursued him through chant and psalm. Did he really +<i>love</i> the Saints—St Benedict, St Scholastica, St +Bernard, St Hilary? The names left him untouched; but his +lips quivered as he thought of the great love between the holy +brother and sister of his Order. If he had had a sister +would they have loved like that?</p> +<p>The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himself +with the repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and +eyes from which tears were not <a name="page17"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 17</span>absent, in the Chapel of the Great +Mother. “Light of Love,” the girl had called +his mother; what more beautiful name could he find for the Queen +of Saints herself? So he prayed in his +simplicity:—“Great Light of Love, Mother of my +mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful +son!”</p> +<p>The question came in his daily life.</p> +<p>Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was +for Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother +John? He feared him too; Brother John’s tongue was a +thing to fear. Brother Richard, old, half-blind? +Surely he loved Brother Richard?—sad, helpless, and lonely, +by reason of his infirmities—or was it only pity he felt +for him?</p> +<p>Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his +home, the Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the +wild words of the witch in the forest? And yet what was it +she had said? “For me the wide world, hunger, and +love—love—love!”</p> +<p><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>He +wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its +beauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall +white lilies at the farmery door. Did they love?</p> +<p>He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of +business and cheerful bickerings. Did they love?</p> +<p><i>She</i> had said the answer was writ large for him to see: +he wandered staring, wide-eyed but sightless.</p> +<p>At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the +ship-wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers +serene and unhurt above the devouring waves.</p> +<p>The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd +question. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, +his stern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the +firm line of his mouth.</p> +<p>“My son,” he said at length, “thou art in +the wrong school; nursery, was it the maid said? A shrewd +lass and welcome to the hen. Thou art a limner at +heart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous <a +name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>skill with +the brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger and to +love as the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, though +alack, men gainsay it.”</p> +<p>“Father,” said Hilarius, waxing bold from +excessive need, “did’st thou ever love as the maid +meant?”</p> +<p>“Ay, boy—thy mother.”</p> +<p>There was a long silence. Then the boy said +timidly:—</p> +<p>“The maid said she might be light of love; ’tis a +beautiful thought.”</p> +<p>The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:—</p> +<p>“What didst thou tell the maid?”</p> +<p>“That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle +knight who died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance +my mother was light of love.”</p> +<p>“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis a +weary tale, and sad of telling. Thy mother was wondrous +fair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, knew it not for +the holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily lusts. +Pray for her soul”—<a name="page20"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 20</span>his voice grew stern—“as +for one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may have +mercy. Thus have I prayed these many years.”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:—</p> +<p>“She was evil, wicked, my mother?”</p> +<p>“Ay—a light woman, that was what the maid +meant.”</p> +<p>Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he +clasped the Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a little +child.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for a +time thou shalt go out into the world, to strive and fail, hunger +and love; only have a care that thou art chaste in heart and +life; for it is the pure shall see God, and seeing love +Him. Leave me now that. I may set in order thy going; +and send the Chamberlain hither to me.”</p> +<p>That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great +Rood, and then at St Mary Maudlin’s altar he did penance +for his dead mother’s sin.</p> +<p><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>A week +later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, is +pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors +of the great world without. He had a purse for his +immediate needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, +who would be his patron; and another to the Prior’s good +friend, the Abbat of St Alban’s. The Convent bade him +a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been with +them from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmy +eyes to look his last at the young face he would never see +again.</p> +<p>The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him +to the gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and +the boy, overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that +he might stay and learn some other way, however hard. The +Prior shook his head.</p> +<p>“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to +the Master for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come +back to us—an thou can’st—let no fear deter +thee; <a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>only +take heed, when thine eyes are opened and the great gifts of +hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the faithful +heart of a little child.”</p> +<p>Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his +heart-strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road +and along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out +into the wide, wide world.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE KING’S SONG-BIRD</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Martin the Minstrel</span> sat under a +wayside oak singing softly to himself as he tuned his +vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight black +locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smouldered +in hollow cavities. He wore the King’s colours, and +broke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.</p> +<p>“Heigh-ho!” sighed Martin, and laid the <a +name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>vielle +lovingly beside him, “another four leagues to Westminster, +and I weary enough of shoe-leather already, and not another penny +piece in my pocket ’til I win back to good King Ned. +A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free to +sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead of +palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of a +king’s banquet. Now but another few leagues and the +cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song here and a +song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, not of +Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! ’tis a poor +bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if +Edward did but know it.</p> +<p>“Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace +and carries a light heart from his song; and no ill voice +either.”</p> +<p>It was Hilarius, and he sang the <i>Alma Redemptoris</i> as he +sped along the green grass which bordered the highway.</p> +<p>When Martin hailed him he turned aside <a +name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>gladly, and +his face lit up at the sight of the vielle.</p> +<p>“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeing +him with interest.</p> +<p>“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of Prior +Stephen,” answered Hilarius.</p> +<p>“But thou art no monk!”</p> +<p>“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go +forth to see the world. It is wondrous fair,” he +added sincerely.</p> +<p>“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” said +Martin, and as Hilarius made sign of assent, “’tis +writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave thee letters to +the Abbat of St Peter’s, I doubt not; thy face is set for +Westminster.”</p> +<p>“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good +knight, Sir John Maltravers. I should have made an end of +my journeying ere now but that two days ago I met strange +company. They took my purse and hat and shoes, and kept me +with them all night until the late dawn. Then they gave me +my goods again, and bade me God-speed.’</p> +<p><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>“But kept thy purse?” Martin laughed.</p> +<p>“Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was +all passing strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; +yet they did me no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, +giving me provision, which I lacked.”</p> +<p>“Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God’s +judgments for once,” muttered Martin; then aloud, +“Well, young sir, we shall do well if we win Westminster +before night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is the +same?”</p> +<p>Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of +Court and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel +was wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel +and sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir +John Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and +no mean musician; “and,” added Martin, “three +fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, +of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty +<a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>lad, I +wager one or other will claim thee for page.”</p> +<p>“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilarius +soberly, “but I have never spoken but to one maid +’til yesterday, when a woman gave me +good-morrow.”</p> +<p>Martin looked at his companion queerly.</p> +<p>“And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the +Saints this Prior of thine is a strange master!”</p> +<p>“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “then +I shall go back to the Monastery again. But first I would +learn to be a real limner; I have some small skill with the +brush,” he added simply.</p> +<p>Martin stared.</p> +<p>“Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about +and get back now, not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court +life. Joust and banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and +joust, much merry-making and little reason, much love and few +marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk.”</p> +<p>Hilarius smiled.</p> +<p>“Nay, that life will not be for me. I am <a +name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>to serve my +lord, write for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, +dost thou love the Court? It seems a fine thing to be the +King’s Minstrel.”</p> +<p>“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily, +“give me the open country and the greenwood, and leave to +sing or be silent. Still, the King is a good master, and +lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; ’tis +ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow +the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us +again.”</p> +<p>He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower +pace as the minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with +tears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose +and fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had +beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song itself was +sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away +captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a +brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said +timidly:—</p> +<p>“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good +Martin?”</p> +<p><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He +stopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive +gesture took in the countryside. “A fair mistress, +lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns +himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is +cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and +tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter +from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails +the very traces of her hair across a man’s face only to +elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of all his +children; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or she +flouts him.”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had +meant—the “wide wide world, hunger and +love”?</p> +<p>“Did’st thou ever hunger, good Martin?”</p> +<p>“Ay, lad,” said the minstrel, surprised, +“and ’tis good sauce for the next meal”</p> +<p>“Did’st thou ever love?”</p> +<p>Martin broke into a great laugh.</p> +<p>“Ay, marry I have more times than I <a +name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>count +years. But see, here comes one who knows little enough of +hunger or love.” Round the bend of the road came a +man in hermit’s dress carrying a staff and a well-filled +wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less +upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an +alms from the two travellers.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.</p> +<p>“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the +pick-purses than help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; +’tis not the first time we have met. See here,” +and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit’s +wallet.</p> +<p>This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a +mouthful of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched +it back, flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a +round pace down the road, while Martin roared after him to wait +an alms laid on with a cudgel.</p> +<p>Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating <a +name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>figure to his +laughing companion, who answered the unspoken question.</p> +<p>“A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. +They are the pest of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who +never do a hand’s turn and yet live better than many a +squire. I warrant he has good stuff in that larder of his +to make merry with.”</p> +<p>Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent +head.</p> +<p>“I fear the world is an ill place and far from +godliness,” he said at last.</p> +<p>“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tis +true enough that godliness is far from most men; but if a +hermit’s robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heart +lies under an ill-favoured face and tongue. See, +lad,” as another turn in the road brought them in sight of +Westminster, “there lies thy new world, God keep thee in +it!”</p> +<p>He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’s +edge, with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the <a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>light of the +western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten +gold.</p> +<p>Hilarius gave a little cry.</p> +<p>“’Tis like the New Jerusalem!” he said, and +Martin smiled grimly.</p> +<p>An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, +and Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’s +side. Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on +horseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats, +gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; it was like a tangled +dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly blazoned +or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, +life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored eyes, wild +confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and +conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the +day’s work was done. In the courtyard of the +“Black Boar” a chained bear padded restlessly to and +fro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously—was the devil +about to beset him under all guises at once? He raised a +fervent <i>Ora </i><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span><i>pro me</i> to St Benedict as he hurried past. A +string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk flying for +refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the +pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the +man in him stayed the indignant tears. “Martin, +Martin!” he cried; but the minstrel was on his own ground +now, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, and news given +and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his +ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended +by the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the late +salute, took refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious +heart until the minstrel should have done with the crowd.</p> +<p>Martin did not forget him.</p> +<p>“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how they +welcome the King’s bird back to his cage! As for +thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a homing pigeon; +through that archway, lad, lies thy journey’s +end.” Then, apprehending for the first time +Hilarius’ <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>white face and piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swept +him under the archway into a quiet courtyard where a fountain +rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s steward, +left him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise of +speedy meeting.</p> +<p>Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed the +steward into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men +were busy with preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, +lonely and dejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his +whole being crying out for the busied peace and silent +orderliness of his cloister home. The servants gibed at +him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly noticed when +the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked him +slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and +drank thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the +pages and squires among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at +his gentleness. At last, something restored by the +much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall.</p> +<p><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>It +reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far +loftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in +through high lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper +gloom, which the morrow’s sun would dissipate into +cunningly carved woodwork—a man’s thought in every +quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guarding +saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, +and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the house +and his honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, +careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than Sir +John himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wandered +carelessly over the rest of the company until they were caught +and held by a woman’s face. It was Eleanor, the +fairest of the knight’s three fair daughters; and when +Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary traveller feels who meets a +fellow citizen in a far-off land.</p> +<p>“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have +had,” he thought, his mind <a name="page35"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 35</span>reverting to his favourite Saint; +“she is like the lilies in the garth at home.”</p> +<p>It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly +dressed in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair +coifed in the foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite +it all, she looked a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set +straight; her eyes, save when she was much moved, were like grey +shadows veiling an unknown soul; her mouth, delicately curved, +was scarcely reddened; her head drooped slightly on her long, +slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious humility. +She was like a pictured saint: Hilarius’ gaze clung to her, +followed her as she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat +apart while the serving men cleared the lower tables and brought +in the sleeping gear for the night. He lay down with the +rest, and through the high, lancet windows the moonlight kissed +his white and weary face as it was wont to do on bright nights in +the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay sleeping soundly +after the day’s toils; there was none to heed, and he +sobbed like <a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>a little homesick child, until his tired youth +triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, +the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the +cloister garth.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span><i>PART II</i><br /> +THE FLOWER</h2> +<h3><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>CHAPTER I<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE CITY OF PURE GOLD</span></h3> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Blind</span> eyes, blind +eyes!” sang the dancer.</p> +<p>Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a +bench in the sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back +to the forest. He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, +the sun kissing his hair into a halo against the old grey +wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly on her perch, and a +hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching its +great limbs, came towards him.</p> +<p>It was four o’clock on a warm day in September; the +courtyard was deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the +knight and his household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, +all but the <a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>Lady Eleanor, Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martin +had foreseen, Sir John had so appointed it.</p> +<p>It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city +which had seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full +of promise; but he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the +streets full of the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of +kin to the Babylon of Blessed John’s Vision—with a +few holy ones who would surely be caught up ere judgment fell, +amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor.</p> +<p>A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to +his children, gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God +and King Edward; shrewd withal, and an apt reader of men. +Therefore, and because of the love he bore to Prior Stephen, he +set Hilarius to attend his eldest daughter, who seemed to belong +as little to this world as the lad himself; and felt that in so +doing he had achieved the best possible for his old friend, +according to his asking.</p> +<p><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an +acolyte tends the chapel of a saint, only she was further removed +from him than a saint, by reason of her pale humanity. He +soon perceived, as he watched her at banquet, tourney, or +pageant, that she went to a revel as to the Sacrament, and sat at +a mummers’ show with eyes fixed on the Unseen. She +moved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and joyous +maidens like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at her +coming.</p> +<p>It was much the same with her lover, Guy de +Steyning—brother of that Hugh de Steyning men wot of as +Brother Ambrosius—a gentle knight with mild blue eyes, a +peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly things. +The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up with +preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, and +their speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to +lovers’ vows. It was small wonder, therefore, that +another year saw them both <a name="page42"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 42</span>by glad consent in the cloister, he +at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine House of which her aunt +was Prioress.</p> +<p>Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen +just as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’s +Abbey: “With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, +methinks ’tis like the forest at home” (forgetting +that his more intimate knowledge of the forest partook of the +nature of sin). “The Lady Eleanor, my honoured +mistress,” he wrote, “is a most saintly and devout +maiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring nought for the things +of this world;” and he added, “’tis beautiful +to see such devotion where for the most part are sinful and +light-minded persons.”</p> +<p>The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and +when Brother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little +sadly, “Nay, Brother, he still sleeps;” and indeed +there seemed no waking him to a world of men—living, +striving, sorely-tried men.</p> +<p><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>He +dwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour and +light and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only +the gorgeous pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints +heralded by angels; while the knights at a tourney in their brave +armour pictured St George, St Michael, or St Martin in his +dreams.</p> +<p>It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and +stress, not a page attending a great lady to the Court +functions. He yearned ever after the Scriptorium, with its +busied monks and stores of colour and gold. It lay but a +stone’s throw away behind the jealous Monastery walls, but +it was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that the lad should +go straight from one cloister to another.</p> +<p>To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of +Eleanor’s tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. +He rose at once and followed her through the hall and up the +winding stair, along a gallery hung with wondrous story-telling +tapestry, to the <a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>bower where Eleanor sat with two of her women busied +with their needle.</p> +<p>Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. +He louted low, and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside +her.</p> +<p>“I am weary,” she said; “this life is +weariness. Tell me of the Monastery and the +forest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem that +Brother Ambrose saw and limned.”</p> +<p>Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on +knee, and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing +away out of the window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey +pinnacles.</p> +<p>“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever a +saintly man, approved of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and +a crafty limner, save that of late his eyesight failed him. +To him one night, as he lay a-bed in the dormitory, came the word +of the Lord, saying: “Come, and I will show thee the Bride, +the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and +was carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>of Blessed +John. ’Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother +Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and lo! +the stars gathered themselves together on either side until they +stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about as +in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming +roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with +roof and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no +earthly limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose +beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings +of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on, because of its +exceeding radiance.</p> +<p>“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because +of his great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north +and hung between the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld +the Vision, but heard only a sound as of a great multitude +crying, ‘Alleluia’; and suddenly the winds came about +him again, and lo! he found himself in bed in the dormitory, and +it was <a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and he +rose and went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left the +choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and +seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds they +found him and told the Prior.</p> +<p>“He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when +he heard the Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had +seen it; and the Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine +gold and what colours he asked for the work. Then Brother +Ambrose limned a wondrous fair city of gold with turrets and +spires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and green for the +emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame with the +glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he set +the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on +either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the +exceeding great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and was +very sad; but our Prior bade him thank God and <a +name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>remember the +infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey cloud, veiled +Jerusalem to his sight.”</p> +<p>There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy +blue-veined hands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great +longing.</p> +<p>“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell +sick,” she said, at length.</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded:</p> +<p>“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from +home; and often he would sit musing in the cloister and scarce +give heed to the Office bell.”</p> +<p>“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell +in that Holy City.”</p> +<p>“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surely +thou hast had a vision even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes +wait always, like unto his.”</p> +<p>Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the +shadow of her eyes.</p> +<p>“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision <a +name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>vouchsafed; +though my desire is great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; and +for this same reason I would get me to a cloister where I might +fast and pray unhindered.”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked at her with great compassion.</p> +<p>“Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, +methinks, thou art already as one of His saints.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world,” she +answered. “Sing to me, Hilarius.”</p> +<p>And he sang her the <i>Salve Regina</i>, and when it was ended +she bade him go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer +upon her primer.</p> +<p>“Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet +mistress!” he said, and left her to sob out once more the +sins and sorrows of her tender childlike heart.</p> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Hilarius</span> went back to the +courtyard, his soul full of trouble. He leant against the +fountain, playing with the cool water which fell with monotonous +rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The cloudless sky +smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed, +and the glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him +strangely. He too had a vision which he longed to limn; but +it was of earth, not Heaven, like that vouchsafed to Brother +Ambrose; and yet none the less precious, for was it not the +Monastery at home which so haunted him, the grey, familiar walls +with their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling forest +which bowed and swayed at the will of the whispering wind?</p> +<p>“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflection +as learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city,” +Hilarius said to <a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>himself a little bitterly. He deemed that he had +plumbed its hollowness and learnt the full measure of its +vanity. Already he shunned the company and diversions of +his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. A +prentice lad’s homely brawl set him shivering; a +woman’s jest painted his cheeks ’til they rivalled a +young maid’s at her first wooing. He plucked aside +his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or +juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, +would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again +the maid whose mother, like his own, was light o’ love: a +strange link truly to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest +of poor sinful humanity.</p> +<p>Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, +and a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low +archway. He reined up by Hilarius:</p> +<p>“Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a +service?”</p> +<p>“That will I, Hal, an it be in my power.”</p> +<p><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>“Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and +give it mine host. ’Tis Luke Langland’s +reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head was full +of feast and tourney, and ’tis yet undelivered. Mine +host will not let the serving men and the two horses go +’til he hath seen Luke’s money, and I cannot stay, +for my lord will need me.”</p> +<p>Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for +a good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.</p> +<p>The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the +livery of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the +tavern doors dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked +delicately and strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and +sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only to hear mine +host curse roundly because it was lighter than the reckoning; and +after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the +men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less +frequented way.</p> +<p>The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and +suddenly traffic and <a name="page52"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 52</span>turmoil died away. He was in a +city within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, +ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square +tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, +hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and +moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gave +no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters +neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without +seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice +said:—</p> +<p>“How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take +sanctuary?”</p> +<p>He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an +ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.</p> +<p>“Sanctuary,” stammered Hilarius, “nay, good +sir, I—”</p> +<p>The other laughed.</p> +<p>“Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could’st +stray into these precincts and <a name="page53"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 53</span>know it not? This is the City +of Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered +his fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or +slander—a strange place in which to see such a face as +thine.”</p> +<p>“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the +turning,” said Hilarius; “in sooth, ’tis a +fearful place.”</p> +<p>“Ay, boy, ’tis a place of darkness and despair, +despite its safety—even the King’s arm falls short +when a man is in these precincts: but from himself and the +knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say ’tis +a place of darkness and despair.”</p> +<p>The unspoken question shone in Hilarius’ eyes, and the +other answered it.</p> +<p>“Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. +’Twas good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, so +here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness of +wisdom.”</p> +<p>“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek +the shelter of Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed.</p> +<p><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>“Most surely he knows; but what would’st +thou have? It hath ever been the part of the Church to +embrace sinners with open arms lest they repent. A man +leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should he set +foot in the city without, he is the law’s, and no man may +gainsay it.”</p> +<p>“Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance,” +said Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the other +cheerfully, “but then ’tis not for nothing Mother +Church holds the keys. Man’s law may fail to reach, +but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner.”</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place +with the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty.</p> +<p>“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men +with bloody hands.”</p> +<p>“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many of +them are kindly folk, and many have slain in anger without +thought. ’Tis a sad place, though, and thy young face +is like a sunbeam on a winter’s day. Come, I will +show thee thy road.”</p> +<p><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>He led +Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on the +edge of the city’s stir and hum.</p> +<p>“I can no further,” he said. +“Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee! An old +man’s blessing ne’er harmed any one.”</p> +<p>Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the +streets crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The +Abbey bell rang out above the shouts and din.</p> +<p>“’Tis an evil, evil world,” quoth young +Hilarius.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A SENDING FROM THE LORD</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">October</span> and November came and sped, +and Hilarius’ longing to be a limner waxed with the waning +year. One day by the waterside he met Martin, of whom he +saw <a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>now +much, now little, for the Minstrel followed the Court.</p> +<p>“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, +as he stood with Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey +uplands; “ay, and I love one woman, which is ill for a man +of my trade. I must be away to my mistress, winter or no +winter, else my song will die and my heart break.”</p> +<p>“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said +Hilarius sadly; “I too would fain go forth and serve my +mistress; but the cage door is barred, and I may not open it from +within.”</p> +<p>Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the +shoulder.</p> +<p>“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. +Eighteen this Martinmas, say you? In truth ’tis a +great age, but still leaves time and to spare. +‘<i>All things come to a waiting man</i>,’ saith the +proverb.”</p> +<p>A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under +the south wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, <a +name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>melancholy +day, and suited the Minstrel’s mood.</p> +<p>He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when +Hilarius had once more cried his longing, he said +gravely:—</p> +<p>“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and +mine, lad—and yet earn no welcome.”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked at him questioningly.</p> +<p>“Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?”</p> +<p>“Nay, good Martin.”</p> +<p>“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at +fault. I saw the Plague once in Flanders, and fled against +the wind, and so came out with a clean skin; now I am like to see +it again; for it has landed in the south, and creeps this +way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere the +winter is out, and such as God keep thee from.”</p> +<p>Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of +them, and turned to speak of other things.</p> +<p>Martin looked at him gloomily.</p> +<p>“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, +lad.”</p> +<p><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have +still a letter for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and would +hasten thither if Sir John would set me free. Methinks I am +a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, “for +I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks there +are few folk to love in this wicked city.”</p> +<p>Martin laughed and then grew grave again.</p> +<p>“Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I +would fain find thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get +thee to St Alban’s an it be possible; thou art best in a +cloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior Stephen may +say.”</p> +<p>And he went off singing—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Three felons hung from a roadside tree,<br +/> +One black and one white and one grey;<br /> +And the ravens plucked their eyes away<br /> +From one and two and three,<br /> +That honest men might see<br /> +And thievish knaves should pay;<br /> + Lest these might be<br /> + As blind as they.<br /> + Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day!<br /> + One—two—three! +On the gallows-tree hung they.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of +Martin’s voice had died away, and then fell a-musing of +hunger and love, the dancer and the Prior.</p> +<p>Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice +say:</p> +<p>“I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I +hunger—I hunger, and I love.”</p> +<p>He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. +Again the shrill quavering voice called:</p> +<p>“Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. +Blessed Peter, pray for me! Blessed Michael, defend +me!”</p> +<p>Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for +sixty years had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the +corner of the cloister. He was held a saint above all the +ankrets before him, and wondrous wise; the King himself had +sought his counsel, and the Convent held him in high esteem.</p> +<p>Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated +window of the cell—it was too high above him. An +overpowering <a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>desire came upon him to ask the Ankret of his +future. With a spring he caught at the window’s +upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sun +behind him, gazing into the cell.</p> +<p>On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in +matted locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below +his girdle. The skin of his face was like grey parchment, +and his deep-set eyes glowed strangely in their hollow +cavities.</p> +<p>Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him.</p> +<p>The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window +with its aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony +withered hands.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the +Lord!” he cried, gaining strength from the vision.</p> +<p>“What would’st thou, Father!” said Hilarius, +afraid.</p> +<p>“Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and +yet—” the old man’s voice <a +name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>grew +weaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in +peace.”</p> +<p>He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius +was sore perplexed.</p> +<p>“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my +Father?”</p> +<p>The Ankret looked troubled.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmured +entreatingly.</p> +<p>Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the +holy man saw some wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain time +to speech of him.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered the +old, tired voice.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held +fast and braced himself against the wall.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—The +appeal in the half-dead face was awful.</p> +<p>Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and +sore from the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, +he had gained no counsel from the Ankret, <a +name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>but he had +seen the holy man—ay, even when he was visited by a +heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring a +blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to +him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failing +cry from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again +and his fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin +still air:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“<i>Iesu</i>, <i>dulcis memoria</i>,<br /> +<i>Dans vera cordis gaudia</i>;<br /> +<i>Sed super mel et omnia</i><br /> +<i>Dulcis ejus praesentia</i>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear +the Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying +softly like a little child.</p> +<p>Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word +of what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the +Sub-Prior gave him the last sacraments.</p> +<p>Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the +holy man before <a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had +brought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to +think that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept +his own counsel.</p> +<p>He told Lady Eleanor of Martin’s words.</p> +<p>“God save the King!” she said, and went into her +oratory to pray: and there was need of prayer, for the +Minstrel’s foreboding was no idle one. Ere London +knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King, undeterred, +came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not in his +train. Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason of the terror +they would not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegory and +miracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men; +junketing, ay, and rioting—thus they flung a defiance at +the enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bells +sounded the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem.</p> +<p>Eleanor, knowing Hilarius’ ardent longing for school and +master, prayed her father to set him on the way to St +Alban’s <a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>instead of keeping him with them to follow a fugitive +Court. The good knight, feeling one page more or less +mattered little when Death was so ready to serve, and anxious for +the lad’s safety and well-being, assented gladly +enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast of the Three +Kings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, a +well-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under his +jerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed large, a great +king, and by all accounts a most mighty hunter.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE</span></h3> +<p>It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the +face of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient +indifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and +often flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens his +coming. Thus <a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>it came to pass that while the stricken poor agonised in +the grip of unknown horror, bishop and merchant, prince and +chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses with their +train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and west, from +the pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much +traffic. One procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet +making its way to London.</p> +<p>It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain +or snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare +and stricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold +grey sky. Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon +the still air, music and words alike strange. The singers +came slowly up the roadway, men of foreign aspect walking with +bent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding their wild, +fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. They were stripped to +the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried each a +bloody scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third +step they signed the sign of the Cross with their <a +name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>prostrate +bodies on the ground; and thus in blood and penitence they went +towards London.</p> +<p>Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of +it. These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he +shrank back with the rest. Then a man sprang from among the +watching crowd, tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms +to heaven with a great sob.</p> +<p>“I left wife and children to perish alone,” he +cried, “and fled to save my miserable skin. Now may +God have mercy on my soul, for I go back. Smite, and smite +hard, brother!” and he stepped in front of the first +flagellant.</p> +<p>At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and +many fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing +themselves with groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with +sudden terror, turned and fled blindly, without thought of +direction, his eyes wide, the blood drumming in his ears, a great +horror at his heels—a horror that could drive a man from +wife <a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>and +child, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the wind, and +all this folk to leave house and home to save that which most men +count dearer than either.</p> +<p>At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, +coming towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into +a by-way in the hurry of his terror, and they two were +alone. The friar was a small, mean-looking man, feeling his +way by the aid of hand and staff; his face upturned, craving the +light. He stopped when he came up with Hilarius, and turned +his sightless eyes on him; a fire burnt in the dead ashes.</p> +<p>“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, +as the Lord promised me?”</p> +<p>Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the +friar laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip +back against his shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with +the light and practised touch of the blind, but slowly and +carefully, frowning the while.</p> +<p>“Son, thou wilt come with me?”</p> +<p><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St +Alban’s.”</p> +<p>“Whence, my son?”</p> +<p>“From Westminster, good Father.”</p> +<p>“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left +the Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small +welcome to those from the pestilent cities. What +would’st thou with the Abbat?”</p> +<p>Hilarius told him.</p> +<p>The friar flung up his hands.</p> +<p>“<i>Laus Deo</i>! <i>Laus Deo</i>!” he +cried, “now I know thou art in very truth the lad of my +dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. +Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me +carried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, +and Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many +hideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my mother +hath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I lay at +Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stood +up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; <a +name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>then as I +mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might +wrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was ever +inclined to evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught +save gain.</p> +<p>“Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, +the Plague at my heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful +to preach its coming in every place, that men might turn and +repent. Then as I tarried on the seaboard for a ship the +Plague came; and because I had preached its coming, the people +rose in wrath, and, falling upon me, roughly handled me. +They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing my +eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat.</p> +<p>“Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, +darkness and light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for +the flames of hell burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my +heart because of my mother’s soul.”</p> +<p>“And then, and then?” tried Hilarius breathlessly, +tears of pure pity in his eyes.</p> +<p>“Then the Lord cared for me even as <a +name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>He cared for +the Prophet Jonas, and sent a ship that His message might not be +hindered. The shipmen were kindly folk, but we were driven +out of our course by a great wind, and at last came ashore in +Lincolnshire. I have come south thus far by the aid of +Christian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here to +guide me.”</p> +<p>“But, my Father,” said poor Hilarius, seeing yet +another barrier in the way of his desires, “’tis a +limner I would be; and I am from Westminster, not London, and +then there is Prior Stephen’s letter—”</p> +<p>The friar held up his hand:</p> +<p>“Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed +it to me. Last night the vision came again, and a voice +cried: ‘Speed, for a son of Christ waits by the way to +guide thy steps,’ and lo! thou art here, waiting by the +way, as the voice said. And now, son, an thou wilt come +thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham—’tis a cell +of this Abbey—for there is Brother Andreas from overseas +who hath <a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>wondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, for +thou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is now +as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thou +shalt set me in that village of Bungay, where my mother +dwelleth.”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that +vainly questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, +flagellants, in this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was +even as one of the blessed martyrs. Brother Andreas! +A skilled limner! How should he, Hilarius, gainsay one with +a vision from the Lord?</p> +<p>“I obey, my Father,” he cried joyously, taking the +friar’s hand; and they two passed swiftly down the road, +their faces to the east.</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>CHAPTER V<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was a bitterly cold night and St +Agnes’ Eve; the snow fell heavily, caught into whirling +eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius and the Friar, +crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the full +force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the +darkness more complete. They struggled on, breathless, +beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one +hand, held the other across his bent head to shield himself from +the buffets of the wind.</p> +<p>Suddenly he stood fast.</p> +<p>“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snow +is as a wall; there is naught to see or to hear; I deem we are +far from our right way.” His voice was very weak, and +he caught at the Friar for support.</p> +<p>“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He <a +name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>open thine +eyes, even as He opened the eyes of the prophet’s servant +in the besieged city; so shalt thou see a host of angels +encompassing us, for we are about the Lord’s +business.”</p> +<p>“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “I +see no angels, and I perish.” He tottered, and would +have fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms. A moment +he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away his +staff and lifted him to his shoulder.</p> +<p>With unerring, confident step he went forward through the +snow, a white figure bearing a white burden in a white +world. All at once the wind dropped, the blinding shower +ceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, spoke:—</p> +<p>“Is it thou, my Father?”</p> +<p>“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go +before to guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou +walk?”</p> +<p>He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars +alight!</p> +<p>The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his <a +name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>companion’s darkness, pointed to the left where +lay a snow-clad village.</p> +<p>“A miracle, a miracle, my Father!”</p> +<p>“A miracle, i’ faith, my son: the Lord hath given +guidance to the blind as He promised. Let us go +down.”</p> +<p>They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was +full of awe and comfort because of the angels of God which +attended on a poor friar.