the face of his snow-white steed to westward and rode down long, green,
leafy ways and across a great level plain toward the setting of the sun.
In doublet and hose of scarlet, laced with gold thread, he was comely to
see, with a white plume in his velvet cap, and thick hair of yellow,
clipped evenly at his neck, and on his face the beauty that shines out
from a light within. All day he journeyed on, yearning to meet alone the
Robber Chief, whom he pictured as a man brawny of arm and of evil
countenance, wherein black brows hid the sinister eyes, and a black
beard covered a cruel mouth; and the lad longed with the lusty strength
of untried youth to measure swords with this terrible foe. That night a
woman gave him shelter at a wayside hut, and told a tale of the Chief
that chilled the young man's blood; the next night, as he lodged at a
hall, deeds yet more cruel were recounted to him; and ever as he came
nearer the heart of the kingdom, he found the air more rife with tidings
of the Robber Chief's ill doings.
"They do not know," he said, lightly touching spur to his steed. "The
King and the Bishop do not know of these wicked things. Pray God that I
may come in time to lead men forth!"
At the edge of a great forest he met, one day, a tired-looking man on a
tired horse. The rider was neatly clad in sober gray, and was both
freshly shaven and neatly combed. Across his saddle lay a great bag of
something that was wondrous heavy.
"Halt!" said the man, with a pleasant glance from his mild blue eyes.
Then blood rose red to the young squire's cheek, and anger too great for
any words lighted in his eyes, as his hand went to his dagger, and he
urged his horse forward. It was a brave fight that he made, while the
two steeds drew near and parted and drew near again, but a slender white
hand with an iron grip reached deftly and snatched the dagger from his
hand, nor could he reach the short sword which he had so proudly belted
to his side; and the strength of his adversary was as the strength of
ten.
"Nay, be not foolish," said a soft voice, as the lad struck out with
stinging fist; "'tis but thy purse I ask, and it would grieve me to do
thee wrong. The purses of the kingdom belong to me."
"Now, by what right?" cried Louis of Lamont, between set teeth, his
cheeks flaming deeper red.
"By the right of having wit enough to get them," answered the robber.
Then he pinioned the lad's arm to his side and thrust a deft hand into
his pocket, drawing out a purse of wrought gold.
"It will be to thy best advantage if thou canst but see it that way," he
said courteously.
In the mind of the other the vision of dark, beetling brows and red,
hairy cheeks was fading.
"Thou--thou art the Robber Chief," he stammered. His adversary bowed.
"It is thou who didst murder Baron Divonne, and who didst starve the
Squire's daughter of Yverton with her seven children, and"--So great was
his horror of the tales that flocked to his tongue that he failed to
speak them, but a light as from the wings of the Angel of Judgment shone
from his eyes and brow.
"The question is not, 'Shall I take thy purse?'" the Chief said gently.
"I have it. The question is, 'How shall I dispose of it to the best
advantage?'"
"It isn't that! I do not want the purse," said the young man scornfully;
"but how canst thou traffic in crime?"
"I have little time for talking," said the Gentle Robber, with a hurt
look on his face; he was extremely sensitive to adverse criticism. "Now
I must be off. This great bag of gold is for the orphan hospital at the
Abbey. If I may mention it without boasting, it derives most of its
supplies from me," and he looked wistfully for approval.
"Its supplies of orphans?" demanded Louis of Lamont, with his stern
young lip curved in scorn; but the face of the other was as the face of
a man who has failed to teach a great lesson of good.
As the lad rode on through the forest, his head was bent as if a hand
had struck it and had laid it low, but coming into the open, he saw far
off, across the valley, the spires of the capital city, Mertoun, and its
many red roofs gleaming by the blue river, and his heart throbbed within
him for thankfulness and joy.
"Hasten!" he cried to the beast that bore him. "Yonder in that strong
city be strong men to help me right ill deeds, and a minute gained may
save some woman's life, or spare the bitter crying of a child."
His eyes were filled with a vision of the knights that would go out with
him to war for the right, with the waving of plumes and the flaming of
banners, in their hearts the anger of God for cruel wrong; and a
yearning for coming combat tugged at the muscles of shoulder and of arm.
The palace of the Bishop was moated, and there was a drawbridge there,
and within, as on a green island, rose walls of fine gray stone, with
window arch and doorway delicately carved. There was one at hand who
took his steed, and one who led the way for him, and anon he found
himself in a sunlit chamber where the Bishop stood looking out upon the
great cathedral which was rising stone by stone, with its blue-clad
workmen standing against a bluer sky.
"What is it, my son?" asked the Bishop, when he saw a young squire
standing before him, worn, dust-stained, with anger burning in his eyes.
"Sire," said the guest, bending low, "I have hasted thither to tell thee
of great wrongs."
"They shall be redressed," said the Bishop, laying his hand upon the
lad's head.
"There is a man," said Louis of Lamont, kneeling, his lips white with
wrath, "who doeth cruel wrong and bringeth folk to death, and it must
needs be that none in high places know, for he goeth unpunished."
