'ENTRA PER ME'
When Galors overshot his mark in Thornyhold he flew very wide. It is
well known there are no roads. Thornyhold is but the beginning of the
densest patch of timber in all the forest. Malbank is your nearest
habitation; Spenshaw, Heckaby, Dunsholt Thicket, Hartshold, Deerleap
are forest names, not names of the necessities of men. You may wander a
month if you choose, telling one green hollow from another; or you may
go to Holy Thorn at Malbank, or endure unto Wanmouth and the sea. If
you were Galors and needed counsel you would not choose the wood;
naturally you would avoid Malbank. There would remain to you Wanmouth.
Galors went to Wanmouth. It was the Countess's country of course; but
his disguise was good enough. People read the arms and hailed a le Gai
or one of that house. It was at Wanmouth that he learned what he
wanted. Malise, after one of his interminable chafferings with the
Abbot Richard, took it on his way to the east.
"My Lord Baron of Starning," said the Vice-Admiral of the port, "we
have had a friend of your house here a week or more."
"Eh, eh!" said Malise, feeling his pocket, "what does the rogue want
with his friendship? I'm as poor as a rat. Who is he?"
"Oh, for that," replied the other, "he seems a great lord in his way,
wears your blazon, is free with his money, and he swears like a
Fleming."
"Bring him to me, Admiral, bring him to me. I shall like this man."
So Galors was brought in, to be graciously received by the head of the
house of Gai. His blunt manner deceived Malise at once. In his
experience people who wanted to borrow dealt differently. Here was a
lofty soul, who might, on the other hand, be guided to lend! In the
course of a long conversation Melise unbosomed. He was newly a lover
and liked the part. The Baron ended his confession thus--
"So, my dear friend, you see how it is with me. I have never met you
before--the more's the pity. I accept your civilities, but I make no
promises--you know our legend? Well, I bide my time--he--he! No
boasting, but upon my honour, my reputation does not make me out
ungrateful. I say to you, go to Malbank; observe, watch, judge, then
report to me. The detail I leave to you. I should recommend a disguise.
The place has become one of pilgrimage--go as a pilgrim! You will see
whether the prize is worth my while. I am sure you have taste--I know
it. Observe, report. Then we will act."
"Ravishment of ward?" asked Galors dryly.
"Ward! She is not his ward. How can she be? Who is she? Nobody knows.
The thing is a crying scandal, my dear friend. A woman in an abbey
parlour! An alcove at Holy Thorn! Are we Mohammedans, infidels, Jews of
the Old Law? Fie!"
"You do not know her name, Baron?"
"She is the Chained Virgin of Saint Thorn, I tell you. She has no other
name. She sits in a throne in choir, pale as milk, with burning grey
eyes as big as passion-flowers! She is a chained Andromeda on the rock
of Peter. Be my Perseus!"
"Hum," said Galors, half to himself, "hum! Yes, I will go at once."
"My dear friend----"
"Not a word more, Baron. Go home to Starning, go where you like, and
wait. If you see me again the lady will be with me."
"You shall not find me ungrateful, I promise," cried Malise, going out.
"Damn your gratitude," said Galors, when the door was shut.
A mortified Perseus in drab cloak and slouch hat, he went to Malbank
next day and verified his prognosis. The Abbot sang Mass, his old
colleagues huddled in choir; the place echoed with the chastened
snuffling he knew so well. Galors had no sentiment to pour over them.
Standing, bowing, genuflecting, signing himself at the bidding of the
bell, he had no eyes for any but the frail apparition whose crown of
black seemed to weigh her toward the pavement. The change wrought in
her by a year's traffic might have shocked, as the eyes might have
haunted him; but she was nothing but a symbol by now. A frayed ensign,
she stood for an earldom and a fee. The time had been when her beauty
had bewitched him; that was when she went flesh and blood, sun-browned,
full of the sap of untamed desires. Now she was a ghost with a dowry;
stricken, but holding a fief.
He judged the chain, the time, the place, the chances. He had three
men. It was enough. Next Sunday he would act. Then for the forest roads
and High March!
That next Sunday was Lammas Day and a solemn feast. All Malbank was in
the nave, a beaten and weather-scarred bundle of drabs packed in one
corner under the great vaulting ribs. Within the dark aisles the
chapels gloomed, here and there a red lamp made darkness darker; but
the high altar was a blaze of lights. The faces, scared or sharp-set,
of the worshippers fronted the glory open-mouthed, but all dull. Hunger
makes a bad altar-flame; when it burns not sootily it fires the fabric.
Afterwards came something which they understood--Isoult between her two
women, the monk behind. A girl chained by the middle to a monk--Oh,
miracle! She sat very still in her carved chair, folding her patient
hands. So thin, so frail, so transparent she was, they thought her pure
spirit, a whisp of gossamered breath, or one of those gauzy
sublimations which the winter will make of a dead leaf. The cowed
audience watched her wonderfully; some of the women snivelled. The
white monks, the singing boys, the banners and tapers, Ceremoniar,
Deacon, Subdeacon, the vested Abbot himself, passed like a shining
cloud through the nave. All their light came from the Chained Virgin of
Saint Thorn. And then the Mass began.
