THE PEACE OATH.
There was short shrift for Red Jason. He was tried by the court
nearest the spot, and that was the criminal court over which the
Bishop in his civil capacity presided, with nine of his neighbors on
the bench beside him. From this court an appeal was possible to the
Court of the Quarter, and again from the Quarter Court to the High
Court of Althing; but appeal in this case there was none, for there
was no defence. And because Icelandic law did not allow of the
imprisonment of a criminal until after he had been sentenced, an
inquest was called forthwith, lest Jason should escape or compass the
crime he had attempted. So the Court of Inquiry sat the same night in
the wooden shed that served both for Senate and House of Justice.
The snow was now falling heavily, and the hour was late, but the
courthouse was thronged. It was a little place--a plain box, bare,
featureless, and chill, with walls, roof and seats of wood, and floor
of hard earth. Four short benches were raised, step above step,
against the farthest side, and on the highest of these the Bishop
sat, with three of his colleagues on each of the three rows beneath
him. The prisoner stood on a broad stool to the right, and the
witnesses on a like stool to the left. A wooden bar crossed the room
about midway, and in the open space between that and the door the
spectators were crowded together. The place was lighted by candles,
and some were fixed to the walls, others were held by ushers on the
end of long sticks, and a few were hung to the roof rafters by hemp
ropes tied about their middle. The floor ran like a stream, and the
atmosphere was full of the vapor of the snow that was melting on the
people's clothes. Nothing could be ruder than the courthouse, but the
Court that sat there observed a rule of procedure that was almost an
idolatry of form.
The prisoner was called by the name of Jason, son of Stephen Orry,
and having answered in a voice so hollow that it seemed to come out
of the earth beneath him, he rose to his place. His attitude was dull
and impassive, and he seemed hardly to see the restless crowd that
murmured at sight of him. His tall figure stooped, there was a cloud
on his strong brow, and a slow fire in his bloodshot eyes, and his
red hair, long as a woman's, hung in disordered masses down his worn
cheeks to his shoulders. The Bishop, a venerable prelate of great
age, looked at him and thought, "That man's heart is dead within
him."
The spokesman of the Court was a middle-aged man, who was short, had
little piercing eyes, a square brush of iron-gray hair that stood
erect across the top of his corded forehead, and a crisp, clear
utterance, like the crackle of a horse's hoofs on the frost.
Jason was charged with an attempt to take the life of Michael
Sunlocks, first President of the second Republic. He did not plead
and had no defence, and the witnesses against him spoke only in
answer to the leading questions of the judges.
The first of the witnesses was Greeba herself, and her evidence,
given in English, was required to be interpreted. All her brave
strength was now gone. She trembled visibly. Her eyes were down, her
head was bent, her face was half-hidden by the hood of a cloak she
wore, and her tones were barely audible. She had little to say. The
prisoner had forced his way into Government House, and there, to her
own face, had threatened to take the life of her husband. In plain
words he had done so, and then made show of going in pursuit of her
husband that he might carry out his design.
"Wait," said the Bishop, "your husband was not present?"
"No," said Greeba.
"There was, therefore, no direct violence?"
"None."
"And the whole sum of the prisoner's offence, so far as you know of
it, lies in the use of the words that you have repeated?"
"Yes."
Then, turning to the spokesman of the Court, the old Bishop said--
"There has been no overt act. This is not an attempt, but a threat
to take life. And this is not a crime by the law of this, or any
other Christian country."
"Your pardon, my lord," said the little man, in his crisp tones. "I
will show that the prisoner is guilty of the essential part of murder
itself. Murder, my lord," he added, "is not merely to compass the
destruction of a life, for there is homicide, by misadventure, there
is justifiable homicide, and there are the rights, long recognized by
Icelandic law, of the avengers of blood. Murder is to kill in secrecy
and after long-harbored malice, and now my lord, I shall show that
the prisoner has lain in wait to slay the President of the Republic."
