_Vengeance_
Meanwhile Charles's friends had been scouring the country far and wide,
and wherever they went crying vengeance, and that not vainly. A bevy of
thirty knights at once took up arms and swore they would not lay them
down until they had washed them in the blood of the assassins,
and--ominous note of warning--these men were all of them, or nearly all
of them, partisans of the Erembalds. By common consent they chose
Gervais Van Praet for their chief, and at once began to lay waste and
plunder the lands and property of those who would not join them. Thus,
gaining fresh recruits wherever they went, the little band rapidly grew
into a vast army. Soon the town and fortress of Ravenschoot--a mighty
stronghold of the Karls which, through some unaccountable blunder, had
been left ungarrisoned--went up in flames; by the end of the week the
smouldering embers of his brother Wulfric's palace, not a stone's throw
from Bruges, warned Bertulph that the enemy was at his gates, and there
was no sign of the reinforcements which William of Löo, who was perhaps
in daily communication with the Provost, had promised to send from
Ypres. Next morning, therefore, his nephews made a sortie beyond the
ramparts, in the hope of putting the insurgents to flight, but after no
little hard fighting they were smitten hip and thigh and forced to lead
their shattered troops back to the city.
The burghers, however, still loyal to the cause of their châtelain, had
been hard at work night and day strengthening the fortifications--old
men, women and children, even the clergy themselves, had lent a willing
hand--and the town was said to be impregnable. Perhaps it was, but for
all that, on Wednesday the 9th of March, the enemy walked in at the
Sablon gate. There was a traitor within the camp. May be one of the
provost's own household. It was the hour of the evening meal, and so
confident were the townsfolk in the strength of their walls that they
remained quietly seated at table whilst the Isegrins[11] were marching
through their streets, and the insurgents were already in the heart of
the city before the news of their advent had reached Bertulph's palace.
The Erembalds then were had at an advantage, and though they fought
bravely--they always fought bravely--after a long and bloody conflict,
the chief shock of which was on the _Pont de l'Ane Aveugle_, they were
at last forced to retire to the Bourg, hoping against hope that they
would be able to hold out until William of Löo should arrive.
As for the burghers, when they saw how the land lay, and that the
insurgents would probably prove victorious, they either joined hands
with them or endeavoured to maintain a neutral attitude, awaiting the
issue of events--a prudent policy which their descendants have not
unfrequently followed. Some ten days after the night of the great
betrayal, the Isegrins approached their opponents with overtures of
peace--offers of life and liberty for all within the beleaguered
fortress who averred their innocence, if only they would come forth and
prove it.
In the turmoil and confusion incident on the flight to the Bourg not a
few of the attacking party were still within the fortress when the
gates were shut, and many plain citizens, who perhaps had little
sympathy with either side, but certainly had had no part in Charles's
death, were in like predicament. It was on behalf of these men that the
Isegrins now approached their foes. Still there is no reason to doubt
that the offer was made in good faith. 'Many who were innocent availed
themselves of it, and many also,' says Galbert, 'whose conduct was
suspected. Of their ultimate fate we know nothing, nor what proportion
the out-goers bore to those who remained behind. The number of these
last, however, must have been considerable, and among them were
Bertulph, Hacket and a nephew whom the contemporary chroniclers
invariably describe as Robert the Child. Not that these three
acknowledged themselves guilty--on the contrary, they stoutly maintained
their innocence, nor had they any sympathy with the murder--but for them
the bonds of kinship were indissoluble, and the guilt of Burchard and
some other members of the family was notorious and avowed. 'Not one
among ye,' cried Hacket, who was spokesman for the rest, 'not one among
ye bewails this bloody deed more bitterly than do we. Send into exile,
if ye will, all those who acknowledge their guilt. Impose on them what
penalty our judges and our bishops shall deem fit, provided that life
and liberty be respected, and that ye do them no bodily harm. Give us
some assurance of this, and that we, who declare our innocence, shall be
offered opportunity of proving it, each man as befitteth his
state--clerk according to Church law, knight in accordance with the laws
of chivalry--and we surrender, but if these conditions do not seem good
to ye, then will we remain here and defend this fortress. It is better
to live with our guilty kinsmen than to come forth and meet a
dishonourable death at your hands.' This extraordinary speech is given
by Walbert, who was at Bruges during the whole of this troublous period,
and avers that he noted down on his tablets each night the events that
had occurred during the day, but he adds that owing to the excitement
and turmoil that prevailed in the city it is not unlikely that some of
his statements are inaccurate.
