HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX
As Richard Longsword ran across field and fallow that bright
afternoon, had the warm sun turned to ink, he would scarce have known
it. Sight he had not, nor hearing. He did not feel the bushes that
whipped smartly in his face as he dashed through them; he did not see
the wide ravine of the brook brawling at his feet. Only by some mad
instinct he leaped and cleared it, and ran on and on; fleeing--from
what? His head was throbbing, though he had touched no wine; there was
a great weight in his breast, numbing, crushing. He even tried to stop
himself, to look about, to call back sense and reason. Useless; the
passion mastered him, and still he ran on.
As he ran, he prayed; prayed aloud, and knew not what he prayed. "Holy
Mary, pray for me! Holy Mother of God, pray for me! Holy Virgin of
Virgins, pray for me! Mother of divine grace, pray for me!"
And still on! Would the fire in his brain never quench? He stumbled
over a fallen tree, and knew he was in the forest. He rose, glanced
back; he could see at last,--the tower of St. Julien was still in
sight. And in the tower were men and maids who could laugh, and
chatter, and love the sunshine. Away from them! Richard broke in among
the crowding trees, and ran yet faster. Presently, though his pain
grew not the less, it ceased to be one aching blur of feelings. Forms,
faces, were darting before his eyes; now among the trees; now peering
from the thickets; now flitting along some grassy mead on the mountain
side. They were not real. He knew it well. When he fastened his gaze
on them, they were nowhere. But still he ran. His feet flew like those
of the hunted roe. And was he not hunted? Was he not fleeing? From
what?
Richard had known his Latin, cavalier that he was. The words of the
service were ringing in his ears--who uttered them? "Whither shall I
go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? If I
ascend up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in hell,
behold Thou art there." The words sounded and sounded again. Richard
clapped his fingers to his ears. Still he heard them. And he must run,
run as never before, if he would escape from his pursuer.
Presently he stumbled over a second log; fell headlong beneath a pine
tree upon a slipping carpet of dead needles. The fall was heavy; he
felt his head thrill with a new pain. For a moment he lay still; and a
cool fern pressed comfortingly against his cheek. It was good to rest
quietly and look upward into the dark tracery far overhead. He could
just see a little patch of the blue shimmering through the pine
boughs, a very blue bit of sky. If heaven lay beyond that azure, how
fair a land it must be! Richard pressed his hands to his brow, and
held them there for long. The throbbing had a little abated. He sat
up; looked around. Not a sound except the drone of a mountain
honey-bee hanging over some blossom. Trees, trees, before, behind. His
eye lost itself in the ranges and mazes of gray-black trunks. There
was no path; he had no recollection of the way. He called aloud--only
echoes from far-off glens.
Richard rose and sat upon the log; and his fingers tore at the wood's
soft mould. Would God his mind had been in His hands! The Cefalu
folk--they were all before him--father, mother, sister, brother. He
should never see them more in this world--and in the next? Oh, horror!
what part could his sainted mother have with her unholy, murderous
son! His father had sinned after his kind, yet to him little had been
given of holy teaching, and little would be required. But he, Richard
Longsword, had he not been brought up gently by his mother, as became
a high-born Christian cavalier? Were not her prayers still in his
ears? Had there not been at his side for guide and counsellor
Sebastian, who was one of the elect of God? Had he not given his
mother a pious and holy kiss when he fared away to Auvergne? and did
she not send him forth with his virgin knightly honor, to do great
deeds for the love of Christ? and how had he kept that honor? He had
slain Raoul, and there was never a stain upon his conscience; but
Gilbert the lad, the innocent boy who had poured out his blood at the
very altar--was it for the love of Christ that he had slain _him_? And
that vaunt he had flung to heaven when the keep of Valmont burned:
"Let God Himself undo the deed!" Lo, it was made good--not even God,
were Gilbert de Valmont to stand forth with breath, could take back
that sinful stroke of Trenchefer!
Richard cried aloud in his agony; and the black woods rang, and birds
flew screaming from their haunts, as though the hawk were on them;
echo and reëcho, then the woods were still. Richard roused himself by
a painful effort. The tree trunks were darkening; the patch of blue
above waxed dim; night was approaching.
"St. Michael!" he muttered, "I must get away quickly, or sleep under
the trees."
