We trust our readers are anxious to learn the fate of Martin, whom,
much against our will, we left in such grievous durance at Walderne
Castle.
Drogo had only left a score of men behind him to defend the castle in
case of any sudden assault; which, however, he did not expect. Before
leaving he had called one of these aside, a fellow whose name was
Marboeuf.
“Marboeuf,” he said, “I know thou hast the two elements which, between
ourselves, ensure the greatest happiness in this world—a good digestion
and a hard heart.”
“You compliment me, master.”
“Nay, I know thy worth, and hence I leave all things in thy hands: my
honour and my vengeance.”
“Thy vengeance?”
“Yes. If I live I shall expect to find all as I left it when I return
hither. If I die, and thou receivest sure news of my death, slay me the
three prisoners.”
“What! The friar and all!”
“Is his blood redder than any other man’s? It seems to me thou art
afraid of the Pope’s gray regiment.”
“Nay, I like not to slay priests and friars. It brings a man ill luck
if he meddle with those.”
“Then I must appoint Thibault. He may have an easier conscience, but I
had thought that bloodshed, if nothing else, had bound us together.”
“Nay, it shall not be said that I forsook my lord in his need. If thou
fallest in the coming battle, I will sacrifice the three to thy ghost.”
“So shall I rest in peace, like the warriors of old time, over whose
tomb they slew many victims and cut many throats. I believe in no
creed, but the old one of our ancestors suits me best, and I hope I
shall find my way to Valhalla, if Valhalla there be.”
When the last stragglers of the royal army had been swallowed up in the
recesses of the forest, Marboeuf began to ponder over his engagement.
But presently up came the janitor of the dungeons.
“Hast thou the key of the friar’s dungeon?”
“Nay. The young lord has not left it with me.”
The men looked at each other.
“He locked it himself, this morning, and put the key into his gypsire.”
“And he has gone off with it. Doubtless he will send it back directly
he finds it there.”
“I doubt it.”
“Shall we send after him?”
“No!” said Marboeuf.
“He is a friar. We must not let him starve.”
“Humph! It will not be our fault. I tell thee thou dost not yet know
our lord, and too much zeal may only damage you in his goodwill.”
The gaoler retreated, and went slowly down to the dungeons. He walked
along the passage moodily. At length he heard a voice breaking the
silence:
Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
The man felt moved. It seemed to him as if he were near a being of
another mould, and old memories of years long past were awakened in his
mind—how once such a friar had found him wounded almost to death in the
battlefield, and had saved the body, like the good Samaritan, and
striven to save his soul. How he had vowed amendment and forgotten it,
or he had not been found herding with such black sheep as Drogo and his
band. And earlier thoughts, how when his mother had fallen sick of the
plague, another friar had tended her dying moments, when every other
earthly friend had failed her for fear of infection.
“He shall not perish if I can help it, and it may be put to my account
in purgatory.”
“Father,” he cried.
“My brother,” was the reply, “what hast thou to ask?”
“What food hast thou?”
“Yet half a loaf, and a cruse nearly filled with water.”
“It is all thou mayst get till my lord return. He has taken the keys.
Use it sparingly.”
For a moment there was silence, then a calm voice replied:
“He who fed Elijah by the ministry of the ravens will not fail me.”
“But if Sir Drogo be absent many days thou mayst starve.”
“Though he slay me, yet will I put my trust in him.”
“I do believe he will be saved, by a miracle if needs be,” muttered the
man. “The saints will never let him starve, he is one of them.”
The second day passed, and Martin’s bread and cruse yet held out. But
his gaoler was very uneasy, and wandered about the dark passages like a
restless spirit. Neither could he help breathing his despair to Martin,
as hours passed away and no messenger returned from Drogo with the key.
But the answer from the captive was always full of hope.
“Be of good cheer, for there has been with me an angel of God, who has
assured me that the tyranny will soon be overpast. Meanwhile I feel not
the pangs of hunger.”
The fourth day from the departure of the royal army arrived. No one had
as yet brought back the key. It was a day of awful suspense, for
although no sound of artillery announced the awful strife, yet it was
generally known that a battle was imminent, and was probably going on
at that moment. They sent two messengers out at dawn of day, and one
returned at eventide, breathless and sore from long running.
