"Raymond, I am glad of this chance to speak alone together, for since
thou hast turned into a man of books and letters I have scarce seen
thee. I am glad of this errand into these dark woods. It seems like
times of old come back again -- and yet not that either. I would not
return to those days of slothful idleness, not for all the gold of the
King's treasury. But I have wanted words with thee alone, Brother.
Knowest thou that we are scarce ten miles (as they measure distance here
in England) from Basildene?"
Raymond turned an eager face upon his brother.
"Hast seen it, Gaston?"
"Nay. It has not been my hap to go that way; but I have heard enough and
to spare about it. I fear me that our inheritance is but a sorry one,
Raymond, and that it will be scarce worth the coil that would be set
afoot were we to try to make good our claim."
"Tell me, what hast thou heard?" asked Raymond eagerly.
"Why, that it is but an ancient Manor, of no great value or extent, and
that the old man who dwells there with his son is little different from
a sorcerer, whom it is not safe to approach -- at least not with intent
to meddle. Men say that he is in league with the devil, and that he has
sold his soul for the philosopher's stone, that changes all it touches
to gold. They say, too, that those who offend him speedily sicken of
some fell disease that no medicine can cure. Though he must have
wondrous wealth, he has let his house fall into gloomy decay. No man
approaches it to visit him, and he goes nowhither himself. His son,
Peter, who seems as little beloved as his father, goes hither and
thither as he will. But it is whispered that he shares in his father's
dealings with the Evil One, and that he will reap the benefit of the
golden treasure which has been secured to them. However that may be, all
men agree that the Sanghursts of Basildene are not to be meddled with
with impunity."
Raymond's face was very thoughtful. Such a warning as this, lightly as
it would be regarded in the present century, meant something serious
then; and Raymond instinctively crossed himself as he heard Gaston's
words. But after a moment's pause of thoughtful silence he said gravely:
"Yet perhaps on this very account ought we the rather to strive to win
our inheritance out of such polluted hands. Have we not others to think
of in this thing? Are there not those living beneath the shelter of
Basildene who must be suffering under the curse that wicked man is like
to bring upon it? For their sakes, Gaston, ought we not to do all in our
power to make good our rights? Are they to be left to the mercy of one
whose soul is sold to Satan?"
Gaston looked quickly into his brother's flushed face, and wondered at
the sudden enthusiasm beaming out of his eyes. But he had already
recognized that a change was passing over Raymond, even as a change of a
different kind was coming upon himself. He did not entirely understand
it, neither did he resent it; and now he threw his arm across his
brother's shoulder in the old caressing fashion of their boyhood.
"Nay, I know not how that may be. There may be found those who dare to
war against the powers of darkness, and with the help of the holy and
blessed saints they may prevail. But that is not the strife after which
my heart longs. Raymond, I fear me I love not Basildene, I love not the
thought of making it our own. It is for the glory of the battlefield and
the pomp and strife of true warfare that I long. There are fairer lands
to be won by force of arms than ever Basildene will prove, if all men
speak sooth. Who and what are we, to try our fortunes and tempt
destruction by drawing upon ourselves the hatred of this wicked old man,
who may do us to death in some fearful fashion, when else we might be
winning fame and glory upon the plains of France? Let us leave Basildene
alone, Brother; let us follow the fortunes of the great King, and trust
to his noble generosity for the reward of valour."
Raymond made no immediate reply, though he pressed his brother's hand
and looked lovingly into his face. Truth to tell, his affections were
winding themselves round his mother's country and inheritance, just as
Gaston's were turning rather to his father's land, and the thought of
the rewards to be won there. Then, within Raymond's heart were growing
up those new thoughts and aspirations engendered by long talks with
John; and it seemed to him that possibly the very quest of which he was
in search might be found in freeing Basildene of a heavy curse. Ardent,
sensitive, full of vivid imagination -- as the sons of the forest mostly
are -- Raymond felt that there was more in the truest and deepest
chivalry than the mere feats of arms and acts of dauntless daring that
so often went by that name. Hazy and indistinct as his ideas were,
tinged with much of the mysticism, much of the superstition of the age,
they were beginning to assume definite proportions, and to threaten to
colour the whole future course of his life; and beneath all the dimness
and confusion one settled, leading idea was slowly unfolding itself, and
forming a foundation for the superstructure that was to follow -- the
idea that in self-denial, self-sacrifice, the subservience of selfish
ambition to the service of the oppressed and needy, chivalry in its
highest form was to be found.
