ORLEANS—HER SAINT AND HER SIEGE.
The day after the interview of Baithene and Ethne with the monk, they
left Tours, and rowed up the river in a small boat to Orleans. It was
fresh life to Baithene to take his place at an oar, to feel delivered
from the passive condition of following Eleazar about, interpreting
bargains he detested, and picking up fragments of the talk around him in
the streets. As he pulled up against the stream, straining every muscle
in the contest with wind and water, he felt a man again, and something of
a king.
The little boat made good way under his vigorous strokes. But at one
point they ran some risk of being seized to act as a ferry-boat for a
troop of fugitives, women and children, who were crowded together on the
bank on the north side of the river.
“Have mercy on us, have mercy,” they cried, “and carry us across.”
Baithene laid up his oars for a moment and paused. Eleazar with violent
gestures urged him forward, but having the power for the moment in his
own hands, Baithene gave no heed, but still waited to listen.
They soon gathered that these were fugitives from the Huns, who were
rapidly sweeping down on Aquitaine from the north. Their village had
been burnt; they had friends in Aquitaine, and were seeking safety by
putting the Loire between them and the foe. Miriam’s heart softened at
once. Baithene thought the women and children might be ferried over in
three or four crossings, while the few men among them must swim. This was
accomplished, and the little rescued company, kneeling on the southern
bank, showered benedictions on them as they again pulled up the river.
They had to halt twice for the night, and they took care to make their
halting-places on the southern shore. On the third evening they reached
Orleans.
The voyage had been a great rest and happiness to Ethne. The beauty of
the wooded hills clothed with trees, many of them new to her—chestnuts,
maples, and poplars; the vineyards with their promise of grapes, and the
cultivated fields, delighted her. Here and there also in the cliffs under
which they passed were arched doors of caves, which she imagined might be
cells of holy hermits or monks like Martin.
When they came to Orleans they found the city in a tumult of
apprehension. The walls were carefully guarded, and also the approaches
by the river. Soldiers in Roman armour stopped them at the landing-place
and forbade them to disembark.
“We do not want any more helpless people to guard or any more hungry
mouths to feed,” they said.
It was an anxious moment; if they were turned back there was no other
place of refuge. But suddenly Ethne remembered the letter the monk of
Tours had given them for Anianus the Bishop. She reminded Baithene, and
they told Miriam and Eleazar, who had heard the name of Anianus, and
eagerly caught at this means of escape. They handed the tablet to the
officer of the guard, and after a little further parley he agreed to let
them land, and to have them conducted to the Bishop. Eleazar remained
on the quay in charge of his precious merchandise. It was a reversal of
relations for Ethne and Baithene to become the patrons and protectors of
Eleazar and Miriam.
The Bishop was, as was so often the case in those tumultuous times, also
the secular ruler (at all events in the moment of danger), and in a sense
the military commander, as well as the spiritual head of the city; the
representative of the only organization out of the ancient Roman world of
law and order which remained substantially standing.
The name of Anianus was their passport everywhere. When after some
delay they were admitted to his presence, it was a matter of no small
difficulty, in many ways, to explain their complicated relation to each
other and to the world in general. Captive princes or nobles of any kind
from Ireland had something of a mythical sound, as if they had dropped
out of fairyland, or some old legend, or some far-off fabled Atlantis.