Needless to say that the Isegrins turned a deaf ear to Hacket's
proposals. In the deliverance of their friends they had obtained all
that they wanted; the only answer they vouchsafed was from the mouth of
the 'Winged Lie' and the 'Winged Lie' breathed out threatening, and
slaughter, and curses into the bargain. All hope of conciliation was at
an end, and, says Walbert, 'the belligerents went their several ways
full of headiness and gall.'
All that day the fight continued without any marked success on either
side, but towards sunset the attacking party were beaten back with great
loss, and the Erembalds were left, as they fondly believed, at peace for
the night.
Worn out with hard fighting, and filled with an overweening sense of
security, inspired by their unlooked-for success, the whole of the
little garrison had retired to rest, save only a handful of sentinels
wearily straining their eyes over the dark city. All through the night
these men were content to freeze on the ramparts, chilled to the bone by
a cutting east wind, but towards the small hours of morning the icy
breath of coming day drove them into the great hall of Charles's palace,
where some one had kindled a fire. There they sat before the glowing
logs, dozing and drinking and chatting together in a fool's paradise,
and clean forgot the little western door by which their friends were
wont to come and go, and that a rusty lock and half-a-dozen nails alone
secured it. 'This one weak spot, when we were freezing on the
battlements, some prowling Isegrin smelt out, and whilst we are rubbing
a little life into our poor numbed limbs before Charles's fire, a host
of them swarm round it. Some one suggests an axe, it yields at a blow,
and the rabid pack rush in so swiftly and so suddenly, and with so
little noise, that their cruel fangs are at our throats almost before we
are awake. The whole Bourg is alive with men--they seem to spring up
from the earth, every crevice and every corner bristles with them, and
so dark is it that we cannot distinguish friends from foes. Panic lays
hold of us, we lose our heads, turn cowards and sue for mercy, or leap
in despair over ramparts as doth poor Giselbert, whose bruised and
bleeding body they tie to a horse's tail and drag all round the
market-place. The bravest of us take to our heels, and trampling one
another down, crush through the narrow bridgeway which leads from
Charles's palace into St. Donatian's church, determined there to make
our last stand, and then, O wonderment! the howling pack draw off and
leave us for a little space at peace.'
Such was the scene in the Bourg on this momentous night. All that was
left of the Erembald host was huddled up in the cathedral, too much
shattered in mind and body to be a cause of present disquietude; their
opponents were free to do what they would, and they were more eager for
plunder than revenge. They had come to a conglomeration of palaces, to a
region abounding in treasure, to a place where much corn and wine and
oil were stored up; their mouths watered for these things, and the word
was given to plunder, and like a flock of locusts they carried off
everything. Charles's palace, containing also Hacket's apartments; the
provost's palace, and the palace of the canons of Bruges, all of them
were stripped; from the bed and the underlinen in Bertulph's sleeping
apartment to the gridirons and saucepans in his kitchen, and from the
mead and ale in his cellar to the leaden gutters of his roof. Nor had
they any greater respect for the property which had once belonged to
Charles. They carried off even the meat hanging up in his larder, and
the bed on which he had slept. Disappointed at not discovering the
much-coveted treasure in his strong-room, they consoled themselves by
wrenching off the wrought-iron doors, and bearing them away on their
shoulders, nor did they despise the chains and manacles and other
instruments of torture that they found in the dungeons under the palace,
though the rich hangings and tapestry which they tore from the walls of
his state-room, and the great store of wheat heaped up in his granary
were doubtless objects more to their taste. The canons' dormitories in
the cloister contained great treasure. So well stocked were they with
rich and costly apparel, most likely ecclesiastical vestments, that
though the marauders began to carry them off early in the morning, it
was not until nightfall that the task was complete.
Galbert, who gives a detailed account of all this, concludes his
observations with this quaint remark: 'Our citizens,' he says, 'in
acting thus, were fully convinced they were doing no wrong.'
Meanwhile the men of Ghent were secretly negotiating for Charles's body;
it was arranged that it should be handed out to them through one of the
windows in the choir, and early next morning they proceeded to put the
plan in execution. 'Our burghers, however, got wind of it, and they
being as keen to retain the relics as the Ghenters were to carry them
away, infinite tumult ensued, which was only quenched by the stones and
arrows and boiling pitch which the Erembalds, who had by this time
shaken themselves together, were hurling down from the battlements.