At that Greeba stood down, and other witnesses followed her. Nearly
everyone had been summoned with whom Jason had exchanged words since
he landed eight days before. There was the lean student who had told
him of the drill at the Latin school, the little tailor who had
explained the work at the jail, the stuttering doorkeeper at the
senate-house, and one of the masons at the fort. Much was made of the
fainting in the Cathedral yard, on the Sunday morning, and out of the
deaf landlady, the Cathedral caretaker, some startling disclosures
seemed to be drawn.
"Still," said the old Bishop, "I see no overt act."
"Good gracious, my lord," said the little spokesman, "are we to wait
until the knife itself has been reddened?"
"God forbid!" said the old Bishop.
Then came two witnesses to prove motive. The first of them was
the tipsy comrade of former days, who had drawn Jason into the
drinking-shop. He could say of his own knowledge that Jason was
jealous of the new Governor. The two were brothers in a sort of way.
So people said, and so Jason had told him. They had the same father,
but different mothers. Jason's mother had been the daughter of the
old Governor, who turned his back on her at her marriage. At her
death he relented, and tried to find Jason, but could not, and then
took up with Michael Sunlocks. People said that was the beginning of
the new President's fortune. At all events Jason thought he had been
supplanted, was very wroth, and swore he would be revenged.
The second of the two witnesses pointed to a very different motive.
He was one of the three Danes who had twice spoken to Jason--the
elderly man with the meek and quiet manner. Though himself loyal to
the Icelandic Republic he had been much thrown among its enemies.
Jason was one of them; he came here as a spy direct from Copenhagen,
and his constant associates were Thomsen, an old, white-headed man
living in the High Street, and Polvesen, a young and sallow man, who
kept one of the stores facing the sea. With these two Jason had been
heard by him to plan the assassination of the President.
At this evidence there was a deep murmur among the people, and it was
seen that Greeba had risen again to her feet. Her heart burned and
stormed within her. She tried to speak but could not. At the same
moment Jason turned his bloodshot eyes in her direction, and then her
limbs gave way under her, and she sank back with a moan. The Court
misread her emotion, and she was removed. Jason's red eyes followed
her constantly.
"This is a case for the Warning, not for punishment," said the
Bishop. "It is plainly written in our old Law Book that if a man
threaten to slay another man he shall be warned of the gravity of the
crime he contemplates and of the penalty attaching to it."
"Gracious heavens, my lord," cried the little spokesman, "what reason
have we to assume that this prisoner is ignorant of either? With a
life to guard that is prized by friends and precious to the State
shall we let this man go free who had sworn before witnesses to
destroy it?"
"God forefend!" said the Bishop.
It was lawful to question the prisoner, and so he was questioned.
"Is it true that you have been lying in wait to kill the President?"
asked the spokesman.
But Jason made no answer.
"Is it true that you have done so from a desire for personal
vengeance?"
No answer.
"Or from political motives?"
No answer.
"Or both?"
Still no answer.
Then the spokesman turned back to the Court. "The stubborn
persistence of the prisoner is easy to understand," he said, and
smiled.
"Wait," said the old Bishop, and he turned towards Jason.
"Have you any valid plea?"
But Jason gave no sign.
"Listen," said the Bishop. "Though the man who compasses the
destruction of a single life is as though he had destroyed a world,
for the posterity of him who is dead might have filled a world, yet
have all laws of men since the Pentateuch recognized certain
conditions that limit the gravity of the crime. If the man who is
slain has himself slain the near kindred of his slayer, though the
law of Iceland would no longer hold him guiltless, as in the ancient
times when evil for evil was the rule and sentence, neither would it
punish him as a murderer, who must eat the bread and drink the water
of misery all his days. Now what is true of murder must be true of
intent to murder, and though I am loth to believe it possible in this
instance, honoring and loving as we all do that good man whom you are
charged with lying in wait to kill, yet in my duty must I ask you the
question--Has Michael Sunlocks spilled blood of your blood, and is it
as a redeemer of blood that you go about to slay him?"
There was a dead hush in the little crowded courthouse as Jason
lifted his heavy, bloodshot eyes to the Bishop's face and answered,
in a weary voice, "I have nothing to say."
