"We bless Thee for the quiet rest Thy servant taketh now,
We bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crowned brow;
For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,
And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly."
The Church of Saint Mary the Virgin was filled to overflowing, but it
was not the church we know as such now. That more ancient edifice had
been built in the days of Alfred, and its nave was closely packed with
the clergy of Oxford and the neighbourhood, save a circle of curule
chairs reserved for the members of the Council. Into the midst of the
excited crowd of clergy--among whom were sprinkled as many laymen,
chiefly of the upper class, as could find room to squeeze in--filed an
imposing procession of dignitaries--priests, archdeacons, bishops--all
robed in full canonicals; the Bishop of the diocese being preceded by
his crucifer. There was as yet no bishopric of Oxford, and the diocese
was that of Lincoln. It was a point of the most rigid ecclesiastical
etiquette that no prelate should have his official cross borne before
him in the diocese of another: and the standing quarrel between the two
archbishops on that point was acute and long lasting. The clerical
procession was closed by the Dean of Saint Mary's--John de Oxineford--a
warm opponent of Becket, the exiled and absent Primate. After the
clergy came a number of the chief officers of state, and lastly, King
Henry the Second, who took his seat in the highest of the curule chairs,
midmost among the others.
The first of the Plantagenets was no common man. Like most of his race,
he was a born statesman; and also like most of them, he allowed his evil
passions and natural corruption such free scope that his talents were
smothered under their weight. In person he was of middle stature,
somewhat thickly built, with a large round head covered by curly hair,
cut square upon the forehead. Long arms ended in large hands, the care
of which he entirely neglected, never wearing gloves save when he
carried a hawk. His complexion was slightly florid, his eyes small but
clear and sparkling, dove-like when he was pleased, but flashing fire in
his anger. Though his voice was tremulous, yet he could be an eloquent
speaker. He rarely sat down, but commonly stood, whether at mass,
council, or meals. Except on ceremonial occasions, he was extremely
careless in his attire, wearing short clothes of a homely cut, and
requiring some persuasion to renew them. He detested every thing that
came in the way of his convenience, whether long skirts, hanging
sleeves, royal mantles, or boots with folding tops. He was (for his
time) a great reader, a "huge lover of the woods" and of all sylvan
sports, fond of travelling, a very small eater, a generous almsgiver, a
faithful friend--and a good hater. The model example which he set
before him as a statesman was that of his grandfather, Henry First. The
Empress Maud, his mother, was above all things Norman, and was now
living in Normandy in peaceful old age. Perhaps her stormy and eventful
life had made her _feel_ weary of storms, for she rarely emerged from
her retirement except in the character of a peacemaker. Certainly she
had learnt wisdom by adversity. Her former supercilious sternness was
gone, and a meek and quiet spirit, which earned the respect of all, had
taken its place. She may have owed that change, and her quiet close of
life, instrumentally, in some measure to the prayers of the good Queen
Maud, that sweet and saintly mother to whom Maud the Empress had in her
childhood and maturity been so complete a contrast, and whom she now
resembled in her old age. Her son was unhappily not of her later tone,
but rather of the earlier, though he rarely reached those passionate
depths of pride and bitterness through which his aged mother had
struggled into calm. He did not share her Norman proclivities, but
looked back--as the mass of his people did with him--to the old Saxon
laws of Alfred and of Athelstan, which he called the customs of his
grandfather. In a matter of trial for heresy, or a question of
doctrine, he was the obedient servant of Rome; but when the Pope laid
officious hands on the venerable customs of England, and strove to
dictate in points of state law, he found no obedient servant in Henry of
Anjou.
This morning, being a ceremonial occasion, His Majesty's attire had
risen to it. He wore a white silken tunic, the border richly
embroidered in gold; a crimson dalmatic covered with golden stars; a
mantle of blue samite, fastened on the right shoulder with a golden
fermail set with a large ruby; and red hose, crossed by golden bands all
up the leg. The mantle was lined with grey fur; golden lioncels
decorated the fronts of the black boots; and a white samite cap, adorned
with ostrich feathers, and rising out of a golden fillet, reposed on the
King's head.