</p> +<p>At the village hostel they found rough but friendly +entertainment and several guests. They dried themselves at +a roaring fire, and Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would +eat nothing save a morsel of bread.</p> +<p>A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, +bright black eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was +riding with despatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and +had fearful tales to tell of the Plague; how in London they piled +the dead in trenches, while many who escaped the pest died of +want and cold; it was a city of the dead rather than <a +name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>the +living. One great lord, travelling post-haste from +Westminster, had been found by his servants to have the disorder, +and they fled, leaving him by the wayside to perish.</p> +<p>Hilarius heard horror-struck.</p> +<p>“’Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick +master,” he said.</p> +<p>“Nay, lad,” said a chapman in the corner, +“but a man loves his own skin best.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken +by the storm on his way to a neighbouring village, “a +man’s own skin before all. Fill your belly first and +your neighbour’s afterwards. Live and let +live.”</p> +<p>“Ay, let live,” chimed in mine host, bustling in +with a stoop of cider for the chapman, “but, by the Rood, +’tis cruel work when two lone women are murdered for a bit +of mouldy bacon and a lump of bread; for I’se warrant +’tis a long day sin’ they had more than that at +best.”</p> +<p>The chapman took his cider.</p> +<p>“Where was this work done?” he said.</p> +<p><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>“Nay, where but here on the bruary! The +women were found Wednesday se’n-night by the herd as he +went folding. They lay on the floor in their +blood.”</p> +<p>Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, +he had been spared the sight of violent death—ay, or of +death in any form—and had seen nothing worse than a rogue +in the stocks, for which sight he had thanked Heaven piously.</p> +<p>“’Tis the fault of the rich,” said a voice, +and Hilarius saw, to his surprise, that there was a second friar +in the room; a tall, bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate +jaw ornamented with a scanty fringe of black hair.</p> +<p>“The rich grow fat, and the poor starve,” he went +on, “’tis hunger makes a man kill his brother for a +mouthful of mouldy bacon.”</p> +<p>“Nay,” said the miller, “there was no need +to kill, Father. A man could have taken the meat from two +lone women and left them their lives.”</p> +<p>“Why take from folk as poor as themselves?” <a +name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>said mine +host. “Let them rob the rich an they must +rob.”</p> +<p>“Ay,” said the friar, “rob the rich, say +you, take their own, say I. God did not make this world +that one man should be over full and another go empty; nor is it +religion that the monks’ should live on the fat o’ +the land and grind the faces of the poor. How many manors, +think you, has the Abbat of St Edmund’s, and how many on +his land lack bread?”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of +wrathful defence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a +restraining hand on his sleeve.</p> +<p>Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching +was seditious, and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but +it tickled the ears of the common folk and ’twas ill to +quarrel with the Mendicants. Help came to him in his +perplexity: a loud knocking on the barred door made the guests +within start.</p> +<p>“’Tis eight o’ the clock,” said the +miller, affrighted, for he had a heavy purse on him.</p> +<p><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>“Let them knock and cool their hot heads,” +said the seditious friar composedly.</p> +<p>The rest nodded approval.</p> +<p>Then a man’s voice threatened without.</p> +<p>“What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep +a man without? Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt +smart for it.”</p> +<p>Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks +trembled; he moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took +down the stout wooden bar. As it swung back the door flew +open, and a man burst in, at sight of whom mine host turned yet +paler.</p> +<p>“Food and drink,” said the new-comer sharply, +flinging himself on a bench by the fire.</p> +<p>Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. +His hair was close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes +were very small and near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his +lip drawn up showed two rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the +company, and the chapman <a name="page79"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 79</span>who had been searching amongst his +goods for something wherewith to pay his hospitality, was hastily +putting them back, when the man, looking up, caught sight of a +bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares. He +plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tender +liquid notes—a thrush’s roundelay. Then a +blackbird called and his mate answered; a cuckoo cried the +spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting cadence; a nightingale +poured forth her deathless love.</p> +<p>Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; +the man threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to +ravenously on the victuals. He held his head low and ate +brutishly amid dead silence; then he looked up and cursed at them +for their sorry mood.</p> +<p>“What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a +jest? Damn you all for dull dogs!”</p> +<p>The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the +man’s dreadful face.</p> +<p><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” he said, and at +his voice the man leapt to his feet and thrust his arm out as if +for protection. “Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” +said the Friar again, “I have a message for thee from the +Lord God. I cried thee damned in my own name once, when +thou did’st take my little sister to shame and death; now I +cry thee thrice damned in the name of the Lord, for the cup of +thine iniquity is full and thy hands red with blood. Man +hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and all men +shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but it +shall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt +live on with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou +shalt herd; thou shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men +shall hunt thee from their doors. Thou shalt seek death, +even as Cain sought and found it not, because of the mark of the +Lord. Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy speech shall go +from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art <a +name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>given over to +the Evil One, and he shall torment thee with +remembrance.”</p> +<p>There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man +tore open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black +blotch upon the whiteness of the night.</p> +<p>The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until +Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar’s powers, stepped +forward to close the door. He was too late; it swung to +with a loud crash like the sound of doom. The Friar sank +back composedly on the bench, and the company began in silence to +make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, +Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad’s +voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others stood +apart eyeing him fearfully.</p> +<p>He laid his hand on the miller’s breast and said in a +clear, low voice: “Thou wilt die, brother.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on the messenger’s breast: “Thou +wilt die, brother.”</p> +<p><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>He laid +his hand on the chapman’s breast: “Thou wilt die, +brother.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on mine host’s breast: “Thou wilt +die, brother.”</p> +<p>Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little +distance, his face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on +his breast: “Thou wilt live, my brother—and +repent.”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A DARK FINDING</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is a far cry from St +Alban’s to Bungay—which village of the good ford lies +somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant—and +the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the +Friar were long on the road, for January’s turbulent mood +had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved +little kinder. They had companied with folk, light <a +name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>women and +brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest +were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with +the wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and +called on men to repent and be saved, for Death’s shadow +was already upon them. Folk wondered and gaped—the +Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of London—but +many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some +heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert +who had come with the same message half a man’s lifetime +before, and that no evil had followed his preaching.</p> +<p>At last St Matthias’ Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at +St Edmund’s Abbey. There were many guests for the +Convent’s hospitality that night, and as Hilarius entered +the hall of the guest-house—a brother had charged himself +with the care of the Friar—he heard the sound of the +vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English against +the fashion of the day.</p> +<p><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>“Martin, Martin!” he cried.</p> +<p>The vielle was instantly silent.</p> +<p>“Holà, lad!” cried the Minstrel, springing +to his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced him +heartily.</p> +<p>“Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I +made sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I +find thee strayed farther afield.” Then seeing the +injured faces round him for that the song was not ended, he drew +Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his vielle. +“Be still now, lad, ’til I have finished my ditty for +this worshipful company; then, an’t please thee to tell it, +I will hear thy tale.”</p> +<p>The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, +unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took +up his song:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The fair maid came to the old oak tree<br +/> +(Sun and wind and a bird on the bough),<br /> +The throstle he sang merrily—merrily—merrily,<br /> +But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she,<br /> +Her sweet knight—Oh! where was he?</p> +<p><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>He lay +dead in the cold, cold ground<br /> +(Moon and stars and rain on the hill),<br /> +In his side and breast were bloody wounds.<br /> +Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he,<br /> +The poor knight—Ah! cold was he.</p> +<p>The maiden sat her down to die<br /> +(Cold, cold earth on her lover’s breast),<br /> +And the little birds rang mournfully,<br /> +And the moonshine kissed her tenderly,<br /> +And the stars looked down right pityingly<br /> +On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.<br /> +Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; +and the company proved themselves good trenchermen. +Hilarius caught sight of the seditious friar making short work of +the Convent’s victuals, and marvelled to see him in a place +to which he had given so evil a name.</p> +<p>Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened +intently to his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius +related how the friar he companied with preached in each village +that men should repent ere the scourge of God fell upon them; +“but there is naught of it as yet,” said the lad.</p> +<p><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>“Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. +One day it is not; and then the next, men sicken and fall like +blasted wheat. I heard a bruit of London that it was but a +heap of graves—nay, one grave rather, for they flung the +bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do otherwise: +Black Death is swift with his stroke.”</p> +<p>Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar’s +death-words to the guests.</p> +<p>Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh.</p> +<p>“Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set +a curse on Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, +with many a black deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men +say truth; and yet there was never a bird that would not come at +his call, and I never heard tell that he harmed one. What +will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?”</p> +<p>When he had heard the story of the Friar’s +twice-repeated vision and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile +with knitted brow and head sunk on his breast; then <a +name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>he eyed +Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly.</p> +<p>“Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go +to Bungay with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have +thy company. Also I like not the matter of the vision and +would fain see the end of it.”</p> +<p>That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice +cried: “Haste, haste, ere it be too late.” And +so Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, +for the way was his own. None of the three ever saw St +Edmund’s Abbey again, for in one short month the minster +with its sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while +the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to summon to their +ghastly company the living that sought to make them a bed.</p> +<p>Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low +vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. +The Friar strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed +hound; Martin and <a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a +stricken face on his companions.</p> +<p>“What is that?” he said shrilly.</p> +<p>A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed +himself fearfully.</p> +<p>“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when they +told him; and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.</p> +<p>The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance +came the roar and hum of an angry crowd.</p> +<p>“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his face +was very grave, “no doubt some knight is here, and there is +a bear-baiting on the common. Prithee, where is thy +mother’s dwelling, good Father, and I will go and ask news +of her?”</p> +<p>“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from +the Cattle Gate; Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for.”</p> +<p>Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the +Friar followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate +they stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously +and <a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>straining to make his ears do a double service.</p> +<p>Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the +Friar’s business as the last stage of his journey to +Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watched +Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him throw up his hands +with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he fell +to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to +catch what was said.</p> +<p>“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was saying +vehemently; “yon holy friar hath seen this thing in a +vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hasted +hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his +mother’s soul—and now, and now—”</p> +<p>The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. +An old woman lay on the ground by the river’s edge; a +bundle of filthy water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, +vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth and slime. +She lay <a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>on +her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe +and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in their +hot haste they had not stayed to strip her.</p> +<p>Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, +vengeful crowd:</p> +<p>“By Christ’s Rood, this is an evil work ye have +wrought,” he said.</p> +<p>“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but it +was fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her +spells and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perished +and women gone barren through her means. Near two days +agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and never +seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us +for meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and +swear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat.”</p> +<p>“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” said +Martin. “I hate these rough-cast +witch-findings—’tis not a matter for man’s +judgment, unless ’tis sworn and proven in court before the +Justiciary.”</p> +<p><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>“Nay,” joined in an old man, “what +need of a Justice when God speaks? We did but thole her to +the river to see if she would sink or swim. The witch did +swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing +that, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies, +and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on his +own?”</p> +<p>Martin wrung his hands.</p> +<p>“For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, +and say no word of this to yon holy man.”</p> +<p>Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk +busied themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound +the witch, and bore her to her wretched bed.</p> +<p>The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the +front of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could +see the poor place and its dead dishonoured mistress.</p> +<p>Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet +Hilarius and the Friar who <a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>were now coming slowly across the +windswept common. March mists gathered and draped the +sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and +sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started nervously +when Martin spoke.</p> +<p>“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! +After all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother’s +soul; she passed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thy +faithful hands.”</p> +<p>The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin +with a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung +their heads abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by +Hilarius, gave his blessing.</p> +<p>They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to +Martin.</p> +<p>“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for +the people feared her?”</p> +<p>“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, and +muttered, “now God forgive me!” under his breath.</p> +<p>As they went into the wretched shed the <a +name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>setting sun +broke through the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead +woman. It lighted each vicious line and hideous trait of +the wrinkled, toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evil +life, surcharged with horrid fear.</p> +<p>Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness +be death? The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed +him.</p> +<p>“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as +thou didst read in thy dream.”</p> +<p>The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed +was heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the +beaten earth floor. The people without, staring, +open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look up; his hand hastily +outstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he knew all, and +fell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry. It was +answered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child that +is found.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The Friar, standing in front of that hovel <a +name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>of death, +preached to the cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt +and crouched in the down-trodden grass and quag. He threw +up his arms, and turned his blind, anguished face to the setting +sun.</p> +<p>“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that +take counsel but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. +Darkness shall come upon them; Death shall overtake them; their +place shall know them no more. Let them bare their backs to +the scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit them as I +visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain.</p> +<p>“O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and +judged falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even +according to your measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh +swiftly and maketh no long tarrying. It shall come; it +shall snatch men’s souls away, even as ye have torn away my +mother’s soul, leaving no space for repentance.”</p> +<p>He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the +little town.</p> +<p><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>“Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place +a place of heaps. Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking +safety and finding none; for the arm of the Lord is stretched out +still because of the wickedness of the earth. Woe, woe, +woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people! Woe, woe, woe, a +people hating righteousness and loving iniquity! The Lord +shall straightway destroy them from off the face of the +earth.”</p> +<p>He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and +then another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, +snarling, growling, but afraid.</p> +<p>Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her +wretched den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed +long by the else unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside +him.</p> +<p>Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no +prayer; for what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who +had met her due, damned alike by God and man?</p> +<p><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>Martin +came up to him.</p> +<p>“She was his mother,” he said, as if making +excuse.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, +but an evil liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good +work in sending her to her own place. He crossed himself +piously at the thought of the near neighbourhood of devils busied +with a thrice-damned soul.</p> +<p>Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the +Friar clung to him like a little child, for the strength of his +vision was spent. They lay that night with a friendly +shepherd; but only one slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay +on a truss of sweet-smelling hay, and dreamt of Wymondham and +Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrous +pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine forest at +home swept across his quiet sleep.</p> +<p>On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was +all aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged <a +name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>himself with +the Friar at least as far as Norwich.</p> +<p>“As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at +another’s bidding,” he said whimsically, and so they +bade one another farewell never to meet again in this world: for +Martin and the Friar went to Yarmouth, not Norwich, and there +they perished among the first when the east wind swept the Plague +thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. And +Hilarius—once again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path +of his desires.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Hilarius</span> fared but slowly; it was +ill travelling on a high-road in good weather, but on a +cross-road in the spring!—that was a time to commend +oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked <a +name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>warily, +picking his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, +which was all that remained to show where the piety of the past +once kept a road. The low land to his left was submerged, a +desolate tract giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, +save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a sunken ship broke +the waste of waters.</p> +<p>The sight brought Hilarius’ thoughts sharply back to the +events of the evening before. Wonderful indeed were the +judgments of God! A witch—plainly proved to be +such—had been struck dead in the midst of her sins; and +London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap of +graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the +justice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, +there to learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt would +joyfully hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery.</p> +<p>Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right +a small <a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he +was sharp-set, for the shepherd’s fare had been meagre; and +so turned aside in the hope of an ale-house. There was no +side road visible, and he struck across the dank, marshy fields +until he lighted on a rude track which led to the group of +cottages. The place struck him as strangely quiet; no smoke +rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously at a +stranger’s advent. The first hovel he passed was +empty, the open door showed a fireless hearth. At the +second he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within. As +no one answered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; the +low room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from a +corner,—’twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, +sudden fear at his heart, and passed on, finding in each hovel +only empty silence.</p> +<p>Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat +larger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the +door: it was the ale-house that he <a name="page100"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 100</span>sought; here, at least, he would +find some one. As he came up he heard a child crying, and +lo! on the doorstep sat a dirty little maid of some four summers, +sobbing away for dear life.</p> +<p>Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away +the grimy tears.</p> +<p>The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a +shrill cry of joy, she held out her thin arms.</p> +<p>At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold +stood a woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her +breast was a little babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then +pulling the child to her in the doorway, waved him away.</p> +<p>“Stand off, fool!—’tis the +Plague.”</p> +<p>Hilarius shrank back.</p> +<p>“And thy neighbours?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Nay, they were light-footed eno’ when they saw +what was to do, and left us three to die like rats in a +hole.” Then eagerly: “Hast thou any +bread?”</p> +<p>He shook his head.</p> +<p><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>“Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou +hungry?”</p> +<p>She threw out her hands.</p> +<p>“’Tis two days sin’ I had bite or +sup.”</p> +<p>“Where lies the nearest village? and how far?”</p> +<p>“A matter of an hour, over yonder.”</p> +<p>“See, goodwife,” said Hilarius, “I will go +buy thee food and come again.”</p> +<p>She looked at him doubtfully.</p> +<p>“So said another, and he never came back.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but perchance some evil befell him,” said +gentle Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Well, I will trust thee.” She went in and +returned with a few small coins. “’Tis all I +have. Tell no man whence thou art, else they will hunt thee +from their doors.”</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could +go in the direction of the village.</p> +<p>The woman watched him.</p> +<p>“Is it fear or love that lends him that <a +name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>pace?” she muttered, as she sat down to wait.</p> +<p>It was love.</p> +<p>Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little +money he had to the woman’s scanty store, bought bread, a +flask of wine, flour and beans, and a jug of milk.</p> +<p>“’Tis for a sick child,” he said when he +asked for it, and the woman pushed back the money, bidding him +God-speed.</p> +<p>The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because +of his precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in +a snare, lay a fine coney.</p> +<p>“Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor +mother!” cried Hilarius joyously, and added it to his +store.</p> +<p>When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she +broke into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if +giving up the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the +bed with her fast-failing babe in her arms.</p> +<p>Hilarius fed her carefully with bread <a +name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>and +wine—not for nothing had he served the Infirmarian when +blood-letting had proved too severe for some weak +Brother—and then turned his attention to the little maid +who sat patient, eyeing the food.</p> +<p>For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and +taking the child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, +bird-like mouth. At last the little maid heaved a sigh of +content, leant her flaxen head against her nurse’s +shoulder, and fell fast asleep.</p> +<p>Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned +softly to her, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, +his little sister, the child he had found and saved. Surely +Our Lady had guided him to her, and her great Mother-love would +shield this little one from a foul and horrid death. In +that dirty, neglected room, the child warm against his breast, +Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his life.</p> +<p>Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the +little pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under <a +name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>the closed +eyes, and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her +mother.</p> +<p>The woman was half-asleep, but started awake.</p> +<p>“Art thou going?” she said, and despair gazed at +him from her eyes.</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together,” +he said soothingly. “I would but kindle a fire, for +the cold is bitter.”</p> +<p>Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the +hearth. The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and +came to sit by it, and stretching out her thin hands to the +grateful warmth, told her tale.</p> +<p>“’Twas Gammer Harden’s son who first heard +tell of a strange new sickness at Caxton’s; and then Jocell +had speech with a herd from those parts, who was fleeing to a +free town, because of some ill he had done. Next day Jocell +fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out of +boils, and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden fell sick +and died likewise. Then one cried ’twas the Plague, +and <a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>the +wrath of God; and they fled—the women to the nuns at +Bungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; but us +they left, for I was with child.”</p> +<p>“And thy husband?’ said Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, +his and mine. Some hold ’tis a sin to live thus, and +perhaps because of it this evil hath fallen upon me.”</p> +<p>She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn +and shrunk with the stress of its short life.</p> +<p>Hilarius spoke gently:—</p> +<p>“It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church +to live together out of holy wedlock, and perchance ’tis +true that for this very thing thou hast been afflicted, even as +David the great King. But since thou didst sin ignorantly +the Lord in His mercy sent me to serve thee in thy sore need; ay, +and in very truth, Our Lady herself showed me where the coney lay +snared. Let us pray God by His dear Mother to forgive us +our sins and to have mercy on these little ones.”</p> +<p><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>And +kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father for +his new-found family.</p> +<p>Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were +short. Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went +hungry, but at last the pinch came; the woman was too weak and +ill to walk, the babe scarce in life—there could be no +thought of flight—and the little maid grew white, and wan +and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that he would once +again beg food in the village where he had sought help +before.</p> +<p>He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be +the better fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the +village he found his errand like to be vain. News of the +Plague was coming from many parts, and each man feared for his +own skin. At every house they questioned him: “Art +thou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?” and when he +answered “Yea,” the door was shut.</p> +<p>Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the +place. He gained <a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span>the village cross, and prayed them +for love of the Saviour and His holy Rood to give him bread for +his little maid and her mother. Let them set it in the +street, he would take it and cross no man’s +threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a little +child die of want?</p> +<p>“Nay, ’tis better they die, so are we safe,” +cried a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drove +him from the village with blows and curses.</p> +<p>Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase +ceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a +hedge.</p> +<p>A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its +prey. Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had +nestlings waiting open-mouthed for food? His little +maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of those who +awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance +a coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were +not his nestlings agape?</p> +<p>Nothing stirred, but along the road came <a +name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>a waggon of +strange shape and gaily painted.</p> +<p>He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help +in his awful need.</p> +<p>The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, +the horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could +pluck up heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small +sack and a hen. If he begged and was refused his little +maid must die. A minute later the sack and the hen had +changed owners—but not unobserved; a clear voice called a +halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a +boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway—a +thief.</p> +<p>“Seize the knave!” cried the girl sharply.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his +dancer, and she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and +scene, she knew him.</p> +<p>“What! The worthy novice turned worldling and +thief! Nay, ’tis a rare jest. What of thy fine +sermons now, good preacher?”</p> +<p>But Hilarius answered never a word; <a +name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>overcome by +shame, grief, and hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.</p> +<p>When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the +hedge; the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer +and her brother stood watching him.</p> +<p>“Fetch bread and wine,” said the girl, and to +Hilarius who tried to speak, “Peace, ’til thou hast +eaten.”</p> +<p>Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer +said:—</p> +<p>“Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou +leave thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as +this?”</p> +<p>Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept +because of his little maid, and his were not the only tears.</p> +<p>The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food +taken from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held +but fodder.</p> +<p>“But, Gia,” grumbled her brother, “there +will be naught for us to-night.”</p> +<p>“Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry,” <a +name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>she +retorted, and filled a small sack with the victuals.</p> +<p>Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it +out to him: “Now up and off to thy little maid.”</p> +<p>Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. +Kneeling, he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell +fast as he kissed them.</p> +<p>“Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard +words in the forest? God help me for a poor, blind +fool!”</p> +<p>“Nay,” she answered, “there is naught to +forgive; and see, thou hast learnt to hunger and to love! +Farewell, little brother, we pass here again a fortnight hence, +and I would fain have word of thy little maid. Ay, and +shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old +grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for +her.”</p> +<p>Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, +and yet greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of +God.</p> +<p>When he got back his little maid sat <a +name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>alone by +the fire. He hastened to make food ready, but the child was +far spent and would scarcely eat. Then he went out to find +the woman.</p> +<p>He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she +cried to him to keep back.</p> +<p>“My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I +went to the houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden’s; +and I must die. As for thee, thou shalt not come near me, +but bide with the child; so maybe God will spare the +innocent.”</p> +<p>Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him +to bring her food, but she would not.</p> +<p>“Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let +me alone that I may die the sooner.”</p> +<p>Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with +the little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. +Despite his fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun +was high and the child awake.</p> +<p><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>He +fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings +of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the +door of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood +wide. Then, as he searched the fields, fearing the fever +had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; +and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead babe on her +breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the +silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was +peace.</p> +<p>Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and +babe, and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. +Then he went back to his fatherless, motherless maid.</p> +<p>She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to +spare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she +could not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius’ +tender arms; and he fought with death for his little maid.</p> +<p>Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put +tiny morsels in her <a name="page113"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 113</span>mouth she could not swallow; and so +he sat through the long hours, his little maid in his arms, with +no thought beside. The darkness came, and he waited +wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke and +the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he +might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it +came to pass that when the light kissed her little white face she +opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.</p> +<p>The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the +waggon drew near the place of Hilarius’ first and last +theft: he was standing by the wayside alone. The waggon +passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once on +his face and asked no question.</p> +<h2><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span><i>PART III</i><br /> +THE FRUIT</h2> +<h3><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>CHAPTER I<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Monastery by the forest pursued +an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, +for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible +name.</p> +<p>True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned +to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the +Sub-Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable +man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in +government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon +Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair +and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little +scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his <a +name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>office. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and +Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that +when he began to sing the <i>Verba mea</i> on leaving the +chapter, the Convent—yea, even the novices—were +silent, to show their displeasure.</p> +<p>When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said +little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that +appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and +Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he +made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.</p> +<p>Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had +slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his +longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind +receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer—but of +him let us say little and think with charity; for ’tis to +be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to +judgment.</p> +<p><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Two +of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had +spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, +sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the +summer sunshine was very pleasant to them.</p> +<p>“Since Brother Thomas died—” began Brother +Paul.</p> +<p>“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated +Brother Anselm.</p> +<p>“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paul +again—a little impatiently, though he crossed himself +piously enough—“methinks the provisions have oft been +scanty and far from tempting, Brother.”</p> +<p>“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. +“Methinks our Cellarer draws the half of it from the +Convent’s well.”</p> +<p>They shook their heads sadly.</p> +<p>“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a short +silence, “our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest +in the performance of his office—while Brother Thomas, +alack—”</p> +<p><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also +in his duties,” said Brother Paul. “The Prior, +holy man, perceives nothing of these things. On +Sunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in +the refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he +ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with +appetite.”</p> +<p>“He is but young, he is but young—sixty come +Michaelmas—sixty, and twenty-two years +Prior—’tis a long term,” and Brother Anselm +nodded his head.</p> +<p>“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” said +Brother Paul, “whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes +needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas—God rest his +soul!—was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the +elder Brethren.”</p> +<p>“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” said +Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. “Think +you ’twould be well to speak of this matter to the +Prior?”</p> +<p>“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is ever +against any store being set on the things of <a +name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>this +world—‘’tis well for the greater discipline of +the flesh,’ so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden +the blood-letting to us elder Brethren.”</p> +<p>“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas +died,” said Brother Anselm ruefully.</p> +<p>“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish +him—maybe he will hear a word in season,” and the two +old monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer’s office as +Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk.</p> +<p>He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but +government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, +and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were +busy with Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad +had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going +no news had come of him, save that he never reached St +Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered +many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved +too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?</p> +<p><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>He +passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies +that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of +nameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; +last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the +blind monk’s dying speech had been of the lad whose face he +had strained his eyes to see.</p> +<p>Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of +Mary’s flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at +the gate. He stretched out his hands with the strange +pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was all +passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the +gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing +fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the +warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; the +old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly +skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the +Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, +and for the exceeding <a name="page123"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 123</span>longing that he had for the boy +whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little +hand.</p> +<p>Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of +this world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once +again he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would +fast and pray and wait.</p> +<p>The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still +summer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his +place.</p> +<p>“<i>Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione +metent</i>,” chanted the deep voices of the monks, and +Prior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in the +Psalmody.</p> +<p>“<i>Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina +sua</i>. <i>Venientes autem venient cum exultatione +portantes manipulos suos</i>.”</p> +<p>He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the +harvesting was not yet.</p> +<h3><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>CHAPTER II<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MARY’S LILIES</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> came to pass upon a certain day +scarce a se’nnight later, that Prior Stephen was troubled +in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him.</p> +<p>It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window +after the noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear +son. The song of the bees busy in the herb-garden was very +pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air overcame him, and he +slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice he +knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, +for it was the voice of God. He arose in haste and went out +into the garth, and lo! under the lilies Hilarius lay +sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his heart +leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of grass +that lay between the cloister and the farmery door.</p> +<p><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>As he +watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly +from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, +and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it +was a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within the +Monastery precincts. He strove to cry, but his voice died +on his lips, and his feet were as lead.</p> +<p>The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and +stooped to arouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and +her voice was as the calling of the summer sea on a shelving +beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then, in great +impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay; +and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and +cried out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of +a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free. He strode to +the woman’s side: there was but one lily left. He +laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him: +and she <a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>fell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry of +fear—and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; +but he was sore troubled.</p> +<p>“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, +such evil as slew his mother, on whom God have +mercy!” And sighing heavily he took his way to the +great Rood and made supplication for his son.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of +Florence, there stood a woman of fair stature, with +tight-clenched hands, whose many jewels bit the tender +flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under threatening brows, her +teeth held fast the curling upper lip. Great, alack! was +her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving +favour. Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every +ruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Her +beauty—nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape the +torment of her look. She stood in the curtained doorway, a +heavy purple hanging at her back; and <a name="page127"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 127</span>the man who awaited her paled as he +saw her vengeful face.</p> +<p>It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his +slender height, and bowed.</p> +<p>Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the +many-hued marble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great +white lilies caught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. +She gave no heed, but swept on, and faced him in the sunny +silence. Across the pause the Angelus sounded from a church +hard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the stillness +fled before a woman’s scornful laugh.</p> +<p>“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly, +“is ours to be a war of signs and silence? I have +heard thy lips were ready enough with judgment, though they halt +at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all that is said of thee +be true, I will e’en have thee whipped at the gibbet for +thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; +’tis a last asking. Wilt thou paint this face of mine +that is, it seems, <a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>so little to thy liking? Strain not my patience +over much—’tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat +tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruised +and scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came +low and clear:—</p> +<p>“‘It is nay.’”</p> +<p>She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; +there was a stain where her teeth had been busy.</p> +<p>“‘It is nay,’” she repeated after him, +and her eyes mocked him. “May a poor Princess ask the +Signor’s reason?”</p> +<p>Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.</p> +<p>“It lies there.”</p> +<p>For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of +her cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she +stammered in her wrath:—</p> +<p>“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to my +face—to me, who stooped to ask when I had but to +command? I, with <a name="page129"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 129</span>my unmatched beauty; I, who hold the +hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men +kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst +set aside such a behest as mine? ’Tis small wonder +men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale +they brought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou +prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this +face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of +forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my +serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said +I? Nay, thou art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: +rather my maids shall wield the rod and lace thy +shoulders.”</p> +<p>She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the +peacocks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, +dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had no +word.</p> +<p>There was silence a while.</p> +<p><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>Then +the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting of +a lash:—</p> +<p>“Bring me yon flowers.”</p> +<p>He obeyed.</p> +<p>“Set them at my feet.”</p> +<p>He bent his knee and did so, wondering.</p> +<p>A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance +filled the air, as their living breath had flooded the senses of +the blind-eyed lad at the Monastery gate.</p> +<p>One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble +was yellow with stolen gold.</p> +<p>Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some +living thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent +feet.</p> +<p>It was done; and she looked at him under questioning +brows.</p> +<p>“So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it +will soil thy brush to limn such an one as I? I, whom men +call the Queen of Love—but thy lips, say they, burnt with +another name! Bethink thee, faint heart, there is not a man +in all this <a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>city but would count death a small price to pay for my +favours; and I ask of thee one little service, and thou shalt +name thine own reward. Surely ’tis churlish to +gainsay!”</p> +<p>Her voice was suddenly sweet.</p> +<p>Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, +fingering the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. +She glanced up at Hilarius through her lashes’ net. +“Maybe I was over hasty,” she said softly, and a sob +swelled the round of her wonderful throat—“and yet +how couldst thou call me wanton?” Her mouth drooped a +little—she was very fair.</p> +<p>“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers +against the roses in love’s garden? For I love +thee,” she added, and then suddenly she was still.</p> +<p>Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her +over-mastering beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid +in the heart of every man leapt to his lips. He desired +this woman as he had never before desired aught in all the world, +<a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 132</span>and he +knew, to his shame, that she was his for the asking. The +blood thudded and rang in his veins; he feasted his eyes on the +curve of her neck and the radiance of her sun-swept hair. +He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised a +white, terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder.</p> +<p>“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrill +with fear, “who touched me?” And she sprang to +her feet.</p> +<p>There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they +stared into each other’s eyes across the dying +lilies. Hilarius shrank back and covered his face with his +hands. Clear and distinct he heard the Prior’s voice: +“<i>A light woman—a light woman</i>.”</p> +<p>Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” and +without word or look Hilarius went.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled +with the devil for his son’s soul, and knew that he had +prevailed.</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>CHAPTER III<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OPEN EYES AT THE GATE</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Another</span> year wrote its record on +forest and field. The weeks passed; summer sped to autumn, +the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. The Convent’s +lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; and the Prior, +watching the last great wain piled high with wealth of golden +treasure, saw the porter coming to him.