RANSOMS AND CAPTIVITIES.
One winter morning, not long after the Epiphany, when Damaris and Ethne
were sitting together quietly reading in a room opening on the long
pillared corridor, they were surprised by the angry barking of a dog,
followed by cries of pain from a human voice. In a moment Ethne was away.
“It is Bran!” she said; “he is killing something, or some one is killing
him; perhaps both.”
In a few minutes she returned, with the dog crouching penitently beside
her, with apologizing ears and tail, whilst behind her came Marius,
leading a roughly-clad stranger, who was slightly limping. It was Dewi,
the British sailor.
When the joyful greetings between Marius and his mother and sister were
over, they all re-entered the portico, and Dewi threw himself down at
Ethne’s feet and kissed the hem of her garment. In his arms he carried a
large package, which he laid at her feet with every possible expression
and gesture of homage.
“What is he saying?” Lucia asked.
“He is only giving me great titles in our own language,” said Ethne,
“princess, and lady, and I know not what else, and saying we have saved
his life now for the second time.”
Meantime Bran continued giving out low growls, evidently endeavouring
to awaken his friends to danger, with a desponding conviction that his
remonstrances were not likely to be attended to.
“What is the dog saying?” Lucia asked, “as you seem to know everybody’s
language.”
“He is reminding us, I suppose, how Dewi gave him a blow with a club when
the pirates took us captive.”
Then Marius intervened—
“Excuse me, lady!” he said to Ethne and his mother and sister. “The dog
hurried the introduction. But to you, mother, I see this lady needs no
introduction of mine.”
At that moment Fabricius appeared from another door with Baithene. Ethne
arose, and clasping her brother’s hands, said with quivering voice—
“_They live!_ they are well!” and again Dewi’s homage was repeated to
Baithene; and then he placed in his hands a large bag which he had kept
closely wrapped in his plaid.
“What does it all mean?” Fabricius asked, much perplexed by these sudden
appearances, and by the various languages, human and canine.
Gradually the explanation came. Marius had found the British sailor on
the quay at Marseilles (where he had been staying with his friend the
Presbyter Salvian). The poor Briton was vainly endeavouring to make
himself understood, and Marius took compassion on him; something in the
cadences of his voice made him think of Ethne and Baithene.
After a time an Armorican Breton was found to interpret, and between them
at last they came to understand that Dewi had just come from Ireland, and
was now on his way to Rome, and was trying to find some vessel to take
him to Ostia, the port of Rome. He had a message from an Irish prince
or chieftain to his son and daughter, who had been captured by British
pirates, and were supposed to have been taken in bondage to Rome.
“When I understood this,” said Marius, turning to Baithene and Ethne, “I
ventured to question him further, and soon I felt sure that his message
was for you, so I took ship with him, and have brought him hither.”
Damaris ordered refreshment to be brought, and left the stranger alone
with Ethne and Baithene.
When they were alone Dewi knelt again and kissed their hands, and could
scarcely be induced to say or do anything but gaze on them rapturously,
as on a priceless treasure unexpectedly recovered. But Ethne insisted
that the wound on his ankle should be looked to at once, for the blood
was flowing fast. Baithene unfastened his sandals. Fortunately the wound,
though serious, was not very deep.
“He remembered the place of his old bite,” said Dewi, with a grim smile,
“and he nearly did it this time.”
When the wound was washed and bandaged by Ethne’s gentle hands, Dewi was
persuaded to sit down and partake of the food provided for him. The
questions that could scarcely be asked at first in the tumult of fear and
joy and welcome, came out one by one, and brought out the tidings and
messages from home. The father and mother were well, Dewi said. But he
spoke of them as grey-haired and old, and Baithene and Ethne could only
think of them as in the prime and vigour of life. Could it be possible
that grief for the loss of their children had thus aged them?
“They welcomed me like a prince, like a brother,” Dewi said, “when I told
them I came from you—I, who deserved so ill of them! The dog’s welcome
was what I deserved!” he added in a choking voice.
“You risked your life to serve us and them,” said Ethne; “and what
welcome could be too warm and thankful for that?”