When the members of the Council had taken their seats, and the Bishop of
Lichfield had offered up sundry Latin prayers which about one in ten of
the assembled company understood, the King rose to open the Council.
"It is not unknown to you, venerable Fathers," he said, "for what
purpose I have convened this Council. There have come into my kingdom
certain persons, foreigners, from the dominions of the Emperor, who have
gone about the country preaching strange doctrines, and who appear to
belong to some new foreign sect. I am unwilling to do injustice, either
by punishing them without investigation, or by dismissing them as
harmless if they are contaminating the faith and morals of the people.
But inasmuch as it appertains to holy Church to judge questions of that
nature, I have here summoned you, my Fathers in God, and your clergy,
that you may examine these persons, and report to me how far they are
innocent or guilty of the false doctrines whereof they are suspected. I
pray you therefore so to do: and as you shall report, so shall I know
how to deal with them."
His Majesty reseated himself, and the Bishop of the diocese rose, to
deliver a long diatribe upon the wickedness of heresy, the infallibility
of the Church, and the necessity for the amputation of diseased limbs of
the body politic. As nobody disagreed with any of his sentiments, the
harangue was scarcely necessary; but time was of small value in the
twelfth century. Two other Bishops followed, with long speeches: and
then the Council adjourned for dinner, the Earl of Oxford being their
host.
On re-assembling about eleven o'clock, the King commanded the prisoners
to be brought up. Up they came, the company of thirty--men, women, and
children, Gerhardt the foremost at the bar.
"Who are thou?" he was asked.
"I am a German named Gerhardt, born in the dominions of the Duke of
Francia, an elector of the Empire."
"Art thou the leader of this company?"
"I am."
"Wherefore earnest thou to this land?"
"Long ago, in my childhood, I had read of the blessed Boniface, who,
being an Englishman, travelled into Almayne to teach our people the
faith of Christ. I desired to pay back to your land something of the
debt we owed her, by bringing back to her the faith of Christ."
"Didst thou ignorantly imagine us without it?"
"I thought," replied Gerhardt in his quiet manner, "that you could
scarcely have too much of it."
"What is thy calling?"
"While in this country, I have followed the weaver's craft."
"Art thou a lettered man?"
"I am."
"Try him," said one of the Bishops. A Latin book was handed up to
Gerhardt, from which he readily construed some sentences, until the
Council declared itself satisfied on that point. This man before them,
whatever else he might be, was no mere ignorant peasant.
"Are the rest of thy company lettered men?"
"No. They are mostly peasants."
"Have they gone about preaching, as thou hast?"
"The men have done so."
"And how can ignorant peasants teach abstruse doctrines?"
"I do not think they attempted that. They kept to the simple
doctrines."
"What understandest thou by that?" Gerhardt was beginning to answer,
when the Bishop of Winchester interposed with another question. He was
Prince Henry of Blois, the brother of King Stephen, and a better warrior
than a cleric. "Art thou a priest?"
"I am not."
"Go on," said the Bishop of Lincoln, who led the examination. "What
meanest thou by the faith of Christ? What dost thou believe about
Christ?"
Gerhardt's reply on this head was so satisfactory that the Bishop of
Worcester--not long appointed--whispered to his brother of Winchester,
"The man is all right!"
"Wait," returned the more experienced and pugnacious prelate. "We have
not come to the crux yet."
"You call yourselves Christians, then?" resumed Lincoln.
"Certainly we are Christians, and revere the doctrines of the Apostles."
"What say you of the remedies for sin?"
"I know of one only, which is the blood of Christ our Lord."
"How!--are the sacraments no remedies?"
"Certainly not."
"Is sin not remitted in baptism?"
"No."
"Is not the blood of Christ applied to sinners in the holy Eucharist?"
"I utterly refuse such a doctrine."
"What say you of marriage? is that a sacrament?"
"I do not believe it."
"Ha! the man is all right, is he?" whispered old Winchester satirically
to his young neighbour, Worcester.
"Doth not Saint Paul term marriage `_sacramentum magnum_'?"
"He did not write in Latin."
This was awkward. The heretic knew rather too much.
"Are you aware that all the holy doctors are against you?"
"I am not responsible for their opinions."
"Do you not accept the interpretation of the Church?"