</p> +<p>Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty +spirit; and the Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his +hurried gait and wrathful countenance.</p> +<p>“Domine,” he gasped, “Domine, there is a +ragged man at the gate, a vagabond by his own showing, and he +craves speech of thee. I bade him go to the guest-house, +but he will not budge, and hath waited already an hour despite +my—”</p> +<p>The porter stayed, staring; he spoke <a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>to the +wind; the Prior was already halfway to the gate.</p> +<p>“This my son was dead and is alive again,” sang +his heart. The porter, afraid, hasted after him with the +keys, and had scarce time to do his office ere the sunburnt +vagabond was clasped in the Prior’s arms. It was a +harvesting indeed.</p> +<p>That night Hilarius went across to the Prior’s house to +tell the tale of his journeyings. He found him seated in a +great oak chair by the open window; the sky was ablaze with +stars, and the flame of the oil lamp jarred like a splash of +yellow paint on the moonlight which flooded the room; the +Prior’s eyes smiled measureless content, and the murmured +“<i>Laus Deo</i>” of his lips voiced the gladness of +his heart. Thus, in the shelter of peace and a great love, +Hilarius told his tale, while the forest waved a welcome to him +over the Monastery wall, and the late lilies burned white in the +garth below.</p> +<p>The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the +lad’s face, pale against <a name="page135"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 135</span>the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told +of his journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath been +recorded in this chronicle; and the Prior’s eyes were wet +as he heard of the little maid.</p> +<p>“And then, my son?” said the Prior.</p> +<p>“Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as +far as the sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in +the train of my lord Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was +hasting to Rome. He knew thee, my Father, and bade his +people supply my needs.”</p> +<p>“Ay, he knows me,” said the Prior briefly. +“The Lord reward him according to his works, but show him +mercy forasmuch as he had compassion on my son!”</p> +<p>“Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous +city full of treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I +did not see, being let. Methinks life in that country is as +one long pageant; but I marked that great holiness and an evil +life, much riches and much penury, dwelt there side by side, and +men reeked little <a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>of death but much of pleasure. Then one bade me +go to Florence an I would be a limner; therefore I hasted +thither, and gave my last coin for bread as I entered the +city.”</p> +<p>The Prior’s brows contracted; the lad had seen some +schooling.</p> +<p>“But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?”</p> +<p>“Ay, my Father, in God’s time: at first I must +herd goats and sell melons in the market-place for a lump of +bread. Day by day I strove to gain enough to buy colours, +but could not, for the Lord sent me ever a neighbour poorer than +myself. Nevertheless I was of good courage, knowing the +Lord’s ways are not as ours; and mindful how Brother +Ambrose held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laid with fair +colours ’twere no sin to deem that a man may limn perfect +pictures there, for the gift is from the Lord.”</p> +<p>“My son, ’tis a great lesson thou hast +learnt,” said the Prior, “for the Word was made +Flesh; and as Blessed John hath it, <a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>a man cannot love God unseen, if he +love not the brother whom He hath given him. What next, +dear lad?”</p> +<p>“My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to +me. One day a great limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, +whom men call d’Orcagna, stayed by me where I stood with my +melons in the shadow of the Shepherd’s Tower, and bade me +follow him to his house, for he would fain use me for an +angel’s head in the great Altar-piece he was e’en +then concerned with for the Church of the White Friars. +Later he heard my story; and when he found I had some small skill +with the brush, he kept me with him, and taught me as only such +an one can teach: him I served five years. And many times +Satan desired my soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but +the Lord was with me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. +But of that I will speak anon, at my shriving, as is +meet.”</p> +<p>The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and +Hilarius took up his tale.</p> +<p><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>“Then one day my master cried there was an end to +teaching; nevertheless he would have me bide with him in honour +for the work. But my heart was full of longing for home and +the scent of the forest; and, above all, for thee, my Father; +therefore I set my face north, that I might bring back my gift to +St Benedict and our Church; and should have been here long ere +this, but I was let by the way.”</p> +<p>The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at +the question in his face.</p> +<p>“’Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow +of the great mountains beyond Florence; and I was taken by +robbers, who bore me and others of our company to their fastness +in the hills: there I lay in a little cave many days; but what +befell the rest I know not. The robbers brought me forth to +serve them, and by God’s mercy handled me kindly, though +they thought little of bloodshedding.</p> +<p>“Then one of them was troubled in his <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>spirit, and +minded to forsake this evil manner of life. Therefore one +night he fled, carrying me with him, when the others had gone +forth; and we made good our way to Mantua. There Pietro, +for so was the robber called, left me that he might give himself +to the service of God and men, inasmuch as he had formerly abused +them. Never saw I man so changed, my Father; his speech, +formerly profane, was all of God and the Saints; he did penance +and confessed his sins publicly; ay, by the Justice’s order +he received one hundred lashes in the market-place, and at every +lash he cried with upturned face, ‘<i>Deo +Gratias</i>!’ And I was there, because he besought of +me to stand in the crowd and pray for him that his courage failed +not. But it came to pass that even the people marvelled at +his joyful endurance; and indeed ’twas more like a +scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor sinful +robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, for +such was his desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved his +blessing.”</p> +<p><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>“The Lord fulfil all his mind!” said the +Prior with clasped hands.</p> +<p>“Amen,” said Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my +son?”</p> +<p>“Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and +kindly men by the way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but +at Genoa I took service with a merchant then beginning his +journey, and travelled with him through Flanders, a strange, flat +country with many canals and tall poplar trees; and so we came to +Bruges in safety, after a most prosperous course. There he +commended me to a good friend of his, a wool merchant travelling +to Salisbury; and at first all things went well with us; but +later the winds proved contrary, and we were driven hither and +thither in great peril of our lives, but at last made the Bristol +Channel, and so came safe into port. Thence I have come +hither afoot begging my bread.”</p> +<p>When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms +and blessed him <a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>for his dear son; praising God that the lad had come +back a child at heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed.</p> +<p>Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank +the wine of the “wayfaring man,” his heart merry for +the joy of his home-coming. When the Lady-Mass was ended he +knelt on in her Chapel.</p> +<p>“Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine +from thy poor son,” sang his heart; and then he prayed for +his little maid.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Convent welcomed Hilarius +gladly, and on the Feast of St Michael he made his profession, +for the Prior deemed that he had served his noviciate and been +found faithful; and the Brethren assented eagerly, for they <a +name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>were fain +to keep this wondrous limner for the service of their own +Church.</p> +<p>Then, by the Prior’s command, Hilarius set himself to +limn a great picture for the High Altar. It was a +Crucifixion, and all his heart and all his love were in it. +When the Brethren first saw the fair proportion and fine colours +that Hilarius brought to the work, they rejoiced in that their +Church should be glorified above other Churches of the Order; but +when the picture was near completing, and they gazed up into the +wondrous face of the Great King who looked down from the throne +of His triumphant suffering, with a world of hunger and love in +His eyes for those who had so enthroned Him, they hung their +heads for shame because of the emulation in their hearts; and lo! +the Cellarer, for very love, was careful for the needs of the +elder Brethren; and the monks, for very love, laid hold gladly of +suffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and lived together in +unity.</p> +<p>In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a +grey-eyed girl, a woman with <a name="page143"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 143</span>a babe at the breast, and clinging +to her skirts, a little flaxen-headed maid. None but the +Prior knew the meaning of these three, and their names, with that +of a poor light-o’-love, were ever on his lips when he +offered the Holy Sacrifice.</p> +<p>Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of +all his world. The years sped, and he became in turn +Almoner, Novice-master, and Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for +he reckoned himself ever as least of all and servant of all.</p> +<p>Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Convent +wisely and well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, his +call coming as it might be straight from the mouth of the +Lord.</p> +<p>On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and +said as always: “<i>The souls of the deceased brethren and +believers rest in peace</i>!” to which the Convent replied, +“<i>Amen</i>.” Then with his hands raised to +bless he cried, “<i>Benedicite</i>,” and again with +loud and joyful voice “<i>Domine</i>,” and again, +“<i>Domine</i>!” as of one who answers to his <a +name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>name—and so passed to his place in the Kingdom of +Christ.</p> +<p>The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, which +election the Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace.</p> +<p>Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of the +exceeding beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom he +taught, set fair pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof +with the blue of heaven and gold of the wakeful stars. In +the span over the High Altar he set Blessed Benedict himself with +the face of Prior Stephen, and round him the angel virtues; even +as one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had limned them in the Church of +the Little Brothers.</p> +<p>Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our +Lady above the Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with +ever-increasing fervour and much fasting that this boon might be +vouchsafed him for her glory and the Convent’s greater +good. And one day—’twas her Nativity—he +set his hand to the work, for it seemed to him that she <a +name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>would have +it so; and he was greatly humbled that such heavenly kindness +should attend so vile a sinner. Day by day he set apart +some hours for this service; and he limned a face so fair and +radiant, with woman’s love and light of heaven, that it was +whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely been +blessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother +in so wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well give +credence to such a story, for the joy that shone in the +Prior’s eyes and might not be hid.</p> +<p>Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but +softly, for he would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours +vouchsafed him.</p> +<p>When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him +crooning their peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the +meadows ceased browsing when he passed, and needs must company +with him a little way.</p> +<p>Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy +sickness by reason of <a name="page146"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 146</span>the sun’s great heat; and +Satan strove with him for his undoing, so that the poor soul +foamed at the mouth and roared out blasphemy; yea, verily, and +must be held with cords also, lest he do himself or his fellows +some grievous hurt. But when the Prior laid his hand +between the man’s troubled eyes sweet sleep came upon him, +and his madness forsook him.</p> +<p>The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, +even if the Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the +villages round had aught against his neighbour he would come to +the Prior for a just hearing.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent’s peace +began to be troubled. Men sought the Monastery for its +famous name, caring but little for religion; there were many +young novices within its walls, and the strong hand of Prior +Stephen was lacking. Hilarius was of gentler build; he +would speak ever in love, thinking no evil, whereas it is not +given to all men to understand that tongue. So it came to +<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>pass +that the younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and the elder +Brethren murmured.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">“GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO +UNDERSTAND THE VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16.</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> day the Novice-master, Brother +Adam, a most worthy man, came in sore trouble to the Prior and +would resign his office.</p> +<p>“Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood +find shelter in a monastery!” he cried. “They +grow fat, idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never at peace among +themselves; never a Pater or an Ave too many, or a task +fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. I would that the time +of blood-letting were here that their high stomachs might be +brought low. I am no longer young, my Father, and this +burden tries me sorely. Prithee, let it be shifted to +another and a stronger back.”</p> +<p><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>The +Prior listened with many an inward <i>mea culpa</i>. +“’Tis a sad hearing, Brother Adam, but young blood is +hard of mastering; maybe this ill mood will pass. The lad +Robert is surely ever gentle and decorous? He hath a most +beauteous voice.”</p> +<p>The Novice-master threw up his hands.</p> +<p>“Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, +but methinks his body is surely the habitation of Satan. He +will sing an it please him—or when thou art by, my +Father,—but, an it please him not, he is silent; ay, even +under grievous stripes. The Precentor giveth him as +negligent and ill-conditioned; and in choir, when he looketh most +like to one of God’s Saints, he is but plotting mischief +for the day.”</p> +<p>The Prior heard him sadly.</p> +<p>“And Hubert?” he said. “Hubert +methinks hath a great love of colour and a fine hand with the +brush.”</p> +<p>Brother Adam was almost speechless.</p> +<p>“Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even +this very Hubert but yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into +Brother <a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>Edmund’s mess, whereby he was like to break his +teeth or take some more grievous hurt. And indeed the peace +of the Brethren is much troubled, wherefore they complain +bitterly.”</p> +<p>“Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity +evil,” said the Prior. Then, seeing the +Novice-master’s aggrieved face, he bade him have patience +yet a little, for he himself would speak to the novices; and with +this Brother Adam must fain be content.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke.</p> +<p>It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made +curious by it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may +be, long after. Even thus it happened on this day in the +Chapter; and when Prior Hilarius was gathered to his rest the +Brethren remembered how they had marked and marvelled at the +strange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one who sees the +face of the Lord.</p> +<p>“My children,” he cried—“for my +children <a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>ye are, though I see among you many it were more +fitting I should hail as father, but that the ruling of the Lord +cannot be gainsaid—my children, I am minded to think that I +have this day a message on my lips that is not mine own.</p> +<p>“Last night a vision came to me as I slept. +Blessed Benedict, our Father, stood at my side, and his face was +troubled.</p> +<p>“‘Arise, my son,’ he cried, ‘arise, +for the Lord is at hand and hath need of thee.’</p> +<p>“And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang +up in shame and fear that the Master should find me sleeping.</p> +<p>“Then cried Blessed Benedict again:—</p> +<p>“‘If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He +hath called thee these many times,’ and so saying passed +from my sight.</p> +<p>“Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made +haste to the Church lest peradventure I should find Him; but the +lamps burnt dim and all was silent. Then I turned aside and +went out into the night, and it was very dark, with no sound but +the wind in the forest trees.</p> +<p><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>“My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in +cloister and garth; and as I hasted to the gate I cried aloud, +even as she cried who sought Him in a garden—‘They +have taken away my Lord.’</p> +<p>“At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a +sign; and lo, in the darkness one came and led me by the hand +away from the gate, across the garth and up the dormitory stair, +nor loosed me until I passed within where the Brethren lay +sleeping, and the chamber was bright with exceeding radiance.</p> +<p>“I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his +face was wet with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder +the mark of many stripes.</p> +<p>“Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another +of our Brethren, and on every face lay the shadow of a great +need, but in every face there was somewhat of the Christ; and the +lesson burnt in my heart.</p> +<p>“Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy +Robert; but I fled, for <a name="page152"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 152</span>I might not see Him; and I awoke +sore troubled—ay, and the trouble is on me still.</p> +<p>“My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to +me. Great is the rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it +stripes, grievous and many as our sins, have their rightful +place; but mayhap we forget that love, and love alone, should +strike. Ay, and I mind me how Prior Stephen, my Father, +said that to be monk a man must learn before all things to hunger +and to love. Love should draw the water and build the fire, +till the field and attend the sanctuary; and hunger we should +cherish in our hearts, hunger for righteousness and for the souls +of our brethren, for this is the hunger of God.</p> +<p>“Men come over lightly to the Lord’s work; and lo! +pride and emulation, jealousy and discontent, spring up and +thrive, and the end is shame and confusion.</p> +<p>“I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the +Lord is at hand: let us see that we love while there is yet +time.”</p> +<p>Then he turned to the novices and <a name="page153"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 153</span>stretched out his hands to where +they stood amazed, and it may be ashamed—not after this +manner was Brother Adam wont to rebuke them.</p> +<p>“And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, +give heed to your ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this +service. Better far go forth, yea, even to death, than mock +the Lord with froward feet and a heart that is full of +vanity. Remember the sacrifice which Cain offered and the +Lord rejected, for he gainsayed the voice of the Lord and +disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the wrath of God fell upon +him.</p> +<p>“I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, +and let fear befriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a +thief in the night, and lo! stripes bitter and many await that +servant whom the Master finds sleeping.”</p> +<p>Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his +hand to bless, and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in +his place, for they knew that the Lord had spoken and were +afraid.</p> +<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE +WOODMAN</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">June</span> was at an end, and men cried +aloud for rain. The hedges were white, the fields scorched +and brown; the leaves fell from the trees as at autumn’s +touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and twisted on the +bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud.</p> +<p>Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a +scrap of mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a +dog from some neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, +his bill-hook beside him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world +had gone contrary with him.</p> +<p>His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, +leaving six hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse +thing had befallen him; his gold was gone—his gold to which +he had no right, for ’twas blood-money, the food of <a +name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>his +children, ay, and something beside; but Dickon loved that gold +piece above all the world—above Heaven and his own +soul—and it was gone.</p> +<p>A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which +he had deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i’ +faith ’twas easy carrying. There was but one piece, +and Dickon minded how he had changed his petty hoard to gold +scarce a month back at the fair. Maybe it was Thomas the +charcoal burner had served him this ill turn; or William +Crookleg, the miller’s man; he was a sly, prying fellow, +and there had been ill blood between them.</p> +<p>He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the +forest, and crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might +say ’twas ill-got gain and well rid of.</p> +<p>Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, +ill-fed, unkempt. The day’s work was done, and on the +village green he found men and women, for the most part as +ill-clad as himself, <a name="page156"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 156</span>standing about in groups +gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house door, +thin and peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for any +man in those parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressed +them.</p> +<p>A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry +horse by the bridle, was talking eagerly.</p> +<p>“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw I +this very day on the churchyard wall—it bodes ill to some +of us.”</p> +<p>“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have it +thine own way. Methinks the ill hath outrun the omen, for +there will be naught for man or beast shortly—but fine +pickings for thy three crows.”</p> +<p>The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up.</p> +<p>“What’s to do?” he said curtly.</p> +<p>“Nay,” said mine host, “Robin will have it +that some further evil is upon us—tho’ methinks we +have got our fill and to spare with this drought—ay, and +’twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw the +corpse-light.”</p> +<p><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and +naught to fill them,” said Dickon surlily. +“Whither away, Robin? ’Tis not far this beast +will travel.”</p> +<p>“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny +with the carcass,” answered the little man; “give me +my reckoning, friend John. I must needs haste if I would +see the Forester’s ere nightfall.”</p> +<p>He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When +Dickon saw it his eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning +and put the piece in his cheek.</p> +<p>“Hard-earned money—’tis blood out of a stone +to draw wages from my master. Better it should light in my +belly than in a rogue’s pocket. ’Tis as well +for me that John o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at the +cross-roads. Godden, my masters!” And leading +his weary beast, he took the road that skirted the forest.</p> +<p>The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely +way before him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not +rise.</p> +<p><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robin +angrily, tugging in vain at the creature on whom death had taken +pity. “I must e’en leave him by the wayside and +tell Richard what hath befallen.”</p> +<p>He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a +man slipped from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet +moonlight. There was a thud, a dull cry, and Robin fell +prone across the horse’s neck—a pace beyond him in +the moonlight shone the gleam of gold.</p> +<p>Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other five +followed with scant time between the buryings. Another had +fathered them and filled the gaping mouths; but men shuddered at +his care, for it was the Black Death that they had deemed far +from them.</p> +<p>Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had +come of Robin—he was dead when they found him—but no +man gave heed. Death was in the air, death held them safe +in walls they might not scale. The heavens were brass, food +<a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>failed +for man and beast, God and man alike had forsaken them. The +forest lay one side, the river, now but a shallow sluggish +stream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick and the springe +tightened.</p> +<p>No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the +rest and murmured, cursing. All at once he made for the +ale-house.</p> +<p>“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when +there is liquor enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who +is minded to go dry throat to Heaven had best make haste; for me +I will e’en swill a bucket to the devil’s health, and +so to hell.”</p> +<p>Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who +strove to bar the door. Some of the women fell on their +knees and clamoured in half delirious prayer; the rest slunk +dismayed to their pestilent homes.</p> +<h3><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE +MORNING</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Meanwhile</span>, news came to the +Monastery of the ill case of the village, for it lay scarce a +league away across the forest; but the pine-trees stood as +guardian angels in between.</p> +<p>The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling +of Blessed Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told the +tidings.</p> +<p>Then he went on to give reason for their assembling.</p> +<p>“My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave +these poor, stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; +moreover, in their fear and desolation, they may flee to other +villages, and so the terror and pest spread ever further. +And I deem that, inasmuch as Charity is greater than Faith or +Hope, so it is greater than <a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>obedience also. Wherefore I +purpose to set aside the Rule of our Order in the letter that I +may hold to it in the spirit, and go forth to serve these +perishing brethren; and I will take with me whosoever hears the +call of God in this visitation.”</p> +<p>When he had made an end, there was silence in the +Chapter. Break cloister, the Prior himself urging them +thereto? The Convent might scarce credit its ears.</p> +<p>Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on his +white face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have its +triumph.</p> +<p>Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven +novices sprang also to their feet.</p> +<p>“Nay, Brother Walter,” said Hilarius, turning to +the Sub-Prior, “this flock must have its shepherd also; thy +place is here. But I will take with me Brother Simon and +Brother Leo, who will doubtless suffice at first for the +ministry, and—” smiling at the +novices—“all these dear lads to tend the sick and +bury the dead.”</p> +<p><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>The +Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance.</p> +<p>“Good Father, it is not fitting that thou +should’st go on such an errand; send me in thy stead, for +my life is a small thing as compared with thine. Moreover +these novices, ’tis but the other day the Master gave them +as lazy and ill-conditioned, and—”</p> +<p>The Prior held up his hand.</p> +<p>“Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for +me; but my call has come. As for these—” he +stretched out his hand towards the waiting +novices—“maybe they are in the wrong school, and the +Lord hath even opened the door that they may serve Him, perchance +die for Him, elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser than +Prior Stephen, who set me without the gate to learn my +lesson? Let us go in peace, my children, for we are about +the Lord’s business.”</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the +little band embraced <a name="page163"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 163</span>their brethren and set out, laden +with food and wine and herbs from the farmery; and the Prior +appointed a place to which the Convent should send daily all +things needed.</p> +<p>The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, +breathless sunshine, and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, +pungent, rose at each footfall from the silent path. The +Brethren chanted the Gradual Psalms as they paced two and two +through the sun-lit aisles, full of the Prior’s memories; +and he looked up again to see Our Lady’s robe across the +tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalm broke, and Brother +Simon, who was leading, stayed suddenly.</p> +<p>Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthy +rags; his hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyes +sunk, his lips drawn apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made +haste to kneel beside him, and lo! sudden remembrance lighted the +fast-glazing eyes, but his own answered not.</p> +<p>“My son, my son,” said the Prior, and <a +name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>his voice +was very pitiful, “thou art indeed in evil case; let me +shrive thee ere it be too late.”</p> +<p>He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy +head upon his shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the +parched lips.</p> +<p>At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached +him.</p> +<p>“The Convent’s hens!”</p> +<p>The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured +voice—</p> +<p>“Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?”</p> +<p>Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were +wiped away.</p> +<p>“Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry +plight! But see, stay not thy shriving, for the time is +short, and the Lord ever ready to pardon.”</p> +<p>The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite +clearly: “I hunger,” and so saying died.</p> +<p>The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in +prayer, while the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. +Then he rose, <a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>and lo! before him lay the open glade where his +schooling had begun, and he had seen a flower incarnate dance in +the wind.</p> +<p>He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the +glade under fallen branches until they could return and give him +burial. Then, as they went on their way, he told the tale +of his little maid; and when the telling was ended, the village +they had come to succour was in sight, and lo! they saw it +through a mist.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">“BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE +WHITE”</span></h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Prior’s heart was ready, +and it seemed to him as he passed up the village and saw the +huddled, helpless people, that his little maid led him by the +hand.</p> +<p>Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to +speak comfort and carry succour to the sick and fearful, <a +name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>and to bury +the dead; for three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and +mercy. Hilarius made straight for the ale-house.</p> +<p>As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled +blindly down the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, +and suddenly sobered, dropped on his knees, while the topers and +roysterers staring from the open doorway fell into silence.</p> +<p>Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the +scorching sun of that windless day; it came to his mind that he +was very weary.</p> +<p>“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour +you, lest ye go down quick into the pit. Return, every one +of you, for the arms of His love are still stretched wide upon +the Rood, and the very hairs of your head are numbered. +Repent ye, therefore, and confess each one of you his sins, that +I may prepare him for the work of the Lord; and take comfort +also, for they that are with us are mighty.”</p> +<p>One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, +confessed and were <a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon was +not among them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as he +should direct; and he set a watch that no man should flee the +village; and all obeyed him.</p> +<p>Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band +of workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying +the pestilent dwellings.</p> +<p>Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered +it like a soldier at his post.</p> +<p>As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade +him come quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was +Dickon.</p> +<p>The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste +to the hovel where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could +hear his muttered words; but lo! when he would place the Host he +could not, for a gold piece lay on the man’s tongue. +The Prior drew back dismayed, and behold, the Lord’s hand +struck swiftly, and Dickon <a name="page168"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 168</span>died with a barren shriving—on +whom may Christ take pity!</p> +<p>Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; +and at even came the rain. All through the night it fell; +and one of the novices, who lay a-dying in the Prioir’s +arms, heard it as he passed, and fell back, joy on his lips and a +radiant smile on his young face.</p> +<p>“‘<i>Esurientes implevit bonis</i>,’” +said the Prior, as he laid him down, blessing God.</p> +<p>A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there +was no need to call further help from the Monastery, for the +Plague was stayed. Never had cloistered monks spent such a +strange season; rarely such a blessed one.</p> +<p>The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the +Prior was minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious +Convent, for his work was done.</p> +<p>Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the +tidings reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the +shelter of the cloister garth, but, as it were, on the <a +name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>battlefield +where they had given their lives for their brethren.</p> +<p>The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind +bowed the pines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for +joy, because of the face of the Lord. The sun burnt bright +in the great blue dome, and earth shone with pale reflection of +his glory.</p> +<p>The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to +catch the signal from the lay-brother posted without. At +last the word came that voices were heard in the distance; and +monks and novices hastened two and two to the gate. On the +wind was borne the sound of a chant.</p> +<p>“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” said +Brother Anselm; and crossing themselves, the Brothers chanted out +the sonorous response:</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“<i>Et lux +perpetua luceat eis</i>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for +came slowly down the forest pathway.</p> +<p><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>Four +Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a rude +bier of pine-branches.</p> +<p>This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. +Sweet-scented boughs for his last bed; Mary’s lilies aglow +for tapers tall; the censer of the forest swung by sun and wind; +and the glory of the face of the Lord.</p> +<p>He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, +and having kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the +east, for his time had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and +perplexed. Prior Hilarius lay and watched for the light, +and as dawn parted night’s veil with the long foregleam of +the coming day, he shut his eyes like a tired child and went +home.</p> +<p>It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior +cried through his tears:—</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear +son.”</p> +<p>They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him +on his forest-bed <a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the +tender smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, +“The Prior hath found his little maid.” And the +Convent made Hilarius a wondrous fair tomb of alabaster inlaid +with gold, and carved him lying thereon with Mary’s lilies +across his breast.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 789-h.htm or 789-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/8/789 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Gathering of Brother Hilarius + +Author: Michael Fairless + +Release Date: January, 1997 [EBook #789] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS *** + + + + +Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS + + + + +PART I--THE SEED + + + + +CHAPTER I--BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST + + + +Hilarius stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, +well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in +the June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a +dust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of +sumpter mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the +backs of the good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the +drug stores in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, +the Precentor had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly +vellum, and on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious +expectation. + +On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The +Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great +trees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. +Twice had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced +slowly and silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, +springing pines; and the occasions were stored in his memory with +the glories of St Benedict's Day and Our Lady's Festivals. Away to +the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery +lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teeming +with glad, unhurried labour. + +At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the +Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the +place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work +of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of that +work, ever unfinished because love knows not how to make an end. +To the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order, +written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world's treasure; a +page on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance add +a line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They were +always at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rare +stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, +finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an +uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle +and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, +spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of the +Lord. + +The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of +insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons +circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in +their niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, +blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit +lately acquired--on his face was great peace. It rested +everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the +blacksmith's hammer smote the sound of the Office bell. + +Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign +of the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior's lips would +take a thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue; +and it was ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept +the fragrance of Mary's lilies across to the lad; he turned his +dreamy, blue eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of the +pinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare he, +break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an unwalled +world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made novice, +cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the trees +beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the voice of the +forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, with +bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles. + +At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair +aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and +pillared city of mystery and wonder. + +It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, +and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius' +eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit +blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our +Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he +bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool +depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped +from him, and joy replaced it--joy so great that his heart ached +with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes +following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open +glade, halted in amazement. + +A flower incarnate stood before him; stood--nay, danced in the +wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased +each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the +folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as +stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers +itself. Hilarius' eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks +like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, +laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils +of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level +brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for +untutored novices such as Hilarius. + +His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St +Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a +murmured "Apage Sataas!" + +The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind. + +"O what a pretty boy!" she cried gaily. "Playing truant, I dare +wager. Come and dance!" + +Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. "Woman," he said, and +his voice trembled somewhat, "art thou not shamed to deck thyself +in this devil's guise?" + +The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily. + +"No more devil's guise than thine own," she retorted, eyeing his +semi-monastic garb with scant favour. "Can a poor maid not +practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred +youngster must cry devil's guise?" + +As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke +into peal on peal of joyous laughter. "Poor lad, with thy talk of +devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?" + +Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in +the eyes, and now he drops his own. + +"Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice +men's souls to their undoing?" + +"An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind +sir?" she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a +scolded child. + +"It is wrong to deck the body," began Hilarius, softening at her +attitude, "because, because--" + +Again the merry laugh rang out. + +"Because, because--nay, Father" (with a mock reverence), "methinks +thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and _I_ will +catechise. How old art thou?" She held up her small finger +admonishingly. + +"Seventeen," replied Hilarius, surprised into reply. + +"Art thou a monk?" + +"Nay, a novice only." + +"Hast thou ever loved?" + +Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on +unconcerned - + +"'Twas a foolish question; the answer's writ large for any maid to +read. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?" + +Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet. + +"There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and +the Saints and the Brethren--" + +"But not the sisters?" the wicked little laugh pealed out. "Poor +sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the +Saints and the Brethren, and it is good--good--good!" She opened +her arms wide. "'Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. +Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard +the nightingale sing?" + +"It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child. +That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God +and the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of +yesterday's homily in the Frater. + +"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancer +persisted. + +How did he know? + +"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he cried +triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and +anxious only to come well out of the wordy war. + +But the unexpected happened. + +"Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?--I HATE +her;" and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of +weeping. + +Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman's tears. + +"Maid, maid," said Hilarius, in deep distress, "indeed I did not +mean to vex thee;" and he came up and laid his hand on her +shoulder. + +So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief! + +The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and +more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up +at him through shining lashes. + +"There, boy, 'tis naught. How could'st thou know? But what of +thine own mother?" + +"I know not." + +"Nay, what is this? And thy father?" + +"He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I came +a little child to the Monastery, and know no other place." + +"Ah,"--vindictively,--"then THY mother may have been a light o' +love." + +"Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound," said Hilarius with a +smile. + +The maid looked at him speechless. + +"GO HOME, BOY," she said at last emphatically. + +Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the +undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair. + +"So, Gia!" he said. "We must make haste; the others wait." + +"'Tis my brother," said the dancer, "and"--pointing to the bag +slung across the youth's shoulder--"I trust he hath a fine fat hen +from thy Monastery for our meal." + +Hilarius broke into a cold sweat. + +The Convent's hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred, +and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the +Monasteries? + +"'Tis stealing," he said feebly. + +"'Tis stealing," the dancer mocked. "Hast thou another sermon +ready, Sir Preacher?" + +"Empty bellies make light fingers," quoth the youth. "Did'st thou +ever hunger, master?" + +"There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat," said Hilarius. + +"But ever a meal certain once in the day?" queried the girl. + +"Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast." + +The mischievous apes laughed--how they laughed! + +"So, good Preacher," said the dancer at last, rising to her feet, +"thou dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger. +Thou dost know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thy +mother; but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to +love. Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee +these things an thou would'st learn. Farewell, good novice, back +to thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger +and love--love--love!" + +She seized her brother's hand and together they danced away like +two bright butterflies among the trees. + +Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with +dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. +The train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and +explanation; and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen, +unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafed +him, for in his heart reigned desolation and doubt, and in his ears +rang the dancer's parting cry, "Hunger and love--love--love!" + + + +CHAPTER II--THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + + +Brother Bernard, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum +with generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his +downcast look. + +"Methinks this gold is dull, Brother," said Hilarius one day, +fretfully, to his old master. + +And again - + +"'Tis very poor vermilion." + +The Brother looked at him enquiry. + +"Nay, nay, boy; 'tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours." + +Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius +was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady. + +"Now may God be good to us!" he cried with uplifted hands. "Since +when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black +hair--curly too, i' faith?" + +Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and +gold, he faltered. + +It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him +through chant and psalm. Did he really LOVE the Saints--St +Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left +him untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great +love between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had +had a sister would they have loved like that? + +The Saints' Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the +repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from +which tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. +"Light of Love," the girl had called his mother; what more +beautiful name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So +he prayed in his simplicity:- "Great Light of Love, Mother of my +mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful son!" + +The question came in his daily life. + +Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for +Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him +too; Brother John's tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard, +old, half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard?--sad, helpless, +and lonely, by reason of his infirmities--or was it only pity he +felt for him? + +Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the +Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words +of the witch in the forest? And yet what was it she had said? +"For me the wide world, hunger, and love--love--love!" + +He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its +beauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white +lilies at the farmery door. Did they love? + +He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business +and cheerful bickerings. Did they love? + +SHE had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wandered +staring, wide-eyed but sightless. + +At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship- +wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and +unhurt above the devouring waves. + +The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd +question. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his +stern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firm +line of his mouth. + +"My son," he said at length, "thou art in the wrong school; +nursery, was it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to the +hen. Thou art a limner at heart--Brother Bernard tells of thy +wondrous skill with the brush--and to be limner thou must learn to +hunger and to love as the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, +though alack, men gainsay it." + +"Father," said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, "did'st +thou ever love as the maid meant?" + +"Ay, boy--thy mother." + +There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:- + +"The maid said she might be light of love; 'tis a beautiful +thought." + +The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:- + +"What didst thou tell the maid?" + +"That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who +died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was +light of love." + +"Boy," said the Prior gravely, "'tis a weary tale, and sad of +telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned +love lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, but +thought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul"--his voice grew +stern--"as for one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may +have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many years." + + Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:- + +"She was evil, wicked, my mother?" + +"Ay--a light woman, that was what the maid meant." + +Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped +the Prior's knees weeping and praying like a little child. + + +"And so, my son," said the Prior, "for a time thou shalt go out +into the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a +care that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure +shall see God, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set +in order thy going; and send the Chamberlain hither to me." + +That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, +and then at St Mary Maudlin's altar he did penance for his dead +mother's sin. + +A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, +is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors +of the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate +needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would +be his patron; and another to the Prior's good friend, the Abbat of +St Alban's. The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved +this gentle lad who had been with them from a little child; and +Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look his last at the +young face he would never see again. + +The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to +the gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, +overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might +stay and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook his +head. + +"Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master +for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us--an thou +can'st--let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are +opened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, +to keep still the faithful heart of a little child." + +Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart- +strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and +along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into the +wide, wide world. + + + +CHAPTER III--THE KING'S SONG-BIRD + + + +Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to +himself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with +straight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes +that smouldered in hollow cavities. He wore the King's colours, +and broke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast. + +"Heigh-ho!" sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him, +"another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe- +leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket 'til I +win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from +Candlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile or +frown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and a +jug of cider instead of a king's banquet. Now but another few +leagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song +here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, +not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 'tis a poor bird +sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward +did but know it. + +"Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a +light heart from his song; and no ill voice either." + +It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptoris as he sped along +the green grass which bordered the highway. + +When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up +at the sight of the vielle. + +"Whence dost thou come, lad?" said Martin, eyeing him with +interest. + +"Many days' journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen," answered +Hilarius. + +"But thou art no monk!" + +"Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to +see the world. It is wondrous fair," he added sincerely. + +"He who speaks thus is cloister-bred," said Martin, and as Hilarius +made sign of assent, "'tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior +gave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter's, I doubt not; thy face +is set for Westminster." + +"Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir +John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere +now but that two days ago I met strange company. They took my +purse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the +late dawn. Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me God- +speed.' + +"But kept thy purse?" Martin laughed. + +"Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing +strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did +me no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me +provision, which I lacked." + +"Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God's judgments for once," +muttered Martin; then aloud, "Well, young sir, we shall do well if +we win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together +since our way is the same?" + +Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of +Court and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel +was wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and +sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John +Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and no mean +musician; "and," added Martin, "three fair daughters he hath, the +eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fain +be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claim +thee for page." + +"I will strive to serve well," said Hilarius soberly, "but I have +never spoken but to one maid 'til yesterday, when a woman gave me +good-morrow." + +Martin looked at his companion queerly. + +"And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this +Prior of thine is a strange master!" + +"It is but for a time," said Hilarius, "then I shall go back to the +Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I +have some small skill with the brush," he added simply. + +Martin stared. + +"Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now, +not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and +banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and +little reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not +such as makes a monk." + +Hilarius smiled. + +"Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write +for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the +Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King's Minstrel." + +"Nay, lad, nay," said the other hastily, "give me the open country +and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King +is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come +back; 'tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage +and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us +again." + +He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace +as the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he was +still heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind in +the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery +wall. The song itself was sad--of a lover torn from his mistress +and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they +took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said +timidly:- + +"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?" + +"Ay, lad, and of my mistress." He stopped suddenly, louted low to +the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. +"A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A +man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night +she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles +and tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter +from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the +very traces of her hair across a man's face only to elude him. She +holds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must +seek as though he knew her not, or she flouts him." + +Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant--the +"wide wide world, hunger and love"? + +"Did'st thou ever hunger, good Martin?" + +"Ay, lad," said the minstrel, surprised, "and 'tis good sauce for +the next meal" + +"Did'st thou ever love?" + +Martin broke into a great laugh. + +"Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here +comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love." Round the +bend of the road came a man in hermit's dress carrying a staff and +a well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less +upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an alms +from the two travellers. + +Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him. + +"Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than +help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; 'tis not the first time +we have met. See here," and with a dexterous jerk he caught the +hermit's wallet. + +This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful +of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, +flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace +down the road, while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid +on with a cudgel. + +Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing +companion, who answered the unspoken question. + +"A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest +of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand's +turn and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good +stuff in that larder of his to make merry with." + +Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head. + +"I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness," he said +at last. + +"It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and 'tis true enough that +godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit's robe may cover a +rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face +and tongue. See, lad," as another turn in the road brought them in +sight of Westminster, "there lies thy new world, God keep thee in +it!" + +He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water's edge, with +roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the +western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten +gold. + +Hilarius gave a little cry. + +"'Tis like the New Jerusalem!" he said, and Martin smiled grimly. + +An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and +Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin's side. Around +him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, +pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily +dressed ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of +the houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was +a shifting scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius' +untutored eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all +sorts and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the +day's work was done. In the courtyard of the "Black Boar" a +chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossed +himself anxiously--was the devil about to beset him under all +guises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me to St Benedict as +he hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent +folk flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, +seeing the pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only +the man in him stayed the indignant tears. "Martin, Martin!" he +cried; but the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was hailed +everywhere with acclamations, and news given and demanded in a +breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with rough +oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by the easy manners round +him, his cheek hot from the late salute, took refuge under a low +archway, and waited with anxious heart until the minstrel should +have done with the crowd. + +Martin did not forget him. + +"Hola, lad!" he cried, "see how they welcome the King's bird back +to his cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like +a homing pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey's +end." Then, apprehending for the first time Hilarius' white face +and piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swept him under the archway +into a quiet courtyard where a fountain rippled, and, having handed +him over to Sir John's steward, left him with a friendly slap on +the back and the promise of speedy meeting. + +Hilarius delivered the Prior's letter, and followed the steward +into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy +with preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and +dejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being +crying out for the busied peace and silent orderliness of his +cloister home. The servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to +heed; indeed he hardly noticed when the household swept in to +supper, until a page-boy tweaked him slyly by the ear and bade him +come to table. He ate and drank thankfully, too dazed to take note +of the meal; and the pages and squires among whom he sat left him +alone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, something restored by +the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall. + +It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far +loftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through +high lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which +the morrow's sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork--a +man's thought in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque +beast and guarding saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of +the hall, and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the +house and his honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, +careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than Sir John +himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wandered carelessly +over the rest of the company until they were caught and held by a +woman's face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight's three +fair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary +traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land. + +"Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had," he thought, his +mind reverting to his favourite Saint; "she is like the lilies in +the garth at home." + +It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed +in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the +foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she +looked a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, +save when she was much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an +unknown soul; her mouth, delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; +her head drooped slightly on her long, slender neck, a gesture +instinct with gracious humility. She was like a pictured saint: +Hilarius' gaze clung to her, followed her as she left the hall, and +saw her still as he sat apart while the serving men cleared the +lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the night. He +lay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows the +moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do on +bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay +sleeping soundly after the day's toils; there was none to heed, and +he sobbed like a little homesick child, until his tired youth +triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, +the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the +cloister garth. + + + + +PART II--THE FLOWER + + + + +CHAPTER I--THE CITY OF PURE GOLD + + + +"Blind eyes, blind eyes!" sang the dancer. + +Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench in the +sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. +He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his +hair into a halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted +restlessly on her perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, +and, slowly stretching its great limbs, came towards him. + +It was four o'clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard was +deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his +household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady +Eleanor, Hilarius' mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John +had so appointed it. + +It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had +seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise; +but he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets full +of the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the +Babylon of Blessed John's Vision--with a few holy ones who would +surely be caught up ere judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and +Lady Eleanor. + +A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to his +children, gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God and +King Edward; shrewd withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, +and because of the love he bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilarius +to attend his eldest daughter, who seemed to belong as little to +this world as the lad himself; and felt that in so doing he had +achieved the best possible for his old friend, according to his +asking. + +Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends +the chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a +saint, by reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he +watched her at banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a +revel as to the Sacrament, and sat at a mummers' show with eyes +fixed on the Unseen. She moved through the gay vivid world of +Court gallants and joyous maidens like a shadow, and the rout grew +graver at her coming. + +It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning--brother of +that Hugh de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius--a gentle +knight with mild blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour +for heavenly things. The pair liked one another well; but their +time was taken up with preparation for Paradise rather than with +earthly business, and their speech lent itself more readily to +devout phrases than to lovers' vows. It was small wonder, +therefore, that another year saw them both by glad consent in the +cloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine House of +which her aunt was Prioress. + +Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just +as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter's Abbey: +"With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks 'tis +like the forest at home" (forgetting that his more intimate +knowledge of the forest partook of the nature of sin). "The Lady +Eleanor, my honoured mistress," he wrote, "is a most saintly and +devout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring nought for the +things of this world;" and he added, "'tis beautiful to see such +devotion where for the most part are sinful and light-minded +persons." + +The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and when +Brother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, +"Nay, Brother, he still sleeps;" and indeed there seemed no waking +him to a world of men--living, striving, sorely-tried men. + +He dwelt in a land of his own making--a land of colour and light +and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the +gorgeous pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by +angels; while the knights at a tourney in their brave armour +pictured St George, St Michael, or St Martin in his dreams. + +It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress, +not a page attending a great lady to the Court functions. He +yearned ever after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and +stores of colour and gold. It lay but a stone's throw away behind +the jealous Monastery walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen's +plan that the lad should go straight from one cloister to another. + +To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor's +tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and +followed her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a +gallery hung with wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower +where Eleanor sat with two of her women busied with their needle. + +Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He louted +low, and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her. + +"I am weary," she said; "this life is weariness. Tell me of the +Monastery and the forest--stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem +that Brother Ambrose saw and limned.' + +Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee, +and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out of +the window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles. + +"The Brother Ambrose," he began, "was ever a saintly man, approved +of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, save +that of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay +a-bed in the dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: "Come, +and I will show thee the Bride, the Lamb's wife." And Brother +Ambrose arose and was carried to a great and high mountain, even as +in the Vision of Blessed John. 'Twas a still night of many stars, +and Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; +and lo! the stars gathered themselves together on either side until +they stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about +as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. +Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle +aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limner +dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of +Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, and +a face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding radiance. + +"Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his +great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung +between the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, +but heard only a sound as of a great multitude crying, 'Alleluia'; +and suddenly the winds came about him again, and lo! he found +himself in bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell +was ringing to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest; but +when the Brethren left the choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in +his place, hearing and seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; +and at Lauds they found him and told the Prior. + +"He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the +Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the +Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what +colours he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a +wondrous fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid +blue for the sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion +where the city seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angels +he could not limn, nor could he set the rest of the colours as he +saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose +fell sick because of the exceeding great longing he had to limn the +Holy City, and was very sad; but our Prior bade him thank God and +remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey +cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight." + +There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veined +hands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing. + +"It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick," she +said, at length. + +Hilarius nodded: + +"He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and often +he would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the +Office bell." + +"Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that Holy +City." + +"Nay, lady," said her page tenderly, "surely thou hast had a vision +even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like unto +his." + +Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadow +of her eyes. + +"Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though my +desire is great, 'tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reason +I would get me to a cloister where I might fast and pray +unhindered." + +Hilarius looked at her with great compassion. + +"Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thou +art already as one of His saints." + +"Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world," she answered. "Sing to +me, Hilarius." + +And he sang her the Salve Regina, and when it was ended she bade +him go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon her +primer. + +"Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!" he said, +and left her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of her +tender childlike heart. + + + +CHAPTER II--THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW + + + +Hilarius went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. He +leant against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fell +with monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The +cloudless sky smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which +he gazed, and the glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him +strangely. He too had a vision which he longed to limn; but it was +of earth, not Heaven, like that vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; and +yet none the less precious, for was it not the Monastery at home +which so haunted him, the grey, familiar walls with their girdle of +sunlit pasture, and the mantling forest which bowed and swayed at +the will of the whispering wind? + +"As well seek Heaven's gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love +in this light-minded, deceitful city," Hilarius said to himself a +little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and +learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the +company and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever +ready to serve them. A prentice lad's homely brawl set him +shivering; a woman's jest painted his cheeks 'til they rivalled a +young maid's at her first wooing. He plucked aside his skirts and +walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or juggler held the +crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would push his way, +in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose mother, +like his own, was light o' love: a strange link truly to bind +Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity. + +Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and +a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low +archway. He reined up by Hilarius: + +"Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?" + +"That will I, Hal, an it be in my power." + +"Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. +'Tis Luke Langland's reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but +my head was full of feast and tourney, and 'tis yet undelivered. +Mine host will not let the serving men and the two horses go 'til +he hath seen Luke's money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need +me." + +Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a +good comrade, clattered back through the gateway. + +The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery +of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors +dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and +strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He +delivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because +it was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled and +jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, he +sought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way. + +The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and +suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a +city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, +and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save +for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, +stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman +crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very +children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered +nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal +sordid place. + +Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:- + +"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?" + +He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an +ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm. + +"Sanctuary," stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I--" + +The other laughed. + +"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into these +precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a +man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been +guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander--a strange place in +which to see such a face as thine." + +"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning," said +Hilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place." + +"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety- +-even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: +but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; +hence I say 'tis a place of darkness and despair." + +The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the other +answered it. + +"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice I +gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the +wisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom." + +"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter +of Holy Church?" asked Hilarius, perplexed. + +"Most surely he knows; but what would'st thou have? It hath ever +been the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest +they repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; +but should he set foot in the city without, he is the law's, and no +man may gainsay it." + +"Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance," said Hilarius. + +"Ay, ay, true eno'," rejoined the other cheerfully, "but then 'tis +not for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man's law may fail +to reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner." + +Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with +the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty. + +"It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody +hands." + +"Nay," said the old man hastily, "many of them are kindly folk, and +many have slain in anger without thought. 'Tis a sad place, +though, and thy young face is like a sunbeam on a winter's day. +Come, I will show thee thy road." + +He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on +the edge of the city's stir and hum. + +"I can no further," he said. "Farewell, young sir, and God keep +thee! An old man's blessing ne'er harmed any one." + +Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets +crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang +out above the shouts and din. + +"'Tis an evil, evil world," quoth young Hilarius. + + + +CHAPTER III--A SENDING FROM THE LORD + + + +October and November came and sped, and Hilarius' longing to be a +limner waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he met +Martin, of whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel +followed the Court. + +"The cage grows too small for me, lad," he said, as he stood with +Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; "ay, and I +love one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away +to my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my +heart break." + +"'Tis even so with me, good Martin," said Hilarius sadly; "I too +would fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is +barred, and I may not open it from within." + +Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder. + +"Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this +Martinmas, say you? In truth 'tis a great age, but still leaves +time and to spare. 'All things come to a waiting man,' saith the +proverb." + +A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the +south wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, +and suited the Minstrel's mood. + +He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius +had once more cried his longing, he said gravely:- + +"One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad-- +and yet earn no welcome." + +Hilarius looked at him questioningly. + +"Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?" + +"Nay, good Martin." + +"It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the +Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out +with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed +in the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt +know Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from." + +Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, +and turned to speak of other things. + +Martin looked at him gloomily. + +"Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad." + +"Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for +the Abbat of St Alban's, and would hasten thither if Sir John would +set me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar," went on poor Hilarius +ruefully, "for I have not yet gone hungry--and as for love, +methinks there are few folk to love in this wicked city." + +Martin laughed and then grew grave again. + +"Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain find +thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban's an +it be possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy +wise Prior Stephen may say." + +And he went off singing - + + +"Three felons hung from a roadside tree, +One black and one white and one grey; +And the ravens plucked their eyes away +From one and two and three, +That honest men might see +And thievish knaves should pay; +Lest these might be +As blind as they. +Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day! +One--two--three! On the gallows-tree hung they." + + +Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin's +voice had died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the +dancer and the Prior. + +Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say: + +"I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger--I +hunger, and I love." + +He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again the +shrill quavering voice called: + +"Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, pray +for me! Blessed Michael, defend me!" + +Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixty +years had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of the +cloister. He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, +and wondrous wise; the King himself had sought his counsel, and the +Convent held him in high esteem. + +Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window +of the cell--it was too high above him. An overpowering desire +came upon him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he +caught at the window's upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung +bare-headed, the sun behind him, gazing into the cell. + +On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted +locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his +girdle. The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and his +deep-set eyes glowed strangely in their hollow cavities. + +Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him. + +The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its +aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands. + +"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!" he +cried, gaining strength from the vision. + +"What would'st thou, Father!" said Hilarius, afraid. + +"Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet--" the old +man's voice grew weaker--"the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in +peace." + +He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was +sore perplexed. + +"Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?" + +The Ankret looked troubled. + +"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" he murmured entreatingly. + +Hilarius' hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man saw +some wondrous vision, and 'twas no gain time to speech of him. + +"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" quavered the old, tired voice. + +Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast +and braced himself against the wall + +"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!"--The appeal in the half-dead +face was awful. + +Hilarius' grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from +the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no +counsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man--ay, even +when he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself +should bring a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought +came to him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failing +cry from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again and +his fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin still +air:- + + +"Iesu, dulcis memoria, +Dans vera cordis gaudia; +Sed super mel et omnia +Dulcis ejus praesentia." + + +At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the +Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly +like a little child. + +Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of +what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub- +Prior gave him the last sacraments. + +Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy +man before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had +brought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to +think that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept +his own counsel. + +He told Lady Eleanor of Martin's words. + +"God save the King!" she said, and went into her oratory to pray: +and there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel's foreboding was no +idle one. Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the +King, undeterred, came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but +Martin was not in his train. Men's mirth waxed hot by reason of +the terror they would not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegory +and miracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men; +junketing, ay, and rioting--thus they flung a defiance at the +enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bells +sounded the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem. + +Eleanor, knowing Hilarius' ardent longing for school and master, +prayed her father to set him on the way to St Alban's instead of +keeping him with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight, +feeling one page more or less mattered little when Death was so +ready to serve, and anxious for the lad's safety and well-being, +assented gladly enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast of +the Three Kings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, a +well-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under his +jerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed large, a great king, +and by all accounts a most mighty hunter. + + + +CHAPTER IV--BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE + + + +It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face +of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient +indifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and +often flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens his coming. +Thus it came to pass that while the stricken poor agonised in the +grip of unknown horror, bishop and merchant, prince and chapman, +fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses with their train of nuns, +and many more, fled north, east, and west, from the pestilent +cities, and encumbered the roads with much traffic. One +procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its way to +London. + +It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or +snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and +stricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey +sky. Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still +air, music and words alike strange. The singers came slowly up the +roadway, men of foreign aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, +matted locks almost hiding their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard +faces. They were stripped to the waist, their backs torn and +bleeding, and carried each a bloody scourge wherewith to strike his +fellow. At the third step they signed the sign of the Cross with +their prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus in blood and +penitence they went towards London. + +Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it. +These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back +with the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, +tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a +great sob. + +"I left wife and children to perish alone," he cried, "and fled to +save my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for I +go back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!" and he stepped in front +of the first flagellant. + +At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many +fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves +with groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, +turned and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes +wide, the blood drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels-- +a horror that could drive a man from wife and child, that had +driven brave Martin to flee against the wind, and all this folk to +leave house and home to save that which most men count dearer than +either. + +At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming +towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way in +the hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was a +small, mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and +staff; his face upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he +came up with Hilarius, and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire +burnt in the dead ashes. + +"Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord +promised me?" + +Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar +laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back +against his shoulder, felt Hilarius' face, not with the light and +practised touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning +the while. + +"Son, thou wilt come with me?" + +"Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban's." + +"Whence, my son?" + +"From Westminster, good Father." + +"Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery +but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those +from the pestilent cities. What would'st thou with the Abbat?" + +Hilarius told him. + +The friar flung up his hands. + +"Laus Deo! Laus Deo!" he cried, "now I know thou art in very truth +the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. +Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me +carried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and +Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many +hideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my mother +hath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I lay at +Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stood +up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; then as I mused and +prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might wrestle with +Satan for my mother's soul, for she was ever inclined to evil arts +and spells, and thought little of aught save gain. + +"Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague at +my heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach its +coming in every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as I +tarried on the seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because I +had preached its coming, the people rose in wrath, and, falling +upon me, roughly handled me. They beat me full sore in the market- +place; then, piercing my eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat. + +"Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darkness +and light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flames +of hell burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because +of my mother's soul." + +"And then, and then?" tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of pure +pity in his eyes. + +"Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas, +and sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. The +shipmen were kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by a +great wind, and at last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have come +south thus far by the aid of Christian men, but time presses; and +now, lo! thou art here to guide me." + +"But, my Father," said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier in +the way of his desires, "'tis a limner I would be; and I am from +Westminster, not London, and then there is Prior Stephen's letter-- +" + + The friar held up his hand: + +"Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me. +Last night the vision came again, and a voice cried: 'Speed, for a +son of Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,' and lo! thou +art here, waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, an +thou wilt come thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham--'tis a cell +of this Abbey--for there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hath +wondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, for thou shalt +say to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, +waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thou shalt set me in +that village of Bungay, where my mother dwelleth." + +Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that +vainly questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, +flagellants, in this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was even +as one of the blessed martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner! +How should he, Hilarius, gainsay one with a vision from the Lord? + +"I obey, my Father," he cried joyously, taking the friar's hand; +and they two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east. + + + +CHAPTER V--THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED + + + +It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes' Eve; the snow fell +heavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. +Hilarius and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak +unprotected heath, met the full force of the blast, and each moment +the snow grew denser, the darkness more complete. They struggled +on, breathless, beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the +Friar by one hand, held the other across his bent head to shield +himself from the buffets of the wind. + +Suddenly he stood fast. + +"I can no more, Father," he said, "the snow is as a wall; there is +naught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way." +His voice was very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support. + +"I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He +opened the eyes of the prophet's servant in the besieged city; so +shalt thou see a host of angels encompassing us, for we are about +the Lord's business." + +"Nay, my Father," said Hilarius feebly, "I see no angels, and I +perish." He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught +him in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his +breast, then flung away his staff and lifted him to his shoulder. + +With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a +white figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once +the wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested +and comforted, spoke:- + +"Is it thou, my Father?" + +"It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to +guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?" + +He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars +alight! + +The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion's darkness, +pointed to the left where lay a snow-clad village. + +"A miracle, a miracle, my Father!" + +"A miracle, i' faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to the +blind as He promised. Let us go down." + +They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full +of awe and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on a +poor friar. + +At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment +and several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and +Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a +morsel of bread. + +A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright +black eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with +despatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful +tales to tell of the Plague; how in London they piled the dead in +trenches, while many who escaped the pest died of want and cold; it +was a city of the dead rather than the living. One great lord, +travelling post-haste from Westminster, had been found by his +servants to have the disorder, and they fled, leaving him by the +wayside to perish. + +Hilarius heard horror-struck. + +"'Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master," he said. + +"Nay, lad," said a chapman in the corner, "but a man loves his own +skin best." + +"Ay, ay," said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm on +his way to a neighbouring village, "a man's own skin before all. +Fill your belly first and your neighbour's afterwards. Live and +let live." + +"Ay, let live," chimed in mine host, bustling in with a stoop of +cider for the chapman, "but, by the Rood, 'tis cruel work when two +lone women are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon and a lump of +bread; for I'se warrant 'tis a long day sin' they had more than +that at best." + +The chapman took his cider. + +"Where was this work done?" he said. + +"Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found Wednesday +se'n-night by the herd as he went folding. They lay on the floor +in their blood." + +Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had been +spared the sight of violent death--ay, or of death in any form--and +had seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sight +he had thanked Heaven piously. + +"'Tis the fault of the rich," said a voice, and Hilarius saw, to +his surprise, that there was a second friar in the room; a tall, +bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented with a +scanty fringe of black hair. + +"The rich grow fat, and the poor starve," he went on, "'tis hunger +makes a man kill his brother for a mouthful of mouldy bacon." + +"Nay," said the miller, "there was no need to kill, Father. A man +could have taken the meat from two lone women and left them their +lives." + +"Why take from folk as poor as themselves?" said mine host. "Let +them rob the rich an they must rob." + +"Ay," said the friar, "rob the rich, say you, take their own, say +I. God did not make this world that one man should be over full +and another go empty; nor is it religion that the monks' should +live on the fat o' the land and grind the faces of the poor. How +many manors, think you, has the Abbat of St Edmund's, and how many +on his land lack bread?" + +Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathful +defence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraining +hand on his sleeve. + +Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching was +seditious, and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but it +tickled the ears of the common folk and 'twas ill to quarrel with +the Mendicants. Help came to him in his perplexity: a loud +knocking on the barred door made the guests within start. + +"'Tis eight o' the clock," said the miller, affrighted, for he had +a heavy purse on him. + +"Let them knock and cool their hot heads," said the seditious friar +composedly. + +The rest nodded approval. + +Then a man's voice threatened without. + +"What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man without? +Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it." + +Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; he +moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout +wooden bar. As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst +in, at sight of whom mine host turned yet paler. + +"Food and drink," said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on a +bench by the fire. + +Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hair +was close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very small +and near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up +showed two rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the +chapman who had been searching amongst his goods for something +wherewith to pay his hospitality, was hastily putting them back, +when the man, looking up, caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes +among the miscellaneous wares. He plucked one to him, and in a +moment the air was full of tender liquid notes--a thrush's +roundelay. Then a blackbird called and his mate answered; a cuckoo +cried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting cadence; a +nightingale poured forth her deathless love. + +Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the +man threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to +ravenously on the victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly +amid dead silence; then he looked up and cursed at them for their +sorry mood. + +"What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? Damn you +all for dull dogs!" + +The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man's +dreadful face. + +"Piping Hugh of Mildenhall," he said, and at his voice the man +leapt to his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. +"Piping Hugh of Mildenhall," said the Friar again, "I have a +message for thee from the Lord God. I cried thee damned in my own +name once, when thou did'st take my little sister to shame and +death; now I cry thee thrice damned in the name of the Lord, for +the cup of thine iniquity is full and thy hands red with blood. +Man hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and all +men shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but it +shall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt live +on with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou shalt herd; +thou shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men shall hunt thee +from their doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought and +found it not, because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, +thrice damned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, +thy mind be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and he +shall torment thee with remembrance." + +There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore +open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon +the whiteness of the night. + +The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until +Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward to +close the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash +like the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the +bench, and the company began in silence to make preparation for the +night. When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he +rose at the lad's voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the +others stood apart eyeing him fearfully. + +He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, low +voice: "Thou wilt die, brother." + +He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, +brother." + +He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, +brother." + +He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother." + +Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his +face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: +"Thou wilt live, my brother--and repent." + + + +CHAPTER VI--A DARK FINDING + + + +It is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay--which village of the +good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues +distant--and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius +and the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood +had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little +kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; +but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in +the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wondering +eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to +repent and be saved, for Death's shadow was already upon them. +Folk wondered and gaped--the Plague was still only a name ten +leagues east of London--but many repented and confessed and made +restitution, though some heard with idle ears, remembering the +prophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same message half +a man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed his +preaching. + +At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund's +Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality that +night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house--a +brother had charged himself with the care of the Friar--he heard +the sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round +English against the fashion of the day. + +"Martin, Martin!" he cried. + +The vielle was instantly silent. + +"Hola, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught +Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily. + +"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the +Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed +farther afield." Then seeing the injured faces round him for that +the song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him +and took up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finished +my ditty for this worshipful company; then, an't please thee to +tell it, I will hear thy tale." + +The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, +unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up +his song:- + + +"The fair maid came to the old oak tree +(Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), +The throstle he sang merrily--merrily--merrily, +But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, +Her sweet knight--Oh! where was he? + +He lay dead in the cold, cold ground +(Moon and stars and rain on the hill), +In his side and breast were bloody wounds. +Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, +The poor knight--Ah! cold was he. + +The maiden sat her down to die +(Cold, cold earth on her lover's breast), +And the little birds rang mournfully, +And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, +And the stars looked down right pityingly +On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight. +Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!" + + +This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and +the company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught +sight of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent's +victuals, and marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given +so evil a name. + +Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently +to his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar +he companied with preached in each village that men should repent +ere the scourge of God fell upon them; "but there is naught of it +as yet," said the lad. + +"Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and +then the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a +bruit of London that it was but a heap of graves--nay, one grave +rather, for they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no +time to do otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke." + +Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar's death-words to +the guests. + +Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh. + +"Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on +Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black +deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet +there was never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never +heard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, +lad?" + +When he had heard the story of the Friar's twice-repeated vision +and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and +head sunk on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, +half tenderly. + +"Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay +with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. +Also I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end +of it." + +That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried: +"Haste, haste, ere it be too late." And so Hilarius and Martin +came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own. +None of the three ever saw St Edmund's Abbey again, for in one +short month the minster with its sister churches was turned to be a +spital-house, while the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to +summon to their ghastly company the living that sought to make them +a bed. + +Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low +vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar +strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin +and Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face +on his companions. + +"What is that?" he said shrilly. + +A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself +fearfully. + +"Let us make haste," cried the Friar when they told him; and so at +full pace they came to Bungay town. + +The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the +roar and hum of an angry crowd. + +"The people are abroad," said Martin, and his face was very grave, +"no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the +common. Prithee, where is thy mother's dwelling, good Father, and +I will go and ask news of her?" + +"'Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate; +Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for." + +Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar +followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they +stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and +straining to make his ears do a double service. + +Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar's business +as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, +was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the +crowd, saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point +to the Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, but +Hilarius was too far off to catch what was said. + +"See there, 'tis her son," Martin was saying vehemently; "yon holy +friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it +otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle +with the Evil One for his mother's soul--and now, and now--" + +The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old +woman lay on the ground by the river's edge; a bundle of filthy +water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey +hair smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless +huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there +was a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had not +stayed to strip her. + +Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful +crowd: + +"By Christ's Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought," he said. + +"Nay," said one of the bystanders, "but it was fair judgment, +Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in +this place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barren +through her means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seen +last near her door, ay, and never seen again. When we came to +question her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, and +would but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of the +misbegotten brat." + +"Maybe 'twas true eno'," said Martin. "I hate these rough-cast +witch-findings--'tis not a matter for man's judgment, unless 'tis +sworn and proven in court before the Justiciary." + +"Nay," joined in an old man, "what need of a Justice when God +speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink +or swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master +helping her; and seeing that, we drew her under--ay, and see her +now as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on +his own?" + +Martin wrung his hands. + +"For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no +word of this to yon holy man." + +Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied +themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, +and bore her to her wretched bed. + +The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of +the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor +place and its dead dishonoured mistress. + +Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius +and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept +common. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the +dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius +shivered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke. + +"Friar," he said, "God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art +too late to speed thy mother's soul; she passed to-day, and lies +even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands." + +The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with +a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads +abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his +blessing. + +They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin. + +"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people +feared her?" + +"Ay, she died alone," answered Martin, and muttered, "now God +forgive me!" under his breath. + +As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through +the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It +lighted each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, +toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged +with horrid fear. + +Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death? +The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him. + +"Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst +read in thy dream." + +The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was +heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten +earth floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, +saw the Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the +dank, muddy hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with an +exceeding bitter cry. It was answered by another cry--the glad cry +of a lost child that is found. + + +The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to +the cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in +the down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned +his blind, anguished face to the setting sun. + +"Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel +but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come +upon them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them +no more. Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let them +confess and repent ere I visit them as I visited Sodom and +Gomorrah, cities of the Plain. + +"O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged +falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even +according to your measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh +swiftly and maketh no long tarrying. It shall come; it shall +snatch men's souls away, even as ye have torn away my mother's +soul, leaving no space for repentance." + +He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the +little town. + +"Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps. +Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none; +for the arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the +wickedness of the earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and +gainsaying people! Woe, woe, woe, a people hating righteousness +and loving iniquity! The Lord shall straightway destroy them from +off the face of the earth." + +He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then +another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, +snarling, growling, but afraid. + +Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched +den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the +else unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside him. + +Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; +for what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had met +her due, damned alike by God and man? + +Martin came up to him. + +"She was his mother," he said, as if making excuse. + +Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evil +liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending +her to her own place. He crossed himself piously at the thought of +the near neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul. + +Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar +clung to him like a little child, for the strength of his vision +was spent. They lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only +one slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet- +smelling hay, and dreamt of Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, +vermilion and blue; of wondrous pictures, and a great name: and +the scent of the pine forest at home swept across his quiet sleep. + +On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all +aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar +at least as far as Norwich. + +"As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another's bidding," +he said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never to +meet again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to +Yarmouth, not Norwich, and there they perished among the first when +the east wind swept the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened +shipmen. And Hilarius--once again the Angel of the Lord stood in +the path of his desires. + + + +CHAPTER VII--THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE + + + +Hilarius fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in +good weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!--that was a time +to commend oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, +picking his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, +which was all that remained to show where the piety of the past +once kept a road. The low land to his left was submerged, a +desolate tract giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, +save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a sunken ship broke the +waste of waters. + +The sight brought Hilarius' thoughts sharply back to the events of +the evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of God! A +witch--plainly proved to be such--had been struck dead in the midst +of her sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a +heap of graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the +justice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, there +to learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt would +joyfully hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery. + +Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a +small hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp- +set, for the shepherd's fare had been meagre; and so turned aside +in the hope of an ale-house. There was no side road visible, and +he struck across the dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude +track which led to the group of cottages. The place struck him as +strangely quiet; no smoke rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed +out barking furiously at a stranger's advent. The first hovel he +passed was empty, the open door showed a fireless hearth. At the +second he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within. As no one +answered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; the low room +was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from a corner,-- +'twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his heart, and +passed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence. + +Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat +larger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the +door: it was the ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he +would find some one. As he came up he heard a child crying, and +lo! on the doorstep sat a dirty little maid of some four summers, +sobbing away for dear life. + +Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the +grimy tears. + +The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill +cry of joy, she held out her thin arms. + +At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a +woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a +little babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to +her in the doorway, waved him away. + +"Stand off, fool!--'tis the Plague." + +Hilarius shrank back. + +"And thy neighbours?" he asked. + +"Nay, they were light-footed eno' when they saw what was to do, and +left us three to die like rats in a hole." Then eagerly: "Hast +thou any bread?" + +He shook his head. + +"Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?" + +She threw out her hands. + +"'Tis two days sin' I had bite or sup." + +"Where lies the nearest village? and how far?" + +"A matter of an hour, over yonder." + +"See, goodwife," said Hilarius, "I will go buy thee food and come +again." + +She looked at him doubtfully. + +"So said another, and he never came back." + +"Nay, but perchance some evil befell him," said gentle Hilarius. + +"Well, I will trust thee." She went in and returned with a few +small coins. "'Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, else +they will hunt thee from their doors." + +Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in +the direction of the village. + +The woman watched him. + +"Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?" she muttered, as she +sat down to wait. + +It was love. + +Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little +money he had to the woman's scanty store, bought bread, a flask of +wine, flour and beans, and a jug of milk. + +"'Tis for a sick child," he said when he asked for it, and the +woman pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed. + +The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of +his precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a +snare, lay a fine coney. + +"Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!" cried +Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store. + +When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke +into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving +up the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with +her fast-failing babe in her arms. + +Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine--not for nothing had +he served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe +for some weak Brother--and then turned his attention to the little +maid who sat patient, eyeing the food. + +For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking +the child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. +At last the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen +head against her nurse's shoulder, and fell fast asleep. + +Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to +her, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little +sister, the child he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had +guided him to her, and her great Mother-love would shield this +little one from a foul and horrid death. In that dirty, neglected +room, the child warm against his breast, Hilarius lived the +happiest moments of his life. + +Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little +pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed +eyes, and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother. + +The woman was half-asleep, but started awake. + +"Art thou going?" she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes. + +"Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together," he said +soothingly. "I would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter." + +Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth. +The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, +and stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her +tale. + +"'Twas Gammer Harden's son who first heard tell of a strange new +sickness at Caxton's; and then Jocell had speech with a herd from +those parts, who was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill he +had done. Next day Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, +and breaking out of boils, and in three days he lay dead; and +Gammer Harden fell sick and died likewise. Then one cried 'twas +the Plague, and the wrath of God; and they fled--the women to the +nuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; +but us they left, for I was with child." + +"And thy husband?' said Hilarius. + +"Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his and +mine. Some hold 'tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of it +this evil hath fallen upon me." + +She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and +shrunk with the stress of its short life. + +Hilarius spoke gently:- + +"It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to live +together out of holy wedlock, and perchance 'tis true that for this +very thing thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. +But since thou didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent me +to serve thee in thy sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady +herself showed me where the coney lay snared. Let us pray God by +His dear Mother to forgive us our sins and to have mercy on these +little ones." + +And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father +for his new-found family. + +Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. +Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at +last the pinch came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the +babe scarce in life--there could be no thought of flight--and the +little maid grew white, and wan and silent. Then it came to +Hilarius that he would once again beg food in the village where he +had sought help before. + +He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the +better fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he +found his errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming +from many parts, and each man feared for his own skin. At every +house they questioned him: "Art thou from a hamlet where the +Plague hath been?" and when he answered "Yea," the door was shut. + +Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. +He gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the +Saviour and His holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and +her mother. Let them set it in the street, he would take it and +cross no man's threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a +little child die of want? + +"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe," cried a voice; then +they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village +with blows and curses. + +Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase +ceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge. + +A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. +Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting +open-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with +tears as he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a +stone, and watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He had +never killed, but were not his nestlings agape? + +Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape +and gaily painted. + +He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in +his awful need. + +The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the +horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up +heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a +hen. If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A +minute later the sack and the hen had changed owners--but not +unobserved; a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two +figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood before +them on the white highway--a thief. + +"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply. + +Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she +knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him. + +"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis a +rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?" + +But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and +hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him. + +When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; +the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her +brother stood watching him. + +"Fetch bread and wine," said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to +speak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten." + +Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:- + +"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy +Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?" + +Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of +his little maid, and his were not the only tears. + +The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken +from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but +fodder. + +"But, Gia," grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us to- +night." + +"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry," she retorted, and filled +a small sack with the victuals. + +Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to +him: "Now up and off to thy little maid." + +Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, +he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he +kissed them. + +"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the +forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!" + +"Nay," she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thou +hast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we +pass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of +thy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring +her to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she will care +for her." + +Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet +greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God. + +When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He +hastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would +scarcely eat. Then he went out to find the woman. + +He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried +to him to keep back. + +"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the +houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. As +for thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; so +maybe God will spare the innocent." + +Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to +bring her food, but she would not. + +"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone +that I may die the sooner." + +Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the +little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his +fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and +the child awake. + +He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings +of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door +of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as +he searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he +saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the +woman, dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down +to die alone with God in the silence, that haply the living might +escape; and on her face was peace. + +Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, +and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went +back to his fatherless, motherless maid. + +She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to +spare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she +could not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tender +arms; and he fought with death for his little maid. + +Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny +morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through +the long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought +beside. The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for +the dawn. When the new day broke and the east was pale with light +he carried the child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fear +possessed him. And it came to pass that when the light kissed her +little white face she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and +so smiling, died. + +The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon +drew near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he was +standing by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him +with it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no +question. + + + + +PART III--THE FRUIT + + + + +CHAPTER I--HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! + + + +The Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no +great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for +the Plague to be more than a terrible name. + +True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to +Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub- +Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his +own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, +and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the +Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; +whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled +Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlain +also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the +Brethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving the +chapter, the Convent--yea, even the novices--were silent, to show +their displeasure. + +When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said +little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that +appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and +Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he +made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace. + +Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped +through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing +gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive +their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer--but of him let us say +little and think with charity; for 'tis to be feared that he +greatly abused his office and is come to judgment. + +Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had +spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, +sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the +summer sunshine was very pleasant to them. + +"Since Brother Thomas died--" began Brother Paul. + +"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Brother Anselm. + +"Since Brother Thomas died," said Brother Paul again--a little +impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough--"methinks +the provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, +Brother." + +"Ay, and the wine," said Brother Anselm. "Methinks our Cellarer +draws the half of it from the Convent's well." + +They shook their heads sadly. + +"No doubt," said Brother Anselm after a short silence, "our +Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of +his office--while Brother Thomas, alack--" + +"Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties," +said Brother Paul. "The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of +these things. On Sunday's feast one served him with a most +unsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black and +broken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with +appetite." + +"He is but young, he is but young--sixty come Michaelmas--sixty, +and twenty-two years Prior--'tis a long term," and Brother Anselm +nodded his head. + +"Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth," said Brother Paul, +"whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. +Brother Thomas--God rest his soul!--was wont to give savoury mess +easy of eating to the elder Brethren." + +"Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults," said Brother Anselm, +fingering his toothless gums. "Think you 'twould be well to speak +of this matter to the Prior?" + +"Nay, nay," said the other, "he is ever against any store being set +on the things of this world--''tis well for the greater discipline +of the flesh,' so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the +blood-letting to us elder Brethren." + +"Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died," said +Brother Anselm ruefully. + +"Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him--maybe he +will hear a word in season," and the two old monks moved slowly +away to the Cellarer's office as Prior Stephen came down the +cloister walk. + +He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but +government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, +and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with +Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left the +Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had come +of him, save that he never reached St Alban's. Had the Plague +gathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had +the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without +the gate? + +He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies +that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless +graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one +lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk's +dying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his +eyes to see. + +Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary's +flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He +stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a +strong man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of pale +young corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and +vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek +kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and +prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty as +the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories +for the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for +his own helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had for +the boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her +little hand. + +Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this +world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he +offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and +pray and wait. + +The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air +calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place. + +"Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent," chanted the deep +voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen's voice trembled as he +joined in the Psalmody. + +"Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes autem +venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos." + +He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the +harvesting was not yet. + + + +CHAPTER II--MARY'S LILIES + + + +It came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se'nnight later, that +Prior Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which +came to him. + +It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the +noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of +the bees busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the +warm, still air overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a +voice calling--a voice he knew in every fibre of his being and yet +could set no name to, for it was the voice of God. He arose in +haste and went out into the garth, and lo! under the lilies +Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his +heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of +grass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door. + +As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came +swiftly from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was +grieved, and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; +for it was a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within the +Monastery precincts. He strove to cry, but his voice died on his +lips, and his feet were as lead. + +The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to +arouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as +the calling of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius +gave no heed. Then, in great impatience, she caught at the white +lilies under which he lay; and, as she broke the flower-crowned +stems, Hilarius stirred and cried out in his sleep, whereat she +plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free. +He strode to the woman's side: there was but one lily left. He +laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him: +and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry of +fear--and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he +was sore troubled. + +"Maybe," said he, "evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his +mother, on whom God have mercy!" And sighing heavily he took his +way to the great Rood and made supplication for his son. + + +Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of +Florence, there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched +hands, whose many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes +flashed under threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling +upper lip. Great, alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like +spaniels craving favour. Great was her wealth: a golden piece for +every ruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Her +beauty--nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape the torment +of her look. She stood in the curtained doorway, a heavy purple +hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her paled as he saw +her vengeful face. + +It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender +height, and bowed. + +Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued +marble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies +caught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, +but swept on, and faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause +the Angelus sounded from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed +himself devoutly; and the stillness fled before a woman's scornful +laugh. + +"Nay, then, Signor," she cried mockingly, "is ours to be a war of +signs and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with +judgment, though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all +that is said of thee be true, I will e'en have thee whipped at the +gibbet for thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; +'tis a last asking. Wilt thou paint this face of mine that is, it +seems, so little to thy liking? Strain not my patience over much-- +'tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat tried already. Speak, is +it yea or nay?" + +Hilarius looked away to where Mary's flowers lay bruised and +scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and +clear:- + +"'It is nay.'" + +She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was +a stain where her teeth had been busy. + +"'It is nay,'" she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him. +"May a poor Princess ask the Signor's reason?" + +Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies. + +"It lies there." + +For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her +cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered +in her wrath:- + +"And dost thou--dost thou dare, say this to my face--to me, who +stooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched +beauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of +my eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, +that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? 'Tis small wonder +men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale they +brought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou prating, milk-faced +Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this face of mine: say me +nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of forgetting; for I will +silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my serving-men to whip thee +through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou art too much a cur to +make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield the rod and +lace thy shoulders." + +She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the +peacocks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, +dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had no word. + +There was silence a while. + +Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting +of a lash:- + +"Bring me yon flowers." + +He obeyed. + +"Set them at my feet." + +He bent his knee and did so, wondering. + +A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the +air, as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind- +eyed lad at the Monastery gate. + +One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble was +yellow with stolen gold. + +Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some living +thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet. + +It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows. + +"So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will soil thy +brush to limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the Queen of +Love--but thy lips, say they, burnt with another name! Bethink +thee, faint heart, there is not a man in all this city but would +count death a small price to pay for my favours; and I ask of thee +one little service, and thou shalt name thine own reward. Surely +'tis churlish to gainsay!" + +Her voice was suddenly sweet. + +Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, +fingering the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. She +glanced up at Hilarius through her lashes' net. "Maybe I was over +hasty," she said softly, and a sob swelled the round of her +wonderful throat--"and yet how couldst thou call me wanton?" Her +mouth drooped a little--she was very fair. + +"Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against the +roses in love's garden? For I love thee," she added, and then +suddenly she was still. + +Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over- +mastering beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in the +heart of every man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as he +had never before desired aught in all the world, and he knew, to +his shame, that she was his for the asking. The blood thudded and +rang in his veins; he feasted his eyes on the curve of her neck and +the radiance of her sun-swept hair. He stretched out his hands, +but ere he could speak she raised a white, terrified face, and +glanced over her shoulder. + +"Who touched me?" she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, "who +touched me?" And she sprang to her feet. + +There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they stared +into each other's eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrank +back and covered his face with his hands. Clear and distinct he +heard the Prior's voice: "A light woman--a light woman." + +Then the Princess said hoarsely, "Go, go;" and without word or look +Hilarius went. + + +The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with the +devil for his son's soul, and knew that he had prevailed. + + + +CHAPTER III--OPEN EYES AT THE GATE + + + +Another year wrote its record on forest and field. The weeks +passed; summer sped to autumn, the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. +The Convent's lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; and +the Prior, watching the last great wain piled high with wealth of +golden treasure, saw the porter coming to him. + +Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty spirit; +and the Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his hurried +gait and wrathful countenance. + +"Domine," he gasped, "Domine, there is a ragged man at the gate, a +vagabond by his own showing, and he craves speech of thee. I bade +him go to the guest-house, but he will not budge, and hath waited +already an hour despite my--" + +The porter stayed, staring; he spoke to the wind; the Prior was +already halfway to the gate. + +"This my son was dead and is alive again," sang his heart. The +porter, afraid, hasted after him with the keys, and had scarce time +to do his office ere the sunburnt vagabond was clasped in the +Prior's arms. It was a harvesting indeed. + +That night Hilarius went across to the Prior's house to tell the +tale of his journeyings. He found him seated in a great oak chair +by the open window; the sky was ablaze with stars, and the flame of +the oil lamp jarred like a splash of yellow paint on the moonlight +which flooded the room; the Prior's eyes smiled measureless +content, and the murmured "Laus Deo" of his lips voiced the +gladness of his heart. Thus, in the shelter of peace and a great +love, Hilarius told his tale, while the forest waved a welcome to +him over the Monastery wall, and the late lilies burned white in +the garth below. + +The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the +lad's face, pale against the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told of +his journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath been recorded +in this chronicle; and the Prior's eyes were wet as he heard of the +little maid. + +"And then, my son?" said the Prior. + +"Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as far as the +sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in the train of +my lord Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was hasting to Rome. +He knew thee, my Father, and bade his people supply my needs." + +"Ay, he knows me," said the Prior briefly. "The Lord reward him +according to his works, but show him mercy forasmuch as he had +compassion on my son!" + +"Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous city full of +treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I did not see, +being let. Methinks life in that country is as one long pageant; +but I marked that great holiness and an evil life, much riches and +much penury, dwelt there side by side, and men reeked little of +death but much of pleasure. Then one bade me go to Florence an I +would be a limner; therefore I hasted thither, and gave my last +coin for bread as I entered the city." + +The Prior's brows contracted; the lad had seen some schooling. + +"But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?" + +"Ay, my Father, in God's time: at first I must herd goats and sell +melons in the market-place for a lump of bread. Day by day I +strove to gain enough to buy colours, but could not, for the Lord +sent me ever a neighbour poorer than myself. Nevertheless I was of +good courage, knowing the Lord's ways are not as ours; and mindful +how Brother Ambrose held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laid +with fair colours 'twere no sin to deem that a man may limn perfect +pictures there, for the gift is from the Lord." + +"My son, 'tis a great lesson thou hast learnt," said the Prior, +"for the Word was made Flesh; and as Blessed John hath it, a man +cannot love God unseen, if he love not the brother whom He hath +given him. What next, dear lad?" + +"My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to me. One day a +great limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, whom men call d'Orcagna, +stayed by me where I stood with my melons in the shadow of the +Shepherd's Tower, and bade me follow him to his house, for he would +fain use me for an angel's head in the great Altar-piece he was +e'en then concerned with for the Church of the White Friars. Later +he heard my story; and when he found I had some small skill with +the brush, he kept me with him, and taught me as only such an one +can teach: him I served five years. And many times Satan desired +my soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but the Lord was +with me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I will +speak anon, at my shriving, as is meet." + +The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and Hilarius +took up his tale. + +"Then one day my master cried there was an end to teaching; +nevertheless he would have me bide with him in honour for the work. +But my heart was full of longing for home and the scent of the +forest; and, above all, for thee, my Father; therefore I set my +face north, that I might bring back my gift to St Benedict and our +Church; and should have been here long ere this, but I was let by +the way." + +The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at the +question in his face. + +"'Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow of the great +mountains beyond Florence; and I was taken by robbers, who bore me +and others of our company to their fastness in the hills: there I +lay in a little cave many days; but what befell the rest I know +not. The robbers brought me forth to serve them, and by God's +mercy handled me kindly, though they thought little of +bloodshedding. + +"Then one of them was troubled in his spirit, and minded to forsake +this evil manner of life. Therefore one night he fled, carrying me +with him, when the others had gone forth; and we made good our way +to Mantua. There Pietro, for so was the robber called, left me +that he might give himself to the service of God and men, inasmuch +as he had formerly abused them. Never saw I man so changed, my +Father; his speech, formerly profane, was all of God and the +Saints; he did penance and confessed his sins publicly; ay, by the +Justice's order he received one hundred lashes in the market-place, +and at every lash he cried with upturned face, 'Deo Gratias!' And +I was there, because he besought of me to stand in the crowd and +pray for him that his courage failed not. But it came to pass that +even the people marvelled at his joyful endurance; and indeed 'twas +more like a scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor +sinful robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, for +such was his desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved his +blessing." + +"The Lord fulfil all his mind!" said the Prior with clasped hands. + +"Amen," said Hilarius. + +"Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my son?" + +"Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and kindly men by +the way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but at Genoa I took +service with a merchant then beginning his journey, and travelled +with him through Flanders, a strange, flat country with many canals +and tall poplar trees; and so we came to Bruges in safety, after a +most prosperous course. There he commended me to a good friend of +his, a wool merchant travelling to Salisbury; and at first all +things went well with us; but later the winds proved contrary, and +we were driven hither and thither in great peril of our lives, but +at last made the Bristol Channel, and so came safe into port. +Thence I have come hither afoot begging my bread." + +When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms and +blessed him for his dear son; praising God that the lad had come +back a child at heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed. + +Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank the +wine of the "wayfaring man," his heart merry for the joy of his +home-coming. When the Lady-Mass was ended he knelt on in her +Chapel. + +"Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine from thy poor +son," sang his heart; and then he prayed for his little maid. + + + +CHAPTER IV--THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN + + + +The Convent welcomed Hilarius gladly, and on the Feast of St +Michael he made his profession, for the Prior deemed that he had +served his noviciate and been found faithful; and the Brethren +assented eagerly, for they were fain to keep this wondrous limner +for the service of their own Church. + +Then, by the Prior's command, Hilarius set himself to limn a great +picture for the High Altar. It was a Crucifixion, and all his +heart and all his love were in it. When the Brethren first saw the +fair proportion and fine colours that Hilarius brought to the work, +they rejoiced in that their Church should be glorified above other +Churches of the Order; but when the picture was near completing, +and they gazed up into the wondrous face of the Great King who +looked down from the throne of His triumphant suffering, with a +world of hunger and love in His eyes for those who had so enthroned +Him, they hung their heads for shame because of the emulation in +their hearts; and lo! the Cellarer, for very love, was careful for +the needs of the elder Brethren; and the monks, for very love, laid +hold gladly of suffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and lived +together in unity. + +In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a grey-eyed +girl, a woman with a babe at the breast, and clinging to her +skirts, a little flaxen-headed maid. None but the Prior knew the +meaning of these three, and their names, with that of a poor light- +o'-love, were ever on his lips when he offered the Holy Sacrifice. + +Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of all +his world. The years sped, and he became in turn Almoner, Novice- +master, and Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for he reckoned +himself ever as least of all and servant of all. + +Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Convent +wisely and well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, his +call coming as it might be straight from the mouth of the Lord. + +On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and said +as always: "The souls of the deceased brethren and believers rest +in peace!" to which the Convent replied, "Amen." Then with his +hands raised to bless he cried, "Benedicite," and again with loud +and joyful voice "Domine," and again, "Domine!" as of one who +answers to his name--and so passed to his place in the Kingdom of +Christ. + +The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, which +election the Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace. + +Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of the +exceeding beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom he +taught, set fair pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof with +the blue of heaven and gold of the wakeful stars. In the span over +the High Altar he set Blessed Benedict himself with the face of +Prior Stephen, and round him the angel virtues; even as one Giotto, +a shepherd lad, had limned them in the Church of the Little +Brothers. + +Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our Lady +above the Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with ever- +increasing fervour and much fasting that this boon might be +vouchsafed him for her glory and the Convent's greater good. And +one day--'twas her Nativity--he set his hand to the work, for it +seemed to him that she would have it so; and he was greatly humbled +that such heavenly kindness should attend so vile a sinner. Day by +day he set apart some hours for this service; and he limned a face +so fair and radiant, with woman's love and light of heaven, that it +was whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely been +blessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother in +so wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well give +credence to such a story, for the joy that shone in the Prior's +eyes and might not be hid. + +Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but softly, for +he would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours vouchsafed +him. + +When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him crooning +their peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the meadows +ceased browsing when he passed, and needs must company with him a +little way. + +Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy sickness +by reason of the sun's great heat; and Satan strove with him for +his undoing, so that the poor soul foamed at the mouth and roared +out blasphemy; yea, verily, and must be held with cords also, lest +he do himself or his fellows some grievous hurt. But when the +Prior laid his hand between the man's troubled eyes sweet sleep +came upon him, and his madness forsook him. + +The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, even +if the Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the villages +round had aught against his neighbour he would come to the Prior +for a just hearing. + +Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent's peace began to be +troubled. Men sought the Monastery for its famous name, caring but +little for religion; there were many young novices within its +walls, and the strong hand of Prior Stephen was lacking. Hilarius +was of gentler build; he would speak ever in love, thinking no +evil, whereas it is not given to all men to understand that tongue. +So it came to pass that the younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, +and the elder Brethren murmured. + + + +CHAPTER V--"GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE VISION."--DAN. +viii. 16. + + + +One day the Novice-master, Brother Adam, a most worthy man, came in +sore trouble to the Prior and would resign his office. + +"Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find shelter +in a monastery!" he cried. "They grow fat, idle, insolent, +quarrelsome-never at peace among themselves; never a Pater or an +Ave too many, or a task fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. I +would that the time of blood-letting were here that their high +stomachs might be brought low. I am no longer young, my Father, +and this burden tries me sorely. Prithee, let it be shifted to +another and a stronger back." + +The Prior listened with many an inward mea culpa. "'Tis a sad +hearing, Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybe +this ill mood will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle and +decorous? He hath a most beauteous voice." + +The Novice-master threw up his hands. + +"Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, but +methinks his body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will sing +an it please him--or when thou art by, my Father,--but, an it +please him not, he is silent; ay, even under grievous stripes. The +Precentor giveth him as negligent and ill-conditioned; and in +choir, when he looketh most like to one of God's Saints, he is but +plotting mischief for the day." + +The Prior heard him sadly. + +"And Hubert?" he said. "Hubert methinks hath a great love of +colour and a fine hand with the brush." + +Brother Adam was almost speechless. + +"Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even this very Hubert +but yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into Brother Edmund's +mess, whereby he was like to break his teeth or take some more +grievous hurt. And indeed the peace of the Brethren is much +troubled, wherefore they complain bitterly." + +"Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity evil," said the +Prior. Then, seeing the Novice-master's aggrieved face, he bade +him have patience yet a little, for he himself would speak to the +novices; and with this Brother Adam must fain be content. + + +The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke. + +It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made curious +by it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may be, long +after. Even thus it happened on this day in the Chapter; and when +Prior Hilarius was gathered to his rest the Brethren remembered how +they had marked and marvelled at the strange beauty of his face, +the beauty as of one who sees the face of the Lord. + +"My children," he cried--"for my children ye are, though I see +among you many it were more fitting I should hail as father, but +that the ruling of the Lord cannot be gainsaid--my children, I am +minded to think that I have this day a message on my lips that is +not mine own. + +"Last night a vision came to me as I slept. Blessed Benedict, our +Father, stood at my side, and his face was troubled. + +"'Arise, my son,' he cried, 'arise, for the Lord is at hand and +hath need of thee.' + +"And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang up in +shame and fear that the Master should find me sleeping. + +"Then cried Blessed Benedict again:- + +"'If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He hath called thee +these many times,' and so saying passed from my sight. + +"Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made haste to the +Church lest peradventure I should find Him; but the lamps burnt dim +and all was silent. Then I turned aside and went out into the +night, and it was very dark, with no sound but the wind in the +forest trees. + +"My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in cloister and garth; and +as I hasted to the gate I cried aloud, even as she cried who sought +Him in a garden--'They have taken away my Lord.' + +"At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a sign; and lo, +in the darkness one came and led me by the hand away from the gate, +across the garth and up the dormitory stair, nor loosed me until I +passed within where the Brethren lay sleeping, and the chamber was +bright with exceeding radiance. + +"I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his face was +wet with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder the mark of +many stripes. + +"Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another of our +Brethren, and on every face lay the shadow of a great need, but in +every face there was somewhat of the Christ; and the lesson burnt +in my heart. + +"Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy Robert; +but I fled, for I might not see Him; and I awoke sore troubled--ay, +and the trouble is on me still. + +"My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to me. Great is +the rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it stripes, grievous and +many as our sins, have their rightful place; but mayhap we forget +that love, and love alone, should strike. Ay, and I mind me how +Prior Stephen, my Father, said that to be monk a man must learn +before all things to hunger and to love. Love should draw the +water and build the fire, till the field and attend the sanctuary; +and hunger we should cherish in our hearts, hunger for +righteousness and for the souls of our brethren, for this is the +hunger of God. + +"Men come over lightly to the Lord's work; and lo! pride and +emulation, jealousy and discontent, spring up and thrive, and the +end is shame and confusion. + +"I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the Lord is at +hand: let us see that we love while there is yet time." + +Then he turned to the novices and stretched out his hands to where +they stood amazed, and it may be ashamed--not after this manner was +Brother Adam wont to rebuke them. + +"And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, give heed to +your ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this service. Better +far go forth, yea, even to death, than mock the Lord with froward +feet and a heart that is full of vanity. Remember the sacrifice +which Cain offered and the Lord rejected, for he gainsayed the +voice of the Lord and disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the +wrath of God fell upon him. + +"I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, and let fear +befriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a thief in the +night, and lo! stripes bitter and many await that servant whom the +Master finds sleeping." + +Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his hand to +bless, and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in his place, +for they knew that the Lord had spoken and were afraid. + + + +CHAPTER VI--THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN + + + +June was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges were +white, the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from the +trees as at autumn's touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and +twisted on the bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud. + +Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrap +of mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog from +some neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill- +hook beside him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gone +contrary with him. + +His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leaving +six hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing had +befallen him; his gold was gone--his gold to which he had no right, +for 'twas blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and something +beside; but Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world--above +Heaven and his own soul--and it was gone. + +A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which he +had deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i' faith 'twas +easy carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon minded how he +had changed his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back at the +fair. Maybe it was Thomas the charcoal burner had served him this +ill turn; or William Crookleg, the miller's man; he was a sly, +prying fellow, and there had been ill blood between them. + +He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the +forest, and crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might +say 'twas ill-got gain and well rid of. + +Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill- +fed, unkempt. The day's work was done, and on the village green he +found men and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, +standing about in groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the +ale-house door, thin and peaked as his fellows; there was no good +living for any man in those parts, by reason of the over-lord who +sore oppressed them. + +A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry +horse by the bridle, was talking eagerly. + +"Nay, 'tis true eno', and three crows saw I this very day on the +churchyard wall--it bodes ill to some of us." + +"Well, well," said the innkeeper, "have it thine own way. Methinks +the ill hath outrun the omen, for there will be naught for man or +beast shortly--but fine pickings for thy three crows." + +The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up. + +"What's to do?" he said curtly. + +"Nay," said mine host, "Robin will have it that some further evil +is upon us--tho' methinks we have got our fill and to spare with +this drought--ay, and 'twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw the +corpse-light." + +"Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to fill +them," said Dickon surlily. "Whither away, Robin? 