Life and liberty, while safe, are little thought of: for why? they are
matters of course. Endangered, they are rated at their real value. In
this, too, they are like sunshine, whose beauty men notice not at noon
when it is greatest, but towards evening, when it lies in flakes of
topaz under shady elms. Yet it is feebler then; but gloom lies beside
it, and contrast reveals its fire. Thus Gerard and Margaret, though they
started at every leaf that rustled louder than its fellows, glowed all
over with joy and thankfulness as they glided among the friendly trees
in safety and deep tranquil silence, baying dogs and brutal voices yet
ringing in their mind's ears.
But presently Gerard found stains of blood on Margaret's ankles.
“Martin! Martin! help! they have wounded her: the crossbow!”
“No, no!” said Margaret, smiling to reassure him; “I am not wounded, nor
hurt at all.”
“But what is it, then, in Heaven's name?” cried Gerard, in great
agitation.
“Scold me not, then!” and Margaret blushed.
“Did I ever scold you?”
“No, dear Gerard. Well, then, Martin said it was blood those cruel dogs
followed; so I thought if I could but have a little blood on my shoon,
the dogs would follow me instead, and let my Gerard wend free. So I
scratched my arm with Martin's knife--forgive me! Whose else could I
take? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. You forgive me?” said she beseechingly, and
lovingly and fawningly, all in one.
“Let me see this scratch first,” said Gerard, choking with emotion.
“There, I thought so. A scratch? I call it a cut--a deep, terrible,
cruel cut.”
Gerard shuddered at sight of it.
“She might have done it with her bodkin,” said the soldier. “Milksop!
that sickens at sight of a scratch and a little blood.”
“No, no. I could look on a sea of blood, but not on hers. Oh, Margaret!
how could you be so cruel?”
Margaret smiled with love ineffable. “Foolish Gerard,” murmured she, “to
make so much of nothing.” And she flung the guilty arm round his neck.
“As if I would not give all the blood in my heart for you, let alone
a few drops from my arm.” And with this, under the sense of his recent
danger, she wept on his neck for pity and love; and he wept with her.
“And I must part from her,” he sobbed; “we two that love so dear--one
must be in Holland, one in Italy. Ah me! ah me! ah me!”
At this Margaret wept afresh, but patiently and silently. Instinct is
never off its guard, and with her unselfishness was an instinct.
To utter her present thoughts would be to add to Gerard's misery at
parting, so she wept in silence.
Suddenly they emerged upon a beaten path, and Martin stopped.
“This is the bridle-road I spoke of,” said he hanging his head; “and
there away lies the hostelry.”
Margaret and Gerard cast a scared look at one another.
“Come a step with me, Martin,” whispered Gerard. When he had drawn him
aside, he said to him in a broken voice, “Good Martin, watch over her
for me! She is my wife; yet I leave her. See Martin! here is gold--it
was for my journey; it is no use my asking her to take it--she would
not; but you will for her, will you not? Oh, Heaven! and is this all I
can do for her? Money? But poverty is a curse. You will not let her want
for anything, dear Martin? The burgomaster's silver is enough for me.”
“Thou art a good lad, Gerard. Neither want nor harm shall come to her.
I care more for her little finger than for all the world; and were she
nought to me, even for thy sake would I be a father to her. Go with
a stout heart, and God be with thee going and coming.” And the rough
soldier wrung Gerard's hand, and turned his head away, with unwonted
feeling.
After a moment's silence he was for going back to Margaret, but Gerard
stopped him. “No, good Martin; prithee, stay here behind this thicket,
and turn your head away from us, while I-oh, Martin! Martin!”
By this means Gerard escaped a witness of his anguish at leaving her he
loved, and Martin escaped a piteous sight. He did not see the poor
young things kneel and renew before Heaven those holy vows cruel men had
interrupted. He did not see them cling together like one, and then try
to part, and fail, and return to one another, and cling again, like
drowning, despairing creatures. But he heard Gerard sob, and sob, and
Margaret moan.
At last there was a hoarse cry, and feet pattered on the hard road.
He started up, and there was Gerard running wildly, with both hands
clasped above his head, in prayer, and Margaret tottering back towards
him with palms extended piteously, as if for help, and ashy cheek and
eyes fixed on vacancy.
He caught her in his arms, and spoke words of comfort to her; but her
mind could not take them in; only at the sound of his voice she moaned
and held him tight, and trembled violently.
He got her on the mule, and put his arm around her, and so, supporting
her frame, which, from being strong like a boy, had now turned all
relaxed and powerless, he took her slowly and sadly home.
She did not shed one tear, nor speak one word.
At the edge of the wood he took her off the mule, and bade her go across
to her father's house. She did as she was bid.
Martin to Rotterdam. Sevenbergen was too hot for him.
Gerard, severed from her he loved, went like one in a dream. He hired a
horse and a guide at the little hostelry, and rode swiftly towards the
German frontier. But all was mechanical; his senses felt blunted; trees
and houses and men moved by him like objects seen through a veil. His
companions spoke to him twice, but he did not answer. Only once he cried
out savagely, “Shall we never be out of this hateful country?”
After many hours' riding they came to the brow of a steep hill; a small
brook ran at the bottom.
“Halt!” cried the guide, and pointed across the valley. “Here is
Germany.”
“Where?”
“On t'other side of the bourn. No need to ride down the hill, I trow.”
Gerard dismounted without a word, and took the burgomaster's purse from
his girdle: while he opened it, “You will soon be out of this hateful
country,” said his guide, half sulkily; “mayhap the one you are going to
will like you no better; any way, though it be a church you have robbed,
they cannot take you, once across that bourn.”
These words at another time would have earned the speaker an admonition
or a cuff. They fell on Gerard now like idle air. He paid the lad in
silence, and descended the hill alone. The brook was silvery; it ran
murmuring over little pebbles, that glittered, varnished by the clear
water; he sat down and looked stupidly at them. Then he drank of the
brook; then he laved his hot feet and hands in it; it was very cold:
it waked him. He rose, and taking a run, leaped across it into Germany.
Even as he touched the strange land he turned suddenly and looked back.
“Farewell, ungrateful country!” he cried. “But for her it would cost me
nought to leave you for ever, and all my kith and kin, and--the mother
that bore me, and--my playmates, and my little native town. Farewell,
fatherland--welcome the wide world! omne so-lum for-ti p p-at-r-a.” And
with these brave words in his mouth he drooped suddenly with arms and
legs all weak, and sat down and sobbed bitterly upon the foreign soil.
When the young exile had sat a while bowed down, he rose and dashed the
tears from his eyes like a man; and not casting a single glance more
behind him, to weaken his heart, stepped out into the wide world.
His love and heavy sorrow left no room in him for vulgar misgivings.
Compared with rending himself from Margaret, it seemed a small thing to
go on foot to Italy in that rude age.
All nations meet in a convent. So, thanks to his good friends the monks,
and his own thirst of knowledge, he could speak most of the languages
needed on that long road. He said to himself, “I will soon be at Rome;
the sooner the better now.”
After walking a good league, he came to a place where four ways
met. Being country roads, and serpentine, they had puzzled many an
inexperienced neighbour passing from village to village. Gerard took out
a little dial Peter had given him, and set it in the autumn sun, and by
this compass steered unhesitatingly for Rome inexperienced as a young
swallow flying south; but unlike the swallow, wandering south alone.