But in his brother's silence Gaston thought he read disappointment, and
with another affectionate gesture he hastened to add:
"But if thy heart goes out to our mother's home, we will yet win it
back, when time has changed us from striplings to tried warriors. See,
Brother, I will tell thee what we will do. Men say that it can scarce be
a year from now ere the war breaks out anew betwixt France and England,
and then will come our opportunity. We will follow the fortunes of the
King. We will win our spurs fighting at the side of the Prince. We will
do as our kindred have done before us, and make ourselves honoured and
respected of all men. It may be that we shall then be lords of Saut once
more. But be that as it may, we shall be strong, rich, powerful -- as
our uncles are now. Then, if thou wilt so have it, we will think again
of Basildene; and if we win it back, it shall be thine, and thine alone.
Fight thou by my side whilst we are yet too young to bring to good any
private matter of our own. Then will I, together with thee, think again
of our boyhood's dream; and it may be that we shall yet live to be
called the Twin Brothers of Basildene!"
Raymond smiled at the sound of that name, as he had smiled at Gaston's
eager words before. Full of ardent longings and unbounded enthusiasm, as
were most well-born youths in those adventurous days, he was just a
little less confident than Gaston of the brilliant success that was to
attend upon their feats of arms. Still there was much of the fighting
instinct in the boy, and there was certainly no hope of regaining
Basildene in the present. So that he agreed willingly to his brother's
proposition, although he resolved before he left these parts to look
once with his own eyes upon the home that had sheltered his mother's
childhood and youth.
And then they plunged into the thickest of the forest, and could talk no
more till they had reached the little clearing that lay around the
woodman's hut. The old man was not far away, as they heard by the sound
of a falling axe a little to the right of them. Following this sound,
they quickly came upon the object of their search -- the grizzled old
man, with the same look of unutterable woe stamped upon his face.
Gaston, who knew only one-half of the errand upon which they had come,
produced the pieces of silver that the Rector and John had sent, with a
message of thanks to the old woodman for his help in directing the
Prince and his company to the robbers' cave at such a favourable moment.
The old man appeared bewildered at first by the sight of the money and
the words of thanks; but recollection came back by degrees, though he
seemed as one who in constant brooding upon a single theme has come to
lose all sense of other things, and scarce to observe the flight of
time, or to know one day from another.
This strange, wild melancholy, which had struck John at once, now
aroused in Raymond a sense of sympathetic interest. He had come to try
to seek the cause of the old man's sorrow, and he did not mean to leave
with his task unfulfilled.
Perhaps John could have found no fitter emissary than this Gascon lad,
with his simple forest training, his quick sympathy and keen
intelligence, and his thorough knowledge of the details of peasant life,
which in all countries possess many features in common.
It was hard at first to get the old man to care to understand what was
said, or to take the trouble to reply. The habit of silence is one of
the most difficult to break; but patience and perseverance generally win
the day: and when it dawned upon this strange old man that it was of
himself and his own loss and grief that these youths had come to speak,
a new look crossed his weatherbeaten face, and a strange gleam of
mingled fury and despair shone in the depths of his hollow eyes.
"My sorrow!" he exclaimed, in a voice from which the dreary cadence had
now given place to a clearer, firmer ring: "is it of that you ask, young
sirs? Has it been told to you the cruel wrong that I have suffered?"
Then suddenly clinching his right hand and shaking it wildly above his
head, he broke into vehement and almost unintelligible invective,
railing with frenzied bitterness against some foe, speaking so rapidly,
and with such strange inflections of voice, that it was but a few words
that the brothers could distinguish out of the whole of the impassioned
speech. One of those words was "my son -- my boy," followed by the names
of Sanghurst and Basildene.
It was these names that arrested the attention of the brothers, causing
them to start and exchange quick glances. Raymond waited till the old
man had finished his railing, and then he asked gently:
"Had you then a son? Where is he now?"