He had been on that group of downs which lies eastward of Lewes, of
which Mount Caburn is the highest point, and from which Walderne Castle
was visible. There they had raised a beacon fire, and he had left his
comrade to fire it in case the king lost the battle. But ere he
departed he had seen, as he thought, the royal array in hopeless
confusion.
The afternoon brought another messenger, who confirmed the evil
tidings, but was in hope that the prince, yet undefeated and then
rampaging on the hill amongst the baggage, might retrieve the fortune
of the day. When sunset drew nigh many of the garrison of Walderne
betook themselves to the elevation on which the church is placed,
whence they could see the Castle of Lewes through an opening, and
watched, fearing to see the bale fire blaze, which should bid them all
flee for their lives, unless they were prepared to defend the castle,
to be a refuge in case their lord might survive and come to find
shelter amongst them.
On this point there were diverse opinions. A waggon had gone out in the
early morning to collect forage and provisions by way of blackmail—at
this moment it was seen approaching the gateway below.
The sun had set, and the shades of evening were falling fast. All at
once a single voice cried, “Look! the fire!” and the speaker pointed
with his finger.
The eyes of all present followed his gesture, and they saw a bright
spot of light arise on the summit of the downs, distant some twelve
miles.
“It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must fly
for our lives.”
“They may be merciful.”
“Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald. We should have to
answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have robbed.”
“That would never do. By ’r lady, what injustice! Would they be so bad
as that?”
“We will not wait to see.”
All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below. They looked
aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay. What
could it be?
They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand
cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in the
dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short space
which separated the castle from the wood.
“The merrie men!”
“The outlaws!”
“The wild men of the woods!”
The discomfited troopers paused—turned tail—fled— leaving their
comrades to their fate, whatever it might be.
Let us see.
The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most innocent
manner. It creaked over the drawbridge. It was already beneath the
portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a long pole
amidst the spokes of the wheel. At the same instant a score of men
leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose hay.
All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were
overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the
“merrie men” a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered
them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who were in the
castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men died fighting.
“To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your
life,” cried their leader—Kynewulf—to an individual whose bunch of keys
attached to his girdle showed his office.
“The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I have no
key.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Sir Drogo has taken it with him.”
“We will have it open.
“Friar Martin, art thou within?”
“Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that thou
do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me.”
“Not injured thee, to place thee here! Well, we will soon have thee
out. We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit our
lives. He is dying.”
“Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?”
“He was hit by one of those arrows the treacherous Drogo shot from the
wall while the flag of truce was yet flying, when we first came to
demand thee. But we must work to relieve thee.”
And toil they did, but all in vain. They had no tools to force that
iron door.
Meanwhile a sound of scuffling drew other members of the band to a
chamber in the tower, where the good knight Ralph de Monceux was
confined, and as they approached they heard a heavy fall and found
Marboeuf lying dead on the floor, his skull cleft asunder, whilst over
him stood Ralph, axe in hand.
The “merrie men” knew their bold captive.
“Ah! How is this? What ox hast thou felled?”
“Only a butcher who came in to slay me, but I avoided the blow, flew
suddenly at his wrist and mastered the weapon, when I gave him what at
Oxford we called _quid pro quo_, as we strewed the shambles with _boves
boreales_.”
They did not understand his Latin, but they knew Marboeuf, who, as the
reader will comprehend, seeing all was lost, had striven to perform his
vow, and happily had begun first with this dexterous young knight.
Hence they found the poor mayor of Hamelsham safe and sound, only a
little less afraid of the “merrie men” than of Drogo; for often had
they rifled the castle and robbed the hen roosts of his town.
But all their efforts failed to open Martin’s door, and they were at
their wits’ end what to do. They heard a rumour that the battle was
lost, so they set men to watch, and prepared an ambush in his own
castle yard for Drogo, in case he should survive the fight and come to
hide, with especial instructions to take him alive, as they intended to
hang him from his own tower.
Meanwhile, through the dewy night, amidst the thousand odours of the
woods, rode Hubert and his fifty horsemen. They stayed not for brake,
and they slacked not for ford. All the loving heart of Hubert went
before him to the rescue of the friend of his boyish days; suffering,
he doubted not, cruel wrong and unmerited imprisonment in a noisome
dungeon. And ere the midnight hour he arrived amidst the familiar
scenes, and saw at length the towers rise before him in the faint light
of a new moon.