Then an aged Lutheran priest, who had sat within the rail, with a
snuffbox in his hand and a red print handkerchief across his knee,
hobbled up to the witness stool and tendered evidence. He could throw
light on the prisoner's hatred of the President, if it was true that
the President was a son of Stephen Orry. He knew the prisoner, and
had named him in his baptism. He had known the prisoner's mother
also, and had sat with her at her death. It was quite true that she
was a daughter of the late Governor, and had been badly treated by
her father. But she had been yet more badly treated by her husband,
who married again while she was still alive, and had another son by
the other wife. On her deathbed she had heard of this, and told the
prisoner, who then and there, this witness being present, made an
awful vow of vengeance upon his father and his father's son.
The old priest was heard in silence, and his words sent a quiver
through the courthouse. Even Jason, who had shown no interest save
when Greeba was removed, lifted up his bloodshot eyes again and
listened.
And the Bishop, visibly moved, turned to the Court and said, "Let us
put this prisoner back to be tried by the High Court and the
Lagmann."
"What, my lord!" cried the little spokesman, with a lofty look, "and
set him at liberty in the meantime, to carry out the crime he
threatens?"
"Heaven forbid!" said the Bishop.
"Remember, until he has been condemned we have no power to hold him,"
said the spokesman.
The Bishop turned to an usher and said, "Bring me the Statute Book,"
and the great tome was brought. The Bishop opened it and again turned
to the prisoner. "The Almighty," said he, "created one man at the
beginning to teach us that all men are brethren, and the law of our
old country provides that when two have had disputes and pursued each
other on account of hatred, even as brethren they shall make peace
before their neighbors. Now listen to the words I shall read to you,
and be ready to say if you will swear to them."
Then a great silence fell upon the people, while in solemn tones the
old Bishop read the Peace Oath.
"Ye two shall be set at one and live friendly together, at meat and
at drink, in the Althing and at meetings, at kirk prayers and in
King's palace; and in whatever place else men meet together, there
shall ye be so set at one, as if this quarrel had never come between
you. Ye shall share knife and meat together, and all things besides,
as friends and not as enemies."
The Bishop paused and looked over his spectacles at Jason, who stood
as before, with the cloud on his brow and the slow fire in his deep
eyes, but with no sign of feeling or interest.
"Will you promise to swear to this, when he shall have returned who
should swear to it with you?" said the Bishop.
Then all eyes turned towards Jason, and there came across his face at
that moment the look of a bated dog.
"No," he growled.
The spokesman shifted in his seat and the people grew restless.
"Listen again," said the Bishop, and his long white beard shook and
his solemn voice rose to a shrill cry as he twisted back to the book
and read:--
"But if one of you be so mad that he breaks this truce thus made, and
slays after pledges have been made and his blade has reddened, he
shall be an outlaw, accursed and driven away, so far as men drive
wolves farthest away. He shall be banished of God and all good
Christian men, as far as Christian men seek churches, as mothers
bring forth sons, son calls mother, flames blaze up, mankind kindle
fire, earth is green, sun shines, and snow covers the ground; he
shall flee from kirk and Christian men, God's house and mankind, and
from every home save hell."
Then there was a pause and a great hush, and the Bishop lifted his
eyes from the book, and said--
"Will you swear to it?"
Again all eyes turned towards Jason, and again his face, which had
been impassive, took the look of a bated dog.
"No, no, no!" he cried in a loud voice, and then the great silence
was broken by deep murmurs.
"It is useless," said the spokesman. "Warnings and peace oaths,
though still valid, are the machinery of another age. This prisoner
is not ignorant of the gravity of the crime he contemplates, nor yet
of the penalty attaching to it."
There was an audible murmur of assent from the people.
"That's true," said one. "It's the truest word spoken to-night," said
another. "The old man is all for mercy," said a third. "It isn't
safe," said a fourth. And there was other whispering, and much
nodding of heads and shuffling of feet.
Encouraged by these comments the little spokesman added--
"In any other country at this age of the world a man who tacitly
admitted a design to take life would be promptly clapped into
prison."
"Ay, ay," the people muttered, but the Bishop drew himself up and
said, "In any other country a criminal who showed no fear of the
death that hung over him would be straightway consigned to a
madhouse."
