"In exchange, this fine Saracen quarry awaited us this morning at the

gates of Marhala. Our work done, we shall take a dip in the fountain

sheltered by yonder cluster of date trees. Thanks to the bath, we, who

are now red as skinned eels, shall become again white as little doves,

after which, having but to take the pick of these Saracen wardrobes, and

our pouches well filled, we shall make our royal entry in the best

tavern of Marhala."

"Where, mayhap, you will find again your queen, tapping for the

customers and sleeping with them."

"May heaven hear you, seneschal, and may the devil grant me my prayers!

Now, quick to work. The sun is rising. We are naked and run the risk of

being roasted by the sun before we are through. The bath first, the

feast afterwards."

"That word 'roasting' reminds me that this young Saracen is plump and of

good muscle. In due time, what a fine mess would not a fillet of his

large loins and round calves make, seasoned with some aromatic herbs and

a pinch of saffron! Do you remember, among other ragouts, the head of

that old sahib of the mountain, boiled with a certain peppery sauce?"

"Seneschal, my friend, you are altogether too talkative. Instead of

incessantly opening your mouth, whence flow only vain words, open that

of this Saracen, and perhaps beautiful besans of gold or diamond of

Bossorah may roll out."

It was a shocking spectacle, like the violation of a sepulchre. The King

of the Vagabonds took the head of the corpse between his knees, while

the Bacon-cutter tried to force open the rigid jaws of the dead body.

Unable to do so he said to Corentin: "That dog of an infidel must have

been in a rage at the moment of expiring. His teeth are clenched like a

vice."

"And that embarasses you, you gosling? Insert the blade of your knife

between his teeth, flat, then turn it round. That will separate the jaws

sufficiently to be able to insert your fingers." And while the

Bacon-cutter was conducting his abominable researches obedient to the

directions of Corentin, the latter remarked with a ferocious sneer: "Oh,

ye miscreant Saracens, you have the malignity of hiding in the hollow of

your cheeks gold pieces and precious stones, and even of swallowing

them, to the end of depriving the soldiers of Christ of those riches!"

"Nothing!" exclaimed the seneschal with disappointment and interrupting

the king, "nothing in the cheeks and nothing under the tongue."

"Have you felt carefully?"

"I have felt and felt over again, everywhere. Perhaps during this

night's battle, some foxy Crusader, like a man of experience, have

seized the throat of this Saracen at the moment when he expired and may

thus have caused him to spit out the gold he was hiding in his mouth.

Provided that dog did not swallow it all down."

"The scamp was capable of doing that. Feel about in his throat. After

that we shall sound the chest and bowels." So said, so done. The two

monsters put the corpse through a shocking butchery. Finally their

ferocious cupidity was satisfied. After a series of revolting

profanations, they withdrew from the bleeding intestines of the corpse

three diamonds, a ruby and five besans of gold, small thick pieces but

barely the size of a denier. While the two vagabonds were finishing

their ghoulish work, black clouds of thick and nauseous smoke rose from

a pyre, started close by, by the other vagabonds, with green branches of

turpentine tree. These fellows, instead of disemboweling the corpses,

burned them, in order to look among the ashes for the gold and precious

stones which the Saracens might have swallowed. These monstrosities

having been gone through, the vagabonds proceeded to the neighboring

spring where they washed their bloody bodies, and donned their clothes

again, or decked themselves with the spoils of the Saracens. The booty

was then divided--clothes, arms, turbans, shoes--and they wended their

steps towards the gate of Agra. At the moment of entering the city, the

King of the Vagabonds, mounting a heap of ruins, said to his men, who

gathered around him: "Vagabonds, my sons and beloved subjects! We are

about to enter Marhala, with booty on back and bysantins in pocket. I

expect, I will it, I order it, in the name of wine, dice and wenches,

that, before leaving Marhala, we shall have become again as beggarly as

the vagabonds that we are! Never forget our rule: 'A true vagabond,

twenty-four hours after a pillage, must have nothing left but his skin

and his knife.' He who keeps a denier becomes cold to the quarry. He is

expelled from my kingdom!"

"Yes, yes! Long live our King! Three cheers for wine, dice and wenches!"

responded the bandits. "The devil take the vagabond, who, rich to-day,

keeps for the morrow aught but his skin and his knife! Long live our

great King, Corentin the Gibbet-cheater!"

And the savage troop marched towards the gate of Agra and entered the

city of Marhala shouting and singing: "Glory to the brave Crusaders!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE MARKET-PLACE OF MARHALA.

Luckily disentangled from the fury of the guests of the Duke of

Aquitaine by the nocturnal attack of the Saracens, Fergan the Quarryman

had profited by the confusion to escape from the Emir's palace with Joan

and Colombaik. While the Crusaders were hurrying to the ramparts of the

gate of Agra, the serf turned his steps with wife and child, far away

from the spot of the battle. Before sunrise, quiet reigned again in

Marhala. Descrying one of those numerous taverns, that generally sprang

up after the capture of a city, and were set up in some Saracen house by

the camp-followers of the army, Fergan stepped in. To the great

astonishment of Joan, he pulled out of his belt a gold piece, which he

exchanged with the tavern-keeper for silver coin, to pay for his

lodging. Once more alone with his family, the quarryman could give a

loose to his tender feelings and relate to them how, after being

separated from them by the sand-spout, he found himself half buried

under the sand, and losing consciousness. In the darkness of the night

he was shaken out of his lethargy by a sharp scratch on his shoulder. It

was a hyena, that, pawing up the sand under which he lay, prepared to

devour him, taking him for dead, but instantly fled seeing him sit up.

Thus, delivered from a double danger, the serf had wandered about during

dark, amidst the mournful yelpings of the wild beasts at their quarry

over the corpses that they dug up. At dawn he saw, already half

devoured, the remains of Neroweg VI.

After vainly searching for Joan and his child, Fergan considered them

lost forever, and followed the route marked out by the human bones. At

the end of several hours' marching, he came across the corpse of some

seigneur, to judge by the richness of his clothes, torn to shreds by the

beasts of prey. Among the tatters was an embroidered purse full of gold.

He appropriated it without scruple, and was soon joined by a troop of

travelers bound for Marhala. He journeyed in their company. Upon his

arrival in the city, and learning that several other travelers who

escaped the disaster of the sand-spout had come in ahead of him, he

inquired after a deformed woman with a child. A beggar, who had

accidentally seen Joan and her son enter the palace of the Emir, gave

him the information, and he was enabled to arrive in time to wrest them

from the danger they were just threatened with.

After a recital of his adventures, and leaving his wife and Colombaik in

the tavern, Fergan went out at sunrise to purchase some clothing at the

market-place, where booty was constantly sold at auction. Fearing to be

met by some of the guests of the Duke of Aquitaine, the serf had smeared

soot mixed with grease over his face. Rendered thus unrecognizable, he

entered the market-place. Instead, however, of finding the place

occupied by traffickers in booty, he saw a large gang of men hastily

engaged in the construction of a pyre under the overseership of several

prelates. A cordon of soldiers, placed at a distance from the pyre, kept

the inquisitive from drawing too near. Fergan had just elbowed himself

to the front of the mob, when a deacon, clad in black, said aloud: "Are

there among you any strong men who wish to earn two deniers, and help

finish the pyre quickly? They shall be paid the moment the work is

done."

"I shall help, if wanted," answered Fergan. Two deniers were worth

earning. They would eke out his treasury.

"Come," said the priest, "you seem to be a lusty fellow. The faggots

will weigh like straws on your broad shoulders." Five or six other

wretches, having volunteered to join Fergan, the deacon took them to the

center of the place, where, resting upon a large bundle of trunks of

olive trees, palmettos and dried brushes, the pyre was being erected for

the accomplishment of the miracle announced by Peter Barthelmy, the

Marseilles priest and possessor of the Holy Lance. This Barthelmy

derived a large revenue from his relic by exhibiting it for money to the

veneration of the Crusaders. Other priests, jealous of the receipts

pocketed by the Marseillan, had assiduously backbitten his lance.

Fearing a decline of earnings, and wishing to furnish a proof of the

virtue of his lance, and at the same time confound his detractors, he

had promised a miracle. Fergan set to work with ardor to earn his two

deniers. He soon perceived that a narrow path crossed the heap of

kindling-wood, which, about thirty feet long and raised four or five

feet on either side, sloped down towards the path that cut it in two.

Thus, towards the middle and for a space about two yards wide, the pyre

offered hardly any food to the fire. After a half hour's work, Fergan

said to the deacon: "We shall make the heap even, and fill up the gap

that crosses it, so that the pyre may burn everywhere."

"Not at all!" the deacon hastened to say. "Your work is done on this

side. We must now set up the stake and adjust the spit."

Fergan, as well as his companions, curious to know the purpose of the

stake and spit, followed the priest. A wagon hitched to mules, had just

dumped several beams upon the place. One of these, about fifteen feet

high, and furnished in some places with iron rings and chains, had at

about its center a sort of support for the feet. Fergan's helpers

followed the instructions of the deacon, and set up the stake at one of

the corners of the pyre where the kindling wood was well heaped. Other

workingmen placed not far away two iron X's, intended to support an iron

bar about eight feet long and tapering into sharp points.

"Oh! oh! What a terrible looking spit!" said Fergan to the priest,

placing the iron bar on the two X's with no little labor. "Are they

going to roast an ox?" Instead of answering the serf, the deacon

listened in the direction of one of the streets that ran into the place,

and, hastily fumbling in his pockets, said to Fergan and the other men,

while handing to each the promised wages: "Your work is done. You may

now go. The procession is approaching."

Fergan and his assistants withdrew to the mob which the file of soldiers

was holding back from the pyre. Church songs were heard, at first from a

distance, but drawing ever nearer, and soon the religious procession

issued into the market-place. Monks marched at the head, after them

clergymen carrying crosses and banners, and then, in the midst of a

group of high dignitaries of the Church, whose mitres and gold

embroidered copes sparkled in the sun of the Orient, came the Marseilles

priest, Peter Barthelmy, bare-footed and robed in a white shirt. He held

up triumphantly in his hands the holy and miraculous lance. This

contriver of miracles, of a countenance at once sanctimonious, artful

and sly, preceded other prelates carrying banners. Azenor the Pale came

next, clad in a long black robe, her hands bound behind and supported by

two monks. She had been convicted of the abominable crime of being a

Jewess. She was convicted of this enormity, not alone by the revelation

that, in a paroxysm of jealousy, she had made to William IX., but also

by the testimony of the parchment that she had handed to him in order to

dispel his doubts. In that parchment, written in the Hebrew language and

dating several years back, the father of Azenor urged his daughter to

die faithful to the law of Israel. A few steps behind the victim,

William IX., the Duke of Aquitaine, his hair in disorder and covered

with ashes, dragged himself on his naked knees in abject penitence. Clad

in a rough sack, his feet bare and dusty like his knees, and holding a

crucifix in his two hands, the penitent cried out ever and anon in a

lamenting voice, while smiting his chest with his fist: "_Mea culpa, mea

culpa!_ Lord God, have mercy upon my soul! I have committed the sin of

the flesh with an unclean Jewess, I am damned without your grace! Oh,

Lord, _mea culpa! mea culpa!_" On foot and in splendid raiment, the

legate of the Pope and the archbishop of Tyre, marched on either side of

the Duke of Aquitaine, repeating from time to time in a voice loud

enough to be heard by the penitent:

"My child in Christ, trust in the mercy of the Lord! Render yourself

worthy of His clemency by your repentance!"

"Remain faithful to your vow of chastity, you who were given to

debauchery!"

"Remain faithful to your vow of poverty, you who were given to

prodigality and magnificence!"

"Remain faithful to your vow of humility, you who were proud and

arrogant!"

"But that will not suffice! You must surrender to the Church your

earthly riches--lands, domains, castles, slaves--to the end that the

priests may implore the Eternal for the remission of your transgressions

and your numerous sins!"

Behind these followed a few Saracens who had been captured at the late

night surprise of Marhala. They were led, pinioned, by soldiers. The

King of the Vagabonds, his seneschal the Bacon-cutter and several of the

men of their band had been joined to this escort by order of Bohemond,

Prince of Taranto, and chief of the army, who himself closed the

procession, accompanied by a large number of crusading seigneurs, casque

on head and lance in hand.

This funeral train marched around the market-place, surrounded by an

ever-swelling crowd, and ranked itself before the pyre, where the stake

and the spit were in readiness.

"The miracle of the lance!" cried the crowd, impatient to see Barthelmy

cross a flaming pyre in his shirt and without burning--"the miracle of

the lance!"

"Woe is me!" muttered William IX., redoubling the blows with which he

was lacerating his breast. "Woe is me! I am so great a sinner that

perhaps the Eternal will not deign to manifest His omnipotence by a

prodigy before me!"

"Be comforted, my son!" answered the papal legate. "The Eternal will

manifest Himself in order to confirm your faith, seeing that you have

been touched by grace, and humble yourself before His Church."

"Yesterday, father, I was an unclean criminal, an infamous evildoer, a

miserable blind man. To-day my eyes are open to the truth. I see the

everlasting flames that await me. Have pity upon me!"

