Bertrand’s Dream
It was midnight, and all was still in the castle save the ghostly
hooting of an owl from some half-ruined turret above, and the long,
dreary howl of a prowling wolf from the gloomy wood below.
But Bertrand du Guesclin, tired as he was, and still as was all around
him, had never felt less inclined to sleep. The yet uncooled excitement
of the first life-and-death struggle in which he had ever been engaged,
the wonderful and dazzling prospect opened to his fiery spirit by the
mysterious prediction of that day, above all, the inspiring thought
that his courage had actually been owned to some extent, however
ungraciously, even by those who had hitherto despised him, pulsed
through his veins like living fire, and banished all thought of slumber.
Fevered and restless, the future champion of France at length thrust
his heated face through the narrow window into the cool night-air, and
was watching the rising moon peep timidly above the black, whispering
tree-tops, when his mother’s voice was heard below—
“Assuredly Bertrand is indeed destined to great honour, for, had but
one of these two spoken it, it must needs have been truth. How much
more when they are both in one tale!”
The listening boy started, and held his breath to hear. What could his
mother mean by “both”?
“Thou art right, dame,” replied Sir Yvon’s harsh tones, “for St. Thomas
the Doubter himself, I ween, could find in this matter no room for
unbelief. Bertrand goes forth at hazard into the wood, and meets there
the pilgrim monk; and he, who knoweth the future as I know the blazonry
of mine own escutcheon, tells the boy that he is chosen of Heaven to be
the champion of the land! On the same day, and at the same hour, thou,
knowing nought of all this, goest to yonder convent; and lo! the holy
Sister Agnes, in whom is the spirit of prophecy, welcomes thee as one
favoured of Heaven, and gives thee joy for that Bertrand is fated to be
the glory of our house and of the whole realm of France. Who shall
gainsay such testimony as that?”
The boy’s heart throbbed as if it would burst; for, though he had known
of his mother’s purposed visit to the convent that day, this was the
first that he had heard of its result.
The strange message was confirmed, then! Twice in one day had his
future greatness been foretold by tongues that could not lie; and, like
his favourite hero, King David, he was singled out by the choice of God
Himself to be exalted from a nameless youth into the deliverer of his
people! What more could heart desire?
In the tumult of his feelings, the excited lad failed to catch his
mother’s answer; but he heard plainly his father’s gruff tones in reply.
“How he is e’er to be famed in knightly arms, I see not, for he is too
clumsily shapen for lance or saddle; and, moreover, with that Saracen
face of his (which hath the fashion of the demons in our mystery-plays)
how shall he e’er get him a lady-love? And what true knight can duly do
his devoir (duty) without one?”
Again the boy missed his mother’s reply; but its purport was easy to
guess from Sir Yvon’s growling rejoinder—
“Anger me not with thine ill-bodings, foolish wench. Heaven forbid that
son of mine should ever be scholar or maker (poet), or any such useless
vagabond! Methinks there is little fear of it, for, thank God, he can
neither read nor write; so far, at least, he is a true Du Guesclin!”
Such was indeed the case, for the fourteenth-century gentleman prided
himself even more on his utter ignorance of letters than his
counterpart in our day on his knowledge of them.
“Moreover,” went on the worthy castellan, striving to fortify himself
with every assurance against the dreaded risk of his son degenerating
into an educated man, “the boy himself saith Brother Michael’s words
were, ‘The champion of this land;’ and in what wise should any champion
aid his land, save with hand and weapon? ’Tis not with parchment and
goose-feather, I trow, that men beat back sword and lance; nor is it
with musty maxims stolen from dead men that one setteth armies in
array. Nay, look not downcast, sweet; I meant not to chide thee,
howbeit thy words chafed my rough humour somewhat. Break we now our
parle, for it waxeth late, and it is full time we were sleeping.”
And their voices died away.
Sir Yvon and his lady might have been less slow of belief could they
have looked forward into the future barely the space of one long
lifetime, to the day when France, in her sorest need, was to find a
champion and deliverer, not in a strong and daring young noble, but in
a gentle, dreamy, child-like peasant girl of Lorraine, who was destined
to lead great armies to victory, capture strong cities, defeat great
generals in battle after battle, and hand down to the admiration of all
ages, so long as the world should last, the glorious name of Joan of
Arc.