"We have no madhouse in this island, my lord," said the little
spokesman, "save the Sulpher Mines, and there he must go."
"Wait," said the Bishop, and once again he turned to the prisoner.
"If this Court should agree to ship you out of Iceland will you
promise never more to return to it?"
For the third time all eyes were turned on Jason, but he did not seem
to hear the Bishop's question.
"Will you promise?" said the Bishop again.
"No," said Jason.
"Dangerous trifling," said the spokesman. "When you seize a mad dog
you strangle it."
"Ay, ay," cried many voices at once, and great excitement prevailed.
The old Bishop drew back with a sigh of relief. He loved Michael
Sunlocks and had been eager to save him. He pitied Greeba, and for
her sake also had been anxious to protect her husband. But from the
moment he saw Jason and thought, "That man's heart is dead within
him," his love had struggled with his sense of duty. As the trial
went on he had remembered Jason and recalled his bitter history, and
seized with a strong sympathy he had strained every nerve to keep
back his punishment. He had done all he could do, he had nothing to
reproach himself with, and full of a deep and secret joy at the
certainty of the safety of Sunlocks, he now fell back that the law
might take its course.
The Court was counted out, and then the Bishop turned for the last
time to Jason, and delivered judgment. "The sentence of this Court,"
he said "is that you be removed from here to the Sulpher Mines, and
be kept there six months certain, and as long thereafter as you
refuse to take the Oath of Peace pledging yourself forever, as long
as you live or the world endures, to be at one with your enemy as
brothers before all men living."
Now Greeba alone knew the truth about Jason. When she had fled from
Mann without word or warning it had not been out of fear of him, but
of her brothers. Her meeting with Michael Sunlocks, her short stay
with the good old Bishop Petersen, her marriage and the festival that
followed, had passed her by like a dream. Then came the first short
parting with Sunlocks when he had said, "I must leave you for a
fortnight, for the men I sent in search of your father have blundered
and returned without him." She had cried a little at that, and he had
kissed her, and made a brave show of his courage, though she could
see the tears in his own big shining eyes. But it was all a dream, a
sweet and happy dream, and only by the coming of Jason had the dream
been broken.
Then followed her terror, her plea, her fear for her husband's life,
her defiance of Jason, and the charge she made against him.
And the first burst of her passion over, she had thought to herself,
"My husband is safe, but Jason will now tell all and I shall be a
lost and ruined woman," for nothing had she yet said to Michael
Sunlocks concerning the man who had wooed and won and released her
during the long years of his silence and her trouble. "He will hear
the story now," she thought, "and not from my lips but from Jason's."
Being then so far immersed she could not but go on, and so she had
allowed herself to be led to the courthouse. No one there had thought
to ask her if she had known anything of Jason before that day, and
she on her part had said nothing of knowing him. But when Jason had
looked at her with eyes of reproach that seemed to go through her
soul, he seemed to be saying, "This is but half the truth. Dare you
not tell the rest?"
Then listening to the lying of other witnesses, and looking up at
Jason's face, so full of pain, and seeing how silent he was under
cruel perjury, she remembered that this man's worst crime had been
his love of her, and so she staggered to her feet to confess
everything.
When she came to herself after that, she was back in her own
home--her new home, the home of her happy dream, her husband's home
and hers, and there her first fear returned to her. "He will tell
all," she thought, "and evil tongues will make it worse, and shame
will fall upon my husband, and I shall be lost, lost, lost."
She waited with feverish impatience for the coming of the Bishop to
tell her the result of the trial, and at length he came.
"What have they done with him?" she cried; and he told her.
"What defence did he make?" she asked.
"None," said the Bishop.
"What did he say?" she asked again.
"Not a word but 'No,'" said the Bishop.
Then she drew a long breath of immense relief, and at the next
instant she reproached herself. How little of soul she had been! And
how great of heart had been Jason! He could have wrecked her life
with a word, but he had held his peace. She had sent him to prison,
and rather than smite he had suffered himself to be smitten. She felt
herself small and mean.
And the Bishop, having, as he thought, banished Greeba's terror,
hobbled to the door, for now the hour was very late, and the snow was
still falling.