"Give up all your goods to the Church, remain poor as Job, the Church

will then intercede for your salvation," replied the legate, issuing his

orders to his deacon to set fire to the pyre.

Immediately, walking almost without danger over the length of the path

that crossed the paling, hidden by the height of the flames kindled at

the four sides of the pyre, Peter Barthelmy seemed in the eyes of the

credulous multitude actually to traverse the lake of fire. The serf saw,

across a thick cloud of smoke that helped to increase the illusion,

Peter Barthelmy, looking as if he was wading through flames up to the

hip, run rapidly across the full length of the pyre, from which he

emerged again brandishing his lance. The crowd, blind and fanatic,

clapped their hands and shouted: "A miracle! A miracle!" Shocked at the

impudence of the friar, who so shamelessly imposed upon the credulity of

those poor people, Fergan decided to administer to him a stinging

lesson. Affecting to yield to religious enthusiasm, he cried out: "Peter

Barthelmy is a saint, a great saint! Whoever can secure the smallest bit

of his clothing, or of his blessed body, even if but one hair, will be

delivered of all ills!" The mob received Fergan's suggestion with

fanatic approval. The file of soldiers, that held the multitude far

enough back from the pyre, was broken through, and the most maniacal of

these fanatics rushed upon Peter Barthelmy at the moment when, leaving

the pyre a few steps behind him, he was brandishing his lance. An

incredible scene ensued thereupon, related by Baudry, archbishop of

Dole, an eye-witness of the occurrence, as follows in his "History of

the Capture of Jerusalem:"

"When Peter Barthelmy emerged from the pyre with his holy lance, the

crowd rushed upon him and trampled him under foot, each wishing to

touch him and carry off a piece of his shirt. He received several wounds

in the legs. Bits of flesh were cut from his body. His ribs were knocked

in. His spine was fractured. He would, in our opinion, have died on the

spot, had not Raymond, seigneur of Pelet, an illustrious cavalier,

quickly gathered a platoon of soldiers, thrown himself with them into

the midst of the mob, and, at the risk of his own life, saved poor Peter

Barthelmy."

After this rude lesson given the cheat, Fergan approached the group of

soldiers that were transporting the contriver of miracles in a dying

state to a neighboring house. "The accursed brutes! The savages!"

murmured the Marseilles priest, gasping for breath: "Have you ever seen

such bedeviled rascals! The idea of wishing to turn me into relics!"

"It is but a condign punishment for the besotted state of mind that,

with infamous calculation, you plunge these wretched people in," said

Fergan leaning over Barthelmy. The Marseillan turned around with a

sudden start, but the serf had disappeared in the crowd, and passed to

the other side of the pyre, now fully ablaze. At one of its corners was

Azenor, chained to the stake. Her feet rested on the tablet which the

flames began to lick. A few steps from the victim, on his knees among

the priests and joining them in their mortuary songs, crouched the Duke

of Aquitaine, from time to time crying amid sobs: "Lord! Cleanse me of

my sins! May my repentance and the just punishment of this unclean

Jewess earn grace for me!"

"Ah, William!" cried out the condemned woman with a voice still strong

and penetrating, "I feel the heat of the flames. They are about to

reduce my body to ashes. These flames are less consuming than those of

jealousy. Yesterday, driven to extremity, I made certain of my

vengeance. A few instants of suffering will rid me of life, and your

credulous stupidity avenges me. Look at yourself now, brilliant Duke of

Aquitaine, the sport of priests, your implacable enemies, and the dupe

of those who laugh at your imbecile fears! If there is a hell we shall

meet there."

"Silence, you infamous and unclean beast!" cried out the legate of the

Pope, "the flames that envelop you are as nothing to the everlasting

fires where you are to burn through all eternity. A curse upon your

execrable race, that crucified the Saviour of the world!"

"A curse upon the Jews! Death to the Jews! Glory to God in heaven and to

his priests on earth!" shouted the spectators.

Suddenly, heart-rending screams rose above the din. Azenor the Pale,

writhed with pain under her iron fetters as the flames, reaching her

limbs, set her robe and long hair on fire. Presently the stake at which

she was chained caught fire under her feet, swayed in the air for an

instant, tumbled over into the furnace, and disappeared there with the

victim in the midst of a wild flare of flames. The Duke of Aquitaine

then embraced the knees of the papal legate and appealed to him

imploringly: "Oh, my father in Christ, I vow to relinquish all my goods

to our holy Roman Catholic Apostolic Church! I vow to follow the Crusade

barefooted in a sack! I vow to bury myself in the depths of a cloister

upon my return to Gaul! I vow to die in the austerities of penance, to

the end that I may obtain from God the remission of my sins and evil

ways!"

"In the name of the All-Powerful, I take cognizance of your vows,

William IX., Duke of Aquitaine!" responded the legate in a ringing and

solemn voice. "Only the observance of these vows can render you worthy

of a day of celestial mercy, thanks to the intercession of the Church!"

And the Duke of Aquitaine, bent low at the feet of the legate, his

forehead in the dust, repeated his protestations and lamentations, while

the King of the Vagabonds, stepping out of the file of soldiers that

surrounded the Saracen prisoners, and accompanied by his seneschal the

Bacon-cutter, approached the legate, saying:

"Holy father in God, I have come with my seneschal and a few of my

subjects for the purpose of spitting one of those Saracen miscreants

over the fire. You have but to deliver the victim to me."

"That belongs to Bohemond, Prince of Taranto," the legate answered the

King of the Vagabonds, pointing with his finger to a group of crusading

seigneurs who had just witnessed the miracle of Peter Barthelmy and the

death of Azenor the Pale. The Prince of Taranto approached Corentin and

speaking in a low voice led him to the side where the iron spit lay

placed on the iron X's. Then, drawing near the escort that surrounded

the prisoners, the prince made a sign. The soldiers parted ranks, and

five bound Saracens faced Bohemond and the other Crusaders. Two of these

prisoners, a father and son, were particularly remarkable, one by his

noble and calm face, framed in a long white beard, the other by the bold

and juvenile beauty of his lineaments. The old man, wounded in the head

and arm at the night attack, had torn a few pieces of his long mantle of

white wool to bandage his and his son's wounds. Their superb scarfs of

Tyrian wool, their silk caftans, embroidered with gold, although soiled

with blood and dust, announced the rank of the chiefs. Thanks to an

Armenian priest, who served as interpreter, they held the following

discourse with the Prince of Taranto, who, addressing himself to the old

man, said:

"Were you the chief of those infidel dogs who attempted to surprise the

city of Marhala by night?"

"Yes, Nazarean; you and yours have carried war into our country. We

defend ourselves against the invaders."

"By the cross on my sword! vile miscreant, dare you question the right

of the soldiers of Christ to this land?"

"The same as I inherited my father's horse and black tent, Syria belongs

to us, the children of those who conquered it from the Greeks. Our

conquest was not pitiless like yours. When Abubeker Alwakel, the

successor of the Prophet, sent Yzed-Ben-Sophian to conquer Syria, he

said to him: 'You and your warriors shall behave like valiant men in

battle, but kill neither old men, women nor children. Destroy neither

fruit trees nor harvests. They are presents of Allah to man. If you meet

with Christian hermits in the solitudes, serving God and laboring with

their hands, do them no harm. As to the Greek priests, who, without

setting nation against nation, sincerely honor God in the faith of

Jesus, the son of Mary, we used be to them a protecting shield, because,

without regarding Jesus as a God, we venerate him as a great, wise man,

the founder of the Christian religion. But we abhor the doctrine that

certain priests have drawn from the otherwise so pure doctrine of the

son of Mary.'"

These words of the old emir, absolutely in keeping with the truth, and

that contrasted so nobly with the cruelty of the soldiers of the cross,

exasperated Bohemond. "I swear by Christ, the dead and resurrected God,"

he cried out, "you shall pay dearly for these sacrilegious words!"

"_Be faithful to your faith, even unto the peril of your life_, said the

Prophet," the Saracen replied. "I am in your power, Nazarean. Your

threats will not keep me from telling the truth. God is God!"

"The truth," added emir's son, "is that you Franks have invaded our

country, ravaging our fields, massacring our wives and children,

profanating the corpses!"

"Silence, my son!" resumed the emir in a grave voice. "Mahomet said it:

_The strength of the just man is in the calmness of his reasoning and in

the justice of his cause._" The young man held his peace, and his father

proceeded, addressing the Prince of Taranto: "I told you the truth; I

feel sorry for you if you are ignorant of, or deny it. Our people,

separated from yours by the immensity of the seas and vast territories,

could not harm your nation. We have respected the hermits and the

Christian priests. Their monasteries rise in the midst of the fertile

plains of Syria, their basilicas glisten in our cities beside our

mosques. In the name of Abraham, the father of us all--Musselmen, Jews

and Christians--we have welcomed like brothers your pilgrims, who came

to Jerusalem to worship the sepulchre of Jesus, and his wise men. The

Christians exercised their religion in peace, for Allah, the God of the

Prophet, said through the mouth of Mahomet, the Prophet of God: _Injure

no one on account of his religion_. But our mildness has emboldened your

priests. They have incited the Christians against us; they have outraged

our creed, pretending theirs alone is true and that Satan inspired our

prayers. We long remained patient. A thousand times the stronger in

numbers, we could have exterminated the Christians. We limited ourselves

to imprisoning them. Those of your priests who outraged us and sowed

discord in our country, were punished according to our laws. You then

came by the thousands from beyond the seas, you invaded our country, and

you have let loose upon us the most atrocious ills. Our priests then

preached a holy war; we have defended ourselves, and we shall continue

to do so. God protects the faithful!"

The calmness of the old emir exasperated the Crusaders. He would have

been torn to pieces, together with his son and companions, but for the

intervention of Bohemond, who with gesture and voice reined in the

seigneurs. Addressing himself thereupon to the Saracen by means of the

interpreter, he said: "You deserve death a hundred times, but I forgive

you!"

"I shall report your generosity to my people."

"Be it so! But you shall also say to them: 'The Prince governor of the

city and the seigneurs have to-day decided in council that all Saracens,

henceforth captured, shall be killed and roasted, to serve as meat with

their bodies to the seigneurs as well as to the army.'"[C]

The Prince of Taranto, while speaking and acting like a cannibal, was

following the inspiration of an atrocious policy. He knew that the

eating of human flesh inspired the Mahometans with extreme horror,

seeing they professed for their dead a religious veneration.

Accordingly, Bohemond expected to conjure up such fear among the

Saracens that it would paralyze their resistance, and they would no

longer fight, fearing to fall dead or alive in the hands of the

soldiers of Christ, and be devoured by them.[D]

At the order of the Prince of Taranto, the King of the Vagabonds seized

the emir's son, and, while the soldiers held the other prisoners back to

compel them to witness the revolting spectacle, the young Saracen was

slaughtered, disembowelled, spitted and broiled over the burning embers

of the pyre that had just been the theatre of the miracle of Peter

Barthelmy and of the death of Azenor the Jewess; and in the presence of

the crusading seigneurs, of the legate of the Pope and of the clergy,

the Saracen youth was devoured by the band of Corentin the

Gibbet-cheater, assisted by the other wretches, whom a fury of fanatical

self-glorification drove to join the anthropophagous feast. This done,

the father of the victim and his companions were freed from their bonds

and set at liberty, a liberty, however, that the old man did not profit

from. He dropped dead on the spot with grief and horror. Another Saracen

went crazy with horror; the other two fled distracted from the fated

city.

The frightful scene was hardly over, when messengers from Godfrey of

Boullion arrived, notifying Bohemond to depart with his troops without

delay, and join under the walls of Jerusalem the main army of Godfrey,

who had just begun the siege of the Holy City.

Immediately the trumphets were sounded in Marhala; the cohorts formed

themselves; and the army of the Prince of Taranto leaving a garrison

behind in the Saracen city, set out on the march for Jerusalem, singing

that now well-known refrain of the Crusaders, which was re-echoed in

chorus by the mob that followed in the wake of the army:

"Jerusalem! Jerusalem! City of marvels! Happiest among all cities! You

are the object of the vows of the angels! You constitute their

happiness! The wood of the cross is our standard. Let's follow that

banner, that marches on before, guided by the Holy Ghost! God wills it!

God wills it! God wills it!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM.

Fergan left the city with wife and child clad in new raiment, thanks to

the purse he had found in the desert. An ass carried their provisions--a

large pouch of water and a bag of dates. He also took precautions of

arming himself for defence against marauders. To drop out of the stream

of the Crusaders would at that season have been insanity. After the

capture of Jerusalem, large numbers of Crusaders were expected to return

to Europe, taking ship at Tripoli on Genoese or Venetian vessels.

Fergan's little treasure would enable him to pay for the passage of

himself and family to either of those cities, whence he planned to cross

Italy, return to Gaul and settle down at Laon in Picardy, where he

confidently expected to find Gildas, the elder brother of Bezenecq the

Rich and joint descendant with the quarryman of Joel, the ancient Gallic

Chief. Fergan felt a lively desire to see Jerusalem, the city where,

over a thousand years before, his ancestress Genevieve had witnessed the

agony of the carpenter of Nazareth, that humble artisan, that great and

kindly sage, the friend of the slaves, of the poor and of the afflicted,

the enemy of hypocrite priests, of the rich and of the powerful of his

days. Joan and Colombaik alternately rode the ass when they were tired.