"A son! ay, that had I -- the light and brightness of my life!" cried
the old man, with a sudden burst of rude eloquence that showed him to
have been at some former time something better than his present
circumstances seemed to indicate. "Young sirs, I know not who you are; I
know not why you ask me of my boy. But your faces are kind, and
perchance there may be help in the world, though I have found it not. I
know not how time has fled since that terrible sorrow fell upon me.
Perchance not many years by the calendar, but in misery and suffering a
lifetime. Listen, and I will tell you all. I was not ever as you see me
now. I was no lonely woodman buried in the heart of the forest. I was
second huntsman to Sir Hugh Vavasour of Woodcrych, in favour with my
master and well contented with my lot. I had a wife whom I loved, and
she had born me a lovely boy, who was the very light of my eyes and the
joy of my heart. I should weary you did I tell you of all his bold
pranks and merry ways. He was, I verily believe, the loveliest child
that God's sun has ever looked down upon. When it pleased Him to take my
wife away from me after seven happy years, I strove not to murmur; for I
had still the child, and every day that passed made him more winsome,
more loving, more mettlesome and bold. Even the master would draw rein
as he passed my door to have a word with the boy; and little Mistress
Joan gave me many a silver groat to buy him a fairing with, and keep him
always dressed in the smartest little suit of forester's green. The
priest noticed him too, and would have him to his house to teach him
many things, and told me he would live to carve out a fortune for
himself. I thought naught too good for him. I would have wondered little
if even the King had sent for him to make of him a companion for his son.
"Perchance I was foolish in the boastings I made. But the beauty and the
wisdom of the boy struck all alike -- and thence came his destruction."
"His destruction?" echoed both brothers in a breath. "What! is he then
dead?"
"He is worse than dead," answered the father, in a hollow, despairing
voice; "he has been bewitched -- undone by foul sorcery, bound over hand
and foot, and given to the keeping of Satan. Even the priest can do
nothing for us. He is lost, body and soul, for ever."
The brothers exchanged wondering glances as they made the sign of the
cross, the old man watching the gesture with a bitter smile in his eye.
Then Raymond spoke again:
"But what was it that happened? we do not yet understand."
"I will tell you all. If you know this part of the world, young sirs,
you have doubtless heard of the old Manor of Basildene, where dwells
one, Peter Sanghurst by name, who is nothing more nor less than a
wizard, who should be hunted to death without pity. Men have told me (I
know not with what truth) that these wizards, who give themselves over
to the devil, are required by their master from time to time to furnish
him with new victims, and these victims are generally children -- fair
and promising children, who can first be trained in the black arts of
their earthly master, and are then handed over, body and soul, to the
devil, to be his slaves and his victims for ever."
The old man was speaking slowly now, with a steady yet despairing
ferocity that was terrible to hear. His sunken eyes gleamed in their
sockets, and his hands, that were tightly clinched over the handle of
his axe, trembled with the emotion that had him in its clutches.
"I was sent upon a mission by my master. I was absent from my home some
seven days. When I came back my boy was gone. I had left him in the care
of the keeper of the hounds. He was an honest man, and told me all the
tale. Perchance you know that Sir Hugh Vavasour is what men call a
spendthrift. His estates will not supply him with the money he needs. He
is always in debt, he is always in difficulties. From that it comes that
he cares little what manner of men are his comrades or friends, provided
only that they can supply his needs when his own means fail. This is
why, when all men else hate and loathe the very name of Sanghurst, he
calls himself their friend. He knows that the old man has the secret by
which all things may be turned into gold, and therefore he welcomes his
son to Woodcrych. And men say that Mistress Joan is to be given in
marriage to his son one day, because he will take her without dowry; for
she is the fairest creature in the world, and he has vowed that she
shall wed him and none else."
The brothers were intensely interested by this tale, but were growing a
little confused by all the names introduced, and they wanted the story
of the woodman's son complete.
"Then was it the old man who took your boy, or was it his son? Are they
not both called Peter?"