Thus rudely brought to their senses, the contending factions came to
terms, joined forces, took the church, and drove their opponents into
the tower. Fortune had once more almost smiled on the Karls, and again
that day the cup of hope was destined to be dashed from their lips. It
happened thus:--
When the Bourg was taken, Bertulph's palace had been allotted to the
Stratens as their share of the plunder, or rather they had allotted it
to themselves, and that very morning had 'insolently and vauntingly and
vaingloriously' run up their standard over the roof, at sight of which
all were filled with disgust, for the provost and his household, before
the betrayal, were in sooth devout and courteous men, held in high
esteem by the whole city. 'The hearts of our burghers swell against them
and we lust for their blood, the more so as they are actually carrying
off corn and wine which is our property, for it was we who bore the
brunt of the battle whilst these men were snoring in bed. At all costs
this pilfering must be stopped. We break into the courtyard, and one of
us with his sword staves in a cask of wine--signal for infinite uproar.
The Stratens take to their heels. Our men outrun them, and slam the
gates of the city so that none shall escape. Hacket rushes out on his
tower and frenziedly exhorts the mob to slay his foes--calumniators for
whose sake Count Charles was slain. The market-place bristles with armed
men, a waving forest of spears. All Flanders is in town to-day. Greed,
vengeance, lust for relics, itching ears--a hundred wayward impulses
have drawn them here, but one are they, at least, in this one
sentiment--old Tancmar and his nephews merit hemp. Of all the blood and
all the tears which have been shed these scandalmongers are the cause,
these backbiters, these intriguers, these liars, who, with false, foul
tongues, for sordid ends, moved Charles to spurn our noblest men and
stung them on to slay him. Thus we murmur, thus we declaim, and the
whole town roars with the thunder of our indignation, until pressing
onward to the Bourg, where rumour says young Walter lies concealed, for
we would fain have him out and hang him, there at the very gates, upon
the bridge which spans the Boterbeke,[12] we meet our new-made châtelain
Gervais Praet, who with his ready tongue doth still the storm. 'Yon
vaunting ensign shall be furled--see, friends, it is even now
furled--nor shall this Tancmar lord it in your provost's house; he and
his kith and kin shall forthwith quit the town. I pass my word, and as
for the liquor and the grain, the men who took the citadel shall have
the eating and the drinking of it.' So we disperse, and whilst old
Bertulph's choicest wine is gurgling down our parched-up throats or we
are hurrying on to grab what share we may of his great store of
wheat--in this pinched time of dearth no little boon--the trembling
Tancmar and his nephews skulk away, each one of them empillioned behind
a stalwart knight, so timorous are they of the men of Bruges; and
darkness falls upon the town, shrill with the blaring trumpets of the
Erembalds, who all night long sound signals of distress, for this day
arrows winged with lying script have brought to them assurances of help.
The day before the Bourg was taken Bertulph managed to effect his
escape. He was let down by a cord from the battlements, and safely
conducted by a friend in the Isegrin camp, whom he had heavily bribed,
out of the town and three leagues further into the open country beyond.
Here left to his own devices, walking by night and sleeping where he
could by day, he at length reached the manor of Alard van Woesten, who
had married one of his nieces, and was lord of the little town of
Woesten on the French frontier in the neighbourhood of Ypres.
In this stronghold he lay in hiding for about three weeks, after which
time, the rumour of his arrival having somehow or other leaked out, it
presently reached the ears of William of Löo, who was keeping his Easter
in the city hard-by. Upon receipt of this important news William at once
took horse, and with 'much noise and great expedition' began to make
inquiries concerning the provost's whereabouts.
Having searched Alard's house, and the house of his daughter hard-by,
and not finding the object of his quest, he was beside himself with
rage, fired both houses, seized the girl, swore that he would put her to
torture if Bertulph were not produced before the morrow, and rode off.
Alard, therefore, having to choose between his daughter and his uncle,
revealed the place where Bertulph was concealed, and he was at once
taken prisoner by William's officers.