The serf experienced a rare pleasure at seeing for the first time his

wife and child properly clad, and steadily regaining the strength they

had lost by their recent fatigues and privations.

They followed the wake of the army. At its head marched a band of

cavaliers carrying the banner of St. Peter, the disciple of Jesus.

Behind Peter's banner came the train-bands under the command of their

respective seigneurs, carrying the banner of each seigniory embroidered

with coat-of-arms, or war cries, such as: "To Christ, the Victorious!"

"To the Reign of Jesus!" The latter motto appeared on the standard of

the Prince of Taranto. The legate of the Pope followed next, accompanied

by the clergy; then the troops of soldiers, on foot and on horseback;

and finally the multitude of ragged men, women and children who trailed

after the army. Fergan journeyed with these. To the end of husbanding

their little purse, he employed himself taking charge of the mules or

guiding the wagons, for which he received a few deniers and his food.

The journey from Marhala to Jerusalem was trying in the extreme. A large

number of helpless people dropped out on the route and died of thirst,

hunger and fatigue, and became the pray of hyenas and vultures. Thus

their bleaching bones, together with those of so many other victims,

traced also the route to Jerusalem. Half a day's journey from the city

Colombaik came near dying. Thrown down by a horse, his leg was broken in

two places. As the child suffered excruciating pains he could not be

transported on the ass. Leaving the other stragglers to continue their

march, Fergan was left behind with Colombaik and Joan. The soil at that

place was arid and mountainous. The pain suffered by Colombaik was

intolerable. Hoping to descry some habitation, Fergan climbed to the top

of a palm tree. At a great distance off the road nestled a collection of

peasant houses at the foot of a hill, hidden under clusters of date

trees. Aware of the kindheartedness natural to the Saracen people, whom

nothing but the ferocity of the Crusaders pushed to a desperate

resistance, above all aware of the religious regard that this nation has

for the laws of hospitality, Fergan decided to transport his son with

the aid of Joan to one of those houses and ask for help. The decision

was put with all the greater promptness into execution out of fear for

the marauders and vagabonds, who, hovering at a distance, would have

slain them for the booty.

The dwellers of the little hamlet had all fled at the approach of the

army of the Crusaders, except one Arab and his wife. Both of them, bent

with age and seated at the threshold of their house, held their beads in

their hands and were praying, in calm resignation awaiting death,

certain that some soldier or other of Christ would come and pillage and

ravage their home. The old Saracen and his mate, seeing Joan and Fergan

approach carrying in their arms the child, who moaned piteously,

realized that they need not fear them as enemies, and hastened forward

to their encounter. Ignorant of the language of the travelers as these

were of theirs, the Saracen couple exchanged a few words among

themselves, pointing sympathetically to the child, and while the woman

went towards a little garden, the man motioned to Fergan and Joan to

follow him into the house. This dwelling was whitewashed without, after

the fashion of the country; it was crowned by a terrace, and had no

other opening than a narrow door. Two mats served for beds. After

motioning Fergan and Joan to lay the child upon one of these and then to

bare his leg, the host, who seemed gifted with certain surgical

abilities, lengthily examined Colombaik's leg. He then stepped out,

making a sign for Fergan and his wife to wait for him.

"Oh, Fergan!" exclaimed Joan, kneeling beside Colombaik, "with what

solicitude did not that Saracen and his wife look upon our child! And

yet we are strangers to them, enemies. The Crusaders whom we follow,

ravage their country, massacre them, torture them to death! And yet see

with what kindness these worthy people receive us!"

"It is natural. The Mohamedan priests, while preaching the sacred love

of country and resistance to foreign oppression, also preach the holy

laws of humanity towards God's creatures of whatever faith. Alack!

Certain Christian priests order, and themselves set the example of, the

extermination of those who do not share their beliefs. An atrocious

creed!"

The Arab returned with his wife. She carried in her hand a vase of

water, some palm leaves just pulled off, and some herbs that she had

pounded between two stones. The Saracen brought several splints of the

length of Colombaik's leg, together with a long bandage of cloth, with

the aid of which she bound the splints firmly around the child's leg,

after having covered it with the crushed herbs. The leg being bandaged,

the old Arab woman sprinkled it with fresh water, and covered the whole

limb with the palm leaves. Colombaik felt eased as if by enchantment.

Full of gratitude, and unable to express themselves in a tongue that was

not theirs, Fergan and Joan kissed the hands of their hosts. A tear

rolled down upon the aged man's long beard, and he gravely pointed to

heaven, meaning undoubtedly to tell his guests it was God that their

thanks were due to. He then took the ass, which had remained standing at

the door, and led it to the stable. The old woman brought in honey,

fresh dates, sheep's milk and a buttered roll of meal. Fergan and Joan

felt deeply touched by such a generous hospitality. Their child's

sufferings were momentarily abating. The old man made them understand by

a significant gesture, opening and closing his ten fingers three times

and pointing to the child upon the mat, that he had to remain down

thirty days, in order no doubt that the bones of his broken leg could

again grow together and become strong. Thanks to the solitude where this

house was ensconced in, the period necessary for the healing of the

child ran peacefully by. They were the happiest days the serfs had yet

known. After having exercised his hospitality towards them without

knowing them, the aged Arabian grew attached to Fergan, Joan and

Colombaik, touched by the gratitude that, to the best of their ability,

they sought to manifest, and also by the tender affection that united

Fergan and his wife. One day he took Fergan by the hand, led him up a

stony hill, whence he pointed to the horizon, shaking his head

expressive of uneasiness; he then pointed towards the foot of the hill

at the tranquil habitation where they had dwelt nearly a month. Fergan

understanding that he was urged to stay in that retreat, looked

astonished at the Arabian. The latter thereupon folded his arms on his

breast, closed his eyes, and, melancholily shaking his head, pointed to

the earth, indicating that he was old, that soon he and his wife would

die, and that, if Fergan was so inclined, the house, the garden, and the

little field attached to it, would be his.

Fergan was but a poor serf, led to the Crusade by the urgency of

escaping with wife and child the vengeance of his seigneur and the

horrors of serfdom. Nevertheless, at that supreme moment, yielding

obedience to the orders left by the Gallic chief Joel to his

descendants, he achieved an act of self-sacrifice before which men more

fortunately situated than himself might have recoiled. He might have

accepted the aged Arabian's offer and ended his days free and happy in

this retreat, in the company of his wife and child. But he was the

depositary of a portion of the chronicles and relics of his family. He

knew that Gildas, the elder brother of Bezenecq the Rich, held the

archives of their family back to the invasion of Gaul by Caesar, while

himself was charged with a latter portion of safe-keeping. Some day he

hoped to be able, in obedience to the behest of Joel, to add to those

chronicles the recital of his own and his family's ordeals during the

terrible period of the feudal oppression, and, in his turn, narrate the

events they witnessed during this Crusade, one of the momentous crimes

of Rome. Accordingly, Fergan considered it a sacred duty to make every

effort to return to Gaul, and join his relation Gildas the Tanner in

Laon. Moreover, since his arrival in Syria, he had heard that the

inhabitants of several large cities in Gaul, more enlightened and more

daring than the poorer rustic plebs, were beginning to stir. He had

heard accounts of the insurrection of several cities of Gaul against

their seigneurs, bishops and abbots, masters of the places. Perchance,

those bourgeois revolts might lead to revolts among the serfs of the

field. He conceived as possible a general revolt against the hierarchy

of Church, monarchy and seigneurs, and he considered it a crime not to

strive to be in Gaul at that hour of uprising and general

enfranchisement. Fergan declined the Arab's offer.

July 15, 1099, arrived. Forever indelibly fixed remained that fatal date

upon the serf's mind. Towards noon, leaning upon his mother and Fergan,

Colombaik had been essaying his strength. For the first time in thirty

days he had risen from his bed, and the two venerable hosts followed

with tender solicitude the movements of the child. Suddenly the tramp of

a horse was heard descending at a gallop the hill that rose above the

house. The aged Saracen exchanged a few words with his wife and both

stepped out precipitately. A few instants later they re-entered,

accompanied by another grey-bearded Musselman covered with dust. His

pale and disconcerted features expressed terror and despair. He spoke to

the aged couple in abrupt words and panting for breath. Blood-stained

bandages of linen around his right arm and leg betokened two recent

wounds. Several times, in the midst of his excited words, the word

"Jerusalem" was heard--the only word that the serfs could understand. As

he spoke, fear, indignation and horror reflected themselves on the

features of the aged Saracen and his wife, until presently their

venerable faces were bathed in tears, and they fell upon their knees,

moaning and raising their hands to heaven. At that moment the stranger,

who in his pre-occupation had not noticed the serfs, recognized them by

their clothes as Christians, emitted a cry of rage and drew his cimeter.

Quickly rising to their feet, both the hosts ran to him, and after a few

words, pronounced in a voice of tender reproach, the Saracen warrior

returned his sabre to its scabbard and exchanged a few sentences with

the aged couple. The latter seemed to conjure the stranger to remain

with them; but he shook his head, pressed their hands in his, rushed

out, threw himself upon his steaming horse, invoked the vengeance of

heaven with a gesture, climbed the hill at a gallop, and vanished from

sight. This friend of the aged couple had come to inform them of the

capture of Jerusalem by the Crusaders. The recital of the massacres, the

pillage, the unspeakable atrocities that the soldiers of Christ had

soiled and dishonored their victims with, threw the aged couple into

consternation. Anxious to ascertain the fact, Fergan addressed them,

uttering the word "Jerusalem" in a sad and interrogating tone. Instead

of answering, however, both drew brusquely away as if they extended to

him the horror that the Crusaders inspired them with. Fergan exchanged a

sad glance with Joan, when the host, no doubt regretting his first

impulse, returned to the serfs, leaned over Colombaik, who had been laid

down again, and kissed him on the forehead. Joan and Fergan,

understanding the delicacy of the sentiment thus expressed, were moved

to tears. The old Saracen took Fergan for one of the soldiers of that

ferocious and impious Crusade, and deposited a kiss of pardon and

oblivion upon the innocent brow of the child of the reputed malefactor.

The aged Saracen then left the house with his wife.

"Jerusalem has fallen into the power of the Crusaders," Fergan said to

Joan. "I can reach the city in a few hours. I desire to go there. There

is nothing for me to fear. I shall be back early to-morrow morning. We

shall then decide what to do."

Although uneasy at the prospect of his departure, the sweet Joan sought

not to keep her husband back. After embracing her and entrusting to her

his little treasury and the belt containing his family records and

relics, Fergan left for Jerusalem. Hardly upon the road, which passed at

quite a distance from his late retreat, he encountered a troop of

pilgrims. They were also hastening to the holy city, whose domes,

towers, minarets and even ramparts they began to perceive from afar

after four hours march.

That vast city formed a square a league long. The enclosure dominated

from the west by the high mount of Zion, contained the four rocky hills

on which Jerusalem was built in an amphitheatre,--to the east, Mount

Moriah, on which rose the Mosque of Omar, built upon the site of the old

Temple of Solomon; to the southeast, Mount Acra, to the north, Mount

Bezetha; and further to the west the Mount of Golgotha, the Calvary

where the young man of Nazareth was crucified under the eyes of Fergan's

ancestress Genevieve. At the summit of Calvary rose the Church of the

Resurrection, built on the very spot where Jesus died, a magnificent

church until then religiously respected by the Saracens, together with

its treasures, despite the war of the Crusaders. Within the church stood

the sepulchre of Christ, the pretext for this unhallowed war. Such was

the distant view of Jerusalem. As the travellers approached, they saw

more distinctly, within the ramparts of walls, the outlines of

amphitheaters of white square houses, surmounted with terraces, and here

and yonder, standing out against the deep blue of the sky, the domes of

mosques, the steeples of Christian basilicas, and several bouquets of

palm trees. Not a tree was visible in the environs of the city. The

reddish, stony and parched ground, radiated the torrid heat of the sun

that was westerning behind the hills. In the neighborhood of the camp,

whose tents glistened only a short distance from the ramparts, a large

number of Crusaders were seen dead or dying of the wounds that they

received at the sortie made by the besieged. The wounded filled the air

with pitiful wails, vainly imploring help. All the men, not the

able-bodied alone, but even those whose wounds allowed them to walk, had

precipitated themselves upon the city, in order to share in the sack.

The abandoned camp contained only corpses, the dying, horses and beasts

of burden. As the travelers drew still nearer to the city, whose gates

had been knocked in after the siege, a confused and formidable noise

struck their ears. It was a frightful mixture of cries of terror, of

rage and of desperate supplication, above which ever and anon rose the

fanatical clamor: "God wills it! God wills it!" After staggering and

stumbling over thousands of corpses, strewn near the approaches of the

gate of Bezetha, Fergan arrived at the entrance of a long street that

issued into a vast square, in the middle of which rose the marvelous

Mosque of Omar on the very site where once stood the ancient Temple of

Solomon. It was as if the serf had stepped into a river of blood, red

and reeking, and carrying in its current thousands of mutilated corpses,

heads and disjointed members.