"He shall be found and placed in my lowest dungeon," said the Bishop
fiercely. "Now tell me what he hath done."
"On my way hither I lodged with a poor woman who told me that he had
slain before her eyes her husband and her sons, and all for a cup of
silver coin that stood upon the mantel."
"A mere cup of silver coin!" groaned the Bishop. "He shall hang."
Then he told of the murder of Baron Divonne, and of the Squire's
daughter of Yverton, who was starved with her seven children; and he
told all the tales that the wandering merchant had brought with his
cloths of cashmere and of silk. As he spoke longer, the face of his host
grew anxious, and when he finished, saying, "Men call him the Gentle
Robber," black care sat upon the brow of the host.
"Delay not," pleaded Louis. "Give me armed men, for thou hast said that
he shall die for his sins, and I have the blood of fighters in my
veins."
"Nay, child," said the Bishop. "Not so."
"Thou hast promised!" he cried in amaze.
"Ay," he made answer, "but I knew not then that the offenses were so
many and so great, or that the enterprise was--ahem!--planned upon so
large a scale. That makes all different."
"That makes the need to punish him a thousandfold greater," stammered
the lad.
"Tut, tut!" said the Bishop, with the solemn smile he wore. "Thou dost
not understand: logic is ever lacking in the young."
"Should not stripes be laid upon him for each cry he hath drawn forth?
Should he not lay down his life, if that were possible, for each life he
hath taken?"
"I had thought, when I heard the first tale, that he should die for the
single crime," the Bishop made answer, "but the case is altered by the
later facts. 'A life for a life,' saith the Scripture, but naught of a
life for a dozen or threescore, or an hundred, as the case may be."
Then a flame of anger shone out in the lad's face, and he waited.
"My son," said the Bishop tenderly, "thou art young and ignorant, yet
will I try to teach thee something of right ways of thought. In judging,
all depends upon the point of view, and matters that look often black at
first statement grow white or gray when thoroughly understood. Let us
look upon this question in another aspect. Dost see yonder great
cathedral rising?"
Though the youth made no answer, the Bishop saw that he was looking at
the gray stones and at the blue-clad workmen.
"'Tis God's house," said the Bishop, "nor may it arise save through the
gifts of this man. Wrong hath he done, but all is forgiven for that his
gold is bent to holy purposes."
"But wrong he doeth still," said Louis of Lamont, in the stern voice of
youth.
The Bishop coughed behind his hand even while he spoke.
"There is much in the ways of Providence that we may not comprehend. God
moveth in a mysterious way."
"Had the Robber Chief ceased from his crime and shown true
penitence"--began the lad, but the Bishop interrupted.
"God hath need of the man and of all the gold that he will bring, that
institutions of learning and holy places may arise in the land."
"God may be worshiped by wood and stream," said the youth, in the still,
small voice of one who knew; "nor hath He need of gold that is the price
of suffering and pain and tears;" and so he turned and went down the
steps, worn and weary, with dust on his crimson garments, and shame on
his spirit, and the light of his face grown dim.
It had come back to its shining, however, the next day, when he went
before the King.
"It may well be that there is one bad man who hath power," he said to
himself, "and he the Bishop; but God would not grant that all be so,"
and hope beamed again from his eyes.
"'Tis the son of my old friend, Guy of Lamont, sayest thou?" cried the
King, as he raised the lad's chin with one royal finger. "By my troth,
'tis his father's face again, but different."
"Sire," said Louis, as he did reverence, "I have come to tell of cruel
wrong, and to win from thee a promise of redress."
"Thou shalt have it!" cried the King, with his hand upon his sword.
"Friend or child of my friend went never yet uncomforted from the foot
of my throne. Speak thy wrong."
Then the youth told him all that he had told the Bishop, and added
thereto other tales, and hope shone sternly in his eyes.
"Send forth with me a band of thy men-at-arms," prayed the suppliant.
"Even now, perchance, are orphans made that might have grown tall in
happiness save for this man's lust for gold."
Then the King looked about, and his face grew dark with anger, for some
half smiled and hid their smiles as best they could with jeweled hand or
velvet sleeve; some showed fear at seeing this thing, which was not
breathed at court, boldly brought to light.
[Illustration: FOR SOME HALF SMILED AND HID THEIR SMILES AS BEST THEY
COULD]
"Boy," said the King sternly, "hast no respect for them that be
appointed to sit in high places, nor awe before an anointed King?"
"Yea, sire," answered Louis, marveling.
"Dost come before my throne with slanderous tales of one on whom I lean
heavily and lovingly?"
"Sire," he said bravely, "thou dost not know his cruel deeds. He hath
robbed and killed to the sickening of the heart."
"Mayhap," said the King, "but he hath carried all before him with great
success, and so is the case altered. 'Tis a man of whom we have great
need, and the young should not speak ill of older folk."
Then Louis of Lamont said never a word, but rose to his feet staggering,
for the knowledge he had gained of men came as hard blows about the
ears, and bending low, he turned away.
