Whereupon the good chief instructs his loyal followers, and closes with
the admonition which went a great ways to account for his peculiar
popularity with the people:--
"'But loke ye do no housbonde harme
That tylleth with his plough.
* * * * *
No more ye shall no good yeman
That walketh by grene wode shawe.
* * * * *
These bysshoppes, and these archebysshoppes
Ye shall them bete and bynde.'"
Each verse met with its full measure of praise, and certainly none was
more heartily applauded than the last, which commended to mercy the
soul of the brave Robyn:--
"'Cryst have mercy on his soule,
That dyed on the rode
For he was a good outlawe
And dyde pore men moch god.'"
"Help, help, save me, hide me for the love of Christ!" All looked up
startled as this cry came from outside, and at the same time the door
was flung open and there was blown into the room, with the gusty wind,
a man who, after casting a swift, appealing glance at the faces about
the table, sank exhausted to the floor. Even without the sudden cry
for help, the wild appearance of the fellow would have been sufficient
to startle them. He was dressed as a pilgrim, and the long gown was
rent here and there, as if torn in some struggle. The pilgrim's staff,
although still tightly grasped by one hand, was broken off short, the
vernicle had been wrenched from his cap by violent hands, and now hung
by a thread, swaying and bobbing with every move of his head. The
fellow's cheeks were hollow, his sunken temples throbbed tumultuously,
his lips were dry and pallid, his eyes were wild, his hair and beard
matted and unkempt.
Here was before them one of the very pretended pilgrims of whom they
had spoken. Doubtless the sheriffs had seen through his disguise, and
were even then hot upon his heels.
The fellow had sunk at the feet of Tim the needle-maker. He opened his
eyes feebly, and murmured one more "Help me!"
"Ten pounds fine for the harboring of such," muttered Tim, as he took
to his heels and closed the door behind him.
Others became alarmed.
"Ten pounds! 'tis more than I possess in the whole world!"
"Ten pounds! Mother Mary!"
Annys rose indignantly. "Cowards!" he hissed. "Is this your boasted
fellowship? Is this the way ye succor your brother?"
But, before he had done, Richard Meryl had quickly risen, lifted the
fallen man, and guided him through the door. He knew a hiding-place
where all such refugees were welcomed for the sake of one who had died
in the same desperate attempt to win a decent living.
X
The following morning Annys sought out Richard Meryl to learn more
of the refugee. As he was conducted to the hiding-place, young Meryl
related something of the women who were risking so much for a stranger.
"I am bringing you to old Dame Westel and her granddaughter Matilda,"
he said. "When Matilda was but a babe in arms, her father, tempted
by the bait of large wages in Suffolk, was returned by the sheriffs,
branded. But his wife being big with child, and he watching her cheeks
grow hollow day by day, he grew desperate and made a second attempt.
For this he was thrown into gaol and suffered to lie there and rot. He
died of gangrene of both feet while his wife slowly starved to death,
and her babe within her."
"Horrible, horrible!" exclaimed Annys; "there is more justice done to
kine than to man made in the image of God. O my God! how long can this
be endured?"
"Ay! thy cry of patience burns on thy tongue, doth it not?"
"Ay, so. But tell me some more."
"You will see for yourself. The poor old woman lives only for two
things--to hide others who should pass through, and to pore over a torn
and dog-eared copy of the Bible which a poor priest did leave with her."
Annys was much interested. "Ah, she will get much comfort and peace
from the Holy Book."
The young man laughed. "As to that, I wot not; rather she does suck the
vengeance and wrath from its pages e'en as a babe sucks its mother's
milk."
"Say you so? 'Tis ill, indeed. I shall change all that, and bring
speedy comfort to her."
"Well, thou hast a bold heart, then. I wish thee joy of thy task."
"Lives she all by herself?"
Richard colored. "Nay, her granddaughter, Matilda, is an angel if ever
one walked this earth. She does devote herself to the old woman, and
yet never is word of complaint suffered to pass her lips."
"And that is all?"
"Oh," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, "no one counts the
other granddaughter, a sullen, proud beauty, the illegitimate daughter
of the old Baron de Leaufort, uncle of the present one, and long since
gone to Hell if ever sinner went there."
"Poor woman! she seems to have had trouble enough."
"Trouble! Ay! And yet, alas, the tale is not a rare one. It is hard to
have faith in the goodness of God when one sounds all the misery on
earth."
"The works of God are hidden among men," replied Annys, gravely, as
they came to one of the humblest of the wattled huts that made up the
village, and paused before it.
"'They shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.' The poor shall inherit the
Kingdom of Heaven. Ha! ha!"
The voice came from within.
Outside on a low stool, engaged in her spinning, sat a lovely young
girl, in whose sweet, open countenance, touched with a gentle gravity
beyond her years, the poor priest recognized Matilda Westel.
He inquired after the refugee and was told that he was resting, and
that at daybreak he was to be taken to the highway and instructed how
to make the next town before nightfall. His garb had been neatly
repaired, and a new staff found for him. Annys offered to give him a
rosary.
"Would thy grandmother care to see me?" he asked.
A quick look passed from the girl to Richard, who stood by her side.
"Tell him," she begged the young man, who seemed to hesitate how to
begin.