The street that Fergan stepped into belonged to the new ward, the

richest of the city. Stately dwellings and not a few marble palaces,

surmounted with balustraded terraces, rose on either side of this vast

thoroughfare paved with wide slabs of stone. A furious multitude--soldiers,

men, women and children, all belonging to the Crusade--swarmed over this

long street, uttering ferocious yells. A young Saracen woman rushed out

of the door of the third house to the right of Fergan. She was deadly

pale with terror, her hair streamed behind her, and her rich clothes

were in shreds. In her arms she carried two children, two or three years

old. Behind her an aged man, already wounded, appeared on the threshold,

walking backward and striving to defend her. The flow of blood covered

his visage and clotted his long white beard, while he struggled to keep

back two Crusaders. One of these, carrying on his left shoulder a bundle

of costly clothes, pursued the aged Saracen with sword thrusts, and

finally ran him through the breast, throwing him dead at the feet of the

young mother. The second Crusader, who, no doubt disdaining to carry a

heavy booty, had strung around his neck several gold chains pillaged in

this house, immediately seized the young woman by the throat and rolled

her over on a heap of corpses, while the first crushed under his

iron-tagged heels the heads of the two children that had dropped from

their mother's arms. At that instant, one of the women who followed the

army hastened by, a hideous and savage-looking hag, brandishing in her

hand the stump of a knife, red with blood. A lad, about the age of

Colombaik, accompanied the fury. "Each one his turn," said she to the

soldier; "leave for me those whelps of the devil, my son will dispatch

them!" And placing the knife in the lad's hand, she added: "Cut off

their heads, disembowel those infidel dogs!" The child obeyed the hag's

orders and disemboweled the two little children.

Further away, a band of vagabonds and wenches, drunk with wine and

carnage, was besieging a palace that the men of Heracle, seigneur of

Polignac, had seized. As the symbol of possession, these had raised the

embroidered banner of their seigneur upon the terrace of the splendid

building. After throwing a shower of stones at the soldiers of the

seigneur of Polignac, the vagabonds and wenches assailed the soldiers

with sticks, pikes and cutlasses, shouting hoarsely in the midst of the

bloody melee: "Death! To the sack! This house and its riches belong to

us as well as to the seigneurs! To the sack! Death! Death!"

"Exterminate this band of vagabonds!" shouted back the soldiers,

thrusting about them with their lances and swords. "Death to these

jackals who mean to devour the prey of the lion!"

As Fergan advanced along this street he witnessed shocking scenes. The

sight of a gigantic soldier carrying, strung on his upright lance, three

little children from five to six months old, was a spectacle never to be

forgotten. Suddenly he found himself shoved hither and thither, and

presently shut in within a circle of armed men who seemed to be arranged

in some kind of order before the entrance of one of the most splendid

palaces on the street. Lemon and oleander trees, planted in boxes, but

now broken in two and upset, still ornamented the moresque balustrades

of the terrace. The band, among which there were several women, and that

left a wide empty space free between itself and the walls, emitted yells

of savage impatience. Presently, the sleeves of his brown frock rolled

back to the elbows, and his hands red with blood, a monk leaned forward

over the balustrade of the terrace. It was Peter the Hermit, the

companion of Walter the Pennyless. The identical Cuckoo Peter, whose

hollow eyes glistened with savage fanaticism, now called out to the

crowd in a hoarse voice: "My brothers in Christ, are you ready? Draw

near and receive your share of the booty."

"We are ready, holy man, and have been long waiting," answered several

bandits; "we are losing our time here; they are pillaging elsewhere,

holy father in God! We want our share of the booty."

"Here comes your share of this great feast, my brothers in Christ. The

vapor of the infidels' blood rises towards the Lord like an incense of

myrrh and balsam! Let not one of the miscreants, that we are about to

throw down to you from this terrace, escape with his life!"

Peter the Hermit vanished and almost immediately the bust of a Saracen,

clad in the purple caftan embroidered in gold, appeared above. Although

bound hands and feet, the wild jumps of the unhappy man showed that he

resisted with all his might the efforts of those who strove to throw him

down into the street. A few minutes later, however, half his body had

been forced over the balustrade. He straightened up once more, but

immediately was hurled into space and dropped, head foremost, thirty

feet below. A joyous clamor broke out at the man's fall, and redoubled

when, with a dull thud, his skull struck the pavement and broke. He

lived a few seconds longer, and strove to turn on his side while

emitting violent imprecations. But soon, riddled with sword thrusts,

broken with clubs and mauled with stones, there remained of him but a

mangled lump in the midst of a pool of blood. "Father in God," cried out

the mob, "the job is done! Hurry up! Send us another!"

The hideous figure of Peter the Hermit re-appeared above the balustrade.

He leaned his head forward and contemplated the remains of the Saracen.

"Well done, my children!" The monk had hardly disappeared again, when

two youths of fifteen to sixteen years, brothers no doubt, and bound

face to face, were thrown down from the terrace. The violence of the

fall snapped the bands that held them together. The elder was killed on

the spot, the younger's legs were broken. For a few moments he dragged

himself on his hands, moaning piteously and seeking to approach his

brother's corpse. The Crusaders pounced upon these new victims. Women,

monsters in human form, pulled out their entrails, indulged in obscene

and infamous mutilations upon the two corpses, and throwing into the air

the bleeding parts, cried out exultingly: "Let's exterminate the

infidels! God wills it!"

Twenty times did Peter the Hermit re-appear on the terrace, and twenty

times were bodies thrown down over the balustrade, and torn to pieces by

the crowd, drunk with bloodshed. Among these victims were five young

girls and two other boys from ten to twelve years of age.

All the inhabitants of Jerusalem who were captured, even those who had

paid ransom for their lives--men, women and children--all, to the number

of seventy thousand human beings, were thus massacred. The extermination

lasted two days and three nights, obedient to the following order of the

seigneur Tancred, one of the heroes of the Crusade: "_We consider it

necessary to put to the sword without delay both the prisoners and those

who paid ransom._"

The last of the victims, cast at the mob by Peter the Hermit, were being

massacred, when another band of Crusaders, running up from the other end

of the street and marching towards the large square, passed by shouting:

"The people of Tancred are pillaging the Mosque of Omar. * * * By all

the saints of Paradise and all the devils of hell, we want our part of

the booty!"

"And we stay here amusing ourselves with corpses!" cried out the

butchers under Peter the Hermit's terrace. "Let's on to the mosque! To

the sack! To the sack!"

Again Fergan was carried by the torrent of the crowd and arrived upon a

spacious square littered with Saracen corpses, seeing that, after the

assault had succeeded, the Saracens had retreated, fighting from street

to street, and drawn themselves up before the mosque, where a last

battle was delivered. At that place, these heroes were all killed

defending the temple, the refuge of the women, the children and the old

men, too feeble to fight, and who relied upon the pity and mercy of the

vanquishers. Easier far had it been to excite the pity of a hungry tiger

than that of the Crusaders.

Several tiers of marble stairs led down to the Mosque of Omar, whose

floor was about three feet below the level of the street. Such had been

the butchery indulged in by the Crusaders, and so much blood had run

down into the temple, which measured more than one thousand feet in

circumference, that the blood, rising above the first stairs, began to

run over into the square. The interior of the Mosque of Omar offered to

the eye but one vast sheet of blood, still warm, and the vapor of which

rose like a light mist above an innumerable mass of corpses, here

wholly, yonder only partially submerged in the red lake, where heads and

members hacked from the trunk with hatchets, were seen floating at

large. Of the Crusaders who entered the Mosque of Omar for pillage, some

waded in blood to their waists. The warmth of the flowing blood and the

site of the shocking butchery made Fergan reel with dizziness. His heart

thumped against his ribs and his strength gave way. In vain he sought

support against one of the porphyry columns at the facade of the mosque.

He dropped down unconscious, his legs steeped in blood.

Fergan knew not how long he remained in that condition. When he regained

consciousness it was night. The brightness of a large number of torches

struck his eye. Religious songs, repeated in chorus by thousands of

voices, fell upon his ears. Flanked by two files of soldiers, who

marched in measured tread with torches in their hands, he saw a long

procession pass by the temple. The procession wended its way to the

Mount of Golgotha, close to the Church of the Resurrection, where stood

the sepulchre of Jesus. At the head of the procession triumphantly

marched the legate of the Pope, Peter the Hermit and the clergy,

chanting praises to the All-powerful; after them the chiefs of the

Crusaders, among them William IX, Duke of Aquitaine, clad in an old sack

and smiting his breast. These were followed by the train-bands of the

seigneurs, together with a multitude of soldiers, men, women, children

and pilgrims, singing in chorus _Laudate Creator_. The crowd was so

numerous that when the prelates and the chiefs of the Crusade, who

headed the procession, reached the front of the Church of the

Resurrection, the last ranks were still crowding upon each other in the

middle of the square of the mosque. Other Crusaders marched outside of

the two files of torch-bearing soldiers.

When Fergan approached the door of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,

brilliantly lighted within, he heard loud roars of laughter mingled with

maudlin imprecations. The King of the Vagabonds and his band, in company

with their wenches, all drunk with wine and carnage, had taken

possession of the holy place, and had begun to pillage it of its

ornaments. At the center of the sanctuary stood Perrette the Ribald, her

hair disheveled like a Bacchante's.

PART III.

THE COMMUNE OF LAON.

CHAPTER I.

THE RISE OF THE COMMUNES.

For centuries Laon had for its temporal seigneur the bishop of the

diocese, and figured from the start among the foremost cities of

Picardy. Since the Frankish conquest, and down to the date of the events

here narrated (1112), Laon constituted a part of the special domains of

the kings. Clovis made himself master of the city through the treason of

Saint Remy, who baptized that crowned bandit at Rheims. Clovis' wife,

Clotilde, founded in the city the collegiate church of Saint Peter, and

later Brunhild built a palace there. A bishop of Laon, Adalberon, the

paramour of Queen Imma, was her accomplice in the poisoning of Lothair,

the father of Louis the Indolent,--a homocidal example that was soon

imitated upon himself by his Queen, Blanche, another adulterous

poisoner, who, through the murder committed by her, confirmed the

usurpation of Hugh Capet, to the injury of the last Carlovingian king.

Charles, Duke of Lorraine, the uncle of Louis the Indolent, having

become through the latter's death the heritor of the crown of the

Frankish kings, took possession of Laon. Hugh Capet besieged him there,

and, after several assaults, succeeded in capturing the city, thanks to

the connections that Adalberon, the adulterer and poisoning bishop, had

preserved in the place. Since then, Laon continued as a sovereign

ecclesiastical seigniory, but always under the suzerainty of the French

King. In the year 1112, the date of this narrative, the reigning king

was named Louis the Lusty. As obese as, but much less indolent than his

father, Philip I, the excommunicated lover of the handsome Berthrade who

died in 1108, Louis the Lusty did not, like his father, submit to the

affronts and vexations of the feudal seigneurs; he waged war to the

knife against them to the end of extending with their spoils his own

domains, that then took in only Paris, Melun, Compiegne, Etampes,

Orleans, Montlhery, Puiset and Corbeil. Thus, in addition to the scourge

of the private wars among the seigneurs, the people bent under the

affliction of the wars of the king against the seigneurs, and of the

Normans against the king. The Normans, the descendants of old Rolf the

Pirate, had conquered England under their duke William. But, although

settled down in that ultramarine country, the Kings of England preserved

in Gaul the duchy of Normandy and Gisors, and from thence dominated the

territory of Vexin, almost to the gates of Paris, waging incessant war

upon Louis the Lusty. Thus Gaul continued to be ravaged by bloody

strifes, with none other than the people, the serfs and villeins, as the

perpetual victims. The wretched agricultural plebs, decimated by the

execrable craze of the Crusades, that held out despite the recapture of

Jerusalem by the Turks, found itself crushed by a double burden, their

decreased numbers being compelled by increased labor to provide for the

needs, the prodigalities and the debaucheries of the clergy and the

seigneurs.

The bourgeois and other townsmen, better organized, better able to

realize their power, above all more enlightened than the serfs of the

fields, had revolted in many cities against their lay or ecclesiastical

seigneurs, and, by dint of daring, of energy and stubbornness, had, at

the price of their own blood, regained their freedom and secured the

abolition of the degrading and shameful rights that the feudal families

had been long enjoying. A small number of cities, even without resorting

to arms, had, by virtue of great pecuniary sacrifices, purchased their

enfranchisement from the seigniorial rights, with round sums of money.

Delivered from their former secular and creed servitude, the city

populations celebrated with enthusiasm all the circumstances connected

with their emancipation. Thus, on April 15, 1112, the bourgeois

merchants and artisans of the city of Laon were in gala since early

morning. From one side to the other of the streets, male and female

neighbors called one another from their windows and exchanged gladsome

salutations.

"Well, neighbor," said one, "the bright anniversary of the inauguration

of our Commune Hall and belfry has arrived!"