"Ay, they have both the same name -- the same name and the same nature:
evil, cruel, remorseless. I know not how nor where the old man first set
eyes upon my boy; but he must have seen him, and have coveted possession
of him for his devilish practices; for upon the week that I was absent
from home, he left the solitude of his house, and came with the master
himself to the house where the boy was. And then Sir Hugh explained to
honest Stephen, who had charge of him, that Master Peter Sanghurst had
offered the lad a place in his service, where he would learn many things
that would stand him in good stead all the days of his life. It sounded
fair in all faith. But Stephen stoutly refused to let the boy go till I
returned; whereupon Sir Hugh struck him a blow across the face with his
heavy whip, and young Peter Sanghurst, leaping to the ground, seized the
child and placed him in front of him upon the horse, and the three
galloped off laughing aloud, whilst the boy in vain implored to be set
down to run home. When I came back he had gone, and all men said that
the old man had thus stolen him to satisfy the greed for souls of his
master the devil."
"And hast thou not seen him since?" asked the boys breathlessly. "What
didst thou do when thou camest back?"
For a moment it seemed as though the old man would break out again into
those wild imprecations of frenzied anger which the brothers had heard
him utter before; but by a violent effort he checked the vehement flow
of words that rose to his lips, and replied with a calmness far more
really impressive:
"I did all that a poor helpless man might do when his feudal lord was on
the side of the enemy, and met every prayer and supplication either with
mockery or blows. I soon saw it all too well. Sir Hugh was under the
spell of the wicked old man. What was my boy's soul to him? what my
agony? Nothing -- nothing. The wizard had coveted the beautiful boy. He
had doubtless made it worth my master's while to sell him to him; and
what could I do? I tried everything I knew; but who would listen to me?
Master Bernard de Brocas of Guildford, whom I met upon the road and
begged to listen to my tale, promised he would see if something might
not be done. I waited and waited in anguish, and hope, and despair, and
there came a day when his palfrey stopped at my door, and he came
forward himself to speak with me. He told me he had spoken to the Master
of Basildene, and that he had promised to restore me my son if I was
resolved to have him back; but he had told the good priest that he knew
the boy would never be content to stay in a woodland cottage with an
unlettered father, when he had learned what life elsewhere was like. But
I laughed this warning to scorn, and demanded my boy back."
"And did he come?"
A strange look swept over the old man's face. His hands were tightly
clinched. His voice was very low, and full of suppressed awe and fury.
"Ay, he came back -- he came back that same night -- but so changed in
those few months that I scarce knew him. And ah, how he clung to me when
he was set down at my door! How he sobbed on my breast, entreating me to
hold him fast -- to save him -- to protect him! What fearful tales of
unhallowed sights and sounds did his white lips pour into my ears! How
my own blood curdled at the tale, and how I vowed that never, never,
never would I let him go from out my arms again! I held him fast. I took
him within doors. I fastened the door safely. I fed him, comforted him,
and laid him in mine own bed, lying wakeful beside him for fear even
then that he should be taken from me; and thus the hours sped by. But
the rest -- ah, how can I tell it? It wrings my very heart. O my child,
my son -- my own heart's joy!"
The old man threw up his arms with a wild gesture of despair, and there
was something in his face so terrible that the twins dared ask him no
question; but after that one cry and gesture, the stony look returned
upon his face, and he went on of his own accord.
"Midnight had come. I knew it by the position of the moon in the
heavens. My boy had been sleeping like one dead beside me, never moving
or stirring, scarce breathing; and I had at last grown soothed and
drowsy likewise. I had just fallen into a light sleep, when I was
aroused by feeling Roger stir beside me, and hastily sit up in the bed.
