It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save
churchyard ghosts—when all doors are closed except the gates of graves,
and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.
When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the
grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole.
And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked and
devilish wills-o’-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead
good men astraye.
When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he flappeth
along lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal broomsticke,
whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere.
It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o’clock of the night,) that two
beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse with
each other.
Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the
heathens feigned), but of daemons; and the second, with whom he held
company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir
Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre,
Villacerf and aultre lieux. But the great die as well as the humble;
and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, but his coffin and his
deathless soul.
And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had bound
him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was stubborn, he
would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, sticking into him the
barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo, would groan and
roar lustily.
Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being
bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and
roast in saecula saeculorum.
“It is hard,” said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through the
clouds, “that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for want of
a single ave.”
“How, Sir Soul?” said the daemon. “You were on earth so wicked, that
not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from hell-flame a
creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a
subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps, thou wilt be
advanced to posts of honor, as am I also:” and to show his authoritie,
he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched Rollo.
“Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for my
sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail, by
her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that every
day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the pitchforks which, on my
first entry, had never ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were
now not applied above once a week; the roasting had ceased, the boiling
had discontinued; only a certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my
situation.”
“A gentle stewe,” said the daemon.
“Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the
prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in
purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my bonds
should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have been a
blessed angel.”
“And the other ave?” said the daemon.
“She died, sir—my sister died—death choked her in the middle of the
prayer.” And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and whine
piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail
of Mercurius the devil.
“It is, in truth, a hard case,” said the daemon; “but I know of no
remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent
opportunity in your lodgings below.”
“But I have relations,” said the Earl; “my kinsman Randal, who has
inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?”
“Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.”
“It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda—”
“You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.”
“Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?”
“A dozen, without doubt.”
“And my brother, the prior?”
“A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth, except
to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.”
“And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be
saved.”
“Aves with them are rarae aves,” replied Mercurius, wagging his tail
right waggishly; “and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that not
one of these will say a prayer to save thee.”
“I would wager willingly,” responded he of Chauchigny; “but what has a
poor soul like me to stake?”
“Every evening, after the day’s roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup of
cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year, that
none of the three will pray for thee.”
“Done!” said Rollo.
“Done!” said the daemon; “and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of
Chauchigny.”
Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall
towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle.
Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the
banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady
Matilda.
“With whom shall we begin?” said the daemon: “with the baron or the
lady?”
“With the lady, if you will.”
“Be it so; her window is open, let us enter.”
So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda’s chamber.
The young lady’s eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that it
was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two
visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her white arm on
the cushion of a great chair in which she sat, pleasantly supported by
sweet thoughts and swan’s down; a lute was at her side, and a book of
prayers lay under the table (for piety is always modest). Like the
amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock)—and sighed for
ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word “Edward!”
At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. “The jade is at her old
pranks,” said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: “I pray
thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villanous
page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle.”
When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle
(for a year’s sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness of
his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.
But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. “What’s o’clock?”
said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: “is he come?”
“Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle—that is, his soul. For the love
of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a year
past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single ave.”
“I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle.”
“To-night, or never.”
“Well, to-night be it:” and she requested the devil Mercurius to give
her the prayer-book from under the table; but he had no sooner touched
the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. “It was
hotter,” he said, “than his master Sir Lucifer’s own particular
pitchfork.” And the lady was forced to begin her ave without the aid of
her missal.
At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, and carried
with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.
The lady knelt down—she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock,
and began—
“Ave Maria.”