"Do not mention it, neighbor; I have not slept all night! With my wife

and children we were up till three o'clock in the morning burnishing up

my iron casque and coat of mail. Our armed militia will add great luster

to the ceremony. May God be praised for this great day!"

"And the procession of our artisans' guilds will be no less superb!

Would you believe it, neighbor, that I, who during all my life of a

carpenter have not, as you may imagine, ever held a needle in my hands,

helped my wife to sew together the stripes of our new banner?"

"Thank God, the weather will be beautiful for the ceremony. Look how

clear and brilliant the dawn is!"

"Couldn't be otherwise! Such a feast could not lack good weather. I

expect that when I shall hear for the first time the peals from our

communal belfry every clank will make my heart bound!"

These dialogues and many others, naive testimony of the joy of the

inhabitants of Laon, took place along the length of all the streets from

house to house, from the humblest to the richest. Almost all the

windows, opened since the break of day, exposed to view the laughing

faces of men, women and children, all actively engaged with preparations

for the festivities.

The gladsome stir in almost all the quarters of the city, rendered all

the more striking the gloomy and sombre and, so to say, sullen aspect of

a certain number of dwellings of ancient architecture, and whose gates

were, as a rule, flanked by two turrets with pointed roofs, surmounted

with a weather-vane. Not a chink of these dwellings, blackish with age,

was open on this morning. They belonged to the ecclesiastical

dignitaries of the metropolitan church, or to noble knights, who, not

owning estates large enough to live in the country, inhabited the

cities, and ever sided against the bourgeois and with the lay or

ecclesiastical seigneur. Accordingly, in Laon, these clergymen and

knights were designated as the _episcopals_, while the inhabitants, who,

according to the language of the day, "took the oath of the Commune,"

were called the _communiers_. The antique turrets of the dwellings of

the episcopals were at once a species of fortification and a symbol of

the nobility of their origin. On that morning, these dwellings, silent

and shut up, seemed to denote the displeasure given to the noble

episcopals by the rejoicings of the Laonese laboring classes.

CHAPTER II.

THE CHARTER OF LAON.

But there were other dwellings, also flanked with turrets, besides those

of the nobles. These others were gaily decorated, and the whiteness of

their masonry, contrasting with the aspect of the ancient architecture

of the nobles, to which they seemed to be annexes, bespoke a more recent

date.

One of these establishments, thus fortified only a short time since, lay

at the corner of Exchange street, the leading mercantile thoroughfare of

the city. The old door, whose threshold and lintels were of stone, and

at either side of which rose two white and high turrets recently built,

had been thrown open at the very first break of day, and several

townsmen were seen going in and out. They came for certain instructions

on the ceremonies. In one of the chambers of this dwelling sat Fergan

and Joan the Hunchback. It was about twelve years since they had left

the Holy Land. The hair and beard of Fergan, now over forty years of

age, began to betray streaks of gray. He was no longer the serf of olden

days--restless, savage, tattered. His features breathed happiness and

serenity. Equipped almost wholly as a soldier, he wore a jacket of iron

mail and a corselet of steel. He was seated near a table at which he

wrote. Joan, clad in a robe of brown wool, and wearing on her head a

sober bonnet, from under which a long white veil fell upon her

shoulders, looked no less blissful than her husband. On the sweet face

of this brave mother, once so severely tried, the expression of profound

felicity was depicted. At the request of Fergan she had just drawn from

an old oaken cabinet a little iron casket, which she placed upon the

table where Fergan was writing. The casket, an inheritance from Gildas

the Tanner, contained several parchment scrolls, yellow with the age of

centuries, besides the several relics so dear to the family of the

Gallic chief Joel, and among which was the silver cross of Genevieve,

together with the pilgrim's shell that Fergan had taken from Neroweg VI

in the desert of Syria. Fergan had just finished transcribing on a

parchment a copy of the communal charter, under which, for the last

three years, the city of Laon was free and led a peaceful and

flourishing existence. The quarryman wished to join the copy of that

charter to the archives of the family of Joel, as a witness of the

awakening spirit of freedom of his own days, and of the inexorable

resolution of the people to battle against the kings, the clergymen and

the seigneurs, descendants or heritors of the Frankish conquest. For the

last fifteen or twenty years back, other cities besides Laon, driven to

extremities by the horrors of feudalism, had, some through insurrection,

others through great sacrifices of money, obtained similar charters,

under shelter of which they governed themselves like republics, similar

to the heroic and brilliant days of Gaul's independence, centuries

before the invasions of the Romans. The copy of the communal charter of

Laon, the original of which, deposited in the Mayor's office, bore the

name and signature of Gaudry, bishop of the diocese of Laon, and of

Louis the Lusty, King of the French, ran as follows:

CHARTER OF THE COMMUNE OF LAON.

I.

All men, domiciled within the walls of the city and in its suburbs,

belonging to any seigneur who holds as a fief the territory which

they inhabit, shall swear allegiance to this Commune.

II.

Throughout the full extent of the city each shall render assistance

to the other, loyally and to the best of his ability.

III.

The men of this Commune shall be free holders of their goods.

_Neither the King, nor the Bishop, nor any other, shall be entitled

to make any levy upon them_, except by the judgment of their own

town council.

IV.

Each shall, on all occasions, observe fidelity towards those who

shall have taken the oath of the Commune, and shall aid them with

deed and advice.

V.

Within the limits of the Commune, all the men shall mutually help

one another, according to their power; and they shall in no wise,

whatever it be, suffer the seigneur, Bishop or any other, to

distrain any property from them, or compel them to pay imposts.

VI.

Thirteen _Councilmen_ shall be elected by the Commune. One of these

councilmen shall be elected _Mayor_ by the suffrage of all those

who shall have taken the oath of the Commune.

VII.

The Mayor and the Councilmen shall make oath to favor no person by

reason of friendship, and to render an equitable decision in all

matters, according to their powers; all others shall take the oath

of obedience and to sustain with arms the decisions of the Mayor

and Councilmen. When the bell of the belfry shall sound to assemble

the Commune, anyone who does not attend shall pay a fine of twelve

sous.

VIII.

If anyone injure a man who shall have taken the oath of the Commune

of Laon, a complaint being lodged with the Mayor and Councilmen,

they shall, after due trial, enforce justice upon the body and

property of the guilty party.

IX.

If the guilty party takes refuge in a fortified castle, the Mayor

and Councilmen shall notify the seigneur of the castle, or his

lieutenant. If in their opinion satisfaction shall have been

rendered against the guilty party, that will suffice; but if the

seigneur refuses satisfaction, _they shall themselves enforce

justice upon the property and upon the men of said seigneur_.

X.

If any member of the Commune shall have entrusted his money to some

one of the city, and he to whom the money has been so entrusted

takes refuge in some strong castle, the seigneur having been

notified, shall either return the money, or drive the debtor from

his castle. If the seigneur does neither, justice shall be enforced

upon his goods and his men.

XI.

Whenever the Mayor and the Councilmen shall desire to fortify the

city, they shall be free to do so on whatever seigneur's territory

it may be.

XII.

The men of the Commune shall be free to grind their corn, and bake

their bread wherever they please.

XIII.

If the Mayor and Councilmen of the Commune require money for the

use of the city, and raise a tax, they may levy the same on the

inheritances and property of the townsmen, and on the sales and

profits made in the city.

XIV.

No stranger, a copy-holder of any Church or seigneur, and

established _outside of the city and its suburbs_, shall be

included in the Commune without the consent of his seigneur.

XV.

Whosoever shall be received in this Commune shall build a house

within the space of one year, or shall purchase vineyards, or shall

bring into the city moveable property, to the end that justice may

be enforced, should a complaint be raised against him.

XVI.

If anyone slander the Mayor in the exercise of his functions, the

slanderer's house shall be demolished, or he shall pay ransom for

the same, or he shall deliver himself to the mercy of the

Councilmen.

XVII.

No one shall molest or vex the strangers of the Commune. If any

dare do so, he shall be deemed a violator of the Commune, and

justice shall be enforced upon his person and his property.

XVIII.

Whosoever shall have wounded with arms any one who, like himself,

shall have taken the oath of the Commune, then, unless he justifies

his act under oath or with witnesses, he shall lose his hand, and

shall pay nine livres; six for the fortifications of the city and

of the Commune, three for the ransom of his hand. If he is unable

to pay, he shall leave his hand at the mercy of the Commune.

Fergan had just finished transcribing the charter, when the door of his

room opened. Colombaik stepped in. A young and comely wife of eighteen

years at the most accompanied him. The son of the quarryman, a fine

strapping young man of twenty-two, united in the expression of his face

the sweetness of his mother and the energy of his father. Like the

latter, he also was clad half townsman half soldier. His casque of black

steel, ribbed with shining iron, imparted a martial air to his pleasing

and open countenance. He carried a heavy cross-bow on his shoulder. From

his right side hung a leather holster that held the bolts needed for his

weapon. His wife, Martine, only daughter of the old age of Gildas, the

elder brother of Bezenecq the Rich, was of the age and endowed with the

charms of Isoline, a victim like her father of the cupidity of Neroweg

VI.

"Father!" Colombaik cried out joyfully upon entering the room and

alluding to his war-like outfit, "in your quality of constable of our

bourgeois and artisan militia, do you find me worthy of figuring in the

troop? Does Colombaik, the soldier, make you forget by his martial

outfit Colombaik, the townsman and tanner?"

"Thank heaven, Colombaik the soldier will not, I hope, have occasion to

blot out Colombaik the tanner," put in Joan with her sweet smile, "any

more than Fergan the constable will have occasion to blot out Fergan the

master quarryman. You will both continue to battle, you with your

beaters against the hides in the tannery, your father with his pick

against the stones of his quarry. Is not that your hope and desire, dear

Martine?" Joan added, turning to the wife of her son.

"Certainly, my good mother," responded Martine. "Fortunately they are

far behind, those evil days when the bourgeois and artisans of Laon, in

order to escape the exactions of the bishop, of the clergymen, and of

the knights, often had to barricade themselves in their houses and

sustain a regular siege; and when, but too often, despite their

resistance, their houses were entered and they were carried to the

episcopal palace, where they were tortured for ransom. What a

difference, my God, since we have been living under the Commune! We now

are so free, so happy!" But Martine added with a sigh: "Oh, I regret

that my poor father did not live to witness the change! His last moments

would not have been saddened by the uneasiness that our future gave him.

Seeing the terrible acts of violence indulged in by Bishop Gaudry,

together with the nobles, against the inhabitants of Laon, acts that

might any day have reached us as they reached so many others among our

neighbors, my father always had before him the frightful fate of my

uncle Bezenecq and his poor daughter Isoline!"

"Be at ease, my dear wife," rejoined Colombaik; "those accursed days

shall not return! No, no! To-day old Gaul bristles with free Communes,

as three hundred years ago it bristled with feudal castles. The Communes

are our fortresses! Our belfry tower is our donjon. We no longer have to

fear the seigneurs!"

"Ah, Martine, my sweet child," said Joan with deep emotion to the wife

of her son, "happier than we, you happy youngsters will not see your

children and your husbands enduring the horrors of servitude."

"Yes, we, the bourgeois and artisans of the cities are emancipated,"

Fergan rejoined pensively; "but serfdom presses as cruelly now as in the

past upon the serfs of the fields. I fought, for that reason, with all

my power, the clause in our charter that excludes from the Commune the

serfs living outside of the village, or those who do not possess money

enough to build a house here. Is it not to exclude them, when the

consent of their seigneurs, or a sufficient sum with which to build a

house in the city is required from them, who own not even their own

arms? And yet, that sole wealth of the industrious man is equal to any

other." Turning then to Martine: "Oh, the father of your father and of

Bezenecq spoke like a whole-souled and wise man when, years ago, while

vainly inciting the townsmen to the insurrections that are to-day

breaking out in so many cities of Gaul, he aimed, not at the revolt of

the bourgeois and artisans merely, but also at that of the serfs. Serfs

and bourgeois united would not be long in crushing the seigniories. But

reduced to its own forces, the task of the bourgeoisie will be long and

arduous.... We must be prepared for fresh struggles...."

"And yet, father," interposed Colombaik, "since the day when, in

consideration of a good round sum, the bishop renounced his seigniorial

rights and sold us our freedom for cash, has he ever dared to ride the

high horse against us,--he, that brutal Norman warrior, who, before the

establishment of the Commune, had the eyes of townsmen put out and often

killed them for the mere offense of having condemned his acts of

shameful debauchery,--he, who in his own cathedral, only four years

ago, killed with his own hands the unhappy Bernard des Bruyeres? No, no;

despite his wickedness, Bishop Gaudry knows full well that, if, after

pocketing our money as a consideration for giving his consent to our

Commune, he were to try to return to his former practices, he would pay

dear for his perjury. Three years of freedom have taught us to prize the

sacred boon. We would know how to defend it, arms in hand, like the

Communes of Cambrai, Amiens, Abbeville, Noyon, Beauvais, Rheims, and so

many others."

"For all that, Colombaik," remarked Martine, "I cannot help trembling

when I see Black John, that African giant, who once was the bishop's

hangman, cross the streets of our city. That negro seems ever to be

plotting some act of cruelty, like some savage beast, that but waits for

some opportune moment to snap his chain."