'Tis not far +this beast will travel." + +"Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with the +carcass," answered the little man; "give me my reckoning, friend +John. I must needs haste if I would see the Forester's ere +nightfall." + +He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon saw +it his eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the piece in +his cheek. + +"Hard-earned money--'tis blood out of a stone to draw wages from my +master. Better it should light in my belly than in a rogue's +pocket. 'Tis as well for me that John o' th' Swift-foot swings at +the cross-roads. Godden, my masters!" And leading his weary +beast, he took the road that skirted the forest. + +The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely way +before him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise. + +"A murrain on the beast!" muttered Robin angrily, tugging in vain +at the creature on whom death had taken pity. "I must e'en leave +him by the wayside and tell Richard what hath befallen." + +He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a man +slipped from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. +There was a thud, a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across the +horse's neck--a pace beyond him in the moonlight shone the gleam of +gold. + +Next day Dickon's child died, ay, and the other five followed with +scant time between the buryings. Another had fathered them and +filled the gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it was +the Black Death that they had deemed far from them. + +Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come of +Robin--he was dead when they found him--but no man gave heed. +Death was in the air, death held them safe in walls they might not +scale. The heavens were brass, food failed for man and beast, God +and man alike had forsaken them. The forest lay one side, the +river, now but a shallow sluggish stream, lay the other; 'twas a +cleft stick and the springe tightened. + +No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest and +murmured, cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house. + +"Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there is +liquor enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded to go +dry throat to Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e'en swill +a bucket to the devil's health, and so to hell." + +Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who strove +to bar the door. Some of the women fell on their knees and +clamoured in half delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed to +their pestilent homes. + + + +CHAPTER VII--THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING + + + +Meanwhile, news came to the Monastery of the ill case of the +village, for it lay scarce a league away across the forest; but the +pine-trees stood as guardian angels in between. + +The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling of +Blessed Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told the +tidings. + +Then he went on to give reason for their assembling. + +"My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave these poor, +stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; moreover, in their +fear and desolation, they may flee to other villages, and so the +terror and pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch as +Charity is greater than Faith or Hope, so it is greater than +obedience also. Wherefore I purpose to set aside the Rule of our +Order in the letter that I may hold to it in the spirit, and go +forth to serve these perishing brethren; and I will take with me +whosoever hears the call of God in this visitation." + +When he had made an end, there was silence in the Chapter. Break +cloister, the Prior himself urging them thereto? The Convent might +scarce credit its ears. + +Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on his +white face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have its +triumph. + +Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven novices +sprang also to their feet. + +"Nay, Brother Walter," said Hilarius, turning to the Sub-Prior, +"this flock must have its shepherd also; thy place is here. But I +will take with me Brother Simon and Brother Leo, who will doubtless +suffice at first for the ministry, and--" smiling at the novices-- +"all these dear lads to tend the sick and bury the dead." + +The Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance. + +"Good Father, it is not fitting that thou should'st go on such an +errand; send me in thy stead, for my life is a small thing as +compared with thine. Moreover these novices, 'tis but the other +day the Master gave them as lazy and ill-conditioned, and--" + +The Prior held up his hand. + +"Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for me; but my +call has come. As for these--" he stretched out his hand towards +the waiting novices--"maybe they are in the wrong school, and the +Lord hath even opened the door that they may serve Him, perchance +die for Him, elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser than Prior +Stephen, who set me without the gate to learn my lesson? Let us go +in peace, my children, for we are about the Lord's business." + + +Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the little +band embraced their brethren and set out, laden with food and wine +and herbs from the farmery; and the Prior appointed a place to +which the Convent should send daily all things needed. + +The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, breathless +sunshine, and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, pungent, rose +at each footfall from the silent path. The Brethren chanted the +Gradual Psalms as they paced two and two through the sun-lit +aisles, full of the Prior's memories; and he looked up again to see +Our Lady's robe across the tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalm +broke, and Brother Simon, who was leading, stayed suddenly. + +Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthy +rags; his hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyes +sunk, his lips drawn apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made haste +to kneel beside him, and lo! sudden remembrance lighted the fast- +glazing eyes, but his own answered not. + +"My son, my son," said the Prior, and his voice was very pitiful, +"thou art indeed in evil case; let me shrive thee ere it be too +late." + +He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy head +upon his shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the parched +lips. + +At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached him. + +"The Convent's hens!" + +The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured voice - + +"Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?" + +Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were wiped +away. + +"Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry plight! But see, +stay not thy shriving, for the time is short, and the Lord ever +ready to pardon." + +The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite clearly: +"I hunger," and so saying died. + +The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in prayer, +while the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, and +lo! before him lay the open glade where his schooling had begun, +and he had seen a flower incarnate dance in the wind. + +He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the glade +under fallen branches until they could return and give him burial. +Then, as they went on their way, he told the tale of his little +maid; and when the telling was ended, the village they had come to +succour was in sight, and lo! they saw it through a mist. + + + +CHAPTER VIII--"BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE" + + + +The Prior's heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed up +the village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his little +maid led him by the hand. + +Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speak +comfort and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury the +dead; for three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. +Hilarius made straight for the ale-house. + +As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled +blindly down the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, and +suddenly sobered, dropped on his knees, while the topers and +roysterers staring from the open doorway fell into silence. + +Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorching +sun of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was very +weary. + +"Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, lest ye +go down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, for the arms +of His love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and the very +hairs of your head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confess +each one of you his sins, that I may prepare him for the work of +the Lord; and take comfort also, for they that are with us are +mighty." + +One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, +confessed and were shriven under the summer sun: only the man +Dickon was not among them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as +he should direct; and he set a watch that no man should flee the +village; and all obeyed him. + +Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band of +workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying the +pestilent dwellings. + +Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered it +like a soldier at his post. + +As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade him +come quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon. + +The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to the +hovel where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear his +muttered words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, +for a gold piece lay on the man's tongue. The Prior drew back +dismayed, and behold, the Lord's hand struck swiftly, and Dickon +died with a barren shriving--on whom may Christ take pity! + +Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and at +even came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of the +novices, who lay a-dying in the Prioir's arms, heard it as he +passed, and fell back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on his +young face. + +"'Esurientes implevit bonis,'" said the Prior, as he laid him down, +blessing God. + +A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was +no need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was +stayed. Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season; +rarely such a blessed one. + +The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior +was minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, +for his work was done. + +Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings +reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the +cloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had +given their lives for their brethren. + +The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed the +pines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because +of the face of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue +dome, and earth shone with pale reflection of his glory. + +The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch +the signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the word +came that voices were heard in the distance; and monks and novices +hastened two and two to the gate. On the wind was borne the sound +of a chant. + +"'Tis a dirge for those that are gone," said Brother Anselm; and +crossing themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorous +response: + + +"Et lux perpetua luceat eis." + + +As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for came +slowly down the forest pathway. + +Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a +rude bier of pine-branches. + +This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs +for his last bed; Mary's lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censer +of the forest swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face of +the Lord. + +He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, and +having kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, +for his time had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. +Prior Hilarius lay and watched for the light, and as dawn parted +night's veil with the long foregleam of the coming day, he shut his +eyes like a tired child and went home. + +It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior cried +through his tears:- + +"Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son." + +They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on his +forest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the +tender smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, "The +Prior hath found his little maid." And the Convent made Hilarius a +wondrous fair tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved him +lying thereon with Mary's lilies across his breast. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS *** + +This file should be named tgobh10.txt or tgobh10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tgobh11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tgobh10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/tgobh10.zip b/old/tgobh10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..89d898d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tgobh10.zip diff --git a/old/tgobh10h.htm b/old/tgobh10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..83cc7a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tgobh10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3006 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Gathering of Brother Hilarius</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Gathering of Brother Hilarius, by Michael Fairless</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Gathering of Brother Hilarius, by Michael Fairless +(#2 in our series by Michael Fairless) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Gathering of Brother Hilarius + +Author: Michael Fairless + +Release Date: January, 1997 [EBook #789] +[This file was first posted on January 25, 1997] +[Most recently updated: September 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PART I - THE SEED</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER I - BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Hilarius stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, +well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene +in the June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even +a dust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter +mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the +good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores +in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor +had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these +the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation.</p> +<p>On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. +The Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great +trees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. +Twice had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly +and silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; +and the occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St Benedict’s +Day and Our Lady’s Festivals. Away to the right, within +the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery lands, fair to the eye, +with orchard and fruitful field, teeming with glad, unhurried labour.</p> +<p>At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory +buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing +the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren, +itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, ever unfinished +because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it was +a page in the history of the life of the Order, written in stone, blazoned +with beauty of the world’s treasure; a page on which each generation +might spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater glory of +God and St Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching +out eager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men brought +from overseas, finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; +their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed +pinnacle and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift +of money and time in the service of the House of the Lord.</p> +<p>The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of insistent +peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons circling +the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their niches +over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed +the garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately acquired - on his +face was great peace. It rested everywhere, this peace of prayerful +service, where the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the +sound of the Office bell.</p> +<p>Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign +of the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior’s lips +would take a thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue; +and it was ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept +the fragrance of Mary’s lilies across to the lad; he turned his +dreamy, blue eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of +the pinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare +he, break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an unwalled world? +It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made novice, cloister-bred. +The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the trees beckoned with their +long arms and slender fingers; the voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, +answering, walked swiftly away, with bowed head and beating heart, between +the sunburnt pine-boles.</p> +<p>At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame +in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared city +of mystery and wonder.</p> +<p>It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, +and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius’ +eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue +between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed +her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his +thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting +colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced +it - joy so great that his heart ached with it. He went on his +way, singing <i>Lauda Syon</i>, his eyes following the pine-boles, and +presently, coming out into an open glade, halted in amazement.</p> +<p>A flower incarnate stood before him; stood - nay, danced in the wind. +Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other +in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the +deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, +lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ +eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt +peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained +by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the +shadows, hiding the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not +for monks; above all, not for untutored novices such as Hilarius.</p> +<p>His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St +Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured +“<i>Apage Sataas</i>!”</p> +<p>The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind.</p> +<p>“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing +truant, I dare wager. Come and dance!”</p> +<p>Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” +he said, and his voice trembled somewhat, “art thou not shamed +to deck thyself in this devil’s guise?”</p> +<p>The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily.</p> +<p>“No more devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted, +eyeing his semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can a +poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred +youngster must cry devil’s guise?”</p> +<p>As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke +into peal on peal of joyous laughter. “Poor lad, with thy +talk of devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?”</p> +<p>Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in +the eyes, and now he drops his own.</p> +<p>“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice +men’s souls to their undoing?”</p> +<p>“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, +kind sir?” she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like +a scolded child.</p> +<p>“It is wrong to deck the body,” began Hilarius, softening +at her attitude, “because, because - ”</p> +<p>Again the merry laugh rang out.</p> +<p>“Because, because - nay, Father” (with a mock reverence), +“methinks thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and <i>I</i> +will catechise. How old art thou?” She held up her +small finger admonishingly.</p> +<p>“Seventeen,” replied Hilarius, surprised into reply.</p> +<p>“Art thou a monk?”</p> +<p>“Nay, a novice only.”</p> +<p>“Hast thou ever loved?”</p> +<p>Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went +on unconcerned -</p> +<p>“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writ large +for any maid to read. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought +of love?”</p> +<p>Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet.</p> +<p>“There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love +God and the Saints and the Brethren - ”</p> +<p>“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laugh pealed +out. “Poor sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of +love, and not all for the Saints and the Brethren, and it is good - +good - good!” She opened her arms wide. “’Tis +the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen +the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?”</p> +<p>“It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her +child. That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we +bear to God and the Saints!” quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful +of yesterday’s homily in the Frater.</p> +<p>“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?” +the dancer persisted.</p> +<p>How did he know?</p> +<p>“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?” he +cried triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, +and anxious only to come well out of the wordy war.</p> +<p>But the unexpected happened.</p> +<p>“Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? <i>I</i>, love +her? - I <i>hate</i> her;” and she flung herself down on the grass +in a passion of weeping.</p> +<p>Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman’s tears.</p> +<p>“Maid, maid,” said Hilarius, in deep distress, “indeed +I did not mean to vex thee;” and he came up and laid his hand +on her shoulder.</p> +<p>So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!</p> +<p>The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and +more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up +at him through shining lashes.</p> +<p>“There, boy, ’tis naught. How could’st thou +know? But what of thine own mother?”</p> +<p>“I know not.”</p> +<p>“Nay, what is this? And thy father?”</p> +<p>“He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. +I came a little child to the Monastery, and know no other place.”</p> +<p>“Ah,” - vindictively, - “then <i>thy</i> mother +may have been a light o’ love.”</p> +<p>“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,” said Hilarius +with a smile.</p> +<p>The maid looked at him speechless.</p> +<p>“<i>Go home, Boy</i>,” she said at last emphatically.</p> +<p>Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the +undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.</p> +<p>“So, Gia!” he said. “We must make haste; +the others wait.”</p> +<p>“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer, “and” +- pointing to the bag slung across the youth’s shoulder - “I +trust he hath a fine fat hen from thy Monastery for our meal.”</p> +<p>Hilarius broke into a cold sweat.</p> +<p>The Convent’s hens! The Saints preserve us! Was +nothing sacred, and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use +in the Monasteries?</p> +<p>“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly.</p> +<p>“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. “Hast +thou another sermon ready, Sir Preacher?”</p> +<p>“Empty bellies make light fingers,” quoth the youth. +“Did’st thou ever hunger, master?”</p> +<p>“There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat,” said +Hilarius.</p> +<p>“But ever a meal certain once in the day?” queried the +girl.</p> +<p>“Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast.”</p> +<p>The mischievous apes laughed - how they laughed!</p> +<p>“So, good Preacher,” said the dancer at last, rising +to her feet, “thou dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never +felt hunger. Thou dost know it is wrong to love any but God, the +Saints, and thy mother; but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt +what it was to love. Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest +could teach thee these things an thou would’st learn. Farewell, +good novice, back to thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide +world; hunger and love - love - love!”</p> +<p>She seized her brother’s hand and together they danced away +like two bright butterflies among the trees.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with +dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. +The train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and explanation; +and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was +hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned +desolation and doubt, and in his ears rang the dancer’s parting +cry, “Hunger and love - love - love!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER II - THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Brother Bernard, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum +with generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast +look.</p> +<p>“Methinks this gold is dull, Brother,” said Hilarius +one day, fretfully, to his old master.</p> +<p>And again -</p> +<p>“’Tis very poor vermilion.”</p> +<p>The Brother looked at him enquiry.</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, boy; ’tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails +the colours.”</p> +<p>Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius +was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.</p> +<p>“Now may God be good to us!” he cried with uplifted hands. +“Since when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and +black hair - curly too, i’ faith?”</p> +<p>Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and gold, +he faltered.</p> +<p>It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him +through chant and psalm. Did he really <i>love</i> the Saints +- St Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names +left him untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great +love between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had +had a sister would they have loved like that?</p> +<p>The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himself with +the repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from which +tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. “Light +of Love,” the girl had called his mother; what more beautiful +name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So he prayed +in his simplicity:- “Great Light of Love, Mother of my mother, +grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful son!”</p> +<p>The question came in his daily life.</p> +<p>Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for +Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared +him too; Brother John’s tongue was a thing to fear. Brother +Richard, old, half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard? - sad, +helpless, and lonely, by reason of his infirmities - or was it only +pity he felt for him?</p> +<p>Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, +the Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words +of the witch in the forest? And yet what was it she had said? +“For me the wide world, hunger, and love - love - love!”</p> +<p>He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its beauties. +Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white lilies at the +farmery door. Did they love?</p> +<p>He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business +and cheerful bickerings. Did they love?</p> +<p><i>She</i> had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he +wandered staring, wide-eyed but sightless.</p> +<p>At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship-wrecked +mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and unhurt above +the devouring waves.</p> +<p>The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd question. +When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his stern blue eyes +grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firm line of his mouth.</p> +<p>“My son,” he said at length, “thou art in the wrong +school; nursery, was it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome +to the hen. Thou art a limner at heart - Brother Bernard tells +of thy wondrous skill with the brush - and to be limner thou must learn +to hunger and to love as the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk +too, though alack, men gainsay it.”</p> +<p>“Father,” said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, +“did’st thou ever love as the maid meant?”</p> +<p>“Ay, boy - thy mother.”</p> +<p>There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:-</p> +<p>“The maid said she might be light of love; ’tis a beautiful +thought.”</p> +<p>The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:-</p> +<p>“What didst thou tell the maid?”</p> +<p>“That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight +who died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was +light of love.”</p> +<p>“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis a weary +tale, and sad of telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, +but she reckoned love lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it +is, but thought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul” +- his voice grew stern - “as for one of those upon whom God, in +His great pity, may have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many +years.”</p> +<p> Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:-</p> +<p>“She was evil, wicked, my mother?”</p> +<p>“Ay - a light woman, that was what the maid meant.”</p> +<p>Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped +the Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a little child.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for a time thou +shalt go out into the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only +have a care that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure +shall see God, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I +may set in order thy going; and send the Chamberlain hither to me.”</p> +<p>That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, +and then at St Mary Maudlin’s altar he did penance for his dead +mother’s sin.</p> +<p>A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, +is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors of +the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; +a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron; +and another to the Prior’s good friend, the Abbat of St Alban’s. +The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad +who had been with them from a little child; and Brother Richard strained +his filmy eyes to look his last at the young face he would never see +again.</p> +<p>The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to +the gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, +overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might stay +and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook his head.</p> +<p>“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the +Master for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us +- an thou can’st - let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when +thine eyes are opened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed +thee, to keep still the faithful heart of a little child.”</p> +<p>Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart-strings, +must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and along the highway, +without daring to look back, and so out into the wide, wide world.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER III - THE KING’S SONG-BIRD</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to himself +as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight +black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smouldered +in hollow cavities. He wore the King’s colours, and broke +a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.</p> +<p>“Heigh-ho!” sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly +beside him, “another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary +enough of shoe-leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket +’til I win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have +had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile +or frown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and +a jug of cider instead of a king’s banquet. Now but another +few leagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but +a song here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, +not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! ’tis a poor +bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward +did but know it.</p> +<p>“Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and +carries a light heart from his song; and no ill voice either.”</p> +<p>It was Hilarius, and he sang the <i>Alma Redemptoris</i> as he sped +along the green grass which bordered the highway.</p> +<p>When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up +at the sight of the vielle.</p> +<p>“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeing him +with interest.</p> +<p>“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen,” +answered Hilarius.</p> +<p>“But thou art no monk!”</p> +<p>“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth +to see the world. It is wondrous fair,” he added sincerely.</p> +<p>“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” said Martin, and +as Hilarius made sign of assent, “’tis writ on thy face +as well. Thy Prior gave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter’s, +I doubt not; thy face is set for Westminster.”</p> +<p>“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, +Sir John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying +ere now but that two days ago I met strange company. They took +my purse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the +late dawn. Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me God-speed.’</p> +<p>“But kept thy purse?” Martin laughed.</p> +<p>“Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing +strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me +no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision, which +I lacked.”</p> +<p>“Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God’s judgments +for once,” muttered Martin; then aloud, “Well, young sir, +we shall do well if we win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey +together since our way is the same?”</p> +<p>Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court +and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. +He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard +eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, +a man of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; “and,” +added Martin, “three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, +fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fain be a nun. +Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claim thee for page.”</p> +<p>“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilarius soberly, +“but I have never spoken but to one maid ’til yesterday, +when a woman gave me good-morrow.”</p> +<p>Martin looked at his companion queerly.</p> +<p>“And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints +this Prior of thine is a strange master!”</p> +<p>“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “then I +shall go back to the Monastery again. But first I would learn +to be a real limner; I have some small skill with the brush,” +he added simply.</p> +<p>Martin stared.</p> +<p>“Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and +get back now, not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. +Joust and banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making +and little reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not +such as makes a monk.”</p> +<p>Hilarius smiled.</p> +<p>“Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my +lord, write for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost +thou love the Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King’s +Minstrel.”</p> +<p>“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily, “give +me the open country and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. +Still, the King is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will +but come back; ’tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe +in my cage and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in +on us again.”</p> +<p>He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace +as the minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with tears, +for he was still heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose and fell +like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the +Monastery wall. The song itself was sad - of a lover torn from +his mistress and borne away captive to alien service. When it +was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, +Hilarius said timidly:-</p> +<p>“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?”</p> +<p>“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He stopped suddenly, +louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. +“A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. +A man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night +she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and +tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her +buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces +of her hair across a man’s face only to elude him. She holds +him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must seek as +though he knew her not, or she flouts him.”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant +- the “wide wide world, hunger and love”?</p> +<p>“Did’st thou ever hunger, good Martin?”</p> +<p>“Ay, lad,” said the minstrel, surprised, “and ’tis +good sauce for the next meal”</p> +<p>“Did’st thou ever love?”</p> +<p>Martin broke into a great laugh.</p> +<p>“Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But +see, here comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love.” +Round the bend of the road came a man in hermit’s dress carrying +a staff and a well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly +to become less upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought +an alms from the two travellers.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.</p> +<p>“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses +than help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; ’tis not the first +time we have met. See here,” and with a dexterous jerk he +caught the hermit’s wallet.</p> +<p>This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful +of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung +the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the road, +while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a cudgel.</p> +<p>Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing +companion, who answered the unspoken question.</p> +<p>“A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They +are the pest of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do +a hand’s turn and yet live better than many a squire. I +warrant he has good stuff in that larder of his to make merry with.”</p> +<p>Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head.</p> +<p>“I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness,” +he said at last.</p> +<p>“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tis true +enough that godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit’s +robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured +face and tongue. See, lad,” as another turn in the road +brought them in sight of Westminster, “there lies thy new world, +God keep thee in it!”</p> +<p>He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’s edge, +with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the +western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold.</p> +<p>Hilarius gave a little cry.</p> +<p>“’Tis like the New Jerusalem!” he said, and Martin +smiled grimly.</p> +<p>An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and +Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’s side. +Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, +pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed +ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the +houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting +scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored +eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts +and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the day’s +work was done. In the courtyard of the “Black Boar” +a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossed himself +anxiously - was the devil about to beset him under all guises at once? +He raised a fervent <i>Ora pro me</i> to St Benedict as he hurried past. +A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk flying for refuge +to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the pretty lad, +bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the man in him stayed +the indignant tears. “Martin, Martin!” he cried; but +the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was hailed everywhere with +acclamations, and news given and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, +shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, +his eyes offended by the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from +the late salute, took refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious +heart until the minstrel should have done with the crowd.</p> +<p>Martin did not forget him.</p> +<p>“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how they welcome +the King’s bird back to his cage! As for thee, thou hast +gone straight to thy cot like a homing pigeon; through that archway, +lad, lies thy journey’s end.” Then, apprehending for +the first time Hilarius’ white face and piteous eyes, Martin strode +across, swept him under the archway into a quiet courtyard where a fountain +rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s steward, left +him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise of speedy meeting.</p> +<p>Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed the steward +into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy with +preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and dejected, +his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being crying out for +the busied peace and silent orderliness of his cloister home. +The servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly +noticed when the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked +him slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and drank +thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the pages and squires +among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at his gentleness. At +last, something restored by the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round +the hall.</p> +<p>It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far loftier +and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through high lancet +windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which the morrow’s +sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork - a man’s thought +in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guarding +saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, and +here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the house and his honoured +guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of distinguished +presence to be no other than Sir John himself, and he liked him well; +but his eyes wandered carelessly over the rest of the company until +they were caught and held by a woman’s face. It was Eleanor, +the fairest of the knight’s three fair daughters; and when Hilarius +saw her he felt as a weary traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen +in a far-off land.</p> +<p>“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had,” he +thought, his mind reverting to his favourite Saint; “she is like +the lilies in the garth at home.”</p> +<p>It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed +in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the foolish +French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she looked a nun. +Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when she was +much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an unknown soul; her mouth, +delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; her head drooped slightly +on her long, slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious humility. +She was like a pictured saint: Hilarius’ gaze clung to her, followed +her as she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat apart while the +serving men cleared the lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear +for the night. He lay down with the rest, and through the high, +lancet windows the moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was +wont to do on bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around +him men lay sleeping soundly after the day’s toils; there was +none to heed, and he sobbed like a little homesick child, until his +tired youth triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the +Prior, the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the +cloister garth.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PART II - THE FLOWER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER I - THE CITY OF PURE GOLD</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Blind eyes, blind eyes!” sang the dancer.</p> +<p>Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench +in the sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. +He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his hair +into a halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly +on her perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching +its great limbs, came towards him.</p> +<p>It was four o’clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard +was deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his +household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady Eleanor, +Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John had +so appointed it.</p> +<p>It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had +seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise; +but he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets full of +the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the Babylon of +Blessed John’s Vision - with a few holy ones who would surely +be caught up ere judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor.</p> +<p>A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to his children, +gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God and King Edward; shrewd +withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and because of the +love he bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilarius to attend his eldest +daughter, who seemed to belong as little to this world as the lad himself; +and felt that in so doing he had achieved the best possible for his +old friend, according to his asking.</p> +<p>Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends +the chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a +saint, by reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he +watched her at banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a revel +as to the Sacrament, and sat at a mummers’ show with eyes fixed +on the Unseen. She moved through the gay vivid world of Court +gallants and joyous maidens like a shadow, and the rout grew graver +at her coming.</p> +<p>It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning - brother of +that Hugh de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius - a gentle knight +with mild blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly +things. The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken +up with preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, +and their speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to +lovers’ vows. It was small wonder, therefore, that another +year saw them both by glad consent in the cloister, he at Oxford, and +Eleanor in the Benedictine House of which her aunt was Prioress.</p> +<p>Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just +as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’s Abbey: +“With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks +’tis like the forest at home” (forgetting that his more +intimate knowledge of the forest partook of the nature of sin). +“The Lady Eleanor, my honoured mistress,” he wrote, “is +a most saintly and devout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring +nought for the things of this world;” and he added, “’tis +beautiful to see such devotion where for the most part are sinful and +light-minded persons.”</p> +<p>The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and when +Brother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, “Nay, +Brother, he still sleeps;” and indeed there seemed no waking him +to a world of men - living, striving, sorely-tried men.</p> +<p>He dwelt in a land of his own making - a land of colour and light +and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the gorgeous +pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by angels; while +the knights at a tourney in their brave armour pictured St George, St +Michael, or St Martin in his dreams.</p> +<p>It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress, +not a page attending a great lady to the Court functions. He yearned +ever after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and stores of colour +and gold. It lay but a stone’s throw away behind the jealous +Monastery walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that +the lad should go straight from one cloister to another.</p> +<p>To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor’s +tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and +followed her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a gallery +hung with wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower where Eleanor +sat with two of her women busied with their needle.</p> +<p>Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He +louted low, and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her.</p> +<p>“I am weary,” she said; “this life is weariness. +Tell me of the Monastery and the forest - stay, tell me rather of the +New Jerusalem that Brother Ambrose saw and limned.’</p> +<p>Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee, +and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out of +the window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles.</p> +<p>“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever a saintly +man, approved of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, +save that of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as +he lay a-bed in the dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: “Come, +and I will show thee the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” +And Brother Ambrose arose and was carried to a great and high mountain, +even as in the Vision of Blessed John. ’Twas a still night +of many stars, and Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in +the heavens; and lo! the stars gathered themselves together on either +side until they stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him +about as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. +Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, +and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limner dreams of, and +much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every +gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look +on, because of its exceeding radiance.</p> +<p>“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of +his great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung +between the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, +but heard only a sound as of a great multitude crying, ‘Alleluia’; +and suddenly the winds came about him again, and lo! he found himself +in bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing +to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest; but when the Brethren +left the choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and +seeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds they found +him and told the Prior.</p> +<p>“He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard +the Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and +the Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours +he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous +fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the +sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed +aflame with the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor +could he set the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of +stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding +great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but our +Prior bade him thank God and remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, +like the little grey cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight.”</p> +<p>There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veined +hands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing.</p> +<p>“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick,” +she said, at length.