Dewi acknowledged that he had run many risks, and had many toilsome
journeys, but on these he would not dwell. He had seen Patrick also, the
great Bishop Patrick. He had received his pardon and his blessing, and
he had brought Patrick’s blessing for them, their father’s and mother’s
blessing, and Patrick’s.
“Did they say what they would have us do?” Baithene asked.
“They long above all to see your faces once more, but they know how
perilous the journey is, even if you could be free. And they entreated
you for _their_ sake, and your own, and your people’s, not to come unless
it is safe.”
“But we are not free!” said Baithene; “do they know that? Do they think
any toils or perils could ever have kept us from them if we were free to
go?”
Dewi’s eyes sparkled with a consciousness of having good tidings to
bring, a remedy, as he thought, for all their woes.
“When you open the packet and empty the bag,” said he, “you will see
that you have freedom in your own hands.” And he began to untwist the
ropes around the packet, while Baithene opened the bag. In the bag there
were coins, gold, silver, and copper; in the packet were costly silks,
and store of fine linen and woollen raiment. Finally Dewi drew from
another hiding-place a box, which he presented to Ethne; it contained her
mother’s jewels, carefully wrought gold and silver torques and bracelets
and armlets, with clasps of gems and precious stones.
When Ethne saw the precious things she had clasped around her mother’s
neck, and her mother around her own from childhood, she hid her face on
her brother’s shoulder and burst into a passion of weeping. When she
could speak she turned to Dewi, fearing to seem ungrateful to him.
“You have been all but starved many a time, I know,” she said, “whilst
you were keeping sacredly all these treasures to bring to us!”
Then one by one she recognized other humbler ornaments, priceless to her
heart from the very smallness of their value, coming as she knew they did
from the poverty of those who in giving them had given the best they had.
“This is old Brian’s,” they said, “who died by the pirate’s spear in
trying to save us; and this is his mother’s; and this is from our own
old nurse, the one precious heirloom of her house.”
“Yes,” replied Dewi; “everything precious your people possessed they
insisted on my bringing, till I could carry no more. What were gold and
silver to them, they said, when you, the jewels of the hearts of all,
were lost?”
A pang shot through Ethne’s heart that they could for a moment have
been interested in any one or anything else while these faithful hearts
were thus mourning and wearying for them. Something of this she said to
Baithene.
“Yet what could we have done?” she added; “how could we live anywhere for
anytime without loving?”
“Surely _you_ could not, darling,” he replied. “The Heavenly Father made
you that way.”
After a time Damaris returned with Fabricius.
“What are all these treasures?” Fabricius asked; and Dewi answered
through Baithene—
“These, my lord, are the ransoms sent by the Irish king and his people
to the prince and princess, their son and daughter, that they may be
restored to their home and their land.”
“I require no ransom,” Fabricius said. “I have always thought of these
noble captives as free-born, and high-born as myself;” and going to
a chest he drew out a parchment. “This is the deed of manumission,”
he said, “setting free according to our law those who have been taken
captive. It is merely a form. I only held it back until the moment seemed
to have come when it would be safe for them to return to their country.”
Ethne and Baithene were much moved at the generous intentions of the old
Roman; but yet Marius felt they were not satisfied, and could not be, to
receive their freedom as a gift from any one.
“Father,” he said, “and you our guests of patrician descent, though of
another race, pardon me if I misunderstand you and say what you do not
like. But it seems to me the ransom of the chieftain and his people
should be accepted. It must be sweeter and truer for our guests that they
should be delivered from unjust captivity by the willing sacrifices of
their own kindred, rather than by any gift from us. I suggest that the
ransom be accepted, and these victims of the misrule of the country we
Romans have abandoned, should be declared to be what they have always in
justice been—free by Divine and human right always and for ever.”
Ethne’s eyes were full of grateful tears as she raised them for a moment
and met his. Fabricius demurred a little.
“There must, I fear,” he said, “be a deed of manumission, or something to
that effect, to satisfy our law. And how is it possible for me to accept
a ransom for doing an act of justice and reparation to foreigners, for
wrongs committed by Roman law? to Christians, for wrongs inflicted by
apostate Christians?”
“It is best as Marius says,” interposed the soft voice of Damaris
decisively.
“Take money for restoring rights to these our friends and honoured
guests!” the old man exclaimed indignantly.
