Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price,doll cribs for 13 year olds under 10 dollarsemail [email protected]

THE GATHERING OF
BROTHER HILARIUS

By MICHAEL FAIRLESS
AUTHOR OF “THEROADMENDER”

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1912

p. vA. M. D. G.

“To those dearworthy ones
   to whom I owe all;
I give that which is theirs already.”

p.viPREFACE

Through this little book runs theroad of life, the common road of men, the white highway thatHilarius watched from the monastery gate and Brother Ambrose sawnearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart.

The book is a romance.  It may be read as a romance ofthe Black Death and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but forthe author it is a romance of the Image of God.  While theDivine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius in the masque thatshocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and sin, ofdeath and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying“little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again theRoad mender’s epilogue to the story of the man of thisearth, the man of the common highway:—“‘Dustand ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there comesback for answer, ‘Rex concupiscet decoremtuum.’”

p.viiCONTENTS

p. 1PARTI
THE SEED

p. 3CHAPTERI
BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST

Hilarius stood at the Monasterygate, looking away down the smooth, well-kept road to the highwaybeyond.  It lay quiet and serene in the June sunshine, thewhite way to the outer world, and not even a dust cloud on thehorizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules ladenwith meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the goodBrethren within.  The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug storesin the farmery were running low; last, but not least, thePrecentor had bespoken precious p. 4colours, rich gold, costly vellum, andon these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxiousexpectation.

On his left lay the forest, home of his longingimaginings.  The Monastery wall crept up one side of it, andover the top the great trees peered and beckoned with theirtossing, feathery branches.  Twice had Hilarius walkedthere, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and silently alongthe mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and theoccasions were stored in his memory with the glories of StBenedict’s Day and Our Lady’s Festivals.  Awayto the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monasterylands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teemingwith glad, unhurried labour.

At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose thePriory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of theplace, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and workof the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object ofthat work, ever unfinished because love p. 5knows not how to make an end.  Tothe monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order,written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world’streasure; a page on which each generation might spell out a word,perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and StBenedict.  They were always at work on it, stretching outeager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout menbrought from overseas, finding a place for the best of everyordered craft; their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch,their glory each completed pinnacle and fretted spire; everrestoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time inthe service of the House of the Lord.

The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit ofinsistent peace brooded over the place.  The wheeling whitepigeons circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculpturedsaints in their niches over the west door gave the blessing ofpeace; an old, blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitatinggait of habit lately acquired—on his face was greatpeace.  It rested everywhere, p. 6this peace of prayerful service, wherethe clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of theOffice bell.

Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again forsign of the belated train.  It was vexatious; thePrior’s lips would take a thinner line, for the mules werealready some days overdue; and it was ill to keep the Priorwaiting.  The soft June wind swept the fragrance ofMary’s lilies across to the lad; he turned his dreamy, blueeyes from the highway to the forest.  The scent of thepinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought.  Should he,dare he, break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of anunwalled world?  It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-madenovice, cloister-bred.  The sweet, pungent smell overpoweredhim; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers;the voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walkedswiftly away, with bowed head and beating heart, between thesunburnt pine-boles.

At last he ventured to stop and look p. 7around him, his fair hair aflame inthe sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillaredcity of mystery and wonder.

It was very silent.  Here and there a coney peeped outand fled, and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effectivestroke.  Hilarius’ eyes shone as he lifted his headand caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great,green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed hergracious robe across the tree-tops.  Then, as he bathed histhirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths andshifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him,and joy replaced it—joy so great that his heart ached withit.  He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyesfollowing the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an openglade, halted in amazement.

A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, dancedin the wind.  Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-cladfeet chased each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brownhands spread the folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice,silver-laced, p.8served as stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, theflower of flowers itself.  Hilarius’ eyes travelledupwards and rested there.  Cheeks like a sunburnt peach,lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyescurtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair,blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level brow.  Asight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for untutorednovices such as Hilarius.

His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely ladyof St Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with amurmured “Apage Sataas!”

The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in thewind.

“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing truant, I dare wager.  Come anddance!”

Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” he said, and his voice trembled somewhat,“art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this devil’sguise?”

The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoeangrily.

p. 9“Nomore devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted,eyeing his semi-monastic garb with scant favour.  “Cana poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, buta cloister-bred youngster must cry devil’sguise?”

As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and shebroke into peal on peal of joyous laughter.  “Poorlad, with thy talk of devils; hast thou never looked a maid inthe eyes before?”

Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked amaid in the eyes, and now he drops his own.

“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, andentice men’s souls to their undoing?”

“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it pleaseyou, kind sir?” she asked demurely, and stood with downcasteyes, 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.

p.10“Because, because—nay, Father” (with amock reverence), “methinks thy sermon is not ready; let itsimmer awhile, and Iwill catechise.  How old artthou?”  She held up her small fingeradmonishingly.

“Seventeen,” replied Hilarius, surprised intoreply.

“Art thou a monk?”

“Nay, a novice only.”

“Hast thou ever loved?”

Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but shewent on unconcerned—

“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writlarge for any maid to read.  But tell me, why art thou angryat 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 tolove God and the Saints and the Brethren—”

“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laughpealed out.  “Poor sisters!  Why, boy, the worldis full of love, and not all for p. 11the Saints and the Brethren, and itis good—good—good!”  She opened her armswide.  “’Tis the devil and the monks who call itevil.  Hast thou never seen the birds mate in thespringtime, nor heard the nightingale sing?”

“It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a motherher child.  That is love in measure, but not so high as thelove we bear to God and the Saints!” quoth Hilariussententiously, mindful of yesterday’s homily in theFrater.

“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest theSaints?” the dancer persisted.

How did he know?

“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?”he cried triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of thecatechist, and anxious only to come well out of the wordywar.

But the unexpected happened.

“Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? I, love her?—I hateher;” and she flungherself down on the grass in a passion of weeping.

p. 12Even amaster 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 upand 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 lookedfairer and more flowerlike than before, sitting on the greensward, looking up at him through shining lashes.

“There, boy, ’tis naught.  How could’stthou 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 knewhim.  I came a little child to the Monastery, and know noother place.”

“Ah,”—vindictively,—“thenthymother may have been a light o’ love.”

“Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound,”said Hilarius with a smile.

p. 13Themaid looked at him speechless.

“Go home, Boy,” she said at lastemphatically.

Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way throughthe undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.

“So, Gia!” he said.  “We must makehaste; the others wait.”

“’Tis my brother,” said the dancer,“and”—pointing to the bag slung across theyouth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fathen 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 solelyfor 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 theyouth.  “Did’st thou ever hunger,master?”

“There is the fast of Lent which pressessomewhat,” said Hilarius.

p.14“But ever a meal certain once in the day?”queried the girl.

“Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is nofast.”

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 tolove any but God, the Saints, and thy mother; but thou hast neverknown a mother, nor felt what it was to love.  Blindeyes!  Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee thesethings 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 dancedaway like two bright butterflies among the trees.

Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and thenwith dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the p.15Monastery.  The train of mules had just arrived;all was stir, bustle, and explanation; and in the thick of it heslipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious ofthis mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned desolationand 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 hisfavourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast look.

“Methinks this gold is dull, Brother,” saidHilarius one day, fretfully, to his old master.

And again—

“’Tis very poor vermilion.”

The Brother looked at him enquiry.

p.16“Nay, nay, boy; ’tis thine eyes at fault;naught ails the colours.”

Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate borderHilarius was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.

“Now may God be good to us!” he cried withuplifted hands.  “Since when did man paint the BlessedMother with grey eyes and black hair—curly too, i’faith?”

Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue andgold, he faltered.

It was the same in chapel.  The insistent questionpursued him through chant and psalm.  Did he reallylovethe Saints—St Benedict, St Scholastica, StBernard, St Hilary?  The names left him untouched; but hislips quivered as he thought of the great love between the holybrother and sister of his Order.  If he had had a sisterwould they have loved like that?

The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himselfwith the repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, andeyes from which tears were not p. 17absent, in the Chapel of the GreatMother.  “Light of Love,” the girl had calledhis mother; what more beautiful name could he find for the Queenof Saints herself?  So he prayed in hissimplicity:—“Great Light of Love, Mother of mymother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinfulson!”

The question came in his daily life.

Did he love the Prior?  He feared him; and his voice wasfor Hilarius as the voice of God Himself.  BrotherJohn?  He feared him too; Brother John’s tongue was athing 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 feltfor him?

Nay, let be; he loved them all.  The Monastery was hishome, the Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed thewild words of the witch in the forest?  And yet what was itshe had said?  “For me the wide world, hunger, andlove—love—love!”

p. 18Hewandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by itsbeauties.  Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tallwhite lilies at the farmery door.  Did they love?

He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full ofbusiness and cheerful bickerings.  Did they love?

Shehad 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 theship-wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towersserene and unhurt above the devouring waves.

The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewdquestion.  When the halting tale was told he mused awhile,his stern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled thefirm line of his mouth.

“My son,” he said at length, “thou art inthe wrong school; nursery, was it the maid said?  A shrewdlass and welcome to the hen.  Thou art a limner atheart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous p. 19skill withthe brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger and tolove as the maid said.  Ay, boy, and to be monk too, thoughalack, men gainsay it.”

“Father,” said Hilarius, waxing bold fromexcessive need, “did’st thou ever love as the maidmeant?”

“Ay, boy—thy mother.”

There was a long silence.  Then the boy saidtimidly:—

“The maid said she might be light of love; ’tis abeautiful 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 gentleknight who died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchancemy mother was light of love.”

“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis aweary tale, and sad of telling.  Thy mother was wondrousfair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, knew it not forthe holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul”—p. 20his voice grew stern—“asfor one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may havemercy.  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 maidmeant.”

Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and heclasped the Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a littlechild.

“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for atime thou shalt go out into the world, to strive and fail, hungerand love; only have a care that thou art chaste in heart andlife; for it is the pure shall see God, and seeing loveHim.  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 greatRood, and then at St Mary Maudlin’s altar he did penancefor his dead mother’s sin.

p. 21A weeklater he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, ispushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrorsof the great world without.  He had a purse for hisimmediate needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers,who would be his patron; and another to the Prior’s goodfriend, the Abbat of St Alban’s.  The Convent bade hima sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been withthem from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmyeyes to look his last at the young face he would never seeagain.

The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside himto the gates.  Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; andthe boy, overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed thathe might stay and learn some other way, however hard.  ThePrior shook his head.

“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer tothe Master for this most precious lamb of my flock?  Comeback to us—an thou can’st—let no fear deterthee; p. 22onlytake heed, when thine eyes are opened and the great gifts ofhunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the faithfulheart of a little child.”

Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of hisheart-strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest roadand along the highway, without daring to look back, and so outinto the wide, wide world.

CHAPTER III
THE KING’S SONG-BIRD

Martin the Minstrel sat under awayside oak singing softly to himself as he tuned hisvielle.  He was a long lanky fellow with straight blacklocks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smoulderedin hollow cavities.  He wore the King’s colours, andbroke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.

“Heigh-ho!” sighed Martin, and laid the p. 23viellelovingly beside him, “another four leagues to Westminster,and I weary enough of shoe-leather already, and not another pennypiece in my pocket ’til I win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free tosing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead ofpalace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of aking’s banquet.  Now but another few leagues and thecage again.  Money in my pocket, true; but a song here and asong there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, not ofMartin the Minstrel.  Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! ’tis a poorbird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, ifEdward did but know it.

