V ^ 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
UNCANONIZED 
 
 Homaiue of 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET HORTON POTTER 
 
 CHICAGO 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 
 1900 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 .UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 IF the character of King John of England, as pre 
 sented in the following pages, shall be found to differ 
 somewhat materially from the current and conventional 
 ideas of him, the reader is requested to attribute the 
 variation not to mere license of historical romance, but 
 rather to earnest conviction, resulting from a careful 
 and minute study of his life and reign on the part of 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY n 
 
 II. THE FAREWELL 31 
 
 III. SACKCLOTH AND THE ALTAR 53 
 
 IV. REGINALD 69 
 
 V. JOHN'S MESSENGERS 83 
 
 VI. GLASTONBURY 102 
 
 VII. TONSURE AND THORN 124 
 
 VIII. THE DAWN OF HOPE 144 
 
 IX. INTERDICT 159 
 
 X. ELEANOR OF BRITTANY 171 
 
 XI. DE LA MARCHE 191 
 
 XII. THE APOSTASY 204 
 
 XIII. AN EXCOMMUNICATED KING 226 
 
 XIV. FROM BRISTOL TO GLASTONBURY 241 
 
 XV. CHRISTMAS AT WINDSOR 251 
 
 XVI. ELEANOR'S ENVOY 274 
 
 XVII. ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 295 
 
 XVIII. " AVE ! COLOR VINI CLARI !" 322 
 
 XIX. THE MEMORY OF SAVARIC . * 338 
 
 XX. JOCELYN OF BATH 356 
 
x Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 XXI. A FULFILLED DESIRE 380 
 
 XXII. ROYAL VISITORS AT BRISTOL . . * . . , . 402 
 
 XXIII. FOR WOE 419 
 
 XXIV. GUESTS AT GLASTONBURY 435 
 
 XXV. THE LAST JOURNEY 449 
 
 XXVI. THE STORM AT THE ABBEY 471 
 
 XXVII. ANGELUS 487 
 
UNCANONIZED 
 
 A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH MONACHISM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY 
 
 IT was a golden afternoon in the June of the year 
 1203. The long terraces on the eastern side of 
 the hill topped by Windsor Castle lay luminously 
 green in the long light of the declining sun ; while the 
 last of these, bordering on the forest, was mottled with 
 the deep, velvet shadows of the ancient oaks near by. 
 This space was alive with the moving figures of a 
 company of young men and youths of various ages; 
 all of them, judging from the richness of their dress, 
 members of the royal household. They wore tunics 
 reaching scarcely to the knee, far shorter than those in 
 vogue for older men ; belts of wrought silver or leather 
 studded with gold; hose, party-colored or plain; and 
 long, pointed shoes of cloth, which were by no means 
 easy to run in. Bareheaded were they all ; and their 
 locks, not long since carefully combed and curled, 
 though dishevelled now, hung upon their shoulders. 
 Two or three only bore traces of wished-for beards; 
 and, judging by the mellow echoes of their shouts and 
 laughter, the majority of voices among them was still 
 unchanged. 
 
 The younger members of this group were engaged in 
 a variety of games : wrestling, racing, balls, archery, and 
 spaume. The elder ones stood apart in a close group, 
 
 ii 
 
12 
 
 encircling two of their number who were indulging in a 
 plebeian bout at quarter-staff. The contest, so closely 
 matched, was between a couple of straight-limbed young 
 fellows, whose interest in their sport was evidenced by 
 the quick and careful skill with which they engaged. 
 The onlookers showed themselves in small lack of 
 money, by the readiness with which all indulged in 
 betting, though no one ventured to offer odds on either 
 one of the contestants. 
 
 The game continued for a long enough time to have 
 wearied players less athletic ; but, at the end of half an 
 hour, the victor became very evident to those who had 
 staked upon his opponent. He was a beautifully built 
 fellow, not remarkably tall, but perfectly proportioned ; 
 clad somewhat foppishly in tunic of olive green, of 
 costly material, white hosen, with belt, pouch, and shoes 
 heavily jewelled and ornamented. The hat, which lay on 
 the grass at no great distance, was of white cloth, bear 
 ing two straight white feathers, tipped with black and 
 fastened together with a golden pin. His face was well 
 cut, and its expression determined. Dark hair, some 
 what shorter than was fashionable, clustered in thick curls 
 about his head. His movements throughout the match 
 were rapid and graceful, while the eyes which followed 
 his opponent's weapon were black and unusually bril 
 liant. The laughter now and again coming from his 
 lips as he lost a stroke or was foiled in one, was as clear 
 and as mellow as the silvery murmur of a forest stream. 
 A careless, light-hearted, petted, spoiled, and hugely 
 admired favorite was this Anthony Fitz-Hubert ; upon 
 whose slender shoulders not a care had sat for three 
 hours' time in all his pretty life. 
 
 The contest was over. Anthony had come out win 
 ner, as, indeed, he had been quite aware he should ; 
 and among his companions some handfuls of rude coins 
 were changing owners. The'victorious young noble at 
 once held out his hand to the defeated one. 
 
of Canterbury 13 
 
 " Truly I should be more contented with my triumph 
 were it not thy loss, De Neville," he said, pleasantly. 
 
 Young De Neville laughed. " I could have born 
 defeat with so much complaisance at no other hands. 
 Verily I had not guessed thou hadst so pretty a turn 
 with a churl's weapon, my Lord Fastidious," he re 
 turned good-naturedly, and the close group around 
 them nodded approval. 
 
 These courtesies exchanged, Anthony turned to the 
 others, whose expressions were aimless enough when 
 the smiles had died from them. 
 
 "Come, Anthony, thou 'st amused thyself long enow 
 at De Neville's expense. Now do thou devise some 
 sport wherein all may partake," called out one ; and the 
 chorus of approval which followed was proof enough of 
 Anthony's undisputed leadership. 
 
 " In good sooth," was that youth's lazy reply, " I am 
 content with the thought of idleness for an hour. Half 
 that time with staffs and Walter here makes one long 
 earnestly for a bank of moss and 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Ravaillac with her lute, eh? " 
 
 There was a shout of laughter in which Anthony 
 joined with never a change of color. 
 
 " Mademoiselle departs in two days for Winchester 
 and the Queen," he responded with all the natural and 
 assumed carelessness that could be summoned to his 
 aid. 
 
 " Ah, that we might all accompany her ! " exclaimed 
 one. 
 
 " Indeed, Henry ! Wouldst smother the poor damsel 
 in such a press of gallantry ?" queried De Grey. 
 
 " Nay, I care nought for the demoiselle, 't is well 
 for my happiness that I do not, but what with John 
 in Normandy, the Queen at Winchester, and the Arch 
 bishop ill at Lambeth, old Windsor is as sorry a place 
 for gayeties as the middle of the New Forest." 
 
 "True," assented Anthony; " but, an I weep not at 
 
14 
 
 my double desolation, assuredly thou needest not to do 
 so. Come, let us seek out some spot where the pages 
 are not forever screaming in our ears, and talk on who 
 shall run our horses at the next London fair. By 
 Thomas, Jack Shortleg played me an ill turn in leaving 
 for York ! What sayest thou to this? " 
 
 " Methinks I shall speak for Red Byron," murmured 
 De Neville to his companion as the little group began to 
 move slowly toward the edge of the forest. 
 
 Presently they were arrested by a shout from behind 
 them. On looking around they beheld a lackey, in the 
 dress of the Queen's household, running bareheaded 
 down the terraces from the castle. He held something 
 in his hand. 
 
 "An it please you, sirs, I would have speech with 
 my Lord Anthony Fitz-Hubert, an he be among you," 
 gasped the man from a distance. 
 
 Anthony stepped impatiently from the midst of his 
 companions. " How now, John, what would you? Me- 
 seemeth you are ever at me for something." 
 
 " Pardon pardon, my lord, but " 
 
 " In the name of the devil, John, do not ' my lord ' 
 me," exclaimed the young man, angrily. " Well know 
 you that I am no lord." 
 
 "Again pardon, my " 
 
 " ' Lord ! ' " interjected Anthony, mocking his confu 
 sion. " Come, good villain, 't is a rare flower that you 
 hold." 
 
 "Tis for you, sir; the rose is for you. Mademoi 
 selle bade me find you and give it, saying, ' He will 
 understand.' " 
 
 The laughter this time was less general. Interest in 
 the little scene absorbed it. Anthony took the scarlet 
 flower with good grace, dismissed the boor with a king's 
 head, and fastened the token in the silver lacing of 
 his tunic, where it glowed fragrantly upon his breast. 
 Then, with his cheeks slightly tinged with color, he 
 
of Canterbury l s 
 
 turned again to his companions. Chaffing him lightly 
 on his conquest, and talking together carelessly of 
 many things, they proceeded to the edge of the little 
 forest stream where they were accustomed to spend 
 many an idle hour. All efforts to draw from the 
 favorite the message delivered by his flower failed. 
 Mademoiselle possessed an honorable recipient of her 
 somewhat rashly proffered affection. But the scape 
 grace Anthony was not so unused to such affairs as to 
 give this one the attention now demanded from him by 
 his companions for their masculine matters. Indeed, 
 he was not so vain as one might imagine, under the 
 circumstances; for when a life-fabric, from infancy 
 upward, is woven of adulation, admiration, sunshine, 
 and entire carelessness, vanity is far less likely to creep 
 into the woof than should a stripe of happy colors 
 appear suddenly after long yards of sombre black or 
 brown. 
 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert's life had been passed at the 
 courts of kings. He who, next to the King himself, 
 was the loftiest personage in all England, had no fear 
 that a son of his would not receive due courtesy and 
 attention from his liege's vassals, natural child though 
 he was. Moreover, when a son, endowed with the face, 
 manner, and mind of Anthony, was placed near the per 
 son of the King's half-brother, William of Salisbury, 
 child of Henry Second and the world-famous Rosa 
 mund of the Tower, a nation's favorite, he would be 
 little likely to suffer overmuch from shame of birth. 
 And Anthony but rarely thought upon his unknown 
 parentage ; of the mother whose name had never been 
 told to him. The only feeling he had ever shown upon 
 the matter was his preference for being called by his 
 given name, and not by that of his father, which, with 
 the Norman prefix, was a common surname in those 
 days when our families were being founded ; also, when 
 etiquette admitted it, he rejected any title of nobility 
 
16 
 
 which might be given him by some ignorant or obse 
 quious person. To-day as he lay supine upon a velvet, 
 mossy bank (warranted to stain those delicate hose of 
 his), beneath the faintly stirring branches of a spread 
 ing oak, and mingling his laughter with that of the 
 brook at his feet, there was not a thought in the irre 
 sponsible young head more serious than of games at 
 quarter-staff, and prospective races, or stolen hours 
 with a pretty maid who sent him roses as tokens, and 
 told him far more with her eyes than he had ever dared 
 ask from her lips. 
 
 So engrossed was the little company in its own con 
 verse that the approach of new-comers among the trees 
 was unheeded. It was Anthony himself at last who, 
 chancing to lift his eyes from the water, started suddenly 
 to his feet, raising the hat from his head as he did 
 so. The others looked about them, then followed the 
 youth's example, scrambling hastily from their loung 
 ing positions. At a few paces distance stood two men : 
 the one he for whom Windsor Castle was being kept 
 open in the absence of King and Queen, William, 
 Earl of Salisbury; the other a man whom Anthony 
 recognized as a member of his father's household. 
 
 At a slight sign from the fair-faced, grave-eyed Earl, 
 the young fellow went forward, and, as he went, was 
 struck as by a blow with a sudden unwarranted appre 
 hension. The expression of the serving-man was un 
 readable. There was an instant's pause. The Earl 
 was palpably reluctant to speak. According to eti 
 quette Anthony waited attentively in silence, and, as 
 etiquette did not demand, with a faint tremor of ner 
 vousness at his heart. At last Salisbury sighed a little, 
 and, with the same breath, spoke. 
 
 "Thy father, Anthony, summons thee to Lambeth. 
 He would request an immediate departure. Adam, 
 here, will ride back again with you." 
 
 " My father fares worse?" asked the youth, softly. 
 
of Canterbut^ l ? 
 
 " He is gravely ill, I fear." 
 
 " Surely they dread not his " the word refused to 
 come. Anthony's head drooped and his face lost its 
 light. 
 
 " The King's own chirurgien and two others skilled 
 in medicine are with him, together with Geoffrey, Prior 
 of Canterbury Chapter, and his confessors," answered 
 the retainer, to whom William had looked for reply. 
 " His Grace asks constantly for you, and I was bid to 
 ride from London and fetch you back with me, an it 
 please you." 
 
 " I go at once," returned Anthony, adding hastily, 
 " I have permission, my lord? " 
 
 Salisbury nodded. " Certes. Go get thee into an 
 older habit. Tell thy father that in another day I will 
 myself wait on him, and that were it not for the Scot 
 tish legates who arrive to-night, and De Burgh who 
 comes in the morning on his way to Normandy, I 
 would accompany thee now." 
 
 Bowing thanks to his master for the kindness, and 
 bidding Adam be in the castle courtyard in twenty 
 minutes with fresh horses, Anthony dashed at head 
 long speed through the trees, over the last terrace, 
 where the pages were still at their games, and up the 
 long hill at the summit of which stood the lofty castle, 
 radiant with the mellow light of the setting sun. 
 
 Anthony's companions stared after him as he disap 
 peared. Never a word of farewell had he said to them. 
 Something of importance must have happened. The 
 little group, its pleasure for the afternoon dispelled, 
 started slowly for the castle ; and as they went the 
 young men spoke of what had occurred, and advanced 
 many conjectures as to the reason of their leader's 
 hurried departure. But none of that gay little com 
 pany for an instant imagined that they had just seen 
 Anthony, their Anthony, as he ran upward to the 
 castle gate, run at the same time out of all their lives, 
 
1 8 cUncanotmeti 
 
 and also for all time out of his own. Nor did Anthony 
 himself dream that. For, as he hastily doffed his rich 
 costume for a much worn riding-suit of blue, he care 
 fully loosed Mademoiselle's rose from the lacing of his 
 doublet, and, as carefully, wrapped it within a damp 
 damask cloth and laid it on a wooden settle under 
 neath the window, that it might not fade. 
 
 " I shall miss the meeting with thee, Helene," he 
 thought, smiling absently, " but God grant that I return 
 hither in happiness ere thou depart for Winchester." 
 
 And half his wish he had, indeed. But the other 
 half? 
 
 In the dying twilight of that summer evening two 
 horses clattered across the lowered drawbridge and 
 down the steeply winding road that passed through 
 the hamlet of Windsor; and then toward London, 
 which lay farther to the east than nowadays. At a 
 mad gallop went the pair, and the wretched inhabitants 
 of the hovels which lined the way for a little, scrambled 
 hurriedly from their path; then paused to stare long 
 at the backs of the worshipfuls who were already dis 
 appearing in the far distance. 
 
 Anthony rode in the memory of a dream, a curious 
 dream, that he had had the night before, and which 
 now suddenly reappeared upon his memory. It was a 
 vague, haunting thing; a vision of a great altar, and 
 many candles, and himself clad in a sackcloth gown, 
 striving to light them ; failing again and again, yet still 
 seeing their elusive light in a continual flicker before 
 his eyes. And as he mused upon this dream, meaning 
 less as it was, his heart grew heavy in his breast, and 
 he found no solace in the wild pace of his horse. 
 
 It was nine o'clock that evening, and the daylight 
 had hardly yet throbbed itself out of the darkness, 
 when the two silent ones drew rein on the farther side 
 of London, before Lambeth Palace, on the very spot, 
 indeed, where stands the Lambeth of to-day. 
 
of Canterbury 19 
 
 The Archbishop's son was expected. As he wearily 
 dismounted from his panting horse, a lackey and two 
 link-boys with torches hurried from the door to meet 
 him. Already a groom had taken his steed, and he 
 followed the pages into the house, thankful that the ride 
 was over. 
 
 " An it please you, sir, my Lord Archbishop would 
 see you at once, if you will go to him. Refreshment 
 awaits you in his apartment." 
 
 " I follow you," was the answer. 
 
 They passed through the great hallway of the palace 
 and up the stone staircase; then through a maze of 
 corridors and rush-strewn antechambers, lighted dimly 
 with stone lamps and torches. As they went Anthony's 
 mind returned to Windsor and the banquet now ending 
 there. It seemed a hundred miles away that other 
 life of his. And while still he mused he found himself 
 upon the threshold of his father's stately bed-chamber. 
 
 Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate 
 and Chief Justiciary of England, he who ruled England 
 in the King's absence, and, some said, in the King's 
 presence likewise, was, as every man in Lambeth Palace 
 believed, mortally ill. England was in ignorance of his 
 state as yet, for the sickness was of short standing ; but 
 the nearest companions and servants of my lord had 
 been summoned from his various palaces and churches ; 
 the Prior of Canterbury Chapter had come, and the 
 Bishops of London and Rochester, together with Gilbert 
 Glanville and Robert of Auxerre, his confessors, were at 
 his side. In death, as in life, my lord was to be well at 
 tended and assisted on his important way. With regard 
 to the archiepiscopal conscience the last step had been 
 taken : Hubert's son, the single evidence of his single 
 wrong-doing, had been summoned to his lingering 
 presence. 
 
 It was evident that Anthony's coming had been 
 looked for. As soon as he entered the room all those 
 
20 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 seated within it rose with one accord, more out of a 
 wish to show respect to the dying man than to the son, 
 who, for them, had neither rank nor position. Anthony 
 looked not to the right or left, but advanced quietly 
 to the bedside and bent over the passive form which 
 lay thereon. 
 
 " My father," he said gently. 
 
 Hubert Walter's eyes opened. In those gray orbs, 
 fire lingered yet; and when he spoke, weak though his 
 voice was, the ring of command still dominated its 
 expression. 
 
 11 Thou 'rt in good season, boy. I thank thee for thy 
 quick obedience to my wishes." 
 
 " I could scarce do other than the duty which was 
 also my wish," was the response, spoken in a tone 
 unwontedly low, for Anthony was noting each changed 
 point of his father's weakened face and frame. 
 
 " 'T is well. Refreshment will be brought thee now. 
 After that we will speak together. I cannot as 
 yet." The last sentence came brokenly, and with a 
 kind of shudder. The sight of his son had unnerved 
 the Archbishop. 
 
 One of the physicians hurried to the bedside with 
 cordial, which was hastily administered. Then Anthony, 
 seeing his father sink back again into torpor, left his 
 side and went to the table, which had already been 
 spread with white bread, capon, and wine. Of this meal 
 the young man was indeed in great need, being thor 
 oughly exhausted from his long ride and the various 
 emotions of the afternoon and evening. 
 
 In a corner of the room Geoffrey of Canterbury, the 
 confessors, and the bishops sat whispering together. 
 In the opposite corner the three doctors of medicine 
 consulted lugubriously and with much comfort. While 
 upon the heavily canopied bedstead between these two 
 parties of directors, unheeding all the talk and the 
 flickering of the dim light, lay the Archbishop, pallid 
 
of Canterbury 21 
 
 and motionless, his eyes closed, and one hand clenched 
 fast beneath the coarse coverlet. As, mechanically, 
 Anthony ate and drank, he watched this scene. In his 
 mind there was no definite thought or feeling. Only 
 all about him seemed to hang a haze of apprehension, 
 vague and elusive as the torchlight. Something was to 
 happen, he felt; something strange, unguessed, and 
 dreadful. This unwarranted dread grew greater, until 
 it became impossible for him to eat. He finished his 
 wine, then sat quite still for a moment on his wooden 
 stool, his head bent. The bishops thought him pro 
 nouncing a grace. In reality his thoughts, for an 
 instant, had fled this scene and escaped to the memory 
 of what he had left that day, the daylight, the sun, 
 the rose, the forest, the banquet-hall of Windsor, and 
 the little balcony whereon he had been wont to whisper 
 delicate nothings in the moonlight into the pretty ear of 
 Mademoiselle. His eyes opened again upon this pres 
 ent scene. Then, resolutely, he rose, and crossed to 
 the bed whereon the sick man lay. 
 
 The Archbishop felt his presence and looked up. 
 "Thou art ready?" he asked, in a whisper that was 
 hoarse. 
 
 Anthony bent his head, once. 
 
 Hubert Walter raised his thin white hand : " Friends, 
 I would have speech with my son, alone. Will you be 
 pleased to retire to the antechamber, and see that we 
 are not disturbed. Anthony shall recall you when we 
 have finished our converse, or should I have need of 
 assistance in your absence." 
 
 There was not a hint of weakness in this speech. 
 
 Rising obediently, the priests and doctors filed slowly 
 out of the room. Rapidity of movement was not be 
 coming, and in their secret hearts they strongly wished 
 to hear the interview which was about to take place. 
 But, neither by word nor look, dared they betray curi 
 osity even among themselves ; for Hubert Walter, what- 
 
22 2Jncanoni?eH 
 
 ever else he had done in life, had trained his dependents 
 into excellent manners. And they were never slow to 
 learn from him, after a first lesson, that he was a man 
 at times to be greatly dreaded. 
 
 A man to be dreaded ? Yes. Hubert Walter him 
 self was well aware of that. A proud man, an imperi 
 ous, indomitable, and boundlessly ambitious man he 
 had ever been. From low estate had he risen, neither 
 rapidly nor slowly, with absolute assurance. In the 
 early years of the reign of the first Richard he had 
 become Archbishop of Canterbury; King of clerical 
 England. But that was no longer the summit of his 
 ambition. Mile by mile, throughout that reign, he had 
 approached his final goal. He had reached it now. 
 Over the bitterest opposition to his civil appointments, 
 he had ridden rough-shod. He, of the Roman Catho 
 lic Church, not of the Church Militant, as Chief Justici 
 ary of the realm had come to pronounce death-sentence 
 over men, a direct abrogation of his clerical vows ; and 
 yet, throughout the Christian world, had at last stilled 
 every murmur of reproach from prostrate envy. Baron, 
 King and nation he had overruled. Had he found it 
 necessary, the Pope himself would have been defied. 
 And now, as he lay upon his accepted death-bed, 
 there was naught but sorrow in the hearts of those 
 who knew of his approaching end. A great man was 
 Father Hubert Walter. 
 