His eyes were wide open, and in the moonlight they seemed to shine with
unnatural brilliance. It was as if he were listening -- listening with
every fibre of his being, listening to a voice which he could hear and I
could not; for he made quick answers. 'I hear, Sire,' he said, in a
strange, muffled voice. And he rose suddenly to his feet and cried, 'I
come, Master, I come.' Then a great rage and fear possessed me, for I
knew that my boy was being called by some foul spirit, and that he was
bewitched. I sprang up and seized him in my arms. 'Thou shalt not go!' I
cried aloud. 'He has given thee back to me. I am thy father. Thy place
is here. I will not let thee go!' But I might have been speaking to a
dead corpse for all the understanding I received. My boy's eyes were
opened, but he saw me not. His ears, that heard other voices, were deaf
to mine. He struggled fiercely against my fatherly embrace; and when I
felt the strength that had come into that frame, so worn and feeble but
a few short hours ago, then I knew that it was the devil himself who had
entered into my child, and that it was his voice that was luring him
back to his destruction. O my God! May I never have to live again
through the agony of that hour in which I fought with the devil for my
child, and fought in vain. Like one possessed (as indeed he was) did he
wrestle with me, crying out wildly all the while that he was coming --
that he would quickly come; hearing nothing that I could hear, seeing
nothing that I could see, and all the time struggling with me with a
strength that I knew must at last prevail, albeit he was but a tender
child and I a man in the prime of manhood's strength. But the devil was
in him that night. It was not my boy's own hand that struck the blow
which forced me to leave my hold, and sent me staggering back against
the wall. No, it was but the evil spirit within him; and even as I
released him from my embrace, he glided to the door, undid the
fastenings, and still calling out that he was coming, that he would be
there anon, he slipped out into the still forest, and vanished amongst
the trees."
"Did he return to Basildene?"
"Ay, like a bird to its nest, a dog to its master's home. Spent and
breathless, despairing as I was, I yet gathered my strength and followed
my boy -- weeping and calling upon his name, though I knew he heard me
not. Scarce could I keep the gliding figure in sight; yet I could not
choose but follow, lest some mischance should befall the child by the
way. But he moved onwards as if he trod on air, neither stumbling nor
falling, nor turning to the right hand or to the left. I watched him to
the end of the avenue of trees that leads to Basildene. As he reached it
a dark figure stepped forth, and the child sank to the ground as if
exhausted. There was the sound of laughter -- fiends' laughter, if ever
devils do laugh. It chilled the very blood in my veins, and I stood
rooted to the spot, whilst the hair of my head stood erect. The dark
form bent over the boy and seemed to raise it.
"'You shall suffer for this,' I heard a cruel voice say in a hissing
whisper; 'you will not ask to leave again!' and at those evil words a
cry of anguish -- a human cry -- broke from my boy's lips, and with a
yell of fury I sprang forward to save him or to die with him. But what
happened then I know not. Whether a human hand or a fiend's struck me
down I shall never now know. I remember a blow -- the sense that hell's
mouth was opening to receive me; that the mocking laughter of devils was
in my ears. Then I knew no more till (they tell me it was many weeks
later) I awoke from a long strange sleep in yon cabin where I live. An
old woodman had found me, and had carried me there. Sir Hugh had given
him a few silver pieces to take care of me. He had filled my place, and
my old home was occupied by another; but had it not been so, no power on
earth would have taken me back there. I had grown old in one night. I
had lost my strength, my cunning, my heart. I stayed on with the old man
awhile, and as he fell sick and died when the next snow fell upon the
ground, Master Bernard de Brocas appointed me as woodman in his stead,
and here I have remained ever since. I know not how the time has sped. I
have no heart or hope in life. My child is gone -- possessed by fiends
who have him in their clutches, so that I may never win him back to me.
I hate my life, yet fear to die; for then I might see him the sport of
devils, and be, as before, powerless to succour him. I have long ceased
to be shriven for my sins. What good to me is forgiveness, if my child
will be doomed to hellfire for evermore? No hope in this world, no hope
after death. Woe is me that ever I was born! Woe is me! woe is me!"
The energy which had supported the old man as he told his tale now
appeared suddenly to desert him. With a low moan he sank upon the ground
and buried his face in his hands, whilst the boys stood and gazed at
him, and then at one another, their faces full of interest and sympathy,
their hearts burning with indignation against the wicked foe of their
own race, who seemed to bring misery and wrong wherever he moved.
"And thou hast never seen thy son again?" asked Raymond softly. "Is he
yet alive, knowest thou?"
"I have never seen him again: they say that he still lives. But what is
life to one who is sold and bound over, body and soul, to the powers of
darkness?"
Then the old man buried his face once more in his hands, and seemed to
forget even the presence of the boys; and Gaston and Raymond stole
silently away, with many backward glances at the bowed and stricken
figure, unable to find any words either to help or comfort him.