Well knowing that his days were numbered, and that he had nothing to
hope from the gratitude of the man for whose sake he had risked so much,
and at whose hands he had received so little, the aged prelate prepared
himself to face death with what courage he could. He was a dying man, he
said, and he wished to see a priest. His captors granted the request,
'and there, in the sight of all men, he confessed his sins, and
prostrate on the ground smote his breast and prayed God to have pity on
him.' Next morning they would have taken him on horseback to Ypres, but
he refused to ride, and though it was freezing hard persisted in
walking there barefoot. 'This soft, luxurious prelate,' comments
Walbert, 'who in the days when fortune smiled on him used to shrink from
a flea bite as from a dagger thrust!'
A certain priest from whose lips Walter learned the details here noted
down, walked by Bertulph's side and, as they went, they intoned
alternately verse by verse the Lady Office and the _Te Deum_. Thus,
martyr-like, with a song of triumph on his lips, this staunch old man
went forth to die. 'As they drew near to the gates of the city a great
multitude came forth to meet them, crying aloud and clapping their hands
and leaping for joy, and they struck the provost with their fists, and
beat him with staves and pelted him with the heads of sea-fish (of which
very many are taken in these parts), and heaped every kind of insult
upon him, all of which he bore with patience, speaking never a word.'
This was all the more remarkable, says Walter, because the provost was
naturally a proud man who could ill brook ridicule or insult of any
kind; and he adds:--_Apropos_ of this, I remember a story which was told
me by one of his own servants. Upon a certain occasion when the provost
was seated before the fire in his great hall, with his household around
him, the discourse turned to the Passion of Our Lord, and of the insults
which He suffered with so much meekness in the house of Caiaphas. 'For
my part,' quoth the provost, 'I can never understand that portion of
Scripture. If low fellows of that kind had struck me I would at least
have spat in their face.'
The remaining portion of the story of Bertulph's execution is told for
us by Walbert. It reads like some breviary legend of a martyr's death.
There he stood in the midst of the market-place, surrounded by a ribald,
jeering throng, with countenance unmoved and eyes turned heavenward as
though invoking God's pity. Then one of those who were standing by
struck him on the head, saying, 'O thou proud man, why dost thou not
deign to sue for mercy, seeing that thy life is in our hands?' but the
provost opened not his mouth. And for his greater ignominy they stripped
him of his clothes and hanged him naked on a cross in the midst of the
market-place, as if he had been a thief or a robber.
Then drew nigh unto him William of Löo, and thus addressed him, 'Tell
me, O provost, I conjure thee, on the salvation of thy soul, in addition
to those whose names we already know, who are they who are implicated in
Count Charles's death,' and Bertulph made answer, and said before all
those present, 'Thou knowest, O Burgrave, as well as I.' William,
hearing those words, was transported with fury, and commanded stones and
mud to be cast at the provost and that he should be put to death. Then
those who were assembled in the market-place to sell fish, tore his
flesh with their iron hooks and beat him with rods, and thus they put an
end to his days.
'William at once sent a herald to Bruges to inform the Isegrins of what
he had done, and we in our turn,' says Walbert, 'handed on the news to
the Erembalds in their tower, whereat terror and despair pressed them
closer than the generals of our army, and naught was heard but the sound
of their lamentations.' Thus Walbert. Nevertheless, they held out
bravely until the 20th of April, and that, notwithstanding that they
were besieged by Louis the Fat and a great army of French knights; by
William Cliton, the newly-elected count, and a horde of Normans; by
almost all the chivalry of Flanders, and a host of burghers from Ghent,
who still hoped that they would be able to obtain Charles's body for
Blandinium.
The great army, which six weeks before had taken refuge in the Bourg,
was now reduced to a mere handful. Of the rest not a few must have died
in battle, others perhaps of wounds and wretchedness and want, but in
all probability the vast majority had made their escape, hoping perhaps
that they would be able to raise a sufficient force to effectually
succour those of their comrades who remained in Bruges, and afterwards
place on the throne a sovereign who would respect their liberties. Be
this as it may, by the 20th of April but thirty worn-out men remained in
St. Donatian's, who continually straining their eyes over the vast
expanse of flat country surrounding them, descried there no token of
hope. Moreover, the Isegrins were battering in the tower--at each thrust
of the ram it trembled to its base. Instant surrender or instant death
was the only alternative, the Karls chose the first, and young Robert
cried out, in the name of the rest, that if his personal liberty were
guaranteed they would lay down their arms. Louis accepted the condition
and they prepared to descend. One brave fellow indeed, preferring death
to disgrace, would have leapt over the ramparts had not his comrades
held him back. 'At sight of which,' says Walbert, 'our burghers shed
tears,' but their sympathy led them no further.
