THE FUGITIVES.
“’Tis not in mortals to command success;
But we’ll do better, Sempronius; we’ll deserve it.”—_Cato._
The fugitives slept, some in the obliviousness of complete fatigue and
others restlessly, their minds perturbed by dreams of their impending
perils. Dawn summoned all to renewed activity, but its coming was not
greeted joyfully by the knights.
“Sir Charleroy,” mournfully spoke a Hospitaler to the former, as they met
at the outskirts of the camping place, “our comrade, the Knight of the
Holy Sepulcher, made good his escape from this woeful country during the
early morning, before dawn, as our comrades were sleeping!”
“Why, impossible!” questioningly responded the chief.
“Alas, ’twas rather impossible for him not to go!”
“I’m in no humor for such petty jesting! See, his steed is there yet,”
and Sir Charleroy turned on his heel impatiently as he spoke.
“Pardon, companion, he that departed was borne away by the white charger
with black wings!”
“Dead?”
“Mortals say ‘dead’ of such, but it were better to say he is free.”
“_Peace to his soul_,” fervently spoke Sir Charleroy.
“Ah, knight, thou canst not imagine the peacefulness of his going!”
“But why were we not summoned? We might have consoled him at least;
perhaps we might have healed. What was his malady?”
“A poisoned arrow wounded him in the retreat from Acre. He did not
realize his peril until the agonies of the end were wracking his body.
Then he said, ‘Too late; it’s useless to attempt resistance of the
inevitable.’”
“Now this is pitiful—a humiliation of us all. Heavens, Hospitaler!
there’s not a knight among us who would not have periled his life in
effort in the dying man’s behalf.”
“But he cautioned me against disturbing any one on his account. ‘Poor
men,’ he said, ‘they’ll need all the rest they can get for the struggles
of the day to come.’ Only once did he seem to yearn for a remedy, and
that time he spoke mostly as one dreaming. I remember his every word—‘I
wish I could bathe these hot and bleeding wounds in the all-healing nards
said to exude exhaustlessly from the image of the Virgin Most Merciful at
Damascus.’ I roused him, then, with an appeal for permission to summon
thee, but he forbade me.”
“Thou shouldst have overridden all protests of his! By my tokens! I’d
have emulated faithful Elenora, who sucked the poison from the dagger
stab given her spouse, our knightly Prince Edward, by the would-be
assassin at Acre.”
“I could not resist him; his face shone in the moonlight with heavenly
brightness; mine was covered with tears. Oh, chief, the dying man spoke
like an angel. Once he said: ‘It is sweet to go out here, nigh where the
resurrection angel, Gabriel, gave Mary the glad tidings that her humanity
was to join with the Good Father to bring forth One capable of sounding
each human sorrow here and hereafter. He overcomes the dread last enemy
of all our race!’ I watched as he fixed his dying gaze upon the golden
cross he wore; his last words still fill and inflame my soul: ‘Brother,
good-night—say this to each for me. I feel great darkness creeping
in to possess this broken, weary body. It comes to stay, but my soul
moves forth out of its dungeon. I see gates most lofty, all glorious,
and oh, so near! They open to an eternal day.’ Then he breathed his
last, murmuring tenderly: ‘I’m going; good-night; good-morning!’” The
Hospitaler ended his recital with a great sob, then burying his face in
his cloak, was silent.
Presently the knights formed a hollow square about an old tomb in the
hillside. The Hospitaler supported tenderly the head of the dead comrade
in his lap. On the naked breast of the corpse lay the many-pointed golden
cross of the Knights of the Sepulcher, while round the body was wrapped a
Templar’s banner, with its significant emblem, two riders on one horse;
symbol of friendship and necessity.
“Let the one who received the dying prayer of our brave companion speak,”
said Sir Charleroy. The knights all knelt, and the Hospitaler still
reverently supporting the head of the dead, spoke. “Knight of Christ,
sleep; the clamors of war shall no more disturb thee. The dead at least
are just and merciful. Israelite, Mohammedan and Christian may lie
together in these vales, reconciled at last. They that would not share
a loaf to save life to one another, in death share quietly all they
have, their beds. The ashes of the long sleepers have no contentions;
here are no crowdings of each other; no misunderstandings; no alarms.
Sleep, soldier, thy worthy warfare finished; thy cause appealed to the
Judge of All! Sleep and leave us to battle on ’mid perils and pain.
Sleep thy body, while thy soul fathoms the mysteries to us inscrutable.
Rest now, and leave us here a little longer to wonder why it is that
human creatures must needs inhumanly oppose and slay each other for the
enthroning of Truth, the friend, the quest of all! Sleep, and leave us to
wonder why death and conflict are the openers of the gates of life and
peace.” Some of those kneeling wept, but they were too much depressed to
speak. Quietly they laid the body within its resting place; quietly they
sealed up the tomb’s entrance. Then they mounted their steeds at their
chief’s command.
“There are but twelve of us left; a lucky number. Perhaps the breaking
of the fateful spell believed to follow the number thirteen, was death’s
beneficence!” It was the Templar who so spoke.