But a native of the region might well have wandered in that dusky
maze, and where were Richard's wits for woodcraft? He plunged
heedlessly onward, forcing aside saplings by brute strength, his mind
on anything but his path. One thing alone he knew and cared
for,--never on earth, never in heaven, would he see his mother again,
or his father, or Stephen, the brother at whose learning he had
mocked, but in secret revered. And his sister? Well for Iftikhar
Eddauleh five hundred leagues lay betwixt him and Richard Longsword,
or the emir might have found his proof-panoply become his shroud!
Still Richard wandered. It darkened fast. He began to find himself
peering askance into every shadow. He lengthened his stride, for the
forest was proving too dense for running. His speed led
nowhere--trees, and ever trees, and still the light was failing.
Richard raised his voice for a great halloo. Echoes again, but out of
the gloom came more,--a low, deep growl; and the Norman knew its
meaning well. There was a little break in the forest; the gloaming was
a trifle stronger. Richard saw before him two eyes, bright in the
twilight as coals of fire, and the vague outlines of a huge, dark
form. All the battle instinct of the Norman leaped into life.
"Good," cried he to the woods, "a bear!"
He snatched at his side, no sword--unbuckled at the castle, just
before he read the letter. But he laughed in very delight at what
might master his chief enemy--conscience. "Good!" cried he again, and
he plucked up a great stone. At the moment he felt as if he could
grapple the brute in bare hands and come off victor; and if
otherwise--what matter?
With all his might he dashed the stone between those gleaming eyes. A
mighty snarl. Richard tore the bough from a tree with giant grip, and
sprang to the battle. Another snarl and growl, and behold! the brute
instead of rearing and showing teeth, shambled away, and was lost in
the shadows of the forest. Doubtless it had just been feeding, and
would not fight unless at bay. But Richard cried out, cut by his
pain:--
"Dear God, even the beasts turn from me, I am so accursed!"
He sat again upon a log; it was very dark. He could just see the tall
columns of the trees. The patches of sky were a violet-black now. He
stared and stared; he could go no farther; to wander on were madness.
There were deep ravines on the mountain side. Richard remained still a
long time. As the darkness grew, his sight of things past increased.
His boyhood; his life in South Italy and Sicily; his first meeting
with Mary; his duel with Louis; his parting with Mary; the storming of
Valmont; his mother, ever his mother. She had nursed him herself--rare
mark of devotion for a seigneur's lady. She had been proudest of the
proud, when he had won his honors. She had whispered to him an
hundred sweet admonitions that dear, bright night he was last at
Cefalu. Did he love her more than Mary? Praises be to God, there are
loves that never war; and such were these! Oh, had he but been at
Cefalu, with his good right arm, and Musa, and Herbert, and Nasr--how
different, how much better! And now all were dead save Eleanor, his
bright-haired sister, and she--the captive of Iftikhar. Why, if God
had been so wroth with him, had He not stricken him, and let the
innocent go free? He was strong; his will was adamant as the blade of
Trenchefer; to save those dear ones a single pang--what would he not
suffer! Were they not--all save his sister--happy now? Surely the
saints had taken joy to welcome his mother and brother; and within,
his father's soul was white, if some little seared without.
"Ah!" cried Richard, "if my own heart were clean, I would not grieve.
I would pray for their souls, and love Mary Kurkuas, and know that
pure angels intercede for me at God's throne; but now--what with the
blood of Gilbert de Valmont, the shattering of the altar--what is mine
but torment eternal!"
And Richard saw, he was quite sure, as he strained his eyes in the
dark, a fair green country strewn with flowers, and in the midst a
battlemented city, and within that a glittering throne with myriad
bright angels, playing lute and harp unceasing. Upon the throne sat an
old man, with a white beard falling to his girdle, crowned with gold,
and holding an orb and sceptre; and Richard knew this was God the
Father. Then he saw angels bringing up men before the throne: Raoul de
Valmont, John of the Iron Arm, and all their sinful crew. And God said
to them: "Why have you come here, your sins unrepented, unshriven, all
unprepared to die?" And they answered: "Richard Longsword has sent us;
he was wiser than Thou, Lord, and could not bear with us as Thou hadst
done so long." Then God said: "Your sins are very great. Depart to the
lake of fire!" Then they brought a fair-haired, girlish boy, and God
said: "Why hast thou come, dear child, when thou hadst not done on
earth that which I designed for thee?" And the boy answered: "Richard
Longsword is wiser than Thou; he did not wish me to be on earth." So
the angels gave the lad white wings like their own, and a great viol
like a _jongleur's_. But God said: "Concerning Richard Longsword it is
written, 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, that
believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged
about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.'"