One by one the little band of heroes came forth, the lean men through a
narrow aperture giving on the stairs, those who were too corpulent
through a larger window near the summit of the tower, and these men let
themselves down by ropes.
'Pale they were,' says Walbert, 'and livid and ugly with hunger, and
they bore on their faces the stigma of their crimes; but our citizens
wept when they saw those who had once been their leaders led away to
prison.' No wonder; the dark fetid hole into which they were huddled was
of such narrow dimensions that the inmates were not even able to sit
down, and after a few days' detention there, only three or four of them
had strength to stand.
From this wretched fate young Robert alone was exempted, but Louis
thought that his promise not to cast him into prison was sufficiently
respected by giving him into the custody of a citizen of Bruges. Of
Robert's entire innocence there can be no doubt. Even Walbert, the enemy
of his race, bears testimony to his noble qualities. He was most
popular, not only in Bruges, but throughout Flanders. Again and again
the burghers had petitioned Louis in his favour. Even some of the
Isegrin leaders had followed their example, but for all of them the
French king had one answer. He had sworn to take no step without the
consent of his Council, and Robert remained in custody.
As to the other prisoners, their captivity lasted only a fortnight. It
was then (4th May) determined that they should be thrown from the tower
which they had so bravely defended, and the same day the sentence was
carried out.
The soldiers entrusted with this odious task had received strict orders
to complete it with as little noise as possible, and with brutal levity
they told their victims that the King was about to give them proof of
his mercy.
The prisoners were then led one by one to the scene of execution, not by
way of the _Place du Bourg_, which then, as now, was open to the public,
but secretly through the Loove and across the covered bridge uniting it
to the cathedral.
On more than one occasion the townsfolk had shown marked sympathy for
the Erembalds, and Louis feared that if his project was generally known,
or if the victims were afforded an opportunity of appealing to them, an
attempt at rescue might be made, which would perhaps end in revolution.
The first to suffer was Wulfric Cnopp, the brother of Bertulph and
Hacket. Until a few moments before his death he was ignorant of the fate
in store for him. He had just time to take one last look at his beloved
city, and then with a mighty effort, for Wulfric was a man of gigantic
stature, the executioners threw him over the ramparts. There is reason
to believe that this man was really guilty of the crime imputed to him.
Then came young Walter, the son of the Châtelain of Ardenburg, a noble
and a comely youth. 'For the love of God,' he cried, when he reached the
summit of the tower and the executioners were about to complete their
task, 'for the love of God let me say a prayer first.' They granted him
a moment's respite, and then like a flash of lightning he fell down
headlong and dashed all the life out of his beautiful body.
The next to die was one Eric, a knight of noble birth. Though he had
been hurled from so great a height, and though in the fall his body had
crashed against a wooden staircase with such violence that a step
secured by five nails had been thereby wrenched off, he was still
breathing when he reached the ground--had strength even to make the sign
of the Cross. Some women of the people would have staunched his wounds,
but one of the King's household heaved a great stone and drove them
away. Better so--'the little life that was left in him was but a
lingering and a cruel death.'
The rest suffered in like manner. Some were innocent, some were guilty,
seven-and-twenty of them all told. Their names are not recorded--this
only we know of them. They faced death without flinching, and died like
Christian men. His Saviour's name was the last word which passed the
lips of each of them, and each of them made the sign of the Cross
before he fell. By a refinement of barbarity they were not permitted to
receive the consolations of religion under pretext that they were
excommunicated. This was in direct contravention of Charles's own
ordinance concerning criminals. Their bodies were denied Christian
burial. They were thrown into a marsh beyond the village of St. André,
and for years afterwards no man after nightfall would willingly pass
that way.
'On Friday, May 6, King Louis resolved to go back to France, and the
same day he left Bruges, carrying away Robert with him.' Great was the
lamentation of our citizens when they saw him depart, for this noble
youth was beloved by all of them, and they knew he would never return.
"Good friends," said he, on seeing their grief, "my life is not in your
hands. Pray God to have pity on my soul." Louis did not dare to execute
his victim at Bruges, nor indeed here offer him any indignity, but no
sooner had they quitted the outskirts of the town than he gave orders
that his legs should be tied under his saddle, and when they reached
Mont Cassel he cut off his head.