</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded:</p> +<p>“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and +often he would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the +Office bell.”</p> +<p>“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that +Holy City.”</p> +<p>“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surely thou +hast had a vision even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, +like unto his.”</p> +<p>Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadow +of her eyes.</p> +<p>“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though +my desire is great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same +reason I would get me to a cloister where I might fast and pray unhindered.”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked at her with great compassion.</p> +<p>“Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, +thou art already as one of His saints.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world,” she answered. +“Sing to me, Hilarius.”</p> +<p>And he sang her the <i>Salve Regina</i>, and when it was ended she +bade him go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon her primer.</p> +<p>“Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!” +he said, and left her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of her +tender childlike heart.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER II - THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Hilarius went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. +He leant against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fell +with monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The cloudless +sky smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed, and +the glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him strangely. He too +had a vision which he longed to limn; but it was of earth, not Heaven, +like that vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; and yet none the less precious, +for was it not the Monastery at home which so haunted him, the grey, +familiar walls with their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling +forest which bowed and swayed at the will of the whispering wind?</p> +<p>“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflection as +learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city,” Hilarius +said to himself a little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed +its hollowness and learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already +he shunned the company and diversions of his fellow pages, though he +was ever ready to serve them. A prentice lad’s homely brawl +set him shivering; a woman’s jest painted his cheeks ’til +they rivalled a young maid’s at her first wooing. He plucked +aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or +juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would +push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose +mother, like his own, was light o’ love: a strange link truly +to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity.</p> +<p>Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and +a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. +He reined up by Hilarius:</p> +<p>“Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?”</p> +<p>“That will I, Hal, an it be in my power.”</p> +<p>“Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine +host. ’Tis Luke Langland’s reckoning; he left it with +me yesternight, but my head was full of feast and tourney, and ’tis +yet undelivered. Mine host will not let the serving men and the +two horses go ’til he hath seen Luke’s money, and I cannot +stay, for my lord will need me.”</p> +<p>Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a +good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.</p> +<p>The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery +of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors +dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove +to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered +the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter +than the reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced +varlet by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks +for a less frequented way.</p> +<p>The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly +traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; +a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping +guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed +eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the +house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street +with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul +gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without +seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-</p> +<p>“How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?”</p> +<p>He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, +the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.</p> +<p>“Sanctuary,” stammered Hilarius, “nay, good sir, +I - ”</p> +<p>The other laughed.</p> +<p>“Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could’st stray +into these precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge +to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or +been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander - a strange place +in which to see such a face as thine.”</p> +<p>“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning,” +said Hilarius; “in sooth, ’tis a fearful place.”</p> +<p>“Ay, boy, ’tis a place of darkness and despair, despite +its safety - even the King’s arm falls short when a man is in +these precincts: but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a +man cannot flee; hence I say ’tis a place of darkness and despair.”</p> +<p>The unspoken question shone in Hilarius’ eyes, and the other +answered it.</p> +<p>“Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. ’Twas +good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to +learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom.”</p> +<p>“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the +shelter of Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed.</p> +<p>“Most surely he knows; but what would’st thou have? +It hath ever been the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open +arms lest they repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees +hither; but should he set foot in the city without, he is the law’s, +and no man may gainsay it.”</p> +<p>“Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance,” said +Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the other cheerfully, +“but then ’tis not for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. +Man’s law may fail to reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the +unrepented sinner.”</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with +the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty.</p> +<p>“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with +bloody hands.”</p> +<p>“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many of them +are kindly folk, and many have slain in anger without thought. +’Tis a sad place, though, and thy young face is like a sunbeam +on a winter’s day. Come, I will show thee thy road.”</p> +<p>He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more +on the edge of the city’s stir and hum.</p> +<p>“I can no further,” he said. “Farewell, young +sir, and God keep thee! An old man’s blessing ne’er +harmed any one.”</p> +<p>Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets +crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell +rang out above the shouts and din.</p> +<p>“’Tis an evil, evil world,” quoth young Hilarius.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER III - A SENDING FROM THE LORD</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>October and November came and sped, and Hilarius’ longing to +be a limner waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside +he met Martin, of whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel +followed the Court.</p> +<p>“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, as he +stood with Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; +“ay, and I love one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. +I must be away to my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will +die and my heart break.”</p> +<p>“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said Hilarius +sadly; “I too would fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the +cage door is barred, and I may not open it from within.”</p> +<p>Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder.</p> +<p>“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen +this Martinmas, say you? In truth ’tis a great age, but +still leaves time and to spare. ‘<i>All things come to a +waiting man</i>,’ saith the proverb.”</p> +<p>A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the +south wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy +day, and suited the Minstrel’s mood.</p> +<p>He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius +had once more cried his longing, he said gravely:-</p> +<p>“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, +lad - and yet earn no welcome.”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked at him questioningly.</p> +<p>“Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?”</p> +<p>“Nay, good Martin.”</p> +<p>“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I +saw the Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came +out with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed +in the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt +know Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from.”</p> +<p>Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, +and turned to speak of other things.</p> +<p>Martin looked at him gloomily.</p> +<p>“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad.”</p> +<p>“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter +for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John +would set me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on +poor Hilarius ruefully, “for I have not yet gone hungry - and +as for love, methinks there are few folk to love in this wicked city.”</p> +<p>Martin laughed and then grew grave again.</p> +<p>“Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain +find thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban’s +an it be possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy +wise Prior Stephen may say.”</p> +<p>And he went off singing -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Three felons hung from a roadside tree,<br />One black and +one white and one grey;<br />And the ravens plucked their eyes away<br />From +one and two and three,<br />That honest men might see<br />And thievish +knaves should pay;<br />Lest these might be<br />As blind as they.<br />Ah, +well-a-day, well-a-day!<br />One - two - three! On the gallows-tree +hung they.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin’s +voice had died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the +dancer and the Prior.</p> +<p>Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say:</p> +<p>“I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger +- I hunger, and I love.”</p> +<p>He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again +the shrill quavering voice called:</p> +<p>“Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, +pray for me! Blessed Michael, defend me!”</p> +<p>Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixty +years had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of the +cloister. He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, +and wondrous wise; the King himself had sought his counsel, and the +Convent held him in high esteem.</p> +<p>Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window +of the cell - it was too high above him. An overpowering desire +came upon him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he +caught at the window’s upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung +bare-headed, the sun behind him, gazing into the cell.</p> +<p>On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted locks +upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle. +The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-set eyes +glowed strangely in their hollow cavities.</p> +<p>Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him.</p> +<p>The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its +aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!” +he cried, gaining strength from the vision.</p> +<p>“What would’st thou, Father!” said Hilarius, afraid.</p> +<p>“Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet - ” +the old man’s voice grew weaker - “the Bread of Heaven, +that I may die in peace.”</p> +<p>He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore +perplexed.</p> +<p>“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?”</p> +<p>The Ankret looked troubled.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmured entreatingly.</p> +<p>Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man +saw some wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain time to speech of +him.</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered the old, +tired voice.</p> +<p>Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast +and braced himself against the wall</p> +<p>“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” - The appeal in the +half-dead face was awful.</p> +<p>Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore +from the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained +no counsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man - ay, even +when he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should +bring a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came +to him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry +from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again and his +fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin still air:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Iesu, dulcis memoria,<br />Dans vera cordis gaudia;<br />Sed +super mel et omnia<br />Dulcis ejus praesentia.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the +Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly +like a little child.</p> +<p>Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of +what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub-Prior +gave him the last sacraments.</p> +<p>Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy +man before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought +his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that +the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his own counsel.</p> +<p>He told Lady Eleanor of Martin’s words.</p> +<p>“God save the King!” she said, and went into her oratory +to pray: and there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel’s foreboding +was no idle one. Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; +yet the King, undeterred, came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but +Martin was not in his train. Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason +of the terror they would not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegory +and miracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men; junketing, +ay, and rioting - thus they flung a defiance at the enemy; and then +fled: for across the clash of the feast bells sounded the mournful note +of funeral dirge and requiem.</p> +<p>Eleanor, knowing Hilarius’ ardent longing for school and master, +prayed her father to set him on the way to St Alban’s instead +of keeping him with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good +knight, feeling one page more or less mattered little when Death was +so ready to serve, and anxious for the lad’s safety and well-being, +assented gladly enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast of +the Three Kings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, a +well-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under his jerkin; +for the Death he had never seen loomed large, a great king, and by all +accounts a most mighty hunter.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER IV - BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face +of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, +in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door +wide for the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass +that while the stricken poor agonised in the grip of unknown horror, +bishop and merchant, prince and chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, +abbesses with their train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, +and west, from the pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much +traffic. One procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making +its way to London.</p> +<p>It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or +snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and stricken +skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey sky. +Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still air, music +and words alike strange. The singers came slowly up the roadway, +men of foreign aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks +almost hiding their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. +They were stripped to the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and +carried each a bloody scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. +At the third step they signed the sign of the Cross with their prostrate +bodies on the ground; and thus in blood and penitence they went towards +London.</p> +<p>Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it. +These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back with +the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore +off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob.</p> +<p>“I left wife and children to perish alone,” he cried, +“and fled to save my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy +on my soul, for I go back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!” +and he stepped in front of the first flagellant.</p> +<p>At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many +fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with +groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned +and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the blood +drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels - a horror that could +drive a man from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to flee +against the wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to save +that which most men count dearer than either.</p> +<p>At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming +towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way +in the hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar +was a small, mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and +staff; his face upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he +came up with Hilarius, and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire +burnt in the dead ashes.</p> +<p>“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as +the Lord promised me?”</p> +<p>Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar +laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against +his shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with the light and practised +touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while.</p> +<p>“Son, thou wilt come with me?”</p> +<p>“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban’s.”</p> +<p>“Whence, my son?”</p> +<p>“From Westminster, good Father.”</p> +<p>“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the +Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to +those from the pestilent cities. What would’st thou with +the Abbat?”</p> +<p>Hilarius told him.</p> +<p>The friar flung up his hands.</p> +<p>“<i>Laus Deo! Laus Deo</i>!” he cried, “now +I know thou art in very truth the lad of my dream. Listen, my +son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice has the vision come to me; +I see the mother who bore me carried away, struggling and cursing, by +men in black apparel, and Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and +flame, and many hideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where +my mother hath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I +lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stood +up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; then as I mused and prayed +I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might wrestle with Satan for +my mother’s soul, for she was ever inclined to evil arts and spells, +and thought little of aught save gain.</p> +<p>“Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague +at my heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach its +coming in every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as +I tarried on the seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because I +had preached its coming, the people rose in wrath, and, falling upon +me, roughly handled me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; +then, piercing my eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat.</p> +<p>“Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darkness +and light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flames of +hell burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because of my +mother’s soul.”</p> +<p>“And then, and then?” tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears +of pure pity in his eyes.</p> +<p>“Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet +Jonas, and sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. +The shipmen were kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by +a great wind, and at last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have +come south thus far by the aid of Christian men, but time presses; and +now, lo! thou art here to guide me.”</p> +<p>“But, my Father,” said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another +barrier in the way of his desires, “’tis a limner I would +be; and I am from Westminster, not London, and then there is Prior Stephen’s +letter - ”</p> +<p> The friar held up his hand:</p> +<p>“Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it +to me. Last night the vision came again, and a voice cried: ‘Speed, +for a son of Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,’ and +lo! thou art here, waiting by the way, as the voice said. And +now, son, an thou wilt come thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham +- ’tis a cell of this Abbey - for there is Brother Andreas from +overseas who hath wondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, +for thou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is now +as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thou shalt +set me in that village of Bungay, where my mother dwelleth.”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that vainly +questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, +in this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was even as one of the +blessed martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner! +How should he, Hilarius, gainsay one with a vision from the Lord?</p> +<p>“I obey, my Father,” he cried joyously, taking the friar’s +hand; and they two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the +east.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER V - THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes’ Eve; the snow fell +heavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius +and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met +the full force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the +darkness more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten, +exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the +other across his bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the +wind.</p> +<p>Suddenly he stood fast.</p> +<p>“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snow is +as a wall; there is naught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from +our right way.” His voice was very weak, and he caught at +the Friar for support.</p> +<p>“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even +as He opened the eyes of the prophet’s servant in the besieged +city; so shalt thou see a host of angels encompassing us, for we are +about the Lord’s business.”</p> +<p>“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “I see +no angels, and I perish.” He tottered, and would have fallen, +but the Friar caught him in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, +the boy on his breast, then flung away his staff and lifted him to his +shoulder.</p> +<p>With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a +white figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once +the wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and +comforted, spoke:-</p> +<p>“Is it thou, my Father?”</p> +<p>“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before +to guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?”</p> +<p>He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars alight!</p> +<p>The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion’s darkness, +pointed to the left where lay a snow-clad village.</p> +<p>“A miracle, a miracle, my Father!”</p> +<p>“A miracle, i’ faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance +to the blind as He promised. Let us go down.”</p> +<p>They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full +of awe and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on a +poor friar.</p> +<p>At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment +and several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and +Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a morsel +of bread.</p> +<p>A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright +black eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with despatches +from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful tales to tell of +the Plague; how in London they piled the dead in trenches, while many +who escaped the pest died of want and cold; it was a city of the dead +rather than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste +from Westminster, had been found by his servants to have the disorder, +and they fled, leaving him by the wayside to perish.</p> +<p>Hilarius heard horror-struck.</p> +<p>“’Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master,” +he said.</p> +<p>“Nay, lad,” said a chapman in the corner, “but +a man loves his own skin best.”</p> +<p>“Ay, ay,” said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by +the storm on his way to a neighbouring village, “a man’s +own skin before all. Fill your belly first and your neighbour’s +afterwards. Live and let live.”</p> +<p>“Ay, let live,” chimed in mine host, bustling in with +a stoop of cider for the chapman, “but, by the Rood, ’tis +cruel work when two lone women are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon +and a lump of bread; for I’se warrant ’tis a long day sin’ +they had more than that at best.”</p> +<p>The chapman took his cider.</p> +<p>“Where was this work done?” he said.</p> +<p>“Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found +Wednesday se’n-night by the herd as he went folding. They +lay on the floor in their blood.”</p> +<p>Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had +been spared the sight of violent death - ay, or of death in any form +- and had seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sight +he had thanked Heaven piously.</p> +<p>“’Tis the fault of the rich,” said a voice, and +Hilarius saw, to his surprise, that there was a second friar in the +room; a tall, bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented +with a scanty fringe of black hair.</p> +<p>“The rich grow fat, and the poor starve,” he went on, +“’tis hunger makes a man kill his brother for a mouthful +of mouldy bacon.”</p> +<p>“Nay,” said the miller, “there was no need to kill, +Father. A man could have taken the meat from two lone women and +left them their lives.”</p> +<p>“Why take from folk as poor as themselves?” said mine +host. “Let them rob the rich an they must rob.”</p> +<p>“Ay,” said the friar, “rob the rich, say you, take +their own, say I. God did not make this world that one man should +be over full and another go empty; nor is it religion that the monks’ +should live on the fat o’ the land and grind the faces of the +poor. How many manors, think you, has the Abbat of St Edmund’s, +and how many on his land lack bread?”</p> +<p>Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathful +defence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraining hand +on his sleeve.</p> +<p>Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching was seditious, +and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but it tickled the ears +of the common folk and ’twas ill to quarrel with the Mendicants. +Help came to him in his perplexity: a loud knocking on the barred door +made the guests within start.</p> +<p>“’Tis eight o’ the clock,” said the miller, +affrighted, for he had a heavy purse on him.</p> +<p>“Let them knock and cool their hot heads,” said the seditious +friar composedly.</p> +<p>The rest nodded approval.</p> +<p>Then a man’s voice threatened without.</p> +<p>“What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man +without? Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it.”</p> +<p>Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; +he moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout +wooden bar. As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst +in, at sight of whom mine host turned yet paler.</p> +<p>“Food and drink,” said the new-comer sharply, flinging +himself on a bench by the fire.</p> +<p>Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His +hair was close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very +small and near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up +showed two rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the +chapman who had been searching amongst his goods for something wherewith +to pay his hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, +looking up, caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous +wares. He plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full +of tender liquid notes - a thrush’s roundelay. Then a blackbird +called and his mate answered; a cuckoo cried the spring-song; a linnet +mourned with lifting cadence; a nightingale poured forth her deathless +love.</p> +<p>Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the +man threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to ravenously +on the victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly amid dead +silence; then he looked up and cursed at them for their sorry mood.</p> +<p>“What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? +Damn you all for dull dogs!”</p> +<p>The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man’s +dreadful face.</p> +<p>“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” he said, and at his voice +the man leapt to his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. +“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” said the Friar again, “I +have a message for thee from the Lord God. I cried thee damned +in my own name once, when thou did’st take my little sister to +shame and death; now I cry thee thrice damned in the name of the Lord, +for the cup of thine iniquity is full and thy hands red with blood. +Man hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and all men +shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but it shall +not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt live on with +thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou shalt herd; thou +shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men shall hunt thee from +their doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought and found +it not, because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, thrice +damned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind +be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and he shall torment +thee with remembrance.”</p> +<p>There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore +open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon +the whiteness of the night.</p> +<p>The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, +full of pride at his Friar’s powers, stepped forward to close +the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like +the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, +and the company began in silence to make preparation for the night. +When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the +lad’s voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others +stood apart eyeing him fearfully.</p> +<p>He laid his hand on the miller’s breast and said in a clear, +low voice: “Thou wilt die, brother.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on the messenger’s breast: “Thou wilt +die, brother.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on the chapman’s breast: “Thou wilt +die, brother.”</p> +<p>He laid his hand on mine host’s breast: “Thou wilt die, +brother.”</p> +<p>Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his +face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: “Thou +wilt live, my brother - and repent.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER VI - A DARK FINDING</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It is a far cry from St Alban’s to Bungay - which village of +the good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant +- and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and +the Friar were long on the road, for January’s turbulent mood +had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little +kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; +but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in the +presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wondering eyes. +In every village the Friar preached and called on men to repent and +be saved, for Death’s shadow was already upon them. Folk +wondered and gaped - the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east +of London - but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though +some heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert +who had come with the same message half a man’s lifetime before, +and that no evil had followed his preaching.</p> +<p>At last St Matthias’ Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund’s +Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent’s hospitality +that night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house - a +brother had charged himself with the care of the Friar - he heard the +sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English +against the fashion of the day.</p> +<p>“Martin, Martin!” he cried.</p> +<p>The vielle was instantly silent.</p> +<p>“Holà, lad!” cried the Minstrel, springing to +his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily.</p> +<p>“Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made +sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee +strayed farther afield.” Then seeing the injured faces round +him for that the song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside +him and took up his vielle. “Be still now, lad, ’til +I have finished my ditty for this worshipful company; then, an’t +please thee to tell it, I will hear thy tale.”</p> +<p>The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed +their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“The fair maid came to the old oak tree<br />(Sun and wind +and a bird on the bough),<br />The throstle he sang merrily - merrily +- merrily,<br />But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she,<br />Her +sweet knight - Oh! where was he?</p> +<p>He lay dead in the cold, cold ground<br />(Moon and stars and rain +on the hill),<br />In his side and breast were bloody wounds.<br />Woe, +woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he,<br />The poor +knight - Ah! cold was he.</p> +<p>The maiden sat her down to die<br />(Cold, cold earth on her lover’s +breast),<br />And the little birds rang mournfully,<br />And the moonshine +kissed her tenderly,<br />And the stars looked down right pityingly<br />On +the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.<br />Ah misery, dear misery, +sweet misery!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and +the company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught +sight of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent’s +victuals, and marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given +so evil a name.</p> +<p>Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently +to his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar +he companied with preached in each village that men should repent ere +the scourge of God fell upon them; “but there is naught of it +as yet,” said the lad.</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it +is not; and then the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. +I heard a bruit of London that it was but a heap of graves - nay, one +grave rather, for they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was +no time to do otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke.”</p> +<p>Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar’s death-words +to the guests.</p> +<p>Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh.</p> +<p>“Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a +curse on Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with +many a black deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; +and yet there was never a bird that would not come at his call, and +I never heard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in +Bungay, lad?”</p> +<p>When he had heard the story of the Friar’s twice-repeated vision +and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head +sunk on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly.</p> +<p>“Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to +Bungay with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. +Also I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end +of it.”</p> +<p>That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried: +“Haste, haste, ere it be too late.” And so Hilarius +and Martin came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his +own. None of the three ever saw St Edmund’s Abbey again, +for in one short month the minster with its sister churches was turned +to be a spital-house, while the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting +to summon to their ghastly company the living that sought to make them +a bed.</p> +<p>Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low vine-crowned +hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar strode forward, +straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and Hilarius following. +Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his companions.</p> +<p>“What is that?” he said shrilly.</p> +<p>A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself +fearfully.</p> +<p>“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when they told him; +and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.</p> +<p>The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the +roar and hum of an angry crowd.</p> +<p>“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his face was +very grave, “no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting +on the common. Prithee, where is thy mother’s dwelling, +good Father, and I will go and ask news of her?”</p> +<p>“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the +Cattle Gate; Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for.”</p> +<p>Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar +followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood +fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining +to make his ears do a double service.</p> +<p>Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar’s +business as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, +was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, +saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. +Then he fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far +off to catch what was said.</p> +<p>“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was saying vehemently; +“yon holy friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he +reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle +with the Evil One for his mother’s soul - and now, and now - ”</p> +<p>The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old +woman lay on the ground by the river’s edge; a bundle of filthy +water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair +smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless +huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there was +a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had not stayed +to strip her.</p> +<p>Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful +crowd:</p> +<p>“By Christ’s Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought,” +he said.</p> +<p>“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but it was +fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells +and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perished and women +gone barren through her means. Near two days agone a child was +lost and seen last near her door, ay, and never seen again. When +we came to question her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, +and would but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of the misbegotten +brat.”</p> +<p>“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” said Martin. +“I hate these rough-cast witch-findings - ’tis not a matter +for man’s judgment, unless ’tis sworn and proven in court +before the Justiciary.”</p> +<p>“Nay,” joined in an old man, “what need of a Justice +when God speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she +would sink or swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her +Master helping her; and seeing that, we drew her under - ay, and see +her now as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on +his own?”</p> +<p>Martin wrung his hands.</p> +<p>“For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and +say no word of this to yon holy man.”</p> +<p>Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied themselves +unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and bore her +to her wretched bed.</p> +<p>The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front +of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor +place and its dead dishonoured mistress.</p> +<p>Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius +and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. +March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled +dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar +started nervously when Martin spoke.</p> +<p>“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! After +all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother’s soul; she +passed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands.”</p> +<p>The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with +a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads +abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing.</p> +<p>They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.</p> +<p>“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the +people feared her?”</p> +<p>“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, and muttered, +“now God forgive me!” under his breath.</p> +<p>As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through +the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It +lighted each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless +face, and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid +fear.</p> +<p>Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be +death? The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him.</p> +<p>“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou +didst read in thy dream.”</p> +<p>The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was +heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth +floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw +the Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy +hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter +cry. It was answered by another cry - the glad cry of a lost child +that is found.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to +the cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the +down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned +his blind, anguished face to the setting sun.</p> +<p>“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take +counsel but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness +shall come upon them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know +them no more. Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let them +confess and repent ere I visit them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, +cities of the Plain.</p> +<p>“O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged +falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even according +to your measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh swiftly and +maketh no long tarrying. It shall come; it shall snatch men’s +souls away, even as ye have torn away my mother’s soul, leaving +no space for repentance.”</p> +<p>He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the little +town.</p> +<p>“Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of +heaps. Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding +none; for the arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the +wickedness of the earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and gainsaying +people! Woe, woe, woe, a people hating righteousness and loving +iniquity! The Lord shall straightway destroy them from off the +face of the earth.”</p> +<p>He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then +another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling, +growling, but afraid.</p> +<p>Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched +den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the else +unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside him.</p> +<p>Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; +for what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had met her +due, damned alike by God and man?</p> +<p>Martin came up to him.</p> +<p>“She was his mother,” he said, as if making excuse.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but +an evil liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending +her to her own place. He crossed himself piously at the thought +of the near neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul.</p> +<p>Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar +clung to him like a little child, for the strength of his vision was +spent. They lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only +one slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet-smelling +hay, and dreamt of Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion +and blue; of wondrous pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the +pine forest at home swept across his quiet sleep.</p> +<p>On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all +aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar at +least as far as Norwich.</p> +<p>“As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another’s +bidding,” he said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell +never to meet again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to +Yarmouth, not Norwich, and there they perished among the first when +the east wind swept the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. +And Hilarius - once again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path of +his desires.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER VII - THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Hilarius fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in +good weather, but on a cross-road in the spring! - that was a time to +commend oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, +picking his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which +was all that remained to show where the piety of the past once kept +a road. The low land to his left was submerged, a desolate tract +giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt +poplar like the mast of a sunken ship broke the waste of waters.</p> +<p>The sight brought Hilarius’ thoughts sharply back to the events +of the evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of +God! A witch - plainly proved to be such - had been struck dead +in the midst of her sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, +was a heap of graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil +and the justice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, +there to learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt would joyfully +hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery.</p> +<p>Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a +small hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp-set, +for the shepherd’s fare had been meagre; and so turned aside in +the hope of an ale-house. There was no side road visible, and +he struck across the dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude +track which led to the group of cottages. The place struck him +as strangely quiet; no smoke rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed +out barking furiously at a stranger’s advent. The first +hovel he passed was empty, the open door showed a fireless hearth. +At the second he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within. +As no one answered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; the +low room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from a corner, +- ’twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his +heart, and passed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence.</p> +<p>Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat larger +cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the door: it was +the ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he would find some one. +As he came up he heard a child crying, and lo! on the doorstep sat a +dirty little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear life.</p> +<p>Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the +grimy tears.</p> +<p>The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill +cry of joy, she held out her thin arms.</p> +<p>At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a +woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a little +babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to her +in the doorway, waved him away.</p> +<p>“Stand off, fool! - ’tis the Plague.”</p> +<p>Hilarius shrank back.</p> +<p>“And thy neighbours?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Nay, they were light-footed eno’ when they saw what +was to do, and left us three to die like rats in a hole.” +Then eagerly: “Hast thou any bread?”</p> +<p>He shook his head.</p> +<p>“Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?”</p> +<p>She threw out her hands.</p> +<p>“’Tis two days sin’ I had bite or sup.”</p> +<p>“Where lies the nearest village? and how far?”</p> +<p>“A matter of an hour, over yonder.”</p> +<p>“See, goodwife,” said Hilarius, “I will go buy +thee food and come again.”</p> +<p>She looked at him doubtfully.</p> +<p>“So said another, and he never came back.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but perchance some evil befell him,” said gentle +Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Well, I will trust thee.” She went in and returned +with a few small coins. “’Tis all I have. Tell +no man whence thou art, else they will hunt thee from their doors.”</p> +<p>Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in +the direction of the village.</p> +<p>The woman watched him.</p> +<p>“Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?” she muttered, +as she sat down to wait.</p> +<p>It was love.</p> +<p>Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little money +he had to the woman’s scanty store, bought bread, a flask of wine, +flour and beans, and a jug of milk.</p> +<p>“’Tis for a sick child,” he said when he asked +for it, and the woman pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed.</p> +<p>The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of +his precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a snare, +lay a fine coney.</p> +<p>“Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!” +cried Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store.</p> +<p>When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke +into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving up +the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with her +fast-failing babe in her arms.</p> +<p>Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine - not for nothing +had he served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe +for some weak Brother - and then turned his attention to the little +maid who sat patient, eyeing the food.</p> +<p>For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking +the child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. +At last the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen head +against her nurse’s shoulder, and fell fast asleep.</p> +<p>Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to +her, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little sister, +the child he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had guided him +to her, and her great Mother-love would shield this little one from +a foul and horrid death. In that dirty, neglected room, the child +warm against his breast, Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his +life.</p> +<p>Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little +pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed eyes, +and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother.</p> +<p>The woman was half-asleep, but started awake.</p> +<p>“Art thou going?” she said, and despair gazed at him +from her eyes.</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together,” he said +soothingly. “I would but kindle a fire, for the cold is +bitter.”</p> +<p>Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth. +The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and +stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her tale.</p> +<p>“’Twas Gammer Harden’s son who first heard tell +of a strange new sickness at Caxton’s; and then Jocell had speech +with a herd from those parts, who was fleeing to a free town, because +of some ill he had done. Next day Jocell fell sick with vomitings, +and bleeding, and breaking out of boils, and in three days he lay dead; +and Gammer Harden fell sick and died likewise. Then one cried +’twas the Plague, and the wrath of God; and they fled - the women +to the nuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; +but us they left, for I was with child.”</p> +<p>“And thy husband?’ said Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his +and mine. Some hold ’tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps +because of it this evil hath fallen upon me.”</p> +<p>She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and +shrunk with the stress of its short life.</p> +<p>Hilarius spoke gently:-</p> +<p>“It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to +live together out of holy wedlock, and perchance ’tis true that +for this very thing thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great +King. But since thou didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy +sent me to serve thee in thy sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady +herself showed me where the coney lay snared. Let us pray God +by His dear Mother to forgive us our sins and to have mercy on these +little ones.”</p> +<p>And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father +for his new-found family.</p> +<p>Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. +Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at last +the pinch came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the babe scarce +in life - there could be no thought of flight - and the little maid +grew white, and wan and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that +he would once again beg food in the village where he had sought help +before.</p> +<p>He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the +better fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he +found his errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming +from many parts, and each man feared for his own skin. At every +house they questioned him: “Art thou from a hamlet where the Plague +hath been?” and when he answered “Yea,” the door was +shut.</p> +<p>Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. +He gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the Saviour +and His holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and her mother. +Let them set it in the street, he would take it and cross no man’s +threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child +die of want?</p> +<p>“Nay, ’tis better they die, so are we safe,” cried +a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the +village with blows and curses.</p> +<p>Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; +breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge.</p> +<p>A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. +Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed +for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as +he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and +watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He had never killed, +but were not his nestlings agape?</p> +<p>Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape +and gaily painted.</p> +<p>He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in +his awful need.