“Who comes here?  Faith, the lad goes a steady paceand carries a light heart from his song; and no ill voiceeither.”

It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptorisas hesped along the green grass which bordered the highway.

When Martin hailed him he turned aside p. 24gladly, andhis face lit up at the sight of the vielle.

“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeinghim with interest.

“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of PriorStephen,” answered Hilarius.

“But thou art no monk!”

“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me goforth to see the world.  It is wondrous fair,” headded sincerely.

“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” saidMartin, and as Hilarius made sign of assent, “’tiswrit on thy face as well.  Thy Prior gave thee letters tothe Abbat of St Peter’s, I doubt not; thy face is set forWestminster.”

“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that goodknight, Sir John Maltravers.  I should have made an end ofmy journeying ere now but that two days ago I met strangecompany.  They took my purse and hat and shoes, and kept mewith them all night until the late dawn.  Then they gave memy goods again, and bade me God-speed.’

p.25“But kept thy purse?” Martin laughed.

“Nay, it is here, and naught is missing.  It wasall 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’sjudgments for once,” muttered Martin; then aloud,“Well, young sir, we shall do well if we win Westminsterbefore night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is thesame?”

Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him ofCourt and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabelwas wed.  He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and reveland sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of SirJohn Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, andno mean musician; “and,” added Martin, “threefair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all,of whom men say she would fain be a nun.  Thou art a prettyp. 26lad, Iwager one or other will claim thee for page.”

“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilariussoberly, “but I have never spoken but to one maid’til yesterday, when a woman gave megood-morrow.”

Martin looked at his companion queerly.

“And thou art for Westminster!  Nay, but by all theSaints this Prior of thine is a strange master!”

“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “thenI shall go back to the Monastery again.  But first I wouldlearn to be a real limner; I have some small skill with thebrush,” he added simply.

Martin stared.

“Back to the cloister?  Nay, lad, best turn aboutand get back now, not wait till thou hast had a taste of Courtlife.  Joust and banquet and revel, revel, banquet, andjoust, much merry-making and little reason, much love and fewmarryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk.”

Hilarius smiled.

“Nay, that life will not be for me.  I am p. 27to serve mylord, write for him, methinks.  But tell me, good Martin,dost thou love the Court?  It seems a fine thing to be theKing’s Minstrel.”

“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily,“give me the open country and the greenwood, and leave tosing or be silent.  Still, the King is a good master, andlets me roam as I list if I will but come back; ’tisill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and followthe Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on usagain.”

He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slowerpace as the minstrel sang.  Hilarius’ eyes filled withtears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin’s voice roseand fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which hadbeckoned him over the Monastery wall.  The song itself wassad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne awaycaptive to alien service.  When it was ended they took abrisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius saidtimidly:—

“Did’st thou sing of thyself, goodMartin?”

p.28“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.”  Hestopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensivegesture took in the countryside.  “A fair mistress,lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods.  A man sunshimself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she iscold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles andtears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelterfrom her buffets.  She gives all and yet nothing; she trailsthe very traces of her hair across a man’s face only toelude him.  She holds him fast, for she is mother of all hischildren; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or sheflouts him.”

Hilarius listened eagerly.  Was this what the dancer hadmeant—the “wide wide world, hunger andlove”?

“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 p. 29countyears.  But see, here comes one who knows little enough ofhunger or love.”  Round the bend of the road came aman in hermit’s dress carrying a staff and a well-filledwallet.  His carriage seemed suddenly to become lessupright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought analms from the two travellers.

Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.

“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with thepick-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’swallet.

This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and amouthful of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatchedit back, flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at around pace down the road, while Martin roared after him to waitan alms laid on with a cudgel.

Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating p. 30figure to hislaughing 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, whonever do a hand’s turn and yet live better than many asquire.  I warrant he has good stuff in that larder of histo make merry with.”

Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with benthead.

“I fear the world is an ill place and far fromgodliness,” he said at last.

“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tistrue enough that godliness is far from most men; but if ahermit’s robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heartlies under an ill-favoured face and tongue.  See,lad,” as another turn in the road brought them in sight ofWestminster, “there lies thy new world, God keep thee init!”

He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’sedge, with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the p. 31light of thewestern sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of moltengold.

Hilarius gave a little cry.

“’Tis like the New Jerusalem!” he said, andMartin smiled grimly.

An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city,and Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’sside.  Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men onhorseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats,gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; it was like a tangleddream.  The gabled fronts of the houses were richly blazonedor hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour,life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored eyes, wildconfusion.  Outside the taverns clustered all sorts andconditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for theday’s work was done.  In the courtyard of the“Black Boar” a chained bear padded restlessly to andfro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously—was the devilabout to beset him under all guises at once?  He raised afervent Ora p.32pro meto St Benedict as he hurried past.  Astring of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk flying forrefuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing thepretty lad, bussed him soundly.  This was too much, only theman in him stayed the indignant tears.  “Martin,Martin!” he cried; but the minstrel was on his own groundnow, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, and news givenand demanded in a breath.  Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, hisears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offendedby the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the latesalute, took refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxiousheart until the minstrel should have done with the crowd.

Martin did not forget him.

“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how theywelcome the King’s bird back to his cage!  As forthee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a homing pigeon;through that archway, lad, lies thy journey’send.”  Then, apprehending for the first timeHilarius’ p.33white face and piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swepthim under the archway into a quiet courtyard where a fountainrippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s steward,left him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise ofspeedy meeting.

Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed thesteward into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-menwere busy with preparations for the evening meal; and sat there,lonely and dejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, hiswhole being crying out for the busied peace and silentorderliness of his cloister home.  The servants gibed athim, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly noticed whenthe household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked himslyly by the ear and bade him come to table.  He ate anddrank thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and thepages and squires among whom he sat left him alone, abashed athis gentleness.  At last, something restored by themuch-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall.

p. 34Itreminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was farloftier and heavily timbered.  The twilight stealing inthrough high lancet windows served but to emphasize the uppergloom, which the morrow’s sun would dissipate intocunningly carved woodwork—a man’s thought in everyquaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guardingsaint.  A raised table stood at the upper end of the hall,and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the houseand his honoured guests.  Hilarius rightly guessed the tall,careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than SirJohn himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wanderedcarelessly over the rest of the company until they were caughtand held by a woman’s face.  It was Eleanor, thefairest of the knight’s three fair daughters; and whenHilarius saw her he felt as a weary traveller feels who meets afellow citizen in a far-off land.

“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes havehad,” he thought, his mind p. 35reverting to his favourite Saint;“she is like the lilies in the garth at home.”

It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantlydressed in costly materials and brilliant colours, her haircoifed in the foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despiteit all, she looked a nun.  Her face was pale, her brows setstraight; her eyes, save when she was much moved, were like greyshadows 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 satapart while the serving men cleared the lower tables and broughtin the sleeping gear for the night.  He lay down with therest, and through the high, lancet windows the moonlight kissedhis white and weary face as it was wont to do on bright nights inthe cloister dormitory.  Around him men lay sleeping soundlyafter the day’s toils; there was none to heed, and hesobbed like p.36a little homesick child, until his tired youthtriumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior,the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in thecloister garth.

p.37PART II
THE FLOWER

p.39CHAPTER I
THE CITY OF PURE GOLD

“Blind eyes, blindeyes!” sang the dancer.

Hilarius woke with a start.  He had fallen asleep on abench in the sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him backto the forest.  He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake,the sun kissing his hair into a halo against the old greywall.  A falcon near fretted restlessly on her perch, and ahound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching itsgreat limbs, came towards him.

It was four o’clock on a warm day in September; thecourtyard was deserted save for a few busied serving men, and theknight and his household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey,all but the p.40Lady Eleanor, Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martinhad foreseen, Sir John had so appointed it.

It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the citywhich had seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem fullof promise; but he had found no angels at the gates, nor were thestreets full of the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer ofkin to the Babylon of Blessed John’s Vision—with afew 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 tohis children, gentle with his people, a faithful servant to Godand King Edward; shrewd withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and because of the love he bore to Prior Stephen, heset Hilarius to attend his eldest daughter, who seemed to belongas little to this world as the lad himself; and felt that in sodoing he had achieved the best possible for his old friend,according to his asking.

p.41Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as anacolyte tends the chapel of a saint, only she was further removedfrom him than a saint, by reason of her pale humanity.  Hesoon perceived, as he watched her at banquet, tourney, orpageant, that she went to a revel as to the Sacrament, and sat ata mummers’ show with eyes fixed on the Unseen.  Shemoved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and joyousmaidens like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at hercoming.

It was much the same with her lover, Guy deSteyning—brother of that Hugh de Steyning men wot of asBrother Ambrosius—a gentle knight with mild blue eyes, apeaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly things. The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up withpreparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, andtheir speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than tolovers’ vows.  It was small wonder, therefore, thatanother year saw them both p. 42by glad consent in the cloister, heat Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine House of which her auntwas Prioress.

Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephenjust as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’sAbbey: “With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars,methinks ’tis like the forest at home” (forgettingthat his more intimate knowledge of the forest partook of thenature of sin).  “The Lady Eleanor, my honouredmistress,” he wrote, “is a most saintly and devoutmaiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring nought for the thingsof this world;” and he added, “’tis beautifulto see such devotion where for the most part are sinful andlight-minded persons.”

The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; andwhen Brother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a littlesadly, “Nay, Brother, he still sleeps;” and indeedthere seemed no waking him to a world of men—living,striving, sorely-tried men.

p. 43Hedwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour andlight and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; onlythe gorgeous pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saintsheralded by angels; while the knights at a tourney in their bravearmour pictured St George, St Michael, or St Martin in hisdreams.

It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir andstress, not a page attending a great lady to the Courtfunctions.  He yearned ever after the Scriptorium, with itsbusied monks and stores of colour and gold.  It lay but astone’s throw away behind the jealous Monastery walls, butit was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that the lad shouldgo straight from one cloister to another.

To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one ofEleanor’s tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and followed her through the hall and up thewinding stair, along a gallery hung with wondrous story-tellingtapestry, to the p.44bower where Eleanor sat with two of her women busiedwith their needle.

Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He louted low, and she bade him bring a stool and sit besideher.

“I am weary,” she said; “this life isweariness.  Tell me of the Monastery and theforest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem thatBrother Ambrose saw and limned.”

Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow onknee, and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazingaway out of the window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbeypinnacles.

“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever asaintly man, approved of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, anda crafty limner, save that of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay a-bed in the dormitory, came the wordof the Lord, saying: “Come, and I will show thee the Bride,the Lamb’s wife.”  And Brother Ambrose arose andwas carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Visionp. 45of BlessedJohn.  ’Twas a still night of many stars, and BrotherAmbrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and lo!the stars gathered themselves together on either side until theystood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about asin a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleamingroadway.  Then between the stars came the Holy City withroof and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as noearthly limner dreams of, and much gold.  Brother Ambrosebeheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wingsof snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on, because of itsexceeding radiance.

“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms becauseof his great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the northand hung between the walls of light, so that he no longer beheldthe Vision, but heard only a sound as of a great multitudecrying, ‘Alleluia’; and suddenly the winds came abouthim again, and lo! he found himself in bed in the dormitory, andit was p.46midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and herose and went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left thechoir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing andseeing nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds theyfound him and told the Prior.