“Let it be a gift all round,” Damaris replied; “your gift to Eleazar for
them, the generous gift of their kindred for these children to thee and
me.”
But after a short consultation in low tones between the brother and
sister, Baithene interposed with an objection.
“Should not everything be true between us all, lady?” he said to Damaris.
“Let it be simply a debt repaid for the ransom so generously given. Let
the illustrious Fabricius graciously receive the sum he most graciously
gave for us to the Jew. Thus I think will our parents and our people be
content.”
And Ethne added—
“Our people would not take back what they have given. We must not rob
them of the joy of their sacrifices, for theirs are all offerings of
loyalty and love.”
“Then, that mercy and truth may meet together, fair maiden,” replied
Fabricius, “so be it; you shall have your way.”
Accordingly the bagful of Roman coin, received for Irish merchandise, was
poured out on the table, and every coin was carefully counted against the
ransom paid by Fabricius to Eleazar.
To the satisfaction of Fabricius, there was found to be a considerable
amount over. Baithene would have thrown it all in, but Fabricius replied,
laughing—
“Nay, my friend, we also can be wilful. Let truth have her rigid rights,
as you demand; and besides,” he added, “think of the misery of our friend
the Jew in having made such a bad bargain.”
At this Ethne’s colour rose, and with a tearful voice she said—
“Eleazar and Miriam could have made a far higher price to the officers of
the Imperial household, but they had pity on us. I shall tell them all at
once.”
“And we will give them the rest of the coins,” suggested Baithene.
“We will give them _nothing_,” replied Ethne, decisively. “They had pity
on us; and nothing shall rob them of the grace of their compassion, or us
of the right to be grateful.”
Thus the friendly contest ended, and the gathering dispersed—Damaris to
have the quiet interview she had been longing for with Marius; Fabricius
and Lucia to settle Dewi into comfortable quarters; Ethne and Baithene,
with the dog, to the house of Eleazar. There they found Miriam, and
claimed her sympathy in their good tidings.
“It is surely a good augury for thee,” Ethne said. “I have found my
mother! And thou shalt surely yet find thy daughter! The Good Shepherd
knows indeed where every one of His flock is; and therefore He will know
how to restore your lost lamb to you.” And as she left, she fastened
round Miriam’s wrist the most costly and beautiful of the gold bracelets.
“Give that to your daughter when you find her,” she said; “it is my
mother’s; let me give it from her to thy child.”
Eleazar came in as she spoke. Miriam was softly weeping, and the old man
was moved to the heart. As a son of Aaron, he laid his priestly hands in
benediction on the heads of the Irish captives.
“May the blessing of the God of our fathers rest on you, my son and
daughter,” he said; and then solemnly he pronounced the ancient priestly
benediction committed to the sons of Aaron: “The Lord bless thee and keep
thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto
thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.
And pray thou to our God for us,” he afterwards added sadly and humbly to
Ethne; “it seems that He hears _thee_.”
When Marius and Damaris were alone together, it was some time before they
said anything. They sat hand in hand on the couch, whilst Marius placed
his other hand before his eyes. At length she gently withdrew her hand
from his, and then withdrawing his from his forehead, took both his hands
with a gesture of tender, motherly command into her own, and looked into
his eyes.
“It is thou who hast made the real sacrifice to-day,” she said very
softly. “Thy lady and princess, being free, will go back as soon as
possible, thou well knowest, at any cost or peril, to her father and
mother, her country and her people.”
“Would not that be right for her?” he said. “If it is, she is sure to see
and do the thing that is right.”
“She _will_ think this right,” Damaris replied.
“And what ought _we_ to do?” he asked, in an anguish of suspense.
“Pray Leo’s prayer,” she replied, “all of us. Teach us to think and do
the things that are rightful.”
“It is an excellent prayer,” said Marius very respectfully, but not,
apparently, at all consoled, “and prayer always comforts thee.”
Then the mother threw her arms around her son, and a radiant smile
illumined her face as she looked up into his.
“Ethne’s heart will surely turn to thee, my son,” she said. “God has
chosen her out of all the world for thee, and led her to thee, as He led
Eve to Adam. Trust Him, and trust her.”
“Mother,” he said, “may I say anything to her?”