</p> +<p>The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse +took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart +to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. +If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A minute +later the sack and the hen had changed owners - but not unobserved; +a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang +out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway +- a thief.</p> +<p>“Seize the knave!” cried the girl sharply.</p> +<p>Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and +she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him.</p> +<p>“What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! +Nay, ’tis a rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good +preacher?”</p> +<p>But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and +hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.</p> +<p>When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; +the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother +stood watching him.</p> +<p>“Fetch bread and wine,” said the girl, and to Hilarius +who tried to speak, “Peace, ’til thou hast eaten.”</p> +<p>Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-</p> +<p>“Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave +thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?”</p> +<p>Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of +his little maid, and his were not the only tears.</p> +<p>The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken +from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder.</p> +<p>“But, Gia,” grumbled her brother, “there will be +naught for us to-night.”</p> +<p>“Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry,” she retorted, +and filled a small sack with the victuals.</p> +<p>Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out +to him: “Now up and off to thy little maid.”</p> +<p>Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, +he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed +them.</p> +<p>“Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words +in the forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!”</p> +<p>“Nay,” she answered, “there is naught to forgive; +and see, thou hast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little +brother, we pass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have +word of thy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for +her, bring her to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she +will care for her.”</p> +<p>Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet +greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God.</p> +<p>When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He +hastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely +eat. Then he went out to find the woman.</p> +<p>He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried +to him to keep back.</p> +<p>“My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went +to the houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden’s; and I must +die. As for thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the +child; so maybe God will spare the innocent.”</p> +<p>Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to +bring her food, but she would not.</p> +<p>“Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me +alone that I may die the sooner.”</p> +<p>Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the +little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his +fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the +child awake.</p> +<p>He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings +of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door +of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, +as he searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, +he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, +dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down to die +alone with God in the silence, that haply the living might escape; and +on her face was peace.</p> +<p>Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, +and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went +back to his fatherless, motherless maid.</p> +<p>She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; +but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not +even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius’ tender arms; and +he fought with death for his little maid.</p> +<p>Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny +morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the +long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. +The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. +When the new day broke and the east was pale with light he carried the +child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. +And it came to pass that when the light kissed her little white face +she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.</p> +<p>The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew +near the place of Hilarius’ first and last theft: he was standing +by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; +and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no question.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PART III - THE FRUIT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER I - HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great +event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague +to be more than a terrible name.</p> +<p>True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny +by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub-Prior. +For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, +had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an +irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, +plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no +little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his office. +He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, +and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing the <i>Verba +mea</i> on leaving the chapter, the Convent - yea, even the novices +- were silent, to show their displeasure.</p> +<p>When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; +only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained +thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, +who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his +stead; and the Convent was at peace.</p> +<p>Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped +through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; +Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; +and Brother Thomas the Cellarer - but of him let us say little and think +with charity; for ’tis to be feared that he greatly abused his +office and is come to judgment.</p> +<p>Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had +spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat +warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer +sunshine was very pleasant to them.</p> +<p>“Since Brother Thomas died - ” began Brother Paul.</p> +<p>“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Brother +Anselm.</p> +<p>“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paul again +- a little impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough - “methinks +the provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother.”</p> +<p>“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. “Methinks +our Cellarer draws the half of it from the Convent’s well.”</p> +<p>They shook their heads sadly.</p> +<p>“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a short silence, +“our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance +of his office - while Brother Thomas, alack - ”</p> +<p>“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties,” +said Brother Paul. “The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing +of these things. On Sunday’s feast one served him with a +most unsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black and +broken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with appetite.”</p> +<p>“He is but young, he is but young - sixty come Michaelmas - +sixty, and twenty-two years Prior - ’tis a long term,” and +Brother Anselm nodded his head.</p> +<p>“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” said Brother +Paul, “whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. +Brother Thomas - God rest his soul! - was wont to give savoury mess +easy of eating to the elder Brethren.”</p> +<p>“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” said Brother +Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. “Think you ’twould +be well to speak of this matter to the Prior?”</p> +<p>“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is ever against +any store being set on the things of this world - ‘’tis +well for the greater discipline of the flesh,’ so saith he ever. +Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to us elder Brethren.”</p> +<p>“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died,” +said Brother Anselm ruefully.</p> +<p>“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him - +maybe he will hear a word in season,” and the two old monks moved +slowly away to the Cellarer’s office as Prior Stephen came down +the cloister walk.</p> +<p>He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government +sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of +the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. +It was now full six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since +the Christmas after his going no news had come of him, save that he +never reached St Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as +it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening +proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?</p> +<p>He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies +that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless +graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay +the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk’s dying +speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see.</p> +<p>Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary’s +flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He +stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong +man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of pale young +corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with +fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly +in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; +the old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly skywards; +peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the Lord; and yet, +and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, and for the exceeding +longing that he had for the boy whose mother once held that heart in +the hollow of her little hand.</p> +<p>Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this +world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered +himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait.</p> +<p>The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air +calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place.</p> +<p>“<i>Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent</i>,” +chanted the deep voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen’s voice +trembled as he joined in the Psalmody.</p> +<p>“<i>Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes +autem venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos</i>.”</p> +<p>He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting +was not yet.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER II - MARY’S LILIES</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>It came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se’nnight later, +that Prior Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which +came to him.</p> +<p>It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after +the noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The +song of the bees busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, +the warm, still air overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard +a voice calling - a voice he knew in every fibre of his being and yet +could set no name to, for it was the voice of God. He arose in +haste and went out into the garth, and lo! under the lilies Hilarius +lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his heart +leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of grass that +lay between the cloister and the farmery door.</p> +<p>As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly +from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and +marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave +scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. +He strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were +as lead.</p> +<p>The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to +arouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was +as the calling of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave +no heed. Then, in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies +under which he lay; and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius +stirred and cried out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. +Of a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the +woman’s side: there was but one lily left. He laid his hand +on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him: and she fell back +from the one remaining blossom with a cry of fear - and Prior Stephen +awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he was sore troubled.</p> +<p>“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, such +evil as slew his mother, on whom God have mercy!” And sighing +heavily he took his way to the great Rood and made supplication for +his son.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of Florence, +there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched hands, whose +many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under +threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling upper lip. +Great, alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving +favour. Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every ruddy strand +that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Her beauty - nay, men +had slain themselves gladly to escape the torment of her look. +She stood in the curtained doorway, a heavy purple hanging at her back; +and the man who awaited her paled as he saw her vengeful face.</p> +<p>It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender +height, and bowed.</p> +<p>Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued +marble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies caught +in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but +swept on, and faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause +the Angelus sounded from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed himself +devoutly; and the stillness fled before a woman’s scornful laugh.</p> +<p>“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly, “is ours +to be a war of signs and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready +enough with judgment, though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our +Lady, if all that is said of thee be true, I will e’en have thee +whipped at the gibbet for thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue +is left thee; ’tis a last asking. Wilt thou paint this face +of mine that is, it seems, so little to thy liking? Strain not +my patience over much - ’tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat +tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?”</p> +<p>Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruised and +scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and clear:-</p> +<p>“‘It is nay.’”</p> +<p>She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was +a stain where her teeth had been busy.</p> +<p>“‘It is nay,’” she repeated after him, and +her eyes mocked him. “May a poor Princess ask the Signor’s +reason?”</p> +<p>Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.</p> +<p>“It lies there.”</p> +<p>For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her +cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered +in her wrath:-</p> +<p>“And dost thou - dost thou dare, say this to my face - to me, +who stooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched +beauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my +eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, +that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? ’Tis small +wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale +they brought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou prating, milk-faced +Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this face of mine: say me nay, +and I will teach thee a lesson hard of forgetting; for I will silence +thy preaching for aye, and lend my serving-men to whip thee through +the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou art too much a cur to +make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield the rod and lace +thy shoulders.”</p> +<p>She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peacocks +on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the +dog to which she had likened him, for he had no word.</p> +<p>There was silence a while.</p> +<p>Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting +of a lash:-</p> +<p>“Bring me yon flowers.”</p> +<p>He obeyed.</p> +<p>“Set them at my feet.”</p> +<p>He bent his knee and did so, wondering.</p> +<p>A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the +air, as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed +lad at the Monastery gate.</p> +<p>One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble was +yellow with stolen gold.</p> +<p>Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some living +thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet.</p> +<p>It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows.</p> +<p>“So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will +soil thy brush to limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the +Queen of Love - but thy lips, say they, burnt with another name! +Bethink thee, faint heart, there is not a man in all this city but would +count death a small price to pay for my favours; and I ask of thee one +little service, and thou shalt name thine own reward. Surely ’tis +churlish to gainsay!”</p> +<p>Her voice was suddenly sweet.</p> +<p>Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, fingering +the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. She glanced up +at Hilarius through her lashes’ net. “Maybe I was +over hasty,” she said softly, and a sob swelled the round of her +wonderful throat - “and yet how couldst thou call me wanton?” +Her mouth drooped a little - she was very fair.</p> +<p>“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against +the roses in love’s garden? For I love thee,” she +added, and then suddenly she was still.</p> +<p>Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over-mastering +beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in the heart of every +man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as he had never before +desired aught in all the world, and he knew, to his shame, that she +was his for the asking. The blood thudded and rang in his veins; +he feasted his eyes on the curve of her neck and the radiance of her +sun-swept hair. He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak +she raised a white, terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder.</p> +<p>“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, +“who touched me?” And she sprang to her feet.</p> +<p>There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they stared into +each other’s eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrank +back and covered his face with his hands. Clear and distinct he +heard the Prior’s voice: “<i>A light woman - a light woman</i>.”</p> +<p>Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” and without +word or look Hilarius went.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with +the devil for his son’s soul, and knew that he had prevailed.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER III - OPEN EYES AT THE GATE</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Another year wrote its record on forest and field. The weeks +passed; summer sped to autumn, the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. +The Convent’s lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; +and the Prior, watching the last great wain piled high with wealth of +golden treasure, saw the porter coming to him.</p> +<p>Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty spirit; +and the Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his hurried gait +and wrathful countenance.</p> +<p>“Domine,” he gasped, “Domine, there is a ragged +man at the gate, a vagabond by his own showing, and he craves speech +of thee. I bade him go to the guest-house, but he will not budge, +and hath waited already an hour despite my - ”</p> +<p>The porter stayed, staring; he spoke to the wind; the Prior was already +halfway to the gate.</p> +<p>“This my son was dead and is alive again,” sang his heart. +The porter, afraid, hasted after him with the keys, and had scarce time +to do his office ere the sunburnt vagabond was clasped in the Prior’s +arms. It was a harvesting indeed.</p> +<p>That night Hilarius went across to the Prior’s house to tell +the tale of his journeyings. He found him seated in a great oak +chair by the open window; the sky was ablaze with stars, and the flame +of the oil lamp jarred like a splash of yellow paint on the moonlight +which flooded the room; the Prior’s eyes smiled measureless content, +and the murmured “<i>Laus Deo</i>” of his lips voiced the +gladness of his heart. Thus, in the shelter of peace and a great +love, Hilarius told his tale, while the forest waved a welcome to him +over the Monastery wall, and the late lilies burned white in the garth +below.</p> +<p>The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the lad’s +face, pale against the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told of his journeyings, +and all that befell, even as it hath been recorded in this chronicle; +and the Prior’s eyes were wet as he heard of the little maid.</p> +<p>“And then, my son?” said the Prior.</p> +<p>“Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as far +as the sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in the train +of my lord Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was hasting to Rome. +He knew thee, my Father, and bade his people supply my needs.”</p> +<p>“Ay, he knows me,” said the Prior briefly. “The +Lord reward him according to his works, but show him mercy forasmuch +as he had compassion on my son!”</p> +<p>“Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous city +full of treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I did not see, +being let. Methinks life in that country is as one long pageant; +but I marked that great holiness and an evil life, much riches and much +penury, dwelt there side by side, and men reeked little of death but +much of pleasure. Then one bade me go to Florence an I would be +a limner; therefore I hasted thither, and gave my last coin for bread +as I entered the city.”</p> +<p>The Prior’s brows contracted; the lad had seen some schooling.</p> +<p>“But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?”</p> +<p>“Ay, my Father, in God’s time: at first I must herd goats +and sell melons in the market-place for a lump of bread. Day by +day I strove to gain enough to buy colours, but could not, for the Lord +sent me ever a neighbour poorer than myself. Nevertheless I was +of good courage, knowing the Lord’s ways are not as ours; and +mindful how Brother Ambrose held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City +is laid with fair colours ’twere no sin to deem that a man may +limn perfect pictures there, for the gift is from the Lord.”</p> +<p>“My son, ’tis a great lesson thou hast learnt,” +said the Prior, “for the Word was made Flesh; and as Blessed John +hath it, a man cannot love God unseen, if he love not the brother whom +He hath given him. What next, dear lad?”</p> +<p>“My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to me. +One day a great limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, whom men call d’Orcagna, +stayed by me where I stood with my melons in the shadow of the Shepherd’s +Tower, and bade me follow him to his house, for he would fain use me +for an angel’s head in the great Altar-piece he was e’en +then concerned with for the Church of the White Friars. Later +he heard my story; and when he found I had some small skill with the +brush, he kept me with him, and taught me as only such an one can teach: +him I served five years. And many times Satan desired my soul; +nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but the Lord was with me, and +plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I will speak anon, +at my shriving, as is meet.”</p> +<p>The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and Hilarius +took up his tale.</p> +<p>“Then one day my master cried there was an end to teaching; +nevertheless he would have me bide with him in honour for the work. +But my heart was full of longing for home and the scent of the forest; +and, above all, for thee, my Father; therefore I set my face north, +that I might bring back my gift to St Benedict and our Church; and should +have been here long ere this, but I was let by the way.”</p> +<p>The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at the +question in his face.</p> +<p>“’Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow of +the great mountains beyond Florence; and I was taken by robbers, who +bore me and others of our company to their fastness in the hills: there +I lay in a little cave many days; but what befell the rest I know not. +The robbers brought me forth to serve them, and by God’s mercy +handled me kindly, though they thought little of bloodshedding.</p> +<p>“Then one of them was troubled in his spirit, and minded to +forsake this evil manner of life. Therefore one night he fled, +carrying me with him, when the others had gone forth; and we made good +our way to Mantua. There Pietro, for so was the robber called, +left me that he might give himself to the service of God and men, inasmuch +as he had formerly abused them. Never saw I man so changed, my +Father; his speech, formerly profane, was all of God and the Saints; +he did penance and confessed his sins publicly; ay, by the Justice’s +order he received one hundred lashes in the market-place, and at every +lash he cried with upturned face, ‘<i>Deo Gratias</i>!’ +And I was there, because he besought of me to stand in the crowd and +pray for him that his courage failed not. But it came to pass +that even the people marvelled at his joyful endurance; and indeed ’twas +more like a scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor sinful +robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, for such +was his desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved his blessing.”</p> +<p>“The Lord fulfil all his mind!” said the Prior with clasped +hands.</p> +<p>“Amen,” said Hilarius.</p> +<p>“Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my son?”</p> +<p>“Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and kindly +men by the way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but at Genoa I +took service with a merchant then beginning his journey, and travelled +with him through Flanders, a strange, flat country with many canals +and tall poplar trees; and so we came to Bruges in safety, after a most +prosperous course. There he commended me to a good friend of his, +a wool merchant travelling to Salisbury; and at first all things went +well with us; but later the winds proved contrary, and we were driven +hither and thither in great peril of our lives, but at last made the +Bristol Channel, and so came safe into port. Thence I have come +hither afoot begging my bread.”</p> +<p>When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms and +blessed him for his dear son; praising God that the lad had come back +a child at heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed.</p> +<p>Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank the +wine of the “wayfaring man,” his heart merry for the joy +of his home-coming. When the Lady-Mass was ended he knelt on in +her Chapel.</p> +<p>“Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine from thy +poor son,” sang his heart; and then he prayed for his little maid.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER IV - THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Convent welcomed Hilarius gladly, and on the Feast of St Michael +he made his profession, for the Prior deemed that he had served his +noviciate and been found faithful; and the Brethren assented eagerly, +for they were fain to keep this wondrous limner for the service of their +own Church.</p> +<p>Then, by the Prior’s command, Hilarius set himself to limn +a great picture for the High Altar. It was a Crucifixion, and +all his heart and all his love were in it. When the Brethren first +saw the fair proportion and fine colours that Hilarius brought to the +work, they rejoiced in that their Church should be glorified above other +Churches of the Order; but when the picture was near completing, and +they gazed up into the wondrous face of the Great King who looked down +from the throne of His triumphant suffering, with a world of hunger +and love in His eyes for those who had so enthroned Him, they hung their +heads for shame because of the emulation in their hearts; and lo! the +Cellarer, for very love, was careful for the needs of the elder Brethren; +and the monks, for very love, laid hold gladly of suffering, and so +the Convent was blessed, and lived together in unity.</p> +<p>In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a grey-eyed +girl, a woman with a babe at the breast, and clinging to her skirts, +a little flaxen-headed maid. None but the Prior knew the meaning +of these three, and their names, with that of a poor light-o’-love, +were ever on his lips when he offered the Holy Sacrifice.</p> +<p>Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of all +his world. The years sped, and he became in turn Almoner, Novice-master, +and Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for he reckoned himself ever as +least of all and servant of all.</p> +<p>Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Convent wisely +and well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, his call coming +as it might be straight from the mouth of the Lord.</p> +<p>On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and said +as always: “<i>The souls of the deceased brethren and believers +rest in peace</i>!” to which the Convent replied, “<i>Amen</i>.” +Then with his hands raised to bless he cried, “<i>Benedicite</i>,” +and again with loud and joyful voice “<i>Domine</i>,” and +again, “<i>Domine</i>!” as of one who answers to his name +- and so passed to his place in the Kingdom of Christ.</p> +<p>The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, which election +the Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace.</p> +<p>Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of the exceeding +beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom he taught, set fair +pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof with the blue of heaven +and gold of the wakeful stars. In the span over the High Altar +he set Blessed Benedict himself with the face of Prior Stephen, and +round him the angel virtues; even as one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had +limned them in the Church of the Little Brothers.</p> +<p>Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our Lady above +the Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with ever-increasing +fervour and much fasting that this boon might be vouchsafed him for +her glory and the Convent’s greater good. And one day - +’twas her Nativity - he set his hand to the work, for it seemed +to him that she would have it so; and he was greatly humbled that such +heavenly kindness should attend so vile a sinner. Day by day he +set apart some hours for this service; and he limned a face so fair +and radiant, with woman’s love and light of heaven, that it was +whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely been blessed +by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother in so wondrous +a fashion: and of a truth a man might well give credence to such a story, +for the joy that shone in the Prior’s eyes and might not be hid.</p> +<p>Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but softly, for +he would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours vouchsafed him.</p> +<p>When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him crooning +their peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the meadows ceased +browsing when he passed, and needs must company with him a little way.</p> +<p>Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy sickness +by reason of the sun’s great heat; and Satan strove with him for +his undoing, so that the poor soul foamed at the mouth and roared out +blasphemy; yea, verily, and must be held with cords also, lest he do +himself or his fellows some grievous hurt. But when the Prior +laid his hand between the man’s troubled eyes sweet sleep came +upon him, and his madness forsook him.</p> +<p>The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, even +if the Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the villages round +had aught against his neighbour he would come to the Prior for a just +hearing.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent’s peace began +to be troubled. Men sought the Monastery for its famous name, +caring but little for religion; there were many young novices within +its walls, and the strong hand of Prior Stephen was lacking. Hilarius +was of gentler build; he would speak ever in love, thinking no evil, +whereas it is not given to all men to understand that tongue. +So it came to pass that the younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and +the elder Brethren murmured.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER V - “GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE VISION.” +- DAN. viii. 16.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>One day the Novice-master, Brother Adam, a most worthy man, came +in sore trouble to the Prior and would resign his office.</p> +<p>“Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find +shelter in a monastery!” he cried. “They grow fat, +idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never at peace among themselves; never a +Pater or an Ave too many, or a task fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. +I would that the time of blood-letting were here that their high stomachs +might be brought low. I am no longer young, my Father, and this +burden tries me sorely. Prithee, let it be shifted to another +and a stronger back.”</p> +<p>The Prior listened with many an inward <i>mea culpa</i>. “’Tis +a sad hearing, Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybe +this ill mood will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle +and decorous? He hath a most beauteous voice.”</p> +<p>The Novice-master threw up his hands.</p> +<p>“Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, but +methinks his body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will sing +an it please him - or when thou art by, my Father, - but, an it please +him not, he is silent; ay, even under grievous stripes. The Precentor +giveth him as negligent and ill-conditioned; and in choir, when he looketh +most like to one of God’s Saints, he is but plotting mischief +for the day.”</p> +<p>The Prior heard him sadly.</p> +<p>“And Hubert?” he said. “Hubert methinks hath +a great love of colour and a fine hand with the brush.”</p> +<p>Brother Adam was almost speechless.</p> +<p>“Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even this +very Hubert but yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into Brother +Edmund’s mess, whereby he was like to break his teeth or take +some more grievous hurt. And indeed the peace of the Brethren +is much troubled, wherefore they complain bitterly.”</p> +<p>“Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity evil,” +said the Prior. Then, seeing the Novice-master’s aggrieved +face, he bade him have patience yet a little, for he himself would speak +to the novices; and with this Brother Adam must fain be content.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke.</p> +<p>It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made curious +by it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may be, long after. +Even thus it happened on this day in the Chapter; and when Prior Hilarius +was gathered to his rest the Brethren remembered how they had marked +and marvelled at the strange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one +who sees the face of the Lord.</p> +<p>“My children,” he cried - “for my children ye are, +though I see among you many it were more fitting I should hail as father, +but that the ruling of the Lord cannot be gainsaid - my children, I +am minded to think that I have this day a message on my lips that is +not mine own.</p> +<p>“Last night a vision came to me as I slept. Blessed Benedict, +our Father, stood at my side, and his face was troubled.</p> +<p>“‘Arise, my son,’ he cried, ‘arise, for the +Lord is at hand and hath need of thee.’</p> +<p>“And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang up +in shame and fear that the Master should find me sleeping.</p> +<p>“Then cried Blessed Benedict again:-</p> +<p>“‘If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He hath +called thee these many times,’ and so saying passed from my sight.</p> +<p>“Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made haste to +the Church lest peradventure I should find Him; but the lamps burnt +dim and all was silent. Then I turned aside and went out into +the night, and it was very dark, with no sound but the wind in the forest +trees.</p> +<p>“My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in cloister and garth; +and as I hasted to the gate I cried aloud, even as she cried who sought +Him in a garden - ‘They have taken away my Lord.’</p> +<p>“At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a sign; +and lo, in the darkness one came and led me by the hand away from the +gate, across the garth and up the dormitory stair, nor loosed me until +I passed within where the Brethren lay sleeping, and the chamber was +bright with exceeding radiance.</p> +<p>“I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his face +was wet with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder the mark of +many stripes.</p> +<p>“Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another of +our Brethren, and on every face lay the shadow of a great need, but +in every face there was somewhat of the Christ; and the lesson burnt +in my heart.</p> +<p>“Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy Robert; +but I fled, for I might not see Him; and I awoke sore troubled - ay, +and the trouble is on me still.</p> +<p>“My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to me. +Great is the rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it stripes, grievous +and many as our sins, have their rightful place; but mayhap we forget +that love, and love alone, should strike. Ay, and I mind me how +Prior Stephen, my Father, said that to be monk a man must learn before +all things to hunger and to love. Love should draw the water and +build the fire, till the field and attend the sanctuary; and hunger +we should cherish in our hearts, hunger for righteousness and for the +souls of our brethren, for this is the hunger of God.</p> +<p>“Men come over lightly to the Lord’s work; and lo! pride +and emulation, jealousy and discontent, spring up and thrive, and the +end is shame and confusion.</p> +<p>“I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the Lord +is at hand: let us see that we love while there is yet time.”</p> +<p>Then he turned to the novices and stretched out his hands to where +they stood amazed, and it may be ashamed - not after this manner was +Brother Adam wont to rebuke them.</p> +<p>“And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, give +heed to your ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this service. +Better far go forth, yea, even to death, than mock the Lord with froward +feet and a heart that is full of vanity. Remember the sacrifice +which Cain offered and the Lord rejected, for he gainsayed the voice +of the Lord and disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the wrath of God +fell upon him.</p> +<p>“I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, and +let fear befriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a thief in the +night, and lo! stripes bitter and many await that servant whom the Master +finds sleeping.”</p> +<p>Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his hand to +bless, and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in his place, for +they knew that the Lord had spoken and were afraid.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER VI - THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>June was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges +were white, the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from the +trees as at autumn’s touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry +and twisted on the bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud.</p> +<p>Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrap +of mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog from +some neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill-hook +beside him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gone contrary +with him.</p> +<p>His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leaving +six hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing had +befallen him; his gold was gone - his gold to which he had no right, +for ’twas blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and something +beside; but Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world - above +Heaven and his own soul - and it was gone.</p> +<p>A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which he +had deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i’ faith +’twas easy carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon +minded how he had changed his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back +at the fair. Maybe it was Thomas the charcoal burner had served +him this ill turn; or William Crookleg, the miller’s man; he was +a sly, prying fellow, and there had been ill blood between them.</p> +<p>He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side the forest, +and crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior might say ’twas +ill-got gain and well rid of.</p> +<p>Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill-fed, +unkempt. The day’s work was done, and on the village green +he found men and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, standing +about in groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house +door, thin and peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for any +man in those parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressed them.</p> +<p>A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorry horse +by the bridle, was talking eagerly.</p> +<p>“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw I this +very day on the churchyard wall - it bodes ill to some of us.”</p> +<p>“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have it thine +own way. Methinks the ill hath outrun the omen, for there will +be naught for man or beast shortly - but fine pickings for thy three +crows.”</p> +<p>The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up.</p> +<p>“What’s to do?” he said curtly.</p> +<p>“Nay,” said mine host, “Robin will have it that +some further evil is upon us - tho’ methinks we have got our fill +and to spare with this drought - ay, and ’twas at thy house, Dickon, +he saw the corpse-light.”</p> +<p>“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to +fill them,” said Dickon surlily. “Whither away, Robin? +’Tis not far this beast will travel.”</p> +<p>“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with +the carcass,” answered the little man; “give me my reckoning, +friend John. I must needs haste if I would see the Forester’s +ere nightfall.”</p> +<p>He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon +saw it his eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the +piece in his cheek.</p> +<p>“Hard-earned money - ’tis blood out of a stone to draw +wages from my master. Better it should light in my belly than +in a rogue’s pocket. ’Tis as well for me that John +o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at the cross-roads. Godden, +my masters!” And leading his weary beast, he took the road +that skirted the forest.</p> +<p>The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely way +before him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise.</p> +<p>“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robin angrily, tugging +in vain at the creature on whom death had taken pity. “I +must e’en leave him by the wayside and tell Richard what hath +befallen.”</p> +<p>He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a man +slipped from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. +There was a thud, a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across the horse’s +neck - a pace beyond him in the moonlight shone the gleam of gold.</p> +<p>Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other five followed +with scant time between the buryings. Another had fathered them +and filled the gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it +was the Black Death that they had deemed far from them.</p> +<p>Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come +of Robin - he was dead when they found him - but no man gave heed. +Death was in the air, death held them safe in walls they might not scale. +The heavens were brass, food failed for man and beast, God and man alike +had forsaken them. The forest lay one side, the river, now but +a shallow sluggish stream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick +and the springe tightened.</p> +<p>No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest +and murmured, cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house.</p> +<p>“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there +is liquor enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded +to go dry throat to Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e’en +swill a bucket to the devil’s health, and so to hell.”</p> +<p>Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who strove +to bar the door. Some of the women fell on their knees and clamoured +in half delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed to their pestilent +homes.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER VII - THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Meanwhile, news came to the Monastery of the ill case of the village, +for it lay scarce a league away across the forest; but the pine-trees +stood as guardian angels in between.</p> +<p>The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling of +Blessed Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told the tidings.</p> +<p>Then he went on to give reason for their assembling.</p> +<p>“My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave these +poor, stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; moreover, in +their fear and desolation, they may flee to other villages, and so the +terror and pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch +as Charity is greater than Faith or Hope, so it is greater than obedience +also. Wherefore I purpose to set aside the Rule of our Order in +the letter that I may hold to it in the spirit, and go forth to serve +these perishing brethren; and I will take with me whosoever hears the +call of God in this visitation.”</p> +<p>When he had made an end, there was silence in the Chapter. +Break cloister, the Prior himself urging them thereto? The Convent +might scarce credit its ears.</p> +<p>Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on his white +face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have its triumph.</p> +<p>Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven novices +sprang also to their feet.</p> +<p>“Nay, Brother Walter,” said Hilarius, turning to the +Sub-Prior, “this flock must have its shepherd also; thy place +is here. But I will take with me Brother Simon and Brother Leo, +who will doubtless suffice at first for the ministry, and - ” +smiling at the novices - “all these dear lads to tend the sick +and bury the dead.”</p> +<p>The Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance.</p> +<p>“Good Father, it is not fitting that thou should’st go +on such an errand; send me in thy stead, for my life is a small thing +as compared with thine. Moreover these novices, ’tis but +the other day the Master gave them as lazy and ill-conditioned, and +- ”</p> +<p>The Prior held up his hand.</p> +<p>“Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for me; but +my call has come. As for these - ” he stretched out his +hand towards the waiting novices - “maybe they are in the wrong +school, and the Lord hath even opened the door that they may serve Him, +perchance die for Him, elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser +than Prior Stephen, who set me without the gate to learn my lesson? +Let us go in peace, my children, for we are about the Lord’s business.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the little band +embraced their brethren and set out, laden with food and wine and herbs +from the farmery; and the Prior appointed a place to which the Convent +should send daily all things needed.</p> +<p>The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, breathless sunshine, +and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, pungent, rose at each footfall +from the silent path. The Brethren chanted the Gradual Psalms +as they paced two and two through the sun-lit aisles, full of the Prior’s +memories; and he looked up again to see Our Lady’s robe across +the tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalm broke, and Brother Simon, +who was leading, stayed suddenly.</p> +<p>Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthy rags; +his hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyes sunk, his lips +drawn apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made haste to kneel beside +him, and lo! sudden remembrance lighted the fast-glazing eyes, but his +own answered not.</p> +<p>“My son, my son,” said the Prior, and his voice was very +pitiful, “thou art indeed in evil case; let me shrive thee ere +it be too late.”</p> +<p>He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy head +upon his shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the parched lips.</p> +<p>At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached him.</p> +<p>“The Convent’s hens!”</p> +<p>The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured voice -</p> +<p>“Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?”</p> +<p>Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were wiped +away.</p> +<p>“Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry plight! +But see, stay not thy shriving, for the time is short, and the Lord +ever ready to pardon.”</p> +<p>The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite clearly: +“I hunger,” and so saying died.</p> +<p>The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in prayer, +while the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, +and lo! before him lay the open glade where his schooling had begun, +and he had seen a flower incarnate dance in the wind.</p> +<p>He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the glade +under fallen branches until they could return and give him burial. +Then, as they went on their way, he told the tale of his little maid; +and when the telling was ended, the village they had come to succour +was in sight, and lo! they saw it through a mist.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII - “BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE”</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Prior’s heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed +up the village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his little +maid led him by the hand.</p> +<p>Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speak +comfort and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury the dead; +for three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. Hilarius +made straight for the ale-house.</p> +<p>As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbled blindly +down the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, and suddenly +sobered, dropped on his knees, while the topers and roysterers staring +from the open doorway fell into silence.</p> +<p>Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorching +sun of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was very weary.</p> +<p>“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, +lest ye go down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, +for the arms of His love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and +the very hairs of your head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, +and confess each one of you his sins, that I may prepare him for the +work of the Lord; and take comfort also, for they that are with us are +mighty.”</p> +<p>One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, confessed +and were shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon was not among +them. Then the Prior bade them get to work as he should direct; +and he set a watch that no man should flee the village; and all obeyed +him.</p> +<p>Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band of +workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying the pestilent +dwellings.</p> +<p>Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered it like +a soldier at his post.</p> +<p>As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade him come +quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon.</p> +<p>The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to the +hovel where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear his +muttered words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, for +a gold piece lay on the man’s tongue. The Prior drew back +dismayed, and behold, the Lord’s hand struck swiftly, and Dickon +died with a barren shriving - on whom may Christ take pity!</p> +<p>Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and at +even came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of +the novices, who lay a-dying in the Prioir’s arms, heard it as +he passed, and fell back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on his +young face.</p> +<p>“‘<i>Esurientes implevit bonis</i>,’” said +the Prior, as he laid him down, blessing God.</p> +<p>A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was +no need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was +stayed. Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season; +rarely such a blessed one.</p> +<p>The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior +was minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, for +his work was done.</p> +<p>Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings +reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the cloister +garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had given their +lives for their brethren.</p> +<p>The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed +the pines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because +of the face of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue +dome, and earth shone with pale reflection of his glory.</p> +<p>The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch +the signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the word +came that voices were heard in the distance; and monks and novices hastened +two and two to the gate. On the wind was borne the sound of a +chant.</p> +<p>“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” said Brother +Anselm; and crossing themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorous +response:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>Et lux perpetua luceat eis</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for came +slowly down the forest pathway.</p> +<p>Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a +rude bier of pine-branches.</p> +<p>This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs +for his last bed; Mary’s lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censer +of the forest swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face of the +Lord.</p> +<p>He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, and +having kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, for +his time had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. +Prior Hilarius lay and watched for the light, and as dawn parted night’s +veil with the long foregleam of the coming day, he shut his eyes like +a tired child and went home.</p> +<p>It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior cried +through his tears:-</p> +<p>“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son.”</p> +<p>They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on his +forest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing the tender +smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, “The Prior +hath found his little maid.” And the Convent made Hilarius +a wondrous fair tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved him lying +thereon with Mary’s lilies across his breast.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named tgobh10h.htm or tgobh10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, tgobh11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tgobh10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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