That these high-born captives should be also Christians was still more
perplexing, the fact of Patrick’s mission having scarcely yet penetrated
to Orleans. To expect Ethne or Baithene to define what kind of Christians
they were was quite hopeless, they being in blissful ignorance of all
heresies and schisms, Eastern or Western, Pelagian, Arian, Nestorian,
Eutychian, or Manichean. Then came the other side of the perplexity,
their being purchased by a Jew. An Edict of Theodosius had indeed many
years before recognized an essential distinction between Jews and Pagans,
and had decreed that the Jewish worship was to be respected, and that the
Jewish synagogues were not to be destroyed. But that a Jew should own a
Catholic Christian as a slave was a questionable thing. Slavery indeed,
altogether, was to the Christian Church a questionable right, indeed
essentially an unquestionable wrong. But according to Roman law, as an
actual fact, it had to be admitted. Not long before, in Gaul, a free
woman taken captive and made a slave, though the injustice was admitted,
had to be left in bondage. Manumission had always been frequent among
the Romans; the redemption of slaves and captives was a constant form of
charitable work in the Church; but in the present distress there were no
funds at hand for ransom, and, moreover, it must have seemed doubtful
whether it would be any gain to these young friendless foreigners,
especially to the fair young Irish maiden, to turn them adrift free and
unprotected into the world of bloodshed and disorder, of violence and
wickedness of every kind around them.
After much kindly consideration, it was decided that quarters should be
assigned to the four, and that the question of freedom or slavery should
be left in abeyance. But to Baithene’s great joy the condition was added,
that no idle hands could be tolerated in the city, threatened as it was
with siege and assault from the fierce hordes of Attila, who were fast
advancing to cross the Loire, and make a raid on the kingdom of the
Visigoths in Aquitaine.
That evening, therefore, the four were established in rooms near the
walls of the city, with a sense of freedom for Ethne and Baithene greater
than they had felt since they had been swept away from their home. The
reversal of relations between the captives and their purchaser, though at
first exceedingly displeasing to Eleazar, proved, thanks to the tender
pity of Miriam, and the sweet serviceableness of Ethne, a bond of union;
Baithene also being naturally ready to render in a princely way twice
as much service as he would have done by constraint. Eleazar himself,
moreover, was much softened when he saw that their honour was more to be
trusted than the security of bonds.
The stipulation imposed on Baithene was no child’s play. Very soon the
flames of burning villages were to be seen from the walls; then came
troops of fugitives flying to take refuge in the country beyond the
river, the citizens not daring to extend their hospitality to helpless,
hungry strangers, who might not only find the walls of Orleans no shelter
for themselves, but make the defence hopeless for all.
Night and day the walls had to be manned and guarded, and the
fortifications strengthened as far as possible. Excursions had to be
made into the neighbouring country to gather in fruits and corn and
cattle while yet there was time to save anything from the plundering of
the savage hosts. Thus between carrying stones for building, convoying
expeditions for foraging, and guarding the walls, Baithene had little
time at home, and was well content with such morsels of food or moments
of broken sleep as could be snatched at intervals during his labours. The
habits of command and direction, the training of hand and eye in chase,
or foray, or skirmish among the clans at home, had given him faculties
for military service which were soon recognized. He had a quickness in
seeing and seizing opportunities, and a dash of daring courage which
delighted the Roman officers, whilst to him the training in the Roman
discipline was of the highest price.
Nearer and nearer drew the fierce nation of warriors and plunderers,
numbered by hundreds of thousands. By their mere presence they would have
eaten up the land like a cloud of locusts; and they came not as mere
locusts devouring in order to live, but as a predatory army fearfully
organized to destroy; bent on carrying away all the plunder they could,
and also on leaving behind all the devastation they could; ravaging not
merely to impoverish Gaul, but through impoverishing Gaul to ruin Rome.
Soon the fires of the burnt villages and towns smouldered and died out;
and instead came the outposts of the terrible horde itself. Troops of
Tartar horsemen dashed up to the walls of the city; little beardless
brown men with long black hair, man and horse apparently grown into
one, the riders waving their spears as they stood on the backs of their
horses, or stooping underneath to pick up some dropped weapon; the man
apparently an integral development of the horse, the horse not so much
ridden as inspired and possessed by the man. Baithene, gazing at them
for the first time from the walls, in the dusk of the evening, could not
wonder at the rumours that they were not human at all, but the offspring
of witches and demons. From time to time through the darkness came an
unearthly combined yell, like the howl of a wild beast or malignant
demon; and he crossed himself, thought of the exorcism in the baptismal
service, and repeated his renunciation of the devil from the bottom of
his heart. He had to watch through that night, and early in the first
flush of the morning he saw that the horizon was dim with a great cloud
of dust, whilst in the distance, through the silence of the dawn, was
heard the grinding of huge wagon-wheels, with all the tumult of the
movement of a vast multitude.