"In what way can I serve thee?" Annys asked.
"Matilda's grandmother," began Richard, "can read only very little. She
has picked up enough to read only a few texts which that poor priest of
whom I spake to you taught her by heart. It has ever been her desire to
read further in the Book."
"And if it be not too much trouble," continued the girl, "I had hoped
perhaps that I might be taught also to read, that my eyes might save
grandmother's old and tired ones."
"Yea, that she might be her eyes, as she has been for years her head
and feet and hands," exclaimed Richard, heartily, and Annys caught the
look of love that illumined his face as his eyes rested on her. It
heartened the poor priest to be in the presence of an affection which
was so far removed from the morbid hysterical emotion of the monks and
saints, whose confessions had always disgusted rather than edified him.
"Shall we go in?" ventured Annys, and, receiving the young girl's
permission, he entered the low door and discovered a wrinkled old dame
seated on a low stool poring over a copy of Wyclif's Vulgate, crooning
over to herself certain lines which she had evidently learned by heart.
"'They shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.' The poor of this earth
shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. Is it not so, Sir Poor Priest?"
On his entrance, she had risen, and almost shrieked this in her thin,
cracked treble.
"Yea, surely, surely," answered the poor priest soothingly, "the good
Book hath it so."
She looked up into his face eagerly, and searched it with her dim eyes.
"Robert Annys, they tell me that you do learn poor folk to read--see, I
wot well what is here, 'Give none occasion to a man to curse thee, for
if he curse thee, in the bitterness of his soul, he that made him will
hear his supplication.'
"And here," she continued, seating herself and bending low over the
book as she rapidly turned the pages with her trembling fingers, "here
Solomon saith, 'that no king had other beginning, but all men have
one entrance into life and a like departure.' Oh, that I wot right
well, but there is more, there is more, that I would read for myself;
there is a part which ever I seek which tells that it is easier for a
camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter
the kingdom of heaven. Show me that, and if canst help me read the
wonderful Book, then shall a poor woman's blessing follow thee all the
days of thy life."
Annys regarded her pityingly. "Right gladly will I help thee. And I
shall tell thee of other parts of Holy Writ that speak of Love and
Forgiveness, and teach thee that part which saith, 'Love your enemies
and forgive those that trespass against you.'"
But the old woman flung the book straightway at his head in a passion,
crying, "I will none of thy book; and it says that, I want none of it.
Not for that would I toil and wear out mine eyes reading it. Nay, nay,
thou art wrong. Thou dost seek to pull the wool over mine eyes. For
doth not the good Book say:--
"'Woe unto you that are rich. Woe unto you, ye that are full now, for
ye shall hunger. Woe unto you, ye that laugh now, for ye shall mourn
and weep'?"
And, quite exhausted by her tirade, she sank back again on her stool.
Annys bent over her, greatly shocked, and took one of her hands in his
and stroked it tenderly.
"Yet, my good woman," he said, in low, gentle tones, "yet is there not
more comfort in love and forgiveness, than in revengeful wrath and
hate?"
The old woman snatched away her hand and swayed to and fro, beating the
floor with one foot and moaning softly.
"Oh, these priests, these priests," at last she broke out fiercely,
"they wot not a tenth part of our woes, or they could not find it in
their hearts to prate ever of love and forgiveness."
"I but seek to bring peace to thy heart," remonstrated Annys, "for
peace can never enter save through love. Besides, how canst thou say
the Lord's prayer? Doth it not say: 'Forgive us our sins, as we forgive
them that have misdone against us'?"
"Nay!" returned the old woman, stubbornly, "I do pray to that God who
said, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'"
He was about to touch on his favorite theme, the new spirit of Charity
and Love that the Christ had brought into the sterner religion of the
Old Testament, but now she burst forth even more vehemently, rising
and tossing her arms high over her head.
"What is thy boasted religion that would take from an old woman her
sole comfort?
"'Love mine enemies,' indeed! Does good God expect me to love that
Baron de Leaufort--now suffering the torments of hell-fire, if ever
sinner doth--who made merry within his castle, while my daughter,
my beautiful, merry Rose, lay forgotten on the moat, brought there
through him? And am I to love those lawmakers at Westminster who say
that no man may move hand or foot to seek an honest living, but must
stay rooted in the earth where he happened to grow, like a rotting
trunk? Oh, yes, one may wander from Lincoln to London if it be but for
merrymaking and foolishness; but no man may travel to the next county
if it be to place bread between the teeth of his children. Bah! a fig
care I for thy kind of religion! Begone, begone, with thy smooth tongue
and thy sleek face, begone!"
But Annys did not go. Sighing heavily, he said: "My poor woman, take
such comfort as is left to thee. I shall come again to-morrow and I
shall teach thee such texts as thou wilt have. Indeed, I shall teach
also thy granddaughter that she may aid thee. Be comforted, I pray
thee," and, with a warm pressure of the hand, he was gone.
His heart was heavy that night. Was this, then, to be the end of
placing the Bible in the hands of the people? Was their God to be a God
of Vengeance and Wrath instead of Charity and Love? Instead of coming
nearer Christ Jesus, were they to be further from Him than ever?