"Be at ease, Martine," Colombaik answered with a smile. "The chain is

solid, no less solid than that which holds that other bandit, Thiegaud,

the serf of the Abbey of St. Vincent, and favorite of Bishop Gaudry, who

familiarly calls him his friend 'Ysengrin,' a name given by children to

the companion of the wolf. But, would you believe it, mother, that

Thiegaud, a fellow stained with all imaginable crimes, that abominable

reprobate, yet adores his daughter."

"Even the wild beasts love their young ones," answered Joan. "Did not

Worse than a Wolf, our former seigneur, with whom your father fought

when we were in Palestine, weep when he thought of his son?"

"That's true, mother; and so it is with this other wolf Thiegaud. The

tenant of the little farm that your father left us, my dear Martine, was

telling me yesterday that a short time ago Thiegaud's daughter came near

dying, and he was almost crazed with grief. Moreover the wretch is as

jealous of the chastity of his daughter as if he himself had led a clean

life! The scamp tried to rob us, I am sure. When our tenant mentioned

Thiegaud's name to me it was because the fellow pretended to want to

buy in the name of the bishop, who is a passionate hunter, as you know,

a young colt raised on our meadow."

"Take care!" said Fergan warningly. "The bishop is over head and ears in

debt. If you sell the horse you will receive no money."

"I know the fine sire! I told our tenant: 'If Thiegaud pays cash for the

horse, sell it to him; if not, don't.' The days are gone by when the

seigneurs had the right to buy on credit, which is to say, the right to

buy without ever paying. To try and compel them to pay was tantamount to

placing liberty and even life in jeopardy. To-day, however, if the

bishop should dare rob a communier, the Commune would enforce justice

upon the episcopals, whether they willed it or not. That's the text of

our charter, signed, not by the bishop only, but also by King Louis the

Lusty--a signature, 'tis true, that we paid dearly for."

"We paid for it through the nose," rejoined Fergan. "That gross king

chaffered and haggled for two days on a stretch. Our friend Robert the

Eater was one of the communiers sent to Paris three years ago to secure

our charter. What a gang of cut-throats make up that court! To start

with, it was necessary to generously oil the palms of the royal

councilors in order to dispose them in our favor. Louis the Lusty then

wanted to have the proposed sum increased by a fourth, then by a third.

Finally, over and above the redemption of his ancient rights of quarters

and stabling for himself and his army, whenever he visited the city, he

demanded the annual use of three houses, and if he did not avail himself

of them, an equivalent of twenty livres a year, and three years in

advance. You must admit, my children, that it is selling rather dear

those 'rights of crown,' as they call them, monstrous rights, born of

the iniquitous and bloody deeds of the conquest."

"So it is, father," answered Colombaik; "we may well say that, in

selling to us for their weight in silver, what they please to call their

rights, the king and his seigneurs act like highwaymen, who put the

dagger to your throat and say: 'I robbed you yesterday; now give me your

purse, and I shall not rob you to-morrow.'"

"It is better to yield your money than your blood," said Joan. "By dint

of work and privation one may recover his savings, and one is at least

freed from those fearful savages, whom I cannot think of without

shuddering."

"Moreover, father," put in Martine, "it seems to me we need all the less

fear the return of the tyranny of the seigneur, seeing that the king

hates them as much as we, and fights them to the knife. We hear every

day of his wars against the large vassals, of the battles he fights with

them, and of the provinces he plucks them of."

"But, children, who profits by war? Who is it that pays the piper for

the ravages it causes? The people. Yes, the King hates the seigneurs

because from century to century they seized upon a large number of

provinces, that one time belonged to the Frankish crown when it

conquered Gaul. Yes, the King fights the seigneurs to the knife, but

likewise does the butcher wage relentless war against the wolves who

devour the cattle intended for the shambles. That's the reason of the

hatred of Louis the Lusty and the prelates towards the lay seigneurs.

Church and royalty desire to annihilate the seigneurs in order

themselves to lead at will the plebs cattle, bequeathed to them by the

conquest. Oh, my children, my heart is full of hope. But so long as

serfs, artisans and bourgeois shall not stand united against their

hereditary enemies, the future looms up before me big with new perils.

Happier than our forefathers, we have initiated a holy struggle, our

children will have to continue it through centuries to come."

"And yet, father, are we not now living in absolute peace and

prosperity, free from crushing imposts, governed by magistrates of our

own choice, who have no object other than the public weal? Our city

becomes daily more industrious and affluent. The bishop and his

episcopals can not be hair-brained enough to seek to restore old

conditions and assail our liberty. We have weapons wherewith to defend

ourselves!"

"My child, if we wish to preserve our franchises, we must redouble our

vigilance and energy, and keep ourselves ever ready for the fray."

"Why pre-occupy ourselves so much about the future, father? Why should

we have to redouble our vigilance?"

"Bishop Gaudry and the nobles of the city used to subject us, at their

will and without mercy, to crushing imposts and hateful rights. We said

to them: 'Renounce forever your rights and your annual taxes; emancipate

us; subscribe to our Commune; we shall give you a considerable sum in

full future payment.' Now, then, these idle people, wasteful and

covetous, thought only of the present and accepted our offer. By this

time, however, the money has been spent, or there is little of it left.

They are regretting that, in the language of the story, they killed the

goose that lay the golden eggs. They are seeking to break the contract."

"What!" cried out Colombaik. "They would contemplate breaking the pact

that they freely entered into--"

"Listen to me," interposed Joan. "I do not wish to exaggerate the

apprehensions of your father for the future. Nevertheless, I believe to

have noticed--" but breaking off she continued: "After all, I may have

been mistaken--"

"What have you in mind, mother?"

"Can it be that you have not noticed that for some time back the

knights, the city clergy, in short, all the folks of the party of the

bishop, whom they call the episcopals, have been deporting themselves

with a swaggering air towards the townsmen and artisans in the streets?"

"You are right, Joan," remarked Fergan pensively. "I have been struck,

less, perhaps, by the swagger of the episcopals, than by the insolence

of their menials. It is a grave symptom, an indication of their

resentment."

"Good! A ridiculous rancor, and nothing else!" said Colombaik smiling

disdainfully. "Those holy canons and their noble pursuivants do not

forgive the bourgeois for being free like themselves, and for having,

like themselves, and when they please, turrets to their houses--a

pleasure that I have bestowed upon myself, thanks to the finest stones

of your quarry, father. Thus, our tannery could now sustain a siege

against those ill-tempered episcopals. Besides, I have contrived for

Martine a pretty little alcove in one of the turrets, and her initials,

cut by me in copper, glisten in the weather-vane from the top of our

turrets, just as the initials of a lady of rank."

"It will, no doubt, be more than ever well to have a strong house,"

observed Fergan. "It is not the weather-vanes on our turrets, but thick

walls that trouble the episcopals."

"They will have to become accustomed to our strong houses. If not, by

heaven--"

"No passion, Colombaik," put in the benign Joan, again interrupting the

impetuous young man. "Your father has made the same observation that I

did; and since the retainers of the knights look provoking, their

masters must be near becoming so themselves. This morning's ceremony

will surely, for more reasons than one, attract a large number of

episcopals along the line of the procession. For heaven's sake, my

child, no rashness!"

"Do not alarm yourself, Joan," rejoined Fergan, "we are too conscious of

our good rights and of the strength of the Commune, not to keep cool in

sight of mere insolence. But prudence does not exclude firmness."

Hardly had the quarryman pronounced these words when the door flew open,

and a young and attractive woman entered with a pert air. She was a

brunette, sprightly and handsomely dressed, like the rich bourgeois that

she was. An orange-colored silk petticoat was fastened to her exquisite

waist with a silver belt; her skirt, made of fine Arras cloth and

bordered with marten fur, hardly reached her knees; on her black hair,

that shone like jet, she wore a bonnet, red like her stockings, which

set off her well-shaped calves; finally, her feet were shod in smart

shoes of shining Morocco leather. Simonne, that was her name, was the

wife of Ancel Quatre-Mains, a master baker, renowned throughout the city

of Laon and even the suburbs, for the excellence of his bread, his cream

tarts, his honey cakes, his almond wafers and other dainties that were

confectioned in his shop. He also drove the trade of flour merchant, and

the Commune had chosen him one of its Councilmen. Ancel

Quatre-Mains[E]--the name was due to his prodigious quickness in

kneading the dough--presented a singular contrast to his wife,--as calm

and thoughtful as she was pert and giddy-headed, as chary of words as

she was loquacious, as corpulent as she was lithesome. His physiognomy

betokened imperturbable good-nature, coupled in his instance with a

lively sense of justice, a generous heart, and extraordinary skill at

his trade.

Wishing to please his pretty wife, whom he loved as much as he was loved

by her, the master baker had harnessed himself in war accoutrements. A

large number of townsmen, until then deprived of the right to carry

arms--a right exclusively reserved to the seigneurs, the knights and

their pursuivants--found a pleasure and a triumph in such martial

arrays. Ancel Quatre-Mains only slightly shared their taste; but in

order to suit Simonne, who was greatly captivated by the military garb,

he had put on a gobison, a species of strongly bolstered and thick

leather corselet, that, not having been measured for him, pressed in his

chest and caused his prominent stomach to protrude still more. On the

other hand, his iron casque, much too large for him, kept falling over

his eyes, an inconvenience that the worthy baker corrected from time to

time by pushing his unlucky headgear to the back of his head. At times

his legs also got entangled with the long sword that swung from a buff

shoulder-belt, embroidered with red silk and silver thread by Simonne

herself, who wished to imitate the tokens of approval bestowed by the

noble ladies upon their gallant knights. Ancel had long been the friend

of Fergan, who loved and esteemed him greatly. Simonne, brought up with

Martine and slightly her senior, cherished her like a sister. Thanks to

their close neighborhood, the two young women visited each other every

day after the routine of their household and even trade duties had been

attended to, because, if Martine helped Colombaik in several departments

of his tannery, Simonne, who was no less industrious than lovable,

leaving to Ancel and his two apprentices the care of preparing the

bread, would confection with her own pretty hands, as white as the wheat

flour that they handled, the delicious cakes that the townsmen and even

the noble episcopals were so fond of.

Simonne stepped in the house of her neighbor with her habitual pertness.

But her charming face, no longer smiling and happy as usual, was now

expressive of lively indignation, and entering a few steps ahead of her

husband, she cried out: "The insolent wretch! As true as Ancel is called

Quatre-Mains, I would have wished, 'pon the word of a Picardian woman,

that I had four hands to slap her face, noble dame though she be! The

old hag, as ugly as she is wicked and quarrelsome!"

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Fergan smiling, knowing well the nature of Simonne,

"you, ordinarily so gay and full of laughter! You seem highly incensed,

neighbor!"

"What has happened, Simonne? Who has excited your anger to such a

pitch?" added Martine.

"Trifles," said the baker, shaking his head and answering the

questioning looks of Fergan, Joan and Colombaik; "it is nothing, good

neighbors."

"How so?... Nothing!" cried out Simonne, turning with a start to her

husband. "Oh! According to you such insolence must pass unperceived!"

The baker again shook his head, and, profiting by the opportunity to be

rid of his casque, that pressed him heavily, he placed it under his arm.

"Oh! It is nothing!" proceeded Simonne, now addressing Fergan and Joan.

"I take you for judges. You are wise and thoughtful people."

"And what are we two, Martine and I?" queried Colombaik, laughing

merrily. "So, then, you discard us?"

"I do not take you for judges, neither you nor Martine, because you

would be too much of my opinion," replied Simonne; "Master Fergan and

his wife are not, as far as I know, suspected of being hot-heads! Let

them decide whether I am angry at nothing," she said, shooting a fresh

look of indignation at the baker, who, greatly incommoded by his long

sword, had sat down, placing it across his knees after laying his casque

on the floor. "This is what happened," Simonne proceeded: "Agreeable to

the promise I yesterday made to Martine of coming for her this morning

to assist at the inauguration of our belfry, Ancel and I left the house

early. Going up Exchange street we passed before the window of the

fortified house of Arnulf, a nobleman of Haut-Pourcin, as he styles

himself."

"I know the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin," observed Colombaik; "he is one of

the bitterest episcopals in town."

"And his wife is one of the most brazen she-devils that ever joined a

caterwauling!" cried out Simonne. "Judge for yourselves, neighbors. She

and her maid were standing at one of the lower windows when Ancel and I

went by. 'Look at her,' she said in a loud voice to her maid, laughing

obstreperously; 'look at the baker's wife, how she struts in new clothes

with her petticoat of Lombard silk, silver belt and skirt bordered with

marten fur! May God pardon me! To see such creatures daring to put on

silk and rich furs like us noble ladies, instead of humbly keeping to a

petticoat of linsey-woolsey and a skirt hemmed with cat's skin, the

proper clothing for the base station in life of these villeins! What a

pity! Fortunately her yellow dress is of the color of her pastry and her

bannocks! It will serve them for ensign!'"

"That's only in favor of the excellent baking of Simonne's cakes, no

so, neighbors?" put in the baker, "because, when the bannock comes out

of the oven, it should be yellow as gold."