 A great man and yet, alas, alas for the greatest of us, 
 a blot was on his scutcheon. The blot was from the hand 
 of woman, and Anthony was the blot. Anthony called 
 up constantly to his father's mind the memory of the pe 
 riod of his sin against the Church. Yet, by his father, 
 Anthony had always been treated with unswerving kind 
 ness, and rigid recognition of their relationship. Hu 
 bert's mind and his position were alike powerful enough 
 for that. None the less the proud old man had suffered, 
 and dreaded as much as he had endured, for the mem- 
 
of Canterbury 23 
 
 ory of that long-past folly. The fears of his creed were 
 thoroughly instilled into his brain and heart. He be 
 lieved absolutely in everlasting damnation ; and his 
 God was far more terrible than righteous ; though that 
 fact Hubert, together with scholastic Christendom, failed 
 entirely to recognize. 
 
 Through the long years before and since his 
 earthly ambitions were realized, the Archbishop had 
 brooded over this other thing: the sin which, com 
 mitted in the ardor of his youth, might now have the 
 far-reaching power to blast the final triumph which men 
 lived for in those days ; which might drag him from a 
 seat among the mighty in heaven, and fling him into 
 the lake of everlasting fire far below. A childish fear, 
 one of the thirteenth century, but none the less terrible 
 to him who believed in it. And through much suf 
 fering and thought the Archbishop had devised for 
 himself a way of escape, one which, according to all 
 legitimate tradition, would prove wholly and worthily 
 efficacious. That this escape would be thoroughly cow 
 ardly did not for a moment enter into his consideration. 
 Some one must merely bear the burden of a few short 
 years of earthly discomfort. Obviously that would be 
 impossible for a dying man. Equally obvious was the 
 fact that there was only one person in existence upon 
 whom Hubert Walter had any life-claim. That person 
 was his son ; and his son, according to Scriptural per 
 mission, might be requested to take the consequences 
 of his father's sin. 
 
 Anthony stood by his father's bedside, glad that a 
 decisive moment had come at last, trusting that his fore 
 boding was to be dispelled. The Archbishop raised 
 himself slightly on his pillow, and, breathing a little 
 heavily from the effort, lay looking at the young man 
 with dim eyes and parted lips, in silence. Finally, lift 
 ing his hand, the old man pointed to a wooden stool in 
 the room. 
 
24 
 
 " Bring it hither and sit ye down, my son. So may 
 we talk more at ease." 
 
 Anthony obeyed, seating himself and fixing his eyes 
 upon his father's face. There was another pause. Hu 
 bert Walter found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a 
 tremble in his tone, he lifted his voice and spoke, as if 
 by rote, but with desperate intensity in his manner. 
 
 " Anthony, you are my natural son. You know that." 
 
 Anthony nodded. He had expected such a prelimi 
 nary. 
 
 " Thou knowest too that the vows of a Catholic priest 
 are celibate. Therefore I sinned, grievously." 
 
 Anthony nodded again. He had not expected self- 
 humiliation from the Archbishop. 
 
 " You are my child, the evidence of my single swerv 
 ing from that narrow road which, since my youth, I 
 have so earnestly walked in. For endless years have I 
 been doing penance for that wrong. Long ago it was 
 confessed. To me it hath never been absolved." 
 
 He paused and looked searchingly into Anthony's 
 face. It bore no expression save that of earnest atten 
 tion. Taking breath again Hubert continued. " Mine 
 hours now are numbered. Upon the bed which I 
 have made, I lie. In another world I shall be judged. 
 Oh, Anthony I I fear ! Hast ever thought on 
 death?" 
 
 " Nay," was the answer, given in an absent tone. 
 
 " Nor did I, when I was of thy years, when I 
 sinned," returned the old man, dropping back again to 
 the painful theme. " But I think now I think now 
 for I needs must. When at last one is brought face to face 
 with the Creator, and knoweth that there is naught that 
 he may hide from the omniscient One, then indeed doth 
 a man think and tremble. Though oft have I been 
 washed free of my sins by some brother of the Church, 
 yet now I am become sore afraid lest the taint be not 
 entirely removed. From afar down the gallery of years 
 
Clje 3rcpij3^op of Canterbury 25 
 
 my misdoing cries out. With prayers of anguish have 
 I answered the echo, and peace for a day hath been 
 given me. But ever and again the remorse returns. 
 Purgatory opens at last, and hell yawns below. But 
 heaven heaven is barred to me, Hubert Walter, 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, while the world, heeding 
 not my sin, looketh upon me as beyond mortal 
 reproach ! " 
 
 Again the Archbishop paused, his strength failing 
 rapidly. With a strong final effort, however, he con 
 centrated a glance of powerful intensity upon his son's 
 thoughtful face. Anthony returned the look with one 
 of earnest questioning. 
 
 "Was the sin so great, father?" he asked. " Others 
 have committed more and worse than thine, yet hoped 
 for heaven in the end. Surely 't is said that the 
 Church Fathers, Saint Thomas himself, were in no 
 wise free from reproach in such matters." 
 
 Hubert sighed. He had made his decision, passed 
 these arguments from himself, long ago. Now no word 
 from any one could mitigate his judgment of himself. He 
 was annoyed that the young man should for a moment 
 dispute its reason. " Look you, Anthony, 't is now 
 no Becket speaking with thee ; but I, I, Hubert Walter, 
 thy father, face to face with the hereafter, fear for 
 the repose of my soul ! Becket is gone. He was no 
 charge of mine. On earth he is a saint in heaven 
 he may not be at all. What matters that to me? 'Tis 
 I that die ! " 
 
 That was it. Therein lay all. It came over Anthony 
 in a sudden flood of understanding, all this self. He 
 saw his father as we do not see ourselves. He saw the 
 self and the selfishness. Hubert Walter was himself. 
 His individuality was complete. No keeper of his 
 brother, but only master of his own welfare was he. 
 To himself he was all. Flesh of his flesh and blood of 
 his blood, distinguished by another shape, another 
 
26 
 
 sensibility, were nothing to him, except for what he 
 might demand of them for himself. All for him was 
 reality. For another it was but imagination. Fear 
 had come home to him now. Hitherto he had seen 
 suffering and fear, and had condoned, and tried to 
 comfort with words had this Hubert Walter. Now 
 was he afraid, and what were words to him? In a 
 second Anthony had perceived all this. Weighted with 
 thought he rose and went to his father's side. 
 
 " What wouldst have me do ? " and his voice was low, 
 and soft with great pity for the human frailty which he 
 had seen so suddenly revealed. 
 
 A gleam passed over the old man's face. At last 
 help had come to him. Now, how to put the question ? 
 All hung upon that all, his eternal happiness or dam 
 nation. Should it be at once, brusquely, with noth 
 ing to soften its harshness? A sudden rush of pain 
 decided the matter. 
 
 "What shouldst thou do? This, Anthony : During 
 the few years that remain to thee shalt thou save my soul 
 and thine own. That life in which I failed, shalt thou 
 live. Put away ambition. Enter among the lowly of 
 earth, that a higher throne in heaven may await thee. 
 Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live alone, 
 apart from men, with brethren of thine order, and with 
 tomes, and prayers, and God ; leave far behind the use 
 less glory of this life, and look alone to Heaven for thy 
 hope, and for my love." 
 
 It was said. Hubert drew a slow and painful breath, 
 that was scarcely lower in sound than three words 
 spoken as if by the voice of a dying man, or of a 
 spectre coming from close beside his bed. They 
 were an echo. 
 
 '"Become a monk!"' 
 
 Hubert did not stir. He lay with his eyes fixed 
 upon his son in a dim look of imperious weakness and 
 pleading, that might now do far more than words in 
 
of Canterbury 27 
 
 helping to prepare a mind for such a thought. He 
 could not dream the true effect of his long-planned 
 proposition upon one to whom its meaning was so 
 new. 
 
 Slowly and unconsciously Anthony moved backward 
 from the bed. His eyes wandered aimlessly about the 
 room. His ideas refused to concentrate themselves 
 upon anything. Presently he burst into a laugh, a 
 laugh so musical that it might have been called a 
 woman's, save that in it there was no thought of 
 mirth. 
 
 " T is an idea, surely ! A monk ! " 
 
 " I jested not, Anthony," said the old man, anxiously. 
 
 Anthony's face twitched. The laughter rose again in 
 his throat, but his eyes were terrible. " Monkery ! How 
 am I fitted for it? Thou knowest what my life at court 
 hath been? Their duties, their thoughts, their ways, 
 what know I of them ! I should be given time to 
 think." 
 
 " There is no time ; " and in Hubert's voice sounded 
 despair now. 
 
 Anthony started. A quick vibration shot to his 
 heart. " You mean that I should decide here 
 now?" 
 
 " Here, and now," repeated the inexorable low voice. 
 
 " Then NO ! Ten thousand times NO ! I am no 
 priest, nor fit for one. I am of the court, a servant 
 of the King, of the household of the King's brother. 
 I will be no monk." 
 
 A terrible expression came into the eyes of the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, a look such as Hubert's 
 god of Judgment might have worn. It passed again, 
 but its trace remained. When he spoke his voice was 
 weak and very gentle, but there was a note in it of 
 something else. 
 
 "Wait, Anthony! Thus superficially you cannot 
 decide. Think you that I knew not all that you have 
 
28 
 
 spoken of when I asked this thing from you? You 
 are no courtier, no servant of the King. Neither are 
 you, as I have seen,, a servant of your God. Less than 
 the least of men are you. You are a bastard. Had 
 you a soul at all, it were impure. Some say that in 
 you there is no soul. I know not how that is, but in 
 the words of holy Scripture I tell you this, see that 
 you heed it : ' The sins of the fathers are visited upon 
 the children.' I am your father, and my sin is yours. 
 I and you also are impure in the sight of the Almighty 
 Father. Now have I opened before you a way of 
 salvation for us both. A glorious way it is, for by it 
 my soul shall belong to you. In the sight of the chil 
 dren of men you are as nothing. To me you are a 
 son. Here on my death-bed I demand see, I plead 
 no more I command you to leave the world, that you 
 may open the way to another and an eternal world to 
 both of us, both of us, Anthony, to you and 
 to me." 
 
 There was a long silence, empty for one of them, 
 suffocating for the other. Then Anthony lifted his 
 head. " She -who was my mother," he asked bitterly, 
 "hast saved her soul? Or is that also left to my 
 care? " 
 
 " Long since she died. For seven hundred days I 
 said mass for the repose of her soul; I was daily 
 scourged; and in all that time no morsel of meat 
 passed my lips." 
 
 Anthony was silent again. Out of the mist before 
 him rose his life. " ' The sins of the fathers ' " he 
 repeated hoarsely to himself. 
 
 " What say you ? " asked the father, drearily. 
 
 "What is needed to make me into a monk? What 
 monastery would receive me?" questioned a new voice 
 that came from Anthony's lips. 
 
 The Archbishop breathed quickly. " All those mat 
 ters I have arranged. From his Holiness himself have 
 
of Canterbury 29 
 
 I letters sanctioning the matter and giving thee the right 
 of friar's orders that shall free thee at times from the 
 weariness of the cloister. In difficulty or trouble thou 
 mayest appeal to him. These privileges are rare and 
 great." 
 
 " Where should I go ? " repeated the monotonous 
 voice. 
 
 " To Canterbury. Geoffrey will accompany thee. In 
 the great monastery of Augustine there, thou wilt serve 
 six months' novitiate. Thy time is specially shortened. 
 At the end of that, when thou hast ta'en the vows, a 
 place will be made for thee in the Canterbury Chapter 
 itself. That is the most powerful convent in all Eng 
 land. Thou wouldst serve only at the masses in the 
 great cathedral, and be given many hours for solitary 
 study and prayer. The chapter hath greater honor and 
 privilege than any other in the kingdom. Wouldst be 
 satisfied?" 
 
 Satisfied!" 
 
 " Anthony, my strength fails. Thy word to God ! " 
 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert stood. His arms were folded 
 tightly across his breast. His damp hair clung closely 
 to his head. His dark eyes were dull and unseeing. A 
 drop rolled from his forehead down his cheek. Like a 
 breath of the evening wind, his youth had passed from 
 him. He spoke, but his tone and his face were alike 
 without expression. His gaze was not upon his father's 
 face, but on the great void where his happiness had 
 been. His words were clear; his father, straining to 
 catch them, drank them into his soul. 
 
 " In the sight of God I promise you to become 
 a monk." 
 
 The Archbishop's face relaxed. He sighed. His 
 failing strength had apparently returned to him. " Thou 
 mayest call Geoffrey," he said gently, "but kneel first 
 to receive my blessing. Ah, my son ! My beloved 
 son ! How do I glory in thee ! " 
 
30 ajncanoni?eti 
 
 Anthony stumbled to the bedside and forced himself 
 to kneel. He shivered as the hot hand fell upon his 
 hair. He kept himself from crying aloud by main 
 strength. Then the phrases of the benediction fell 
 upon his ears : " Peace be with thee, now, henceforth, 
 and forever, Anthony ! " 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FAREWELL 
 
 IN the antechamber of the Archbishop's bedroom, 
 during the talk between Hubert and his son, the 
 little group of doctors and priests had waited impa 
 tiently for the termination of that interview. Gilbert de 
 Glanville sat alone on a settle in a corner, his tonsured 
 head bent so that his face was unreadable, his fingers 
 playing nervously with the cloth of his black robe. The 
 Bishop of London was expounding some dogma of Paris 
 to his comrades, who obviously paid little heed to his 
 words. Geoffrey of Canterbury sat by the other con 
 fessor, but neither of them spoke. They, too, were lis 
 tening for the sound of a footstep in the corridor. The 
 doctors, more at ease, sat murmuring professionally 
 among themselves, careless of the unrest among their 
 colleagues of the soul. None in the room but Gilbert 
 knew what it was that Hubert Walter was saying to his 
 son ; but all who were aware of that sonship could at 
 least imagine many things. 
 
 The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the 
 small stone lamps built upon the wall wavered and 
 flickered unpleasantly, while the uneven light from the 
 cresset lantern hung in the middle of the apartment cast 
 distorted shadows over the floor and ceiling. To all 
 the attendants the wait was tedious ; to Gilbert Glan 
 ville it was interminable. The confessor was uneasy. 
 " Verily, my lord findeth his task no simple one. Me- 
 thought it had been so. 'Twere better an he had left 
 it to one of us to me," he thought, and thought 
 again. 
 
32 
 
 Nevertheless, when their waiting was ended and the 
 leather hanging before the door raised by a white hand, 
 all in the room were startled. It was a strange appari 
 tion. For a moment each was aware of a slender figure, 
 which seemed to sway even as it grasped the curtain ; of 
 a ghastly face framed in rough black hair ; of a voice 
 whose sound was only a hoarse whisper, 
 
 " Gilbert de Glanville, my father would have 
 speech with you." 
 
 Gilbert rose quickly. At the same moment the chief 
 chirurgien started up. It was the confessor who waved 
 him aside. " My lord needs thee not yet," he said ; 
 then followed Anthony from the room. 
 
 They walked together down the short passage-way. 
 At the door to the larger room which they were about 
 to enter, Gilbert paused for an instant and laid a finger 
 on the young man's sleeve; "Thou hast consented?" 
 he whispered. 
 
 Anthony's lips framed an answer that was barely 
 audible, but which Gilbert caught at once. A look 
 of admiration crept over the confessor's face, and a 
 gleam of pity flickered from his eyes. The admiration 
 was for Hubert Walter's power, which, it seemed, death 
 could not diminish. The pity was for the son. 
 
 On entering the bedroom, Gilbert went at once to the 
 Archbishop's side. The sick man's cheeks were slightly 
 flushed, his eyes were brilliant, and his voice weaker than 
 it had been. 
 
 " Anthony hath granted my last wish," said his Grace, 
 looking sharply into his confessor's face. " Go now, 
 Gilbert, to the cabinet in the corner yonder, and in it 
 shaltthou find the papers that are needed for Anthony's 
 going. To one, the oath, Anthony shall put his name. 
 The second is from mine own hand to the monastery 
 and chapter; thou wilt see that its command is obeyed, 
 father. The third is from the Pope to me, granting 
 my behest, absolving me from guilt on the condition 
 
faretoell 33 
 
 that Anthony take the vows, and giving him special 
 order of friar-confessor, together with privilege of ap 
 peal to his Holiness in difficulty or dispute. That 
 missive, Anthony, is thine. Treasure it well, for it will 
 be the greatest possession of thy monkhood. Now shalt 
 thou sign the pledge to me and to God. Canst write 
 thy name, dear son?" 
 
 " A courtier is no scribe. No." 
 
 Hubert took no note of the dark face and the churl 
 ish tone. It was easy to forgive these things now. 
 " Gilbert shall write it, then, and thou must make thy 
 mark. Then we will determine about thy going." 
 
 " My going ! Surely I shall not go yet ! I will wait 
 until " 
 
 " Until my death?" finished the old man, looking 
 at him piercingly. " Thou shalt go before then. I 
 would thou wert within the convent at this moment. 
 Remember, Anthony, thy prayers are needed." 
 
 The young man struggled to suppress a sound that 
 rose to his lips. It was something like an explosive 
 laugh. His nerves were giving way. Further resist 
 ance upon petty points appeared impossible to him. 
 He was at the greatest disadvantage, worn mentally and 
 physically, and left to oppose helplessness to pitiless 
 determination. Argument he felt to be useless. Gilbert 
 de Glanville perceived his condition, and the advantage 
 that was theirs. He addressed a few low-toned words 
 to the Archbishop. 
 
 " Yes, yes," returned Hubert, somewhat impatiently. 
 "Thou hadst better go now to thy rest, Anthony. 
 Gilbert and I will arrange these matters. Leave them 
 to us in faith. On the morrow thou must ride again, 
 and thou art weary enow. Call the lackey, Gilbert. Go, 
 then ; and peace be with thee, son." 
 
 Anthony turned silently to leave the room, defeated, 
 as he knew, yet caring little just then for anything. 
 Presently something, a quiver of feeling, stopped him. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, then went to the bedside 
 again, bending over it and gazing sadly into his father's 
 face. 
 
 "What is it, boy?" and there was a tremble in the 
 high, old voice. 
 
 " I shall see thee again, in the morning? " asked the 
 son, gently. 
 
 " Dei gratia, Antoni. Nunc vale." 
 
 " Vale," he murmured in reply, and then, with sudden 
 determination, swiftly crossed the room and was gone. 
 
 De Glanville and the Archbishop, left alone together, 
 did not speak for some moments. When the silence 
 was at length broken, it was in a way which showed 
 the close intimacy between these two men. 
 
 " Thou hadst some little struggle with him, my 
 lord?" 
 
 " Nay, not so much, Gilbert not so much as I had 
 apprehended. Thou knowest he is of my blood. Ah, 
 Gilbert ! At times my heart reproaches me for what I 
 have done ! " 
 
 " That is but weakness. Assuredly in giving a world 
 ling to the arms of the holy Church thou hast done 
 no wrong. He will forget, soon, that other life which 
 would have condemned him to tortures eternal ; and 
 will gladly seek what is needed for the repose of his 
 soul and of thine own." 
 
 " God grant it. And now as to his departure." The 
 Archbishop lifted himself upon his pillow and glanced 
 significantly at the confessor. Then he proceeded, with 
 a voice lowered unnecessarily, since he could not hide 
 his thought from God : " He must depart hence for 
 Canterbury on the morrow. Dost understand?" 
 
 " You mean, my lord," said De Glanville, with an 
 inward smile, but great outward respect, " you mean 
 that Heaven hath not called you yet?" 
 
 " Ay," answered Hubert, with a sigh that was heart 
 felt. "The malignance of the attack is. passed. I shall 
 
tfaretoell 35 
 
 recover. But for how long? Thou knowest how they 
 do continually recur. Nay, Gilbert, the grave yawns 
 for me. I am not so unkind as thou thinkest. Death 
 smiles not far away, though for the nonce I have 
 banished him. Were it otherwise - He did not finish 
 his thought in words, but the meaning was not difficult 
 to perceive. 
 
 Gilbert bowed passively. The subject was closed. 
 They turned to the matters of Anthony's going, and 
 his other life. 
 
 The Archbishop's son, meanwhile, lay in the stately 
 room prepared for him. His brain rebelled against 
 further labor, and his head had scarcely found its 
 welcome resting-place before his darkly fringed eyelids 
 had closed heavily, and he slept. Through the remain 
 ing hours of the night he lay wrapped in a slumber 
 resembling the death which had left his father's bed. 
 The beams of the morning sun, finally creeping up 
 his pillow, held in them a drowsy dream of Made 
 moiselle and of her rose. The dream brought no waken 
 ing, and it was some hours past his usual time for rising 
 when a hand, hot and thin, was laid upon his white one, 
 which he had thrown above his head in his light sleep. 
 Instantly he started up, ready to resent the morning 
 intrusion of some Windsor coxcomb. Before him, in 
 this room at silent Lambeth, stood the shrunken form 
 of Gilbert de Glanville, in his black priest's-robe. 
 
 " My father ! " he asked quickly, memory still latent 
 within him. 
 
 " My Lord Archbishop still breathes, sends his bless 
 ing, and gives you God-speed upon your journey," 
 responded the priest, examining him narrowly. 
 