“You may say what you will,” she replied, “or what you can, whatever thy
heart feels free to say, and she is willing to hear. Thou art free, and
she is free. Let her choose what she will, and in her own time.”
“But my father?” he asked.
“Leave him to me,” smiled Damaris. “We have understood each other long
enough.”
Marius had not long to wait. Soon after, Lucia joined them, and they
waited in the porch for the return of Ethne and Baithene. It was evening
before they came back, with a happy repose in their look and manner. This
newly acknowledged freedom seemed to make little difference to Ethne; but
Baithene’s step was light with a new spring, and his whole being had a
new power, not so much as if he had been ransomed from bondage, but as if
he had sprung at a bound into full and princely manhood, prepared to take
his place in the world.
Fabricius drew near and greeted him with a smile.
“You have been to your friends the Israelites. Doubtless,” he added with
some malice to Ethne, “you, lady, have kept your rigid determination to
bestow nothing on them.”
“She has given Miriam the treasure she values most—an ancient heirloom of
our house,” replied Baithene.
Ethne could not defend herself; and Lucia kissed her hand, laughing, and
said—
“Of course; I knew—we all knew what thou wouldst do!”
Had Lucia spoken thus but yesterday, Baithene would have retorted with
a jest; but with the recognition of their freedom and true place in the
world, and all the happy possibilities the breaking down of any barrier
between them might involve, had come also an indefinable distance between
them, and he only said—
“I had thought that very jewel might be accepted by thy mother or by
thee, little as our poor barbarian treasures must seem to you.”
Damaris expressed a wish to see the Irish treasures again, and whilst the
others went into an inner chamber to look at them, Marius remained alone
with Ethne in the portico, the soft perfume of lilies and roses coming to
them from the gardens. Whilst he was hesitating what to say, she began—
“Tell me,” she said, “about Lupus, the good old Bishop of Troyes. Is he
back in his own city again?”
Marius hesitated a moment, and then he replied—
“Thy judgment of Attila was just: he did not fail. Bishop Lupus came back
unharmed. But his own people failed, incredible as it seems. His own
flock, the city he had saved at risk of his life, when he returned from
his perilous sojourn among the Huns, received him coldly, indeed would
scarcely receive him at all. Mean slanderers had been there poisoning
the minds of the citizens during his absence. They said he must have
treacherously flattered and fawned upon the barbarians, and be in league
with Attila; and they gave him but a cold welcome.”
“What did the Bishop do?” she asked indignantly.
“He quietly retired to a mountain not far off,” Marius replied, “and
there to this day he is living in exile, poor and solitary and neglected.”
“Yet surely praying and hoping still for his misguided flock!” Ethne
said; and with her victorious smile she added, “He is sure to win in the
end. But why, oh, why is it we, we Christ’s Christians, seem so often
most to fail Him and His?”
“_All_ do not fail,” he said, seeking to comfort her. “My friend Sidonius
Apollinaris writes to Bishop Lupus as ‘father of fathers, as old
well-nigh as Moses, but also as great.’”
“But ah,” she said mournfully, “what a world this might be if only all
the Church were _one_, and true!”
“You are weary,” he said sadly, “of this decrepit, decaying old world of
ours. You are longing to go home to your own young world of hope—to your
Patrick, and your own people, who understand and honour their saint so
well!”
“When we may,” she said. “I am the only daughter of my house, and my
father and mother are aged.”
“I know well what that means,” he replied. “We also are only children of
our house. Dost thou not know, lady, that always, with all my power, at
any cost to myself, I would fain help thee to what thou deemest best?”
“You have always helped us,” she said, “always understood—at Orleans, at
Troyes—always.”
“If you decide on leaving Rome,” he said, after a pause, in a low, deep
voice, “I would try and help you at any cost.”
Did she understand, he wondered, at what a cost it might be to himself?
Did either of them understand what a pang of conflict it might cost to
her? Her eyelids fell before his passionate gaze, the dark lashes shaded
her cheek. But at that moment he felt he would not, need not question her
further. A trembling hope came into his heart that he had won his answer;
and with the hope came the response to his mother’s words about Leo’s
prayer, and he said softly—
“Help us to think and to do the things that are rightful.”