"The poor soul will do your good husband no mischief now. Poor lad!
poor lad! After all, he is more fit for a madhouse than for a prison.
Good-night, my child, good-night."
And so the good old man went his way.
It was intended that Jason should start for the Sulphur Mines on the
following day, and he was lodged over night in a little house of
detention that stood on the south of the High Street. But the snow
continued to fall the whole night through, and in the morning the
roads were impassable. Then it was decided to postpone the long
journey until the storm should have passed, the frost set in, and the
desolate white wastes to be crossed become hard and firm. It was now
Wednesday of the second week in October--the Gore-month--and the
people were already settling down to the long rest of the Icelandic
winter. The merchants began to sleep the livelong day in their
deserted stores in the cheapstead, and the bonders, who had come up
with the last of their stock, to drink and doze in the taverns. All
that day the snow fell in fine dust like flour, until, white as it
was, the air grew dark with it. At the late dawn of the next day the
snow was still falling, and a violent gale had then risen. Another
and another and yet another day went by, and still the snow fell and
the gale continued. For two days there was no daylight, and only at
noon through the giddy air a fiery glow burned for an hour along the
southern sky and then went out. Nothing could be seen of fell or
fiord, and nothing could be heard save the baying of the hounds at
night and the roar of the sea at all times, for the wind made no
noise in the soft snow, but drove it along in sheets like silent
ghosts.
Never before had Greeba seen anything so terrible; and still more
fearful than the great snow itself was the anxiety it brought her.
Where was Michael Sunlocks? Where was her father? There was only one
other whose condition troubled her, and she knew too well where he
was--he was lying in the dark cell of the dark house in the High
Street.
While the storm lasted all Reykjavik lay asleep, and Greeba could do
nothing. But one morning when she awoke and turned to the window, as
was her wont, to learn if the weary snow was still falling, she could
see nothing at first for the coating of ice and hoar frost that
covered the glass. But the snow had ceased, the wind had fallen, the
air was clear and the light was coming. The buildings of the town,
from the Cathedral to the hovels of the fishing quarter, looked like
snow mounds in the desert; the black waste of lava was gone; the
black beach was gone; the black jokulls were gone; the black headland
was gone that had stretched like a giant hand of many fingers into
the black fiord; but height above height, and length beyond length,
as far as from sea to sky, and from sea to sea, the world lay
lifeless and silent and white around her.
Then, the town being once more awake, Greeba had news of Jason. It
came through a little English maid, whom Sunlocks had found for her,
from Oscar, the young man who had gone out in search of her father
and returned without him. Jason was ill. Five days he had eaten
nothing, and nothing had he drunk except water. He was in a fever--a
brain fever--and it was now known for certain that he was the man who
had fainted outside the Cathedral on the marriage morning, that he
had been ill ever since then, and that the druggist of the High
Street had bled him.
With these tidings Greeba hurried away to the Bishop.
"The poor man has brain fever," she said. "He was ill when he made
the threat, and when he recovers he will regret it; I am sure he
will--I know he will. Set him at liberty, for mercy's sake," she
cried; and she trembled as she spoke, lest in the fervor of her plea
the Bishop should read her secret.
But he only shook his head and looked tenderly down at her, and said
very gently, though every word went to her heart like a stab--
"Ah, it is like a good woman to plead for one who has injured her.
But no, my child, no; it may not be. Poor lad, no one now can do
anything for him save the President himself; and he is not likely to
liberate a man who lies in wait to kill him."
"He _is_ likely," thought Greeba, and straightway she conceived of a
plan. She would go to Jason in his prison. Yes, she herself would go
to him, and prevail with him to put away all thoughts of vengeance
and be at peace with her husband. Then she would wait for the return
of Michael Sunlocks, and plead with that dear heart that could deny
her nothing, to grant her Jason's pardon. Thus it would come about
that she, who had stood between these two to separate them, would at
length stand between them to bring them together.
So thinking, and crying a little, like a true woman, at the prospect
of so much joy, she waited for Jason's recovery that she might carry
her purpose into effect. Meantime she contrived to send him jellies
and soups, such as might tempt the appetite of a sick man. She
thought she sent them secretly, but with less than a woman's wit she
employed a woman on her errand. This person was the little English
maid, and she handed over the duty to Oscar, who was her sweetheart.