 Anthony sank back upon the bed, overwhelmed. 
 The watcher saw all the young life leave him, and the 
 face grow old. Light and color departed from his eyes 
 and lips, and his muscles seemed powerless to hold 
 him longer upright. After a pause which the priest 
 
36 
 
 dared not break for sudden feeling, the lifeless voice 
 of the young man was raised in a dreary monotone of 
 questioning, 
 
 " What is the hour? Whither do I ride? To Canter 
 bury? Is it there I am to go? now?" 
 
 " The dial pointeth to something near noon. Thou 
 wilt return to-day to Windsor, that thou mayest bid 
 farewell to thy former master and comrades. On the 
 morrow, together, we will proceed to Canterbury, where 
 the letter from thy father will insure thee willing 
 welcome." 
 
 "Thou to go with me? T is strange! Why not 
 Geoffrey of the chapter? Assuredly my father will 
 need his confessor " 
 
 " The Bishop of London taketh upon himself my 
 office, and thou knowest Robert likewise is here. 
 Geoffrey remains for many reasons. He is no friend of 
 the Abbot of St. Augustine's. Now an thou 'It break 
 thy fast, it were better than to talk longer on these idle 
 things. T will be long after noon ere thou 'It get to 
 Windsor, meseemeth, as it is." 
 
 Anthony ate but slightly of the generous meal pro 
 vided for him. Here there were no preparations to be 
 made for his longer journey, and it was but little past 
 the hour of one when he was admitted to the archiepis- 
 copal room to bid a final farewell. The permission was 
 a surprise to iiim. From De Glanville's words he had 
 inferred that his father did not intend to see him again. 
 Indeed, that idea was the one which the priest himself 
 had striven to impart. The confessor had also opposed, 
 so far as he dared, Hubert's desire for a last interview. 
 But the father was as determined upon this point as he 
 had been upon that other wish which De Glanville 
 shared. And in this as in the other he had his way, 
 and saw his son. As it chanced, the happening was 
 fortunate for Hubert's cause. If Anthony had had the 
 faintest doubt as to the real severity of the Archbishop's 
 
fatetoell 37 
 
 illness, that doubt was dispelled now. He was shocked 
 at the appearance of his father, exposed in all his worn 
 pallor, with the traces of cruel pain plainly apparent 
 in the pitiless glare of the noonday sun. Every mark 
 of his illness was presented to the eyes of the young 
 man, who regarded the feeble body lying before him 
 with something like horror. 
 
 The good-bye was not prolonged. Neither father 
 nor son was in a mood where many words were bear 
 able. But the parting on Hubert's side was ineffably 
 sad. One knowing nothing would have said that he 
 was sure of death. 'That of the younger man could be 
 only reverential and low-voiced. Anthony was unable to 
 do more. The bitterness was too sudden and too deep. 
 
 Mounted again upon his eager steed, knowing that 
 there lay before him, to the west, some twenty-five 
 miles of solitude, the heavy weight upon Anthony's 
 breast lightened a little. The oppression of the stone 
 walls of Lambeth Palace was gone. For a moment 
 he was to be alone and free. But as he rode, his 
 instant of relief went from him again. He seemed to 
 himself to be passing through a mighty sea of desolate 
 thought, whose great waves swept over him in resistless 
 power, leaving him exhausted when they had passed. 
 Realization of his position was taking him by storm. 
 By sharp spasms the picture of his future life and its 
 loneliness rose before his eyes, then departed as sud 
 denly as it had come, leaving behind it a blank void. 
 The sensation was almost indescribable. In the periods 
 of mental numbness he wondered indistinctly if his 
 brain had been turned by the sudden prospect of his 
 life's change. Only he could understand how, hitherto, 
 he had loved life. Now, for the first time, discord had 
 come, and the endless continuance of its echoes was to 
 make his life terrible. Created eminently for the diffi 
 cult position of leader in a court life, social and tactful 
 to a degree, young, beautiful of face and form, fascinat- 
 
38 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 ing, and easily fascinated by beauty and delicacy, all 
 environment suited to these qualities of nature was sud 
 denly to be snatched away. He was standing utterly alone 
 in a new land, a new atmosphere, in which, at great dis 
 tance, dim, unknown figures were eying him ; invisible, 
 but still terrible, walls waiting to enclose him and his 
 youth as in a tomb. His world was gone. The new 
 one was filled with shadows. Then why think until the 
 light had broken upon this horizon, until the worst and 
 the best of all this was made known to him? At least 
 in obeying the command of his father, he had done 
 what all men would call right, and more than right. 
 
 So the miles before him lessened until, by the time 
 the lowering sun had begun to shine unpleasantly into 
 his eyes, the heights of Windsor lay before him, and he 
 urged his foaming horse into a faster gallop up the 
 steep road, among the huts of those whom he had 
 thought so miserable not long ago. 
 
 It was the hour when the castle courtyard was de 
 serted. Only two henchmen guarded the lowered 
 drawbridge, and the old porter drowsed at the door of 
 his lodge. Throwing his bridle over the arm of an atten 
 dant man-at-arms, Anthony dismounted from his horse 
 and entered the castle, undecided as to what he should 
 do first. Seeing a lackey, whose face was familiar, 
 lounging in the hallway, he called out to him, 
 
 "Walter, is my Lord de Burgh in his apartments?" 
 
 "An hour ago he returned from the chase, and is now 
 at rest, Sir Anthony." 
 
 " Go ask him if he will receive me." 
 
 The man bowed and ran up the worn stone stairs, 
 leaving Anthony to wait in the room below. Presently 
 he returned. 
 
 "The serving-man in my lord's antechamber hath 
 orders that my lord is to be disturbed by none, sith he 
 is preparing some matters concerning his departure for 
 Normandy on the morrow.'* 
 
39 
 
 " So be it. I will see him later in the evening." And 
 Anthony went slowly toward the stairs. He shrank 
 unspeakably from explanations and scenes of farewell. 
 At the idea of pity and amazement, he fairly shuddered. 
 Perhaps there might be even sneers, for young folk are 
 not often kind to their own companions. And by the 
 time that he reached his own room he was debating the 
 possibility of departing as if for a journey, with explana 
 tion given only to his liege lord, the Earl of Salisbury. 
 
 Upon the wooden settle in his chamber, with the sun 
 light pouring down from the window above it, lay the 
 rose, wrapped in its now dry cloth. Anthony went to 
 it slowly, and picked it up. Its scarlet glory was gone ; 
 the petals were purple and old. And the rose and his 
 life were alike. A week ago he would have sung a 
 madrigal upon the theme, to be repeated to its lady 
 and his. Now he was conscious only of a sickening, 
 uncouth bitterness of spirit, as he flung the flower far 
 from him, and turned away again, to look through his 
 many possessions, and to pack what little might be 
 taken with him on the morrow; and the first necessity 
 which came to his hand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted 
 dagger. 
 
 The June sun reached the tree-tops which bounded 
 the western horizon with their delicate, plumy green. 
 Throughout the castle there was a hum and murmur 
 of life. Its occupants had returned from the day's 
 pleasures and sports to robe themselves for the even 
 ing meal, less formal yet far more sumptuous than the 
 ten o'clock dinner. Anthony listened to the dim mur 
 mur of familiar voices and the echoes of laughter that 
 reached his ears, as he stood contemplating himself 
 undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron 
 hook upon his bedroom wall. Of what use to deck 
 himself in fine raiment for the last time that his body 
 should ever bear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be 
 his garment. What matter if he went unkempt for the 
 
40 
 
 last evening in the home he loved? But the thought 
 of the part he wished to play came back to him. He 
 could not bear that his companions should know his 
 ruin. Despair is concealed for an hour more easily than 
 unrest. And so Anthony sighed a long, heavy sigh, and 
 went to the great carven chest in which he kept his 
 clothes. Fitz-Hubert was of sufficient importance to 
 have a special lackey and serving-man of his own. 
 This person, who ran his errands, served him at meals, 
 and kept his horse, also attended him as valet and 
 barber at his toilet. It is not difficult to perceive that 
 the fellow's position was no sinecure. Anthony called 
 him now. 
 
 " Array me splendidly to-night, Morris. Mademoi 
 selle de Ravaillac awaits me," he remarked. 
 
 Morris was somewhat surprised at the unusual mention 
 of personal matters, and also at Anthony's command to 
 be much dressed on an evening which promised to be 
 dull at the castle. 
 
 " The Scottish legates have departed, sir," he ven 
 tured. 
 
 "What! So soon? Truly the Earl must have de 
 ported himself after the manner of John ! Hie ye now 
 and find the fastening buckle for this garment." 
 
 Perceiving that his master was in earnest concerning 
 his dress, Morris said no more, but went quickly to work, 
 for their time was short. 
 
 The banqueting hall of ancient Windsor was an enor 
 mous place. Situated in the south wing of the castle, 
 there was space enough on the story over it for an entire 
 suite of royal apartments ; and room enough in the 
 baserrtent below for a wine-vault, the fame of whose 
 size had spread over all England. Space only half as 
 large was needed for the entire culinary department 
 from kitchen to still room, even including those rude 
 closets where chef and scullion were wont to sleep side 
 by side. The banquet-hall was, like the rest of the 
 
faretoelt 41 
 
 castle, all of stone. The floor was bare, damp, and gray, 
 for rushes were not used on the flags of that immense 
 room ; but the walls were hung round with tapestry 
 from Flanders, priceless then as now, representing 
 scenes from the First Crusade. 
 
 Before six o'clock on this June evening a small army 
 of lackeys and pages had been at work in this room, pre 
 paring it and its table for the serving of the household 
 that now occupied the castle. One great board stretched 
 down through the middle of the room, containing places 
 enough for every occupant of the building. Upon a 
 raised dais at the farther end was a small round table 
 with six seats for the King, the Queen, my lord of 
 Salisbury, and any chance visitors of royal blood of 
 consequence enough to be seated there. It made no 
 difference that King John and his Queen were rarely at 
 Windsor for more than one month out of twelve, and 
 then never together. Their table always awaited them 
 there. As for the Earl, he refused to dine in lonely 
 state, but occupied the first seat at the table of his own 
 household, with Hubert de Burgh upon his right, and 
 Peter Fitz-Geoffrey at his left hand should either of 
 them chance to be present. 
 
 At seven in the evening one of the lackeys, carrying 
 an iron gong, and one of the pages, with the beating- 
 stick in his hand, ascended to the upper corridors of the 
 castle. Through these they passed, making a racket 
 that should have deafened both of them long ago. And 
 presently when the twain were gone, the doors along 
 those halls began one by one to open, and a throng of 
 quaintly garbed people to pass out and down the great 
 and little staircases and into' the smokily lighted ban 
 quet-room, whence it was not so easy to conjecture 
 how all would depart. 
 
 Now when my lord of Salisbury presided over the 
 castle household he was most apt to throw usual forms 
 into the greatest confusion by his entire disregard of 
 
42 (3ncanoni?et) 
 
 the etiquette for meals. To-night the first-comers, a 
 company of men-at-arms, henchmen, and the array of 
 visiting mendicants and friars, had scarcely grouped 
 themselves, standing, about the board, below the salt, 
 when his Grace, arm-in-arm with his friend De Burgh, 
 and accompanied by two enormous boar-hounds, entered 
 the room, talking pleasantly with his companion, who 
 was smiling beneath his beard at William's easy uncon- 
 ventionality. These two seated themselves at the table 
 at once, watching the others as they entered, the Earl 
 nonchalantly addressing any one who chanced to catch 
 his eye. Peter Fitz-Geoffrey and most of the great 
 nobles of the realm were absent, either with the King 
 or upon their own estates. 
 
 The coxcombs and ladies, who had entered the door 
 way laughing and talking among themselves, grew silent 
 suddenly, as each in turn beheld the liege lord already 
 seated. One damsel, woman or girl, for she was both, 
 pretty of feature and beautifully dressed, her golden 
 hair escaping from its coif and falling here and there 
 in curls upon the flowing garments of sea-green damask, 
 the color in her cheeks not much less glowing than that 
 of the scarlet rose at her breast, entered the room alone. 
 As she advanced to her place, after her courtesy to the 
 Earl, her blue eyes wandered searchingly among the 
 throng of gallants. Apparently she did not find among 
 them the one she sought. 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Ravaillac looks for her errant 
 knight," whispered Salisbury laughingly to his neighbor. 
 
 "Hath not Anthony returned?" queried De Burgh. 
 
 " Meseemeth not. In sooth I had scarce looked for 
 him to-day." 
 
 " Hast heard from Lambeth? Is the Archbishop 
 worse?" 
 
 " I trust not. We have had no news as yet. Thou 
 knowest the cause of Hubert's message to his son, De 
 Burgh?" 
 
tfaretuell 43 
 
 "My realm is among the laity, my affairs the 
 King's," was the courtier's evasive answer. And Salis 
 bury cleared his throat and smiled slightly as he ended 
 the conversation by the remark, 
 
 " Here are the priests." 
 
 "And there, yonder, at the door, " put in De 
 Burgh. 
 
 " Is Anthony ! " finished Salisbury, in astonishment. 
 
 De Burgh's eyes flew to the face of Mademoiselle de 
 Ravaillac, whose blue orbs were fastened intently upon 
 the wooden trencher of the monk opposite to her. 
 But there was a sudden round of forbidden whispering 
 among Anthony's intimates, and significant looks passed 
 between many at the expense of the fair-haired demoi 
 selle ; for Fitz-Hubert's entrance had been indeed de 
 signed to create a commotion among the members of 
 this important household. 
 
 Conscious to the full of all the eyes that were turned 
 upon him, the young man paused for a moment in the 
 doorway. Then he advanced slowly toward the seat of 
 William of Salisbury, a brilliant smile drawing his lips, 
 a feeling akin to death gathering in his heart. The 
 grace remained still unspoken while the monks, envious 
 like many others, turned upon their stools to look upon 
 him. He was clad in a tunic reaching to his heels, 
 made of white cloth heavily embroidered in gold, 
 slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky 
 sheen of his black, broidered hose. His belt was of 
 black and gold, and the dagger in it, of steel, was hilted 
 with gleaming jewels. His sleeves were of plain white 
 damask, cuffed with black. His black hair, freshly 
 curled, framed the face, that was as white as his dress ; 
 and the brilliance of his deepset eyes matched that of 
 the gems at his belt. The finishing touch to the young 
 man's curious costume, and the one which gave greatest 
 significance to his appearance, was that which appeared 
 to link him in some way to the prettiest woman in the 
 
44 2Jncanoni?cti 
 
 room. It was the rose which cast a red shadow upon 
 the gleaming purity of his tunic, a flower for whose 
 perfection Morris had hunted during a long half-hour in 
 the royal gardens, and which had made his master thus 
 tardy in arriving at his post. 
 
 Under the glances from myriad eyes, Anthony, seem 
 ingly unabashed, advanced to the Earl's chair and bent 
 the knee, murmuring an apology for his delayed arrival. 
 Salisbury bade him stand, saying audibly : 
 
 " In good truth, Anthony, you shame us all for 
 slovenliness in dress. T were well indeed that for the 
 evening you occupied my Lord Fitz-Geoffrey's empty 
 chair, here at my side. The gallants yonder have 
 brilliancy enow V their midst. You shall relieve 
 our soberness. Sit you here. Eh? What say you, 
 Hubert?" 
 
 To the astonishment of all at the table De Burgh 
 nodded an amused assent, and the Earl pushed Anthony 
 into the place of high honor at his left hand. There 
 was a little color in the youth's cheeks as he sank 
 hastily into the posture for grace. If no one else at the 
 table had perceived it, he, at least, had understood his 
 lord's mild rebuke for overdress, and his mortification 
 was sincere. William himself was clad in a sombre 
 suit of bottle-green, unembroidered and unornamented. 
 De Burgh supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, 
 with black hose and leather belt and pouch ; though in 
 truth it must be added that this plainness was only out 
 of respect to Salisbury's known taste for simplicity; 
 since the extent and richness of Hubert de Burgh's 
 wardrobe yielded the palm to none save the King's 
 own. 
 
 From the first, Anthony was uncomfortable in his new 
 place. In the eyes of his comrades, when he could 
 catch them, he found only curiosity. Mademoiselle 
 refused absolutely to look toward him. He was served 
 with food third of all that table-full. Never before had 
 
farewell 45 
 
 he known the roasts, the pasty, and the roots so hot. 
 He felt himself conspicuous, and left without the power 
 to carry out his role. Before he had entered the room 
 he believed absolutely in his own ability to act. He 
 saw his dreary mistake now. Do what he would, his 
 heart and his expression together failed him. To keep 
 himself from overmuch thought, he fixed his eyes upon 
 the charming figure of her who bore the flower symbol ot 
 their relationship. Evidently the scarlet rose was being 
 commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for 
 he beheld Helene's color rise. Then, unexpectedly, 
 she turned her head, to glance stealthily at the brilliant 
 petals that burned upon the cold purity of his vestment. 
 In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A 
 shadow of mingled confusion and anger crossed her 
 face, and, snatching her own rose from her gown, she 
 dropped it underneath the table. 
 
 Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw 
 Anthony into a state of doubt and anxiety as to her 
 feeling for him. He sighed at her happy ignorance of 
 the uselessness of that coquetry. What, evermore, 
 should he have to do with love, or the dallying with it? 
 What woman would make eyes at a sackcloth gown? 
 It was well for him that his feeling for her had never 
 been deep-rooted. It seemed that were his well of 
 bitterness to be deepened by one jot or tittle, it would 
 drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of thought were 
 spun out in his tired brain such a black look of moody 
 despair rose upon his face that Mademoiselle was even 
 prepared to smile upon him when he turned to her 
 again. 
 
 Hubert de Burgh also saw that expression, and guessed 
 that Salisbury's idle whim had made the youth uncom 
 fortable enough for the time. But in his address there 
 was also a courtier's purpose, which the Earl, who was 
 looking on, understood. 
 
 "Anthony!" 
 
46 
 
 The young man glanced up to find Hubert's kindly 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 "Thy father, surely, is better of his illness? No 
 messenger hath reached us from Lambeth to-day, but 
 thy presence is proof of his recovery? " 
 
 " When I left my father's side this morning his sick 
 ness was in no way lessened," responded Anthony, 
 laconically, wondering if it would be opportune to 
 address the Earl on the matter now. 
 
 " Not lessened ! " cried De Burgh, while Salisbury's 
 face supplemented Hubert's astonishment. "Then how 
 come you here? " 
 
 " My father himself commanded me to come," was 
 the unsatisfactory answer. 
 
 " Do you return again to Lambeth, or remain with 
 us, then?" queried Salisbury, in a tone which expressed 
 nothing but courtesy. 
 
 Anthony looked up at last and spoke with something 
 like life in his tone, while he carefully noted the faces of 
 the two lords, who listened attentively to his speech : 
 " An your Grace permits, this must be my last night at 
 Windsor. I am bidden on a long and toilsome journey. 
 My father would have me set forth upon the morrow. 
 I had wished to speak of the matter to-night at least, 
 and sith now you have questioned me, I hereby crave 
 indulgence to quit your household and the King's, my 
 lord, that I may be free to do my father's bidding." 
 
 Anthony had spoken with marked slowness and pre 
 cision, that he might force himself to maintain his calm 
 demeanor. To his relief he finished the speech with 
 no hint of a break in his tone, though growing gravely 
 uncomfortable under the steady glance of De Burgh. 
 
 One of the young man's hands had lain carelessly 
 upon the table before him. Now, with a quiet gentle 
 ness that caused him to start painfully, he felt the 
 cool, strong hand of the Earl, William, brother of the 
 King, laid almost tenderly upon his own. He gave 
 
faretocll 47 
 
 one startled look into the open face before him, and 
 the response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of 
 color to sweep over his face. He moved slightly and 
 his breath came fast. He was very near to breaking. 
 
 " Thou hast my permission, Anthony, to depart. 
 How were it possible for me to disregard the wish of 
 Hubert Walter? Yet thou knowest my pain at losing 
 thee from my house. Know that my thoughts go with 
 thee on thy distant journey. For the King, Hubert 
 here will answer." 
 
 Anthony tried hard to speak, but De Burgh covered 
 his useless effort. " The King also permits thy going, 
 Anthony, for, in truth, long since he spake to me upon 
 this matter. What more can I say than that which my 
 lord here hath already done? My thought is with 
 thee." 
 
 Anthony no longer attempted to reply, and his head 
 had fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. 
 His temples throbbed dully. Hubert said that long 
 since the King had known of this matter ! Salisbury 
 had told him that their thoughts were his ! His ruse 
 was useless. They knew his destiny, and had tried 
 to make him understand that they knew, and that they 
 pitied him. On their part it was mistaken kindness. 
 Pity he rebelled against. Pride at least was left. Once 
 again he raised his head, and in his face now lay an 
 expression of repellent haughtiness that did good credit 
 to his power of self-possession. 
 
 " I thank you, my lords, for your gracious permis 
 sion. However, my journey is one neither so danger 
 ous nor so arduous as to need your thoughts." 
 
 The two nobles were somewhat astonished at this, 
 perhaps ; but both of them possessed sufficient pene 
 tration, and also enough of charity, to understand and 
 forgive the discourtesy, while they admired the spirit 
 which prompted it. 
 
 Nothing more was to be said now among the three, 
 
48 
 
 for in truth the situation was slightly strained. They 
 ate, or made pretence of eating, in silence. Anthony 
 had become acutely susceptible to the disagreeable 
 features of his surroundings. The gathering heat, 
 and the heavy odors of meats, wines, and stale per 
 fume in the immense room, the flickering, smoky dul- 
 ness of the torch-light, the shrillness of the many 
 voices, and the noise of laughter that flowed together 
 with the wine, all smote his senses with a sharp sting 
 of irritation, disgust, and measureless regret. So 
 many, many times had he been part of all this ! Now 
 it was going from him. The thought and the attempt 
 at its banishment sickened him. He leaned forward 
 over the table, white, and faint. His eyes closed. He 
 had lost courage to attempt concealment of his pain. 
 De Burgh was watching him with a deep sympathy. 
 He saw Anthony sway slightly, arid thereupon touched 
 the Earl upon the arm. Salisbury looked up. 
 