What his Lordship meant by this well-sounding term was a certain bundle
of ideas--some of them very illiterate, some very delicate
hair-splitting, some curious even to comicality,--gathered out of the
writings of a certain number of men, who assuredly were not inspired,
since they often travesty Scripture, and at times diametrically
contradict it. Having lived in the darkest times of the Church, they
were extremely ignorant and superstitious, even the best of them being
enslaved by fancies as untrue in fact as they were unspiritual in tone.
It might well have been asked as the response, Where is it?--for no
Church, not even that of Rome herself, has ever put forward an
authorised commentary explanatory of holy Scripture. Her
"interpretation of the Church" has to be gathered here and there by
abstruse study, and so far as her lay members are concerned, is
practically received from the lips of the nearest priest. Gerhardt,
however, did not take this line in replying, but preferred to answer the
Bishop's inaccurate use of the word Church, which Rome impudently denies
to all save her corrupt self. He replied--
"Of the true Church, which is the elect of God throughout all ages,
fore-ordained to eternal life? I see no reason to refuse it."
The Scriptural doctrine of predestination has been compared to "a red
rag" offered to a bull, in respect of its effect on those--whether
votaries of idols or latitudinarianism--who are conscious that they are
not the subjects of saving grace. To none is it more offensive than to
a devout servant of the Church of Rome. The Bishop took up the offence
at once.
"You hold that heresy--that men are fore-ordained to eternal life?"
"I follow therein the Apostle Paul and Saint Austin."
This was becoming intolerable.
"Doth not the Apostle command his hearers to `work out their own
salvation'?"
"Would it please my Lord to finish the verse?"
It did not please my Lord to finish the verse, as that would have put an
extinguisher on his interpretation of it.
"These heretics refuse to be corrected by Scripture!" he cried instead,
as a much more satisfactory thing to say.
Gerhardt's quiet answer was only heard by those near him--"I have not
been so yet."
This aggravating man must be put down. The Bishop raised his voice.
"Speak, ye that are behind this man. Do ye accept the interpretation of
Scripture taught by the Church our mother, to whom God hath committed
the teaching of all her children?"
Old Berthold replied. "We believe as we have been taught, but we do not
wish to dispute."
"Ye are obstinate in your heresy! Will ye do penance for the same?"
"No," answered Gerhardt.
"Let them have one more chance," said King Henry in a low voice. "If
they are unsound on one point only, there might yet be hope of their
conversion."
"They are unsound on every point, my Lord," replied Lincoln irascibly;
"but at your desire I will test them on one or two more.--Tell me, do ye
believe that the souls of the dead pass into Purgatory?"
"We do not."
"Do you pray for the dead?"
"No."
"Do you invocate the blessed Mary and the saints, and trust to their
merits and intercession?"
"Never. We worship God, not men."
At this point Winchester beckoned to Lincoln, and whispered something in
his ear.
"I am told," pursued the latter, addressing Gerhardt, "that you hold the
priests of holy Church not to be validly consecrated, and have so said
in public. Is it so?"
"It is so. The temporal power of the Pope has deprived the Church of
the true consecration. You have only the shadow of sacraments, and the
traditions of men."
"You reject the holy sacraments entirely, then?"
"Not so. We observe the Eucharist at our daily meals. Our Lord bade us
`as oft as we should drink,' to take that wine in remembrance of Him.
We do His bidding."
"Ye presume to profane the Eucharist thus!" cried Lichfield in pious
horror. "Ye administer to yourselves--"
"As Saint Basil held lawful," interposed Gerhardt.
"Saint Basil spoke of extraordinary occasions when no priest could be
had."
"But if it be lawful at any time to receive without priestly
consecration, it cannot be unlawful, at every time."
It did not occur to the Bishop to ask the pertinent question, in what
passage of Scripture priestly consecration of the Eucharist was
required,--nay, in what passage any consecration at all is ever
mentioned. For at the original institution of the rite, our Lord
consecrated nothing, but merely gave thanks to God [Note 1], as it was
customary for the master of the house to do at the Passover feast; and
seeing that "if He were on earth, He should not be a priest." [Note 2.]