Oscar talked openly of what he was doing, and thus all Reykjavik
knew that the tender-hearted young wife of the Governor held
communications of some sort with the man whom she had sent to jail.
Then one day, on hearing that Jason was better, though neither was he
so well as to travel nor was the snow hard enough to walk upon,
Greeba stole across to the prison in the dark of the afternoon,
saying nothing to anyone of her mission or intention.
The stuttering doorkeeper of the Senate was the jailor, and he
betrayed great concern when Greeba asked to see his prisoner, showing
by his ghastly looks, for his words would not come, that it would be
rash on her part, after helping so much towards Jason's imprisonment,
to trust herself in his presence.
"But what have I to fear?" she thought; and with a brave smile, she
pushed her way through.
She found Jason in a square box built of heavy piles, laid
horizontally both for walls and roof, dark and damp and muggy,
lighted in the day by a hole in the wood not larger than a man's
hand, and in the night by a sputtering candle hung from the rafters.
He sat on a stool; his face was worn, his head was close-cropped to
relieve the heat of his brain, and on the table by his side lay all
his red hair, as long as his mother's was when it fell to the shears
of the Jew on the wharf.
He gave no sign when Greeba entered, though he knew she was there,
but sat with his face down and one hand on the table.
"Jason," she said, "I am ashamed. It is I who have brought you to
this. Forgive me! forgive me! But my husband's life was in danger,
and what was I to do?"
Still he gave no sign.
"Jason," she said again, "you have heaped coals of fire on my head;
for I have done nothing but injure you, and though you might have
done as much for me you never have."
At that the fingers of his hand on the table grasped the edge of it
convulsively.
"But, Jason," she said, "all is not lost yet. No, for I can save you
still. Listen. You shall give me your promise to make peace with my
husband, and when my husband returns he will grant me your pardon.
Oh, yes, I know he will, for he is tender-hearted, and he will
forgive you; yes, he will forgive you----"
"My curse on him and his forgiveness," cried Jason, rising suddenly
and bringing down his fist on the table. "Who is he that he should
forgive me? It has not been for his sake that I have been silent,
with the devil at my side urging me to speak. And for all that _you_
have made me to suffer _he_ shall yet pay double. Let it go on; let
him send me away; let him bury me at his mines. But I shall live to
find him yet. Something tells me that I shall not die until I have
met with that man face to face."
And Greeba went back home with these mad words ringing in her ears.
"It is useless to try," she thought, "I have done all I can. My
husband is before everything. I shall say nothing to him now."
None the less she cried very bitterly, and was still crying when at
bedtime her little English maid came up to her and chattered of the
news of the day. It seemed that some Danish store-keepers on the
cheapstead had lately been arrested as spies, brought to trial, and
condemned.
When Greeba awoke next morning, after a restless night, while the
town still lay asleep, and only the croak of the ravens from the
rocks above the fiord broke the silence of the late dawn, she heard
the hollow tread of many footsteps on the frozen snow of the
Thingvellir road, and peering out through the window, which was
coated with hoar frost, she saw a melancholy procession. Three men,
sparsely clad in thin tunics, snow stockings and skin caps, walked
heavily in file, chained together hand to hand and leg to leg, with
four armed warders, closely muffled to the ears, riding leisurely
beside them. They were prisoners bound for the sulphur mines of
Krisuvik. The first of them was Jason, and he swung along with his
long stride and his shorn head thrown back and his pallid face held
up. The other two were old Thomsen and young Polvesen, the Danish
store-keepers.
It was more than Greeba could bear to look upon that sight, for it
brought back the memory of that other sight on that other morning,
when Jason came leaping down to her from the mountains, over gorse
and cushag and hedge and ditch. So she turned her head away and
covered her eyes with her hands. And then one--two--three--four--the
heavy footsteps went on over the snow.
The next thing she knew was that her English maid was in her bedroom,
saying, "Some strangers in the kitchen are asking for you. They are
Englishmen, and have just come ashore, and they call themselves your
brothers."