The sound of his horses must have been heard, but no challenge of
warder awaited them. When the party arrived they found the drawbridge
down, the gates open. What could it mean?
“It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in,” cried Hubert.
They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower.
Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and, as
by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in green
jerkins with bended bows.
“What means this outrage,” cried Hubert aloud, “upon the heir of
Walderne as he enters his own castle?”
“That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If you
be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who have
never harmed us to go free.”
“Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never have
harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand this day
in fair combat.”
“Who art thou, then?”
“Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother Martin—Friar
Martin—whom you all must know.”
Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown
open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each
other’s throats, mingled freely as friends.
“Martin is below,” they said. “Have you smiths who can force a door?”
“Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY.”
Down the steps they flew, almost tumbling over each other in their
eagerness. The key was applied, the rusty bolt flew back, and Hubert
was clasped in Martin’s arms.
For a long while the spectators of this joyful meeting waited in the
courtyard of the castle, which was thronged by men who had only been
restrained by a merciful Providence from bending their deadly weapons
against each other. Now their thoughts were thoughts of peace, yet they
hardly understood why and wherefore.
But after a while there was a commotion in the great hall, and soon
Martin stood on the summit of the steps, worn and pale, leaning on the
stout shoulders of Hubert. Their eyes were both swimming in tears—but
tears of joy. Cheers and acclamations rent the air, and it was a long
while ere silence was restored for the voice of the late prisoner to be
heard.
“Men and brethren, I thank you for your great love to me, and for the
desire wherewith ye have desired my freedom, and jeopardised your own
precious lives in its cause. And now, if I am welcome”—(loud
cheers)—“so must be my dear brother Hubert, Lord of Walderne by the
will of the Lady Sybil, a true knight, a warrior of the Cross, and a
friend of the poor.” (Loud cheers again). “Many of you will remember
the night when he parted from you, when Sir Nicholas, who is gone,
introduced him to you as his undoubted heir, and many have grieved over
him, and said, ‘Full forty fathom deep he lies.’ But here he is in
flesh and blood!” (Renewed cheers).
“And now, O men of the greenwood, whom I love so dearly, let me, a
child of the greenwood, speak yet a few words about myself. For I am
not only the last represent alive of the old English house of
Michelham, but also a son of the house of Walderne; Mabel, my mother,
being the sister, as many know, of the Lady Sybil. Ah, well. I seek a
more continuing city than either Walderne or Michelham, and I want no
earthly dignities. Wherever God gives me souls to tend is my home; and
He has given it me, O men of the Andredsweald, amongst my countrymen
and my kindred, and to Hubert I leave the castle right gladly. Now let
there be peace, and let men turn their swords into ploughshares and
their spears into pruning hooks, and hasten the glorious day when the
kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of God and His
Christ.”
“We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne.”
“God bless brother Martin.”
Drogo was forgotten, as though he had never lived, forgiven and
forgotten. And the multitude dispersed, each man to his own home or
haunt in the forest, leaving Sir Hubert in possession of the castle of
his ancestors, and Martin his guest.
Martin’s first wish after his release was, as our readers will imagine,
to visit his mother, and assure her of his safety in person. Kynewulf
was in waiting to escort him. He had caused a litter to be constructed
of the branches of trees, knowing that the severe strain Martin had
undergone must have rendered him too weak for so long a journey; and
the “merrie men” were only too eager to relieve each other in bearing
so precious a burden.
“You will find our chieftain very far from well,” said Kynewulf, as he
walked by Martin’s side. “He was wounded by one of the arrows from the
castle when we came to demand your liberation of Drogo, and the wound
has taken a bad turn.”
“How does my poor mother bear it?”
“Like a true wife and good Englishwoman.”
No more was said. Martin lapsed into deep thought until the retreat of
the outlaws was attained. There, on a couch strewn with skins and soft
herbage, lay the redoubtable Grimbeard; and by his side, nursing him
tenderly, Mabel of Walderne. But for this she had been with Martin’s
rescuers at the castle, but she could not leave her dying lord, who
clung fondly to her now, and would take food from no other hand.
The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected. Hence
it had become serious, and since Kynewulf departed mortification had
set in.
The mother rose and embraced her “sweet son.”
“Thank God!” she said, and led him to his stepfather’s side.
Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the
face.
“Martin is here,” he said. “Let my dying eyes gaze upon him again.
“Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest so
deeply.”
“My father, He is waiting to receive and to bless thee. Cast thyself
wholly on the Incarnate Love which embraced thee on the Tree. Say, for
His sake, canst thou forgive all, even these Normans thou hast so
hated?”
“Dost thou forgive the wretch who shut thee up, my gentle boy, in that
dungeon?”
“Yes, verily, and pray to God to pardon him, too.”
“Then I may pardon my foes, although my life has been spent in fighting
against them for England’s freedom. But I see we must submit, as thou
hast often said, to God’s will; and if the past may be forgiven, my
merrie men will be well content to make peace, and to turn their swords
into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; especially now
Drogo has met his just doom, as they tell me, and thy friend is about
to rule at Walderne. Thou must be the mediator between them and him.
“But oh! my son, it has been hard to submit to all this. All those I
loved when young carried on the fight, and my own father bequeathed it
to me as a sacred heritage. We hoped to see England governed by
Englishmen, and the alien cast out; and now I give it up. The problem
is too hard for me. God will make it clear.”
“My father,” said Martin, “I, too, am the descendant of a long line of
warriors, who have never before me submitted to the foreign yoke. But I
see that the two peoples are becoming one: that the sons of the Norman
learn our English tongue, and that the day is at hand when they will be
proud of the name ‘Englishmen.’ Norman and Saxon all alike, one people,
even as in heaven there is no distinction of race, but all are alike
before the throne.”
“And now, my son, art thou not a priest yet? I would fain make
confession of my sins.”
“God will accept the will for the deed. He is not limited to earthly
means; and if thou truly repent of thy sins for the love of the
Crucified, and believest in Him, all will be well.”
For Martin feared that there would be no time to fetch a priest, or he
would not have questioned the universal precept of the church of his
day; while his own faith led him to see clearly that God’s mercy was
not limited by the accidental omission of the outward ordinance.
“I sent for Sir Richard {36}, the parish priest of Walderne, ere we
left the castle, and he is doubtless on his way with the Viaticum,”
said Kynewulf.
And while they yet spake the priest arrived, and the dying man received
with simple faith the last sacraments of the Church. After this his
people gathered round him.
“Tell them,” he said, in stammering tones, for the speech was failing,
“what I have said. With thy friend in the castle, and thou in the
greenwood, there will be peace.”
Martin turned to the silent outlaws who stood by, and repeated his
words. They listened in silence. The prospect was not new to them, for
Martin’s long labours had not been in vain; but while Drogo was at
Walderne, and the royal party triumphant, it seemed useless to hope for
its realisation. Now things had changed, and there was hope that the
breach would be healed.
“His last prayer was for peace,” said Grimbeard. “Should not mine be
the same? Oh, God, save my country, grant it the blessing of peace, and
forgive a poor erring man, who sees, too late, that he has been
fighting against Thy dispensation, for he can now say ‘_Thy will be
done_.’”
These were his last words, and although we have related them as if
spoken connectedly, they were really only uttered in broken gasps. The
end came; the widow turned aside from the bed after closing the eyes.
“Martin,” she said, “thou alone art left to me.”
And she fell on his neck and wept.
From the grave to the gay, from a death to a wedding, such is life. The
same bell which tolls dolorously at a burial clangs in company with its
fellows at a marriage on the next day. So the world goes on.
The scene was the priory of Saint Pancras at Lewes, where so lately the
feeble old king had held his court. Now with his brave son he had gone
into honourable captivity, for it was little better, and the followers
of Earl Simon filled the place.
Before the high altar stood a youthful pair; Hubert of Walderne, now to
be known as Radulphus, or Ralph; and Alicia de Grey, who had been
sheltered from ill and Drogo as one of the handmaidens of the Countess
Eleanor, in keeping for her true love.
The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the mass
_Pro sponso et sponsa_. The father, the happy and glad father, stood
by, now fully delivered from his ghostly tormentor, his fondest wish on
earth achieved. Earl Simon gave the bride away, while Martin stood by,
so happy.
It was over, and the aisle was strewn with the gay flowers of early
summer, as our Hubert and his bride left the sacred pile. But one adieu
to the father, who would not leave his monastery even then, but who
fell upon Hubert’s neck and wept while he cried, “My son, my dear son,
God bless thee;” and the bridal train rode off to the castle above,
where the marriage feast was spread.
Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep their
honeymoon at Walderne.
Oh, the joy of that leafy month of June, in the wild woods, all loosed
from care. Hubert seemed to have found true happiness, if it could be
found on earth. And Martin, he too was happy, in his work of love and
reconciliation.
It was an oasis in life’s pilgrimage, when man might well fancy he had
found an Eden upon earth again. And there we would fain leave our two
friends and cousins.
Epilogue.
A few words respecting the fate of our chief characters must close our
story. We need not tell our readers the future of the great earl—it is
written on the pages of history. But his work did not die on the fatal
field of Evesham. It lived in the royal nephew, through whose warlike
skill he was overthrown, and who speedily arrived at the conclusion
that most of the reforms of his uncle were founded upon the eternal
principles of truth and justice. Hence that legislation which gained
for Edward, the greatest of the Plantagenets, and the first truly
English king since Harold, the title of the “English Justinian.”
Hubert was not with his lord when he fell. He had been selected to be
of the household of Simon’s beloved Countess Eleanor, and he was with
her at Dover when the fatal news of Evesham arrived. He could only cry,
“Would God I had died for him,” while the countess abandoned herself to
her grief.
Edward soon sought a reconciliation with the countess, who, it will be
remembered, was his father’s sister; which being effected, she passed
over to France with her only daughter, to join her sons already there;
and King Louis received her with great kindness, while Hubert and his
companions of her guard were received into the favour of Edward, and
exempted from the sweeping sentence of confiscation passed in the first
intoxication of triumph upon all the adherents of the Montforts.
Brother Roger died in peace at a great age, at the Priory of Lewes,
growing in grace as he grew in years, until at last he passed away,
“awaiting,” as he said, “the manifestation of the sons of God,” amongst
whom, sinner though he had been, he hoped to stand in his lot in the
latter days.
Ralph of Herstmonceux, who had been happily preserved from death at the
battle of Evesham, followed his father to Dover, where they joined the
countess in the defence of that fortress, and shared the forgiveness
extended to her followers. So completely did Edward forgive the family,
that we read in the Chronicles how King Edward, long afterwards,
honoured Herstmonceux with a royal visit on his road to make a pious
retreat at the Abbey of Battle. Ralph succeeded his father, and we may
be sure lived on good terms with Hubert.
Hubert followed the banner of Edward Longshanks both in Wales and
Scotland ere he came home to his wife and children, satiated at last
with war, and spent the rest of his days at Walderne. He died at a good
old age, and was buried as a crusader in Lewes Priory, with crossed
legs and half-drawn sword, where his tomb could be seen until the
sacrilegious hands of the minions of Thomas Cromwell destroyed that
noble edifice.
Mabel of Walderne retired, at her son’s persuasion, to a convent at
Mayfield, where she ended her days in all the “odour of sanctity,” and
Martin closed her eyes.
And lastly we have to tell of our Martin. He remained in the
Andredsweald until he had completely succeeded in reconciling the
outlaws to the authorities {37}, and he had seen them, his “merrie
men,” settle down as peaceful tillers of the soil, or enter the service
of the knights and abbots as gamekeepers, woodsmen, huntsmen, and the
like; at his strong recommendation and assurance that he would be
surety for their good behaviour—an assurance they did their best to
justify.
And how shall we describe his labour of love—his work as the bondsman
of Christ? But after the death of his mother, his superiors recalled
him to Oxford, as a more important sphere, and better suited to his
talents; where the peculiar sweetness of his disposition gave him a
great influence over the younger students. In short he became a power
in the university, and died head of the Franciscan house, loved and
lamented, in full assurance of a glorious immortality. And they put
over his tomb these words:
We know that we have passed from death to life,
because we love the brethren.
—_Vale Beatissime_.
From the south wall of Walderne Church project or projected two iron
brackets with lances, whereon hung for many a generation the banners of
Sir Ralph (alias Hubert) and his son Laurence.
The boast of chivalry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
THE END.
Notes.
[1] Rivingtons’ Historical Biographies.
[2] Demonology and Witchcraft.
[3] See the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, by the same
author.
[4] He was the last lord of Pevensey of his race, all his land and
honours being forfeited in 1235 for passing over into Normandy without
King Henry the Third’s license.
[5] Lord of Lewes Castle from 1242-1304, a local tyrant.
[6] There were then no family names, properly so called; the English
generally took one descriptive of trade or profession, hence the
multitude of Smiths; the Normans generally then name of their estate or
birthplace, with the affix De. Knight’s Pictorial History, volume 2,
page 643.
[7] His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his
influence and reputation. Knight’s Pictorial History.
[8] How did I weep in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the quick by
the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church, the voices flowed into my ears
and the truth distilled into my heart. Saint Augustine’s Confessions
volume 9 page 6.
[9] Afterwards the site of the battle of Edgehill.
[10] See his biography in Macmillan’s Sunday Library.
[11] Ethelflaed, Lady or Queen of the Mercians (under her brother
Edward, son of Alfred), threw up certain huge mounds and certain stone
castles, to defend her realm and serve as refuges in troublous times.
One site was Oxford, and it is the first authentic event recorded in
the history of the city--the foundation of the university by Alfred
being abandoned by scholars, as an interpolation in Asser, the king’s
biographer.
[12] The Rival Heirs, or the Third Chronicle of Aescendune.
[13] Because in later times some poor Jews were burnt there.
[14] Like those still seen at Tewkesbury Abbey, of similar proportions.
[15] The date of the surrender was November 16, 1537. It was granted to
Thomas Cromwell, February 16, 1538. It was at once destroyed by skilled
agents of destruction, and the materials sold. Cromwell did not enjoy
it long; he perished at Tower Hill by the axe, July 28, 1540.
[16] The old hymn for Wednesday morning, according to Sarum use. I am
indebted to the Hymnary for the translation.
[17] The supposed name of the penitent thief. The author is not
answerable for the non-elision of the vowel--the name is authentic; it
stood on the site of the present Oriel College. See preface.
[18] See Alfgar the Dane, chapter 24.
[19] It was the Gospel for the day in Italy--not in England.
[20] The Viaticum was the _Last_ Communion, given in preparation for
death, as the provision for the way.
[21] Such an arrangement was made in the Egyptian Temple at On; at one
particular moment on one day in the year, the rays admitted through a
concealed aperture gilded the shrine, and the crowd thought it
miraculous.
[22] Adapted from a translation of a chorus in the Agamemnon by my
lamented friend, the late Reverend Gerard Moultrie.
[23] A mere tradition of the time, not historical.
[24] See the Andredsweald, by the same author.
[25] This is the same spot mentioned in the Andredsweald, chapter 9
part 2, as a retreat of the English after Senlac.
[26] A proclamation had just been put forth by the barons, that all
foreigners should be expelled and lose their property; and much
violence ensued throughout England, the victims being often detected by
their pronunciation, as in our story.
[27]
How good to those who seek Thou art,
But what to those who find!
--Saint Bernard.
[28] It was one of them who first stabbed Edward the First, when his
queen saved him by sucking the poison from the wound, according to a
Spanish historian.
[29] Sixty-six pounds, 13 shillings, four pence; a large sum in those
days.
[30] It was afterwards ascertained that on the 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.
[31] Acre was stormed by the Moslems, AD 1291, and the Holy Land was
lost with it.
[32] How unlike the ceremonial of Hubert’s knighthood! But the approach
of a battle justified the omission of the usual rites in the opinion of
the many.
[33] Witness the case of the Scotch judge--pursued under divers forms
by the supposed apparition of a man he had hanged, until he died of
fright--as recorded by Sir Walter Scott in Demonology and Witchcraft.
[34] Whom they had pelted with mud as she passed under London Bridge,
calling her a witch. Life of Simon de Montfort, page 126.
[35] Old English for hence.
[36] Parish priests were frequently styled _Sir_ in those days. Father
meant a monk or regular, as opposed to the secular, clergy.
[37] His descent from noble families of either race--Michelham, the
house of Ella, through his father; _Walderne_, of ancient Norman blood,
through his mother, rendered him acceptable to both parties.