"See what a fool I am! I failed to take the words of the noble woman for

a compliment!" Simonne resumed, saying: "But I answered her insolence

plump and plain: 'The word of a Picardian woman, upon it, Dame

Haut-Pourcin, if my petticoat is the ensign of my bannocks, your face is

the ensign of your fifty years, despite all your cosmetics, and all your

affectations of youth, of maidenhood and of freshness!'"

"Oh!" Colombaik broke out laughing. "An excellent answer to the old

fairy, who, indeed, is always dressing like a young girl. There you have

the nobility! The pretty dresses of our women trouble them as much as

the turrets of our houses. Let them split with rage!"

"My answer struck home," proceeded Simonne. "The dame of Haut-Pourcin

shook like a fury at the bars of her window, yelling: 'You

street-walker!... You gallows-bird!... To dare to talk that way to

me!... You vile emancipated serf!... But patience!... Patience!... I

shall soon have you cow-hided by my servants!'"

"'Oh, oh! As to that,' I answered her, 'do not talk nonsense, Dame

Haut-Pourcin,'" put in the baker; "'the days are gone by when the noble

dames had the woman of the bourgeois beaten!'"

"Yes," added Simonne with indignation, "and do you know what that harpy

replied, while shaking her fist at Ancel? 'Off with you,' said she, 'you

lumbering churl! The vile bourgeoisie will not much longer talk so big!

Soon we will no longer see clowns wearing the casques of knights, and

jades like your wife, wearing silk petticoats paid for by their

paramours,'" saying which, Simonne, whose anger had until then been

shaded with frolicsome animation, became purple with confusion. Two

tears rolled down her large black ayes, and she added in a moved voice:

"Such an outrage ... to me.... And Ancel says that's nothing! Such an

outrage exasperates me!"

"Come now, be cool. Are you not as honorable a woman as you are an

industrious housekeeper?" said the baker affectionately approaching

Simonne, who was wiping off her tears with the back of her hand. "That

stupid insult cannot touch you, my dear, and does not even deserve to be

remembered."

"Ancel is right," said Fergan. "That old woman is gone crazy. Crazy

people's words do not count. But, friends, there is this about it. We

must recognize that the insolence of the episcopals increases from day

to day. Those allusions to former times foreshadow an evil intent on

their part. It is well to be forewarned."

"What, father, will those people be so badly advised as to think of

attacking our Commune? Is their insolence to be taken notice of? Will it

be necessary for us to place ourselves on our guard against their evil

designs?"

"Yeast that ferments is always sour, my child," replied the baker,

reclining his head pensively. "The remark of your father is just. The

provocations of the episcopals have a secret cause. I was just saying to

Simonne: 'It is nothing!' I now say: 'It is something!'"

"Very well! Let it be so! Let them dare!" cried out Colombaik. "We are

ready for those noblemen and clergymen, for all the tonsured fraternity

and their bishop to boot!"

"And if the women take a part, as at the insurrection of Beauvais,"

exclaimed Simonne, clenching her little fists, "I, who have no children,

shall accompany my husband to battle, and the dame of Haut-Pourcin will

pay dear for her insults. 'Pon the word of a Picardian woman, I shall

slap her insolent face as dry as an Easter wafer!"

The good baker was smiling at the heroic enthusiasm of his pretty wife

when the peal of a large bell was heard from a distance. Fergan, his

family and neighbors, listened to the sonorous and prolonged sound with

a tremor of joy.

"Oh, my friends!" said Fergan with emotion, "do you hear it sound for

the first time from the belfry of our Commune? Do you hear it? To-day

it summons us to a feast; to-morrow it will call us to the meeting of

the council where we attend to the business of the city; some day it

will give us the signal for battle. A belfry of the people! Your voice

of bronze, at last awakening ancient Gaul from her slumber, has given

the signal for the insurrection of the Communes!"

While the quarryman was speaking, all the bells of the churches of Laon

began to chime in with the peals of the belfry. The deafening clangor

soon dominated and completely drowned the isolated tinkling of the

communal bell. This rivalry of bell-ringing was no accident, nor yet a

token of sympathy. It was an affront, premeditated by the bishop and his

partisans. They realized the patriotic importance that the communiers of

Laon attached to the inauguration of the symbol of their emancipation,

and decided to mar the festivity.

"Oh, those friars! Always spiteful and hypocritic until the day when

they deem themselves strong enough to be merciless!" exclaimed

Colombaik. "Have your way, ye black-gowns! Ring at your loudest! The

canting bells of your churches shall not silence our communal belfry!

Your bells ring mankind to servitude, to imbecility, to the renunciation

of their dignity; the belfry gathers them to fulfil their civic duties

and to defend freedom! Come, father, come! The bourgeois militia must by

this time be assembled around the pillars of the market-place. You are

constable and I a captain-of-ten. Let's start. Do not let us be waited

for. Liberty or death!"

CHAPTER III.

EPISCOPALS AND COMMUNIERS.

Fergan put on his casque, and presently giving his arm to Joan the

Hunchback, as Colombaik gave his to Martine, and Quatre-Mains to his

wife Simonne, the three couples sallied forth from Colombaik's tannery,

followed by his apprentices, who, likewise were members of the Commune.

The rivalry of the bells continued undiminished. At intervals the bells

of the churches intermitted their clangor, no doubt in the hope of

having silenced the belfry. Its sonorous and regular peal proceeded,

however, unchecked, and the clerical clangor was renewed with redoubled

fury. The incident, puerile in seeming, but serious at bottom, produced

a deep resentment towards the party of the nobles. It was a long

distance from the tannery of Colombaik to the market-place, the

rendezvous of the bourgeois militia. Large crowds blocked the streets,

moving towards the communal Town Hall, that had been three years

building and was recently finished. Only the casting and hanging of the

bell in its campanile had retarded the inauguration of the monument so

dear to the townsmen. More than once did Joan turn back to look, not

without uneasiness, in the direction where her son followed with

Martine, together with Quatre-Mains and Simonne. Joan's apprehensions

were well founded. A large number of the domestics of the noble and

clerical households were dispersed among the crowd, and from time to

time hurled some vulgar insult at the communiers, upon which they would

immediately take to their heels. Knights, clad in full armor, crossed

and re-crossed the streets, their fists upon their hips, their visors

up, and casting disdainful and defiant looks upon the people. These

provocations increased particularly in the vicinity of the rendezvous of

the militia, at the head of which, and armed as if for battle, the Mayor

of Laon and his twelve Councilmen were to march in procession to the

Town Hall in order to inaugurate by a solemn session the meeting of

these magistrates, held until then at the house of John Molrain, the

Mayor.

The market-place of Laon, like that of all the cities of Gaul, consisted

of large stalls, where, on Saturdays, occasionally also on other days of

the week, the merchants, leaving their everyday shops, exposed their

products for sale. Outsiders and the suburb population, who drew their

supplies from Laon, thus found at one place all that they might want.

But on that day the market served as the gathering place for a goodly

number of bourgeois and artisans, who had armed themselves to join the

procession and impart to it an imposing appearance. In case of war,

every communier was obliged to furnish himself with a pike and an axe,

or club, at the first call from the belfry, and hasten to the

rendezvous. As a rule the crowd seemed indifferent to the insolent gibes

and provocations of the episcopals. The communiers, at least a majority

of them, felt themselves strong enough to despise the challenges to

riot. A few, however, yielded to a certain sense of fear for the

iron-clad nobles, who were accustomed to the use of weapons, and with

whom the Laonese, who owed their enfranchisement to a contract and not

to an insurrection, had not yet had occasion to measure themselves.

Finally and moreover, hardly freed from their rude and base servitude,

many of the townsmen still preserved, involuntarily, a certain habit, if

not of respect, yet of dread for people whose cruel oppression they had

so long been subject to. Shortly, the captains-of-tens, commanding

squads of tens, and the captains-of-hundreds, commanding companies of

hundreds, all under the command of Fergan, who had been chosen

constable, or chief of the militia, drew up their ranks along the stalls

of the market-place. Colombaik was a captain-of-ten, his body was

complete except for one lad called Bertrand, the son of Bernard des

Bruyeres, a rich bourgeois who, three years previous, was assassinated

in the cathedral by Gaudry, bishop of Laon.

"Probably," said Colombaik, "poor Bertrand will not join us to-day. This

is a feast day, and there are no more feast days for the poor fellow

since the murder of his father."

"Yet there comes Bertrand!" cried out one of the militiamen, pointing at

a young man, who, pale, frail and sickly-looking, of a timid and kind

appearance, wearing a steel casque and armed with a heavy axe that

seemed to weigh down his shoulder, was approaching from a distance.

"Poor Bertrand!" the militiaman added, "so feeble and wretched! He is

excused for not having avenged the death of his father upon our accursed

bishop!" Cordially received by his companions, Bertrand answered their

solicitous inquiries with some embarrassment, and silently took his

place in the ranks. The Mayor arrived soon after, accompanied by his

Councilmen, some unarmed, others armed like Ancel Quatre-Mains, who

joined them there. John Molrain, the Mayor, a man in the vigor of life

and of a countenance at once calm and energetic, marched at the head of

the magistrates of the city. One of them carried the banner of the

Commune of Laon,--if the steeple of the people's belfries rose daringly

in the teeth of the feudal donjons, the communal banners floated no less

high than those of the seigneurs. The banner of Laon represented two

embattled towers, between which rose a naked sword. The emblem

signified: "Our city, fortified by walls, will know how to defend itself

by arms against its enemies." Another Councilman carried in a vermillion

casket, lying upon a silk cushion, the communal charter, signed by the

bishop and the nobles, and confirmed by the signature of Louis the

Lusty, King of the French. Finally, a third carried, also upon a

cushion, the silver seal of the Commune, which served to attest the acts

and decrees rendered by the town Council in the name of the Commune.

This large medal, cast in bass relief, represented the Mayor, who, clad

in his long robe and with his right hand pointing heavenward, seemed to

be taking the oath, while his left hand held a sword with the point

resting on his breast. "I, Mayor of Laon, have sworn to maintain and

defend the franchises of the Commune: sooner die than betray my

trust!"--such was the patriotic meaning of the communal seal, in short,

"Liberty or death!"

When the city magistrate arrived, Fergan, who was issuing his last

orders to the militiamen, saw a priest, the archdeacon of the cathedral,

called Anselm, step out of the crowd. Fergan held the tonsured

fraternity in singular aversion, yet greatly esteemed Anselm, a true

disciple of Christ. "Fergan," whispered the archdeacon to the quarryman,

"press your friends to redouble their calmness and their prudence, I

conjure you. Prevent them from replying to any provocation. I can tell

you no more. The time is short. I must proceed to the episcopal palace."

Saying this, Anselm disappeared in the crowd. The advice of the

archdeacon, a wise man, beloved by all, and, due to his office, in a

position to be reliably informed, struck Fergan. He no longer doubted

there was a conspiracy, secretly hatched by the episcopals against the

Commune. Profoundly preoccupied, he placed himself at the head of his

militiamen, in order to escort the Mayor and the Councilmen to the Town

Hall. The obscure names of this magistracy, taken from Fergan's family

archives, and over which he inscribed the exhortation: "May they be ever

dear to your memory, ye sons of Joel!" were: John Molrain, Mayor.

Councilmen: Foulque, the son of Bomar; Raoul Cabricoin; Ancel,

son-in-law of Labert; Haymon; Payen-Seille; Robert; Remy-But;

Menard-Dray, Raimbaut the sausagemaker; Payen-Oste-Loup; Ancel

Quatre-Mains, and Raoul-Gastines.

The procession started amidst the joyful acclamations of the crowd, who

enthusiastically shouted their rallying-cry: "Commune! Commune!"

swollen by the sonorous peals from the belfry, the clerical clangor

having finally ceased, due to the apprehension of the episcopals, lest

the prolonged ringing of their bells was taken for their participation

in the festivities. Before arriving at the place where the Town Hall

stood, the procession defiled before the house of the knight of

Haut-Pourcin, a large and fortified dwelling, flanked with two thick

towers, that were joined by an embattled terrace, projecting above the

door. Upon this species of balcony were gathered a large number of

knights, clergymen, nobles and elegantly bedezined ladies, some young

and handsome, others old and ugly. Among the least old of the latter and

yet ugliest of all, the dame of Haut-Pourcin was conspicuous. A gaunt

virago of about fifty, bony, of parchment skin, and of arrogant mien,

she wore a violet cloak with gold buttons and a cape of peacock

feathers; on her grizzly hair she had coquettishly fastened a chaplet of

lillies of the valley in full bloom, like a shepherdess. The whiteness

of her floral ornaments heightened the yellowish color of the dame's

bilious complexion, a complexion, however, that was less yellowish than

her long teeth. At sight of the procession, headed by the Mayor and his

Councilmen, she turned to those near her, crying out in a sour and

piercing voice that was distinctly heard by the communiers, the terrace

lying only twelve or fifteen feet above the street: "Mesdames and

messeigneurs, have you ever seen a pack of asses tramping to their mill

with a more triumphant air?"