“It is said, Templar,” responded Charleroy, “that our Mary, in her
girlhood, was escorted ever by an invisible heavenly guard, a thousand
strong. In the guard there were twelve palm-bearing angels of rare
splendor, commissioned to reveal charity.”
“A worthy companionship, chief!”
“I’m inclined to pray heaven to send again to these parts the beautiful
twelve, to assure us good fortune and victory.”
“Surely the prayers of us all join thine, Sir Charleroy; but methinks
we have forgotten how to pray aright, or heaven has forgotten to answer
us. We have been praying and fighting for months only to find at last
that our prayers and our battlings are alike vain. I fear there are no
palm-bearing angels at hand.”
The horsemen slowly wended their way back to the hill-top, overlooking
Nazareth, on which they first paused the night before. Again they halted
to admire the prospect, as well as to look for a route of safe retreat.
Nazareth was astir. The little band on the hill could hear the morning
trumpeters calling the Moslem to worship.
“Gentlemen,” said the leader of the band on the hill, “it is wisdom to
divide into two parties, and make for the sea by different routes. At
Cæsarea we may find some vessels with which to leave these to us fateful
shores. If we meet the foe anywhere, the odds against us now are so great
that death or enslavement must be the result. Perhaps if there be two
parties one may escape.” The knights paused about their leader a few
moments in affectionate debate; all opposing at first the plan that was
to scatter them, but all, finally, convinced that it was the highest
wisdom to go on their ways apart. Lots were cast by the eleven, De
Griffin not participating. Four were grouped in one party and seven in
the other by the result.
“I’ll join the weaker party, remembering the five wounds of Jesus,” said
Sir Charleroy, reining his steed to the smaller company. A moment after
he continued: “Now, good souls, away with grief; part we must; here and
now. May God go tenderly with the seven, a covenant number. Now make your
wills; then a brief farewell; then use the spur.”
“Wills?” said a Templar, and they all smiled in a sickly way at the
word. “We knights, boasting our poverty, our holding of all we have in
community, know nothing of will-making.”
“True, the pelf we each have is small enough; a few keep-sakes, our arms
and such like; but our love is something. Let’s will that, and if we’ve
aught to say before we die, we’d better say it now. There is work ahead,
and plenty of it. There will be no time for _ante-mortem_ statement
when we meet the cimeters of the Crescent.” So spoke Sir Charleroy. He
continued, “My slayer will take good care of my jewels.” He commenced
writing upon a bit of parchment, using for rest the pommel of his saddle.
In a few moments he paused.
“Wilt thou read thine, that we may know how to make ours, chief?”
inquired one near him.
“A message to my mother; that’s all.”
“Enough; that’s sacred.”
“Yes—but—no. Misery has knit us into one family. I feel to confide.” So
saying, he read his writing, omitting only the portion that recited their
recent vicissitudes:—
“And now, beloved mother, we turn from Nazareth toward the sea
with only a forlorn hope of reaching it. I long to meet thee,
but the longing must, I fear, content itself in reaching out my
heart’s best love across the distant ocean toward thyself. It
is all I can give in return for the mysterious consciousness
that thine is a constant presence. My memory teems with records
of my life-long ingratitude toward thyself, that gave me birth
and all a loving heart could bestow, and now I’m tasting
bitterest remorse for all those selfish days of mine. I wish
I could recall their acts. Take these words as my request for
pardon. I shall bind this little parchment scrap in my belt in
a vague hope that some way, some time, it may reach thee. If it
do, remember it is sent to bear to thee, beloved mother, the
assurance that thy once wayward boy remembers now, as he has
for months, as the brightest, best, most exalting and blessed
things of all his life, thy loving words, thy patient trust in
him and all thy pious exhortations. I thank God now for all my
trials and perils. They have brought me to full prizing of thy
goodness and near to the religion thou dost profess.”
The reader paused, and the companion knights at once began begging him to
inscribe messages for them each, he being the only one in all the company
having the priestly gift of the pen. Most of them said, “To my mother”
or “To my sister, write;” but one blushed as he said, “I’ve no mother
nor sister.” His comrades rallied him at once: “Name her, the other only
woman!”
“A heart as brave as thine, knight,” said the Hospitaler to the blushing
youth, “has a queen on its throne, somewhere.”
The youth blushed more and drew away a little.
“Only a lover,” said the Templar. “Lovers, absent, assuage their
pinings by new mating! They forget; mothers never do. Write for us, Sir
Charleroy.”
The blush of the youth deepened to anger, evincing his heart’s high
protest against any hint of doubt being aimed at his queen; but he was
self-restraining, silent. “I’ll not reveal her by defense even,” was his
whispered thought.
The writing was finished. “Farewell! Forward.”
The chief suited the action to the commands, and soon his steed was
dashing swiftly away with its rider, followed by the others of his party.
The seven departed toward Nain; perhaps it was an ominous choice, for
their route led them toward the cave of incantation, where Endor’s witch
called up for Saul the shade of Samuel. Most likely the words of the dead
prophet to the haunted warrior, “To-morrow thou shalt be with me,” would
have told the fate of the seven that morning fittingly, for they were
never heard from by any of their earthly friends.