 " Canst hasten the ending of the meal?" whispered 
 Hubert. " The eating is well-nigh over, and ere long 
 the folly will begin. Thou knowest the difficulty of 
 checking that, and Fitz-Hubert, as thou seest, can bear 
 little more." 
 
 William glanced at Anthony, then nodded, and looked 
 contemplatively down the table. The fruits and com 
 fits which ended the meal had already been passed. 
 Flagons of wine and mead were beginning to be in 
 great demand, and the story-telling and jesting which 
 were wont to drag out repasts to endless hours had 
 been begun. In the midst of all this the Earl rose to 
 his feet. His move was not instantly perceived, for it 
 was almost without precedent in the annals of Windsor. 
 When at length he was heard to call upon one of the 
 priests for the blessing, there was a general movement 
 of astonishment. However, etiquette demanded that 
 the meal should instantly be ended, and although 
 among the men there was not a little low-voiced com- 
 
49 
 
 plaint, the general feeling was only of surprise that 
 the Earl, who was well known for a lover of good 
 company and good wine, should have sacrificed his 
 evening to an apparent whim. The Latin blessing 
 given, Salisbury, accompanied by De Burgh, and im 
 peded in his walk by the gambols of his dogs, left 
 the hall, to be followed at pleasure by those who did 
 not care to steal a last surreptitious horn of Burgundy 
 or tankard of ale. 
 
 Anthony rose with mighty relief. Blindly he hur 
 ried toward the doorway, in the footsteps of his kind- 
 . hearted liege. His one thought was to escape into 
 solitude and the pure night air. He was stopped, just 
 as he had passed into the corridor, by the lightest of 
 touches upon his arm. Then came a faint whisper at 
 his shoulder, 
 
 "An thony! " 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! " he returned, scarcely as surprised 
 as he might have been, yet scanning her face with im 
 petuous eagerness. 
 
 " Thou 'rt scarcely courteous to thy friends," 
 she said, turning her head a little and lowering her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Never, with thee, could I be discourteous. Twas 
 thou made me fear lest I had been too bold in my 
 feeling for thee," he whispered, taking her passive hand 
 into both of his. " Come with me now for a little on 
 to yonder terrace, in the moonlight. I would speak 
 with thee." 
 
 She replied with an acquiescent smile, with which he 
 was well satisfied. The little group of their compan 
 ions, left behind, glanced at each other as they saw the 
 two disappear. Their Anthony had come back again. 
 They felt no change in him. One ventured a conjec 
 ture as to whether Fitz-Hubert would be madcap enough 
 to attempt to follow Mademoiselle upon her road to 
 Winchester. 
 
50 2Jncanom?et) 
 
 Anthony, his rich garment brushing the softly shin 
 ing robes of Helene de Ravaillac, led her out of the 
 castle and upon the southeastern terrace, where the 
 velvet turf was bathed in bluish stiver light ; while far 
 below, turning a little to the west, lay the shimmering 
 thread of the river, rippling softly through the per 
 fumed night into the deep emerald shadow of the 
 sleeping forest. All about the two was perfect silence. 
 What wonder they were loath to break the spell? 
 Anthony dreamily watched the familiar scene, not 
 daring to think, but only standing passive beside her 
 whose faint breath stirred the petals of the rose upon 
 his breast. Helene too, was silent, wondering, hoping, 
 fearing, waiting for him to speak. A faint zephyr 
 of evening stirred the dark locks that clung about 
 Fitz-Hubert's head. He looked down upon the shin 
 ing gold beside him, and saw that three or four deli 
 cate tendrils of her hair lay twining on the shadowy 
 damask of his sleeve. A sudden, mighty longing 
 leaped into his heart. To banish it he was forced at 
 last to speak, and the words sprang fiercely from his 
 lips : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Helene we are here to say 
 farewell." 
 
 " ' Farewell,' " she repeated dreamily, without mov 
 ing; "'tis a pretty word, but, withal, most difficult to 
 speak." 
 
 " Yet must it be spoken," he responded, quietly now, 
 for he had regained his self-control. " Fare-thee-well, 
 - forever, those two words alone." 
 
 " Forever ! " she exclaimed quickly. " Nay, nay - 
 assuredly not that! I shall not be forever at Win 
 chester. We shall meet again mayhap not long 
 hence." 
 
 " Thy going to Winchester? I had forgotten that !" 
 
 " Thou hadst forgot ! " she echoed, bewildered. " Then 
 why why shouldst bid me farewell?" 
 
tfaretoell 51 
 
 " Ah, Helene," he said slowly, " 't is indeed more 
 difficult to tell than I had guessed. It is not thou who 
 leavest Windsor to-morrow forever, but I Anthony." 
 
 " But why, why, Anthony? " she questioned, alarmed 
 now. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, why should I tell thee? Is 't 
 not enough to know that I must depart forever? " 
 
 " You fright me," she whispered, drawing nearer to 
 him. 
 
 He took her into his arms and held her close, press 
 ing his lips once to her forehead. It was like his fare 
 well to humanity. "You care for me?" he 
 asked, lowly. 
 
 " I love thee," she breathed, in a kind of sob. 
 
 " And I thee ! " he exclaimed in sudden fierceness, 
 flinging the words in rebellion at the inexorable future 
 which could not even hear him. 
 
 "Then why must we say it the word? Thinkest 
 thou I fear to follow thee? " she whispered, tremulously. 
 
 His arms fell from about her, and he drew back one 
 quick step, a look crossing his face that startled her into 
 forgetting her own indignity at the repulse. 
 
 "Thou couldst not follow me, ever " he said, 
 " because I am bound by sacred oath to leave the 
 world ; because by law of birth I have no right to ask 
 of any woman her love ; because henceforth my home 
 must be a dream of memory to me ; because thou wilt 
 stand as far above me as yonder moon is from the 
 earth ; because, Helene, my word hath been given to 
 my father, Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury, that for 
 his sake I will bid freedom and happiness farewell, to 
 take in their stead the lonely vows of a Benedictine 
 monk." 
 
 For a moment she looked at him, trying fully to 
 comprehend what it was that he had said. Then its 
 meaning pierced her brain. In an instant all the soft 
 gentleness of her manner dropped from her like a gar- 
 
52 <Hncanoni?efc 
 
 ment. She drew her trailing robes about her and 
 stepped quickly back. A single petal from his rose 
 had fallen upon her breast. She snatched it from its 
 lurking-place and flung it to the grass. 
 
 " A monk ! and thou hast dared to touch me ! " 
 she said, as if she would have spat upon him. Anthony 
 could not see the flood of grief, disappointment, and 
 wounded pride that prompted her action. He only 
 beheld her turn about, after these words, and move 
 swiftly from him toward the castle door, her eyes blind 
 with tears. 
 
 He stood staring dazedly at the spot she had left. 
 He saw and heard nothing except in memory. His 
 white dress shimmered in the moonlight, with more life 
 in its purity than was in his face. His soul was wrapped 
 in the awful bitterness of his destiny the punishment 
 for his father's sin. 
 
 In his vale of sorrow he did not see the figure that 
 was approaching, the figure of a man coming toward 
 him from the shadow of the castle wall. It was Hubert 
 de Burgh, who, after leaving Salisbury in his oratory, 
 had sought a little hour of silent meditation in the 
 beauty of the night, and unwittingly came upon this 
 scene, which had drawn from him a low exclamation 
 of pity for the youth. 
 
 Anthony was startled at his sudden presence, and it 
 was unconsciously that he laid his cold hand in the 
 warm one held out to him. 
 
 " God be with thee forever, Anthony. Man holds no 
 help for thee but sympathy." 
 
 And Anthony, attained so suddenly to manhood, 
 answered him, not trying to restrain his open sob : 
 " God bless you, Hubert, even as by Him I am crushed." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 SACKCLOTH AND THE ALTAR 
 
 AT Windsor the morning dawned gray with heat. 
 The air was lifeless ; the sun, rolling lazily up the 
 eastern sky, scarcely deigned to permit his beams 
 to penetrate the humid atmosphere. In the night a 
 heavy dew had fallen, and the lush turf on the edge of 
 the forest was a sparkling mass of drops. The fra 
 grance from the rose-gardens was stifling. The very 
 insects and worms lay inert about the shrubs and foli 
 age. In the west a falling arch of heavy clouds hung 
 low over the tree-tops. It was an unnatural morning 
 one which presaged a storm. 
 
 Windsor Forest was still dark when, out of its dismal, 
 cool depths, rode a single horseman. His beast, pant 
 ing in the damp heat, stumbled wearily up the steep 
 ascent to the castle. At the lodge gate the rider dis 
 mounted. He thought to arouse the keeper, have the 
 portcullis raised and the drawbridge lowered. To his 
 exceeding surprise, his feet had hardly left their stir 
 rups when the gate opened, and a man in riding-dress 
 stepped outside into the road. 
 
 "Thou art betimes, De Glanville. You must have 
 left Lambeth by midnight at least. Enter here and 
 eat the meal prepared. When thou 'st finished, and 
 thy horse be fed, we will proceed." 
 
 " Thou also, Anthony, art early," responded De Glan 
 ville, following his companion into the little room. " I 
 had scarce counted upon rinding thee awake at such an 
 hour." 
 
54 2!ncanoni?et) 
 
 " Awake ! " cried the young man before him. " Surely 
 you have been dreaming to imagine I should sleep. 
 Ah, Gilbert ! you have worn the cowl for many a long 
 year, I fear me ; " and Anthony turned upon the new 
 comer a face that was gray and drawn. He was hardly 
 to be identified with the man from whom De Glanville 
 had parted only the day before. 
 
 An hour after the priest's arrival at Windsor he 
 departed thence again, upon a freshened steed, that 
 trotted willingly flank to flank with a well-groomed 
 mare. Anthony bestrode this horse, which he could no 
 longer call his own, though it had been his since its 
 earliest colthood. Behind his heavy saddle was fast 
 ened a little bundle containing all the worldly goods 
 remaining to him from his old life. About them the 
 village of Windsor was just stirring. Behind them the 
 castle slept. Anthony, grown cowardly of pity and 
 of renewed grief, had stolen from the castle the night 
 before, directly after parting from De Burgh, and spent 
 the night in the porter's lodge across the moat, the 
 old keeper thinking him up to one of his boyish esca 
 pades. Once only, as they wound down the road, did 
 the young man glance behind him at the lofty battle 
 ments that rose toward the summer heavens. Once only, 
 and then his head jerked around again and he coughed. 
 
 They rode in silence. De Glanville thought uneasily 
 that it would be better to leave a beginning of speech 
 to the younger man, unable to realize how impossible 
 such a beginning would be. Indeed, the priest had 
 looked forward to this ride with a good deal of dread. 
 He, a monk since boyhood, was able to realize far more 
 acutely than Anthony the greatness of the sacrifice of 
 youth and joy and love that was being made. He was 
 familiar with the life of pleasure and indulgence that 
 the Archbishop's son had led. 
 
 In actual probability Hubert Walter himself was un 
 aware of the extent of sacrifice which he had demanded 
 
ana t^e aitat; 55 
 
 from his son. It was years since he had risen beyond 
 his first priesthood. His bigoted later life had been 
 surrounded with every luxury and pleasure save the 
 one of secular existence. Everything of his worldly 
 power, which was all in all to him, had come into his 
 reach through the assistance of the Church. How, then, 
 was he to be expected to regard the Church as did the 
 lower orders? He was putting his son in almost pre 
 cisely the same position which he himself first had 
 occupied. There was but this difference ; that, whereas 
 Hubert Walter had voluntarily entered the cloister, 
 fresh from poverty, ill-treatment, and degradation, his 
 son, Anthony, was involuntarily rejecting luxury, pop 
 ularity, and all the pleasures of a royal court, that he 
 might don the sackcloth and try, by prayers and fast 
 ing, to forget what happiness had meant. If Hubert 
 Walter at all regarded this side of the argument he 
 doubtless found for it the usual ready answer of the 
 Church : " Better self-denial here and heaven hereafter, 
 than present indulgence and ultimate hell." 
 
 Pondering upon these things and others that they 
 engendered, Gilbert de Glanville rode on, more and 
 more oblivious of his companion's presence and of the 
 gathering heat. Anthony thought nothing of the priest's 
 moodiness. His own senses were dull from excess of 
 emotion and want of sleep. He occupied his time 
 in idle imaginings, with languid contemplation of the 
 scenery, with irritability at the heat. There was elec 
 tricity in the air. It might be seen in the dulness of 
 the foliage, that refused its sheen to the very sunlight; 
 and Anthony felt it instinctively in the quivering ner 
 vousness of his horse. The prospect of a storm pleased 
 him. A violent sweep of rain and wind might relieve 
 his intangible unhappiness. After a time he turned 
 toward his companion, wishing to address a question 
 to him. De Glanville's eyes were fixed on the eastern 
 horizon. 
 
56 
 
 " Gilbert ! " he said sharply. 
 
 The priest turned and looked at him. " The first 
 duty of thy novitiate, Anthony," he said coldly, " will 
 be to address your clerical superiors in a proper manner. 
 To you I am ' father.' " 
 
 While he was speaking Anthony stared haughtily 
 at the confessor. Then he turned crimson with un 
 warrantable anger, and shut his lips tight together. He 
 continued silent. 
 
 " Thou didst address me, Anthony," said the priest, 
 gently. 
 
 The young man looked up again. His inward struggle 
 was visibly strong. He had his father's imperious 
 nature, and a quickness of temper that was his own. 
 After a little he made himself speak; though his voice 
 was unnatural ; for he knew that this was a first victory 
 or a first defeat, over himself. 
 
 "We can scarce reach Canterbury to-day. Where 
 do we rest to-night? " 
 
 " At Rochester Abbey." 
 
 " I would rather the castle. The Earl knows me 
 well." 
 
 " Wouldst wish to sit at table just above the salt? " 
 
 " Never ! I am no monk yet, Master Glanville," 
 and the young man's tone was such as he would never 
 have used toward an equal. 
 
 Gilbert was nettled at this childishness. " Indeed, 
 Master Fitz-Hubert, you have spoken truly. You are 
 as yet no monk, but something lower than that. I, 
 your superior, have deigned to inform my novice that 
 we sleep to-night at Rochester Abbey." 
 
 So did the priest fling the first bitterness of his 
 humiliation into Anthony's face. The words were 
 scarcely spoken ere one of the horses leaped violently, 
 then plunged forward and ran like a whirlwind down 
 the road until he was hidden in the shadow of a neigh 
 boring wood. It was Anthony's steed that had thus 
 
anD t^e 3Utar 57 
 
 responded to a cruel thrust of the spur at the young 
 man's heel. The priest raised his brows slowly as he 
 beheld him go. Here was a troublesome spirit indeed, 
 that was more like to break than ever to be bent, it 
 seemed. It was twenty minutes before his solemnly 
 trotting mare came up with that of his companion, 
 which was now slowly pacing the highway, bearing a 
 rider whose head was lowered as in shame. 
 
 De Glanville cast a swift, searching glance at the 
 half-concealed face of the Archbishop's son. Some 
 what to the priest's surprise the expression of that face 
 was satisfactory. In the battle of nature, strangely 
 enough, the weaker side had won. The spirit had 
 bent. That night, in the midst of a driving storm, 
 while the thunder crashed angrily adown the heavens, 
 and the clouds were ablaze, and the floods fell through 
 the dark vault, the priest of Canterbury and his novice 
 were received into the grateful shelter of Rochester 
 Abbey. 
 
 Anthony had been in abbeys before this, but never 
 had he regarded each lightest move on the part of his 
 hosts with such intensely eager curiosity. The monks 
 seemed gentle, pale-faced creatures, whose voices were 
 far lower than those of ordinary men. There was no 
 sign of anything arduous in their duties, for Anthony 
 had no conception of the meaning of their real routine. 
 This illustrious guest, Father Gilbert of Canterbury, 
 had thrown the hospitable brotherhood into some con 
 fusion. So unusually adorned and increased was the 
 collation that compline was an hour late, evening con 
 fession entirely omitted, and the provision for the mor 
 row's dinner reduced to very scanty proportions. 
 
 The novice rode away next morning with something 
 like relief in his heart. Superficially, monkhood was in 
 nowise repellent. The brethren were cleaner than the 
 masses, their tonsures were not necessarily large, and 
 from one or two highly entertaining stories told at table, 
 
58 <Uttcanoni?eti 
 
 which De Glanville had done his best to keep from his 
 charge's ears, Anthony decided that even a monk could 
 live, at times, if so he dared defy providence. Thus at 
 evening of the next day, when, at sunset, they rode 
 together into the Cathedral city, it was more with a 
 youthful feeling of anticipatory curiosity than anything 
 deeper, that the son of Archbishop Hubert, by the side 
 of his grave-faced companion, drew rein at the gateway 
 of the great Augustinian Monastery of Canterbury, 
 where the short novitiate was to be undergone. 
 
 Behold Anthony next in that Augustinian Monastery 
 as he was on a certain December night six months and 
 a few days after he had said farewell to Windsor. It 
 was the last night of his novitiate, the last night that 
 there would be a loop-hole of escape for him. On the 
 morrow the eternal vows were to pass his lips. Hence 
 forth he would be known as " brother " to all humanity. 
 This night he was to spend upon his knees in the chapel 
 of the saint, supposedly in prayer. It was a solitary 
 vigil, for no companion could be granted him. A dan 
 gerous thing for a novice was this, had the monks but 
 realized it, this putting one for ten hours alone at the 
 mercy of his thoughts. And Anthony shuddered as 
 they left him, kneeling upon the stones, before the 
 burning shrine. 
 
 Face and figure behold him. How old ! How ema 
 ciated and shrunken and hopelessly old he looked, as he 
 knelt there in his ungainly garments, his bare feet pro 
 truding behind him. His figure was so attenuated as to 
 have become misshapen. His face, which formerly had 
 always born the open expression of happiness, was hard 
 now, unreadable and impassive. His hands, once white 
 and well-cared-for, were dark, wrinkled, knotted, and 
 fiercely strong. As he held his body straight from the 
 knees upward it was difficult to perceive how much 
 weaker this body had grown. There was a pathetically 
 
anD t^e aitar 59 
 
 haughty poise to his head still, but it had not saved him 
 from indignity. His skin was dark and colorless, and 
 there appeared to be no flesh beneath it. His whole 
 appearance was uncouth, more so now than it ever 
 was again ; though, strangely enough, the greater part 
 of his suffering came after the vows. By then he had 
 learned how to endure. 
 
 Still, these last months had been horrible. The 
 homesickness through which he had passed had left 
 him sensibly prostrate. Fasting and overstudy com 
 pleted the change in his appearance and in his nature. 
 Working at books sometimes for a little while brought 
 forgetfulness to him, therefore he sought them con 
 tinually even during the periods of rest. He had 
 entered the monastery totally ignorant of letters, a 
 thing quite usual for a noble or layman. But to one of 
 Anthony's temperament it was unbearable to find him 
 self the only member of the little community unable to 
 take a place with his companions in library or scripto 
 rium. These men were far advanced in studies of 
 Greek and Latin ; conversant with creeds of which he 
 knew nothing; familiar with philosophies of which he 
 had never heard ; and able to transcribe these same 
 things into their own language or into Latin, in marvel 
 lous letters, and upon parchments illuminated like rain 
 bows. The prospect of this work fascinated the novice, 
 and with such assiduity did he apply himself to the task 
 that, by the end of his novitiate, he rivalled the best of 
 his companion novices in ease of reading, but had long 
 since outstripped them in understanding ; for Anthony 
 Fitz-Hubert was no fool. The brush of the illuminator 
 came always somewhat awkwardly to his hand ; but 
 many a worse scribe was to be found in the monastery. 
 
 The immoderate fasting for which he had become 
 noted was begun in repulsion from the coarse and unpal 
 atable fare provided for him, which he could only force 
 himself to eat when in a state of semi-starvation. It 
 
60 
 
 was continued out of disgust for the incredible gour- 
 mandism of his superiors. Thus Hubert Walter's son 
 had come to be regarded as a wonderful ascetic. 
 Ascetic he was, fiercely so, out of a sense of defiled 
 honor at merely beholding the lax customs in force 
 around him. Considering Anthony's birth and his later 
 environment, the strain of lofty purity in him was some 
 what singular. Looseness in speech and morals, and 
 disregard for accepted laws, grated on him unendurably. 
 In after years he learned to bear these things in silent 
 scorn ; now he opposed them bitterly by making his 
 own life as strict as others were indulgent One small 
 service this distaste did him, in return for the under 
 mining of his health ; it took his mind to a certain 
 degree from himself, and left him less prone to the self- 
 analysis which at this time might have driven him 
 insane. 
 
 During the novitiate Anthony had grown to hate 
 monkery as he would never have dreamed he could 
 hate anything. But neither to his confessor nor to 
 himself did he ever whisper a suggestion of departing 
 from the sackcloth and leaving his vows unsaid. The 
 reason for this, however contradictory it might be, was 
 mighty in its angry resolution. The Archbishop of 
 Canterbury was not dead ; and since the June of his 
 illness, and his pitiful prayer to his son for the sacrifice 
 which that son had made, Anthony had had not one 
 word of encouragement, love, or thanks from him whom 
 he had come to regard with a kind of wonder. So 
 Anthony's was a resolution of stubborn pride. His 
 promise had been given. The promise should be ful 
 filled, even while he knew that that fulfilment was suck 
 ing the life from his body and the courage from his 
 soul. This that was being done was, to tell the truth, 
 the precise thing that Hubert Walter had intended to 
 happen. He dared send no love to his son, for he 
 guessed rightly that one word of pity would do more to 
 
ana t^e aitar 61 
 
 break Anthony's spirit than all the cruelty which he 
 had endured. He believed the son capable of pleading 
 to a natural father. But Hubert Walter was not young ; 
 his death, he knew well, could be not many years off; 
 and since now his future was well provided for, it were 
 assuredly folly to destroy the arrangement by which 
 he was to win heaven. So Anthony was left to his 
 bitterness. 
 
