AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.
Cedric, after making good his escape from the villa, as has been related,
had nearly died of hunger on the shore to which he had managed to make his
way. When he was almost at his last gasp, a Saxon galley had touched at
the very spot to supply itself with water. Fortunately for him it was
commanded by a kinsman of his own, who persuaded the crew—the Saxon
adventurers had to be dealt with by persuasion rather than by command—to
return home with their passenger. This probably saved his life; his
mother, a skilful leech, whose fame was spread abroad among the dwellers
on the coast, nursed him back into health. Still he had suffered long and
much; and it was not till the summer was far advanced that he was allowed
to join an expedition. His noble birth, his reputation for strength and
courage, not a little enhanced, of course, by his late escape, and the
personal fascination that he exercised on all about him, pointed him out,
young as he was, for command.
Carna had been unceasingly in his thoughts since the day when he had last
seen her. During the delirium of his illness her name had been continually
on his lips, and one of the earliest confidences of his recovery was the
story of his love for this Christian maiden of the west. His mother was
touched by the story. The girl’s passionate desire for the welfare of the
son that was dead (which she appreciated without comprehending its
motive), and the very heroism which the son that was living had shown in
defending her, combined to move her heart. That any living woman could
resist the attraction of such a champion as her son, she did not believe
for a moment, in spite of all that Cedric could say about the height of
saintliness on which Carna stood; and by degrees the young chief himself
found his worshipping devotion mingled with hopes that were very sweet to
his heart.
It is not surprising, therefore, that as soon as he was at sea, and the
destination of their voyage became a question, his thoughts at once turned
to the island. Approaching it with caution, for he was too good a leader
to risk an encounter with the superior force of the Roman squadron, he
learnt with surprise that the Count had departed. Of Carna his informant,
a fisherman who found it answer his purpose to give what information he
could to the Saxons, could tell him nothing, and Cedric naturally supposed
that she had gone with the family into which she had been adopted. The
news struck a strange chill into his heart, but at the same time it
relieved him of considerable perplexity. His course was now clear; if the
Romans were gone there was nothing to be feared. He knew the approaches to
the villa, and how weak were its defences, and he felt sure that a British
garrison would not be a match for his own vigorous Saxons.
He reached the island two days after the landing of Ambiorix. Acting as
his own spy on the strength of his knowledge of the country, he soon found
out the position of affairs, and thought that he could not do better than
wait to see how things would turn out. The galleys—Cedric had two under
his command—lay in hiding at some little distance from the Haven, and
meanwhile every detail of the struggle was watched, unknown to the
combatants, by scouts who carried news of its progress to their chief. The
gathering of the troops previous to the attack on the fortifications had
been observed and rightly understood by these men. Cedric had been at once
informed of what was in progress, had landed his crews, amounting in all
to about two hundred, and marched with all the speed that was possible to
the scene of action. As the news had reached him not long after midnight
he was able to reach the spot very soon after the attack had commenced.
The battle-cry of the Saxons, terrible to those who knew it, scarcely less
terrible, with its shrillness and fierceness, to those to whom it was
strange, arrested the attention of all, and made every eye turn to the
rear of the attacking party. There could be seen, running swiftly up the
ascent which led to the palisade, the band of Saxons. In front a huge
standard-bearer carried a blood-red banner, on which was wrought in black
the raven of Odin. Behind him came, in a loose order which served to
conceal their scanty number, Cedric’s warriors, a sturdy race, whose tall
stature was made to seem almost gigantic by the height to which their hair
was dressed. They were formidable foes, but still there were brave men in
both the British parties who would have had the courage to stand up
against them. Unhappily one of the panics which defy all reason and all
individual courage began among the inland Britons at the sight of these
strange enemies; and, once begun, it could not be checked. Ambiorix,
indeed, with a few of his immediate followers, faced the enemy, but was
quickly swept away by the rush of their onset. Martianus, with some of the
garrison, carrying Carna along with him, took refuge in the villa, and
hastily secured the doors. Others fled wildly over the country, or hid
themselves in the out-buildings. Nowhere was there any thought of
resistance, and the Saxons won their victory almost without losing a drop
of blood.
Cedric’s eyes, sharpened as they were by love, had caught a glimpse of
Carna, as she was swept in the throng of fugitives within the doors of the
villa, and he at once led his men to the attack. Any defence of the place
against assailants so determined would have been hopeless, even had the
garrison been as resolute as they were, in fact, feeble and demoralized. A
few sturdy blows from Cedric’s battle-axe brought the principal door to
the ground, and he rushed across the fragments into the hall, followed by
some ten of his attendants. The rest he had signed to remain without.