Then the frank, grey eyes were raised once more to his with an expression
of rejoicing and entire trust.
“What is _rightful_?” she said. “That must always mean what He Who loves
us best sees is best for us, must it not?”
And for the first time he seemed to see into the clear depths of her
soul, and to be sure that she was no longer apart from him to be
questioned, but close beside him, sharing his very soul, and questioning
herself. He felt as if the pleading for him with her was in higher hands,
and quite safe there. And suddenly he felt constrained to open the depths
of his own heart and mind to her.
“Leo and his prayers are so much to my mother and to you,” he said. “Can
you bear all these debates and controversies about the deepest things of
all? They seem to me like troops of Huns wheeling around within the very
Holy of Holies. They make everything like a mere word-battle and empty
show to me. Or they _did_ make it so till lately,” he added, glancing at
her with a new light in his eyes.
“I don’t know all the mistaken things other people have been thinking,”
she answered quietly, “but to me Bishop Leo always seems simply unfolding
into full, beautiful blossom the faith Patrick taught us in the Creed and
the Hymn. He always seems building a fortress and stronghold for us all.
But the fortress is for us also a home; for we are children, _inside_.
He makes me think often of the words they chant in church: ‘The Lord is
my Rock and my Fortress,’ the sweet voices say; and the others answer,
‘He shall defend thee under His wings, and thou shalt be safe under
His feathers.’ Stone buttresses of a fortress to the enemy outside; to
those within, a warm nest with the soft feathers and downy breast of a
mother-bird brooding over us. For the stronghold is not anything Bishop
Leo builds, but God Himself, to Whom he leads us, and God is love.”
“And you yourself have led me within, and we are together.”
“We _are_ together,” said Ethne.
And that evening they said no more.
* * * * *
The days sped quickly away in the palace on the Aventine. Dewi’s wound
was rather slow in healing; and until their faithful messenger could
return, there was a suspense as to the possibility of decisions for the
future.
Day by day as it passed drew the little company closer to each other.
In those days it was an unquestioned right and duty of parents to dispose
of their sons and daughters in marriage. It was a responsibility and a
power not to be set aside.
“There must be two marriages,” Fabricius said decisively to Damaris.
“These four are clearly made for each other.”
“Dost thou see what that would mean for us?” she replied.
“Thou wouldst gain a daughter-in-law after thine heart,” he said.
“But our own Lucia!” she sighed.
“Lucia,” he answered, “would win a husband worthy of her. Where in this
corrupt city could we find a son-in-law so good and true, such a man,
such a Roman, as Baithene? A new life and order come into the farm, the
forest, the household, wherever he is.”
“But Baithene will not be for _our_ household,” she said, with some
hesitation, fearing he had not counted the cost.
“I know that too well,” he said. “Our Luciola will be for his home, his
kingdom, his people. But is that a new lot for our race? Is it not our
ancient destiny and calling to send forth men and women trained to bring
light and order everywhere throughout the world? I am old, beloved, and
cannot long be here to care for her or thee in these evil times. Thou art
younger, at least always young to me. Canst _thou_ be content to give the
child to Baithene?”
“We are Christians, my beloved!” she replied, “and, in the old
time-honoured words, ‘to us all countries are a fatherland.’ We have
given the children to the Lord Christ from the first; and if He calls
them to the ends of the earth they must go. All lands are His; this land
of theirs seems even now to be beginning to listen to His call, and to
need them more than any.”
Thus in simple patriarchal or Roman fashion it happened, that by the
paternal power the union already in the hearts of their children was
sanctioned and brought into the region of acknowledged fact. Fabricius
decreed that there should be two betrothals. Baithene had no question
that his father and mother would welcome as a priceless treasure such a
bride. But Ethne stipulated that before a marriage could be, they must
receive the consent and benediction of their own father and mother. To
procure this was no easy matter, with the broken communication brought
about by the decay of the Empire, the breaking up of the grand old system
of Roman roads, and the interposing of nations of unsettled invaders
throughout Gaul and Britain.
But before their plans could be matured a new peril burst in on the
harmony of the peaceful home on the Aventine from the chaotic world
outside. It was reported that Attila was once more on the march to ravage
Italy and capture Rome.
[Illustration]