I
The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.
Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the river
Moselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic forget-me-not where the
glow of the setting sun cast long shadows down their eastern slope; an
arch of clearest, deepest gentian bending overhead; in the centre of the
aerial garden the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to the
east, violet to the west; silence over all,--a gentle, eager, conscious
stillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and sky were hushing
themselves to hear the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the
valley.
In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All day long
there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns. A breeze of
curiosity and excitement had swept along the corridors and through every
quiet cell. A famous visitor had come to the convent.
It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was Boniface,
and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; a
wonderful scholar; but, more than all, a daring traveller, a venturesome
pilgrim, a priest of romance.
He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not stay in
the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had chosen him as
the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing
would content him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to the
heathen.
Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the borders
of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful of companions,
sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, now here,
now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort, always in love with
hardship and danger.
What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and strong
as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth skin was bronzed
by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean and kind, flashed like fire when
he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the false priests
with whom he contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred
relics; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though he
knew much of these things. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings
by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears, and
fierce snowstorms, and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altars
of heathen gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from
murderous bands of wandering savages.
The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grown
pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entranced
in admiration, twining their arms about one another’s shoulders and
holding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older
nuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to bear the
pilgrim’s story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a
one among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father’s
roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to whom
her heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still among the
living.
But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour of the
evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled in the
refectory.
On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert,
looking a princess indeed, in her purple tunic, with the hood and cuffs
of her long white robe trimmed with ermine, and a snowy veil resting
like a crown on her silver hair. At her right hand was the honoured
guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, a
big, manly boy, just returned from school.
The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; the
double row of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy glow
of the slanting sunbeams striking upward through the tops of the windows
and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,--it was all as beautiful
as a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the cloister, that
at the table all should sit in stillness for a little while, and then
one should read aloud, while the rest listened.
“It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,” said the abbess to
Winfried; “we shall see how much he has learned in the school. Read,
Gregor; the place in the book is marked.”
The lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the manuscript.
It was a copy of Jerome’s version of the Scriptures in Latin, and
the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,--the
passage where he describes the preparation of the Christian as a
warrior arming for battle. The young voice rang out clearly, rolling the
sonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.
Winfried listened smiling. “That was bravely read, my son,” said he, as
the reader paused. “Understandest thou what thou readest?”
“Surely, father,” answered the boy; “it was taught me by the masters at
Treves; and we have read this epistle from beginning to end, so that I
almost know it by heart.”
Then he began to repeat the passage, turning away from the page as if to
show his skill.
But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.
“Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to God.
When we read, God speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast heard what He
has said to thee in the common speech. Come, give us again the message
of the warrior and his armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so
that all can understand it.”
The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to Winfried’s
seat, bringing the book. “Take the book, my father,” he cried, “and read
it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound of
the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our faith, and the life
of priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my grandmother designs
me, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, and the life of
warriors and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients,
and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste more
of it, for it likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what
need there is of armour for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see.
Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that knows
it, I am sure it is thou.”
So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy’s hand with
his own.
“Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,” said he, “lest they
should be weary.”
A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of sweet
voices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on the floor;
the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors and ebbed away
down the corridors; the three at the head of the table were left alone
in the darkening room.
Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into the
realities of life.
At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture out
of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and of the
wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the demons that men
had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice they
invoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. Gods,
they called them, and told weird tales of their dwelling among the
impenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the
shaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of
lightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits
of the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honour
in fighting them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in
putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventure
could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle with
them, and conquer them?
“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet and peaceful is this
convent to-night! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter;
a nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still
haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion
means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer and
meditation.
“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving
to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knows
what haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the advent
of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means to
those who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquer
the world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of the
adversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Master
everywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet
of salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts
but the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of
these journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?”
“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck
him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced
high about his leg with thongs of skin.
“Look here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the
boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk; a day
in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the
monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have
I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with
the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can
tear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and many
more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God is
gracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in a
soft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a
woodsman,--these are my preparation of the gospel of peace.
“Come, Gregor,” he said, laying his brown hand on the youth’s shoulder,
“come, wear the forester’s boots with me. This is the life to which we
are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer of
the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come.”
The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook her
head vigorously.
“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away from my side with these
wild words. I need him to help me with my labours, to cheer my old age.”
“Do you need him more than the Master does?” asked Winfried; “and will
you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?”
“But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will perish
with hunger in the woods.”
“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped on the bank of the river
Ohru. The table was set for the morning meal, but my comrades cried
that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go without
breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from the
wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the river
with flapping wings, and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp.
There was food enough and to spare! Never have I seen the righteous
forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”
“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the abbess,--“they may
pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with their
axes. He is but a child, too young for the danger and the strife.”
“A child in years,” replied Winfried, “but a man in spirit. And if the
hero fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter crown, not a leaf
withered, not a flower fallen.”
The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her side,
and laid her hand gently on his brown hair. “I am not sure that he wa
there is no horse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go as
befits the grandson of a king.”
Gregor looked straight into her eyes.
“Grandmother,” said he, “dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give me a
horse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him afoot.”