“He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and whenhe heard the Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he hadseen it; and the Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much finegold and what colours he asked for the work.  Then BrotherAmbrose limned a wondrous fair city of gold with turrets andspires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and green for theemerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame with theglory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he setthe rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars oneither hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of theexceeding great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and wasvery sad; but our Prior bade him thank God and p. 47remember theinfirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey cloud, veiledJerusalem to his sight.”

There was silence.  Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowyblue-veined hands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a greatlonging.

“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fellsick,” she said, at length.

Hilarius nodded:

“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one fromhome; and often he would sit musing in the cloister and scarcegive heed to the Office bell.”

“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwellin that Holy City.”

“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surelythou hast had a vision even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyeswait always, like unto his.”

Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from theshadow of her eyes.

“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision p. 48vouchsafed;though my desire is great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; andfor this same reason I would get me to a cloister where I mightfast 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,” sheanswered.  “Sing to me, Hilarius.”

And he sang her the Salve Regina, and when it was endedshe bade him go, for she would fain spend some time in prayerupon her primer.

“Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweetmistress!” he said, and left her to sob out once more thesins and sorrows of her tender childlike heart.

p.49CHAPTER II
THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW

Hilarius went back to thecourtyard, his soul full of trouble.  He leant against thefountain, playing with the cool water which fell with monotonousrhythm into the shallow timeworn basin.  The cloudless skysmiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed,and the glory of its untroubled blue thrilled himstrangely.  He too had a vision which he longed to limn; butit was of earth, not Heaven, like that vouchsafed to BrotherAmbrose; and yet none the less precious, for was it not theMonastery at home which so haunted him, the grey, familiar wallswith their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling forestwhich bowed and swayed at the will of the whispering wind?

“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflectionas learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city,”Hilarius said to p.50himself a little bitterly.  He deemed that he hadplumbed its hollowness and learnt the full measure of itsvanity.  Already he shunned the company and diversions ofhis fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them.  Aprentice lad’s homely brawl set him shivering; awoman’s jest painted his cheeks ’til they rivalled ayoung maid’s at her first wooing.  He plucked asidehis skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank orjuggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed,would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing againthe maid whose mother, like his own, was light o’ love: astrange link truly to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the restof 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 lowarchway.  He reined up by Hilarius:

“Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me aservice?”

“That will I, Hal, an it be in my power.”

p.51“Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern andgive it mine host.  ’Tis Luke Langland’sreckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head was fullof feast and tourney, and ’tis yet undelivered.  Minehost 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 fora good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.

The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in thelivery of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at thetavern doors dicing, gaming, and drinking.  Hilarius walkeddelicately and strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights andsounds of sin.  He delivered the purse, only to hear minehost curse roundly because it was lighter than the reckoning; andafter being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by themen who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a lessfrequented way.

The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, andsuddenly traffic and p. 52turmoil died away.  He was in acity within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels,ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim squaretower, blind save for two windowed eyes.  Men, ill-favoured,hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent andmoody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gaveno greeting; the very children rolling in the foul guttersneither laughed nor chattered nor played.  The city withoutseemed very far from this dismal sordid place.

Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voicesaid:—

“How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou takesanctuary?”

He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of anecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.

“Sanctuary,” stammered Hilarius, “nay, goodsir, I—”

The other laughed.

“Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could’ststray into these precincts and p. 53know it not?  This is the Cityof Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murderedhis fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, orslander—a strange place in which to see such a face asthine.”

“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost theturning,” said Hilarius; “in sooth, ’tis afearful place.”

“Ay, boy, ’tis a place of darkness and despair,despite its safety—even the King’s arm falls shortwhen a man is in these precincts: but from himself and theknowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say ’tisa place of darkness and despair.”

The unspoken question shone in Hilarius’ eyes, and theother answered it.

“Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. ’Twas good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, sohere I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness ofwisdom.”

“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seekthe shelter of Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed.

p.54“Most surely he knows; but what would’stthou have?  It hath ever been the part of the Church toembrace sinners with open arms lest they repent.  A manleaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should he setfoot in the city without, he is the law’s, and no man maygainsay it.”

“Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance,”said Hilarius.

“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the othercheerfully, “but then ’tis not for nothing MotherChurch 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 placewith the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty.

“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and menwith bloody hands.”

“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many ofthem are kindly folk, and many have slain in anger withoutthought.  ’Tis a sad place, though, and thy young faceis like a sunbeam on a winter’s day.  Come, I willshow thee thy road.”

p. 55He ledHilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on theedge of the city’s stir and hum.

“I can no further,” he said. “Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee!  An oldman’s blessing ne’er harmed any one.”

Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through thestreets crowded with folks returning from the tourney.  TheAbbey bell rang out above the shouts and din.

“’Tis an evil, evil world,” quoth youngHilarius.

CHAPTER III
A SENDING FROM THE LORD

October and November came and sped,and Hilarius’ longing to be a limner waxed with the waningyear.  One day by the waterside he met Martin, of whom hesaw p. 56nowmuch, 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 Surreyuplands; “ay, and I love one woman, which is ill for a manof my trade.  I must be away to my mistress, winter or nowinter, else my song will die and my heart break.”

“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” saidHilarius sadly; “I too would fain go forth and serve mymistress; but the cage door is barred, and I may not open it fromwithin.”

Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on theshoulder.

“Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this Martinmas, say you?  In truth ’tis agreat age, but still leaves time and to spare. ‘All things come to a waiting man,’ saith theproverb.”

A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench underthe south wall of the farmery cloister.  It was a mild, p. 57melancholyday, and suited the Minstrel’s mood.

He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then whenHilarius had once more cried his longing, he saidgravely:—

“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine andmine, 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 atfault.  I saw the Plague once in Flanders, and fled againstthe wind, and so came out with a clean skin; now I am like to seeit again; for it has landed in the south, and creeps thisway.  Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere thewinter is out, and such as God keep thee from.”

Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound ofthem, and turned to speak of other things.

Martin looked at him gloomily.

“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen,lad.”

p.58“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I havestill a letter for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and wouldhasten thither if Sir John would set me free.  Methinks I ama slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, “forI have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks thereare 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 Iwould fain find thee a kinder master.  Well, well, lad, getthee to St Alban’s an it be possible; thou art best in acloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior Stephen maysay.”

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.”

p.59Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes ofMartin’s voice had died away, and then fell a-musing ofhunger and love, the dancer and the Prior.

Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voicesay:

“I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for Ihunger—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, defendme!”

Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who forsixty years had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at thecorner of the cloister.  He was held a saint above all theankrets before him, and wondrous wise; the King himself hadsought his counsel, and the Convent held him in high esteem.

Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the gratedwindow of the cell—it was too high above him.  Anoverpowering p.60desire came upon him to ask the Ankret of hisfuture.  With a spring he caught at the window’supright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sunbehind him, gazing into the cell.

On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay inmatted locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far belowhis girdle.  The skin of his face was like grey parchment,and his deep-set eyes glowed strangely in their hollowcavities.

Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him.

The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his windowwith its aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bonywithered hands.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of theLord!” 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, andyet—” the old man’s voice p. 61grewweaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die inpeace.”

He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilariuswas sore perplexed.

“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, myFather?”

The Ankret looked troubled.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmuredentreatingly.

Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that theholy man saw some wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain timeto speech of him.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered theold, tired voice.

Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he heldfast and braced himself against the wall.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—Theappeal in the half-dead face was awful.

Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised andsore from the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased.  True,he had gained no counsel from the Ankret, p. 62but he hadseen the holy man—ay, even when he was visited by aheavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring ablessing.  He turned to go, when a sudden thought came tohim.  There was no one in sight, no sound but the failingcry from the tired old saint.  Hilarius doffed his cap againand his fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thinstill 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 hearthe Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and cryingsoftly like a little child.

Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no wordof what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and theSub-Prior gave him the last sacraments.

Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed theholy man before p.63his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself hadbrought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content tothink that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kepthis own counsel.

He told Lady Eleanor of Martin’s words.

“God save the King!” she said, and went into heroratory to pray: and there was need of prayer, for theMinstrel’s foreboding was no idle one.  Ere Londonknew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King, undeterred,came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not in histrain.  Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason of the terrorthey would not recognise.  Banquet and revel, allegory andmiracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men;junketing, ay, and rioting—thus they flung a defiance atthe enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bellssounded the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem.

Eleanor, knowing Hilarius’ ardent longing for school andmaster, prayed her father to set him on the way to StAlban’s p.64instead of keeping him with them to follow a fugitiveCourt.  The good knight, feeling one page more or lessmattered little when Death was so ready to serve, and anxious forthe lad’s safety and well-being, assented gladlyenough.  So it came to pass that on the Feast of the ThreeKings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, awell-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under hisjerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed large, a greatking, 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 theface of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patientindifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, andoften flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens hiscoming.  Thus p.65it came to pass that while the stricken poor agonised inthe grip of unknown horror, bishop and merchant, prince andchapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses with theirtrain of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and west, fromthe pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with muchtraffic.  One procession, and one only, did Hilarius meetmaking its way to London.

It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rainor snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bareand stricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a coldgrey sky.  Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote uponthe still air, music and words alike strange.  The singerscame slowly up the roadway, men of foreign aspect walking withbent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding their wild,fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces.  They were stripped tothe waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried each abloody scourge wherewith to strike his fellow.  At the thirdstep they signed the sign of the Cross with their p. 66prostratebodies on the ground; and thus in blood and penitence they wenttowards London.

Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner ofit.  These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and heshrank back with the rest.  Then a man sprang from among thewatching crowd, tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his armsto heaven with a great sob.

“I left wife and children to perish alone,” hecried, “and fled to save my miserable skin.  Now mayGod have mercy on my soul, for I go back.  Smite, and smitehard, brother!” and he stepped in front of the firstflagellant.

At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, andmany fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusingthemselves with groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized withsudden terror, turned and fled blindly, without thought ofdirection, his eyes wide, the blood drumming in his ears, a greathorror at his heels—a horror that could drive a man fromwife p. 67andchild, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the wind, andall this folk to leave house and home to save that which most mencount dearer than either.

At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw,coming towards him, a blind friar.  Hilarius had turned intoa by-way in the hurry of his terror, and they two werealone.  The friar was a small, mean-looking man, feeling hisway by the aid of hand and staff; his face upturned, craving thelight.  He stopped when he came up with Hilarius, and turnedhis 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 thefriar laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slipback against his shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not withthe light and practised touch of the blind, but slowly andcarefully, frowning the while.

“Son, thou wilt come with me?”

p.68“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for StAlban’s.”

“Whence, my son?”

“From Westminster, good Father.”

“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather.  I leftthe Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise smallwelcome to those from the pestilent cities.  Whatwould’st thou with the Abbat?”

Hilarius told him.

The friar flung up his hands.

“Laus Deo!  Laus Deo!” hecried, “now I know thou art in very truth the lad of mydream.  Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore mecarried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel,and Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and manyhideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my motherhath a cot by the river.  When first the dream came I lay atMechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stoodup by reason of the awfulness of the vision; p. 69then as Imused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I mightwrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was everinclined to evil arts and spells, and thought little of aughtsave gain.

“Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off,the Plague at my heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was carefulto preach its coming in every place, that men might turn andrepent.  Then as I tarried on the seaboard for a ship thePlague came; and because I had preached its coming, the peoplerose in wrath, and, falling upon me, roughly handled me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing myeyeballs, 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; forthe flames of hell burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in myheart 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 p. 70He cared forthe Prophet Jonas, and sent a ship that His message might not behindered.  The shipmen were kindly folk, but we were drivenout of our course by a great wind, and at last came ashore inLincolnshire.  I have come south thus far by the aid ofChristian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here toguide me.”

“But, my Father,” said poor Hilarius, seeing yetanother barrier in the way of his desires, “’tis alimner I would be; and I am from Westminster, not London, andthen there is Prior Stephen’s letter—”

The friar held up his hand:

“Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealedit to me.  Last night the vision came again, and a voicecried: ‘Speed, for a son of Christ waits by the way toguide thy steps,’ and lo! thou art here, waiting by theway, as the voice said.  And now, son, an thou wilt comethou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham—’tis a cellof this Abbey—for there is Brother Andreas from overseaswho hath p.71wondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, forthou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is nowas Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thoushalt set me in that village of Bungay, where my motherdwelleth.”

Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes thatvainly questioned his face.  He had forgotten plague, death,flagellants, in this absorbing tale of the man of God, who waseven as one of the blessed martyrs.  Brother Andreas! A skilled limner!  How should he, Hilarius, gainsay one witha vision from the Lord?

“I obey, my Father,” he cried joyously, taking thefriar’s hand; and they two passed swiftly down the road,their faces to the east.

p.72CHAPTER V
THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED

It was a bitterly cold night and StAgnes’ Eve; the snow fell heavily, caught into whirlingeddies by the keen north wind.  Hilarius and the Friar,crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the fullforce of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, thedarkness more complete.  They struggled on, breathless,beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by onehand, held the other across his bent head to shield himself fromthe buffets of the wind.

Suddenly he stood fast.

“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snowis as a wall; there is naught to see or to hear; I deem we arefar from our right way.”  His voice was very weak, andhe caught at the Friar for support.

“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He p. 73open thineeyes, even as He opened the eyes of the prophet’s servantin the besieged city; so shalt thou see a host of angelsencompassing us, for we are about the Lord’sbusiness.”

“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “Isee no angels, and I perish.”  He tottered, and wouldhave fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms.  A momenthe stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away hisstaff and lifted him to his shoulder.

With unerring, confident step he went forward through thesnow, a white figure bearing a white burden in a whiteworld.  All at once the wind dropped, the blinding showerceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, spoke:—

“Is it thou, my Father?”

“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and gobefore to guide.  The snow hath ceased, canst thouwalk?”

He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the starsalight!

The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his p.74companion’s darkness, pointed to the left wherelay a snow-clad village.

“A miracle, a miracle, my Father!”

“A miracle, i’ faith, my son: the Lord hath givenguidance to the blind as He promised.  Let us godown.”

They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius wasfull of awe and comfort because of the angels of God whichattended on a poor friar.

At the village hostel they found rough but friendlyentertainment and several guests.  They dried themselves ata roaring fire, and Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar wouldeat 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 wasriding with despatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, andhad fearful tales to tell of the Plague; how in London they piledthe dead in trenches, while many who escaped the pest died ofwant and cold; it was a city of the dead rather than p. 75theliving.  One great lord, travelling post-haste fromWestminster, 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 sickmaster,” 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, overtakenby the storm on his way to a neighbouring village, “aman’s own skin before all.  Fill your belly first andyour neighbour’s afterwards.  Live and letlive.”

“Ay, let live,” chimed in mine host, bustling inwith a stoop of cider for the chapman, “but, by the Rood,’tis cruel work when two lone women are murdered for a bitof mouldy bacon and a lump of bread; for I’se warrant’tis a long day sin’ they had more than that atbest.”

The chapman took his cider.

“Where was this work done?” he said.

p.76“Nay, where but here on the bruary!  Thewomen were found Wednesday se’n-night by the herd as hewent folding.  They lay on the floor in theirblood.”

Hilarius turned sick.  In Westminster, by some miracle,he had been spared the sight of violent death—ay, or ofdeath in any form—and had seen nothing worse than a roguein 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 friarin the room; a tall, bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinatejaw ornamented with a scanty fringe of black hair.

“The rich grow fat, and the poor starve,” he wenton, “’tis hunger makes a man kill his brother for amouthful of mouldy bacon.”

“Nay,” said the miller, “there was no needto kill, Father.  A man could have taken the meat from twolone women and left them their lives.”

“Why take from folk as poor as themselves?” p. 77said minehost.  “Let them rob the rich an they mustrob.”

“Ay,” said the friar, “rob the rich, sayyou, take their own, say I.  God did not make this worldthat one man should be over full and another go empty; nor is itreligion 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 onhis land lack bread?”

Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood ofwrathful defence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid arestraining hand on his sleeve.

Mine host scratched his head doubtfully.  The teachingwas seditious, and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; butit tickled the ears of the common folk and ’twas ill toquarrel with the Mendicants.  Help came to him in hisperplexity: a loud knocking on the barred door made the guestswithin start.

“’Tis eight o’ the clock,” said themiller, affrighted, for he had a heavy purse on him.

p.78“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 keepa man without?  Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shaltsmart for it.”

Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheekstrembled; he moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and tookdown the stout wooden bar.  As it swung back the door flewopen, and a man burst in, at sight of whom mine host turned yetpaler.

“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 eyeswere very small and near together; his nose a shapeless lump; hislip drawn up showed two rat-like teeth.  Silence fell on thecompany, and the chapman p. 79who had been searching amongst hisgoods for something wherewith to pay his hospitality, was hastilyputting them back, when the man, looking up, caught sight of abundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares.  Heplucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tenderliquid notes—a thrush’s roundelay.  Then ablackbird called and his mate answered; a cuckoo cried thespring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting cadence; a nightingalepoured 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 toravenously on the victuals.  He held his head low and atebrutishly amid dead silence; then he looked up and cursed at themfor their sorry mood.

“What!  Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor ajest?  Damn you all for dull dogs!”

The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on theman’s dreadful face.

p.80“Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,” he said, and athis voice the man leapt to his feet and thrust his arm out as iffor protection.  “Piping Hugh of Mildenhall,”said the Friar again, “I have a message for thee from theLord God.  I cried thee damned in my own name once, whenthou did’st take my little sister to shame and death; now Icry thee thrice damned in the name of the Lord, for the cup ofthine iniquity is full and thy hands red with blood.  Manhath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and all menshall see it.  The Plague will come and come swiftly, but itshall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shaltlive on with thine.  A brute thou art, and with brutes thoushalt herd; thou shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such menshall hunt thee from their doors.  Thou shalt seek death,even as Cain sought and found it not, because of the mark of theLord.  Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy speech shall gofrom thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art p. 81given over tothe Evil One, and he shall torment thee withremembrance.”

There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the mantore open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a blackblotch upon the whiteness of the night.

The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, untilHilarius, full of pride at his Friar’s powers, steppedforward to close the door.  He was too late; it swung towith a loud crash like the sound of doom.  The Friar sankback composedly on the bench, and the company began in silence tomake preparation for the night.  When all was ordered,Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad’svoice and touch.  Then he crossed to where the others stoodapart eyeing him fearfully.

He laid his hand on the miller’s breast and said in aclear, low voice: “Thou wilt die, brother.”

He laid his hand on the messenger’s breast: “Thouwilt die, brother.”

p. 82He laidhis hand on the chapman’s breast: “Thou wilt die,brother.”

He laid his hand on mine host’s breast: “Thou wiltdie, brother.”

Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a littledistance, his face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand onhis breast: “Thou wilt live, my brother—andrepent.”

CHAPTER VI
A DARK FINDING

It is a far cry from StAlban’s to Bungay—which village of the good ford liessomewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant—andthe journey is doubled in the winter time.  Hilarius and theFriar were long on the road, for January’s turbulent moodhad imprisoned them many days, and early February had provedlittle kinder.  They had companied with folk, light p. 83women andbrutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jestwere hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad withthe wondering eyes.  In every village the Friar preached andcalled on men to repent and be saved, for Death’s shadowwas already upon them.  Folk wondered and gaped—thePlague was still only a name ten leagues east of London—butmany repented and confessed and made restitution, though someheard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robertwho had come with the same message half a man’s lifetimebefore, and that no evil had followed his preaching.

At last St Matthias’ Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar atSt Edmund’s Abbey.  There were many guests for theConvent’s hospitality that night, and as Hilarius enteredthe hall of the guest-house—a brother had charged himselfwith the care of the Friar—he heard the sound of thevielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English againstthe fashion of the day.

p.84“Martin, Martin!” he cried.

The vielle was instantly silent.

“Holà, lad!” cried the Minstrel, springingto his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced himheartily.

“Why, lad, not back in thy monastery?  Nay, but Imade sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead Ifind thee strayed farther afield.”  Then seeing theinjured faces round him for that the song was not ended, he drewHilarius to the bench beside him and took up his vielle. “Be still now, lad, ’til I have finished my ditty forthis 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 tookup 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?

p. 85He laydead 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 ofthe Convent’s victuals, and marvelled to see him in a placeto which he had given so evil a name.

Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listenedintently to his tale.  He nodded his head as Hilariusrelated how the friar he companied with preached in each villagethat men should repent ere the scourge of God fell upon them;“but there is naught of it as yet,” said the lad.

p.86“Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and then the next, men sicken and fall likeblasted wheat.  I heard a bruit of London that it was but aheap of graves—nay, one grave rather, for they flung thebodies 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’sdeath-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 seta curse on Piping Hugh of Mildenhall!  A foul-mouthed knave,with many a black deed to his name and blood on his hands, if mensay truth; and yet there was never a bird that would not come athis call, and I never heard tell that he harmed one.  Whatwill thy Friar in Bungay, lad?”

When he had heard the story of the Friar’stwice-repeated vision and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhilewith knitted brow and head sunk on his breast; then p. 87he eyedHilarius half humorously, half tenderly.

“Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even goto Bungay with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would havethy company.  Also I like not the matter of the vision andwould fain see the end of it.”

That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voicecried: “Haste, haste, ere it be too late.”  Andso Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them,for the way was his own.  None of the three ever saw StEdmund’s Abbey again, for in one short month the minsterwith its sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, whilethe dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to summon to theirghastly company the living that sought to make them a bed.

Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the lowvine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashedhound; Martin and p.88Hilarius following.  Once he stopped and turned astricken face on his companions.

“What is that?” he said shrilly.

A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossedhimself fearfully.

“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when theytold him; and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.

The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distancecame the roar and hum of an angry crowd.

“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his facewas very grave, “no doubt some knight is here, and there isa bear-baiting on the common.  Prithee, where is thymother’s dwelling, good Father, and I will go and ask newsof her?”

“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far fromthe Cattle Gate; Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for.”

Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and theFriar followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gatethey stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiouslyand p.89straining to make his ears do a double service.

Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and theFriar’s business as the last stage of his journey toWymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watchedMartin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him throw up his handswith an angry gesture and point to the Friar.  Then he fellto parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off tocatch what was said.