Then some angels, very terrible, approached Richard as he gazed, to
lead him to the throne; and lo! he was stripped naked as an infant at
the font, and all the strength had sped out of him!...
A mighty peal of thunder! the jagged lightnings springing above the
trees; now all the woods were lit by the white bolts, now all was
black; and on high, giants were dragging down pinnacles of a mighty
fortress. Richard cowered on his seat. The raindrops smote him, but
could not cool his glowing temples. The tale of the great storm that
presaged Roland's death came to him--how from Mount St. Michael to
Cologne there was pitch darkness at noonday. Would God this were omen
of his death only--not of his perdition! Betwixt the lightnings could
he not see children running about with two heads, and all the boughs
swelling out with heads of serpents--sure sign of the presence of the
devil? And, in the darkness, what was that flickering will-o'-the-wisp
form, unless it was Herodias's daughter dancing, dancing with glee, as
they said she ever did when she saw a soul devoted, like herself, to
Satan? Would the night ever pass? Richard cowered on his seat. At
last--and who might say how long it was in coming?--there was a faint
tinge among the tree tops, a low flutter of wings on the branches. One
shy bird commenced his morning call; another, another. The blank maze
of tree trunks began to unravel into moss-strewn avenues. The dawning
was at hand, and the sky fast coming blue. The only traces of the rain
were the diamond drops hanging on twig and flower. A warm, moist odor
was rising in the wood; the day would be very hot. Richard roused
himself. His clothes were wet; he flung away his fur-lined
"pelisson"; the heat of the heavy coat was intolerable. His head
swam, as he stood up; but he summoned his strong will. His brain
steadied. He looked about.
"I am lost," reasoned he; "there is only one way to find the path to
St. Julien; I must go above the trees. From the mountain crest I can
see which side to go down." So he climbed, though now his steps were
no longer strong, and his feet ached wearily. At last--the saints
above knew after how long--he saw the pines thinning, then the rocks
shone black and bare in the sun. One last effort--and he was out of
the forest; the jagged summit still towered above him, but he could
look forth--on what a view! Far and wide stretched the pleasant
Auvergne country; corn-land and orchard, green but browning with the
dying summer. The mountains pressed in on every side, north and west
the great volcanic _puys_ tossed their bleak crests far into the blue,
as if piers to upbear the heavens. Away to the east were more
hills--the Cevennes; and beyond, very near the sky line, what was that
whiteness through the scattering haze--the Alps? As he looked up, an
eagle rose with hoarse scream from a crag above, and flew into the sky
straight in the face of the sun, until his broad pinions were only a
speck against the glowing blue. Richard looked downward. To his right
and far away lay a village, monastery buildings, a tall bare
tower--St. Julien--very small; he must have travelled far. But below
him, at his feet, so that he felt he could cast a stone upon it, was
another tower--black, smoke-stained; its bare parapet open to heaven,
a great charred mass around--Valmont! Richard gazed and shuddered.
"Dear God," he cried softly, "why hast Thou led me here, to show me
the place of my sin? Am I not enough punished?"
The scream of the eagle had died away. Higher and higher climbed the
sun. All the valleys were springing out of the receding shadow. There
was a soft, kind wind upon the mountain. Its kiss was sweet and
comforting; but Richard needed more than the wind. It was not all pain
of the heart that tore him now. His head was very heavy; he felt his
knees beating together; at times his sight grew dim.
"I am ill, in fever," he muttered to himself; "I must hasten to some
house, or I shall die, and then--" But he never completed. He could
see peasants' cottages beyond the Valmont tower; perhaps the dwellers
had been wronged by his men the night of the sack, and would make him
scantly welcome; but it was better to risk that, than lie down on the
naked crest of the _puy_. He staggered downward, ever downward. Thrice
he fell; thrice rose by a mighty effort. At last he dimly realized
that the ground before him no longer sloped; he was clear of rock and
trees, and before him, seared and bare, was the keep of Valmont.