Slowly the huge host gathered in from all sides, until the confused
hum and murmur began to define itself into various sounds—the creaking
of wheels, the cracking of whips, the lowing of oxen, the neighing of
horses, the harsh voices of men, the shrill voices of women, even the
wailing of babes; and through all the deep under-hum of an enormous mass
of human beings in motion. The hearts of the men on the walls quailed
with a weird terror; for through all came the unfamiliar cadences of wild
foreign speech, with a sense that this living mass which was closing in
around them with deadly purpose, to plunder and kill, to burn and to
destroy, was pouring forth from the unknown boundless spaces of savage
wildernesses, an interminable tide of destruction swelling up as from
some unfathomable abyss of hell.
A preternatural terror hung over these hordes, but more especially
around Attila himself, the Scourge of God, the ally of demons, who was
known now to be in their midst, directing the devastations with the
deadliest skill of destruction, practised in ravaging the fairest lands
into deserts, and in razing the stateliest cities into ruin so utter as
never to be repaired. With a frightful faculty of appropriating from the
civilization he sought to destroy just the very elements which enabled
him to destroy it, from the courts of Ravenna and Constantinople he had
learnt the art of conquering by dividing. And at this moment the chief
anxiety in Orleans was the doubt whether he might not have succeeded
by his cunning in breaking the alliance between Theodoric, King of the
Visigoths, and the great General Aetius, who had promised Bishop Anianus
some weeks before in his palace at Arles to relieve the city with the
combined forces of Goth and Roman, at the latest, by the fourteenth of
June. Attila was too shrewd to attempt to substitute Roman discipline and
methods of warfare for the dash and fury of the charges and wheelings of
his wild horsemen. But he had learnt something of the art of besieging
from his foes, from the captives of the cities he had ruined; and in the
dusk of the morning they saw the huge battering-rams being drawn up to
the walls.
It was the combination of the mechanical weight of a vast multitude, a
host not of men but of nations, of the wild swiftness and unexpectedness
of their assaults, reckless of peril as a troop of wild beasts, with the
preternatural terror of the unknown spaces from which they issued, and
the unknown powers of darkness from which they were said to have sprung,
that made the approach of these Huns so paralyzing. And in Attila himself
the terror was concentrated. The terror of his name and the weight of
his rule, if that could be called rule which was a disorganization of
all existing order, were known from the borders of China and the great
Tartar desert through Hungary to Constantinople, and to the coasts of
northernmost Scandinavia. Thus these demon armies had for the moment a
Satanic Majesty, a Prince of the power of the air, before whose crafts
and assaults the feeble diplomacy of Constantinople and Ravenna was as
the innocent cunning of a child.
As the end of Baithene’s watch was drawing near he heard a yell from the
advancing host, which seemed a cry of welcome and triumph; and, straining
his eyes, he caught sight of a multitude of horsemen whirling round a
central point like a whirlpool. There were frantic cries from many of
these Tartar horsemen; there was a wheeling and rushing to and fro of the
nimble little horses, a waving of spears, a flaunting of rude banners, a
metallic clashing of cymbals and shields. And through the still morning
air the sound of one terrible name was borne to the besieged in countless
shrill tones of exultation—“Attila! Attila!” The besieged repeated it to
each other in hoarse murmurs and whispers, as those who think they see
some gruesome preternatural phantoms in the dark. “Attila! Attila! the
darling of the devil, the Scourge of God.”
The hour for relieving guard had arrived; silently the wearied men left
the walls.
Baithene was angry with himself for the presentiments of evil which
seemed to reduce him to the resignation of dull despair. But as they
came near the cathedral, the little band of soldiers met a procession of
white-robed priests, heading a multitude eagerly thronging to the church.