He cannot have acted as a priest when He was on earth. We have even
distinct evidence that He declined so to act [Note 3]. And in any
subsequent allusions to this Sacrament in the New Testament [Note 4],
there is no mention of either priests or consecration. It did not,
however, suit the Bishop to pursue this inconvenient point. He passed
at once to another item.
"Ye dare to touch the sacred cup reserved to the priests--"
"When did Christ so reserve it? His command was, `Drink ye all of it.'"
"To the Apostles, thou foolish man!"
"Were they priests at that time?"
This was the last straw. The question could not be answered except in
the negative, for if the ordination of the Apostles be not recorded
after the Resurrection [John twenty 21-23], then there is no record of
their having been ordained at all. To be put in a corner in this manner
was more than a Bishop could stand.
"How darest thou beard me thus?" he roared. "Dost thou not know what
may follow? Is not the King here, who has the power of life and death,
and is he not an obedient son of holy Church?"
The slight smile on Gerhardt's lips said, "Not very!" But his only
words were--
"Ay, I know that ye have power. `This is your hour, and the power of
darkness.' We are not afraid. We have had our message of consolation.
`Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for
theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"
"Incredible folly!" exclaimed Lincoln. "That was said to the early
Christians, who suffered persecution from the heathen: not to heretics,
smarting under the deserved correction of the Church. How dare you so
misapply it?"
"All the Lord's martyrs were not in the early Church. `We are the
circumcision, who worship God in spirit, and glory in Christ Jesus, and
have no confidence in the flesh.' Do to us what ye will. `Whether we
live, we live unto the Lord; or whether we die, we die unto the Lord.
Living or dying, we are the Lord's.'"
"We solemnly adjudge you false heretics," was the stern reply, "and
deliver you up to our Catholic Prince for punishment. Depart in peace!"
Gerhardt looked up. "`My peace I give unto you; not as the world
giveth, give I unto you!' Be it so. We go in peace; we go to peace.
Our suffering will soon be over. Already we behold Jesus our Lord at
the right hand of God, and we are ready to partake of His sufferings,
that we may reign with Him."
King Henry now rose to pronounce sentence. The condemned criminals
before him were to be branded on the forehead with a mark of ignominy,
to be scourged, and cast forth out of the city. No man might receive
them under his roof, relieve them with food, nor administer to them
consolation of any sort. And this was the sentence of the King and of
holy Church, to the honour and laud of God, and of Mary, His most
glorious Mother!
The sentence was carried out even more barbarously than it was
pronounced. The foreheads of all were branded with hot irons, they were
whipped through the city, and their clothes having been cut short to the
girdle [John twenty 21-23], they were turned into the snow-covered
fields. One of the men appointed to use the branding-irons had just
lost a daughter, and moved by a momentary impulse of pity (for which he
afterwards blamed himself and did penance), he passed two or three of
the younger women--Ermine among them--with a lighter brand than the
rest. No such mercy was shown to the men or the elder women, nor would
it have been to Ermine, had it not been the case that her extreme
fairness made her look much younger than she really was.
Gerhardt, being regarded as the ringleader, was also branded on the
chin.
"Courage, my children!" he said to the shivering, trembling little
company, as they were marched down High Street. "We are counted
worthy--worthy to suffer shame for Him who suffered dire shame for us.
Let us praise God."
And to the amazement, alike of the officials and the crowd of
spectators, the song was set up, and echoed into the side
streets--"Blessed are ye, when men shall persecute you, for the Son of
Man's sake!" varied every now and then by a joyous chorus of "Glory to
God in the highest! on earth peace, goodwill towards men!"
The song was heard clearly enough in the Walnut Tree: so clearly, that
Flemild even fancied she could distinguish Ermine's voice from the rest.
"Mother, will you go and look?" she asked, tears running down her face.
"I'll not go near," said Isel, in a tone of defiance very unusual with
her. "I'll not get your father and you into trouble. And if I were to
go, much if I didn't tear somebody a-pieces."
"O Mother! you wouldn't touch our old friends? They've enough to bear,
surely."
"I said _somebody_! child!" was the growl in answer: and Flemild did not
venture to reply.