 The last night of the novitiate wore away. The little 
 chapel was freezing in temperature, for a December wind 
 shrieked outside the building, and the only thing to 
 warm its interior was the array of candles before the 
 shrine of the saint. In his scant tunic, his limbs bare, 
 Anthony's flesh quivered with cold. He did not pray, 
 but a few murmured words froze and died upon his lips. 
 His forehead was icy, but his head within burned with 
 the fire of his miserable thoughts. In the morning they 
 picked him up from where he lay, senseless, upon the 
 stones. 
 
 The vows of monkhood came from almost unconscious 
 lips, and the first weeks of his new estate passed in vio 
 lent illness. On the day of the ceremony of his entering 
 the Church, he was forced to stand, supported on either 
 side by a brother. Afterwards he was carried to his 
 cell and laid upon the straw pallet, over which, in pity, 
 the brethren had thrown an extra coverlet. In the 
 delirium of his fever, he raved wildly over the dogmas 
 of the Church, until it was generally conceded that a 
 religious fanatic lay breathing his life away in the gloom 
 of the monastery. So some of the brethren envied him, 
 and Hubert Walter wept in remorse and dread as Gilbert 
 Glanville reported the progress of the disease. 
 
 Anthony recovered. To one knowing anything of the 
 relentlessness of Fate and the character of the newly 
 made monk, that result would have been a foregone 
 conclusion. And none realized better than Anthony 
 himself the unreliability of that promise whose gleam 
 
62 
 
 fled, as rapidly as it had come, into the tense blackness 
 of his life's horizon. Well he knew that he was not to 
 die. What more would Hubert Walter have? 
 
 After the first days of convalescence, Anthony re 
 quested that he might be given certain hours of monas 
 tic duty, desiring to relieve himself a little from his own 
 thoughts. He found these duties widely different from 
 those of the novice. They were looked upon with a 
 different spirit. Before, while he had been but wander 
 ing through the by-paths that led to the locked gate of 
 the garden, the thought of that garden had had some 
 times a curious fascination for him, even while he realized 
 that his hopeless hope was only in escaping from its 
 vicinity in time. Now that time was gone. He had 
 entered in and the gate was locked behind him; and 
 around, on four lofty sides, rose the unscalable wall. In 
 a sudden flash he realized all. He was a prisoner for 
 ever, a prisoner to whom was never granted a single 
 hour of cleanly solitude ; a prisoner forced to be always 
 at a round of time-decayed, useless prayers, so old that 
 the memory of their very origin was lost down the ages. 
 And these duties must be gone about in company with 
 a host of ill-smelling creatures his brothers the very 
 distant sight of whom he had grown to loathe. 
 
 This monastery of Saint Augustine at Canterbury had 
 privately, among the priesthood, as bad a reputation as 
 any religious house in the kingdom. Its abbots had 
 been but a long succession of avaricious and licentious 
 scoundrels, who went unpunished and unhung because 
 secular law was powerless to touch a priest, and the 
 clerical courts dared not run the risk of any such expose 
 of facts as such a trial was likely to bring forth. Like 
 master, like man. The monks followed the example of 
 their chiefs, and advanced rapidly toward the enviable 
 end of becoming the most corrupt body of brethren in 
 England. Their neighbors in abbeys and convents de 
 spised them, and they knew it. This deterred them not 
 
ant) ttye altar 63 
 
 at all from their ways. Their quarrel with the little 
 chapter of the cathedral was of long standing; and the 
 knowledge that Anthony was a friend to the prior of 
 that body did not increase his somewhat doubtful 
 popularity among them. They thought him superior, 
 and they feared his father. Thus, while they dared no 
 open wrong to him, his life was none the happier for his 
 birthright. 
 
 The anguish of mind that the black monk, as he had 
 come to be called, endured among these men is in 
 describable. But in the spring of the year 1204 came 
 his first good fortune. A vacancy occurred in the 
 chapter of Canterbury Cathedral ; and, according to 
 the old promise, Anthony was elected to the place. 
 The reason why his whole novitiate and accession to 
 the tonsure should not have been passed among these 
 men, a special place being made for him with them, was 
 because of their intimate connection with the highest 
 prelate in the realm. A knowledge of the Arch 
 bishop's failing would have proved a death-blow to the 
 respect in which they were bound to hold him. There 
 fore Anthony was treated among them like any monk 
 who, by some preferment, had obtained the honor of 
 admission to their body. With the prior, Geoffrey, 
 Hubert Walter's secret was secure. 
 
 There were only thirty regular monks in the chapter, 
 and besides these was the constantly changing number 
 of novices, acolytes, and laymen who occupied separate 
 apartments in the tiny group of buildings back of the 
 cathedral. In his new abode Anthony found a new 
 atmosphere. Here at least was rigid purity, celibacy, 
 and gravity. On the other hand, it would have been 
 difficult to find in the world another handful of men 
 with creeds so narrow, belief so bigoted, ideas so small 
 as these, whose hot opposition to philosophy and the 
 broader scholasticism had won them renown, hate, and 
 admiration among the students of that day. They were 
 
64 <Hncanoni?e& 
 
 narrow, sordid, and absolutely bound up in the privi 
 leges of their own community. Their ill-advised, Pope- 
 bestowed power, my Lord Hubert Walter had once, in 
 an unlucky moment, endeavored to remove from them. 
 It was the single recorded defeat in the list of the 
 Archbishop's battles. 
 
 In the nine months that Anthony had endured at the 
 large monastery, he had, considering his early igno 
 rance, become wonderfully versed in the philosophy of 
 his day. The spiritless disputes at that place had at 
 least served the purpose of fixing his opinions so firmly 
 that the companions of his new abode were slightly 
 astonished. His admiration for the works of Scotus 
 Erigena, condemned to be burned twenty years later 
 by order of Honorius III., was profound. Again, he 
 opposed the treatises of Othlo against dialectic. He 
 scoffed at Walter of Mortaigne, he espoused realism, he 
 smiled at Neo-Platonism ; but the newly revived study 
 of Aristotle and his many works, reached and introduced 
 into Europe by Arabian philosophers, he took up with 
 ardor, however heretical the tendency. On account of 
 all these unorthodox ideas he was disliked and regarded 
 most suspiciously in the chapter. At the same time 
 his opponents held him in unwilling respect for the 
 logical ability of his arguments. After a time these 
 broad disputes, most impartially conducted upon his 
 side, degenerated into matters more and more petty, 
 until at length Anthony forsook controversy in despair. 
 Even without the library, now, however, he was not let 
 alone. The brethren felt that he had suffered defeat. 
 They pursued him indefatigably with credos and ques 
 tions, until he began to feel that his life was but one 
 long, unendurable, irritating quarrel, that tore at his 
 nerves and sapped his mental strength. Then at last 
 he learned the lesson of reserve. How should he have 
 learned it sooner? In all his youth he had talked freely 
 and been listened to with respect and without malice. 
 
anli ftye altar 65 
 
 Now he became the opposite of all this and was morose, 
 irritable, and unapproachable. At last he was left to 
 live within himself. Gradually the broiling members 
 of the miniature community let him alone, since they 
 could not well quarrel with a stick. Silence became 
 the strongest characteristic of the monk Anthony. His 
 battles were fought so, and if they were won none the 
 less hardly, it at least seemed to Geoffrey that he 
 was becoming reconciled to his position. This report 
 Hubert Walter received with joy. 
 
 The most painful thing in the son's existence now was 
 the necessity of beholding his father. One mass in 
 each month, at the very least, the Archbishop con 
 ducted at the cathedral. At these masses he was 
 assisted by the entire chapter. Frequently, also, after 
 the service Hubert would enter the convent for refresh 
 ment or to converse with the brethren. At these times 
 he never noticed Anthony, he could not, indeed ; 
 but the strain of the silence between them he never 
 seemed to feel as did the son. There was a kind of 
 horror in Anthony's heart for the man who, through a 
 selfish fear, had been content to ruin his life. The 
 monk had undoubtedly grown unreasonable, and his 
 sensibilities become shrinkingly acute. The sight that 
 always bade him seek a furious solitude was that of the 
 haughty face and royal bearing of him whose priestly 
 robes were woven of cloth of gold, and whose staff and 
 mitre were crusted with such gems as lay not in the 
 crown of England's King. 
 
 If Prior Geoffrey knew anything of Anthony's feeling 
 toward his father he never mentioned his knowledge 
 to any one. To the Archbishop were given the most 
 satisfactory reports of the gradual decrescendo of the 
 son's passion of unrest; and Hubert had forgotten 
 enough of the feeling of his early years as a priest to 
 accept what was told him and be content. To say that 
 my Lord Fitz- Walter had felt no such qualms of con- 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 science over the demand made upon his son would have 
 been untrue. To say that his sleepless nights on this 
 account had been many would be untrue also. A vague 
 feeling of something not quite pleasant in himself, an 
 occasional sudden retrospection of the whole matter ; 
 then the recognition of something inevitable that it 
 was a little hard upon Anthony perhaps that was all. 
 That Anthony could despise him or hate him never for 
 a moment entered into his consideration. His own 
 feeling toward his son was too kindly, too full of grati 
 tude for that. For the Archbishop could recognize the 
 greatness in a deed, even while he regarded that deed 
 as inevitable. Fitz-Walter had often sincerely regretted 
 that the bedroom scene at Lambeth had not actually 
 been his last. In his own eyes he was an old man, and 
 for many years he had been subject to morbid presenti 
 ments about the time and manner of his death. In the 
 year of the accession of John to the throne Hubert 
 Walter had undergone a mortal illness, from which he 
 never regained his full strength, being subject to fre 
 quent and severe sicknesses of the body, and even more 
 often to mental attacks resembling melancholia. 1 And 
 once when Geoffrey of the chapter had said to him, 
 half in jest, that the archiepiscopal chair would be occu 
 pied far longer than the prior's stool in the convent ot 
 Canterbury cathedral, Hubert had taken the matter seri 
 ously and rejoiced secretly over it. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1205 the Archbishop's mel 
 ancholy increased greatly. His confessor was with him 
 continually, and the old man talked ever of death. Not 
 a word of regret for anything, outside of the confes 
 sional, passed Hubert's lips, for this was not his way. 
 The greater part of these months he spent in quiet 
 at Lambeth. The monks of Canterbury were ignorant 
 of his condition. Toward the end of June his strength 
 and his will rose again within him, and he journeyed 
 
 1 Hook, Lives of the Archbishops. 
 
^>ac6clotlj anD t^e aitar 67 
 
 once more to the Cathedral City, where twice he con 
 ducted mass, the second time on July sixth. After 
 the service he entered the convent behind the cathe 
 dral, and, after partaking of food in the refectory, he 
 addressed the assembled monks in his old, musical 
 voice : 
 
 " I would have you, dearly beloved, to examine your 
 selves that ye may discover wherein ye have done 
 wrong, with a view to amendment therein. When, by 
 God's will, I shall be dead, you, who cannot die, should 
 devote all your endeavors to promote the honor and 
 usefulness of your Church. If I have offended any of 
 you in any respect, I ask your forgiveness ; and such as 
 may have offended me I heartily forgive. Believe me, 
 beloved brethren, I am more sorrowful for your troubles 
 than for my own." 1 
 
 These words, save a few inconsequent ones of depart 
 ure, were the last that Anthony ever heard his father 
 speak. There was not a sentence, not a whisper, not a 
 look, to him who stood alone in a corner of the room. 
 Hubert Walter could not, at that moment, meet the eyes 
 of his son. 
 
 A day later the Archbishop left Canterbury accom 
 panied by De Glanville. At Tenham, on the London 
 road, he was seized with an illness so violent that it was 
 impossible for him to proceed further. For three days 
 he lay at the inn in the little town. The Bishop of 
 Rochester alone reached his side before the end. His 
 will he dictated to De Glanville. In it there was no 
 mention of Anthony. Upon the eleventh day of July, 
 Hubert Walter died there at Tenham ; and Canterbury 
 was draped in black. 
 
 Two weeks later, and at nearly the same hour of the 
 
 day in which the Archbishop had passed away, Geoffrey, 
 
 the prior, presiding over the noon meal in the refectory 
 
 of the chapter, suddenly fell forward upon the table, his 
 
 1 Hook, Lives of the Archbishops. 
 
68 
 
 arms at his sides, dead. It was a tremendous shock to 
 the brethren, the more so since a certain momentous 
 election was to take place in the tiny convent within a 
 few days, and these helpless monks were now without 
 their chief. After-events in England, France, and Italy 
 were truthfully ascribed, some hundreds of years later, 
 to that sudden moment of rebellion at Prior Geoffrey's 
 heart. Little things ! Little things ! All history has 
 been made out of them ! To their leader's place the 
 simple monks made haste to elect another of their num 
 ber, an older man than the rest, a dogmatic, absolute, 
 determined person of some sound sense and more blind 
 impetuosity, Elias Brantfeld, later ambassador to his 
 Holiness at Rome. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 REGINALD 
 
 IT was past eleven o'clock of an August night, three 
 weeks after the death of the Archbishop, and nine 
 days since the burial of Geoffrey. The immense black 
 ness within the cathedral stretched upward vastly into 
 its great arching roof, giving to him who, pygmy- 
 like, should stand within it, an oppression of enormity. 
 Outside, in the narrow, empty streets of the little city, a 
 stream of unbearable night-heat swirled about the clus 
 tering houses of wood or stone; but here, in the centre 
 of the black nave of this monument to God from man, 
 there was a chill in the air, coming sweetly to one's lips 
 from the angelic heights of the vault. Black it was, and 
 unutterably still. 
 
 The silence and the darkness alike were pierced by 
 the advent of two dimly robed figures, who passed from 
 the vestry near the north transept to the high altar 
 above the chancel steps, moving in a little circle of light 
 cast by the tapers in their hands. These two seemed 
 not to feel the oppressiveness of the place ; for one was 
 speaking earnestly to the other. 
 
 It was an unusual hour for monks to be abroad ; too 
 early for matins, and far later than compline. None 
 the less they were sure of themselves and their errand, 
 for they proceeded without hesitation to the altar, 
 shrouded as it was in utter darkness. Anthony's com 
 panion addressed him ; and, in the earnestness of his 
 speech, took no notice, apparently, of the other's lower 
 ing brow and grim expression. 
 
70 
 
 " Now as we do proceed in this matter, brother, I 
 grow fearful. In spirit Reginald seemeth whiles a very 
 child. Come thou 'st been full silent concerning all 
 this business, yet now that we two are alone in this 
 spot where none can hear us, speak thy mind to me. 
 The word shall be held sacred as in confessional. Yet 
 am I anxious for thy thought, mine own fear being 
 strong." 
 
 They were standing before the great altar, whose 
 carven stone and damask cloth shone mistily in the 
 faint light. Anthony pressed his taper to a wick of 
 one of the great candles. As they mingled together the 
 two flames flickered violently. The young monk's 
 hand was trembling. Hastily he passed to the next 
 candle, and then, at last, he spoke again, his mellow 
 voice showing no sign of emotion, though there was 
 strong feeling within, and Alexander's ears were critical 
 and curious. 
 
 " The affair is none of mine to speak upon, sith it 
 concerns my business with the sackcloth little, and 
 troubleth my spirit not at all. Thou knowest my rela 
 tion to the brethren. They are not of me nor I of 
 them. Their anxiety over the election moveth me not. 
 Methinks his Holiness will have more to say over it 
 than thou or I, and, an I misdoubt me not, one side of 
 the papal mouth will be given over to the wishes of our 
 good King John." 
 
 Alexander's comment on this last phrase was a short, 
 not wholly pleasant laugh. " Ever ready to hold up 
 for others the natures of other men, never willing to 
 speak thyself to any. Thine is a lonely life, Anthony." 
 
 " And why speak of myself, good Alexander? Dost 
 forget that either I am soulless, or else my spirit, 
 damned from its beginning, will scarce be saved by the 
 prayers that I must put forth for another ? Why, thou 
 art defiled in the very conversing with me ! Have they 
 not told thee that? " 
 
71 
 
 The tone in which these words were spoken defied 
 answer, even had Alexander been brilliant enough to 
 compose one which should not hurt his friend's feeling 
 and yet be accordant with the creed which both 
 believed. Therefore he only laid one brotherly hand 
 upon the drooping shoulder of his friend (for Anthony 
 had a friend in him), and, their unwonted task being 
 finished, they returned toward the vestry, whence pro 
 ceeded the murmur of many voices. 
 
 One end of the cathedral was now luminous with the 
 pale glow from innumerable slender candles of every 
 length, ranged in 'gradated order upon the altar. The 
 mellow radiance from this miniature sun drove the 
 gloom a quarter of the way down the cathedral. The 
 carven doors at the farther end were shut and locked. 
 The only way of entering the church to-night was 
 through vestry, chantry, or sacristy, by way of the 
 north and south transepts, to which only monks of 
 the chapter convent had access. No sound that should 
 ring out within these mighty walls to-night could reach 
 the ears of any loiterer or sleepless one who might be 
 within the streets beyond. And this was as the brethren 
 intended. 
 
 Upon the night of August second, six hundred and 
 ninety-five years ago, thirty young men and one older 
 one were about to enact a bit of history, which, for 
 eleven years to come, was to keep two kingdoms and 
 all Christendom in a state of outrageous turmoil ; and, 
 indeed, from the seed planted that night sprang a tree 
 under whose shadow a portion of the world to-day 
 is living. Of this small fact the thirty young men 
 remained in lofty ignorance, while the chief character 
 istic of the older one was intense and unreasoning short 
 sightedness. To them this act meant merely the lawful 
 exercising of an ill-bestowed privilege. For this little, 
 impolitic and unworldly body held the power of choos 
 ing out for England her premier, once of Church alone, 
 
72 
 
 lately of both Church and State, him who bowed only 
 to the Pope in matters spiritual, and had been known 
 to override the King in secular affairs. The archie- 
 piscopal chair had been long enough empty for the 
 mourning of Hubert Walter, and so the Canterbury 
 monks, highly sanguine of temperament, thought to 
 settle to-night, in an hour, upon the appointment of his 
 next Grace. Curiously enough, when one thought of 
 it, King John also had spent some hours of his valuable 
 time in ruminating over this same matter, and, being 
 a man not often backward with opinion, had himself 
 settled upon the person of his next counsellor-in-chief. 
 And all this time, down in the Eternal City, in a small 
 room in the midst of the fiery midsummer heat, smiled, 
 and dreamed, and smiled again his fiery Holiness, 
 Innocent Tertius, Saint Peter's successor, who suddenly 
 waved his hand and perceived in an instant how he 
 should rule the world. 
 
 Meantime, on this August midnight, the quiescent 
 echoes of the vast cathedral were violently roused by 
 the unseemly noise of the sixteen-noted organ, a Ger 
 man innovation, played ponderously by a monk of the 
 chapter, who was constrained to use a fist to each key. 
 There came a few fragmentary murmurs from the sac 
 risty, the pushing aside of a leather curtain, and then 
 through the aisles rose the sound of a subdued pro 
 cessional chant. Slowly, in double file, the monks 
 entered the church walking to the rhythm of the Latin 
 words which they sang. Anthony and Alexander were 
 together, directly behind the leaders of the line. And 
 these two foremost ones would bear closer inspection ; 
 for the picture of the two was not a simple one. Con 
 trast was its key-note contrast of one to the other, and 
 of the two to the twenty-eight. The cowl and scapular 
 of him on the left did not suffice to conceal his marked 
 individuality. He was the newly elected prior, Elias 
 Brantfeld, who was later to pit his strength against that 
 
IKcgtnalD 73 
 
 of the Pope; the oldest man in the chapter, yet whose 
 ring of hair was raven-black still. And he who walked 
 upon the right was Reginald, Archbishop of Canterbury 
 elect, and sub-prior of the chapter. In years he was 
 not yet thirty, in spirit he bordered upon sixteen. 
 Brantfeld was slightly past fifty, tall and gaunt in figure, 
 dark of countenance, eyes intensely black, a hawk's 
 nose, and a jaw whose iron obstinacy boded ill for the 
 opposer of any cause that lay close to his heart, were 
 that opponent the Pope himself. 
 
 But how Elias Brantfeld, with the depth of intellect 
 which he did indeed possess, ever came to regard the 
 boyish Reginald as in any way eligible for the position 
 first held by Saint Augustine, is one of those problems 
 of humanity unsolvable by any logic. True, the sub- 
 prior was past twenty-nine, being four years older than 
 Anthony. But a monk does not develop normally. 
 The routine of a monastic existence does one of two 
 things ; either it ages a man beyond the conception of 
 reason, or it leaves him forever a child in body and 
 heart. The latter experience had been that of Reginald. 
 His face, a rarely lovely one to look upon, was that of a 
 pure boy. His chin was smooth as any woman's, and 
 the altar-cloth was not so white as his delicate hands. 
 At present the eager fire in his blue eyes and the. 
 nervous excitement betrayed in the twitching of his 
 lips proved him more or less lacking in appreciation of 
 the great gravity of his present position. In his left 
 hand Reginald held a small and richly bound volume 
 of Latin prayers, transcribed and exquisitely illuminated 
 by himself. As the procession neared the altar the 
 young man's eyes encountered those of Brantfeld. For 
 an instant only the glance lasted ; but in that time 
 Reginald had read again for the hundredth time the 
 feeling of abandoned devotion towards himself, which, 
 unaccountable as it seemed, formed the key-note to the 
 character of the older man. 
 