“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was sayingvehemently; “yon holy friar hath seen this thing in avision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hastedhither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for hismother’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; abundle of filthy water-logged rags crowned by a bruised,vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth and slime. She lay p. 90onher back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toeand so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in theirhot 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 havewrought,” he said.

“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but itwas fair judgment, Minstrel.  For years she hath worked herspells and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perishedand women gone barren through her means.  Near two daysagone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and neverseen again.  When we came to question her she cursed at usfor meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, andswear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat.”

“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” saidMartin.  “I hate these rough-castwitch-findings—’tis not a matter for man’sjudgment, unless ’tis sworn and proven in court before theJusticiary.”

p.91“Nay,” joined in an old man, “whatneed of a Justice when God speaks?  We did but thole her tothe river to see if she would sink or swim.  The witch didswim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeingthat, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies,and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on hisown?”

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 folkbusied themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which boundthe witch, and bore her to her wretched bed.

The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down thefront of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men couldsee the poor place and its dead dishonoured mistress.

Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meetHilarius and the Friar who p. 92were now coming slowly across thewindswept common.  March mists gathered and draped thesluggish river; the dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze andsedge.  Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started nervouslywhen Martin spoke.

“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother’ssoul; she passed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thyfaithful hands.”

The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martinwith a look.  The crowd parted to let them through, and hungtheir heads abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led byHilarius, gave his blessing.

They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned toMartin.

“Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, forthe people feared her?”

“Ay, she died alone,” answered Martin, andmuttered, “now God forgive me!” under his breath.

As they went into the wretched shed the p. 93setting sunbroke through the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the deadwoman.  It lighted each vicious line and hideous trait ofthe wrinkled, toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evillife, surcharged with horrid fear.

Hilarius shrank back shuddering.  Could this hideousnessbe death?  The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayedhim.

“Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence asthou didst read in thy dream.”

The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followedwas heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on thebeaten earth floor.  The people without, staring,open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look up; his hand hastilyoutstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he knew all, andfell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry.  It wasanswered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child thatis found.

The Friar, standing in front of that hovel p. 94of death,preached to the cringing, terrified people, many of whom kneltand crouched in the down-trodden grass and quag.  He threwup his arms, and turned his blind, anguished face to the settingsun.

“Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, thattake counsel but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon them; Death shall overtake them; theirplace shall know them no more.  Let them bare their backs tothe scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit them as Ivisited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain.

“O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands andjudged falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, evenaccording to your measure.  Repent, repent, for Death comethswiftly and maketh no long tarrying.  It shall come; itshall snatch men’s souls away, even as ye have torn away mymother’s soul, leaving no space for repentance.”

He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to thelittle town.

p.95“Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this placea place of heaps.  Ye shall run hither and thither, seekingsafety and finding none; for the arm of the Lord is stretched outstill because of the wickedness of the earth.  Woe, woe,woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people!  Woe, woe, woe, apeople hating righteousness and loving iniquity!  The Lordshall straightway destroy them from off the face of theearth.”

He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one andthen 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 herwretched den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayedlong by the else unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed besidehim.

Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said noprayer; for what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch whohad met her due, damned alike by God and man?

p. 96Martincame up to him.

“She was his mother,” he said, as if makingexcuse.

Hilarius stared in bewilderment.  His mother?  Ay,but an evil liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a goodwork in sending her to her own place.  He crossed himselfpiously at the thought of the near neighbourhood of devils busiedwith a thrice-damned soul.

Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and theFriar clung to him like a little child, for the strength of hisvision was spent.  They lay that night with a friendlyshepherd; but only one slept, and that one Hilarius.  He layon a truss of sweet-smelling hay, and dreamt of Wymondham andBrother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrouspictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine forest athome swept across his quiet sleep.

On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius wasall aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged p. 97himself withthe Friar at least as far as Norwich.

“As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly atanother’s bidding,” he said whimsically, and so theybade one another farewell never to meet again in this world: forMartin and the Friar went to Yarmouth, not Norwich, and therethey perished among the first when the east wind swept the Plaguethither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen.  AndHilarius—once again the Angel of the Lord stood in the pathof his desires.

CHAPTER VII
THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE

Hilarius fared but slowly; it wasill travelling on a high-road in good weather, but on across-road in the spring!—that was a time to commendoneself body and soul to the Saints.  He walked p. 98warily,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 pastonce kept a road.  The low land to his left was submerged, adesolate tract giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren,save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a sunken ship brokethe waste of waters.

The sight brought Hilarius’ thoughts sharply back to theevents of the evening before.  Wonderful indeed were thejudgments of God!  A witch—plainly proved to besuch—had been struck dead in the midst of her sins; andLondon, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap ofgraves.  Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and thejustice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham,there to learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt wouldjoyfully hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery.

Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his righta small p.99hamlet.  It lay some distance off his road, but hewas sharp-set, for the shepherd’s fare had been meagre; andso turned aside in the hope of an ale-house.  There was noside road visible, and he struck across the dank, marshy fieldsuntil he lighted on a rude track which led to the group ofcottages.  The place struck him as strangely quiet; no smokerose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously at astranger’s advent.  The first hovel he passed wasempty, the open door showed a fireless hearth.  At thesecond he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within.  Asno one answered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; thelow room was desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from acorner,—’twas a rat.  Hilarius turned away,sudden fear at his heart, and passed on, finding in each hovelonly empty silence.

Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhatlarger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above thedoor: it was the ale-house that he p. 100sought; here, at least, he wouldfind some one.  As he came up he heard a child crying, andlo! 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 awaythe grimy tears.

The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with ashrill cry of joy, she held out her thin arms.

At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the thresholdstood a woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at herbreast was a little babe.  She stared at Hilarius, and thenpulling the child to her in the doorway, waved him away.

“Stand off, fool!—’tis thePlague.”

Hilarius shrank back.

“And thy neighbours?” he asked.

“Nay, they were light-footed eno’ when they sawwhat was to do, and left us three to die like rats in ahole.”  Then eagerly: “Hast thou anybread?”

He shook his head.

p.101“Nay, I came here seeking some.  Art thouhungry?”

She threw out her hands.

“’Tis two days sin’ I had bite orsup.”

“Where lies the nearest village? and how far?”

“A matter of an hour, over yonder.”

“See, goodwife,” said Hilarius, “I will gobuy 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,” saidgentle Hilarius.

“Well, I will trust thee.”  She went in andreturned with a few small coins.  “’Tis all Ihave.  Tell no man whence thou art, else they will hunt theefrom their doors.”

Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he couldgo in the direction of the village.

The woman watched him.

“Is it fear or love that lends him that p.102pace?” she muttered, as she sat down to wait.

It was love.

Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the littlemoney he had to the woman’s scanty store, bought bread, aflask of wine, flour and beans, and a jug of milk.

“’Tis for a sick child,” he said when heasked for it, and the woman pushed back the money, bidding himGod-speed.

The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, becauseof his precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead ina snare, lay a fine coney.

“Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poormother!” cried Hilarius joyously, and added it to hisstore.

When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, shebroke into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as ifgiving up the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on thebed with her fast-failing babe in her arms.

Hilarius fed her carefully with bread p. 103andwine—not for nothing had he served the Infirmarian whenblood-letting had proved too severe for some weakBrother—and then turned his attention to the little maidwho sat patient, eyeing the food.

For her, bread and milk.  He sat down on a low stool, andtaking the child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping,bird-like mouth.  At last the little maid heaved a sigh ofcontent, leant her flaxen head against her nurse’sshoulder, and fell fast asleep.

Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, croonedsoftly to her, thrilling with tenderness.  She was his own,his little sister, the child he had found and saved.  SurelyOur Lady had guided him to her, and her great Mother-love wouldshield this little one from a foul and horrid death.  Inthat 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 thelittle pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under p. 104the closedeyes, and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by hermother.

The woman was half-asleep, but started awake.

“Art thou going?” she said, and despair gazed athim from her eyes.

“Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together,”he said soothingly.  “I would but kindle a fire, forthe cold is bitter.”

Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on thehearth.  The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose andcame to sit by it, and stretching out her thin hands to thegrateful warmth, told her tale.

“’Twas Gammer Harden’s son who first heardtell of a strange new sickness at Caxton’s; and then Jocellhad speech with a herd from those parts, who was fleeing to afree town, because of some ill he had done.  Next day Jocellfell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out ofboils, and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden fell sickand died likewise.  Then one cried ’twas the Plague,and p. 105thewrath of God; and they fled—the women to the nuns atBungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; but usthey 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, andperhaps because of it this evil hath fallen upon me.”

She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawnand shrunk with the stress of its short life.

Hilarius spoke gently:—

“It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Churchto live together out of holy wedlock, and perchance ’tistrue that for this very thing thou hast been afflicted, even asDavid the great King.  But since thou didst sin ignorantlythe 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 laysnared.  Let us pray God by His dear Mother to forgive usour sins and to have mercy on these little ones.”

p. 106Andkneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father forhis new-found family.

Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals wereshort.  Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and wenthungry, but at last the pinch came; the woman was too weak andill to walk, the babe scarce in life—there could be nothought of flight—and the little maid grew white, and wanand silent.  Then it came to Hilarius that he would onceagain beg food in the village where he had sought helpbefore.

He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might bethe better fed, and he was very sad.  When he reached thevillage he found his errand like to be vain.  News of thePlague was coming from many parts, and each man feared for hisown skin.  At every house they questioned him: “Artthou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?” and when heanswered “Yea,” the door was shut.

Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from theplace.  He gained p. 107the village cross, and prayed themfor love of the Saviour and His holy Rood to give him bread forhis little maid and her mother.  Let them set it in thestreet, he would take it and cross no man’sthreshold.  Surely they could not; for shame, let a littlechild die of want?

“Nay, ’tis better they die, so are we safe,”cried a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drovehim from the village with blows and curses.

Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chaseceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under ahedge.

A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with itsprey.  Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk hadnestlings waiting open-mouthed for food?  His littlemaid!  His eyes filled with tears as he thought of those whoawaited him.  He picked up a stone, and watched if perchancea coney might show itself.  He had never killed, but werenot his nestlings agape?

Nothing stirred, but along the road came p. 108a waggon ofstrange shape and gaily painted.

He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him helpin 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 couldpluck up heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a smallsack and a hen.  If he begged and was refused his littlemaid must die.  A minute later the sack and the hen hadchanged owners—but not unobserved; a clear voice called ahalt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and aboy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway—athief.

“Seize the knave!” cried the girl sharply.

Hilarius stared at her and she at him.  It was hisdancer, and she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress andscene, she knew him.

“What!  The worthy novice turned worldling andthief!  Nay, ’tis a rare jest.  What of thy finesermons now, good preacher?”

But Hilarius answered never a word; p. 109overcome byshame, grief, and hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.

When he came to himself he was sitting propped against thehedge; the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancerand her brother stood watching him.

“Fetch bread and wine,” said the girl, and toHilarius who tried to speak, “Peace, ’til thou hasteaten.”

Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancersaid:—

“Now tell thy tale.  Prithee, since when didst thouleave thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade asthis?”

Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he weptbecause of his little maid, and his were not the only tears.

The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much foodtaken from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack heldbut fodder.

“But, Gia,” grumbled her brother, “therewill be naught for us to-night.”

“Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry,” p. 110sheretorted, and filled a small sack with the victuals.

Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope.  She held itout 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 fellfast as he kissed them.

“Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hardwords in the forest?  God help me for a poor, blindfool!”

“Nay,” she answered, “there is naught toforgive; 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, andshouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my oldgrandam is in the other waggon and she will care forher.”

Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin,and yet greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness ofGod.

When he got back his little maid sat p. 111alone bythe fire.  He hastened to make food ready, but the child wasfar spent and would scarcely eat.  Then he went out to findthe woman.

He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and shecried to him to keep back.

“My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me.  Iwent 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 theinnocent.”

Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer himto bring her food, but she would not.

“Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; letme alone that I may die the sooner.”

Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night withthe little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sunwas high and the child awake.

p. 112Hefed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidingsof the poor mother.  He called, but no one answered; and thedoor of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stoodwide.  Then, as he searched the fields, fearing the feverhad driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch;and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead babe on herbreast.  She had lain down to die alone with God in thesilence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face waspeace.

Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother andbabe, 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 tospare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last shecould 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 puttiny morsels in her p. 113mouth she could not swallow; and sohe sat through the long hours, his little maid in his arms, withno thought beside.  The darkness came, and he waitedwide-eyed, praying for the dawn.  When the new day broke andthe east was pale with light he carried the child out that hemight see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him.  And itcame to pass that when the light kissed her little white face sheopened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.

The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as thewaggon drew near the place of Hilarius’ first and lasttheft: he was standing by the wayside alone.  The waggonpassed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once onhis face and asked no question.

p.115PART III
THE FRUIT

p.117CHAPTER I
HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!

The Monastery by the forest pursuedan even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity,for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terriblename.

True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summonedto Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to theSub-Prior.  For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiableman in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing ingovernment.  Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen uponBrother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hairand beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no littlescandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his p.118office.  He flouted the Chamberlain also, andBrother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren thatwhen he began to sing the Verba meaon leaving thechapter, the Convent—yea, even the novices—weresilent, to show their displeasure.

When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but saidlittle; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all thatappertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; andBrother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, hemade Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.

Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, hadslipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from hislonging gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blindreceive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer—but ofhim let us say little and think with charity; for ’tis tobe feared that he greatly abused his office and is come tojudgment.

p. 119Twoof the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who hadspent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls,sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for thesummer sunshine was very pleasant to them.

“Since Brother Thomas died—” began BrotherPaul.

“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculatedBrother Anselm.

“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paulagain—a little impatiently, though he crossed himselfpiously enough—“methinks the provisions have oft beenscanty and far from tempting, Brother.”

“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. “Methinks our Cellarer draws the half of it from theConvent’s well.”

They shook their heads sadly.

“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a shortsilence, “our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honestin the performance of his office—while Brother Thomas,alack—”

p.120“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss alsoin his duties,” said Brother Paul.  “The Prior,holy man, perceives nothing of these things.  OnSunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess inthe refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet heate the meat in great content, and seemingly withappetite.”

“He is but young, he is but young—sixty comeMichaelmas—sixty, and twenty-two yearsPrior—’tis a long term,” and Brother Anselmnodded his head.

“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” saidBrother Paul, “whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babesneeding pap-meat.  Brother Thomas—God rest hissoul!—was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to theelder Brethren.”

“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” saidBrother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums.  “Thinkyou ’twould be well to speak of this matter to thePrior?”

“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is everagainst any store being set on the things of p. 121thisworld—‘’tis well for the greater discipline ofthe flesh,’ so saith he ever.  Still he hath forbiddenthe blood-letting to us elder Brethren.”

“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomasdied,” said Brother Anselm ruefully.

“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonishhim—maybe he will hear a word in season,” and the twoold monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer’s office asPrior Stephen came down the cloister walk.

He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, butgovernment sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary,and the line of the lips showed care.  His thoughts werebusy with Hilarius.  It was now full six years that the ladhad left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his goingno news had come of him, save that he never reached StAlban’s.  Had the Plague gathered him as it gatheredmany another well-beloved son?  Or had the awakening provedtoo sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?

p. 122Hepassed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the liliesthat Hilarius had loved so well.  He looked at the row ofnameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial;last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and theblind monk’s dying speech had been of the lad whose face hehad strained his eyes to see.

Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent ofMary’s flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius atthe gate.  He stretched out his hands with the strangepathetic gesture of a strong man helpless.  It was allpassing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in thegentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturingfruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in thewarm summer sunshine.  Peace and prosperity everywhere; theold Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowlyskywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of theLord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness,and for the exceeding p. 123longing that he had for the boywhose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her littlehand.

Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things ofthis world to the service of Christ and the Church!  Onceagain he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he wouldfast and pray and wait.

The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the stillsummer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to hisplace.

“Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultationemetent,” chanted the deep voices of the monks, andPrior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in thePsalmody.

“Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes seminasua.  Venientes autem venient cum exultationeportantes manipulos suos.”

He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but theharvesting was not yet.

p.124CHAPTER II
MARY’S LILIES

It came to pass upon a certain dayscarce a se’nnight later, that Prior Stephen was troubledin his mind by reason of a dream which came to him.

It happened on this wise.  He was sitting by his windowafter the noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dearson.  The song of the bees busy in the herb-garden was verypleasant to his ear, the warm, still air overcame him, and heslept.  Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice heknew 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 outinto the garth, and lo! under the lilies Hilarius laysleeping.  The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his heartleaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of grassthat lay between the cloister and the farmery door.

p. 125As hewatched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftlyfrom the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved,and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for itwas a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within theMonastery precincts.  He strove to cry, but his voice diedon his lips, and his feet were as lead.

The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, andstooped to arouse him, but he slept on.  She called him, andher voice was as the calling of the summer sea on a shelvingbeach; but Hilarius gave no heed.  Then, in greatimpatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay;and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred andcried out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster.  Ofa sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free.  He strode tothe woman’s side: there was but one lily left.  Helaid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him:and she p.126fell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry offear—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 havemercy!”  And sighing heavily he took his way to thegreat Rood and made supplication for his son.

Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces ofFlorence, there stood a woman of fair stature, withtight-clenched hands, whose many jewels bit the tenderflesh.  Her russet eyes flashed under threatening brows, herteeth held fast the curling upper lip.  Great, alack! washer fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels cravingfavour.  Great was her wealth: a golden piece for everyruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee.  Herbeauty—nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape thetorment of her look.  She stood in the curtained doorway, aheavy purple hanging at her back; and p. 127the man who awaited her paled as hesaw her vengeful face.

It was Hilarius.  He drew himself up to the full of hisslender height, and bowed.

Panting a little, the woman came towards him across themany-hued marble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of greatwhite lilies caught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and faced him in the sunnysilence.  Across the pause the Angelus sounded from a churchhard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the stillnessfled before a woman’s scornful laugh.

“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly,“is ours to be a war of signs and silence?  I haveheard thy lips were ready enough with judgment, though they haltat a love-phrase.  By Our Lady, if all that is said of theebe true, I will e’en have thee whipped at the gibbet forthy gibes!  Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee;’tis a last asking.  Wilt thou paint this face of minethat is, it seems, p.128so little to thy liking?  Strain not my patienceover much—’tis a slender cord at best, and somewhattried already.  Speak, is it yea or nay?”

Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruisedand scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer camelow 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 theSignor’s reason?”

Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.

“It lies there.”

For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness ofher cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and shestammered in her wrath:—

“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to myface—to me, who stooped to ask when I had but tocommand?  I, with p. 129my unmatched beauty; I, who hold thehearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom menkneel as to their God!  Art thou mad, mad, that thou canstset aside such a behest as mine?  ’Tis small wondermen say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the talethey brought savoured of little else.  Hear me, thouprating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn thisface of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard offorgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend myserving-men to whip thee through the streets.  Men, saidI?  Nay, thou art too much a cur to make fit sport for men:rather my maids shall wield the rod and lace thyshoulders.”

She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where thepeacocks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited,dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had noword.

There was silence a while.

p. 130Thenthe Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting ofa 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 fragrancefilled the air, as their living breath had flooded the senses ofthe blind-eyed lad at the Monastery gate.

One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marblewas yellow with stolen gold.

Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death someliving thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolentfeet.

It was done; and she looked at him under questioningbrows.

“So much for thy lilies!  Dost still think that itwill soil thy brush to limn such an one as I?  I, whom mencall the Queen of Love—but thy lips, say they, burnt withanother name!  Bethink thee, faint heart, there is not a manin all this p.131city but would count death a small price to pay for myfavours; and I ask of thee one little service, and thou shaltname thine own reward.  Surely ’tis churlish togainsay!”

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 sobswelled the round of her wonderful throat—“and yethow couldst thou call me wanton?”  Her mouth drooped alittle—she was very fair.

“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowersagainst the roses in love’s garden?  For I lovethee,” she added, and then suddenly she was still.

Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in herover-mastering beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hidin the heart of every man leapt to his lips.  He desiredthis woman as he had never before desired aught in all the world,p. 132and heknew, to his shame, that she was his for the asking.  Theblood thudded and rang in his veins; he feasted his eyes on thecurve of her neck and the radiance of her sun-swept hair. He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised awhite, terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder.

“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrillwith fear, “who touched me?”  And she sprang toher feet.

There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as theystared into each other’s eyes across the dyinglilies.  Hilarius shrank back and covered his face with hishands.  Clear and distinct he heard the Prior’s voice:“A light woman—a light woman.”

Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” andwithout word or look Hilarius went.

The Prior rose from his knees comforted.  He had wrestledwith the devil for his son’s soul, and knew that he hadprevailed.

p.133CHAPTER III
OPEN EYES AT THE GATE

Another year wrote its record onforest and field.  The weeks passed; summer sped to autumn,the ripe corn bowed to the sickle.  The Convent’slands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; and the Prior,watching the last great wain piled high with wealth of goldentreasure, saw the porter coming to him.

Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hastyspirit; and the Prior knew something was amiss by reason of hishurried gait and wrathful countenance.

“Domine,” he gasped, “Domine, there is aragged man at the gate, a vagabond by his own showing, and hecraves speech of thee.  I bade him go to the guest-house,but he will not budge, and hath waited already an hour despitemy—”

The porter stayed, staring; he spoke p. 134to thewind; the Prior was already halfway to the gate.

“This my son was dead and is alive again,” sanghis heart.  The porter, afraid, hasted after him with thekeys, and had scarce time to do his office ere the sunburntvagabond was clasped in the Prior’s arms.  It was aharvesting indeed.

That night Hilarius went across to the Prior’s house totell the tale of his journeyings.  He found him seated in agreat oak chair by the open window; the sky was ablaze withstars, and the flame of the oil lamp jarred like a splash ofyellow paint on the moonlight which flooded the room; thePrior’s eyes smiled measureless content, and the murmured“Laus Deo” of his lips voiced the gladness ofhis heart.  Thus, in the shelter of peace and a great love,Hilarius told his tale, while the forest waved a welcome to himover the Monastery wall, and the late lilies burned white in thegarth below.

The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on thelad’s face, pale against p. 135the dark wainscot; and Hilarius toldof his journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath beenrecorded in this chronicle; and the Prior’s eyes were wetas he heard of the little maid.

“And then, my son?” said the Prior.

“Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk asfar as the sea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas inthe train of my lord Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who washasting to Rome.  He knew thee, my Father, and bade hispeople supply my needs.”