Fainter and fainter grew the sounds; only strengthened for a minute when
the higher notes of the chorus supervened. Then came a great roar of
applause from the crowd, as the East Gate was reached, and the heretics
were cast out from the priest-ridden city. But they scarcely heard that
in Kepeharme Lane.
At the window of the anchorhold stood Derette, having sent Leuesa to
bring her word what happened. She could see nothing, yet she heard the
joyous chant of "Glory to God in the highest!" as the crowd and the
condemned swept down the street just beyond her ken. Leuesa did not
even try to hide her tears when she reached the shelter of the
anchorhold: before that, it would have been perilous to shed them.
"Oh, it was dreadful, Lady! Gerard never looked at any one: he walked
first, and he looked as if he saw nothing but God and Heaven. Agnes I
could not see, nor the child; I suppose they were on the other side.
But Ermine saw me, and she gave me a smile for you--I am sure she meant
it for you--such as an angel might have given who had been a few hours
on earth, and was just going back to his place before the Throne."
Manning and Haimet, who had joined the crowd of sightseers, had not
returned when the latch of the Walnut Tree was lifted, and Anania walked
in.
"What, both stayed at home! O Aunt Isel, you have missed such a sight!"
"Well, you've got it, then, I suppose," muttered Isel.
"I shall never forget it--not if I live to be a hundred."
"Umph! Don't think I shall neither."
"Now, didn't I tell you those foreigners were no good? Osbert always
said so. I knew I was right. And I am, you see."
"You're standing in my light, Anania--that's all I can see at present."
Anania moved about two inches. "Oh, but it was grand to see the Council
come out of Saint Mary's! All the doctors in their robes, and the
Bishops, and last the King--such a lovely shade his mantle was! It's a
pity the Queen was not there too; I always think a procession's half
spoiled when there are no ladies."
"Oh, that's what you're clucking about, is it? Processions, indeed!"
"Aunt Isel, are you very cross, or what's the matter with you?"
"She's in pain, I fear," said Flemild quickly.
"Where's the pain? I've gathered some splendid fresh betony and
holy-thistle."
"Here!" said Isel, laying her hand on her heart.
"Why, then, holy-thistle's just what you want. I'll send you some down
by Stephen."
"Thank you. But it'll do me no good."
"Oh, don't you say that, now.--Flemild, I wonder you did not come to see
all the sights. You'll find you've not nearly so much time for pleasure
after you're married; don't look for it. Have you settled when it's to
be?"
"It was to have been last month, you know, but Father wanted it put
off."
"Ay, so as he could know Raven a bit better. Well, when is it to be
now?"
"March, they say."
"You don't say it as if you enjoyed it much."
"Maybe she takes her pleasure in different ways from you," said Isel.
"Can't see any, for my part, in going to see a lot of poor wretches
flogged and driven out into the snow. Suppose you could."
"O Aunt!--when they were heretics?"
"No, _nor murderers neither_--without they'd murdered me, and then I
reckon I shouldn't have been there to look at 'em."
"But the priests say they are worse than murderers--they murder men's
souls."
"I'm alive, for aught I know. And I don't expect to say my Paternoster
any worse than I did seven years gone."
"How do you know they haven't bewitched you?" asked Anania in a solemn
tone.
"For the best of all reasons--that I'm not bewitched."
"Aunt Isel, I'm not so sure of that. If those wretches--"
"O Anania, do let Mother be!" pleaded Flemild. "It is her pain that
speaks, not herself. I told you she was suffering."
"You did; but I wonder if her soul isn't worse than her body. I'll just
give Father Dolfin a hint to look to her soul and body both. They say
those creatures only bewitched one maid, and she was but a poor villein
belonging to some doctor of the schools: and so frightened was she to
see their punishment that she was in a hurry to recant every thing they
had taught her. Well! we shall see no more of them, that's one good
thing. I shouldn't think any of them would be alive by the end of the
week. The proclamation was strict--neither food nor shelter to be
given, nor any compassion shown. And branded as they are, every body
will know them, you see."
Stephen came in while his sister-in-law was speaking.
"Come, now, haven't you had talk enough?" said he. "You've a tongue as
long as from here to Banbury Cross. You'd best be going home, Anania,
for Osbert's as cross as two sticks, and he'll be there in a few
minutes."