Richard fell again, this time on soft grass, and lay long. His head
had ceased to pain him, but he felt weak as a little child. "I shall
die! Christ pity me!" was all his thought. But again he rose, rose and
staggered onward. The ruin drew him towards it, as by an enchanter's
spell. He found his way past the outer wall, through the open gate
where the weeds were already twining. One side of the tower had
fallen, filling the moat; within, the other three walls rose, bare,
fire-scarped, cavernous. Still Richard dragged forward. He was upon
the cinders now; charred beams, benches. Here was a shivered target,
there a shattered lance. As he advanced, three crows flew, coming from
some carrion spoil they had found within. He was inside the enclosure
of the keep; the sun no longer beat on him. It was cool and still. His
strength was at an end. On a pile of dust and ashes were little green
weeds springing. It was soft. He lay down, and tried to close his eyes
and call back some prayers. "Here it is I shall die!" his wan lips
muttered. But as he rested, something hard pressed his head. He took
it, dragged it from the dust. Behold! a brass crucifix, and right
across the body of Our Lord a deep, rude dint! "The crucifix held by
the boy when I slew him!" moaned Richard. Then he looked on the face
of the Christ. The lips moved not, the eyes gave no sign; but as
Richard kept gazing, he felt the brass turning to fire in his
hands,--pain, but pain infused with a wondrous gladness. "Christ died
not for the spawn of Valmont!" had been his blasphemy; had Christ died
for _him_? "Ah! Sweet Son of God," cried Richard from his soul, "Thou
didst not come to earth and suffer for the pure and righteous, but
Thou didst come for such as I. Thou didst pardon the thief on the
cross; canst Thou pardon even me? I have committed foul murder, and
insulted holy relics, and made the heavens ring with my blasphemies. I
have no merit; I were justly sent to perdition for my sins; I lie
here, perhaps dying. Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!" Did a voice speak
from the blue above? Was it only some forest bird that croaked in
Richard's disordered ear? "Lord," cried Richard, half rising, "if Thou
canst forgive, do not let me die; let me live, and, by Thy holy agony,
I swear I will remember the vow of my youth; I will remember the
sorrows of Thy Holy City; and I will rest not day nor night, I will
spare not wealth nor love nor blood, till I see the Cross triumphant
upon the walls of Jerusalem, or until I die--if so God wills it!" And
he knew nothing more until some one was dashing water in his face, and
above him he saw the villain, "Giles of the Mill," who had been the
betrayer of Valmont.
"Ah, lord," he was saying, "well it was that Americ, the leper,
wandering here in search for red adders, found you and told me!"
"Americ, the leper?" asked Richard, his wits wandering.
"Yes, lord; we keep him shut in a little hut outside the hamlet. But
early in the mornings we let him go out hunting for red adders with
white bellies; for if he eats enough of them with leeks, he is cured.
But you, fair sir, are grievously ill. I must take you to my cottage."
Then Richard lapsed again into a stupor; and when next he saw the
world, he was in the miller's house. The good-wife was making a great
fire with vine branches, and hanging a huge iron pot to heat water.
They had laid Richard on the bed, the only one in the whole house,
broad enough for both parents and the half-dozen dirty, shock-headed
brats, that were squalling round the single room, and chasing the
little pigs who belonged there as much as themselves. The children
would steal up to the bed softly on tiptoe, and make curious glances
at the "great seigneur," who had avenged their elder brother by
slaying the terrible Bull of Valmont. Then their mother would cry out
to them to keep their distance: "Who were they to set eyes on the
mighty lord, who could send them all to the gallows if he listed?" But
Richard, as he gazed on the unkempt, freckled faces, said in his
heart, "Ah, if I could give all the St. Julien lands for the one white
conscience of that little girl!"
Giles of the Mill presently had out his plodding horse, and pounded
away on the road to St. Julien, while his wife called in two wrinkled
old crones, who looked at Richard, and shook their heads, then
whispered almost loud enough to let him understand. The women put
strange things into the pot: the feet of a toad, many weeds and
flowers, the tail of a kitten, and a great spider. Then when the water
was very hot, they brought some to him in a huge wooden spoon.
Richard, though he knew what Arabian physicians could do, was too weak
to resist them. Presently there was a clatter of hoofs without, and
Herbert, Musa, and Sebastian were coming into the cottage. The face of
Musa was very grave when he touched Richard's wrist; his next act was
to empty the kettle on the earthen floor. The Norman's last strength
was gone: he had tried to rise to greet his friends, sank back; his
words were but whispers. Sebastian bent over him.
"Dear father," the priest barely heard, "pray for me, pray for me; I
have sworn to go to Jerusalem."
But Richard's eyes were too dim to see the light breaking on
Sebastian's face. Herbert and Musa devised a litter, and they bore the
knight back to St. Julien.