"Stay!" cried the King. "Thy offense is great: thou hast spoken ill of a
public benefactor, yet if thou wilt hold thy tongue, nor repeat thy
silly tales, I will make thee one of my courtiers, and thou shalt go
brave in velvet and in jewels."
But the youth shook his head and went forth alone from the
presence-chamber; all looked after him, with smiles and jeers and
whispered words of scorn.
"'Sdeath!" cried the King. "'Tis a madman fit but for a dungeon, yet,
for the sake of my old friend, Guy of Lamont, can I not cast him there."
The lad groped his way unevenly down the marble steps of the palace as
one gropes in a path that is full of pitfalls and has suddenly grown
dark, and he wandered, not knowing where, through the dark streets,
until he found himself in the square before the great cathedral. Here
many were passing with hands full of flowers, red roses and tall white
lilies and blue blossoms that grow pale among the wheat, for it was the
feast day of a saint, and they went to deck the altar which stood within
unfinished walls, that men might worship there under the blue sky.
"I will tell them," said the lad; so he stood upon the cathedral steps
and repeated all the tale, and blossoms red and blossoms white were
dropped at his feet, as men and women clustered about to hear.
"Ay!" they cried out, "we go hungry for this man, but who shall deliver
us from him? Horses and armor could we find, perchance. Wilt lead us to
him?"
Then of a sudden he smiled, and ceased speaking because of the choking
in his throat; but after, he took up the tale and told it in the
market-place and before the Palace of Justice and wherever he could
gather folk together.
As days passed, all this came to the ears of the King and of the Bishop
and of the nobles of the court, and grave head met with grave head, and
both were shaken solemnly in conference over this new peril which
threatened the kingdom. One morn there went throughout the city a crier,
who called aloud and read from a parchment in his hand to let men know
that Louis of Lamont, son of Sir Guy, was cast out from Holy Church for
slander of one of her greatest sons. Henceforward no man should give him
shelter, no woman food or drink, lest they too come under the ban; and
should he speak future evil words, his life would be forfeit.
Yet one who loved him--and there were many--hid him; and the next day
and the next he wandered in the streets, begging men to rise in
vengeance against the Robber Chief. On the third day he was taken by
armed men, and the decree went forth that Louis of Lamont should, after
three days, be burned at the stake in the square of the Palace of
Justice. The youth smiled when he heard his doom; almost he was glad to
escape from a world which he had not logic enough to understand.
So the day came when he should die, and it was a Friday of midsummer. In
the centre of the square stood an iron post to which criminals were wont
to be tied, and to this they bound him. Close about him were heaped
fagots of wood and dried branches, and within he stood in a motley
garment, and the look upon his face was as the coming of the day. All
about was a great press of people, merchant and butcher and
cloth-spinner, and peasant folk from the country round; and on a dais,
built high for better seeing, were knights and ladies and nobles of the
court, with the King himself, and the Gentle Robber at his side, trimly
clad in sober gray and gently smiling.
It was a soft day of golden sun, and the sky was blue above the place,
and the least wind sighed softly as if for pity as it breathed about the
iron stake and played with the yellow locks of the young Squire's hair
and moved the red folds of the shameful garment that they had placed
upon him. Lifting his face, he leaned his cheek against the wind, for it
seemed to him a breeze that had played among the beech leaves in the
ancient forest by his father's hall, and in taking leave of it he said
farewell to his hound and to the woodland paths and to his father's
face.
Now came a ghostly father, with a torch that flamed backward against the
blue day, and in the name of God and Holy Church he bent and kindled the
fagots. Then was there quick tumult and rush and stir through the
square, for all rushed forward to see and to hear, and little maids were
sorely trampled in the press by the great feet of smith and of
husbandman, and women's aprons were badly torn. None cared, for all knew
that saving grace was to be won for their own souls if their eyes but
caught a glimpse of an heretic that was being burned to death, and when
the fire leaped high into the air, they gave God thanks. There was a
flame in the young martyr's face that was not as the flame that leaped
about him; but smoke and fire were speedy with their work, and his head
bent over his breast, his body over the chain that bound him, and as his
soul went free, folk breathed deeply in relief, saying that an evil-doer
was dead. Upon the dais the King's broad face showed satisfaction; the
Bishop lifted his eyes to heaven, thanking God, then let them rest on
the gray stone walls of the cathedral, glad that now naught should
prevent the walls of God's house from rising. In all the great crowd,
none other was so devout and so thankful as the Gentle Robber, and his
mild blue eyes were moist with tears as he whispered to the King:--
"'Tis marvelous, the ways by which Providence brings evil-doers to
justice; ever the right prevails."
[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF AN HERETIC BEING BURNED TO DEATH]
Then all went to the cathedral, knight, squire, and lady in velvet and
in silk, the Bishop in holy robes of purple and of white, and common
folk in blue jean and plain linen, that special service might be held in
praise for this great deliverance, and the _Te Deum_ sung.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
Transcriber Notes:
Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.
Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.
Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.
On page 97, a single quotation mark was replaced with a double quotation
mark.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Princess Pourquoi, by Margaret Sherwood