“Ave Maria gratiâ plena!” but the music began again, and the prayer
ceased of course.
“The faithful night! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,
In pious hope I hither hie,
And humbly chant mine ev’ning hymn.
“Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!
(For never holy pilgrim kneel’d,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!”
“Virgin love!” said the Baron. “Upon my soul, this is too bad!” and he
thought of the lady’s lover whom he had caused to be hanged.
But SHE only thought of him who stood singing at her window.
“Niece Matilda!” cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, “wilt thou listen to the
lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a dozen
words to make him happy?”
At this Matilda grew angry: “Edward is neither impudent nor a liar, Sir
Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song.”
“Come away,” said Mercurius; “he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,
congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will
come the supper.”
So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and the
page sung away till morning.
“My virtues have been my ruin,” said poor Sir Rollo, as he and
Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. “Had I hanged that knave
Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would have sung
mine ave, and I should have been by this time an angel in heaven.”
“He is reserved for wiser purposes,” responded the devil: “he will
assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde’s brother; and, in
consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be
succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will give
way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedler, who shall,
finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the fair
Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul a-frying,
we may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord the Devil.”
The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too much
for one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for it; he
would not, and he could not, cry off: and he prayed inwardly that the
brother might be found more pious than the sister.
But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court,
lackeys, with smoking dishes and, full jugs, passed and repassed
continually, although it was long past midnight. On entering the hall,
they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded by a
fiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had congregated
there even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord of the castle had
signified that “it was his royal pleasure to be drunk,” and the
gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their master.
Mercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his usually rigid
countenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which became him
wonderfully.
The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a person
with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity of the
company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father Peter, the
confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a profane song, with
which he was amusing the society.
“Holy Mother!” cried he, “it is Sir Roger.”
“Alive!” screamed Sir Randal.
“No, my lord,” Mercurius said; “Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a
matter of business; and I have the honor to act as his counsellor and
attendant.”
“Nephew,” said Sir Roger, “the daemon saith justly; I am come on a
trifling affair, in which thy service is essential.”
“I will do anything, uncle, in my power.”
“Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?” But Sir Randal looked very
blank at this proposition. “I mean life spiritual, Randal,” said Sir
Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the wager.
Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was playing
all sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, became so
popular with this godless crew, that they lost all the fear which his
first appearance had given them. The friar was wonderfully taken with
him, and used his utmost eloquence and endeavors to convert the devil;
the knights stopped drinking to listen to the argument; the men-at-arms
forbore brawling; and the wicked little pages crowded round the two
strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man,
however, had little chance in the controversy, and certainly little
learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. “Father Peter,”
said he, “our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave:
wilt thou say it for him?” “Willingly, my lord,” said the monk, “with
my book;” and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without which
aid it appeared that the holy father could not manage the desired
prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, inserted a
song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, instead of chanting
an hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty—
“Some love the matin-chimes, which toll
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far’s the mid-day bell,
Which speaks the hour of dinner;
For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drown’d in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing mine ave.
“My pulpit is an ale-house bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;
A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy;
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious ave.
“And if I’m blind, yet heaven is kind,
And holy saints forgiving;
For sure he leads a right good life
Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor:
Oh, grant! mid all the changes there,
They may not change our liquor!”
And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under the table in
an agony of devout drunkenness; whilst the knights, the men-at-arms,
and the wicked little pages, rang out the last verse with a most
melodious and emphatic glee. “I am sorry, fair uncle,” hiccupped Sir
Randal, “that, in the matter of the ave, we could not oblige thee in a
more orthodox manner; but the holy father has failed, and there is not
another man in the hall who hath an idea of a prayer.”
“It is my own fault,” said Sir Rollo; “for I hanged the last
confessor.” And he wished his nephew a surly good-night, as he prepared
to quit the room.
“Au revoir, gentlemen,” said the devil Mercurius; and once more fixed
his tail round the neck of his disappointed companion.
The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the
contrary, was in high good humor. He wagged his tail with the most
satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense of
his poor associate. On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the cold
night winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in the woods, and
the owls that were watching in the towers.
In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds of
miles: so that almost the same beat of the clock which left these two
in Champagne, found them hovering over Paris. They dropped into the
court of the Lazarist Convent, and winded their way, through passage
and cloister, until they reached the door of the prior’s cell.
Now the prior, Rollo’s brother, was a wicked and malignant sorcerer;
his time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked deeds, instead
of fasting, scourging, and singing holy psalms: this Mercurius knew;
and he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the final result of his
wager with poor Sir Roger.
“You seem to be well acquainted with the road,” said the knight.
“I have reason,” answered Mercurius, “having, for a long period, had
the acquaintance of his reverence, your brother; but you have little
chance with him.”
“And why?” said Sir Rollo.
“He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, or else his
soul and his body are forfeited at once.”
“Why, thou false and traitorous devil!” said the enraged knight; “and
thou knewest this when we made our wager?”
“Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so had there been any
chance of losing?”
And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius’s door.
“Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and stopped the tongue
of my nephew’s chaplain; I do believe that had I seen either of them
alone, my wager had been won.”
“Certainly; therefore, I took good care to go with thee: however, thou
mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt; and lo! his door is open. I
will stand without for five minutes, when it will be time to commence
our journey.”
It was the poor Baron’s last chance: and he entered his brother’s room
more for the five minutes’ respite than from any hope of success.
Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calculations: he
stood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except his
long white beard, which reached to his knees; he was waving a silver
rod, and muttering imprecations in some horrible tongue.
But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. “I am,”
said he, “the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo; and have come, from
pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate.”
“Whence camest thou?”
“From the abode of the blessed in Paradise,” replied Sir Roger, who was
inspired with a sudden thought; “it was but five minutes ago that the
Patron Saint of thy church told me of thy danger, and of thy wicked
compact with the fiend. ‘Go,’ said he, ‘to thy miserable brother, and
tell him there is but one way by which he may escape from paying the
awful forfeit of his bond.’”
“And how may that be?” said the prior; “the false fiend hath deceived
me; I have given him my soul, but have received no worldly benefit in
return. Brother! dear brother! how may I escape?”
“I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed St. Mary
Lazarus” (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined the name of a saint),
“I left the clouds, where, with other angels, I was seated, and sped
hither to save thee. ‘Thy brother,’ said the Saint, ‘hath but one day
more to live, when he will become for all eternity the subject of
Satan; if he would escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying an
ave.’”
“It is the express condition of the agreement,” said the unhappy monk,
“I must say no prayer, or that instant I become Satan’s, body and
soul.”
“It is the express condition of the Saint,” answered Roger, fiercely;
“pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever.”
So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an ave. “Amen!”
said Sir Roger, devoutly.
“Amen!” said Mercurius, as, suddenly, coming behind, he seized Ignatius
by his long beard, and flew up with him to the top of the
church-steeple.
The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his brother; but it
was of no avail: Sir Roger smiled kindly on him, and said, “Do not
fret, brother; it must have come to this in a year or two.”
And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top: BUT THIS TIME
THE DEVIL HAD NOT HIS TAIL ROUND HIS NECK. “I will let thee off thy
bet,” said he to the daemon; for he could afford, now, to be generous.
“I believe, my lord,” said the daemon, politely, “that our ways
separate here.” Sir Roger sailed gayly upwards: while Mercurius having
bound the miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards to earth,
and perhaps lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and screaming as the
devil dashed him against the iron spikes and buttresses of the church.
The moral of this story will be given in the second edition.