74 
 
 The clamor of the organ died away. The chant 
 ceased, and the monks silently drew into a close semi 
 circle about the high altar, lighted now for the first 
 time since the death of Hubert Walter. There was a 
 short and impressive stillness ; then, at a sign from the 
 prior, the brethren sank upon their knees, while the 
 high, melodious voice of Reginald was raised in prayer. 
 As the familiar words left his lips it became easy to 
 judge of this man's overwhelming amount of personal 
 magnetism, which characteristic had actually been the 
 sole factor in his elevation from the position of common 
 monk, with the empty title of sub-prior, to the loftiest 
 place to which the Church of Rome could raise any 
 man in England. 
 
 After the prayer, the brethren chanted the Agnus 
 Dei, while Reginald lay prostrate on the stones at the 
 foot of the golden crucifix. When the last words had 
 died away, a hush fell upon the group. Reginald's face 
 was invisible to his fellows, but that of Elias Brantfeld, 
 now turned toward them, was set in an expression 
 of dogged resolution. The address which he made 
 to the Archbishop elect was perhaps less eloquent than 
 had been those of the long line of his predecessors. But 
 it was earnest enough strongly to strike the impression 
 able mind of his chief listener ; whose transparent eyes 
 were raised unwaveringly to his face. 
 
 Anthony knelt by the side of Alexander at the 
 extreme left of the semicircle. Not a hint of any 
 emotion showed upon his face, yet he was going 
 through a sharp struggle within. Perhaps it was only 
 that he, of them all, was the one who saw and under 
 stood the baseless effectiveness of the young sub-prior, 
 and read some of the shallow thoughts that lay under 
 the halo of golden hair that encircled his tonsure, giving 
 him the appearance of a saint or an angel. Perhaps 
 it was something more selfish, deeper, more bitter and 
 more helpless than this. However, whatever it was, 
 
75 
 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert was not a monk of words, and 
 though the affair of to-night preyed cruelly upon his 
 memory, and racked a sudden fiercely combated ambi 
 tion, it failed to engage that intellectual will which, in 
 its late rapid development, had changed the nature of 
 Anthony the boy to that of a heavily y eared man. 
 
 Brantfeld's homily ended with something of abrupt 
 ness. There was not too much time to be spared for 
 this ceremony. The monks rose in haste and gathered 
 closely at the right of the chancel, where stood, impos 
 ing and uncomfortable, the archiepiscopal chair. Before 
 the historic seat Reginald of Canterbury took his stand. 
 His face was slightly flushed and his demeanor less self- 
 conscious than it had been. 
 
 At a sign from Alexander two of the monks left the 
 church and passed hastily into the vestry. Brantfeld, 
 more impressive than ever, took from the altar the 
 sacred chalice filled with the wine of communion, and 
 the holy wafer, consecrated by the Pope for an un- 
 guessed purpose. The cup was of chased gold, heavily 
 set with jewels. These gems caught upon their surfaces 
 the light from the altar-candles, and the reflected fire 
 flashed in Reginald's eyes, as he, kneeling, partook alone 
 of his last monastic communion. The brethren about him 
 meantime stood. This ceremony over, the monks from 
 the vestry re-entered, bringing with them the priceless 
 stole, mitre, and staff last borne by Hubert Walter. Reg 
 inald glanced once, quickly, at these things, and his 
 eyes, if not his lips, smiled with delight. Anthony 
 watched him with scorn in his look. Reginald suddenly 
 straightened up. He had caught the deep gaze of the 
 other upon him, and was slightly ashamed Brantfeld 
 took the garments and crozier into his own hands. 
 Marvellously indeed did the vestment of cloth of silver, 
 bordered and crossed with sapphires, become the deli 
 cate face and figure of Reginald of Canterbury ; and if 
 there were some incongruity between the spun gold of 
 
76 2!ncanoni?et) 
 
 his fair hair and the severity of the mitre which sur 
 mounted it, why, there was but one in all that company 
 to perceive it; otherwise it but heightened the pictu- 
 resqueness of the unusual scene. Into his left iiand the 
 youth received the staff, consecrated by the long usage 
 of Thomas Becket, whom some people still call " saint." 
 Then, in a voice which sounded little like his own, he 
 repeated after Brantfeld the words by which he bound 
 himself sacredly to perform all those duties of the office 
 which thereby he received unto himself. It took but a 
 short time. Reginald, Archbishop of Canterbury, stood 
 alone for a few moments before the chair, in silent 
 communion with his God. 
 
 Brantfeld finally ventured to break the silence, not 
 before the young man's eyes had begun to wander. 
 
 " Pardon, Lord Archbishop," he said, lingering a 
 little over the title, " time presses. As thou knowest, 
 there is the benediction, and then still another oath that 
 must be ta'en." 
 
 Reginald looked up with an attempt at abstraction. 
 The attempt was very near to being a failure, for even 
 Elias the blind jerked his head with some impatience 
 before the melodious reply : " The benediction ! I had 
 forgot ! " He paused, and looked slowly about. His fair 
 face was very gentle, as, indeed, it always was. When 
 he spoke, his few words caused a little sensation among 
 the brethren. 
 
 " Anthony Fitz-Hubert, thou shalt pronounce over me 
 the sacred words. Of all here thou seemest to me most 
 fitted to consecrate me in my new estate. Thou canst 
 not surely refuse me my first wish." 
 
 It was coals of fire for Anthony's scorn. Every monk 
 there was surprised, and some were none too well pleased 
 by the words. Yet none, least of all Brantfeld himself, 
 whose right it was to finish the ceremony which he had 
 begun, would have ventured to object to the Arch 
 bishop's first request. All eyes were fixed upon Fitz- 
 
iRegfnalii 77 
 
 Hubert's face, over which a deep red flush was slowly 
 spreading. He did not, as Alexander had expected, 
 refuse the behest. With some reluctance he approached 
 the mitred one, who once more had sunk to his knees. 
 Then, raising one hand above the young head, there 
 came from his lips, in the sonorous voice to which no 
 other in all England was comparable, the measured 
 Latin words whose dignity of sound and meaning formed 
 a fitting close to this strange midnight ceremony. 
 
 Reginald himself showed some natural feeling as he 
 rose to his feet with a deep sigh. And, as Anthony fell 
 quietly back again into his place, Brantfeld once more 
 came forward with a new vigor in his manner, and 
 began to speak in rapid and distinct tones. 
 
 " Time presses, brethren. There remains but one 
 thing to be done, but that thing must be done well. 
 We, monks of the ancient chapter of the cathedral of 
 Canterbury, have here to-night availed ourselves of our 
 ancient and holy privilege, and have elected and conse 
 crated Reginald, our sub-prior, as Archbishop of Can 
 terbury. That we have done this thing in an unwonted 
 manner, ye wot well. That the deed hath taken place 
 with cognizance of neither King nor Pope, albeit we are 
 loyal subjects of them both, should assuredly be reason 
 sufficient for all to perceive the gravity of the measure, 
 and the necessity on all parts for absolute silence con 
 cerning it, until the Pope be duly apprised of our action. 
 For this reason I conjure you, and especially Reginald 
 and those four attendants who are to depart hence with 
 him to-night, to follow me in all earnestness in the tak 
 ing of a most solemn oath of secrecy concerning the 
 election that hath now taken place here, in the sight of 
 God alone." 
 
 Elias paused and scanned each face before him pene 
 tratingly. Earnest acquiescence was written in each ; 
 but for the understanding it 'was less easy to judge. 
 With stern impressiveness Elias himself then pronounced 
 
78 
 
 the oath, which was as binding a one as words could 
 make it. Every monk repeated it after him. Last of 
 all it was taken by the Archbishop and the four who 
 were to accompany him on his way to Rome. 
 
 The election was at an end. In the streets of Canter 
 bury town the watchman, swinging his lantern rhyth 
 mically to and fro as he walked, had long since cried 
 out the midnight hour, together with the cheerful news 
 that all was well. Ah ! All was not well in Canterbury 
 that night ! And England and Europe were soon to 
 find it out. For, in the great cathedral, thirty heedless 
 monks had just accomplished the ruin of a reign, and 
 pronounced an everlasting stigma on the fair fame of a 
 good king. 
 
 The brethren formed into the recessional. The Arch 
 bishop, his robes glittering brilliantly in the luminous 
 twilight, came last. Anthony and Alexander remained 
 in the church after the rest to extinguish the candles, 
 which had burned but half-way down in the short 
 period. Some of the smaller ones they left to flicker 
 on in their puny glory until they should flare up once, 
 pitifully, and then go out into the great darkness, as do 
 men's souls when their little hour here is over. 
 
 When Fitz-Hubert and his companion re-entered the 
 vestry, twenty only of the monks were there. The 
 others, Brantfeld, Reginald, and six brethren had retired 
 to the day-room of the little monastery, where the Arch 
 bishop and his followers were to make ready for their 
 departure. 
 
 Those who were left to wait in the vestry stood round 
 the room, talking fitfully, or moving about. Anthony 
 was alone among them. He remained at one end of 
 the place, close beside that small barred door which led 
 out into a narrow street of the city. The light from a 
 cresset lantern on the wall fell athwart his pallid face, 
 changed, almost as to feature, from that of the young 
 courtier of Windsor. The beams threw into sharp 
 
IRcginalD 79 
 
 relief all its angles, bringing out with bold shadow and 
 high-light the aquiline nose, and long sweep of the 
 brows beneath which his eyes glittered brilliantly in 
 their hollows. His black locks, now long unused to 
 the curling liquids and perfumes which he had once 
 so strongly affected, clung straight and close about his 
 well-shaped head and the disfiguring tonsure. It 
 was a handsome head still, but rather startling in its 
 beauty now; a countenance that many would turn from 
 hastily; that some would look back upon again, and 
 yet again; and that would draw a rare few, the 
 choicest among souls, to confidence and fast friend 
 ship. 
 
 Anthony seemed not to mind his solitude. Indeed, 
 he was too well accustomed to it to wish for anything 
 else. He stood looking idly toward a group of young 
 ascetics who were speaking in restrained voices about 
 some deep matter of the Church. Not one of these 
 would have dared an attempt to draw him into their 
 converse, and, had one made such a venture, he would 
 have been coldly repulsed. For Anthony's youth had 
 been so different from this that only utter change in his 
 very attitude of mind made living now even endurable. 
 At twenty-five his manner was that of a middle-aged 
 man, and he was regarded as being something far 
 beyond that in power of thought. 
 
 Presently Brantfeld made his appearance from the 
 passage that led into the rooms of the convent. He 
 stalked into the vestry, a heavy frown marking his 
 rugged forehead. Upon his entrance the monks looked 
 up quickly, and an immediate silence ensued. It was 
 straight to Anthony that the prior went, and Anthony 
 he addressed in words too carefully whispered to be 
 heard. Only the wrath in his manner gave a clue to 
 what he was saying. All waited eagerly for Anthony's 
 reply, which, when given, was straightforwardly indiffer 
 ent. Anthony's brow had gone up slightly, his lip 
 
8o 2Jncanom?eti 
 
 curled in scornful amusement; his shoulders shrugged 
 once involuntarily. 
 
 " In good sooth, Brantfeld, I am not my Lord Arch 
 bishop's mentor. Methinks his garb will have but 
 little power to conceal his soul." 
 
 With a look of wrath for the impudence, Elias turned 
 sharply away, and busied himself in unfastening the 
 bolts of the outer door. What he had said to Anthony, 
 or at least its purport, was very soon made apparent. 
 
 There was a sound of voices raised in unseasonable 
 jocularity. Footsteps and the light jangle of a chain 
 came from the passage. Simultaneously, without the 
 door which led to the street, and which the prior had 
 unfastened, was heard the faint clack of horses' hoofs on 
 stone. Then, amid a silence of utter amazement from 
 the brethren, with a fluttering swish from his silken 
 cloak, the Archbishop entered the vestry. He was a 
 monk no longer. His dress was a cross between that 
 of a knight and a prelate of high office. His long, 
 black sleeveless tunic bore indeed some likeness to a 
 priest's cassock ; but certainly his sleeves of bright 
 blue, the chain about his neck, and the long silken 
 cloak, large enough to cover his entire body, had not 
 much of the clergy about them ; while his oddly shaped 
 hat seemed to have been designed for the purpose of 
 concealing his tonsure. He looked singularly hand 
 some in the changed garb. His manner, as he strode 
 into the room, a half-smile from some past jest lingering 
 in his eyes, was half defiant, half consciously curious. 
 Behind him, shamefaced and hesitating in their sorry 
 sackcloth, came the four who were to follow him upon 
 his toilsome journey to Rome. Their Benedictine cowls 
 and scapulars were in no wise new. There was some 
 thing of a discrepancy between my Lord Archbishop 
 and my Lord Archbishop's retinue. Reginald himself 
 knew this. It was without warmth but also without 
 ostentation that he finally spoke. 
 
81 
 
 "The horses, good brethren, they are ready?" 
 
 " They stand without," said Alexander at length, see 
 ing that no one else gave any sign of answering. 
 
 The common monks stared open-mouthed at their 
 metamorphosed sub-prior. Brantfeld was too angry 
 and too anxious to open his lips. Anthony, fearing to 
 show unwise contempt and unwarranted amusement, had 
 turned his back. 
 
 " We must needs depart, then," said Reginald, after a 
 short contemplation of his reception. He saw that their 
 immediate going would be politic. " Nunc Deus te bene- 
 dicito, fratres. Vale." 
 
 Thus curtly he would have left them there, but Brant 
 feld, with a strong effort at self-control, peremptorily 
 stopped him. " You have the writs and testamentary 
 documents for his Holiness?" 
 
 " Certes. Thou gavest them to me thyself. All is in 
 order for the departure." 
 
 " Then in the name of the Father, depart. But re 
 member thine oath, Reginald of Canterbury ! " 
 
 In his deep earnestness, Brantfeld had for the moment, 
 forgotten the reverence due to the Archbishop. Regi 
 nald had the grace to overlook the breach. 
 
 " At mine own peril will I break it. Now, good 
 brethren." 
 
 There were a few hurried farewells among the monks, 
 Latin and English phrases freely mingled, and then the 
 door leading into the street was opened wide. By the dim 
 light of the lantern that hung within the vestry, the 
 five young men mounted the horses which were to carry 
 them to Dover. It was well that they had no inkling of 
 the steeds which were doomed to bear them from the 
 Eternal City, homeward. A touch of the spur to 
 each flank, a leap of the heart in each breast, the sharp 
 sounds of the hoofs upon stone, a dying echo, and 
 the five had travelled on to mingle with the black en 
 gulfing shadow of the beyond. They were gone. The 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 night's work had passed beyond cloistered hands. It 
 was Brantfeld who closed and barred the heavy door 
 behind them. The hour of matins was drawing near. 
 One by one, the weary monks crept half reluctantly 
 away to snatch an hour's sleep ere the round of prayer 
 should again begin. Anthony alone lingered still in his 
 place beside that closed door, oblivious alike to sight 
 and sound, lost in the depths of his own thoughts. 
 Bitter thoughts they were, and dreamily vague; such 
 thoughts as fever and nightmare bring to us. He had 
 just seen one pass from agony into freedom, from nonen 
 tity to place. None the less relentlessly did all the long- 
 fought misery sweep over him again, burying him be 
 neath waves so vast that he felt not the eyes that were 
 on him, and only in instinctive consciousness was aware 
 that Alexander's hand was laid upon his arm in silent 
 sympathy, that the cresset in the vestry had been extin 
 guished, and that from the blackness of the cathedral 
 beyond came the low sound of Elias Brantfeld's prayers, 
 sent up in a premature fear of the consequences of that 
 strange night's work, and the folly of which Reginald of 
 Canterbury had been king. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 JOHN'S MESSENGERS 
 
 AGAIN it was summer time, of the year 1207; July, 
 and the fourteenth day of the month. It had 
 been a mellow evening, and by eight o'clock 
 day had left the western sky and night was gliding 
 delicately through the eastern portals. The monks of 
 Canterbury chapter were at collation, and a dim candle 
 or so burned upon the two tables in the tiny refectory. 
 There were seats here for thirty only, for guests in the 
 chapter were few. Even so several spaces on the rough 
 benches were unoccupied ; and notable among them 
 was that in which Elias Brantfeld had been wont to sit. 
 Alexander, sub-prior now, and in later years to fill the 
 newly appointed position of abbot here, watched over 
 the etiquette of the table, which to-night was being 
 none too rigidly observed. The reader's desk, standing 
 at one end of the room, was empty. Anthony, whose 
 beautiful voice, aptitude for expression, and familiarity 
 with those Latin manuscripts which were accustomed to 
 be listened to during meals, rendered him most fit to 
 occupy the dignified but somewhat thankless position 
 of reader, was seated to-night at one end of the second 
 table, tranquilly partaking of his oaten cakes and mead, 
 and joining now and again in the fitfully animated con 
 versation that flickered about the little company. 
 
 " T is many months now since Brantfeld sent news 
 of the doings at Rome. Methinks had he chosen to 
 apprise us more fully of those matters which assuredly 
 concern us all, he had more excellently fulfilled his 
 mission." 
 
84 
 
 A little murmur of concurrence followed this obser 
 vation, but it was quickly silenced by the retort from 
 another, nicknamed, in the chapter, the Sceptic. 
 
 " Say you so? And would a thousand missives from 
 Elias have hindered Innocent from having his way with 
 us? Think you that the prior could have prevented 
 excommunication had he refused to obey the command? 
 Would they at our bidding have done away with the 
 impostor, Langton 
 
 " Or put De Gray in his rightful place?" interrupted 
 another, with a biting sneer. 
 
 4< Enough of De Gray," cried the first, angrily. 
 " Reginald was our choice, and, oath or none, should 
 sit to-day in the Archbishop's chair." 
 
 " Ay, Reginald ! Brantfeld's baby-faced tool ! " cried 
 a third, whose memory of the little sub-prior's fascina 
 tion had grown vague. " A child, who thought to 
 break our oath as he would an earthen cup. Verily a 
 right noble Archbishop would he have made ! " 
 
 "A better than Langton," muttered some one. 
 
 " True true. Reginald is an Englishman at least, 
 and would ne'er fly to the arms of Philip of France, as 
 a babe to its mother's kirtle when the stag frightened 
 it." 
 
 " Stephen Langton is no coward," remarked Anthony, 
 quietly. 
 
 Every monk there, even Alexander himself, looked 
 up in amazement. The surprise rapidly turned to anger 
 as Anthony met the looks indifferently, and calmly 
 refilled his beaker. 
 
 " We had not guessed that we had a partisan of the 
 traitor among us ! " cried some one at last, voicing the 
 thoughts of his fellows. 
 
 " I am no partisan of Langton's," was the reply. 
 " I regard him even as you do, as an intruder. But 
 again I say that no coward would have accepted his 
 post." 
 
85 
 
 " Ay what with the anger of baron, bishop, and 
 king against him," responded Alexander in a soothing 
 tone of meditation. 
 
 " King and baron yes. The Barons are always 
 ready to oppose something, methinks it matters little 
 what. And the King is devoted to Norwich. But for 
 the other Bishops an I misdoubt me not, 'they are 
 much inclined to France." 
 
 " Not Winchester, assuredly. Peter de Rupibus is 
 hand and glove with King John." 
 
 " Ay, and De Cornhill of Coventry, and Henry of 
 Dublin, and Walter of Worcester as well as De Gray." 
 
 " Perchance those are. But they are none of the 
 most powerful. London, Ely, Hereford, Lincoln and 
 Bath are not too friendly with their liege." 
 
 " Traitors all." 
 
 " And of two faces." 
 
 " One of which turneth ever a nod to the King, and 
 the other a love-look to the Pope." 
 
 There was a round of smiles at this last sally of 
 Alexander's and the discussion bid fair to be ended with 
 unusual good-feeling. But presently Brother Thomas, 
 a sour-faced, thoughtful, and attenuated monk, revived 
 the old strain. 
 
 " The King, brethren, you speak of him lightly. 
 Yet mark me, John is not lightly to be esteemed by us. 
 I have heard speech of late in sundry places which it 
 would seem must needs be considered gravely. And 
 truly it is not unnatural that the King should have a 
 bitter feeling for us who, overthrowing our own partisan, 
 asked that he provide us with a candidate for the Arch 
 bishopric. This most gladly he did, and none shall say 
 that John de Gray was not a worthy man for the place. 
 Now, says the King, we have turned from him when he 
 needed us, running like cringing courtiers over to the 
 Pope, who is master of us all. He hath reviled us most 
 bitterly, 't is said, for having had aught to do with the 
 
86 
 
 Frenchman, doubtless knowing naught of how we have 
 been harried on every side." 
 
 There was a common and indifferent assent to this 
 idea. Fear of a king was not a thing generally instilled 
 into the mind of the Catholic celibate. There were 
 fears enough and to spare without that. Alexander 
 answered for all when he said : 
 
 " Yea, 'tis sooth what thou sayest, Thomas. But 
 should we fear the King? Assuredly, knowing the 
 spirit of his Holiness as do we all, 't is safe to say that 
 John would dare do little in opposition to such a 
 will." 
 
 At this, Anthony laughed. " Hast ever seen the 
 King?" he asked. 
 
 " Thou knowest I have not." 
 
 " Then do not say what King John will dare or not 
 dare to do. None in the world knows his mind from 
 day to day, save perhaps only Isabella of Angouleme." 
 