"Oh dear, one never has a bit of peace! I did think I could have sat a
while, and had a nice chat."
"It won't be so nice if you keep Osbert waiting, I can tell you."
Anania rose with evident reluctance, and gathered her mantle round her.
"Well, good-day, Aunt Isel! I'll send you down the holy-thistle.
Good-day, Flemild. Aren't you coming with me, Stephen?"
"No; I want to wait for Uncle Manning."
"Stephen, I'm obliged to you for ever and ever! If she'd stayed another
minute, I should have flown at her!"
"You looked as if you'd come to the end of your patience," said Stephen,
smiling, but gravely; "and truly, I don't wonder. But what's this about
holy-thistle? Are you sick, Aunt Isel?"
Isel looked searchingly into her nephew's face.
"You look true," she said; "I think you might be trusted, Stephen."
"Oh, _if_ you're grieving over _them_, don't be afraid to tell me so. I
did my best to save Gerard, but he would not be warned. I'd have caught
up the child and brought him to you, if I'd had a chance; but I was
hemmed in the crowd, a burly priest right afore me, and I couldn't have
laid hand on him. Poor souls! I'm sorry for them."
"God bless thee for those words, Stephen! I'm sore for them to the very
core of my heart. If they'd been my own father's children or mine, I
couldn't feel sadder than I do. And to have to listen to those hard,
cold, brutal words from that woman--."
"I know. She is a brute. I guessed somewhat how things were going with
you, for I saw her turn in here from the end of Saint Edward's; and I
thought you mightn't be so sorry to have her sent off. Her tongue's not
so musical as might be."
Manning and Haimet came in together. The former went up to Isel, while
Haimet began a conversation with his cousin, and after a moment the two
young men left the house together. Then Manning spoke.
"Wife and children," said he, "from this day forward, no word is to be
uttered in my house concerning these German people. They are heretics,
so pronounced by holy Church; and after that, no compassion may be shown
to them. Heretics are monsters, demons in human form, who seek the ruin
of souls. Remember my words."
Isel looked earnestly in her husband's face.
"No," said Manning, not unkindly, but firmly; "no excuses for them,
Isel. I can quite understand that you feel sorry for those whom you
have regarded as friends for seven years: but such sorrow is now sin.
You must crush and conquer it. It were rebellion against God, who has
judged these miscreants by the lips of His Church."
Isel broke down in a very passion of tears.
"I can't help it, Manning; I can't help it!" she said, when she could
speak. "It may be sin, but I must do it and do penance for it--it's not
a bit of use telling me I must not. I'll try not to talk if you bid me
be silent, but you must give me a day or two to get quieted,--till every
living creature round has done spitting venom at them. I don't promise
to hold my tongue to that ninny of an Anania--she aggravates me while it
isn't in human nature to keep your tongue off her; it's all I can do to
hold my hands."
"She is very provoking, Father," said Flemild in an unsteady voice; "she
wears Mother fairly out."
"You may both quarrel with Anania whenever you please," replied Manning
calmly; "I've nothing to say against that. But you are not to make
excuses for those heretics, nor to express compassion for them. Now
those are my orders: don't let me have to give them twice."
"No, Father; you shall not, to me," said Flemild in a low tone.
"I can't promise you nothing," said Isel, wiping her eyes on her apron,
"because I know I shall just go and break it as fast as it's made: but
when I can, I'll do your bidding, Manning. And till then, you'll have
either to thrash me or forgive me--whichever you think the properest
thing to do."
Manning walked away without saying more.
Snow, snow everywhere!--lying several inches deep on the tracks our
forefathers called roads, drifted several feet high in corners and
clefts of the rocks. Pure, white, untrodden, in the silent fields; but
trampled by many feet upon the road to Dorchester, the way taken by the
hapless exiles. No voice was raised in pity, no hand outstretched for
help; every door was shut against the heretics. Did those who in after
years were burned at the stake on the same plea suffer more or less than
this little band of pioneers, as one after another sank down, and died
in the white snow? The trembling hands of the survivors heaped over
each in turn the spotless coverlet, and then they passed on to their own
speedy fate.