There was a ring of hoofs outside, but no one looked round, and none
came in. A shadow fell across the open door. At a _Dominus Vobiscum_
you might have seen the ministrant falter; there might have been a
second or two of check in his chant, but he mastered it without effort,
and turned again with displayed hands to his affair. The choir of white
hoods, however, watched the shadow at the west door. Isoult saw nothing
and heard nothing; she was kneeling at prayer. It may be doubted if any
prayed but the girl and the priest.
The holy office proceeded; the Sanctus bell shrilled for the first
time. Hoofs shattered scandalously on the flags, and Galors, with an
armed man on either hand of him, rode into the nave. The choir rose in
a body, the nave huddled; Isoult, as she believed, saw Prosper, spear,
crest, and shield. Her heart gave a great leap, then stood still.
Perhaps there was a flicker in the Abbot's undertone; his lips may have
been dry; but his courage was beyond proof. He held on.
Isoult was blanched as a cloth; lips, fingers and ears, the tongue in
her open mouth--all creeks for the blood were ebbed dry. Her awful
eyes, fixed and sombre stars, threatened to gulf her in their dark.
Love was drowned in such horror as this.
Galors swung out of the saddle. In the breathless place the din of that
act came like a thunder-peal, crackling and crashing, like to wreck the
church. He drew his sword, with none to stay him, and strode forward.
If the Abbot Richard heard his step up the choir the man is worthy of
all memory, for he went on with his manual acts, and his murmur of
prayer never ceased. He may have heard nothing--who knows what his
motions were? He was a brave man.
The bell rang--rang again--God beamed in the Host. The people wavered,
but use held. They bowed prone before God in His flake of new flesh.
"_Deus in adjutorium_," muttered the Abbot to himself.
"_Entra per me!_" thundered Galors, and ran him through the body.
After the first shudder had swept through the church there was no sound
at all, until some woman hidden began a low moan, and keened the Abbot
Richard. No one dared to stir while those grim horsemen in the nave sat
like rocks.
Galors turned to Isoult where she froze rigid in her throne, severed
the chain at a blow, and went to take her. Some sudden thought struck
him; he turned her quickly round to the light and without ceremony
fumbled at her neck. She grew sick to feel him touch her.
"The Abbot hath it." Her lips formed the words. Galors went back to the
dead priest and pulled off chain and locket.
"Oh, my ring, my ring!" whined the girl as he slipt the chain over her.
He did not seem to hear her, but snatched her up in his arms as if she
had been a doll and set her on his horse. He swung himself into the
saddle behind her as he had swung himself out of it, reined up short
and turned. The three men rode out with their burden. When they had
gone the Deacon (who got a mitre for it) solemnly laid the fallen host
between his lord's lips. The act, at once pious and sensible, brought
up the congregation from hell to earth again. At such times routine is
the only saving thing.
Once free of the Abbey precincts the three horsemen forded Wan. At a
signal pre-arranged one of them fell back to keep watch over the river.
Galors went forward with one in his company on to the heath, dropped
him after three or four hours' steady going, and rode on still. His
third man was to meet him at the edge of Martle Brush. Never a word had
he spoken since his great "_Entra per me!_" but without that the act
had been enough to tell his prize, that whatever her chains had been
before, the sword-stroke had riveted them closer. There had been no
chain like his mailed arm round her body.
Nothing could be done. Indeed she was as yet paralyzed; for wild work
as had been done in her sight, this was savagery undreamed. She could
get no comfort, she never thought of Prosper. Even Prosper, her lord,
could not stand before such a force as this. As for good Saint Isidore,
the pious man became a shade, and vanished with his Creator into the
dark.
Night came on, but a low yellow moon burnt the fringe of the rising
woods. They were retracing almost the very stones of the track she and
Prosper had followed a year before.
Matt's intake they passed, she saw a light in the window. The heath
loomed ghostly before them, with the dark bank of trees rising steadily
as they neared. Athwart them rose also the moon; there was promise of a
fine still night. They entered the trees, heading for Martle Brush.
Suddenly Galors pulled up, listening intently. There was no sound save
that strange murmur the night has (as if the whole concave of heaven
were the hollow of a shell), and the secret rustling of the trees.
Still Galors listened. It was so quiet you might almost have heard two
hearts beating.
As an underchant, sinister accompaniment to the voices of the night,
there came to them the muffled pulsing of a horse's hoofs; a quick and
regular sound--a horse galloping evenly with plenty in hand.
Both heard it. Galors drove in the spurs, and the chase began. They
were yet a mile away from Martle Brush. If they could cross the brook
and gain the ridgeway, it was long odds on their being overtaken that
night.