 " And his shadow, Hubert de Burgh. But how 
 shouldst thou know aught of the King's temper, 
 Anthony? " inquired a monk not long of the chapter. 
 
 " How knows he the King? Verily he knoweth more 
 of Kings and courts than ever of monasteries, Andrew, 
 having been brought up by his father, and residing for 
 many years at the court of Windsor." 
 
 Alexander's answer was as quietly matter-of-fact as 
 possible. He knew that the subject was eminently dis 
 tasteful to Anthony ; but nevertheless Brother Andrew 
 was in no way to be put off from his curiosity. 
 
 "Who is thy father, Anthony? " 
 
 Anthony turned bloodless and half rose from the 
 table, a peculiar sparkle creeping into his eyes. His 
 lips parted, but he did not speak. Brother Thomas 
 suddenly came to the rescue, calling out loudly: 
 
 "The fruits, Master Hebdomadary ! Thinkest that 
 we have not had our fill of these tough cakes? 
 Wouldst have us sitting here till matins, good fool? 
 
8 7 
 
 Come, brethren for want of a better toast let us 
 drink a tankard of Burgundy for the success of Brant- 
 feld in Rome ! " 
 
 Anthony sent a grateful glance for the unwonted 
 and tactful kindliness of Thomas, but that brother 
 was already drinking, and evidently wanted no thanks 
 for his effort. So with the entrance of rarer wines and 
 the simple dessert with which collation was concluded, 
 the conversation turned back to monastic common 
 places and stories, in which every thought of dicta 
 torial pope, tempestuous king and rebellious bishop was 
 completely banished. 
 
 The prolonged meal was nearly at an ^nd. Already 
 the Gratias Deo was on Alexander's lips. The faint 
 light which still glimmered in through a western win 
 dow had long since lost all sunset ruddiness and was 
 little more than a pale shadow. The candles, their 
 rival being gone, blazed higher now in merry fitful- 
 ness, delighting to play in grotesque imagery over 
 the monkish faces round about. Suddenly the usual 
 vast stillness was broken. Far in the distance, indeed, 
 from the north transept of the church, might be dis 
 tinguished the sound of footsteps; heavy steps they 
 were, and stout of tread, those of men who dwelt in 
 the world, and had never been cramped between walls 
 of stone. Into the vestry they came, and then, after a 
 second's halt, entered the passage leading straight to 
 the refectory. Not a monk in the room stirred. None 
 even thought to glance at another. There was the 
 sound of arms clashing on stone, the deep bass mur 
 mur of a word or two, and then, without the least 
 attempt at bluster, four armed knights came quietly 
 in. Two of these men were known to Alexander; all 
 of them to Anthony. They were Henry de Cornhill, 
 sheriff of Kent; Theoricus le Vineter, of Canterbury 
 Castle ; and two knights of the King's own company : 
 William Briwere, sheriff of Somerset, and Robert 
 
de Neville, brother of Hugo, head forester of the 
 realm. 
 
 Upon the very threshold of the refectory the intrud 
 ers halted. At once Alexander, as the only official of 
 the chapter present, hastily rose, uncertain whether 
 his greeting should be as to guests, or whether to 
 wait till they might make known the object of their 
 coming. Therefore, once upon his feet, he stood 
 silent and motionless. The knights themselves were 
 deliberating. There was a pause, short and uncom 
 fortable. Anthony, from where he sat in shadow at 
 the end of the table, watched the dull, questioning 
 faces about him with growing surprise. How should 
 they all be so ignorant? He himself had a very clear 
 idea of the meaning of this visit. It was the final 
 issue of certain matters over which he had spent 
 much time in meditating. But it was evident at once 
 that not a monk present had an inkling of the im 
 port of the affair. Henry de Cornhill, Theoricus le 
 Vineter, William Briwere certainly to one who knew 
 them and their relation to the court, such an advent 
 now must mean much. 
 
 Perhaps De Cornhill had hoped and expected that 
 there would be some one there whose quick wit or 
 ready fear would make his task easier. But no one 
 moved. Anthony would not for all the world have 
 made himself conspicuous now. Thus the sheriff 
 perceived that it behooved him to make known his 
 errand at once. Advancing, then, a step or two be 
 fore his companions, and clearing his throat with diffi 
 culty, he took from his broad belt a parchment, from 
 which hung a great, brown-red seal, stamped with the 
 royal arms. From this he appeared to read. In 
 reality he knew by heart the short message that the 
 parchment contained. With his deep voice somewhat 
 softened to suit the hour and the place, he spoke these 
 words : 
 
89 
 
 " In the King's name we command you, as traitors, 
 to quit the realm ; or, in a moment, we will set fire to 
 these walls and burn you with the convent." 1 
 
 There was a moment of profound stillness. Then 
 Alexander, who, just as De Cornhill spoke, had started 
 to move toward him, lurched unsteadily back against 
 the table, where he seemed to support himself with 
 difficulty. The monks rose and drew together in a 
 blindly frightened throng, making a fluttering noise 
 among themselves with cries, prayers, and appeals to 
 God and the saints. De Cornhill, seeing their child 
 like behavior, stood looking on undecidedly, while his 
 companions commented on the scene. Certainly their 
 demeanor was anything but ferocious. 
 
 No order came from the little chaos. Perceiving 
 this, Anthony at last rose from the place whence he 
 had, up to this moment, not stirred, and advancing 
 into the room forced his way among the mass of 
 shrill-voiced brethren, and drew them about him in a 
 little band. Finally, his very presence having quieted 
 them, he spoke, in his customary low and mellow 
 voice. 
 
 " Brethren, ye have heard the King's message, and 
 must know that it were useless to meditate disobedience 
 to his command. An we depart not at once, peaceably, 
 we shall be driven to it, as ye have heard, by fire. 
 Therefore, seeing that there is but little time to spare, 
 it would be well to ascend at once to the dormitories, 
 where we may collect what possessions it behooves us 
 to take with us in our flight. Then, I doubt not, the 
 neighboring monastery of Augustine will not refuse to 
 receive us in charity for the night, seeing that there is 
 room for all. After that we should leave betimes for 
 some seaport, whence to take ship for France or Flan 
 ders as soon as may be. Ye see, brethren, that tears 
 
 1 Barrington, History of Reigns of Henry II., Richard I., and John 
 of England, p. 484. (Extracted from the Tower Rolls.) 
 
90 
 
 and prayers have no place here. The King, being 
 wroth with us, hath sent forth his decree. There is 
 naught for us but to do his bidding. Come let us 
 ascend." 
 
 The brothers had listened to him attentively, and at 
 once perceived the reason in his speech. There were 
 no murmurs as they began moving slowly toward the 
 door, forming, out of inevitable habit, into the regular 
 recessional line. 
 
 Meantime Alexander, having recovered himself, had 
 for some moments been speaking with De Cornhill and 
 his followers. In their parley they had decided upon 
 the same course as that advised by Anthony. So, 
 seeing the monks quieted, their sub-prior stepped for 
 ward and addressed them shortly, in a speech almost 
 the counterpart of his friend's. The monks listened to 
 this also in passive obedience. Simple and patient 
 under wearisome outward forms as their training had 
 made them, it was utterly indifferent to them how often 
 the same thing should be repeated. When Alexander 
 had finished they bowed their heads slowly, with no sign 
 of dissatisfaction, and had begun to move on, when De 
 Neville, who had been peering about the room in evident 
 search for something, advanced to the sheriff's side. 
 
 " Is the monk Anthony, son of Hubert Walter, once 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, in this room? " 
 
 The train of monks stopped short, and Brother An 
 drew, whose question was answered, pricked up his 
 ears. Anthony, who had all this time kept himself 
 purposely in shadow, and had been talking with Alex 
 ander, came slowly forward. 
 
 " I am here, Robert de Neville," he answered. 
 
 " Ah ! Welcome indeed, Anthony, old friend ! T is 
 right good to see you once again." 
 
 All four of the knights pressed about him, anxious to 
 take his hand. Anthony's head dropped low, and his 
 breath came in quick gasps. 
 
91 
 
 "You are to come with us to the castle," said Le 
 Vineter at once. " De Burgh awaits you there. The 
 King has some plan for you." 
 
 The monk's dark eyes kindled, but he spoke with 
 great difficulty, scarcely daring to trust his voice. 
 "Some plan for me?" 
 
 De Cornhill laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder, 
 while he said aloud to the monks: - 
 
 " Pass on, good brethren. Ye shall have a quarter 
 candle's length of time to gather up your goods. We 
 will await you at the vestry door. See that ye' do not 
 linger, else I fear me that a sterner lesson of punctuality 
 must needs be taught you." 
 
 The brethren, seeming to appreciate this mild-toned 
 threat, hurried away, the Miserere this time not upon 
 their tongues but in their hearts. So at last Anthony 
 and his friends of old stood alone together in the 
 dimly flaring candle-light, beside the disordered 
 tables. 
 
 " Thou saidst that De Burgh awaited me? " asked the 
 monk, turning to De Neville. He was growing quickly 
 accustomed to this dream. 
 
 " Ay, De Burgh awaits you," interrupted Cornhill, 
 turning -on his heel after a survey of the room; " and 
 thou hadst best follow Theoricus here to the castle, 
 taking with you a couple of the men-at-arms who stand 
 without. Briwere, Neville, and I will see these children 
 away. They promise no difficulty. Thou hadst best be 
 off at once. Hast aught that you would wish to take 
 with you? " 
 
 "Ay, another cowl, hood, and scapulary, together 
 with thy rosary, and perchance a wimple or two for a 
 lady, eh, Anthony?" cried Briwere, in ill-timed mirth. 
 But Anthony's look silenced him. 
 
 " I will join my Lord le Vineter at the cathedral door 
 as soon as I have gathered up a few manuscripts and 
 some needed garments for the night." 
 
92 2incanom?eD 
 
 "Deep in thy dialectic, Doctor?" 
 
 Anthony smiled forcedly, then departed down the 
 passage and rapidly mounted the narrow stairs that 
 led upward to his cell. 
 
 The dormitories were in a tumult. Anthony was not 
 once accosted as he made his way among the piles of 
 clothing, books, papers, crucifixes, cups, linen, and 
 various strange objects long hidden away, which had 
 now been pulled distractedly about the hallway out 
 side the cells. The need of a leading spirit to bring 
 order tx> all this reckless confusion was very apparent, 
 but in vain did Anthony look about for Alexander, 
 who, in point of fact, was alone in the small treasure- 
 house of the monastery on the floor below, packing 
 securely away certain objects which must not leave 
 England with him. 
 
 Anthony returned through the corridor with his small 
 bundle, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He 
 was marvelling over the strange feeling that all this petty 
 turbulence was his concern no longer. Descending to 
 the lower floor by a little hidden stairway which led into 
 the chapter-house, he crossed this room and reached the 
 door of the treasury. Here he paused, gravely re 
 garding the scene before him. Alexander was alone in 
 the middle of the room, kneeling over a great coffer, in 
 which lay the jewelled robe, mitre, and sacred staff, 
 which for nearly a century had been kept only for the 
 holy use of newly consecrated archbishops. They were 
 the same which Reginald had borne on that ill-fated 
 night now two years agone. The monk's emaciated 
 body lay half upon the floor, half upon the coffer, and 
 his lips were moving convulsively in prayer. Anthony 
 came quietly forward. 
 
 " Fare thee well, Alexander," he said, holding out his 
 hand. 
 
 Alexander looked up, then sprang quickly to his feet. 
 " Antoni ! Prater meus ! Vale ! vale ! et corpus Domini 
 
93 
 
 nostri ti custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam ; et 
 salutare da mihi ! " 
 
 " Pax tecum et cum spiritu tuo, et nunc et semper, 
 frater. Vale ! " 
 
 No other words were spoken, for in that moment the 
 hearts of both were too full for speech. Anthony's eyes 
 were very gentle as for the last time he looked into the 
 other's face ; but Alexander, more of a monk than his 
 brother, was not ashamed of the bitter brightness which 
 dimmed his own brown orbs. And thus they passed out of 
 each other's lives. For though Alexander in later years 
 ruled as abbot over these same brethren, in this very 
 spot, Anthony was not of their number, having by that 
 time been laid in peace beneath the meadow-turf, in a 
 certain sunny vale. 
 
 Fifty minutes after he had left the refectory, Anthony, 
 together with Theoricus le Vineter, stood upon the draw 
 bridge of Canterbury Castle. The lord of that strong 
 hold called out in a strident voice the password for the 
 night, and hastily the iron-bound door was thrown open 
 before them. Le Vineter, giving the two horses into 
 the care of a groom, strode into his mansion with the 
 monk by his side. Together they passed through the 
 great hall where sat a score of drowsy henchmen about 
 a table, long since emptied of its food, and now with but 
 little wine left within the great tankards and leather 
 jacks that strewed the board. From there the two en 
 tered a smaller banqueting-hall, then moved along a 
 corridor -with many openings on either side, lighted by 
 torches stuck into brackets on the walls, and so finally 
 through an anteroom into an apartment in which sat a 
 solitary man before a table, whereon stood a lightly 
 tasted meal. His chair was pushed back a little from 
 the oaken stand, and he was playing idly with the heads 
 of two great dogs who lay in yawning content at his 
 side. As his host entered, Hubert de Burgh, truest 
 friend and greatest favorite of the King, arose. 
 
94 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 " Ha, Theoricus ! Hast brought me one of thy re 
 bellious monks as hostage or specimen curiosity ? " 
 
 Le Vineter, who was a heavy fellow, and always ill at 
 ease with the spirit of jest, hesitated for a moment in his 
 answer, when from behind came a lively reply to De 
 Burgh's laughing question, 
 
 " Nay, my lord, no hostage, but one of the rebellious 
 monks indeed, who has come to bring charge against 
 thee of lordly forgetfulness of thine ancient infant play 
 fellow. Nay now, I 'd swear thou 'st quite forgot a 
 certain time of bear-baiting at Hurstmonceux " 
 
 "Anthony! My dear boy! My friend! Enough, 
 enough. Nay, now, my knowledge of these monkish 
 houses was too slight for me to guess whether thou wert 
 of this foolish chapter or in the great Augustinian 
 monastery across the way. Natheless I bade Theo 
 ricus look you out and bring you hither. The King 
 hath a mission for thee. Truly mine eyes rejoice at 
 sight of thee once more. By'r Lady, thou 'rt near to 
 being Hubert Walter's double ! " 
 
 Such was the unaffected greeting rendered to the 
 monk by the most graceful courtier, loyal statesman, 
 and perfect knight of his day; who managed, during 
 the most part of his sixty-three years of life, to maintain 
 the highest standing of esteem and love throughout 
 three reigns ; and at the same time so always to pre 
 serve his own self-respect that when the time of his 
 pitiful fall did come, that fall was only in the eyes of an 
 immediate generation, his memory having come down 
 to us as he in his own heart bequeathed it, stainless in 
 honor, innocent of all imputed guilt. 
 
 In the meantime Le Vineter, a tactful host at least, 
 had left the two friends alone in De Burgh's room, 
 whither presently was sent a lackey with refreshment 
 for Anthony, and the word that when he and Hubert 
 had finished their converse, the monk should be shown 
 to an apartment which should be his as long as he chose 
 
95 
 
 to remain a guest in the castle. This welcome, as 
 Anthony knew, was insured by the greeting which had 
 proved De Burgh an earnest friend of his. 
 
 The monk, who had so recently finished collation at 
 the convent, did not partake very heavily of this repast, 
 although it was infinitely more to his taste than the 
 coarse fare to which he had so long been accustomed. 
 De Burgh waited, watching him with pleasant eyes, till 
 he laid down his dagger and washed his hands in a 
 small dish of water set for the purpose, and which was 
 fragrant from recent contact with the courtier's strongly 
 perfumed fingers. Then, finally, De Burgh rose and 
 crossed the room to a large and roughly-carved desk, 
 before which he seated himself comfortably, motioning 
 Anthony to come nearer. 
 
 " Sit you there, Anthony, where I have some light on 
 thy pallid face. I am easier where I have somewhat to 
 rest mine elbows on. And now we shall talk as we 
 will eh?" 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, you are not changed." 
 
 " Nay, not ' my lord,' Sir Monk. Hast forgot that 
 the last time I had speech with thee 't was in the ter 
 race at Windsor thou didst call me ' Hubert ' ? That 
 name likes me better from thy lips than all the lords 
 and titles." 
 
 *' I wanted in respect then. I crave pardon for it," 
 responded the monk, not knowing quite what he was 
 saying, for his heart was full. 
 
 " Come, Anthony, I shall be wroth with you presently, 
 which would be sore unwise, since in the future we are 
 to see much of one another." 
 
 "Much of thee in the future, Hubert?" Anthony's 
 eyes grew eager. "Tell me, hath the King or per 
 chance the Pope deemed that at last I have finished 
 my work and the bastard's punishment? Is there hope 
 that I may be freed from monkery?" 
 
 " Hush, Anthony." Hubert's face was sad now, and 
 
96 2Jncanom?et) 
 
 his eyes were very gentle as he saw the light fade from 
 the monk's face. The thought had been only a mo 
 ment's weakness. The dark head sank a little. 
 
 " Hush, Anthony. Thy great father's last behest con 
 cerning thee will be fulfilled. Thou hast ta'en the 
 vows. By them must thou abide. Believe me, it 
 racks my heart to see thy pain. But come, here is my 
 command for thee. This it is. Thou knowest of course 
 of the famous old Abbey of Glastonbury? " 
 
 "In Somerset; near to Wells." 
 
 " Ay. 'Tis there that henceforth thou art to reside." 
 
 " Glastonbury I Its estate is no peaceful one, I have 
 heard." 
 
 " Most true. And 't is for that very reason that the 
 King, knowing you to be loyal and true to him, would 
 have you there. Through me 'twill be a duty of yours 
 to keep him apprised of the continuance of that quarrel 
 of which anon you will surely learn enow." 
 
 "Ay. Part of it already I know. Tis Jocelyn of 
 Bath who clamors for the Glastonbury lands, is't not?" 
 
 " Yes, Jocelyn, curse him I I tell thee the King 
 has more to fear from these triple-faced bishops and 
 their plots, than from pope and baron put together. 
 This Jocelyn is an eel who can play about your body 
 till you are well-nigh crazed with his endless embraces, 
 and when you make attempt to seize him, that you may 
 fling him from you, suddenly he glides sleekly off and 
 disappears within a neighboring pond, wherein you are 
 afraid to bathe lest he again encircle you." 
 
 " So. And Glastonbury hath no abbot? " 
 
 " The last was poisoned at Rome, 't is said, by 
 Jocelyn's rival emissary." 
 
 " A pretty tale. And who now rules the monastery? " 
 
 " None in reality, methinks. The prior, Harold, holds 
 the abbot's chair and the Pope's letter of authority." 
 
 Anthony shrugged his shoulders, and looked none too 
 well pleased. " T is a prospect that would tempt me 
 
97 
 
 not. Revelry in monasteries is a loathsome thing. Of 
 what service shall I be to King John in such a place? " 
 
 " Much. You are still the King's true servant?". 
 
 Anthony bowed in silence before the piercing look 
 which accompanied the words. 
 
 " That is well. The King has none too many true 
 friends left to him. I fear me lest this quarrel with the 
 Pope will be his undoing in the end." 
 
 "Justice and reason are alike on the side of the 
 King," cried Fitz-Hubert, hotly. 
 
 De Burgh smiled, but his eyes were sad. " His 
 Holiness is a kind of god, you know. But now to hurry 
 matters. This man Stephen Langton has numberless 
 partisans among monks and priests in England. Be 
 sides others there are five bishops who are sworn to 
 him, with them Jocelyn of Bath; whiles, 'tis said, 
 the hottest traitor of them all. None the less is he 
 playing continuously with the King's tolerance. Num 
 berless are the promises towards the royal treasury which 
 he has made, if only he can gain the King to his par 
 tisanship in this cause of Glastonbury. I know that his 
 desire is to unite the fat lands of Glastonbury with the 
 sees of Bath and Wells. The monks are eager for their 
 independence, but are unworldly folk, who know not the 
 tricks of courtiers. Therefore the King's Grace would 
 have you there, upon the spot, to note whate 'er you may 
 of the quips and turns of this most wary prelate. John 
 is already nigh distraught with the swirl of deceit about 
 him." 
 
 " A prying ofHce for me. One that I like not much 
 the thought of, my Lord de Burgh." 
 
 " Then, Anthony, I must give to thee the King's 
 second mission, and we shall see if the romance within 
 thy nature shall not this time yield the proposition. 
 First, I know that from the Pope thou hast special 
 friar's orders, and thou must bear in mind that this 
 mission that I give you is with his seal of sanction. 
 
 7 
 
" Twenty miles from Glastonbury three hours easy 
 ride stands Bristol town. On the south side of the 
 city is Bristol Castle, a rare strong fortress, and built 
 by Robert of Gloucester. Within this castle, O monk 
 errant, is imprisoned a maiden princess, so beautifully 
 fair that she hath been called the world over ' Pearl of 
 Brittany.' Thou 'st heard of her Eleanor, sister of 
 Arthur, the King's rebellious little nephew? " 
 
 " Ay. I have heard of her." 
 
 " Then come, man ! Bring back the gleam into those 
 eyes of thine ! In Bristol Castle lies the fairest princess 
 in all Europe, and thou art to become her padre con- 
 fessore ! Now assuredly this will tempt thee to a 
 journey towards the West?" 
 
 11 1 the confessor of a princess royal ! Nay, De Burgh ! 
 Women no longer may be aught to me. That must be 
 no place of mine." 
 
 " Reflect, stubborn one. His Holiness himself, at the 
 King's request, has made thine appointment. 'Twill 
 need a brave excuse to escape that. Why, friend, I 
 understand not thy temper ! 'T is passing strange for 
 a monk, and withal, one so young as thou." The irri 
 tation in De Burgh's tone was palpable. 
 