"Oh!" answered one of the knights aloud, laughing and pointing with his

switch at the Mayor, John Molrain: "And look at the master-ass that

leads the rest! How he prances under his furred saddle-cloth!"

"Pity his headgear conceals his long ears from us!"

"Blood of Christ! What a shame to see these Gallic clowns, made slaves

by our ancestors, now carrying swords like us of the nobility!" put in

the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin. "And we, the descendants of the

conquerors; we knights tolerate such villainy!"

"Halloa, there, Quatre-Mains the baker!" yelled the dame of Haut-Pourcin

in a squeaky voice, leaning over the railing of the terrace, "Seigneur

Councilman, trotting cuckolded and content while armed for war! The last

bread that my butler fetched from your shop was not baked enough, and I

suspect you of having cheated me in the weight!"

"Halloa, there, Remy the currier!" added a bulky canon attached to the

cathedral, "Seigneur Councilman, who are there loitering about,

administering the affairs of the city, why are you not at work on the

mule saddle that I ordered?"

"Oh, messeigneurs, there comes the cavalry!" exclaimed a young woman

laughing and smelling at a nosegay of sweet marjorams. "Look at the

swagger of the vagabond who commands his braves, would you not think he

was about to hew down everything in sight?"

"Oh, messeigneurs, look at that hero yonder! Oppressed by his visor, he

is carrying his casque front side back and his sabre on his shoulder!"

"And that one, who holds his sword like a wax-taper! Guess he is a

Pope's soldier!"

"And yonder goes one who came near putting out the eye of his neighbor

with his pike! What a ridiculous set! What silly people!"

"For heaven's sake, messeigneurs, are you not frozen with terror at the

thought that, some day, we may find ourselves face to face and lance in

hand, with this bourgeoisie, this formidable rabble-rout of shaven

fronts, big paunches and flat feet?"

At first, patiently endured by the communiers, these insults,

accentuated with outbursts of contemptuous laughter and disdainful

gestures, ended, nevertheless, by irritating the more impetuous. Dull

murmurs rose from the crowd; the procession halted, despite the

entreaties of Fergan, who urged upon the militiamen the silence of

contempt. Some threatened the episcopals with their fists, others with

their arms; but their tormentors redoubled their gibes at the sight of

such signs of irritation. Suddenly John Molrain, the Mayor, rushing to

one of the stone benches, common near the doors of dwellings to assist

riders in mounting their horses, jumped upon it, ordered silence, and

addressed the crowd in a sonorous voice, that reached the ears of the

episcopals:

"Brothers, and all those who have taken the oath of the Commune of Laon,

make no reply to impotent insults! Let any dare attack the Commune with

deeds and not with words, then will we, your Mayor and Councilmen,

summon the offender before our tribunal, and justice will be enforced

upon our enemies--prompt and energetic justice! Until then, let us

answer all provocation with disdain. The resolute man, strong in his

rights, despises insults. At the hour of judgment, he condemns and

punishes!"

These wise and measured words quieted the excitement of the crowd, but

they also reached the ears of the nobles, assembled on the terrace of

the house of the seigneur of Haut-Pourcin, and added fuel to their rage.

They menaced the communiers with their canes and swords, while

redoubling their gibes. "Your swords are not long enough, they do not

reach us!" Colombaik cried out to them, while passing under the balcony

with his division of the militia. "Come down into the street! We shall

then see whether iron is heavier in the hands of a bourgeois than in

that of a knight!"

This challenge was answered by the episcopals with fresh insults.

However, they dared not descend into the street, where they would have

been seized and taken prisoners by the militia. For a moment delayed on

its march, the procession resumed its way and arrived at the place of

the Town Hall, a monument dear to the artisans and other townsmen.

The edifice, a spacious and handsome structure recently erected, formed

an oblong square. Elaborate sculptures ornamented its facade and the

lintels of its numerous windows and architrave, which consisted of three

ogive arcades sustained by elegant sheaves of stone columns. But the

portion of the edifice upon which particular care had been devoted, both

in point of construction and ornamentation, was the tower of the belfry

and the campanile, where hung the bell. This tower, proudly rising above

the roof, stood out in full view. From tier to tier a slender sheet

supported rounds of small columns surmounted with ogives chiseled in

trefoil, so that across the network of chiseled stone the spiral of the

staircase was visible that led up to the campanile, veiled in white

cloth up to the moment when the procession issued upon the place. When

the covering dropped off and the campanile stood unveiled, a shout of

admiration and patriotic enthusiasm rose from all breasts. Nothing so

airy as that campanile, looking like a gilded cage of iron, whose

outlines stood out against the blue of the sky like a lace-work of gold,

glittering in the rays of the sun. Above the dazzling dome, the communal

banner floated in the spring breeze of that beautiful April morning. The

enthusiastic cheers of the crowds rose again and again, and the north

wind must have carried to the ears of the episcopals the cry, a thousand

times repeated:

"Commune! Commune! Long live the Commune!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE ECCLESIASTICAL SEIGNIORY OF GAUDRY.

The episcopal palace of Laon rose close to the cathedral. Thick walls,

fortified with two heavy towers, between which stood the gate,

surrounded the dwelling from all sides. From the view-point of the

benign morality of Jesus--the friend of the poor and the

afflicted--nothing was less episcopal than the interior of this palace.

One would imagine himself in the fortified castle of some feudal

seigneur, a broiler and hunter. The singular contrast between the place

and the character that it should have presented, left a painful

impression upon all upright hearts, and such, indeed, was the feeling

experienced by archdeacon Anselm, when, shortly after engaging Fergan to

urge upon the communiers indifference towards the provocations of the

episcopals, that disciple of Christ crossed the yard of the bishop. Here

falconers were engaged washing and preparing the raw meat destined for

the falcons, or cleaned up their roosts; yonder, the huntsmen, their

horns on their guard-chains and whip in hand, led for pastime a pack of

large dogs of Picardy, prized so highly by hunters. Further away, serfs

of the episcopal domain were being drilled in the handling of arms under

the command of one of the bishop's equerries. This last circumstance

struck the archdeacon with amazement, and increased his fears for the

peace of the city. The venerable man was overcome with sadness and two

large tears dropped from his eyes.

Although an associate of clergymen, Anselm was a man of great kindness

of heart, pure, disinterested, austere and of rare learning. He was

called "doctor of doctors." He declined the episcopacy several times,

fearing, it was said, to seem to censure, by the Christian meekness of

his nature and the chastity of his habits, the conduct of most of the

bishops of Gaul. His face, at once pale and serene, his hair thinned by

study, imparted a distinguished aspect to his person, tempered by the

kindliness of his eyes. Modestly dressed in his black gown, Anselm was

slowly crossing the yard of the abbey, contrasting their noisy tumult

with the repose of his own studious retreat, when he saw, approaching

him from a distance, a negro of giant stature, dressed in Oriental garb,

his head covered with a red turban. This African slave, of mean and

savage physiognomy, was named John since his baptism. He was, many years

before, given as a present to Bishop Gaudry by a Crusader seigneur,

returned from the Holy Land. By little and little Black John grew to be

the favorite of his new master, the intermediary of the latter's

debaucheries, or the instrument of his cruelties, before the

establishment of the Commune. Since that transformation, the persons and

property of the communiers had become safe. If an injury was done to

either, the Commune obtained or itself enforced justice against the

wrong-doer. Accordingly, the bishop and the nobles had been forced to

renounce their habits of violence and rapine.

When the archdeacon saw Black John, the latter was descending a

staircase that ended in a door, wrought under a vault closed with a

grating, that separated the first two walks of a green reserved for the

bishop. A woman, wrapped in a mantle that completely concealed her face,

accompanied the slave. Anselm could not restrain a gesture of

indignation. Knowing the dwellers of the palace, and aware that the

staircase under the vault led to the apartments of the bishop, he had no

doubt that the veiled woman, leaving the palace at so early an hour and

under the guide of Black John, the bishop's regular procurer, had passed

the night with the prelate. Blushing with chaste confusion, the

archdeacon had turned his head away with disgust at the moment when,

having opened the grated gate, the slave and his female companion

passed close by him. Stepping into the vault, the archdeacon entered the

green,--a spacious enclosure, that, swarded and planted with trees,

spread before the windows of the private apartments of Bishop Gaudry.

This man, a Norman by extraction and descended from the pirates of old

Rolf, after having fought in the ranks of William the Bastard, when he

conquered England, was later, in 1106, promoted to the bishopric of

Laon. Cruel and debauched, covetous and prodigal, Gaudry was, besides

all, a passionate huntsman. Still agile and vigorous, although beyond

the prime of life, he was at that moment trying a young horse and

breaking it in to step on the green that Anselm had just entered. In

order to feel more at ease, the bishop had taken off his long morning

robe, lined with fur, and kept on nothing but his sock-pointed shoes,

his hose and a short jacket of flexible material. Bare-headed, his gray

hair to the wind, still an able and bold cavalier, and riding bare-back

the young stallion, that had for the first time come from the paddock,

Gaudry was pressing his nervy knees against the flanks of the mettlesome

animal, resisting its boundings and kicking, and forcing it to run in a

circle over the sward of the green. The bishop's equerry applauded with

voice and gesture the skill of his master, while a serf of robust frame

and gallows-bird countenance followed the riding lesson with cunning

eyes. This serf, who belonged to the abbey of St. Vincent, a fief of the

bishopric, was named Thiegaud. The fellow--originally charged with the

collection of toll over a bridge near the city, a dependency of the

castellan Enguerrand de Coucy, one of the most ferocious feudal tyrants

of Picardy who was dreaded for his audacity and cruelty--had been guilty

of a number of extortions and even murders. Gaudry, struck by the

resolute character of the scamp, demanded him from the castellan of

Coucy in exchange for another serf, and charged him with the collection

of the arbitrary taxes that he imposed upon his vassals, a charge that

Thiegaud filled with remorseless severity. Thus the bishop treated the

serf with great familiarity, habitually called him his "friend

Ysengrin"--the wolf's companion--and, at a pinch, used him for a

go-between in his debaucheries, not, however, without awakening the

vindictive jealousy of Black John, who felt secretly enraged at the

sight of another than himself in the secret confidence of his master.

Gaudry, while riding around the green, saw the archdeacon, made the

stallion suddenly face about, and after a few more boundings the

impetuous animal brought the bishop close to Anselm. Lightly jumping

off, the bishop said to his equerry, throwing the bridle over to him:

"I'll keep the horse; take him to my stables; he will be matchless in

the hunt of stags and boars!"

"If you keep the horse, seigneur bishop," answered Thiegaud, "give me a

hundred and twenty silver sous. That's the price they demand."

"That's all right. What's the hurry?" rejoined the bishop, and turning

to his equerry: "Gerhard, take the horse to the stable."

"Not so," said Thiegaud, "the tenant-farmer is waiting at the gate of

the palace. He has been ordered to take the horse back or receive its

price in money. It is the orders of the owner of the stallion."

"The impudent scamp who gave that order deserves to receive as many

lashes as his horse has hairs in his tail!" cried out the bishop. "Have

I not, as a matter of right, six months' credit in my own seigniory?"

"No," coolly answered Anselm, "that seignioral right has been abolished

since the city of Laon is a free Commune. Never forget the difference

between the present and the past. The seignioral rights are abolished."

"I am reminded of that but too often!" answered the bishop with

concentrated vexation. "However that may be, Gerhard, obey my orders and

take the horse to the stable."

"Seigneur," said Thiegaud, "the owner is waiting, I tell you. He must

have the money, a hundred and twenty silver sous, or the animal back."

"He shall not have the horse!" answered the bishop angrily striking the

ground. "If the farmer dares to grumble, tell him to send me his master.

We shall see whether he will have the audacity to appear on such an

errand before his bishop."

"He will surely have the audacity, seigneur bishop," replied Thiegaud.

"The owner of the horse is Colombaik the Tanner, a communier of Laon and

son of Fergan, master quarryman of the mill hill. I know these people. I

notify you that the father and son are of those ... who dare ...

anything."

"Blood of Christ! and devil's horns! we have had words enough!" cried

out the bishop. "Gerhard, take the stallion to the stables!"

The equerry obeyed, and the archdeacon was on the point of remonstrating

with Gaudry on the injustice and danger of his conduct, when, hearing a

great noise in the yards contiguous to the green, the bishop, already in

a bad humor and yielding to the passion of his temperament, rushed out

of the green, without taking time to put on his robe again and leaving

it behind on a bench. He had hardly crossed the first yard, followed by

the equerry, who led the horse, and by Thiegaud, who in his perversity

was smiling at this latest iniquity of his master, when he saw a crowd

of the domestics of his household coming towards him. They were all

yelling and gesticulating violently, and surrounded Black John, whose

gigantic stature rose above them by the full length of his head. No less

excited than his fellows, Black John also yelled and gesticulated,

foaming at the mouth with rage and brandishing his Saracen dagger.

"What means this hurly?" inquired the bishop of Laon stepping before the

advancing crowd. "Why do you scream in that way?"

Several voices answered at once: "We are crying out against the

bourgeois of Laon! The dogs of the communiers!"

"What has happened? Answer quick!"

"Black John will tell monseigneur!" several voices called in great

excitement.