“Ay, he knows me,” said the Prior briefly. “The Lord reward him according to his works, but show himmercy forasmuch as he had compassion on my son!”

“Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteouscity full of treasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father Idid not see, being let.  Methinks life in that country is asone long pageant; but I marked that great holiness and an evillife, much riches and much penury, dwelt there side by side, andmen reeked little p.136of death but much of pleasure.  Then one bade mego to Florence an I would be a limner; therefore I hastedthither, and gave my last coin for bread as I entered thecity.”

The Prior’s brows contracted; the lad had seen someschooling.

“But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?”

“Ay, my Father, in God’s time: at first I mustherd goats and sell melons in the market-place for a lump ofbread.  Day by day I strove to gain enough to buy colours,but could not, for the Lord sent me ever a neighbour poorer thanmyself.  Nevertheless I was of good courage, knowing theLord’s ways are not as ours; and mindful how BrotherAmbrose held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laid with faircolours ’twere no sin to deem that a man may limn perfectpictures there, for the gift is from the Lord.”

“My son, ’tis a great lesson thou hastlearnt,” said the Prior, “for the Word was madeFlesh; and as Blessed John hath it, p. 137a man cannot love God unseen, if helove not the brother whom He hath given him.  What next,dear lad?”

“My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger tome.  One day a great limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione,whom men call d’Orcagna, stayed by me where I stood with mymelons in the shadow of the Shepherd’s Tower, and bade mefollow him to his house, for he would fain use me for anangel’s head in the great Altar-piece he was e’enthen concerned with for the Church of the White Friars. Later he heard my story; and when he found I had some small skillwith the brush, he kept me with him, and taught me as only suchan one can teach: him I served five years.  And many timesSatan desired my soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, butthe Lord was with me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I will speak anon, at my shriving, as ismeet.”

The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, andHilarius took up his tale.

p.138“Then one day my master cried there was an end toteaching; nevertheless he would have me bide with him in honourfor the work.  But my heart was full of longing for home andthe scent of the forest; and, above all, for thee, my Father;therefore I set my face north, that I might bring back my gift toSt Benedict and our Church; and should have been here long erethis, but I was let by the way.”

The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled atthe question in his face.

“’Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadowof the great mountains beyond Florence; and I was taken byrobbers, who bore me and others of our company to their fastnessin the hills: there I lay in a little cave many days; but whatbefell the rest I know not.  The robbers brought me forth toserve them, and by God’s mercy handled me kindly, thoughthey thought little of bloodshedding.

“Then one of them was troubled in his p. 139spirit, andminded to forsake this evil manner of life.  Therefore onenight he fled, carrying me with him, when the others had goneforth; and we made good our way to Mantua.  There Pietro,for so was the robber called, left me that he might give himselfto the service of God and men, inasmuch as he had formerly abusedthem.  Never saw I man so changed, my Father; his speech,formerly profane, was all of God and the Saints; he did penanceand confessed his sins publicly; ay, by the Justice’s orderhe received one hundred lashes in the market-place, and at everylash he cried with upturned face, ‘DeoGratias!’  And I was there, because he besought ofme to stand in the crowd and pray for him that his courage failednot.  But it came to pass that even the people marvelled athis joyful endurance; and indeed ’twas more like ascourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poor sinfulrobber.  After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, forsuch was his desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved hisblessing.”

p.140“The Lord fulfil all his mind!” said thePrior with clasped hands.

“Amen,” said Hilarius.

“Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, myson?”

“Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good andkindly men by the way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; butat Genoa I took service with a merchant then beginning hisjourney, and travelled with him through Flanders, a strange, flatcountry with many canals and tall poplar trees; and so we came toBruges in safety, after a most prosperous course.  There hecommended me to a good friend of his, a wool merchant travellingto Salisbury; and at first all things went well with us; butlater the winds proved contrary, and we were driven hither andthither in great peril of our lives, but at last made the BristolChannel, and so came safe into port.  Thence I have comehither afoot begging my bread.”

When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his armsand blessed him p.141for his dear son; praising God that the lad had comeback a child at heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed.

Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drankthe wine of the “wayfaring man,” his heart merry forthe joy of his home-coming.  When the Lady-Mass was ended heknelt on in her Chapel.

“Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thinefrom thy poor son,” sang his heart; and then he prayed forhis little maid.

CHAPTER IV
THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN

The Convent welcomed Hilariusgladly, and on the Feast of St Michael he made his profession,for the Prior deemed that he had served his noviciate and beenfound faithful; and the Brethren assented eagerly, for they p. 142were fainto keep this wondrous limner for the service of their ownChurch.

Then, by the Prior’s command, Hilarius set himself tolimn a great picture for the High Altar.  It was aCrucifixion, and all his heart and all his love were in it. When the Brethren first saw the fair proportion and fine coloursthat Hilarius brought to the work, they rejoiced in that theirChurch should be glorified above other Churches of the Order; butwhen the picture was near completing, and they gazed up into thewondrous face of the Great King who looked down from the throneof His triumphant suffering, with a world of hunger and love inHis eyes for those who had so enthroned Him, they hung theirheads for shame because of the emulation in their hearts; and lo!the Cellarer, for very love, was careful for the needs of theelder Brethren; and the monks, for very love, laid hold gladly ofsuffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and lived together inunity.

In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set agrey-eyed girl, a woman with p. 143a babe at the breast, and clingingto her skirts, a little flaxen-headed maid.  None but thePrior knew the meaning of these three, and their names, with thatof a poor light-o’-love, were ever on his lips when heoffered the Holy Sacrifice.

Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved ofall his world.  The years sped, and he became in turnAlmoner, Novice-master, and Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, forhe reckoned himself ever as least of all and servant of all.

Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Conventwisely and well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, hiscall coming as it might be straight from the mouth of theLord.

On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter andsaid as always: “The souls of the deceased brethren andbelievers rest in peace!” to which the Convent replied,“Amen.”  Then with his hands raised tobless he cried, “Benedicite,” and again withloud and joyful voice “Domine,” and again,“Domine!” as of one who answers to his p.144name—and so passed to his place in the Kingdom ofChrist.

The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, whichelection the Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace.

Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of theexceeding beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom hetaught, set fair pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roofwith the blue of heaven and gold of the wakeful stars.  Inthe span over the High Altar he set Blessed Benedict himself withthe face of Prior Stephen, and round him the angel virtues; evenas one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had limned them in the Church ofthe Little Brothers.

Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of OurLady above the Altar in her Chapel.  Long did he pray withever-increasing fervour and much fasting that this boon might bevouchsafed him for her glory and the Convent’s greatergood.  And one day—’twas her Nativity—heset his hand to the work, for it seemed to him that she p. 145would haveit so; and he was greatly humbled that such heavenly kindnessshould attend so vile a sinner.  Day by day he set apartsome hours for this service; and he limned a face so fair andradiant, with woman’s love and light of heaven, that it waswhispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely beenblessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Motherin so wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well givecredence to such a story, for the joy that shone in thePrior’s eyes and might not be hid.

Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, butsoftly, for he would hear no word of his own deeds or the favoursvouchsafed him.

When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round himcrooning their peace-note; and it was told that the kine in themeadows ceased browsing when he passed, and needs must companywith him a little way.

Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavysickness by reason of p. 146the sun’s great heat; andSatan strove with him for his undoing, so that the poor soulfoamed at the mouth and roared out blasphemy; yea, verily, andmust be held with cords also, lest he do himself or his fellowssome grievous hurt.  But when the Prior laid his handbetween 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 thevillages round had aught against his neighbour he would come tothe Prior for a just hearing.

Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent’s peacebegan to be troubled.  Men sought the Monastery for itsfamous name, caring but little for religion; there were manyyoung novices within its walls, and the strong hand of PriorStephen was lacking.  Hilarius was of gentler build; hewould speak ever in love, thinking no evil, whereas it is notgiven to all men to understand that tongue.  So it came top. 147passthat the younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and the elderBrethren murmured.

CHAPTER V
“GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TOUNDERSTAND THE VISION.”—DAN. viii. 16.

One day the Novice-master, BrotherAdam, a most worthy man, came in sore trouble to the Prior andwould resign his office.

“Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned broodfind shelter in a monastery!” he cried.  “Theygrow fat, idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never at peace amongthemselves; never a Pater or an Ave too many, or a taskfulfilled, save for fear of stripes.  I would that the timeof blood-letting were here that their high stomachs might bebrought low.  I am no longer young, my Father, and thisburden tries me sorely.  Prithee, let it be shifted toanother and a stronger back.”

p. 148ThePrior listened with many an inward mea culpa. “’Tis a sad hearing, Brother Adam, but young blood ishard of mastering; maybe this ill mood will pass.  The ladRobert is surely ever gentle and decorous?  He hath a mostbeauteous 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.  Hewill sing an it please him—or when thou art by, myFather,—but, an it please him not, he is silent; ay, evenunder grievous stripes.  The Precentor giveth him asnegligent and ill-conditioned; and in choir, when he looketh mostlike to one of God’s Saints, he is but plotting mischieffor the day.”

The Prior heard him sadly.

“And Hubert?” he said.  “Hubertmethinks hath a great love of colour and a fine hand with thebrush.”

Brother Adam was almost speechless.

“Hubert!  Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but eventhis very Hubert but yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles intoBrother p.149Edmund’s mess, whereby he was like to break histeeth or take some more grievous hurt.  And indeed the peaceof the Brethren is much troubled, wherefore they complainbitterly.”

“Young blood, young blood, but not of necessityevil,” said the Prior.  Then, seeing theNovice-master’s aggrieved face, he bade him have patienceyet a little, for he himself would speak to the novices; and withthis 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 madecurious by it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it maybe, long after.  Even thus it happened on this day in theChapter; and when Prior Hilarius was gathered to his rest theBrethren remembered how they had marked and marvelled at thestrange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one who sees theface of the Lord.

“My children,” he cried—“for mychildren p.150ye are, though I see among you many it were morefitting I should hail as father, but that the ruling of the Lordcannot be gainsaid—my children, I am minded to think that Ihave 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 wastroubled.

“‘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, sprangup 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 Hehath called thee these many times,’ and so saying passedfrom my sight.

“Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and madehaste to the Church lest peradventure I should find Him; but thelamps burnt dim and all was silent.  Then I turned aside andwent out into the night, and it was very dark, with no sound butthe wind in the forest trees.

p.151“My heart was a-hungered, and I sought incloister and garth; and as I hasted to the gate I cried aloud,even as she cried who sought Him in a garden—‘Theyhave taken away my Lord.’

“At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for asign; and lo, in the darkness one came and led me by the handaway from the gate, across the garth and up the dormitory stair,nor loosed me until I passed within where the Brethren laysleeping, and the chamber was bright with exceeding radiance.

“I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: hisface was wet with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulderthe mark of many stripes.

“Again, one took my hand and led me from one to anotherof our Brethren, and on every face lay the shadow of a greatneed, but in every face there was somewhat of the Christ; and thelesson burnt in my heart.

“Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boyRobert; but I fled, for p. 152I might not see Him; and I awokesore troubled—ay, and the trouble is on me still.