He entered with them, and knelt in the stillness amidst the throng of
silent worshippers.
Then came the solemnity of the daily Eucharist. Not lamentations and
litanies, but hymns of joy and thanksgiving, in the sonorous Latin which
was the common tongue, in some measure understood by all. _Gloria in
excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis._ “We praise
Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy
great glory, O God, Heavenly King, God the Father Almighty.
“O Lord, the only-begotten Son, Jesu Christ, Lord God, Lamb of God, Son
of the Father, Who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Thou Who takest away the sins of the world, receive our prayer; Thou Who
sittest at the right hand of the Father, have mercy upon us; for Thou
only art holy, Thou only art the Lord, Thou only art most high, O Jesu
Christ, with the glory of God the Father.”
And afterwards the great hymn of perpetual festival. “It is very meet,
right, and our bounden duty that we should at all times and in all places
give thanks unto Thee, O Lord, Holy Father, Almighty, Everlasting God,
through Christ our Lord, through Whom the Angels praise Thy Majesty, Whom
the Dominations adore, before Whom the Powers tremble, the Heavens and
all the Powers therein, Whom the Blessed Seraphim with mutual exultation
celebrate; with Whom we also would pray that Thou shouldst command our
voices to take part, with humble confession, saying, Holy, Holy, Holy,
Lord God of Sabaoth, Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory; Hosanna in
the highest; Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord.”
And as he listened, the mighty host of the barbarians, and the little
company of the besieged, seemed to dwindle into a mere ship’s company
on a stormy sea, whilst all around him were the open heavens with their
victorious multitudes before the Throne. Whatever the result of this
present conflict might be, the victory along the whole line was sure, the
victory of good, of God, of the Lamb that was slain, of the Redeeming
Lord conquering and to conquer. With a heart full of peace and courage
he knelt at the close of the service, when the aged, white-haired Bishop,
shepherd and father of the people, came forward and raised his hand
in benediction. He lingered some time in the silence after the voices
ceased, when a gentle hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up he
saw the radiant face of his sister, and the soft grey eyes, luminous with
the joy and trust within. Then together they left the church and returned
to Eleazar’s rooms.
“The church is never shut day nor night,” she said; “every hour without
ceasing prayers go up to God to relieve the city.”
“The succour ought to be here soon indeed,” said Baithene, “if the city
is to be saved.”
After that the brother and sister had little opportunity of speaking to
each other for many weeks. Baithene was on the ramparts; whilst Ethne
was with another army of succour organized by the Bishop within the
city—a band of devoted women who took the wounded into places of shelter,
dressed their wounds, and did all they could to relieve the starvation
and misery all around.
All these weeks the terrible struggle went on, by assault, blockade,
starvation. The battering-rams were drawn up to the walls; but these in
the untrained hands of the Huns were more than matched by the catapults
and fiery missiles thrown by the trained soldiers of the Roman garrison.
It was the arrows of the Huns, shot with unerring aim from their huge
bows, which did the deadliest damage, clearing the walls of the
defenders, as they fell one by one smitten to death. It was at the risk
of life that the Bishop and his clergy came up on the ramparts, with
chant of litanies, and bearing sacred relics, to reanimate the garrison.
More than five weeks had passed since Bishop Anianus had seen the General
Aetius in the palace at Arles, and obtained a promise of speedy succour.
The fourteenth of June, the day he promised at the latest to bring the
relieving forces, was fast approaching, and the courage and hope of the
besieged were failing. Not a few began to murmur against the Bishop, and
to hint that he had deceived them with promises of imaginary succour.
About the tenth or eleventh of June the bright sunshine was clouded over
by a fearful storm. For three days the thunder rolled, the lightning
flashed, heavy clouds darkened all the land, a tempest of rain and hail
poured down, the battle of the elements giving a respite for the time to
the battle with the barbarian host.