The snow descended without intermission, driving pitilessly in the
scarred faces of the sufferers. Had they not known that it came from
the hand of their heavenly Father, they might have fancied that Satan
was warring against them by that means, as the utmost and the last thing
that he could do. But as the snow descended, the song ascended as
unceasingly. Fainter and less full it grew to human ears, as one voice
after another was silenced. It may be that the angels heard it richer
and louder, as the choristers grew more few and weak.
Of the little family group which we have followed, the first to give way
was Agnes. She had taken from her own shivering limbs, to wrap round
the child, one of the mutilated garments which alone her tormentors had
left her. As they approached Nuneham, she staggered and fell. Guelph
and Adelheid ran to lift her up.
"Oh, let me sleep!" she said. "I can sing no more."
"Ay, let her sleep," echoed Gerhardt in a quivering voice; "she will
suffer least so. Farewell for a moment, my true beloved! We shall meet
again ere the hour be over."
Gerhardt held on but a little longer. Doubly branded, and more brutally
scourged than the rest, he was so ill from the first that he had to be
helped along by Wilhelm and Conrad, two of the strongest in the little
company. How Ermine fared they knew not: they could only tell that when
they reached Bensington, she was no longer among them. Most of the
children sank early. Little Rudolph fared the best, for a young mother
who had lost her baby gave him such poor nourishment as she could from
her own bosom. It was just as they came out of Dorchester, that they
laid him down tenderly on a bed of leaves in a sheltered corner, to
sleep out his little life. Then they passed on, still southwards--still
singing "Glory to God in the highest!" and "Blessed are they which are
persecuted for righteousness' sake!" Oh, what exquisite music must have
floated up through the gates of pearl, and filled the heavenly places,
from that poor faint song, breathed by those trembling voices that could
scarcely utter the notes!
A few hours later, and only one dark figure was left tottering through
the snow. Old Berthold was alone.
Snow everywhere!--and the night fell, and the frost grew keen; and
Bensington had not long been left behind when old Berthold lay down in
the ditch at the road-side. He had sung his last song, and could go no
further. He could only wait for the chariot of God--for the
white-winged angels to come silently over the white snow, and carry him
Home.
"The Lord will not forget me, though I am the last left," he said to
himself. "His blessings are not mere empty words. `Glory to God in the
highest!'" And Berthold slept.
"Rudolph!" The word was breathed softly, eagerly, by some moving thing
closely wrapped up, in the dense darkness of the field outside
Dorchester. There was no answer.
"Rudolph!" came eagerly again.
The speaker, who was intently listening, fancied she heard the faintest
possible sound. Quickly, quietly, flitting from one point to another,
feeling with her hands on the ground, under the bushes, by the walls,
she went, till her outstretched hands touched something round and soft,
and not quite so chillingly cold as every thing else seemed to be that
night.
"Rudolph! art thou here?"
"Yes, it's me," said the faint childish voice. "Where am I?--and who
are you?"
"Drink," was the answer; and a bottle of warm broth was held to the
boy's blue lips. Then, when he had drunk, he was raised from the
ground, clasped close to a woman's warm breast, and a thick fur mantle
was hastily wrapped round them both.
"Who are you?" repeated the child. "And where--where's Mother?"
"I am an old friend, my little child. Hast thou ever heard the name of
Countess?"
"Yes," murmured the child feebly. He could not remember yet how or
where he had heard it; he only knew that it was not strange to him.
"That is well. Glory be to the Blessed that I have found thee in time
to save thee!"
They were speeding back now into the lighted town--not lighted, indeed,
by out-door lamps, but by many an open door and uncovered window, and
the lanterns of passengers going up or down the street. Countess
carried the child to a stone house--only Jews built stone houses in
towns at that day--and into a ground-floor room, where she laid him down
on a white couch beside the fire. There were two men in the room--both
old, and with long white beards.
"Countess! what hast thou there?" sternly asked one of the men.
"Father Jacob!--a babe of the Goyim!" exclaimed the other.
"Hush!" said Countess in a whisper, as she bent over the boy. "The life
is barely in him. May the Blessed (to whom be praise!) help me to save
my darling!"
"Accursed are all the infidels!" said the man who seemed slightly the
younger of the two. "Daughter, how earnest thou by such a child, and
how darest thou give him such a name?"