“My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came tome.  Great is the rule of Benedict, our Father, and in itstripes, grievous and many as our sins, have their rightfulplace; but mayhap we forget that love, and love alone, shouldstrike.  Ay, and I mind me how Prior Stephen, my Father,said that to be monk a man must learn before all things to hungerand to love.  Love should draw the water and build the fire,till the field and attend the sanctuary; and hunger we shouldcherish in our hearts, hunger for righteousness and for the soulsof 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 andthrive, and the end is shame and confusion.

“I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that theLord is at hand: let us see that we love while there is yettime.”

Then he turned to the novices and p. 153stretched out his hands to wherethey stood amazed, and it may be ashamed—not after thismanner 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 thisservice.  Better far go forth, yea, even to death, than mockthe Lord with froward feet and a heart that is full ofvanity.  Remember the sacrifice which Cain offered and theLord rejected, for he gainsayed the voice of the Lord anddisobeyed His Commandment; wherefore the wrath of God fell uponhim.

“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 athief in the night, and lo! stripes bitter and many await thatservant whom the Master finds sleeping.”

Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised hishand to bless, and went forth in silence; and no man stirred inhis place, for they knew that the Lord had spoken and wereafraid.

p.154CHAPTER VI
THE HUNGER OF DICKON THEWOODMAN

June was at an end, and men criedaloud for rain.  The hedges were white, the fields scorchedand brown; the leaves fell from the trees as at autumn’stouch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry and twisted on thebough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud.

Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and ascrap of mouldy bacon.  There was no sound but the howl of adog from some neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood,his bill-hook beside him, brooding over his wrongs; for the worldhad 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 worsething had befallen him; his gold was gone—his gold to whichhe had no right, for ’twas blood-money, the food of p. 155hischildren, ay, and something beside; but Dickon loved that goldpiece above all the world—above Heaven and his ownsoul—and it was gone.

A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place whichhe 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 goldscarce a month back at the fair.  Maybe it was Thomas thecharcoal burner had served him this ill turn; or WilliamCrookleg, 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 theforest, and crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior mightsay ’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 thevillage green he found men and women, for the most part asill-clad as himself, p. 156standing about in groupsgossiping.  The innkeeper lounged at the ale-house door,thin and peaked as his fellows; there was no good living for anyman in those parts, by reason of the over-lord who sore oppressedthem.

A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorryhorse by the bridle, was talking eagerly.

“Nay, ’tis true eno’, and three crows saw Ithis very day on the churchyard wall—it bodes ill to someof us.”

“Well, well,” said the innkeeper, “have itthine own way.  Methinks the ill hath outrun the omen, forthere will be naught for man or beast shortly—but finepickings 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 itthat some further evil is upon us—tho’ methinks wehave got our fill and to spare with this drought—ay, and’twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw thecorpse-light.”

p.157“Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, andnaught to fill them,” said Dickon surlily. “Whither away, Robin?  ’Tis not far this beastwill travel.”

“Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest pennywith the carcass,” answered the little man; “give memy reckoning, friend John.  I must needs haste if I wouldsee the Forester’s ere nightfall.”

He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece.  WhenDickon saw it his eyes gleamed.  Robin paid the reckoningand put the piece in his cheek.

“Hard-earned money—’tis blood out of a stoneto draw wages from my master.  Better it should light in mybelly than in a rogue’s pocket.  ’Tis as wellfor me that John o’ th’ Swift-foot swings at thecross-roads.  Godden, my masters!”  And leadinghis weary beast, he took the road that skirted the forest.

The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonelyway before him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would notrise.

p.158“A murrain on the beast!” muttered Robinangrily, tugging in vain at the creature on whom death had takenpity.  “I must e’en leave him by the wayside andtell Richard what hath befallen.”

He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task aman slipped from the shadow of the hedge into the quietmoonlight.  There was a thud, a dull cry, and Robin fellprone across the horse’s neck—a pace beyond him inthe moonlight shone the gleam of gold.

Next day Dickon’s child died, ay, and the other fivefollowed with scant time between the buryings.  Another hadfathered them and filled the gaping mouths; but men shuddered athis care, for it was the Black Death that they had deemed farfrom them.

Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green.  News hadcome of Robin—he was dead when they found him—but noman gave heed.  Death was in the air, death held them safein walls they might not scale.  The heavens were brass, foodp. 159failedfor man and beast, God and man alike had forsaken them.  Theforest lay one side, the river, now but a shallow sluggishstream, lay the other; ’twas a cleft stick and the springetightened.

No evil had as yet befallen Dickon.  He stood with therest and murmured, cursing.  All at once he made for theale-house.

“Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats whenthere is liquor enough and to spare in yon cellars.  He whois minded to go dry throat to Heaven had best make haste; for meI will e’en swill a bucket to the devil’s health, andso to hell.”

Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host whostrove to bar the door.  Some of the women fell on theirknees and clamoured in half delirious prayer; the rest slunkdismayed to their pestilent homes.

p.160CHAPTER VII
THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THEMORNING

Meanwhile, news came to theMonastery of the ill case of the village, for it lay scarce aleague away across the forest; but the pine-trees stood asguardian angels in between.

The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the rulingof Blessed Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told thetidings.

Then he went on to give reason for their assembling.

“My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leavethese poor, stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding;moreover, in their fear and desolation, they may flee to othervillages, and so the terror and pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch as Charity is greater than Faith orHope, so it is greater than p. 161obedience also.  Wherefore Ipurpose to set aside the Rule of our Order in the letter that Imay hold to it in the spirit, and go forth to serve theseperishing brethren; and I will take with me whosoever hears thecall of God in this visitation.”

When he had made an end, there was silence in theChapter.  Break cloister, the Prior himself urging themthereto?  The Convent might scarce credit its ears.

Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on hiswhite face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have itstriumph.

Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and sevennovices sprang also to their feet.

“Nay, Brother Walter,” said Hilarius, turning tothe Sub-Prior, “this flock must have its shepherd also; thyplace is here.  But I will take with me Brother Simon andBrother Leo, who will doubtless suffice at first for theministry, and—” smiling at thenovices—“all these dear lads to tend the sick andbury the dead.”

p. 162TheSub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance.

“Good Father, it is not fitting that thoushould’st go on such an errand; send me in thy stead, formy life is a small thing as compared with thine.  Moreoverthese novices, ’tis but the other day the Master gave themas lazy and ill-conditioned, and—”

The Prior held up his hand.

“Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care forme; but my call has come.  As for these—” hestretched out his hand towards the waitingnovices—“maybe they are in the wrong school, and theLord hath even opened the door that they may serve Him, perchancedie for Him, elsewhere.  And shall I count myself wiser thanPrior Stephen, who set me without the gate to learn mylesson?  Let us go in peace, my children, for we are aboutthe Lord’s business.”

Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, thelittle band embraced p. 163their brethren and set out, ladenwith food and wine and herbs from the farmery; and the Priorappointed a place to which the Convent should send daily allthings 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.  TheBrethren chanted the Gradual Psalms as they paced two and twothrough the sun-lit aisles, full of the Prior’s memories;and he looked up again to see Our Lady’s robe across thetree-tops.  Then all at once the Psalm broke, and BrotherSimon, who was leading, stayed suddenly.

Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthyrags; his hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyessunk, his lips drawn apart in a ghastly grin.  Hilarius madehaste to kneel beside him, and lo! sudden remembrance lighted thefast-glazing eyes, but his own answered not.

“My son, my son,” said the Prior, and p. 164his voicewas very pitiful, “thou art indeed in evil case; let meshrive thee ere it be too late.”

He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavyhead upon his shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of theparched lips.

At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reachedhim.

“The Convent’s hens!”

The Prior stared amazed; then once more the labouredvoice—

“Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?”

Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years werewiped away.

“Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorryplight!  But see, stay not thy shriving, for the time isshort, and the Lord ever ready to pardon.”

The man strove in vain to speak.  At last he said quiteclearly: “I hunger,” and so saying died.

The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt inprayer, while the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, p.165and lo! before him lay the open glade where hisschooling had begun, and he had seen a flower incarnate dance inthe wind.

He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of theglade under fallen branches until they could return and give himburial.  Then, as they went on their way, he told the taleof his little maid; and when the telling was ended, the villagethey had come to succour was in sight, and lo! they saw itthrough a mist.

CHAPTER VIII
“BEHOLD THE FIELDS AREWHITE”

The Prior’s heart was ready,and it seemed to him as he passed up the village and saw thehuddled, helpless people, that his little maid led him by thehand.

Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside tospeak comfort and carry succour to the sick and fearful, p. 166and to burythe dead; for three unshriven souls had passed to judgment andmercy.  Hilarius made straight for the ale-house.

As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbledblindly down the steps.  At sight of a monk he cried out,and suddenly sobered, dropped on his knees, while the topers androysterers staring from the open doorway fell into silence.

Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in thescorching sun of that windless day; it came to his mind that hewas very weary.

“Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succouryou, lest ye go down quick into the pit.  Return, every oneof you, for the arms of His love are still stretched wide uponthe Rood, and the very hairs of your head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confess each one of you his sins, thatI may prepare him for the work of the Lord; and take comfortalso, for they that are with us are mighty.”

One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise,confessed and were p.167shriven under the summer sun: only the man Dickon wasnot among them.  Then the Prior bade them get to work as heshould direct; and he set a watch that no man should flee thevillage; and all obeyed him.

Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his bandof workers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroyingthe pestilent dwellings.

Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answeredit like a soldier at his post.

As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one badehim come quickly, for a dying man had need of him.  It wasDickon.

The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made hasteto the hovel where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce couldhear his muttered words; but lo! when he would place the Host hecould not, for a gold piece lay on the man’s tongue. The Prior drew back dismayed, and behold, the Lord’s handstruck swiftly, and Dickon p. 168died with a barren shriving—onwhom 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’sarms, heard it as he passed, and fell back, joy on his lips and aradiant 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 therewas no need to call further help from the Monastery, for thePlague was stayed.  Never had cloistered monks spent such astrange season; rarely such a blessed one.

The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and thePrior was minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxiousConvent, for his work was done.

Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when thetidings reached them; joy too for those who lay not in theshelter of the cloister garth, but, as it were, on the p. 169battlefieldwhere they had given their lives for their brethren.

The holy day dawned without a cloud.  A strong west windbowed the pines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang forjoy, because of the face of the Lord.  The sun burnt brightin the great blue dome, and earth shone with pale reflection ofhis glory.

The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched tocatch the signal from the lay-brother posted without.  Atlast the word came that voices were heard in the distance; andmonks and novices hastened two and two to the gate.  On thewind was borne the sound of a chant.

“’Tis a dirge for those that are gone,” saidBrother Anselm; and crossing themselves, the Brothers chanted outthe sonorous response:

“Et luxperpetua luceat eis.”

As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited forcame slowly down the forest pathway.

p. 170FourBrothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore a rudebier of pine-branches.

This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughs for his last bed; Mary’s lilies aglowfor 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 theeast, for his time had come; and they obeyed in sore grief andperplexed.  Prior Hilarius lay and watched for the light,and as dawn parted night’s veil with the long foregleam ofthe coming day, he shut his eyes like a tired child and wenthome.

It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Priorcried through his tears:—

“Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dearson.”

They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid himon his forest-bed p.171under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing thetender smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another,“The Prior hath found his little maid.”  And theConvent made Hilarius a wondrous fair tomb of alabaster inlaidwith gold, and carved him lying thereon with Mary’s liliesacross his breast.