But all this was still in the unknown future; and the many perils then
darkening over France might well have seemed, even to a shrewder brain
than that of the rugged old Breton knight, to call for a far abler
champion than a passionate, headstrong, untaught boy of fourteen.
Within the realm, the smouldering rage of the trampled peasantry
against the merciless oppression of the French nobles was gathering
strength year by year, and was destined to explode ere long in that
terrific outbreak that ante-dated the worst horrors of the French
Revolution, and made all Europe shudder at the name of the Jacquerie.
Without, the fiery young English king, Edward III., was already
preparing to strike the first blow of that tremendous war which was to
waste the best blood of France and England for many a year after his
death. And to crown all, whereas England was as one man in her
eagerness for the coming strife, France was fatally divided against
herself, the king against the nobles, the nobles against each other,
and the trampled people against both; and even the clergy were
similarly divided between two rival popes, some adhering to Pope
Clement of Rome, others to Pope Benedict of Avignon.
Long did Bertrand sit musing on such rumours of these things as had
come to his ears, and on the strange twofold prophecy that had marked
himself as the only one who could stay the tide of ruin that was about
to overwhelm his country. It was long past midnight ere he closed an
eye; and even when his growing weariness overpowered him at last, the
wild thoughts that had troubled his waking hours still haunted him in a
dream.
He dreamed that he was making his way, slowly and painfully, through
the pathless depths of a dark forest, amid which one solitary break
gave him a glimpse of the walls and towers of a distant town. Suddenly
rose before him the shadowy outline of a strange and monstrous shape,
so dim in itself, and so faintly seen amid the gloomy twilight of the
overarching trees, that he could hardly tell if it were a mighty
serpent, or a long line of armed men marching in single file, till, all
at once, a flash of fire sprang from what seemed to be the monster’s
head, revealing in all its hideousness the form of a huge dragon, with
the iron claws, vast shadowy wings, and flaming breath assigned to it
by popular tradition.
Just then came riding through the terrible forest, right toward the
dragon’s open jaws, a lady on a snow-white palfrey. Her garb was the
usual dress of the time—a high, pointed cap, a long veil waving from
it, and a flowing robe secured at the waist with an embroidered girdle;
but her face was such as he had never seen before, dreaming or waking.
Even its marvellous beauty was less striking than the sweet and holy
calm that dwelt in every line of it, and the strange, solemn, almost
prophet-like depth of earnestness in the large, lustrous eyes, which
seemed to look beyond and above all the sorrows and perils of earth,
with the quiet confidence of one over whom neither peril nor sorrow had
power any more.
At the first glimpse of her the dragon fell writhing to the earth, and
the strange maiden, leaping lightly from her horse, planted her bare
foot fearlessly on the monster’s vast scaly bulk, and passed over its
body unharmed, while at that moment broke from the sky overhead, in
sweet music, the words of a familiar psalm—
“Thou shalt tread upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and the
dragon shalt thou trample under foot.”
Just then the prostrate monster’s hideous head changed suddenly to a
human visage almost as horrible—a brutal, ruffianly, soulless face,
with a bristling red beard and a low, receding forehead, across which
ran a broad smear of blood. For one instant the fierce eyes glared
unutterably, and then became fixed and rayless, while a last shudder
quivered through every ring of the mighty coils, ere they stiffened in
death.
Then it seemed to Bertrand that he approached the wonder-working
stranger, and strove to ask who she was, and whence she came; but his
tongue was fettered, and not a word could he utter.
As he stood speechless, the dream-lady stepped up to him with a laurel
wreath in her hand, and, placing it on his brow, said in a clear,
musical voice—
“Hail to the champion of France!”
Instantly the words were echoed as if by an unseen multitude, in
far-resounding chorus, strong and deep as the roll of a mighty sea,
“Hail to the champion of France!” and, with that shout still in his
ears, the dreamer started and awoke.