Countess made no answer. She was busy feeding little Rudolph with bits
of bread sopped in warm broth.
"Where am I?" asked the child, as sense and a degree of strength
returned to him. "It isn't Isel's house."
"Wife, dost thou not answer the Cohen?" said the elder man angrily.
"The Cohen can wait for his answer; the child cannot for his life. When
I think him safe I will answer all you choose."
At length, after careful feeding and drying, Countess laid down the
spoon, and covered the child with a warm woollen coverlet.
"Sleep, my darling!" she said softly. "The God of Israel hush thee
under His wings!"
A few moments of perfect quiet left no doubt that little Rudolph was
sound asleep. Then Countess stood up, and turned to the Rabbi.
"Now, Cohen, I am ready. Ask me what you will."
"Who and what is this child?"
"An exile, as we are. An orphan, cast on the great heart of the
All-Merciful. A trust which was given to me, and I mean to fulfil it."
"That depends on the leave of thy lord."
"It depends on nothing of the sort. I sware to the dead father of this
boy that I would protect him from all hurt."
"Sware! Well, then--" said the elder Jew--"an oath must be fulfilled,
Cohen?"
"That depends on circumstances," returned the Rabbi in Jesuitical wise.
"For instance, if Countess sware by any idol of the Goyim, it is void.
If she sware by her troth, or faith, or any such thing, it may be
doubtful, and might require a synod of the Rabbins to determine it. But
if she sware by the Holy One (blessed be He!) then the oath must stand.
But of course, daughter, thou wilt have the boy circumcised, and bring
him up as a proselyte of Israel."
The expression in the eyes of Countess did not please the Rabbi.
"Thus I sware," she said: "`God do so to me and more also, if I bring
not the child to you unhurt!' How can I meet that man at the day of
doom, if I have not kept mine oath--if I deliver not the boy to him
unhurt, as he will deem hurting?"
"But that were to teach him the idolatries of the Goyim!" exclaimed the
Rabbi in horror.
"I shall teach him no idolatry. Only what his father would have taught
him--and I know what that was. I have listened to him many a day on
Presthey and Pary's Mead."
"Countess, I shall not suffer it. Such a thing must not be done in my
house."
"It has to be done in mine," said Countess doggedly.
"I do not forbid thee to show mercy to the child. If he be, as thou
sayest, an orphan and an exile, and thou moreover hast accepted some
fashion of trust with regard to him (however foolish it were to do so),
I am willing that thou shouldst keep him a day or two, till he has
recovered. But then shelter must be sought for him with the Goyim."
"Do you two know," said Countess, in a low voice of concentrated
determination, "that this child's parents, and all of their race that
were with them, have been scourged by the Goyim?--branded, and cast
forth as evil, and have died in the night and in the snow, because they
would _not_ worship idols? These are not of the brood of the priests,
who hate them. The boy is mine, and shall be brought up as mine. I
sware it."
"But not for life?"
"I sware it."
"Did the child's father know what thou hadst sworn? as if not, perchance
there may be means to release thee."
The black eyes flashed fire.
"I tell you, I sware unto him by Adonai, the God of Israel, and He knew
it! In the lowest depths and loftiest heights of my own soul I sware,
and He heard it. I repeated the vow this night, when I clasped the boy
to my heart once more. God will do so to me and more also, if I bring
not the boy unhurt to his father and his mother at the Judgment Day!"
"But, my daughter, if it can be loosed?"
"What do I care for your loosing? He will not loose me. And the child
shall not suffer. I will die first."
"Let the child tarry till he has recovered: did I not say so? Then he
must go forth."
"If you turn him forth, you turn me forth with him."
"Nonsense!"
"You will see. I shall never leave him. My darling, my white
snow-bird! I shall never leave the boy."
"My daughter," said the Rabbi softly, for he thought the oil might
succeed where the vinegar had failed, "dost thou not see that Leo's
advice is the best? The child must tarry with thee till he is well; no
man shall prevent that."
"Amen!" said Countess.
"But that over, is it not far better both for him and thee that he
should go to the Goyim? We will take pains, for the reverence of thine
oath, to find friends of his parents, who will have good care of him: I
promise thee it shall be done, and Leo will assent thereto."