Burchard too had paid the penalty of his crime. The Karls said that,
having quarrelled with Robert, he had been slain by him in a duel,
during the time when they were besieged in the tower, but Walter and
Walbert affirm that in this they lied, and that in reality he had made
his escape, and that he was afterwards captured and executed; and there
is also a tradition that he succeeded in escaping altogether from his
native land, and after many wanderings at length found refuge in the
south of Ireland.
Be this as it may, he had disappeared from Flanders, and thus the great
house of Erembald was all but wiped out. Of those who traced their
descent in the direct male line to its mighty founder, only Hacket and
his little son Robert, a child of tender years, remained alive. The
châtelain made his escape from the tower a few days before the
surrender. Whether he purchased the good will of one or other of the
Isegrin leaders, or whether he had succeeded in hoodwinking them, is
uncertain. All we know is that he escaped from Bruges, and, wandering
alone across the great salt marsh at the north of the city, presently
reached the impregnable stronghold of his son-in-law, Walter Cromlin,
the mighty Lord of Lisseweghe, a mere village now, but in those days an
important sea-coast town. Here he lay concealed until Dierick of Alsace,
more than a year later, brought peace once more to Flanders.
Hacket was shortly afterwards placed on trial, and the fact that he
succeeded in clearing his character is proof presumptive that Bertulph,
who like his brother Hacket had all along protested his innocence and
his capability of proving it, would have likewise been able to make his
words good.[13] Immediately after the trial Hacket was restored to his
former rank and possessions, we hear nothing more of the charge of
serfdom, and for many generations his descendants were mighty men in
Flanders. Amongst them note the magnificent Louis of Gruthuise, Peer of
Flanders, France and England to boot--Edward IV. created him Earl of
Winchester--who in the fourteen hundreds lived in royal state in the
beautiful palace on the banks of the Roya, which still goes by his name.
Of Hacket's subsequent history little is certainly known, but if the
conjectures of Olivier de Wree are well founded--and the evidence which
he adduces in their support is surely worthy of consideration--the life
and career of Desiderius Hacket was indeed a strange and chequered one.
Briefly the facts are as follows. In 1135 Rodolphe of Nesle, a scion of
the house of Erembald, was appointed Châtelain of Bruges; the name of
Hacket does not cease to appear at the foot of official documents until
nearly fifty years later, but whereas previous to 1135 the writer of
this signature invariably describes himself as châtelain, subsequent to
that date he signs as Canon of St. Donatian's, later on as Dean of the
same church, and later still as Abbot of Dunes.
Bearing in mind the uncommonness of the name, and the fact that we lose
all trace of Hacket the layman when Hacket the churchman appears, it
would seem in the highest degree probable that the signatures before and
after 1135 were the handiwork of one man. That this was certainly the
case after that date the testimony of the monastic chroniclers clearly
shows. They also tell us something more. The ecclesiastic in question,
before he was appointed Abbot of Dunes, for a short time governed a
branch house which he himself seems to have founded at Lisseweghe.[14]
He was reputed in his day a famous preacher; he was living and signing
documents in 1183, and died at an advanced age and in the odour of
sanctity. It would seem then that the bellicose Châtelain of Bruges
ended his days as a monk.
Strangely enough Hacket's sworn enemy and rival, the man to whose enmity
was due all the misfortune that befell his house, the treacherous
Tancmar of Straten himself, towards the close of his life also donned
the cowl. He became a monk in the great Benedictine house of St. Andrew
hard-by his own estate, and tradition says that he too died a saint.
Surely it is not a little significant that three of the chief actors in
this bloody drama should have been numbered by their contemporaries in
the ranks of the blessed. Charles, that hero of blood and sentiment, of
violence and delicate emotions, who firmly believed that he was dying
for justice sake; Straten, the devotee, who for his own ends fanned the
flame of his master's wrath--and poor Hacket, who was accused of murder,
escaped by the skin of his teeth, and at length proved his innocence,
most probably by the rite of ordeal. The age in which these men lived
was an age of contrasts, an age of clashing tones and inharmonious
tints. In those days it was the fashion to be devout, and the shibboleth
of the fine gentleman was the fervent expression of his unwavering
faith.