Ah, where was our Hubert?
No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the
veil, after the fashion of storytellers.
It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to
Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of
Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the
watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes
and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch.
There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons—yet
already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and
adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to
a comely face.
A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with
loaded whips—alas! can this be our Hubert?
Indeed it is.
The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The _Fleur de Lys_ had
been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others
escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a
vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of
distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence
Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never
arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer—“when
the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has
come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig
tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes
give a good smell”—in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three
surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous
districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem.
They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company
with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the
wondrous country beneath “The hill of Hermon” on their road southward.
Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of
Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but
unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners.
Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing
all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying
dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had
set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself.
Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for
ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to
Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave
market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for
death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the
happy who cling to life.
An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had
come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and
Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished. All men bowed
before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become
the property of “a prince among his people.”
Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind
him—taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at
eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out
westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only
Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose
downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our
Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:
“Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope.”
“Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain.”
Hubert started: the “Old Man of the Mountain”—he had often heard of
him, but had thought him only a “bogy,” invented by the credulous
amongst the crusaders and pilgrims. He was said to be a Mohammedan
prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all the promising
boys he could find, whom from early years he trained in habits of self
devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in them all respect for
human life, or sympathy for human suffering. His palace was on the
slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with Christian slaves from the
various markets; and it was said that those who continued obstinate in
their faith were, sooner or later, put cruelly to death for the sport
of the amiable pupils, to familiarise them with such scenes, and render
them callous to suffering.
And when his education was finished, the “Old Man” presented each pupil
with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such or such a
Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth. The deeds of his
pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of history {28}.
Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even his
hopeful temperament—always buoyant under misfortune—could not prevent
him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a little
despised.
In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves
were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore, huge
bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without, and if a
slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little chance there
was of escape.
Little? Rather, none.
In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes of
the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of the
“Old Man” soon appeared in sight.
A grand Eastern palace—cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting
sun—terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and
refreshing—gardens wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the
melon, the orange, the lemon, and all the fruits of the East—wherein
toiled wretched slaves under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and
savage dogs.
When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon a
courtyard with a tank in the centre. They were supplied with mats for
beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the wall. And
without the dogs prowled and growled all night.
Poor Hubert!
In the morning the “Old Man” appeared, and the slaves were all
assembled to hear his words:
“Come, ye Christians, and hearken unto me, for ye shall hear my
words—sweet to the wise, but as goads to the foolish. Ye are my
property, bought with my money, and is it not lawful for me to do what
I will with mine own? But there is one God, and Mohammed is His
prophet; and to please them is more to me than diamonds of Golconda or
rubies of Shiraz.
“Therefore, I make proclamation, that every slave who will embrace the
true faith of Islam shall be free, only tarrying here until we be
assured of his knowledge of the Koran and steadfastness of purpose,
when he shall go forth to the world, his own master, the slave of none
but God and His prophet.
“But if there be senseless Jews, or unbelieving Nazarenes, who will not
accept the blessing offered them, for six months shall they groan
beneath the taskmaster, toiling in the sun; and then, if yet obstinate,
they shall die, for the edification and warning of others, and the
manner of their death shall be in fit proportion to their deserts.
“Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow’s sun arise, let
your decision be made.”
The day was given to work in the burning sun, doubtless as a foretaste
of what awaited the obstinate Christian. During the day troops of
lithe, active boys of all ages from ten to twenty, had pranced about
the garden—bright in face, lively and versatile in disposition; but
with a certain cruel look about their black eyes and swarthy features
which was the result of their system of education.
And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves:
“Fresh food for the stake—fresh work for the torturers.”
“Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most of
them do, and deprive us of the fun.”
That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side by
side.
“What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?” said young
Alphonse, after many a sigh.
“God helping us, our course is clear enough—we may not deny our faith.”
“Perhaps you have one to deny,” said the other, with another sigh. “For
me, I have never been religious.”
“Nor have I,” said Hubert. “I always laughed at a dear companion who
chose the religious life, even while I admired him in my heart. But
when it comes to denying one’s faith, and accepting the religion of
Mohammed, it seems to me there is no more to be said. I have got at
least as much religion as may keep me from that, although I am not a
saint.”
“I wish I had; but it is fearful: the toil in the sun, the chains, the
silence, the starvation, and then the impalement, the scourging to
death, the stake—or whatever else awaits us—at the end of the six
months; while all these scoffing youngsters, whose savage mirth we have
heard ringing about the place, are taught to exult in one’s
sufferings—the bloodthirsty tyrant. But might we not in so hard a case
pretend to become Mussulmen, and, as soon as we can escape, seek
absolution and reconciliation to the Church?”
“He has said, ‘Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I deny.’ I
never read much Scripture, but I remember that the chaplain at
Kenilworth, where I once lived as a page, impressed so much as this
upon my mind. No; I shall stand firm, and take my chance, God helping
me.”
So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all marshalled
into the presence of the “Old Man of the Mountain.”
“Yesterday you heard the terms, today the choice remains—liberty and
the faith of the prophet; slavery and death if you remain obstinate.
Those who choose the former, file off to my right hand; those who
select the latter, to my left.”
There were some thirty slaves. A moment’s hesitation. Then, at the
signal from the guards, about twenty, amongst whom was Alphonse,
stalked off to the right. Ten, amongst whom was Hubert, passed to the
left.
“Your selection is made. Every moon the same choice will be repeated,
until the end of the sixth, when no further grace will be granted; and
the death he has chosen awaits the unbeliever.”
From this time the situation of the few who remained faithful became
unbearable. They slept in the cells we have described, as best they
could, rose at the dawn, and laboured under the guardianship of
ferocious dogs and crueler men till the sun set, and darkness put an
end to their unremitting toil. Only the briefest intervals were allowed
for meals, and the food was barely sufficient to maintain life.
Conversation was utterly forbidden, and at night, if the slaves were
heard talking, they were visited with stripes.
The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in many
days Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer:
“What happens in the end?”
“We are impaled on a stake, I believe, after the fashion of the
Turcomans; or perhaps burnt alive; or the two may be combined. God help
us. Although He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
“God bless you for those words,” replied Hubert.
The merry laughter of boys filled the place at times, between their
hours of instruction, for the youngsters had all the European languages
to study amongst them, for the ends the founder of this “orphan asylum”
had in view. But nothing was done to make them tired of their work, or
unfaithful in their attachment to the principles they were to maintain
with cup and dagger.
Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men.
“Their time is come,” said the others in a terrified whisper.
And on such occasions a few shrieks would sometimes break the silence
of a summer day, followed by the derisive laughter of youthful voices.
Yet these martyrs might have saved themselves by apostasy at any
moment—save, perhaps, at the last, when the appetite of the cruel
Mussulmen had been whetted for blood, and must be satiated—yet they
would not deny their Lord. Their behaviour was very unlike the conduct
of an English officer in the Indian Mutiny, who saved his life readily
by becoming a Mussulman, with the intention, of course, of throwing his
new creed aside as soon as he was restored to society, and laughed at
the folly of those who accepted his profession thereof.
But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and almost
afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more than Martin
would have done.
Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those
days.
And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile.