CHAPTER XVI.

There are no truer chameleons than words, changing hue and aspect as

the circumstances change around them, and leaving scarce a shade of

their original meaning. _Piety_ has at present many acceptations,

according to the various lips that pronounce it, and the ears that

hear; but in the time of the commonwealth, it meant the grossest

fanaticism; and in the time of Philip Augustus, the grossest

superstition.

An age where knowledge and civilisation have made some progress, yet

not produced a cold fondness for abstract facts, may be called the

period of imagination in a nation; and then it will generally be found

that, in matters of religion, a brooding, a melancholy, and a

fanatical spirit reigns. Sectarian enthusiasm is then sufficient to

keep itself alive in each man's breast, without imagination requiring

any aid from external stimulants; and though the language of the

pulpit may be flowery and extravagant, the manners are rigid and

austere, and the rites simple and unadorned.

In more remote periods, however, where brutal ignorance is the general

character of society, the only means of communicating with the dull

imagination of the people is by their outward senses. Pomp, pageant,

and display, music and ceremony, accompany each rite of the church, to

give it dignity in the eyes of the multitude, who, if they do not

understand the spirit, at least worship the form. Such was the

case in the days of Philip Augustus. The people, with very few

exceptions,--barons, knights, serfs and ecclesiastics,--beheld, felt,

and understood little else in religion than the ceremonies of the

church of Rome. Each festival of that church was for them a day of

rejoicing; each saint was an object of the most profound devotion; and

each genuflexion of the priest (though the priest himself was often

bitterly satirised in the sirventes of the trouvères and troubadours)

was a sacred rite, that the populace would not have seen abrogated for

the world. The ceremonies of the church were the link--the only

remaining link--between the noble and the serf; and, common to

all,--the high, the low, the rich, the poor,--they were revered and

loved by all classes of the community.

Such was the general state of France, in regard to religious feelings,

when the kingdom was menaced with interdict by pope Innocent the

Third. The very rumour cast a gloom over the whole nation; but when

the legate, proceeding according to the rigid injunctions of the pope,

called the bishops, archbishops, and abbots of France to a council at

Dijon, for the purpose of putting the threat in execution, murmurs and

lamentations burst forth all over France.

Philip Augustus, however, remained inflexible in his resolution of

resistance; and, though he sent two messengers to protest against the

proceedings of the council, he calmly suffered its deliberations to

proceed, without a change of purpose. The pope was equally unmoved;

and the cardinal of St. Mary's proceeded to the painful task which had

been imposed upon him; declaring to the assembled bishops the will of

the sovereign pontiff, and calling upon them to name the day

themselves on which the interdict should be pronounced. The bishops

and abbots found all opposition in vain, and the day was consequently

named.

It was about this period that Count Thibalt d'Auvergne, having laid

the ashes of his father in the grave, prepared to retrace his steps to

Paris. His burden upon earth was a heavy one; yet, like the overloaded

camel in the desert, he resolutely bore it on without murmur or

complaint, waiting till he should drop down underneath it, and death

should give him relief. A fresh furrow might be traced on his brow, a

deeper shade of stern melancholy in his eye; but that was all by which

one might guess how painfully he felt the loss of what he looked on as

his last tie to earth. His voice was calm and firm, his manner clear

and collected: nothing escaped his remembrance; nothing indicated that

his thoughts were not wholly in the world wherein he stood, except the

fixed contraction of his brow, and the sunshineless coldness of his

lips.

When, as we have before said, he had given his power, as suzerain of

Auvergne, into the hands of his uncle, he himself mounted his horse,

and, followed by a numerous retinue, set out from Vic le Comte.

He turned not, however, his steps towards Paris in the first instance,

but proceeded direct to Dijon. Here he found no small difficulty in

obtaining a lodging for himself and train: the monasteries, on whose

hospitality he had reckoned, being completely occupied by the great

influx of prelates, which the council had brought thither; and the

houses of public entertainment being, in that day, unmeet dwellings

for persons of his rank. Nevertheless, dispersing his followers

through the town, with commands to keep his name secret, the Count

d'Auvergne took up his abode at the house of a _tavernier_, or

vintner, and proceeded to make the inquiries which had caused him so

far to deviate from his direct road.

These referred entirely to--and he had long before determined to make

them--the property of the Count de Tankerville; on which, however, he

soon found that king Philip had laid his hands; and therefore, the

story of Gallon the fool being confirmed in this point, he gave up all

farther questions upon the subject, as not likely to produce any

benefit to his friend De Coucy.

Occupied as he had been in Auvergne, the progress of the council of

bishops had but reached his ears vaguely; and he determined that the

very next day he would satisfy himself in regard to its deliberations,

which, though indeed they could take no atom from the load on his

heart, nor restore one drop of happiness to his cup, yet interested

him, perhaps, as much as any human being in France.

The day had worn away in his other inquiries, the evening had passed

in bitter thoughts; and midnight had come, without bringing even the

hope of sleep to his eyelids; when suddenly he was startled by hearing

the bells of all the churches in Dijon toll, as for the dead.

Immediately rising, he threw his cloak about him, and, drawing the

hood over his head and face, proceeded into the street to ascertain

whether the fears which those sounds had excited in his bosom were

well founded.

In the street he found a multitude of persons flocking towards the

cathedral; and, hurrying on with the rest, he entered at one of the

side-doors, and crossed to the centre of the nave.

The sight that presented itself was certainly awful. No tapers were

lighted at the high altar, not a shrine gave forth a single ray; but

on the steps before the table stood the cardinal legate, dressed in

the deep purple stole worn on the days of solemn fast in the church of

Rome. On each hand, the steps, and part of the choir, were crowded

with bishops and mitred abbots, each in the solemn habiliments

appropriated by his order to the funeral fasts; and each holding in

his hand a black and smoky torch of pitch, which spread through the

whole church their ungrateful odour and their red and baleful light.

The space behind the altar was crowded with ecclesiastics and monks,

on the upper part of whose pale and meagre faces the dim and

ill-favouring torch-light cast an almost unearthly gleam; while

streaming down the centre of the church, over the kneeling

congregation, on whose dark vestments it seemed to have no effect, the

red glare spread through the nave and aisles, catching faintly on the

tall pillars and Gothic tracery of the cathedral, and losing itself,

at last, in the deep gloom all around.

The choir of the cathedral were in the act of singing the _Miserere_

as the Count d'Auvergne entered; and the deep and solemn notes of the

chant, echoed by the vaulted roofs, and long aisles, and galleries,

while it harmonised well with the gloominess of the scene, offered

frightful discord when the deep toll of the death-bell broke across,

with sounds entirely dissonant. No longer doubting that his

apprehensions were indeed true, and that the legate was about to

pronounce the realm in interdict, Thibalt d'Auvergne advanced as far

as he could towards the choir, and, placing himself by one of the

pillars, prepared, with strange and mingled emotions, to hear the

stern thunder of the church launched at two beings whose love had made

his misery, and whose happiness was built upon his disappointment.

It were too cruel an inquest of human nature to ask if, at the thought

of Agnes de Meranie being torn from the arms of her royal lover, a

partial gleam of undefined satisfaction did not thrill through the

heart of the Count d'Auvergne; but this at least is certain, that

could he, by laying down his life, have swept away the obstacles

between them, and removed the agonising difficulties of Agnes's

situation, Thibalt d'Auvergne would not have hesitated--no, not for a

moment!

At the end of the _Miserere_, the legate advanced, and in a voice that

trembled even at the sentence it pronounced, placed the whole realm of

France in interdict,--bidding the doors of the churches to be closed;

the images of the saints, and the cross itself, to be veiled; the

worship of the Almighty to be suspended; marriage to the young, the

eucharist to the old and dying, and sepulture to the dead, to be

refused; all the rites, the ceremonies, and the consolations of

religion to be denied to every one; and France to be as a dead land,

till such time as Philip the king should separate himself from Agnes

his concubine, and take again to his bosom Ingerburge, his lawful

wife.

At that hard word, concubine, applied to Agnes de Meranie, the Count

d'Auvergne's hand naturally grasped his dagger; but the legate was

secure in his sacred character, and he proceeded to anathematise and

excommunicate Philip, according to the terrible form of the church of

Rome, calling down upon his head the curses of all the powers of

Heaven!

"May he be cursed in the city, and in the field, and in the highway!

in living, and in dying!" said the legate; "cursed be his children,

and his flocks, and his _domaines!_ Let no man call him brother, or

give him the kiss of peace! Let no priest pray for him, or admit him

to God's altar! Let all men flee from him living, and let consolation

and hope abandon his death-bed! Let his corpse remain unburied, and

his bones whiten in the wind! Cursed be he on earth, and under the

earth! in this life, and to all eternity!"

Such was in some degree, though far short of the tremendous original,

the anathema which the legate pronounced against Philip Augustus--to

our ideas, unchristian, and almost blasphemous; but then the people

heard it with reverence and trembling; and even when he summed up the

whole, by announcing it in the name of the Holy Trinity--of the

Father--of all mercy!--of the Son--the Saviour of the world!--and of

the Holy Ghost--the Lord and Giver of Life! the people, instead of

starting from the impious mingling of Heaven's holiest attributes with

the violent passions of man, joined the clergy in a loud and solemn

_Amen!_

At the same moment all the sounds ceased, the torches were

extinguished; and in obscurity and confusion, the dismayed multitude

made their way out of the cathedral.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

Gloom and consternation spread over the face of France:--the link

seemed cut between it and the other nations of the earth. Each man

appeared to stand alone: each one brooded over his new situation with

a gloomy despondency. No one doubted that the curse of God was upon

the land; and the daily,--nay, hourly deprivation of every religious

ceremony, was constantly recalling it to the imaginations of all.

The doors of the churches were shut and barred; the statues of the

saints were covered with black; the crosses on the high roads were

veiled. The bells which had marked the various hours of the day,

calling all classes to pray to one beneficent God, were no longer

heard swinging slowly over field and plain. The serf returned from the

glebe, and the lord from the wood, in gloomy silence, missing all

those appointed sounds that formed the pleasant interruption to their

dull toil, or duller amusements.

All old accustomed habits,--those grafts in our nature, which cannot

be torn out without agony, were entirely broken through. The matin, or

the vesper prayer, was no longer said; the sabbath was unmarked by its

blessed distinctness; the fêtes, whether of penitence or rejoicing,

were unnoticed and cold in the hideous gloom that overspread the land,

resting like the dead amidst the dying.

Every hour, every moment, served to impress the awful effects of the

interdict more and more deeply on the minds of men. Was a child born,

a single priest, in silence and in secrecy, as if the very act were a

crime, sprinkled the baptismal water on its brow. Marriage, with all

its gay ceremonies and feasts, was blotted, with other happy days,

from the calendar of life. The dying died in fear, without prayer or

confession, as if mercy had gone by; and the dead, cast recklessly on

the soil, or buried in unhallowed ground, were exposed, according to

the credence of the day, to the visitation of demons and evil spirits.

Even the doors of the cemeteries were closed; and the last fond

commune between the living and the dead--that beautiful weakness which

pours the heart out even on the cold, unanswering grave,--was struck

out from the solaces of existence.

The bishops and clergy, in the immediate neighbourhood of Dijon, first

began to observe the interdict; and gradually, though steadily, the

same awful privation of all religious form spread itself over France.

Towards the north, however, and in the neighbourhood of the capital,

the ecclesiastics were more slow in putting it in execution; and long

ere it had reached the borders of the Seine, many a change had taken

place in the fate of Guy de Coucy.

Having ascertained that the cotereaux had really left his woods, De

Coucy gave his whole thoughts to the scheme which had been proposed to

him by his squire, Hugo de Barre, for surprising Sir Julian of the

Mount and his fair daughter, and bringing them to his castle, without

letting them know, till after their arrival, into whose hands they had

fallen.

Such extravagant pieces of gallantry were very common in that age; but

there are difficulties of course in all schemes; and the difficulty of

the present one was, so to surprise the party, that no bloodshed or

injury might ensue; for certainly, if ever there was an undertaking to

which the warning against jesting with edged tools might be justly

applied, it was this.

The brain, however, of Hugo de Barre, which for a great part of his

life had been sterile, or at least, had lain fallow, seemed to have

become productive of a sudden; and he contrived a plan by which the

page, who, from many a private reason of his own, was very willing to

undertake the task, was to meet Sir Julian's party, disguised as a

peasant, and, mingling with the retinue, to forewarn the male part of

the armed train of the proposed surprisal, enjoining them, at the same

time, for the honour of the masculine quality of secrecy, not to

reveal their purpose to the female part of the train. "For," observed

Hugo de Barre, "a woman's head, as far as ever I could hear, is just

like a funnel: whatever you pour into her ear, is sure to run out at

her mouth."

De Coucy stayed not to controvert this ungallant position of his

squire, but sent off in all haste to Gisors, for the purpose of

preparing his château for the reception of such guests, as far as his

scanty means would permit. His purse, however, was soon exhausted; and

yet no great splendour reigned within his halls.

The air of absolute desolation, however, was done away; and, though

the young knight had ever had that sort of pride in the neatness of

his horse, his arms, and his dress, which perhaps amounted to foppery,

he valued wealth too little himself to imagine that the lady of his

love would despise him for the want of it. He could not help wishing,

however, that the king had given another tournament, where, he doubted

not, his lance would have served him to overthrow five or six

antagonists, the ransom of whose horses and armour might have served

to complete the preparations he could now only commence. It was a wish

of the thirteenth century; and though perhaps not assimilating very

well with our ideas at present, it was quite in harmony with the

character of the times, when many a knight lived entirely by his

prowess in the battle or the lists, and when the ransom of his

prisoners, or of the horses and arms of his antagonists, was held the

most honourable of all revenues.

As the period approached in which De Coucy had reason to believe Count

Julian and his train would pass near his castle, a warder was

stationed continually in the beffroy, to keep a constant watch upon

the country around; and many a time would the young knight himself

climb into the high tower, and gaze over the country spread out below.

Such was the position of the castle, and the predominating height of

the watch-tower, that no considerable party could pass within many

miles, without being seen in some part of their way. In general, the

principal roads lay open beneath the eye, traced out, clear and

distinct, over the bosom of the country, as if upon a wide map: and

with more eagerness and anxiety did De Coucy gaze upon the way, and

track each group that he fancied might contain the form of Isadore of

the Mount, than he had ever watched for Greek or Saracen. At length,

one evening, as he was thus employing himself, he saw, at some

distance, the dust of a cavalcade rise over the edge of a slight hill

that bounded his view to the north-east. Then came a confused group of

persons on horseback; and, with a beating heart, De Coucy strained his

eyes to see whether there were any female figures amongst the rest.

Long before it was possible for him to ascertain, he had determined

twenty times, both that there were, and that there were not; and

changed his opinion as often. At length, however, something light

seemed to be caught by the wind, and blown away to a little distance

from the party, while one of the horsemen galloped out to recover it,

and bring it back.

"'Tis a woman's veil," cried De Coucy. "'Tis she! by the sword of my

father!" and darting down the winding steps of the tower, whose

turnings now seemed interminable, he rushed into the court, called,

"To the saddle!" and springing on his horse, which stood always

prepared, he led his party into the woods, and laid his ambush at the

foot of the hill, within a hundred yards of the road that led to

Vernon.

All this was done with the prompt activity of a soldier long

accustomed to quick and harassing warfare. In a few minutes, also, the

disguises, which had been prepared to render himself and his followers

as like a party of cotereaux as possible, were assumed, and De Coucy

waited impatiently for the arrival of the cavalcade. The moments now

passed by with all that limping impotence of march which they always

seem to have in the eyes of expectation, For some time the knight

reasoned himself into coolness, by remembering the distance at which

he had seen the party, the slowness with which they were advancing,

and the rapidity with which he himself had taken up his position. For

the next quarter of an hour he blamed his own hastiness of

disposition, and called to mind a thousand instances in which he had

deceived himself in regard to time.

He then thought they must be near; and, after listening for a few

minutes, advanced at little to ascertain, when suddenly the sound of a

horse's feet struck on his ear, and he waited only the first sight

through the branches to make the signal of attack.

A moment, after, however, he beheld, to his surprise and

disappointment, the figure of a stout market-woman, mounted on a mare,

whose feet had produced the noise which had attracted his attention,

and whose passage left the road both silent and vacant once more.

Another long pause succeeded, and De Coucy, now almost certain that

the party he had seen must either have halted or turned from their

course, sent out scouts in various directions to gain more certain

information. After a short space one returned, and then another, all

bringing the same news, that the roads on every side were clear; and

that not the slightest sign of any large party was visible, from the

highest points in the neighbourhood.

Evening was now beginning to fall; and, very sure that Count Julian

would not travel during the darkness, through a country infested by

plunderers of all descriptions, the young knight, disappointed and

gloomy, emerged with his followers from his concealment, and once more

bent his steps slowly towards his solitary hall.

"Perhaps," said he mentally, as he pondered over his scheme and its

want of success,--"perhaps I may have escaped more bitter

disappointment--perchance she might have proved cold and

heartless--perchance she might have loved me, yet been torn from

me;--and then, when my eye was once accustomed to see her lovely form

gliding through the halls of my dwelling, how could I have afterwards

brooked its desolate vacancy? When my ear had become habituated to the

sound of her voice in my own home, how silent would it have seemed

when she were gone! No, no--doubtless, I did but scheme myself pains.

'Tis better as it is."

While these reflections were passing in his mind, he had reached the

bottom of the hill, on which his castle stood, and turned his horse up

the steep path. Naturally enough, as he did so, he raised his eyes to

contemplate the black frowning battlements that were about to receive

him once more to their stern solitude; when, to his astonishment, he

saw the flutter of a woman's dress upon the outward walls, and a gay

group of youths and maidens were seen looking down upon him from his

own castle.

De Coucy at first paused from mere surprise, well knowing that his own

household offered nothing such as he there beheld but the next moment,

as the form of Isadore of the Mount showed itself plainly to his

sight, he struck his spurs into his horse's sides, and galloped

forward like lightning, eager to lay himself open to all the

disappointments over which he had moralised so profoundly but a moment

before.

On entering the court he found a multitude of squires stabling their

horses with all the care that promised a long stay and, the moment

after, he was accosted by old Sir Julian of the Mount himself, who

informed him that, finding himself not so well as he could wish, he

had come to crave his hospitality for a day's lodging, during which

time he might communicate to him, he said, some important matter for

his deep consideration. This last announcement was made in one of

those low and solemn tones intended to convey great meaning; and,

perhaps, even Sir Julian wished to imply, that his ostensible reason

for visiting the castle of De Coucy was but a fine political covering,

to veil the more immediate and interesting object of his coming.

"But how now. Sir Guy!" added he; "surely you have been disguising

yourself! With that sack over your armour, for a _cotte d'armes_, and

the elm branch twisted round your casque, you look marvellous like a

coterel.

"By my faith! good Sir Julian," replied De Coucy with his usual

frankness, "I look but like what I intended then. The truth is,

hearing of your passing, I arrayed my men like cotereaux, and laid an

ambush for you, intending to take you at a disadvantage, and making

you prisoner, to bring you here; where, in all gentle courtesy, I

would have entreated your stay for some few days, to force a boar and

hear a lay, and forget your weightier thoughts for a short space. But,

by the holy rood! I find I have made a strange mistake; for, while I

went to take you, it seems you have taken my castle itself!"

"Good, good! very good!" cried Sir Julian; "but come with me. Sir Guy.

Isadore has found her way to the battlements already, and is looking

out at the view, which, she says, is fine. For my part, I love no fine

views but politic ones.--Come, follow me.--Let me see, which is the

way?--Oh, here--No, 'tisn't.--This is a marvellous stronghold, Sir

Guy! Which is the way?"

Cursing Sir Julian's slow vanity, in striving to lead the way through

a castle he did not know, with its lord at his side, Sir Guy de Coucy

stepped forward, and, with a foot of light, mounted the narrow

staircase in the wall, that led to the outer battlements.

"Stay, stay! Sir Guy!" cried the old man. "By the rood! you go so

fast, 'tis impossible to follow! You young men forget we old men get

short of breath; and, though our brains be somewhat stronger than

yours, 'tis said, our legs are not altogether so swift."

De Coucy, obliged to curb his impatience, paused till Sir Julian came

up, and then hurried forward to the spot where Isadore was gazing, or

seeming to gaze, upon the prospect.

A very close observer, however, might have perceived that--though she

did not turn round till the young knight was close to her--as his

clanging step sounded along the battlements, a quick warm flush rose

in her cheek; and when she did turn to answer his greeting, there was

that sort of glow in her countenance and sparkle in her eye which,

strangely in opposition with the ceremonious form of her words, would

have given matter for thought to any more quick-witted person than

Count Julian of the Mount.

That worthy baron, however, wholly pre-occupied with his own sublime

thoughts, saw nothing to excite his surprise, but presented De Coucy

to Isadore as a noble chief of cotereaux, who would fain have taken

them prisoner, had they not in the first instance stormed his castle,

and "manned, or rather," said Sir Julian, "womanned, his wall," and

the worthy old gentleman chuckled egregiously at his own wit. "Now

that we are here, however," continued Sir Julian, "he invites us to

stay for a few days, to which I give a willing consent:--what say you,

Isadore? You will find these woods even sweeter than those of

Montmorency for your mornings' walks."

Isadore cast down her large dark eyes, as if she was afraid that the

pleasure which such a proposal gave her, might shine out too

apparently through a commonplace answer. "Wherever you think fit to

stay, my dear father," replied she, "must always be agreeable to me."

Matters being thus arranged, we shall not particularise the passing of

that evening, nor indeed of the next day. Suffice it to say, that Sir

Julian found a moment to propose to De Coucy, to enter into the

coalition which was then forming between some of the most powerful

barons of France, with John king of England in his quality of duke of

Normandy, and Ferrand count of Flanders at their head, to resist the

efforts which Philip Augustus was making to recover and augment the

kingly authority.

"Do not reply. Sir Guy--do not reply hastily," concluded the old

knight; "I give you two more days to consider the question in all its

bearings; and on the third I will take my departure for Rouen, either

embracing you as a brother in our enterprise, or thanking you for your

hospitality, and relying on your secrecy."

De Coucy was glad to escape an immediate reply, well knowing that the

only answer he could conscientiously make, would but serve to irritate

his guest, and, perhaps, precipitate his departure from the castle. He

therefore let the matter rest, and applied himself, as far as his

limited means would admit, to entertain Sir Julian and his suite,

without derogating from the hospitality of his ancestors.

The communication of feeling between the young knight and his fair

Isadore made much more rapid advances than his arrangements with Sir

Julian. During the journey from Auvergne to Senlis, each day's march

had added something to their mutual love, and discovered it more and

more to each other. It had shone out but in trifles, it is true; for

Sir Julian had been constantly present, filling their ears with

continual babble, to which the one was obliged to listen from filial

duty, and the other from respect for her he loved. It had shone out

but in trifles, but what is life but a mass of trifles, with one or

two facts of graver import, scattered like jewels amidst the seashore

sands?--and though, perhaps, it was but a momentary smile, or a casual

word, a glance, a tone, a movement, that betrayed their love to each

other, it was the language that deep feelings speak, and deep feelings

alone can read, but which, then, expresses a world more than words can

ever tell.

When Isadore arrived at De Coucy's château, there wanted but one word

to tell her that she was deeply loved; and before she had been there

twelve hours that word was spoken. We will therefore pass over that

day,--which was a day of long, deep, sweet thought to Isadore of the

Mount, and to De Coucy a day of anxious hope, with just sufficient

doubt to make it hope, not joy,--and we will come at once to the

morning after.

'Twas in the fine old woods, in the immediate proximity of the castle,

towards that hour of the morning when young lovers may be supposed to

rise, and dull guardians to slumber in their beds. It was towards five

o'clock, and the spot, a very dangerous scene for any one whose heart

was not iron, with some fair being near him. A deep glade of the wood,

at the one end of which might be seen a single grey tower of the

castle, here opened out upon the very edge of a steep descent,

commanding one of those wide extensive views, over rich and smiling

lands, that make the bosom glow and expand to all that is lovely. The

sun was shining down from beyond the castle, chequering the grassy

glade with soft shadows and bright light; and a clear small stream,

that welled from a rock hard by, wound in and out amongst the roots of

the trees, over a smooth gravelly bed; till, approaching the brink of

the descent, it leaped over, as if in sport, and went bounding in

sparkling joyousness into the rich valley below. All was in

harmony--the soft air, and the birds singing their matins, and the

blue sky overhead; so that hard must have been the heart indeed that

did not then feel softened by the bland smiles of nature.

Wandering down the glade, side by side, even at that early hour, came

De Coucy and Isadore of the Mount, alone--for the waiting-maid, Alixe,

was quite sufficiently discreet to toy with every buttercup as she

passed; so that the space of full a hundred yards was ever interposed

between the lovers and any other human creature.

"Oh, De Coucy!" said Isadore, proceeding with a conversation, which

for various reasons is here omitted, "if I could but believe that your

light gay heart were capable of preserving such deep feelings as those

you speak!"

"Indeed, indeed! and in very truth!" replied De Coucy, "my heart,

sweet Isadore, is very, very different from what it seems in a gay and

heartless world. I know not why, but from my youth I have ever covered

my feelings from the eyes of my companions. I believe it was, at

first, lest those who could not understand should laugh; and now it

has become so much a habit, that often do I jest when I feel deepest,

and laugh when my heart is far from merriment; and though you may have

deemed that heart could never feel in any way, believe me now, when I

tell you, that it has felt often and deeply."

"Nay!" said Isadore, perhaps somewhat wilful in her mistake, "if you

have felt such sensations so often, and so deeply, but little can be

left for me."

"Nay, nay!" cried De Coucy eagerly. "You wrong my speech. I never

loved but you. My feelings in the world, the feelings that I spoke of,

have been for the sorrows and the cares of others--for the loss of

friends--the breaking of fond ties--to see injustice, oppression,

wrong;--to be misunderstood by those I esteemed--repelled where I

would have shed my heart's blood to serve. Here, have I felt all that

man can feel; but I never loved but you. I never yet saw woman, before

my eyes met yours, in whose hand I could put my hope and happiness, my

life and honour, my peace of mind at present, and all the fond dreams

we form for the future. Isadore, do you believe me?"

She cast down her eyes for a moment, then raised them, to De Coucy's

surprise, swimming with tears. "Perhaps I do," replied she.--"Do not

let my tears astonish you, De Coucy," she added; "they are not all

painful ones; for to find oneself beloved as one would wish to be, is

very, very sweet. But still, good friend, I see much to make us fear

for the future. The old are fond of wealth, De Coucy, and they forget

affection. I would not that my tongue should for a moment prove so

false to my heart, as to proffer one word against my father; but, I

fear me, he will look for riches in a husband to his daughter."

"And will such considerations weigh with you, Isadora?" demanded De

Coucy sadly.

"Not for a moment!" replied she. "Did I choose for myself, I would

sooner, far sooner, that the man I loved should be as poor a knight as

ever braced on a shield, that I might endow him with my wealth, and

bring him something more worthy than this poor hand. But can I oppose

my father's will, De Coucy?"

"What!" cried the knight; "and will you, Isadore, wed the first

wealthy lover he chooses to propose, and yield yourself, a cold

inanimate slave, to one man, while your heart is given to another?"

"Hush, hush!" cried Isadore--"never, De Coucy, never!--I will never

wed any man against my father's will; so far my duty as a child

compels me:--but I will never, never marry any man--but--but--what

shall I say?--but one I love."

"Oh, say something more, sweet, sweet girl!" cried the young

knight eagerly;--"say something more, to give my heart some firm

assurance--let that promise be to me!"

"Well, well!" said Isadore, speaking quick, as if afraid the words

should be stayed upon her very lip, "no one but you--Will that content

you?"

De Coucy pressed her hand to his lips, and to his heart, with all that

transport of gratitude that the most invaluable gift a woman can

bestow deserves; and yet he pressed her to repeat her promise. He

feared, he said, the many powerful arts with which friends work on a

woman's mind,--the persuasions, the threats, the false reports; and he

ceased not till he had won her to repeat again and again, with all the

vows that could bind her heart to his, that her hand should never be

given to another.

"They may cloister me in a convent," she said, as the very reiteration

rendered her promise bolder; and his ardent and passionate professions

made simple assurances seem cold: "but I deem not they will do it; for

my father, though quick in his disposition, and immoveable in what he

determines, loves me, I think, too well, to part with me willingly for

ever. He may threaten it; but he will not execute his threat. But oh!

De Coucy, have a care that you urge him not to such a point, that he

shall say my hand shall never be yours; for if once 'tis said, he will

hold it a matter of honour never to retract, though he saw us both

dying at his feet."

De Coucy promised to be patient, and to be circumspect, and all that

lover could promise; and, engaging Isadore to sit down on a mossy seat

that nature herself had formed with the roots of an old oak, he

occupied the vacant minutes with all those sweet pourings forth of the

heart to which love, and youth, and imagination alone dare give way,

in this cold and stony world. Isadore's eyes were bent upon him, her

hand lay in his, and each was fully occupied with the other, when a

sort of half scream from the waiting-maid Alixe woke them from their

dreams; and, looking up, they found themselves in the presence of old

Sir Julian of the Mount.

"Good! good! marvellous good!" cried the old knight.--"Get thee in,

Isadore--without a word!--Get thee in too, good mistress looker on!"

he added to Alixe; "'tis well thou art not a man instead of a woman,

or I would curry thy hide for thee. Get thee in, I say!--I must deal

with our noble host alone."

Isadore obeyed her father's commands in silence, turning an imploring

look to De Coucy, as if once more to counsel patience. Alixe followed,

grumbling; and the old knight, turning to De Coucy, addressed him in a

tone of ironical compliment, intended to be more bitter than the most

unmixed abuse.

"A thousand thanks! a thousand thanks! beau sire!" he said, "for your

disinterested hospitality. Good sooth, 'twas a pity your plan for

taking us prisoners did not go forward; for now you might have a fair

excuse for keeping us so, too. 'Twould have been an agreeable surprise

to us all--to me especially; and I thank you for it. Doubtless, you

proposed to marry my daughter without my knowledge also, and add

another agreeable surprise. I thank you for that, too, beau sire!"

"You mistake me, good Sir Julian," replied De Coucy calmly: "I did not

propose to wed your daughter without your knowledge, but hoped that

your consent would follow your knowledge of our love. I am not rich,

but I do believe that want of wealth is the only objection you could

have----"

"And enough surely," interrupted Sir Julian. "What! is that black

castle, and half a hundred roods of wild wood, a match for ten

thousand marks a year, which my child is heir too?--Beau sire, you do

mistake. Doubtless you are very liberal, where you give away other

people's property to receive yourself; but I am of a less generous

disposition. Besides," he added, more coolly, "to put the matter to

rest for ever. Sir Guy de Coucy, know that I have solemnly promised my

daughter's hand to the noble Guillaume de la Roche Guyon."

"Promised her hand!" exclaimed De Coucy, "to Guillaume de la Roche

Guyon! Dissembling traitor! By the holy rood! he shall undergo my

challenge, and die for his cold treachery!"

"Mark me!--mark me! I pray you, beau sire!" cried Sir Julian of the

Mount in the same cool tone. "Should Guillaume de la Roche Guyon

fall under your lance, you shall never have my child---so help me.

Heaven!--except with my curse upon her head. Ay! and even were he to

die or fall in the wars that are coming--for I give her not to him

till they be passed--you should not have her then--without," he added,

with a sneer, "I was your prisoner chained hand and foot; and you

could offer me acre with acre for my own land. But perhaps you still

intend to keep me prisoner, here in your stronghold. Such things have

been done, I know."

"They will never be done by me, Count Julian," replied De Coucy,

"though it is with pain I see you go, and would fain persuade you to

stay, and think better of my suit; yet my drawbridge shall fall at

your command, as readily as at my own. Yet, let me beseech you to

think--I would not boast;--but still let me say, my name and deeds are

not unknown in the world. The wealth that once my race possessed has

not been squandered in feasting and revelry, but in the wars of the

blessed cross, in the service of religion and honour. As to this

Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, I will undertake, within a brief space,

to bring you his formal renunciation of your promise."

"It cannot be, sir!--it cannot be!" interrupted Sir Julian. "I have

told you my mind. What I have said is fixed as fate. If you will let

me go, within this hour I depart from your castle; if you will not,

the dishonour be on your own head. Make no more efforts, sir," he

added, seeing De Coucy about to speak. "The words once passed from my

mouth are never recalled. Ask Giles, my squire, sir,--ask my

attendants all. They will tell you the same thing. What Count Julian

of the Mount has spoken is as immoveable as the earth."

So saying, the old man turned, and walked back to the castle followed

by De Coucy, mourning over the breaking of the bright day-dream,

which, like one of the fine gossamers that glitter in the summer, had

drawn a bright shining line across his path, but had snapped for ever

with the first touch.

Sir Julian's retinue were soon prepared, and the horses saddled in the

court-yard; and, when all was ready, the old knight brought down his

daughter to depart. She was closely veiled, but still De Coucy saw

that she was weeping, and advanced to place her on horseback. At that

moment, however, one of the squires, evidently seeing that all was not

right between his lord and the lord of the castle, thrust himself in

the way.

"Back, serf!" exclaimed de Coucy, laying his hand upon his collar, and

in an instant he was seen reeling to the other side of the court, as

if he had been hurled from a catapult. In the mean while De Coucy

raised Isadore in his arms, and, placing her on her horse, pressed her

slightly in his embrace, saying in a low tone, "Be constant, and we

may win yet;" then yielding the place to Sir Julian, who approached,

he ordered the drawbridge of the castle to be lowered.

The train passed through the arch, and over the bridge; and De Coucy

advanced to the barbican to catch the last look, as they wound down

the hill. Isadore could not resist, and waved her hand for an instant

before they were out of sight. De Coucy's heart swelled as if it would

have burst; but at that moment his squire approached, and put into his

hand a small packet, neatly folded and sealed, which, he said, Alixe

the waiting-woman had given him for his lord. De Coucy eagerly tore it

open. It contained a lock of dark hair, with the words "Till death,"

written in the envelope. De Coucy pressed it to his heart, and turned

to re-enter the castle.

"Ha, haw! Ha, haw!" cried Gallon the fool, perched on the battlements.

"Haw, haw, haw! Ha, haw!"

CHAPTER II.

By tardy conveyances, and over antediluvian roads, news travelled

slowly in the days we speak of; and the interdict which we have seen

pronounced at Dijon, and unknown at De Coucy Magny, was even some

hours older before the report thereof reached Compiègne.

We must beg the gentle reader to remember a sunny-faced youth, for

whom the fair queen of France, Agnes de Meranie, was, when last we

left him, working a gay coat of arms. This garment, which it was then

customary to bear over the armour, was destined to be worn by one

whose sad place in history has caused many a tear--Arthur the son of

that Geoffrey Plantagenet, who was elder brother of John Lackland, the

meanest and most pitiful villain that ever wore a crown.

How it happened that, on the death of Richard C[oe]ur de Lion, the

barons of England adhered to an usurper they despised rather than to

their legitimate prince, forms no part of this history. Suffice it,

that John ruled in England, and also retained possession of all the

feofs of his family in France, Normandy, Poitou, Anjou, and

Acquitaine, leaving to Arthur nought but the duchy of Brittany, which

descended to him from Constance his mother.

It is not, however, to be thought that Arthur endured with patience

his uncle's usurpation of his rights. Far from it. Brought up at the

court of France, he clung to Philip Augustus, the friend in whose arms

his father had died, and ceased not to importune him for aid to

recover his dominions. Philip's limited means, fatigued already by

many vast enterprises, for long prevented him from lending that

succour to the young prince, which every principle of policy and

generosity stimulated him to grant. But while no national cause of

warfare existed to make the war against king John popular with the

barons of France, and while the vassals of the English king, though an

usurper, remained united in their attachment to him, Phillip felt that

to attempt the forcible assertion of Arthur's rights would be

altogether hopeless. He waited, therefore, watching his opportunity,

very certain that the weak frivolity or the treacherous depravity of

John's character would soon either alienate some portion of his own

vassals, or furnish matter of quarrel for the barons of France.

Several years thus passed after Richard's death, drawn out in idle

treaties and fruitless negotiations:--treaties which in all ages have

been but written parchments; and negotiations, which in most instances

are but concatenations of frauds. At length, as Philip had foreseen,

the combination of folly and wickedness, which formed the principal

point of John's mind, laid him open to the long-meditated blow.

In one of his spurts of levity, beholding in the midst of her

attendants the beautiful Isabella of Angoulême, affianced to Hugues le

Brun de Lusignan, Comte de la Marche, the English monarch--without the

least hesitation on the score of honour, which he never knew, or

decency, which he never practised,--ordered her to be carried off from

the midst of her attendants, and borne to the castle of the Gueret,

where he soon induced her to forget her former engagements with his

vassal.

The barons of Poitou, indignant at the insult offered to their order,

in the person of one of their noblest companions; and to their family,

in the near relation of all the most distinguished nobles of the

province, appealed to the court of Philip Augustus, as John's

sovereign for his feofs in France. Philip, glad to establish the

rights of his court, summoned the king of England before his peers, as

count of Anjou; and on his refusing to appear, eagerly took advantage

of the fresh kindled indignation of the barons of Poitou and Anjou to

urge the rights of Arthur to the heritage of the Plantagenets.

Already in revolt against John, a great part of each of those

provinces instantly acknowledged Arthur for their sovereign; and the

indignant nobles flocked to Paris to greet him, and induce him to

place himself at their head. Arthur beheld himself now at the top of

that tide which knows no ebb, but leads on to ruin or to glory; and

accepting at once the offers of the revolted barons, he pressed Philip

Augustus to give him the belt and spurs of a knight, though still

scarcely more than a boy; and to let him try his fortune against his

usurping uncle in the field.

Philip saw difficulties and dangers in the undertaking; but, knowing

the power of opportunity, he yielded: not, however, without taking

every precaution to ensure success to the young prince's enterprise.

For the festivities that were to precede the ceremony of Arthur's

knighthood, he called together all those barons who were most likely,

from ancient enmity to John, or ancient friendship for the dead

Geoffrey, or from personal regard for himself, or general love of

excitement and danger,--or, in short, from any of those causes that

might move the minds of men towards his purpose,--to aid in

establishing Arthur in the continental feofs, at least, of the House

of Plantagenet.

He took care, too, to dazzle them with splendour and display, and to

render the ceremonies which accompanied the prince's reception as a

knight as gay and glittering as possible.

It was for this occasion that Agnes de Meranie, while Philip was

absent receiving the final refusal of John to appear before his court,

employed her time in embroidering the coat of arms which the young

knight was to wear after his reception.

Although the ceremony was solemn, and the details magnificent, we will

not here enter into any account of the creation of a knight, reserving

it for some occasion where we have not spent so much time in

description. Suffice it that the ceremony was over, and the young

knight stood before his godfather in chivalry belted and spurred, and

clothed in the full armour of a knight. His beaver was up, and his

young and almost feminine face would have formed a strange contrast

with his warlike array, had it not been for the fire of the

Plantagenets beaming out in his eye, and asserting his right to the

proud crest he bore,--where a bunch of broom was supported by the

triple figure of a lion, a unicorn, and a griffin, the ancient crest

of the fabulous king Arthur.

After a few maxims of chivalry, heard with profound respect by all the

knights present, Philip Augustus rose, and, taking Arthur by the hand,

led the way from the chapel into his council-chamber, where, having

seated himself on his throne, he placed the prince on his right hand,

and the barons having ranged themselves round the council-board, the

king addressed them thus:--

"Fair knights, and noble barons of Anjou and Poitou!--for to you,

amongst all the honourable lords and knights here present, I first

address myself,--at your instant prayer, that we should take some

measures to free you from the tyranny of an usurper, and restore to

you your lawful suzerain, we are about to yield you our well-beloved

cousin and son, Arthur, whom we tender as dearly as if he were sprung

from our own blood. Guard him, therefore, nobly. Be ye to him true and

faithful,--for Arthur Plantagenet is your lawful suzerain, and none

other, as son of Geoffrey, elder brother of that same John who now

usurps his rights: I, therefore, Philip, king of France, your

sovereign and his, now command you to do homage to him as your liege

lord."

At these words, each of the barons he addressed rose in turn, and,

advancing, knelt before the young prince, over whose fair and noble

countenance a blush of generous embarrassment spread itself, as he saw

some of the best knights in France bend the knee before him. One after

another, also, the barons pronounced the formula of homage, to the

following effect:--

"I, Hugo le Brun, Sire de Lusignan, Comte de la Marche, do liege

homage to Arthur Plantagenet, my born lord and suzerain,--save and

except always the rights of the king of France. I will yield him

honourable service; I will ransom him in captivity; and I will offer

no evil to his daughter or his wife in his house dwelling."

After this, taking the right hand of each in his, Arthur kissed them

on the mouth; which completed the ceremony of the homage.

"And now, fair barons," said Philip, "though in no degree do I doubt

your knightly valour, or suppose that, even by your own powers,

together with this noble youth's good right, and God to boot, you

could not chase from Anjou, Poitou, and Normandy, the traitor John and

his plundering bands, yet it befits me not to let my cousin and godson

go, without some help from me:--name, therefore, my fair knight," he

continued, turning to Arthur, "such of my valiant barons as, in thy

good suit, thou judgest fit to help thee valiantly in this thy

warfare; and, by my faith! he that refuses to serve thee as he would

me, shall be looked upon as my enemy!--Yet remember," added the king,

anxious to prevent offence where Arthur's choice might _not_ fall,

although such selections were common in that day, and not considered

invidious,--"remember that it is not by worthiness and valour alone

that you must judge,--for then, amongst the knights of France, your

decision would be difficult; but there are, as I have before shown

you, many points which render some of the barons more capable of

assisting you against John of England than others;--such as their

territories lying near the war; their followers being horse or foot;

and many other considerations which must guide you as you choose."

"Oh, beau sire," replied Arthur eagerly, "if it rests with me to

choose, I name at once that Sir Guy de Coucy I saw at the tournament

of the Champeaux. There is the lion in his eye, and I have heard how

in the battle of Tyre he slew nineteen Saracens with his own hand."

"He shall be sent to before the year is older by a day," replied

Philip. "His castle is but one day's journey from this place. I doubt

me though, from what I have heard, that his retinue is but small.

However, we will summon all the vassals from the lands of his aunt's

husband, the lord of Tankerville, which will give him the leading of a

prince; and, in the mean time, as that may take long, we will give him

command to gather a band of Brabançois; which may be soon done, for

the country is full of them, unhappily.--But speak again, Arthur. Whom

name you next?"

"I would say, Hugues de Dampierre, and the Sire de Beaujeu," replied

Arthur, looking towards the end of the table where those two barons

sat, "if I thought they would willingly come."

"By my life, they will!" replied Philip.--"What say you, Imbert de

Beaujeu?--What say you, Hugues de Dampierre?"

"For my part," replied Hugues de Dampierre, "you well know, beau sire,

that I am always ready to put my foot in the stirrup, in any

honourable cause. I must, however, have twenty days to raise my

vassals; but I pledge myself, on the twenty-first day from this, to be

at the city of Tours, followed by sixty as good knights as ever

couched a lance, all ready to uphold prince Arthur with hand and

heart."

"Thanks, thanks! beau sire," replied Arthur, in an ecstasy of delight,

"That will be aid, indeed!" Then, careful not to offend the barons of

Poitou by seeming to place more confidence in the strength of others

than in their efforts in his cause, he added, "If, even by the

assistance of the noble barons of Poitou alone, I could not have

conquered my feofs in France, such generous succour would render my

success certain; and in truth, I think, that if the Sire de Beaujeu,

and the Count de Nevers, who looks as if he loved me, will but hold me

out a helping hand, I will undertake to win back my crown of England

from my bad uncle's head."

"That will I,--that will I, boy!" said the blunt Count de Nevers.

"Hervey de Donzy will lend you his hand willingly, and his sword in it

to boot. Ay, and if I bring thee not an hundred good lances to Tours,

at the end of twenty days, call me recreant an' you will. My say is

said!"

"And I," said Imbert de Beaujeu, "will be there also, with as many men

as I can muster, and as many friends as love me, from the other bank

of the Loire. So, set thy mind at ease, fair prince, for we will win

thee back the feofs of the Plantagenets, or many a war-horse shall run

masterless, and many a casque be empty."

Arthur was expressing his glad thanks, for promises which plumed his

young hope like an eagle; and Philip Augustus was dictating to a clerk

a summons to De Coucy to render himself instantly to Paris, with what

servants of arms he could collect, if he were willing to serve Arthur

duke of Brittany in his righteous quarrel; when the seats which had

remained vacant round the council-chamber were filled by the arrival

of the bishops of Paris, the archbishop of Rheims, and several other

bishops and mitred abbots, who had not assisted at the ceremony of

Arthur's knighthood.

"You come late, holy fathers," said Philip, slightly turning round.

"The ceremony is over, and the council nearly so;" and he proceeded

with what he was dictating to the clerk.

The clergy replied not, but by a whisper among themselves; yet it was

easy to judge, from their grave and wrinkled brows, and anxious eyes,

that some matter of deep moment sat heavily on the mind of each. The

moment after, however, the door of the council-chamber again opened,

and two ecclesiastics entered, who, by the distinctive marks which

characterise national features, might at once be pronounced Italians.

The clerk, who wrote from Philip's dictation, was kneeling at the

table beside the monarch's chair, so that, speaking in a low voice,

the king naturally bent his head over him, and consequently took no

notice of the two strangers, till he was surprised into looking up, by

hearing a deep loud voice begin to read, in Latin, all the most heavy

denunciations of the church against his realm and person.

"By the Holy Virgin Mother of Our Lord!" cried the king, his brow

reddening and glowing like heated iron, "this insolence is beyond

belief! Have they then dared to put our realm in interdict?"

This question, though made generally, was too evidently applied to the

bishops, for them to escape reply; and the archbishop of Rheims,

though with a flush on his cheek, that bespoke no small anxiety for

the result, replied boldly, at least as far as words went.

"It is but too true, sire. Our holy father the pope, the common head

of the great Christian church, after having in vain attempted to lead

you by gentle means to religious obedience, has at length been

compelled, in some sort, to use severity; as a kind parent is often

obliged to chastise his----"

"How now!" cried Philip in a voice of thunder: "Dare _you_ use such

language to me? I marvel you sink not to the earth, bishop, rather

than so pronounce your own condemnation!--Put those men forth!" he

continued, pointing to the two Italians, who, not understanding any

thing that was said at the table, continued to read aloud the

interdict and anathema, interrupting and drowning every other voice,

with a sort of thorough bass of curses, that, detached and disjointed

as they were, almost approached the ridiculous. "Put them forth!"

thundered the king to his men-at-arms. "If they go not willingly, cast

them out headlong!--But no!" he added, after a moment, "they are but

instruments--use them firmly, but courteously, serjeant. Let me not

see them again.--And now, archbishop, tell me, have you dared to give

your countenance and assent to this bold insolence of the pontiff of

Rome?"

"Alas! sire, what could I do?" demanded the archbishop, in a much more

humble tone than that which he had before used.

"What could you do!" exclaimed Philip. "By the _joyeuse_ of St.

Charlemagne! do you ask me what you could do? Assert the rights of the

clergy of France!--assert the rights of the king!--refuse to recognise

the usurped power of an ambitious prelate! Yield him obedience in

lawful things; but stand firmly against him, where he stretched out

his hand to seize a prerogative that belongs not to his place! This

could you have done, sir bishop! and, by the Lord that liveth, you

shall find it the worse for you, that you have _not_ done it!"

"But, sire," urged one of the prelates on the king's right, "the

blessed pope is our general and common father!"

"Is it the act of a father to invade his children's rights?" demanded

Philip in the same vehement tone--"is it not rather the act of a bad

stepfather, who, coming in, pillages his new wife's children of their

inheritance?"

"By my life! a good likeness have you found, sir king!" said the blunt

Count de Nevers. "I never heard a better. The holy church is the poor

simple wife, who takes for her second husband this pope Innocent, who

tries to pillage the children--namely, the church of France--of their

rights of deciding on all ecclesiastical questions within the realm."

"It is too true, indeed!" said the king. "Now, mark me, prelates of

France! But you first, archbishop of Rheims! Did you not solemnly

pronounce the dissolution of my marriage with Ingerburge of Denmark,

after mature consideration and consultation with a general synod of

the clergy of France?"

"It is true, indeed, I did, sire!" replied the archbishop. "But----"

"But me no buts! sir," replied the king. "I will none of them! You

did pronounce the divorce. I have it under your hand, and that is

enough.--And you, bishop of Paris? You of Soissons?--and you?--and

you?--and you?" he continued, turning to the prelates, one after the

other.

No one could deny the sentence of divorce which they had pronounced

some years before, and Philip proceeded.

"Well then, by the Lord Almighty, I swear, that you _must_, and

_shall_, support your sentence! If you were wrong, you shall bear the

blame and the punishment; not I--no, nor one I love better than

myself. Let that bishop in France, who did not pronounce sentence of

divorce between Ingerburge and myself, enforce the interdict within

his diocese if he will; but whosoever shall do so, bishop or abbot,

whose hand is to that sentence, I will cast him forth from his

diocese, and his feofs, and his lands. I will strip him of his wealth

and his rank, and banish him from my realms for ever. Let it be marked

and remembered! for, as I am a crowned king, I will keep my word to

the letter!"

Philip spoke in that firm, deep, determined tone, which gave no reason

to hope or expect that any thing on earth would make him change his

purpose. And after he had done, he laid his hand still clasped upon

the table, the rigid sinews seeming with difficulty to relax in the

least from the tension into which the vehement excitement of his mind

had drawn them. He glanced his eyes, too, from countenance to

countenance of the bishops, with a look that seemed to dare them to

show one sign of resistance.

But all their eyes were cast down in bitter silence, each well knowing

that the fault, however it arose, lay amongst themselves; and Philip,

after a moment's pause, rose from the table, exclaiming--"Lords and

knights, the council is over;" and, followed by Arthur and the

principal part of the barons, he left the hall.

CHAPTER III.

I love not to see any one depart, for the sad magic of fancy is sure

to conjure up a host of phantasm danger, and sorrows, to fill the

space between the instant present, and that far distant one, when the

same form shall again stand before us. We are sure, too, that Time

must work his bitter commission,--that he must impair, or cast down,

or destroy; and I know hardly any pitch of human misery so great, that

when we see a beloved form leave us, we may justly hope, on our next

meeting, to find all circumstances of a brighter aspect. Make up our

accounts how we will with Fate, Time is always in the balance against

us.

The last sight of Isadore of the Mount called up in the breast of Guy

de Coucy as sombre a train of thoughts as ever invaded the heart of

man since the fall. When might he see her again? he asked himself, and

what might intervene? Would she not forget him? would she indeed be

his till death? Would not the slow flowing of hour after hour, with

all the obliterating circumstance of time's current, efface his image

from her memory? and even if her heart still retained the traces that

young affection had there imprinted, what but misery would it bring to

both? He had spoken hopes to her ear, that he did not feel himself;

and, when he looked up at the large, dark mass of towers and

battlements before him, as he turned back from the barbican, it struck

his eye with the cold, dead, unhopeful aspect of a tomb. He entered

it, however, and, proceeding direct to the inner court, approached the

foot of the watch-tower, the small, narrow door of which opened there,

without communicating with any other building.

De Coucy paced up its manifold steps, and, stationing himself at the

opening, fixed his eyes upon the skirt of the forest, where the road

emerged, waiting for one more glance of her he loved, though the

distance made the sight but a mere slave of Fancy. In about a quarter

of an hour, the train of Sir Julian appeared, issuing from the forest;

and De Coucy gazed, and gazed, upon the woman's form that rode beside

the chief of the horsemen, till the whole became an indistinct mass of

dark spots, as they wound onward towards Vernon.

Feeling, he knew not why, an abhorrence to his own solitary hall, the

young knight remained leaning his arms upon the slight balustrade of

the beffroy-tower, which, open on all sides, was only carried up

farther by four small pillars supporting the roof, where hung the

heavy bell call the _bancloche_. As he thus continued meditating on

all that was gloomy in his situation, his eyes still strayed

heedlessly over the prospect; sometimes turning in the direction of

Paris, as he thought of seeking fortune and honour in arms; sometimes

looking again towards Vernon though the object of his love was no

longer visible.

On the road from Paris, however, two objects were to be seen, which he

had not remarked before. The first was the figure of a man on foot, at

about half a mile's distance from the castle, to which it was slowly

approaching: the other was still so far off, that De Coucy could not

distinguish at first whether it was a horseman, or some wayfarer on

foot; but the rapidity with which it passed the various rises and

falls of the road, soon showed him that whoever it was, was not only

mounted, but proceeding at the full speed of a quick horse.

For a moment or two, from old habits of observation as a soldier, De

Coucy watched its approach; but then again really careless about every

thing that did not refer to his more absorbing feelings, he turned

from the view, and slowly descended the steps of the tower.

His feet turned once more mechanically to the drawbridge, and placing

himself under the arch of the barbican, he leaned his tall, graceful

figure against one of the enormous door-posts, revolving a thousand

vague schemes for his future existence. The strong swimmer Hope, still

struggled up through the waves that Reflection poured continually on

his head; and De Coucy's dreams were still of how he might win high

fortune and Isadora of the Mount.

Should he, in the first place, he asked himself, defy Guillaume de la

Roche Guyon, and make him yield his claim? But no;--he remembered the

serious vow of the old count; and he saw, that by so doing he should

but cast another obstacle on the pile already heaped up between him

and his purpose. Sir Julian had said, too, that Isadore's hand was not

to be given away till the coming wars were over. Those wars might be

long, De Coucy thought, and uncertain,--and hope lives upon reprieves.

He must trust to accident, and, in the mean time, strive manfully to

repair the wrong that Fortune had done him. But how? was the question.

Tournaments, wars,--all required some equipment, and his shrunk purse

contained not a single besant.

"Oh! 'tis a steep and rugged ascent!" thought De Coucy, "that same

hill of Fortune; and the man must labour hard that would climb it,

like yon old man, toiling up the steep path that leads hither."

Such was the only notice that the young knight at first took of the

weary foot-traveller he had seen from above; but gradually the figure,

dressed in its long brown robe, with the white beard streaming down to

the girdle, appeared more familiar to him; and a few steps more, as

the old man advanced, called fully to his remembrance the hermit whose

skill had so speedily brought about the cure of his bruises in

Auvergne, and whom we have since had more than one occasion to bring

upon the scene.

De Coucy had, by nature, that true spirit of chivalrous gallantry,

even the madness of which has been rendered beautiful by the great

Spaniard. No sooner did he recognise the old man than he advanced to

meet him, and aided him as carefully up the steep ascent as a son

might aid a parent.

"Welcome, good father hermit!" said he. "Come you here by accident, or

come you to rest for a while at the hold of so poor a knight as

myself?"

"I came to see whether thou wert alive or dead," replied the hermit.

"I knew not whether some new folly might not have taken thee from the

land of the living."

"Not yet," replied De Coucy with a smile: "my fate is yet an unsealed

one. But, in faith, good father, I am glad to see thee; for, when thou

hast broken thy fast in my hall, I would fain ask thee for some few

words of good counsel."

"To follow your own, after you have asked mine?" replied the hermit.

"Such is the way with man, at least.--But first, as you say, my son, I

will break my fast. Bid some of the lazy herd that of course feed on

you, seek me some cresses from the brook, and give me a draught of

water."

"Must such be your sole food, good hermit?" demanded De Coucy. "Will

not your vow admit of some more nourishing repast, after so long a

journey too?"

"I seek nought better," replied the hermit, as De Coucy led him into

the hall. "I am not one of those who hold, that man was formed to gnaw

the flesh of all harmless beasts, as if he were indeed but a more

cowardly sort of tiger. Let your men give me what I ask,--somewhat

that never felt the throb of life, or the sting of death,--those

wholesome herbs that God gave to be food to all that live, to bless

the sight with their beauty, and the smell with their odour, and the

palate with their grateful freshness. Give me no tiger's food. But

thou lookest sad, my son," he added, gazing in De Coucy's face, from

which much of the sparkling expression of undimmed gaiety of heart

that used once to shine out in every feature had now passed away.

"I _am_ sad, good hermit," replied the young knight. "Time holds two

cups, I have heard say, both of which each man must drink in the

course of his life;--either now the sweet, and then the bitter; or the

bitter first, and the sweet after; or else, mingling them both

together, taste the mixed beverage through existence. Now, I have

known much careless happiness in the days past, and I am beginning to

quaff off the bitter bowl, sir hermit."

"There is but one resource," said the hermit, "there is but one

resource, my son!"

"And what is that?" demanded De Coucy. "Do you mean death?"

"Nay," replied the old man; "I meant Christ's cross. There is the

hope, and the succour, and the reward for all evils suffered in this

life! Mark me as I sit here before thee:--didst thou ever see a thing

more withered--broken--worn? And yet I was once full of green

strength, and flourishing--as proud a thing as ever trampled on his

mother-earth: rich, honoured, renowned: I was a very giant in my

vanity! My sway stretched over wide, wide lands. My lance was always

in the vanward of the battle; my voice was heard in courts, and my

council was listened to by kings. I held in my arms the first young

love of my heart; and, strange to say! that love increased, and grew

to such absorbing passion, that, as years rolled on, I quitted all for

it--ambition, strife, pride, friendship,--all!"

"Methinks, surely," said De Coucy, with all his feelings for Isadore

fresh on his heart's surface, "such were the way to be happy!"

"As much as the way for a gambler to win is to stake all his wealth

upon one cast," replied the hermit. "But, mark me! she died, and left

me childless--hopeless--alone! And I went out into the world to search

for something that might refill the void her loss had left, not in my

heart, for that was as a sepulchre to my dead love, never to be opened

again;--no, but to fill the void in my thoughts--to give me something

to think of--to care for. I went amongst men of my own age (for I was

then unbroken), but I found them feelingless or brutal, sensual and

voluptuous; either plunderers of their neighbours, or mere eaters and

drinkers of fifty. I then went amongst the old; but I found them

querulous and tetchy; brimful of their own miseries, and as selfish in

their particular pains, as the others in their particular pleasures. I

went amongst the young, and there I found generous feelings and unworn

thoughts; and free and noble hearts, from which the accursed chisel of

time had never hewn out the finer and more exquisite touches of

Nature's perfecting hand: but then, I found the wild, ungovernable

struggling of the war-horse for the battle-plain; the light,

thoughtless impatience of the flower-changing butterfly, and I gave it

all up as a hopeless search, and sunk back into my loneliness again.

My soul withered; my mind got twisted and awry, like the black stumps

of the acacia on the sterile plains of the desert; and I lived on in

murmuring grief and misanthropy, till came a blessed light upon my

mind, and I found _that_ peace at the foot of Christ's cross, which

the world and its things could never give. Then it was I quitted the

habitations of men, in whose commune I had found no consolation, and

gave myself up to the brighter hopes that opened to me from the world

beyond!"

De Coucy was listening with interest, when the sound of the warder's

horn from one of the towers announced that something was in sight, of

sufficient importance to call for immediate attention.

"Where is Hugo de Barre, exclaimed the knight, starting up; and,

excusing this incivility to the hermit, he proceeded to ascertain the

cause of the interruption.

"Hugo de Barre is in the tower himself, beau sire," replied old Onfroy

the seneschal, whom De Coucy crossed at the hall door, just as he was

carrying in a platter full of herbs to the hermit, with no small

symptoms of respect. "I see not why he puts himself up there, to blow

his horn, as soon as he comes back! He was never created warder, I

trow!"

Without staying to notice the old man's stickling for prerogative, De

Coucy hastened to demand of the squire wherefore he had sounded the

great warder horn, which hung in the watch-tower.

"One of the king's serjeants-at-arms," cried Hugo from the top of the

tower, "is but now riding up the hill to the castle, as fast as he can

come, beau sire."

"Shut the gates," exclaimed De Coucy. "Up with the bridge!"

These orders were just obeyed, when the king's serjeant, whom Hugo had

seen from above, rode up and blew his horn before the gates. De Coucy

had by this time mounted the outer wall, and, looking down upon the

royal officer, demanded, "Whence come ye, sir serjeant, and whom seek

ye?"

"I come from Philip king of France," replied the serjeant, "and seek

Sir Guy de Coucy, châtelain of De Coucy Magny."

"If you seek for no homage or man-service, in the king's name, for

these my free lands of Magny," replied De Coucy, "my gates shall open

and my bridge shall fall; but, if you come to seek liege homage,

return to our beau sire, the king, and tell him, that of my own hand I

hold these lands; that for them I am not his man; but that they were

given as free share, by Clovis, to their first possessor, from whom to

me, through father and child, they have by right descended."

"I come with no claim, beau sire," replied the royal messenger, "but

simply bear you a loving letter from my liege lord. Sir[19] Philip the

king, with hearty greetings on his part."

--------------------

[Footnote 19: This must not be looked upon as an expression hazarded

without authority, notwithstanding its homeliness. The only titles of

honour known in those days were _Monseigneur_, _My Lord_; _Illustres

Seigneurs_, applied in general to an assembly of nobles; and _Beau

Sire_, or Fair Sir, which was not only bestowed upon kings, on all

occasions, but, even as lately as the reign of St. Louis, was

addressed to God himself. Many prayers beginning _Beau Sire Dieu_ are

still extant.]

--------------------

"Open the gates, then," cried De Coucy, still, however, taking the

precaution to add, in a loud voice,--"Mark, all men, that this is not

in sign or token of homage or service; but merely as a courtesy to the

messenger of the lord king!" So unsettled and insecure was the right

of property in those days, and such were the precautions necessary to

guard every act that might be construed into vassalage!

De Coucy descended to receive the messenger; and, on entering the

hall, found the old seneschal still busy in serving the hermit, and

apparently bestowing on him a full, true, and particular account of

the family of the De Coucys, as well as of his young lord's virtues,

exploits, and adventures, with the profound and inexhaustible

garrulity of an old and favoured servant. At the knight's approach,

however, he withdrew; and the king's serjeant-at-arms was ushered into

the hall.

"I was commanded to wait no answer, beau sire," said the man,

delivering the packet into the châtelain's hand. "The king, trusting

to the known loyalty and valour of the Sire de Coucy, deemed that

there would be but one reply, when he was called to high deeds and a

good cause."

"By my faith!" exclaimed the knight, "I hope some one has dared to

touch the glove I hung up in the queen's good quarrel! I will drive my

lance through his heart, if it be defended with triple iron! But I see

thou art in haste, good friend. Drain one cup of wine, and thou shalt

depart."

De Coucy cut not the silk that tied the packet till the messenger was

gone. Then, however, he opened it eagerly, and read:--

"To our faithful and well-beloved Sir Guy de Coucy, these. Having

undertaken and pledged our kingly word to Arthur Plantagenet duke of

Brittany, our well-beloved cousin and godson in arms, to aid him and

assist him, to the utmost of our power, in his just and righteous war

against John of Anjou, calling himself king of England: and he,

Arthur, our cousin, as aforesaid, having desired us to use our best

entreaty and endeavour to prevail on you. Sir Guy de Coucy, renowned

in arms, to aid with your body and friends in his aforesaid just wars;

we therefore, thus moved, do beg, as a king may beg, that you will

instantly, on the reading hereof, call together your vassals and

followers, knights, squires, and servants of arms, together with all

persons of good heart and prowess in war, volunteers or mercenaries,

as the case may be, to join the aforesaid Arthur at our court of the

city of Paris, within ten days from the date hereof, for the purposes

hereinbefore specified. Honour in arms, fair favour of your lady, and

the king's thanks, shall be your reward: and, for the payment of such

Brabançois or other mercenaries as you can collect to serve under your

banner in the said wars, not to exceed five hundred men, this letter

shall be your warrant on the treasurer of our royal _domaines_; at the

average hire and pay, mensual and diurnal, given by us during the last

war. Given at our court of Paris, this Wednesday, the eve of the

nativity of the blessed Virgin, Queen of Heaven, to whom we commend

thee in all love.

"THE KING."

A radiant flush of joy broke over De Coucy's countenance as he read;

but before his eye had reached the end of the letter, importunate

memory raked up the forgotten bankruptcy of his means, and cast it in

his teeth. The hand which held the letter before his eyes dropped to

his side; and with the fingers of the other he wandered thoughtfully

over his brow, while he considered and reconsidered every expedient

for raising sums sufficient to furnish him worthily forth for the

expedition to which he was called. In the mean while, the hermit sat

beside him, marking his every action, with a glance that might perhaps

have suited Diogenes, had not a certain pensive shake of the head, as

he gazed on the working of human passions in the noble form before

him, showed a somewhat milder feeling than the cynic of the tub was

ever touched withal.

"Oh, that foul creditor, Poverty!" muttered De Coucy. "He chains the

mind and the heart, as well as the limbs; and pinions down great

desires and noble actions, to the dungeon floor of this sordid world.

Here, with a career of glory before me, that might lead to riches, to

fame, to love! I have not a besant to equip my train, all tattered

from the wars in Palestine. As for the Brabançois, too, that the king

bids me bring, they must ever have some money to equip, before they

are fit for service. He should have known _that_, at least; but he

forgot he wrote to a beggar, who could not advance a crown were it to

save his nearest from starvation!"

"You are vexed, my son," said the hermit, "and speak aloud, though you

know it not. What is it moves thee thus?"

"I am moved, good hermit," replied the knight sadly, "that now--at the

very moment when all the dearest hopes of my heart call on me to push

forward to the highest goal of honour, and when the way is clear

before me--that the emptiness of my purse--the perfect beggary of my

fortunes, casts a bar in my way that I cannot overleap. Read that

letter, and then know, that, instead of a baron's train, I can but

bring ten mounted men to serve prince Arthur; nor are these armed or

equipped so that I can look on them without shame. My lodging must be

in the field, my food gathered from the earth, till the day of battle;

nor dare I join the prince till then, for the expenses of the city

suit not those whose purses are so famished as mine."

"Nay, my son," replied the hermit calmly, "think better of thy

fortunes. To win much, one must often lose somewhat: and by a small

expense, though you may not ruffle it amongst the proudest of the

prince's train, you may fit yourself to grace it decently, till such

time as in the battle-field you can show how little akin is courage to

wealth. This may be surely done at a very small expense of gold."

"A small expense of gold!" exclaimed the young knight impatiently. "I

tell thee, good father, I have none! None--no, not a besant!"

"Nay, then," replied the hermit, "something you must sell, to produce

more hereafter. That rare carbuncle in your thumb-ring will bring you

doubtless gold enough to shine as brightly as the best."

"Nay," said De Coucy, "I part not with that. I would rather cut off

the hand it hangs upon, and coin that into gold."

"Some woman's trinket," said the hermit with a frown; for men attached

to the church, by whatever ties, were not very favourable to the

idolatrous devotion of that age to the fairer sex--a devotion which

they might think somewhat trenched upon their rights. "Some woman's

trinket, on my life!" said the hermit. "Thou wouldst guard no holy

relic so, young man."

"Faith, hermit, you do me wrong," replied De Coucy, without flinching.

"Though my love to my lady be next to my duty to my God, yet this is

not, as you say, a woman's trinket. 'Twas the gift of a good and noble

knight, the Count de Tankerville, to me, then young and going to the

Holy Land, put on my finger with many a wise and noble counsel, by

which I have striven to guide me since. Death, as thou hast heard,

good hermit, has since placed his cold bar between us; but I would not

part with this for worlds of ore. I am like the wild Arab of the

desert," he added with a smile, "in this sort somewhat superstitious;

and I hold this ring, together with the memory of the good man who

gave it, as a sort of talisman to guard me from evil spirits."

"Well! if thou wilt not part with it, I cannot help thee," replied the

hermit. "Yet I know a certain jeweller would give huge sums of silver

for such a stone as that."

"It cannot be!" answered De Coucy. "But now thou mind'st me; I have a

bright smaragd, that, in my young days of careless prosperity, I

bought of a rich Jew at Ascalon. If it were worth the value that he

gave it, 'twere now a fortune to me. I pray thee, gentle hermit, take

it with thee to the city. Give it to the jeweller thou speakest of;

and bid him, as an honest and true man, send me with all speed what

sum he may."

The hermit undertook the charge; and De Coucy instantly sent his page

to the chamber, where he had left the emerald, which, being brought

down, he committed to the hands of the old man, praying him to make no

delay. The hermit, however, still seemed to hanker after the large

carbuncle on De Coucy's hand, (which was also, be it remarked,

engraved with his signet,) and it was not till the young knight had

once and again repeated his refusal, that he rose to depart.

De Coucy conducted him to the outer gate, followed by his page, who,

when the old man had given his blessing, and begun to descend the

hill, shook his head with a meaning look, exclaiming, "Ah, beau sire!

he has got the emerald; and, I fear, you will never hear more of it:

but he has not got the carbuncle, which was what he wanted. When first

he saw you, at the time you were hurt in Auvergne, he looked at

nothing but that; and would have had it off your hand, too, if Hugo

and I had not kept our eyes on him all the while."

"Nonsense, nonsense, boy!" cried De Coucy; "send me the new servant of

arms, Jodelle!"

The coterel was not long in obeying the summons. "You told me," said

De Coucy, as he approached, "not many days ago, that you had once been

followed by a band of two hundred Brabançois, who were now, you heard,

roaming about, seeking service with some baron or suzerain who would

give them employment. Have you any means of communicating with them,

should you wish it?"

"Why, you know, beau sire," replied Jodelle, "and there is no use of

denying it, that we are oftentimes obliged to separate when the wars

are over, and go hither and thither to seek food as we best may; but

we take good care not to do so without leaving some chance of our

meeting again, when we desire it. The ways we manage that, are part of

our mystery, which I am in no manner bound to divulge; but I doubt not

I could soon discover, at least, where my ancient companions are."

"I seek none of your secrets, sir Brabançois," said De Coucy. "If you

can find your companions, do; and tell them for me, that the king

calls upon me to aid the prince Arthur Plantagenet against bad John of

Anjou, giving me commission, at the same time, to raise a body of five

hundred free spears, to serve under my leading; for whose pay, at the

rate of the last war, Philip makes himself responsible. If your

companions will take service with me, therefore, they may; but each

man must have served before, must be well trained to arms,

disciplined, and obedient; for De Coucy is no marauder, to pass over

military faults, because ye be free companions."

The coterel readily undertook a task that chimed so well with what he

already purposed; bounding his promises, however, to endeavours; and

striving to wring from De Coucy some offer of present supply to equip

his troop, whom he well knew to be in a very indifferent condition, as

far as arms and habiliments went.

Finding this to be out of the young knight's power, he left him, and

proceeded, as rapidly as possible, to seek out the hiding-place of the

wild band, with whom we have already seen him in contact. His farther

motions for the next two days were not of sufficient interest to be

here put down; but on the third morning he presented himself at the

young knight's chamber-door, as he was rising, bringing him news that

he had discovered his band, and that they willingly agreed to follow

so renowned a knight. He added, moreover, that at mid-day precisely,

they would present themselves for _monstre_, as it was called, or

review, in the great carrefour of the forest. In the mean time, he

swore faith, true service, and obedience to the young knight in their

name, for so long as the war should last.

The time of De Coucy and his followers had been employed in polishing

and preparing all the old arms, offensive and defensive, that the

castle contained; and of the former, indeed, no small quantity had

been collected; so that in the great hall lay many a sheaf of arrows

and a pile of spears, with swords, daggers, maces, and bows not a few;

some scores of battle-axes and partisans, together with various

anomalous weapons, such as bills, hooks, long knives, iron stars, and

cutting pikes. But of defensive armour the supply was wofully small.

At the appointed hour of mid-day, the knight, followed by his squire

and servants, now armed more completely than on their return from

Palestine, proceeded to the great carrefour of the forest, where, as

they approached, they beheld the body of Brabançois already arrived on

the ground, and drawn up in so regular and soldierlike a manner, that

even the experienced eye of De Coucy was deceived at first, and he

fancied them as well-armed a body of cavalry as ever he had seen.

When he came into the centre of the carrefour, however, a very

different sight struck his eye; and he could not help striking his

gauntleted hand upon his thigh till the armour rang again, with pure

mortification at seeing the hopeless state of rust and raggedness of

his new recruits.

Nor was this all: not two of the party presented the same appearance.

One was in a steel corselet,--another in a haubert,--another

had neither one nor the other. Some had brassards,--some had

cuissards,--some had splints,--some had none at all. In short, it

seemed as if they had murdered half-a-dozen men-at-arms, and divided

their armour between two hundred; so that when De Coucy thought of

presenting himself, thus followed, at the court of Philip Augustus, he

was first like to give himself up to despair, and then burst into a

loud fit of laughter.

A very slight circumstance, however, changed the face of affairs. As

he stood gazing on his ragged troop, with a half-rueful, half-laughing

countenance, an ass, apparently loaded with sand, and a man driving

it, were seen slowly approaching, as if intending to proceed to the

castle.

"By the Lord!" cried the young knight, "this is a Godsend--for, on my

word, we shall want sand enough to scrub our armour. What hast thou

there, good man?" he added, as the ass and his driver came near.

"Sand for the châtelain de Coucy," replied the man. "Be you he?"

"Yes," answered the knight.--"Sand for me!--What mean you, good

friend? You must mistake."

"Not so, beau sire!" replied the driver, approaching and speaking

low--"'tis a thousand marks of silver!"

"Ha!--Who from?"

"The price of a ring," replied the man, sent by the holy "Bernard of

St. Mandé by me, his humble penitent, to the Sire de Coucy."

"That alters the matter!" cried the knight.--"That alters the matter!

Take thy sand to the castle, good friend.--Hugo, ride with all speed

to Vernon. Bring me all the armourers of the town, with all the arms

they have ready. Send a serf to Gisors on the same errand. A thousand

marks of silver! By the Lord that lives! I will equip an army!"

CHAPTER IV.

The night was dark and gloomy. A thousand black clouds were flitting

over the sky, borne by a quick rough breeze, which ever and anon, with

wild caprice, would scatter them abroad, leaving the yellow moonlight

to shine bright upon their white edges, and pour a flood of mellow

radiance on the world below, and then again would whirl some deep

shadowy mass up from the profound verge of the horizon, and once more

overwhelm all in gloom and obscurity.

Amidst such occasional glimpses of moonlight, struggled on from the

village of Vincennes, through the great forest of St. Mandé, a stout,

short man, wrapped in an immense cloak, and preceded by a boy holding

a torch, which the high wind threatened every moment to extinguish.

"Art thou sure thou knowest the way, urchin?" cried the man, in a

wearied and panting tone, which argued plainly enough that his

corpulency loved not deeply the species of stumbling locomotion, to

which his legs subjected his paunch, amidst the roots and stones of

the forest path.--"Art thou sure that thou knowest the road?--Jesu

preserve me! I would not lose my way here, to be called to the

conclave!"

"Oh, I know the way well!" replied the boy, in a shrill treble. "I

come here every day to ask the prayers of the holy hermit for my

grandmother, who is ninety years of age, and sick of a hydropsy."

"Better pray God to take her, rather than to leave her!" replied his

companion. "'Tis a foolish errand mine,--'tis a foolish errand!" he

continued, speaking peevishly to himself, as he struggled to shake off

a pertinacious branch of withered thorn which, detached from its

parent bush, clung fondly to the tail of his robe, and trailed

solemnly on behind him. "Not the errand itself, which is holy, just,

and expedient; but the coming at night.--Take care, urchin! The wind

will blow it out, if you flaunt it after such a fashion. The coming at

night! Yet what could I do? The canon of St. Berthe's said true--that

if I came in the day, folks would say I could not govern my diocese

myself. I told you so, foolish child! I told you so! Now, what are we

to do?" continued he, raising his voice to the very highest pitch of

dismay and crossness, as a sharp gust of wind, up one of the long

glades, extinguished completely the flame of the torch, which had for

some time been wavering with a very undecided sort of flicker:--"now,

what are we to do?"

"Oh, I know the way, as well without the light as with," replied the

same childish voice: "I'll lead you right, beau sire."

"Ay, ay, child," said the other; "but I love not forests in the

dark:--this one has a bad name too--'tis said more sorts of evil

spirits than one haunt it. The Lord be merciful unto us! The devil is

powerful in these hours of darkness! And besides, there are other

dangers--" Here he stumbled over one of the large roots of an elm, shot

across the path, and would doubtless have fallen at full length, had

not his little guide's shoulder come opportunely in the way of his

hand, as it sprawled forth in the act of descent, and thus afforded

him some stay!--"Cursed be the root!" cried he;--"cursed be it, above

the earth and under the earth!--cursed be it in this life, and to all

eternity! Amen.--Lord have mercy upon me! Sinner that I am! I am

repeating the anathema. It will never go out of my head, that

anathema--cursed be it!--Boy, is it far off still?--Did not you hear a

noise?" he added suddenly.

"I hear the rustling of the wind," replied the child, "but nothing

more. You folks that do not live near the forests do not know what

sounds it makes sometimes."

"Evil spirits, boy!--evil spirits!" cried the man. "Evil spirits, I

tell thee, screaming in their malice; but I vow I hear a rushing, as

if there were some wild beasts.--Hark! hark!" and he grasped the boy's

arm, looking round and round in the darkness, which his fancy filled

with all the wild creation of fear.

"Ne in furore tuo arguas me, Domine, neque in irâ tuâ corripias me.

Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum!" cried the frightened

traveller; when suddenly the clouds rolled white away from the face of

the moon, and her beams for a moment, streaming down clear upon them,

showed the wide open glade of the wood, untenanted by any one but

themselves, with the old ruined tomb in the forest, and the rude hut

of Bernard the hermit, "Kyrie eleïson! Christe eleïson!" cried the

traveller, at the sight of these blessed rays; and running forward to

reach the dwelling of the hermit, before the clouds again brought

darkness over the face of the earth, he arrived, all breathless and

panting, and struck hard with his fist against the closed door. "Open,

open! brother Bernard! and let me in," he cried loudly. "Let me in,

before the moon goes behind the cloud again."

"Who art thou, who breakest through my prayers?" cried the voice of

the hermit. "And why fearest thou the going of the moon? Thou wilt not

be one jot wiser when she is gone?"

"Nay! 'tis I, brother Bernard," replied the traveller, fretting with

impatience to get in. "'Tis I, I tell thee, man! Thy friend and

fellow-labourer in this poor vineyard of France!"

"I have no friend but the Lord, and his holy saints," said the hermit,

opening the door.--"But how is this, lord bishop?

"Hush! hush!" cried the other, holding up his hand. "Do not let the

boy hear thee!--I come in secret, upon matters of deep import."

"Does not the text say, '_That which thou doest in secret shall be

proclaimed openly?_'" demanded the hermit.--"But what dost thou mean

to do with the boy?" continued he, laying his hand on the child's

head. "If he be as terrified as thou seemest to be, he will not love

to stay till thine errand with me is done."

"Oh, I fear not, father," said the youth. "I am forest bred; and

nothing evil would come within sight of thy dwelling."

"Well, poor lad!" said the hermit. "Sit there by the door; and if

aught scares thee, push it open, and come in."

The boy accordingly seated himself by the door, which was shut upon

him; and the hermit pointed to a place on his bed of straw and moss

for the bishop's seat. If it had any distinction, 'twas solely that of

being situated beneath the crucifix, under which a small lamp was

burning, giving the only light which the cell possessed.

The good prelate--for such he was--cast himself upon the moss, and

stretching forth his hands on his broad fat knees, employed no

inconsiderable space of time in cooling himself, and recovering his

breath, after the bodily fear and exertion he had undergone. The

hermit seated himself also; and waited, in grave silence, the

communication, whatever it was, that brought so respectable a

dignitary of the church as the bishop of Paris to his cell at so

unsuitable an hour.

"The Lord be merciful unto me!" cried the bishop, after a long pause.

"What perils and dangers have I not run this very night, for the

service of the church, and the poor Christian souls of the French

people, who are now crying for the rites and ceremonies of the church,

as the tribes of Israel cried for flesh in the desert!"

"But if report speaks right," replied the hermit, "thy flock has no

need to cry; as the interdict has not yet been enforced within thy

diocese, father bishop."

"True! unhappily too true!" cried the prelate, imagining that the

hermit imputed blame to him for the delay. "But what could I do,

brother Bernard? God knows--praised be his name!--that I have the

most holy and devout fear of the authority of the blessed church of

Rome;--but how can I bear to tear the food of salvation from the

mouths of the poor hungry people?--Besides, when I did but mention it

to the king, he cried out, in his rude and furious way:--'By the

joyeuse of St. Charlemagne! bishop, take care what you do! As long as

you eat of the fat, and drink of the strong, you prelates of France

mind nothing; but let me hear no more of this interdict, or I will

smite you hip and thigh! I will drive you forth from your benefices!

I will deprive you of your feofs, and I will strip you of your

wealth!--and then you may get rosy wines and rich meats where you

can!"

A sort of cynical smile gathered round the hermit's lip, as if in his

heart he thought Philip's estimate of the clergy of his day was not a

bad one: and indeed their scandalous luxury was but too fertile a

theme of censure to all the severer moralists of those times. He

contented himself, however, with demanding what the prelate intended

to do.

"Nay, on that subject, I came to consult you, brother Bernard,"

replied the bishop. "You have ever shown yourself a wise and prudent

man, since you came into this place, some seven years ago; and all you

have recommended has prospered.--Now, in truth, I know not what to do.

The king is furious. His love for this Agnes--(if God would but please

to take her to himself, what a blessing!)--is growing more and more.

He has already cast out half the bishops of France for enforcing the

interdict, and seized on the lands of many of the barons who have

permitted or encouraged it.--What can I do? If I enforce it, he will

cast me out too; and the people will be no better. If I do not enforce

it, I fall under the heavy censure of our holy father the pope!"

"You know your duty, father bishop, far better than I can tell it to

you," replied the hermit, with what might almost be called a malicious

determination to give no assistance whatever to the poor prelate, who,

between his fears of Rome and his dread of losing his diocese,

laboured like a ship in a stormy sea. "Your duty must be done."

"But hearken, brother Bernard," said the bishop. "You know John of

Arville, the canon of St. Berthe's--a keen, keen man, though he be so

quiet and calm, and one that knows every thing which passes in the

world, though he be so devout and strict in his religious exercises."

"I know him well," said the hermit sternly, as if the qualities of the

worthy canon stood not high in his esteem.--"What of him?"

"Why, you know that, now William of Albert is dead, this John is head

of the canons of St. Berthe," replied the bishop. "Now, you must know

still farther, that a few days ago, the young count d'Auvergne, with

his train, came to Paris, and was hospitably received by the canons of

St. Berthe, in whose church his father had been a great founder. As

the interdict is strictly kept in his own part of the country, the

Count could not confess himself there; but, wisely and religiously,

seeing that years might elapse before he could again receive the

comforts of the church if the interdict lasted, and not knowing what

might happen in the mean time--for life is frail, you know, brother

Bernard--he resolved to confess himself to John of Arville, the canon;

which he did. So, then, you see, John of Arville came away to me, and

told me that he had a great secret, which might heal all the wounds of

the state."

"How!" exclaimed the hermit, starting up. "Did he betray the secrets

of confession?"

"No, no! You mistake, brother Bernard," cried the bishop peevishly.

"No, no! He did not betray the secrets of confession; but, in his

conversations afterwards with the young count, he drew from him that

he loved this Agnes de Meranie, and that she had been promised to him

by her brother as he went to the Holy Land; and that her brother being

killed there, and her father knowing nothing of the promise, gave her

to the king Philip. But now, hearing that the marriage is not lawful,

he--her father, the duke of Istria--has charged this young Count

d'Auvergne, as a knight, and one who was her dead brother's dear

friend, secretly to command her, in his name, to quit the court of

France, and return to his protection: and the count has thereon staked

life and fortune, that if she will consent, he will find means to

bring her back to Istria, in despite of the whole world. This is what

he communicated to the reverend canon, not, as you say, in confession,

but in sundry conversations after confession."

Bernard the hermit gave no thought to what, in our eyes, may appear a

strange commission for a parent like the duke of Istria to confide to

so young a man as the Count d'Auvergne. But in those days, we must

remember, such things were nothing strange; for knightly honour had as

yet been so rarely violated, that to doubt it for an instant, under

such a mark of confidence, would have then been considered as a proof

of a base and dishonourable heart. The hermit's mind, therefore,

turned alone to the conduct of the priest.

"I understand," replied he, drawing his brows together, even more

sternly than he had heretofore done. "The reverend canon of St.

Berthe's claims kindred in an equal degree with the fox and the wolf.

He has taken care that the count's secrets, first communicated to him

in confession, should be afterwards repeated to him without such a

seal. Thinks he, I wonder, to juggle Heaven, as well as man, with the

letter instead of the spirit? And doubtless, now, he would gladly give

the Count d'Auvergne all easy access to persuade this unhappy girl to

return; so that he, the canon of St. Berthe's, may but save his

diocesan from the unwieldly burden of the interdict, at the expense of

a civil war between the powerful Count d'Auvergne and his liege lord

Philip. 'Tis a goodly scheme, good father bishop; but 'twill not

succeed. Agnes loves Philip--looks on him as her husband--refuses to

part from him--has the spirit of a hero in a woman's bosom, and may as

soon be moved by such futile plans, as the north star by the singing

of the nightingale."

"See what it is to be a wise man!" said the bishop, unable to restrain

a little triumphant chuckle, at having got the hermit at fault.--"See

what it is to be a wise man, and not hear a simple story out! Besides,

good brother Bernard, you speak but uncharitably of the reverend canon

of St. Berthe's, who is a holy and religious man; though, like you

yourself, somewhat too proud of worldly wisdom--a-hem!"

"A-hem!" echoed something near; at least, so it seemed to the quick

and timorous ears of the worthy prelate, who started up and listened.

"Did you not hear something, brother Bernard?" demanded he in a low

voice. "Did you not hear a noise? Cursed be it upon the earth!

and--God forgive me----"

"I heard the roaring of the wind, and the creaking of the wood, but

nothing else," replied the hermit calmly, "But what wert thou about to

say, father bishop? If I have taken thee up wrongly, I am ready to

acknowledge my folly. All men are but as fools, and I not amongst the

least. If I have wronged the canon of St. Berthe's, I am ready to

acknowledge the fault. All men are sinners, and I not amongst the

least. But how have I been mistaken at present?

"Why, altogether!" replied the prelate, after having re-assured

himself by listening several moments without hearing any farther

sound,--"altogether, brother Bernard, the canon of St. Berthe's aims

at nothing you have mentioned. No one knows better than he the queen's

mind as he is her confessor; and he sees well, that till the king

shows some sign of willingness to part with her, she will remain fixed

to him, as if she were part of himself: but he knows, too, that if

Philip does but evince the least coldness--the least slackening of the

bonds that bind him to her, she will think he wearies of his

constancy, or fears the consequences of his opposition to the holy

church; and will herself demand to quit him. His scheme therefore is,

to let the king grow jealous of the Count d'Auvergne to such a point,

as to show some chilliness to the queen. Agnes herself will think that

he repents of his opposition to our blessed father the pope, and will

propose to depart. Philip's jealousy will prevent him from saying nay;

and the reverend canon himself, as her confessor, will conduct her

with a sufficient escort to the court of Istria: where, please God! he

may be rewarded as he deserves, for the signal service he renders

France!"

"Hoo! hoo! hoo!" cried a voice from without; which sounded through the

unglazed window, as if it was in the very hut.

"Miserere mei, Domine, secundum multitudinem miserationem tuarum!"

exclaimed the bishop; the rosy hue of his cheek, which had returned,

in the security of the hermit's cell, to much the colour of the field

pimpernel, now fading away to the hue of the same flower in an ancient

herbal.

"'Tis but an owl!--'tis but an owl!" cried the hermit; and, fixing his

eyes on the ground, he meditated deeply for several minutes,

regardless of the still unsubdued terror of the bishop, who, drawing a

chaplet from beneath his robe, filled up the pause with _paters_ and

_aves_, strangely mixed with various ungodly curses from the

never-forgotten anathema, which in his fright, like prisoners in a

popular tumult, rushed forth against his will the moment fear unbarred

the door of his lips.

"It is a cruel scheme!" said the hermit at length, "and the man who

framed it is a cruel man; who, for his own base ambition of gaining

bishoprics in Germany and credit at Rome, scruples not to tear asunder

the dearest ties of the heart;--but for you or me, father bishop," he

added, turning more immediately to the prelate, "for you and me, who

have no other interest in this thing, than the general welfare of our

country, to prevent civil war and general rebellion of the king's

vassals, which will inevitably ensue if the interdict lasts,

especially while he bears so hard a hand upon them,--for us, I say, it

is to consider whether by the sorrow inflicted in this instance,

infinite, infinite misery may not be spared through the whole nation.

If you come then, father bishop, to ask me my opinion, I think the

scheme which this canon of St. Berthe's proposed may be made use

of--as an evil indeed--but as the least, infinitely the least, of two

great ones. I think, then, that it may conscientiously be made use of;

but, at the same time, I think the worse of the man that framed

it--ay! and he knew I should think the worse of him.

"Why, indeed, and in truth, I believe he did," answered the bishop,

who had somewhat recovered his composure by the non-repetition of the

sounds, "I believe he did, for he mightily opposed my consulting you on

the matter; saying that--though all the world knows, brother Bernard,

you are a wise man, and a holy one too; for, indeed, none but a holy

man dare inhabit such a wild place, amidst all sorts of evil

spirits--cursed be they above the earth and under the earth!--but

saying--as I was going to observe--that if I were seen coming here,

people would think I knew not how to govern my own diocese, but must

needs have your help. So I came here at night, God forgive me and

protect me! for, if ever the sin of pride and false shame was

punished, and repented of with fear and trembling, it has been this

night."

So frank a confession changed the cynical smile that was gathering

round the anchorite's lips into one of a blander character. "Your

coming in the day, good father bishop," replied he, "would have

honoured me, without disgracing you. The world would but have said,

that the holy bishop of Paris visited the poor hermit of Vincennes, to

consult with him for the people's good.--But let us to the question.

If you will follow my counsel, good father, you will lay this scheme

before that honoured and noble knight and reverend bishop, Guerin;

for, believe me, it will be necessary to keep a careful guard over

Philip, and to watch him well, lest, his passions being raised to a

dangerous degree, it become necessary to tell him suddenly the whole

truth. I am absent from him; you are busied with the cares of your

flock; and the canon of St. Berthe's must not be trusted. But Guerin

is always near him; and, with your holy zeal and his prudent watching,

this scheme, though it may tear the heart of the king and of the fair

unfortunate girl, Agnes his wife, may also save bloodshed, rebellion,

and civil war, and raise the interdict from this ill-fated kingdom."