Carna, who, herself undismayed amidst all the tumult, was surrounded by a
group of terrified men and women, stood facing him. The crimson mounted to
her forehead as she met his eyes, for she saw, as no woman could fail to
see, the love that was in them; but she showed no other sign of emotion.
“Spare these poor creatures,” she said, pointing to her terrified
companions.
“Your lives are safe,” said Cedric in British. “Go with this man,” and he
pointed to one of his attendants, to whom at the same time he gave some
brief directions. He turned to Carna: “Lady,” he said, “this is no time
for many words; and I could not say them if it were, for my tongue is
ill-taught in your language. But you cannot have failed to see my heart.
It is yours, and all that I have. Come and be a queen in my home and among
my people.”
The girl’s eyes, which she had turned to the ground at his first address,
were now lifted to meet his gaze. “I cannot leave my people,” she said.
“Yet,” he answered, “the good women of whom you used to tell me, whose
lives are written in that holy book of yours, left their own people to
follow their husbands.”
“Yes, but the God of the husbands whom they followed was the God whom they
worshipped in their own homes. You worship strange gods, with whom I can
have no fellowship.”
“Come with me and teach the truth to my people and me,” cried the young
man, feeling that there was nothing which he would not do to win this
bright, brave, beautiful maiden.
“Listen, Cedric,” she answered—it was the first time that she had called
him by his name, and he thought that he had never known before what a name
it was—“You told me some time since that you would sooner go into the
everlasting darkness with your own people than bow the knee to a God whom
you believed to have dealt unjustly with them. It was a noble resolve; and
I have honoured you for it. Will you give it up for the love of a woman?
If you did, I could honour you no more, and you are too good to have a
wife that did not honour you. No, Cedric, I will pray for you. Perhaps God
will hear me, and give you light, and bring us together to the blessed
Christ, but it cannot be here.”
She caught his right hand which he had reached out in the earnestness of
his speaking, and lifted it to her lips. Her kiss was the last expression
of her gratitude. And perhaps there was something in it of a woman’s love.
But she never faltered for one instant in the resolve that was to separate
them.
Behind Cedric stood a burly, middle-aged warrior, his father’s
foster-brother. He had watched the scene with an intense interest, and
though of course he could not understand what was said, had a very shrewd
notion of the turn which affairs were taking. Perhaps he saw, too,
expressed in the girl’s tone something of a feeling which the young man
was too rapt in his adoration to observe. Anyhow, he was ill-content that
his young chief should miss the bride on whom his heart was set, and who
seemed so worthy of him.
“A noble maiden!” he whispered to Cedric, “and fit to be the wife and
mother of kings; and I think that she loves you. Shall we carry her off? I
warrant that it will not be long before she forgives us.”
“Peace!” said Cedric, turning fiercely upon him, “Peace! Would you have me
wed a slave? My wife must come to me freely, or come not at all.”
He spoke to Carna again. “Your will is my law. If you say that we must
part, I go. But, lady, you must leave this house. My people are set upon
burning it, and I could not hinder them, if I would.”
Without another word, she obeyed his bidding, and passed into the court,
followed by Cedric and his attendants.
Meanwhile some of the Saxon crews had been busy with their torches, and
the flames were beginning to gain a mastery over the building. Before many
minutes had passed the sheds and outbuildings, which were, to a great
extent, constructed of wood, were in a blaze, while dense volumes of smoke
rolled out of the windows of the villa itself. Carna stood spellbound by
the sight, at once so terrible and so grand. The spectacle of a burning
house exercises a curious fascination even on those for whom it means loss
and disaster, and Carna, even in that supreme crisis of her life, could
not help gazing at the conflagration, and even admiring unconsciously the
splendid contrasts of light and darkness which it produced.
It seemed as if that day was about to sweep away all her past. She had
torn from her heart her half-acknowledged love; she saw the home of her
childhood and youth vanishing into smoke and ashes; and now another actor
in the bygone of her life was to disappear for ever.
Martianus had observed the scene from the chamber in which he had taken
refuge, and had misunderstood it. He fancied that the girl, whom, though
no formal betrothal had bound her to him, he regarded as his own, was
going of her own accord with this Saxon robber, in whom, of course, he
recognized the champion who had saved her life at the Great Temple. The
thought stung him to madness. With all his foppery and frivolity, he had
the courage of his race. He might probably have escaped unnoticed from the
burning building. But, disdaining flight, he rushed at Cedric, heedless of
the odds which he was challenging.
The chief’s followers, knowing their master’s temper, stood aside to let
the conflict be decided without their interference. It was fierce, but it
was brief. Martianus was a skilled swordsman, but a life of indolence, if
not of excess, had slackened his sinews and unsteadied his nerves. He
parried some of his antagonist’s blows with sufficient adroitness, but his
defence grew weaker and weaker, and he could not save himself from one or
two severe wounds. Giving way before the fierce, unremitting attack of his
antagonist, he came without knowing it to the edge of the well, stumbled
over the raised parapet that surrounded it, and fell headlong into its
depths.(62)
The sight of the conflict had diverted Carna’s attention from the burning
house. She did not wait to see its issue, but at once quitted the
precincts of the villa. Some of the survivors of the garrison, the old
priest and his wife, and the rest of the non-combatants, followed her. Not
only did they feel that it was she who had saved them from the swords of
the Saxons, but they recognized in her calmness and courage the qualities
of a true leader, and were sure that they could not do better than follow
her guidance. Her own plans had been formed for some time. She saw that
the strength of Britain was in the great cities. If the country,
disorganized as it was, was to be made capable again of order and
self-defence, the impulse must come from them, the centres of its civil
and religious life. Londinium, where the Count’s name was well-known and
respected, and where she had some connections of her own, was her
destination. There she hoped to be able to do something for her people.
The first step was to leave the neighbourhood of the villa, and with the
helpless companions who now, she saw, looked to her for guidance, to make
her way to the north of the island, and from thence to the mainland.
Making a short pause till the stragglers had come up, she addressed a few
words of counsel and comfort to the fugitives.
“Dear friends,” she said, “God has delivered us from the hands of the
heathen, and will bring us safe to the haven where we would be. But this
is no place for us. We will go to where we may serve Him in peace and
quietness.”
Her clear, firm tones, which seemed inspired with all the confidence of an
unfaltering faith, seemed to breathe in their turn new courage into the
terrified crowd. They received them with a murmur of assent, and without
an expression of fear or doubt, followed her as she led the way to the
summit of the neighbouring downs.
Arrived at this spot, she paused and turned, as if to take a last look at
the scenes in which her past life had been spent. The landscape lay calm
and smiling about her. Every feature in it was familiar to her eyes; there
was not one with which she had not some happy association. But now the
sight had lost its power; her soul was occupied with more profound
emotions. The home of her childhood lay beneath her feet, a blackened
ruin; and there, upon the sea, could be seen flashing in the sunlight the
oars of the Saxons’ departing galleys.
It was a contrast full of significance, and the girl, in whose pure and
enthusiastic soul there seemed to be something of a prophetic power,
caught some of its meaning. That ruined house was the past, the days of
the Roman domination. It had had its uses, it had done its work, but it
had become corrupt and feeble, and it was passing away for ever. And the
future was there, symbolized in the Saxon ships that, brightened by the
sunshine, were speeding their way, instinct, as it seemed, with a vigorous
and hopeful life, across the waters. That was the new power that was to
shake this worn-out civilization, and raise in the course of the ages a
fair fabric of its own.
For the moment the present, with all its misery and desolation, mastered
the girl’s spirit with an overpowering sense of loss. Thoughts of her
ruined home, her helpless country, and her own personal loss, though
almost unacknowledged to herself, in the final parting with the young hero
of her life, came upon her with a force which broke down all her
fortitude. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Then her fortitude and her conscience reasserted themselves. “Courage, my
friends,” she cried, “God hath not deserted us, nor our dear country. We
have sinned much, and we shall have much to bear. But He has chosen this
land for a great work, and He will make all things work together for good
till He has accomplished it.” She was silent for a few moments. When she
began to speak again, some mighty inspiration seemed to carry her beyond
the present and out of herself. “Yes,” she cried, “God hath great things
in store for this dear country of ours. I see a great blackness of
darkness. From many houses, great and fair, where the rulers of the land
lived delicately, shall go up to heaven the smoke of a great burning, and
the fields shall be untilled and desolate, and the rivers shall run red
with blood. But beyond the darkness I see a light, and the light shines
upon a land that is fair as the garden of the Lord; and therein I behold
great cities thronged with men, and in the midst of them stately houses of
God, such as have never yet been built by skill of human hand. And the
people that work and worship there are not of our race, nor yet wholly
strange. For the Lord shall make to Himself a people from out of them that
know Him not, even from the rovers of the sea; they that pull down His
Church shall build it again, and they shall carry His name to many lands,
for the sea shall be covered with their ships; and they shall rule over
the nations from the one end of heaven to the other.”
[Illustration: Carna on the Hillside.]
She sank upon her knees, and remained wrapt in prayer, while the crowd
stood round and watched her with awe-stricken faces. When she rose again
to her feet she was calm. Resolutely she set her face from the scene of
her past life, and went her way to meet the future that lay before her.