And all this time the true heir of Walderne was leading the degraded
life of an unhappy and most miserable slave in the palace of the “Old
Man of the Mountain,” in the far off hills of Lebanon.
The six months passed away, and still they spared our Hubert. Others
were taken away and met their most doleful fate, but the more youthful
and active slaves were spared awhile, not out of pity, but because of
their utility; and Hubert’s fine constitution enabled him still to
live. But he could not have lived on had he not still hoped. The
tremendous inscription seen by the poet over the sombre gate of hell
was not yet burnt into his young heart:
All ye that enter here, leave hope behind.
Some lucky accident, perhaps an invasion of the crusaders, might
deliver him; but otherwise he would not despair while God gave him
life. Again, irreligious as some may think his former life, he had
great belief in the efficacy of the prayers of others. The thought that
his father and Martin were praying for him continually gave him
comfort.
“God will hear them, if not me,” he thought.
Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he
would once have thought possible.
But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he was
summoned to the presence of the “Old Man.”
“Christian,” said the latter, “hast thou not borne the heat and burden
of slavery long enough?”
“Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the
expense of my faith.”
“Not when the alternative is a bitter death?”
“No.”
“Thy constancy will be tried. We have borne with thee full long. At
next full moon thou wilt have had a year’s reprieve. Thou must prepare
to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or die.”
“My choice is made.”
“Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go.”
And Hubert was led away.
And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained by
what may be called a miraculous interposition.
It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the yet
more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at once he
heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.
Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally slept
at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive’s nightly rest. The door
opened, and—He beheld his father!
Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of
another world over his worn features.
“Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and to
bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man’s extremity
is His opportunity.”
“Art thou really my father?”
And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished. It
was of God’s appointment, that vision, given to confirm the faith and
hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert’s belief {30}.
It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father Roger
dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to
apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.
The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last
time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining in
the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern climes.
But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden times to his
mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth; and that night
when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.
“Shall I ever see my native land again?”
It seemed impossible, but “hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling with the
milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a loud cry,
followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of alarm or
anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which he knew
enough of their language to interpret—the palace was in flames.
“Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till
the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?”
The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard without.
The doors were opened one after another—
“Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!”
The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and
courts to the very front of the burning pile—_blazing_ pile, we should
say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre Eastern
beauty—cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires, but the flames
had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were bursting through
the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its aspect.
The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets from
hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at this
extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in front of
the row, each looking and walking in the contrary direction to the
other, changing their direction at the same moment as they went and
returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of sight of the
watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man knew,
instinctively, that the least movement which looked suspicious might
bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck, bearing away the
trunkless head like a plaything.
Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the centre of
the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular erection of stone,
like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around it. The flat surface,
the disc we may call it, was half composed of iron bars like a grate,
supported by the stonework, and in the centre ran an iron post with
rings stout and strong, from which an iron girdle, unclasped, depended.
What could it be meant for?
“Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow.”
He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on either
side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall, and the
ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from it. Beyond the
moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and hills, valleys and
depths.
All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die on
the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the fiery
death designed for him on the morrow.
And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a window,
right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces of some of
the hopeful pupils of the “Old Man,” forgotten and left, when the rest
were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge, the same death
awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with pitiless eyes, as
inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow. They had probably been
looking forward to the occasion, as a Spaniard to his _auto da fe_, as
an interesting spectacle.
Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on
such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and cruelty
becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities, which make
us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the Mussulman, the
Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not moralise here.
All eyes were drawn to the spot. The “Old Man” himself, now first
heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was tottering;
it bent inward, an awful crash, and—
At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the
terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind. In
a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a head, not
Hubert’s, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He lingered not an
instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on the other sentinel,
a moment’s clashing of blades, the skill of the knight prevailed, and
the Moslem was cleft to the chin.
“Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!”
And Hubert leapt over the wall.
He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for him
his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to guide
himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley, through
which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled merrily
along.
He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came crashing
through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was the only man
armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so boldly won.
Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which was
reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in ruddy
glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.
“Do any of my brethren know the country?”
At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke
diffidently:
“If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters of
Merom.”
“But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and that
only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might sustain a
host,” said another.
“We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the
brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to
follow,” said Hubert.
They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and boulders,
avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the dawn was at
hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a cathedral bell, booming
down the valley.
“What bell is that?”
“No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds.”
“But they can find no trace.”
“They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the
stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the sense
to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease we leave
it.”
“What shall we do?” asked the helpless men.
Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently inaccessible,
but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a mere goat path,
used perhaps also by shepherds.
“Follow me,” he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a
veritable _mauvais pas_. At the height of some two hundred feet it
struck inward through a wild region.
“Here we must make a stand at this summit,” said Hubert, “and meet the
dogs. I will give a good account of them.”
He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only ascend
by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for the first
dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with flashing eyes and
gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received with a sweep of the
scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in twain, and he rolled down
the deep declivity, all mangled and bleeding, to the foot, missing the
path and falling from rock to rock, so that when he was found by the
party who followed they could not tell by what means he had received
his first wound.
And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in gore,
after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no farther.
Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully
forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool spot by
the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom—the head waters
of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which afforded them food,
they watched in turn until the sun was low; after which they renewed
their journey.
Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of the
Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western shore, so rich
in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin, Bethsaida,
Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden:
By those sacred feet once nailed,
For our salvation, to the bitter rood.
In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim; and on
the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns; begging
bread in the villages—a boon readily granted. And in the evening they
saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital of Saint John of
Acre, where Hubert’s father, Sir Roger, had been restored to health and
life.
Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard of
the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace of the
“Old Man of the Mountain,” and naturally curiosity led him to
interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a knight
like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the son of an
old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.
All was well now.
“Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost the
sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre.”
“My brother,” said the prior then present, “dost thou remember that a
party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in the
gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent conflict,
and found a broken sword, which they brought with them and left here?”
“Bring it hither, Raymond,” said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.
It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the Sieur
de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem’s skull in the desperate
fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he receive it!
He could now discharge his father’s delegated duty.
“Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with
better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem.”
Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with its
deep shady cloisters, with its massive walls and its beauteous chapel,
wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert was told,
for he had long since lost count of time, he returned thanks to God for
his preservation, and took part once more in the worship of a Christian
congregation, and knelt before a Christian altar. The walls of that
chapel were of almost as many precious stones as Saint John enumerates
in describing the New Jerusalem. Its rich colouring, its dim religious
light, its devout psalmody; oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.
And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden, rich
with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees, vocal with
the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request of the
fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men who had erst
heard his father’s tale.
The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or last,
crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy miles from
Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians {31} in
Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was adorned with noble
buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and strong fortifications.
From hence such pilgrims as dared venture made their hazardous visits
to Jerusalem, which they could only enter as a favour, granted in
return for much expenditure of treasure and submission to many
humiliations; and thus Hubert was forced to accomplish his father’s
vow, setting forth so soon as his strength was restored.