At last the sun broke forth again, only proving a signal for the renewal
of the deadly strife. Once more Bishop Anianus sent forth a messenger to
the Roman general, with the appeal, “If ye come not to-day it will be too
late.”
The soldier never reappeared. Then it was rumoured that the Bishop
himself had gone forth to negotiate with Attila, and had returned with
the message that Attila would accept nothing but absolute surrender. Then
came a tumult of despair, a crashing of walls, a dashing open of gates.
There were countless contradictory rumours as to how it all happened;
but one thing was certain, the gates were open, and the city was laid
bare to her foes. The Huns were pouring in on that day, which was to
have been the day of deliverance, in overwhelming numbers, with the fury
of a savage host little accustomed to delay, and destitute of mercy;
massacring unresisting women and children, sparing none and nothing
except for the purposes of pillage or slavery.
Yet still the Bishop and the clergy, with many of the people, filled the
cathedral, and poured forth prayers in their anguish to God, the aged
Bishop prostrate before the altar, and bathing the steps with his tears.
It was said that at that last hour the aged Bishop sent forth a messenger
from the cathedral to the walls, saying, “Look forth from the ramparts
and see if God’s mercy will yet succour us.” The messenger came back and
said he beheld no man. But still the Bishop commanded the people, “Pray
in faith; the Lord will deliver you to-day.”
They went on praying. Again the aged voice they had trusted so long rose
and bade one of them mount the walls and look out again. No help was seen
approaching.
For the third time the Bishop said, “If ye pray in faith the Lord will
yet be at hand to help you speedily!”
Then with weeping and loud lamentations they implored the mercy of the
Lord. And when that prayer of agony had arisen, once more, for the third
time, the old man bade them go to the wall and look. And back to that
weeping multitude, waiting in breathless silence, came at last the glad
tidings, “We saw from afar as it were a cloud rising out of the ground.”
And the Bishop said, “_It is the help of God_.”
Then through the city, from the top of the tower, resounded the cry,
“_The Romans! the Romans!_” Aetius and King Theodoric with their troops
dashed up to the gates; there was an encounter outside the walls; the
Huns were defeated; the Roman and Gothic army poured into the city, and
there were deadly encounters in every street.
Victory remained with the relieving force. Gradually the fierce brown men
from the East were driven out of the gates; the whole army of Attila was
thrown into disorder, and made a hasty retreat through the land they had
ravaged into a wilderness, knowing well the deadly vengeance that awaited
them from every fragment of the towns and villages they had ruined and
despoiled.
Bishop Anianus did not forget mercy even in this moment of rescue and
triumph. Many a fallen foe among the Huns was saved by his intercession,
even in the city they had so nearly brought to destruction.
Baithene came eagerly into the Jew’s lodging to share the joy of
deliverance with Ethne; but to his dismay she was not there. It was some
little time before he found her in one of the streets, kneeling beside
a dying boy left behind by the Huns, leaning the poor ugly brown head
on her knee, moistening the parched lips with water, chafing the cold,
quivering hands. “Brother,” she said softly, “it might have been thee!”
The death-pallor was on the lips, and soon the quivering limbs lay rigid
on the ground beside them.
Then, looking up, the two saw a young Roman on horseback, with his eyes
fixed on them. He had been watching Ethne for some minutes in silence.
Ethne, raising her eyes to his, said, “Bishop Anianus told us to do what
we could even for a wounded enemy.”
There was a glow of sympathy in his face as he replied—
“Pardon me, lady! I was thinking it was just what my own mother and
sister in Rome would have done.” And with a gesture of reverence he rode
on.
But that night in his dreams there came to Marius a vision of the fair
kind face of the maiden with the soft dark-grey eyes, and the poor brown
head of the dying Hun on her knee.
Could it have been a dim, prophetic vision of another siege of Orleans,
and another Maid of Orleans, seeing a wounded Englishman dying by the
roadside, alighting from her horse, and, like a tender sister, holding
his head on her knee to the last? Or was it only the remembrance stamped
into his heart of the young Irish maiden?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]