 " The Pope ! " Anthony rose suddenly from his 
 stool and paced the length of the room in strong agi 
 tation. De Burgh watched him in silence, unable to 
 guess the thoughts that were swinging through the 
 monk's over-charged brain. At length the young man 
 stopped still at a little distance from the courtier, and 
 his eyes were no longer dull. On the contrary, his face 
 gleamed with the light of some emotion incomprehen 
 sible to the other. 
 
 " I obey the command of his Holiness," he said, in 
 a low, vibrant voice ; " to-morrow I set out for Glaston 
 bury. Now let me hear more of the King's wishes, 
 that I may know to what I depart." 
 
 Hubert de Burgh smiled contemplatively, and deli- 
 
99 
 
 cately smoothed his hose. His good-humor had re 
 turned to him. " Well spoken, Anthony, and decided 
 with all thine olden-time surety and quickness. Now 
 shalt thou see certain papers and learn more of Glaston- 
 bury and Bristol." 
 
 " Ay, but let me first learn how 't is that I am to see 
 thee and bear thee word for John. Art not always 
 with some portion of the court? " 
 
 De Burgh laughed. " A simple question from thee, 
 Anthony. Always with the court? Nay am I with' 
 it now, or likely to be, for more than a day within the 
 next month? Ah! Sir Monk! England is my realm, 
 and England's King God rest him ! my second 
 self. This that thou seest of me to-night cares for my 
 subjects from Northumbria (and the deuce take the 
 Lion !) to Hants. The other self But I '11 e'en an 
 swer thy question now. Thou hast heard of Dunster, 
 perchance? " 
 
 " Nay." 
 
 " Dunster Castle lies in Somerset, two days' ride from 
 Bristol. 'T is the ancient house of the De Mohuns, 
 a hot-blooded race. Reginald, the present Baron, is 
 but a boy, fourteen years of age. Thus to me hath 
 the King entrusted the castle, as warden and guardian 
 of the young noble. Some days of each month I am 
 accustomed to spend there, and 't is in stopping at Wells 
 or Bristol, on my way to and from that place, that thou 
 mayest see me." 
 
 " That is well. And De Briwere is sheriff of Somer 
 set, is he not? " 
 
 " Sheriff, and lord of as stout a fortress as man 
 can build. Bridgewater is his castle scarce yet 
 completed." 
 
 " A goodly neighborhood of King's men. And now, 
 prythee, more of Glastonbury and Bristol Castle." 
 
 "Well and good. A something more of interest than 
 at first shows in thine eyes, Anthony. In truth just 
 
ioo 2Jncanoni?eti 
 
 at present Bristol Castle holds an historic company. 
 Within its sound keep in most rarely barred apart 
 ments, lies, with his little suite, my Lord Count Hugh 
 de la Marche, of 
 
 "Ah! Isabella's " 
 
 " The Queen's former guardian and friend. Since 
 the last insurrection in Poictou they have been in John's 
 keeping. Those rebels are better dealt with without 
 their leader. But thou, Anthony, while visiting Bristol 
 Castle in thy priestly office, wilt be at their service like 
 wise, should their well-worn souls need attention. Per 
 chance 't will interest thee to make acquaintance with 
 them." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was a slight pause. Then Anthony leaned 
 forward a little and an impulsive question leaped from 
 his lips : 
 
 " Hubert what of the Princess Eleanor's brother 
 Arthur Fitz-Geoffrey ? " 
 
 De Burgh returned the look calmly. " So thou too 
 hast heard the villainous lie circulated by John's ene 
 mies? To think that such things penetrate even to the 
 cloister ! The insolent boy is housed in the castle at 
 Rouen, only too courteously attended, till the day 
 when, by good fortune, he shall fall out of love with 
 Philip of France and accept the long-proffered friend 
 ship of his uncle. Faugh! A petty child, spoilt by 
 all who know him, because of his yellow hair and blue 
 eyes. I saw him, and tried to force some reason into 
 his headstrong mind, two months and more "agone. 
 'T was of no use. Still loudly he clamors for ' My 
 kingdom, De Burgh ! My lawful possession ! ' Poor 
 fool! Imagine England to-day ruled by the child. 
 'T would be something worse than your Reginald as 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, Anthony." 
 
 With a quick smile of relief the monk rose up. " I 
 praise God, Hubert, that the King hath been maligned." 
 
101 
 
 " An unkind gratitude, Sir Monk. I would that John's 
 slanderers lay with their haloed Arthur, every man of 
 them, deep in the keep of Rouen Castle ! " 
 
 Anthony held out his hand to his friend. 
 
 "Till to-morrow morning, Anthony. I shall see thee 
 ere thou leave for Glastonbury. Then also will I give to 
 you those papers which shall admit you to the princess, 
 as well as a map of the road which you had best trav 
 erse on your way. 'T is no short journey to the other 
 side of England ! " 
 
 " I thank thee, my lord. I would have asked thy 
 advice as to my road. Good-night, and gentle rest to 
 thee." 
 
 So, with a grave bow, the monk left the apartment to 
 seek his own bed, leaving the courtier standing in his 
 little ante-room, looking after him, lost in thought. 
 There was still abstraction in his manner when, cross 
 ing to the second entrance of the chamber, De Burgh 
 entered that wherein stood his royally hung couch. 
 The door to this he closed, while half murmuring a 
 vague sentence to himself. 
 
 "Hubert Walter and Catholicism! God! T is a 
 pity, a rare pity, that they did not rather kill the 
 boy ! " 
 
 But Anthony had no longing for death that night. 
 Of a sudden the vague, widespread unhappiness in his 
 soul had concentrated into a point of agonized longing, 
 a longing which a jest of De Burgh's had awakened 
 within him. The greatest desire of his life, he felt, 
 was for the sight of a woman's face. For it was four 
 endless years since Anthony Fitz-Hubert had seen a 
 woman. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 GLASTONBURY 
 
 EVENING was falling upon the vale of Avalon 
 the shadowy, hazy, hot twilight after a midsum 
 mer day. The pale leaves of the apple-trees hung 
 limply from their boughs ; but the great willows, which 
 drooped over the marshy stream twining lazily along 
 toward the river Brue, now and again stirred a feathery 
 limb in response to the delicacy of the western wind. 
 The sun had entered into the waters of Bristol channel 
 for his evening bath ; leaving his garments of crimson 
 and gold hung out in the western sky. Everything in 
 this fabled land had grown enchanted in the mystic 
 glow. Surely upon the mere that lay hidden in yonder 
 mist Arthur's funeral barge must be floating still, 
 surely the gleaming arm in white samite must rise once 
 more from those living waters to grasp the blade of the 
 historic sword returned again to its home, after many 
 years of war and combat Vale of poet's lay and min 
 strel's song ! In truth it needs neither one of these to 
 chant such praises of thy beauty upon a summer even 
 ing of to-day ! 
 
 How was it, then, seven hundred years ago? Turn 
 ing a little to the spot where great Arthur bade farewell 
 to life, ye gods ! there was a marvel that no longer 
 meets the eyes of him who looks along that dell to-day. 
 A mighty cathedral, reared of carven stone, its windows 
 more brilliant in the evening light than the sky itself, 
 rose in its majesty from a clustering group of lowlier 
 buildings. Enclosing them all, forbidding and mysteri 
 ous, stood a high wall of stone. 
 
103 
 
 North of this great church, at no long distance, 
 a lofty hill rivalled in height the towers of stone. 
 Its steep sides were bare of the trees which so plen 
 tifully ornamented the plain; and half a mile from 
 it lay a tiny hamlet, sheltered among the orchards 
 beside the river. The all-pervading glow which suf 
 fused this Tower Hill dazed, at first, the eyes of him 
 who looked upon it. Its crown was a chapel of gleam 
 ing white stone, whose uplifted cross caught the last 
 rays of the sun now throbbing beneath the waters so 
 plainly to be seen from this shrine to Saint Michael, 
 Patron of the Sea. 
 
 Into the shadowy silence which lay upon Avalon, 
 came a horseman, riding from out of the green dark 
 ness of the eastern forest. Horse and master alike 
 seemed to feel the sway of the stillness. Their appear 
 ance did not so much as startle a bird which, from the 
 bough of an apple-tree, was languidly carolling out a 
 slumber-song, that melted away into the hot twilight, 
 without a single vibration. Rider and steed drooped ; 
 the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant, dry 
 grass, into which his burning hoofs sank at every step. 
 Both were roused a little when the walls of the abbey 
 suddenly rose over them. The horse stopped still. 
 Anthony, torn from his revery, raised his head, and 
 looked, slowly, lingeringly, all about him. A long 
 breath parted his lips. 
 
 " 'T is wondrous fair," he murmured to himself. 
 
 At sound of his voice the horse moved on again, 
 as before, till at last he stood in front of the great 
 northern entrance to the abbey. Here the monk 
 pulled rein, but did not dismount. He was suddenly 
 overwhelmed with some feeling strong enough to bow 
 his black head to his breast, and call from his lips a 
 deep, heart-broken groan. After five days of freedom, 
 unspeakably blessed, he was again about to enter the 
 gates which should shut him in, away from God's world, 
 
104 (Hncanoni?eft 
 
 from God's peace, perhaps for all of his remaining life. 
 Five little days ! That short time had dispelled from his 
 spirit all those dulling layers of insensibility that only 
 years had served to wrap about it. He was once more 
 to be laid bare to the lash of inward rebellion from 
 which he shrank in horror. A pardoned prisoner recon- 
 demned to death ; a king returned from exile only to be 
 banished once again these were light things com 
 pared to the life to which he must voluntarily resign 
 himself anew: that endless existence of religious sla 
 very from whose soul-crushing monotony there was no 
 escape but death. Why no escape? Anthony was 
 there, alone, in the falling darkness. None in the abbey 
 had been advised of his coming. The sweat started to 
 the monk's brow. And then and then with a quick 
 tightening of the lips he sprang from his horse like one 
 flying from an irresistible temptation, and, without a 
 second's pause, seized upon the rope that sounded a 
 gong in the porter's lodge. 
 
 " Who is he that would enter? " drawled a surly voice, 
 quaverous with age. 
 
 The monk, with a twitch of the lips, suddenly seized 
 upon his horse's mane with a firm hand, and pulled 
 upon it till the astonished creature gave forth a loud 
 neigh of protest, at the same time rearing violently. 
 Then Anthony shouted, in his most strident voice : 
 
 " Open, brother, and thou shalt see our face ! " 
 
 Forthwith, hastily, the wicket was pulled back and 
 the weazened countenance of old William Lorrimer, 
 the porter, peered anxiously forth. 
 
 " By the cross, a monk ! I had thought it Lord 
 Gifford at the very least; sith we have learned that 
 the King's grace is returned to Windsor, and that 
 assur " 
 
 " No lord," interrupted the monk, " but, none the 
 less, a right good friend to the King's grace, as thou 
 shalt soon hear when thou gain'st me entrance to the 
 
105 
 
 prior's room. Now ope the gate, that I and my good 
 steed may enter. There be stables within ? " 
 
 Lorrimer sniffed. " Stables ! ay. Such as the like of 
 you ne'er before set eyes on. In sooth it had pleased 
 me better to have admitted such as at first I deemed 
 you." 
 
 "Thou 'st a liking for lords and barons, then? " con 
 tinued Anthony when he had led his animal inside. 
 
 The heavy gates closed behind him ; and the sound 
 of their shutting turned the stranger heart-sick once 
 more. The mood which led him to bandy words with 
 the old porter had vanished. 
 
 " Now then, Sir Monk, relinquish thy bridle. Here 
 be a lay-brother to take thy horse in charge. An thou 
 hast business with Harold, this is the path. T will 
 nay. I myself will go with thee. 'T is well nigh time 
 for collation, and there will scarce be other visitors 
 to-night." 
 
 Together they proceeded along the hard-trodden walk 
 through well-kept grass, until they stood directly in 
 front of the great church, which towered, like a huge 
 cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness. 
 They passed the open doors leading into a beautiful 
 little chapel, and found themselves facing the visitor's 
 entrance to the monastery. Before entering, William 
 Lorrimer knocked sturdily at the door. Within the 
 corridor, which was but faintly lighted, stood a lay- 
 brother, already awaiting them. As Anthony went in 
 he was closely examined by the attendant. 
 
 " Doubtless you would see the prior," he said at 
 once. 
 
 "An it please you, yes," returned the new-comer 
 courteously. 
 
 " I will guide thee. William Lorrimer, the brethren 
 are in the lavatory. 'T is the hour for collation." 
 
 So saying, the brother, followed by the newly arrived 
 monk, passed out of the vestibule and into a hallway 
 
106 
 
 which, for those days, was brightly illumined by stone 
 lamps, built, at regular intervals, into the walls. From 
 this passage they turned into a long corridor which 
 finally led them into and through a great room which 
 seemed open to the night air. Then they crossed a 
 paved court, which was quite dark, and so into another 
 corridor, filled with the murmur of monks' voices. And 
 still they walked, past kitchens now, whence issued the 
 not unsavory odor of monastic fare; and so down a 
 final hall, at the end of which they paused at last before 
 a door. In this silent, four-minute walk, Anthony had 
 had time to wonder over the immensity of the monas 
 tery, which, even now, was in great part unfinished. 
 
 Almost totally destroyed by fire in the year 1184, the 
 famous abbey was, from that date until its dissolution 
 in the reign of Henry VIII., in a continual state of 
 building, being added to and remodelled by king and 
 abbot, till its ruins to-day, though but a remnant of 
 what once covered that historic spot, still bear the 
 marks of every change of architecture, from the per 
 fected Norman through each stage of the Gothic, and 
 well into the beginning of the English renaissance. 
 Now, as Anthony beheld it in this year 1207, it con 
 tained ample, even sumptuous, lodging for two hundred 
 monks, though but half that number occupied the dor 
 mitory cells, and luxurious suites for each officer and 
 dignitary of the abbey, besides guest-chambers suffi 
 cient for forty nobles and their retainers. The later 
 abbots were accustomed to entertain from three to 
 four hundred guests monthly within their walls. To 
 the new-comer, accustomed as he was to the cramped 
 housing provided for the chapter of Canterbury, it 
 seemed as though he had entered a boundless wilder 
 ness of stone, in which there could be no place for 
 familiar comfort and quiet solitude. 
 
 After a short pause before the door of the prior's 
 apartment, the two, Anthony and his guide, were ad- 
 
107 
 
 mitted, and conducted through a large oratory into the 
 prior's own apartment. Harold had just finished a special 
 devotion, and was now seated before a table, upon which 
 collation of which he but rarely partook in the refec 
 tory had been served to him. He was a very large 
 man, heavy-cheeked, and with an ample mouth, har 
 monizing nobly with his " fair round belly with fat 
 capon lined." Harold's pale blue eyes, which were 
 capable of reflecting great variety of emotion, were 
 steely when the visitor, delaying his meal, entered the 
 room. He did not rise, nor was his manner pleasant 
 as he said : 
 
 " How now, Sir Monk ! Thou 'rt a stranger. Hast 
 business with me, or am I but to bid thee welcome to 
 the abbey for overnight? " 
 
 " I have business with you, sir, but none that will 
 occupy great length of time. Will it please you to 
 peruse this missive from the King, and here another 
 from the Pope, and then perchance to bid me welcome 
 for myself ? " 
 
 At the phrase " from the Pope " Harold rose in haste 
 to his feet, while at the monk's last words both he 
 and the lay-brother examined the stranger with a new 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Indeed, brother, I crave pardon for discourtesy. I 
 had thought you some messenger from a neighboring 
 prelate." 
 
 " Jocelyn," was Anthony's mental note. 
 
 " Be seated while I read. Henry, thou may'st go." 
 
 The lay-brother left the room ; Anthony sat down 
 upon a settle ; and Harold broke the seal of the docu 
 ment from Rome. No comment was made upon the 
 letter, but Harold's expression was kindly enough, 
 when he laid it carefully down and took up that of the 
 King. As the end of this parchment was approached 
 a change came into the prior's face. Anthony watched 
 with fearless apprehension, wondering what John had 
 
chosen to say of him. It was not long before he learned. 
 Flinging the royal letter upon a table, Harold turned to 
 the monk. 
 
 " So, thou son of Hubert Walter ! You think to live 
 here among us, whose bitter enemy thy father hath 
 been? Know you not that he was the follower of 
 Savaric, and the fool of Alexander? " 
 
 Anthony rose instantly. " I know naught of the 
 quarrels of this house with the former Archbishop of 
 Canterbury; but, whate'er they were, it behooves you 
 not to speak in disrespect of one so much above us 
 both in rank and spirit." 
 
 Harold looked at him curiously. " Thou art loyal to 
 the memory of him who made thee a monk to do 
 penance for 
 
 "Be silent!" 
 
 " his own sin." 
 
 " Thou churl ! " 
 
 Then they stood silent, facing each other ; Anthony 
 struggling with his temper, Harold frowning and un 
 easy. All unconsciously the prior picked up the two 
 letters from the table, smoothed them out, and folded 
 them with great care. Signs of battle were hung out 
 in his face. Finally, drawing down his tunic w r ith a 
 jerk, where it wrinkled over his broad frame, he said, 
 pettishly : - 
 
 " Well Anthony, 't is a brave beginning for an entrance 
 to the abbey. However, I doubt not thou must stay ; 
 for with us, the word of the Pope is law. To-night, sith 
 collation is nearly over in the refectory, thou must 
 needs sup here with me. We will join the brethren at 
 compline." 
 
 Anthony bowed, and the conversation was closed. 
 
 Their meal, when freshly heated things had been 
 brought in, was by no means traditionally meagre. In 
 fact it seemed to Anthony that the amount prepared for 
 two would have served half the monks in Canterbury 
 
109 
 
 Chapter. After watching Harold for a little, however, 
 his opinion changed. At length, when everything 
 upon the trenchers, together with the last flagon of 
 mead, had disappeared under the prior's ferocious 
 attacks, Anthony, with heartfelt thanksgiving, rose up 
 after his companion. 
 
 " Now, to Joseph's Chapel, wherein already the bell 
 is ringing; and after compline shalt thou be conducted 
 to a cell for thyself within the dormitory overhead. 
 Thither, already, thy pack hath been carried. Come 
 now. 'Tis this way." 
 
 A small door at one side of the prior's room opened 
 upon a narrow passage, along which they walked, side 
 by side, in darkness, till the lights from the chapter 
 house met their eyes. Through this large room they 
 passed, entering from it the great church itself, the 
 farther end of which opened into the beautiful chapel, 
 consecrated many years before to the Patron Saint of 
 the monastery, Joseph of Arimathea. When the prior 
 and his companion entered here the monks were already 
 assembled ; for in this place most of the services of the 
 day were held. There was many a curious glance at 
 Anthony, as he and Harold came among the kneeling 
 company ; and then, at once, compline began. 
 
 So occupied was the new-comer with the novelty of 
 the scene and of his thoughts, that the old and familiar 
 form did not pall upon him as usual. Mechanically his 
 lips moved, while his eyes wandered over the white, 
 carven screen before the altar, and the pillars that rose 
 above that, out of the range of candle-light, to mingle 
 with the shadows above. Then, by a slight turn of the' 
 head, he could see the black, well-like entrance to the 
 large church, where the one or two distant lamps, lighted 
 by penitent monks before special shrines, flashed like 
 infinitesimal stars through the gloom. As to the long 
 rows of kneeling brethren, before and about him, they 
 seemed to Anthony to differ not at all from those whom 
 
no 3!ncanonf?ct) 
 
 he had known in the Augustinian monastery, and others 
 again in the chapter. There were the same ungainly 
 figures, the same shorn pates, the same dull faces. But 
 presently his eyes encountered the head of a young 
 monk whose place was close to the altar. At this head 
 he gazed, fascinated, till it was time to rise from his 
 knees. Three-quarters of the face was visible to him ; 
 a delicate face, a perfectly pure, white, refined face ; out 
 of which looked a pair of large, clear, innocent blue eyes. 
 The fine hair which grew about his tonsure was glorified 
 into a halo of gold from the lights of the candles near by. 
 Anthony was considering the picture, and wondering 
 whether it would appear less idealized by daylight, when 
 the last prayer was concluded. 
 
 In irregular groups, amid a low murmur of conversa 
 tion, the monks left their devotions, now ended for an 
 other day. Anthony followed after them as they 
 moved down the corridor, still keeping his young monk 
 in sight. Suddenly, somewhat to his surprise, a hand 
 was placed upon his shoulder. He turned about. Be 
 side him stood a tall, angular fellow, with a peculiar, 
 but not unpleasant face, who immediately addressed 
 him. 
 
 " Hey, Brother Anthony ! Well art thou come to 
 Glastonbury ! Forsooth thou 'rt the only one of thy 
 name in all this monkery of Benedict. Behold in me 
 Peter Turner, Master of the Fabric of the house, ruler 
 of a most unruly band of tailors ; betimes a merry dog 
 enow, and now a right sleepy one. Thy cell is next to 
 mine, i' the extreme western wing. My sleep is as 
 heavy as my snores, and there will be no one o' t'other 
 side. Look you, you may be late to matins every 
 blessed morning i' the year, and none the wiser, an you 
 tread softly. Now here be the stairs." 
 
 Anthony listened solemnly to this queer speech, 
 smiled a little at its queer speaker, and then continued 
 by his side in silence. He was too weary to care to 
 
talk. In five minutes the new-comer was alone in his 
 dimly lighted cell. It was a larger one than he had 
 been accustomed to, and far more worthily furnished. 
 Upon his table stood the bundle of clothes and manu 
 scripts that he had brought with him from Canterbury. 
 This he unrolled, carelessly, intending to take from it 
 only his tunic for the night. With the movement some 
 thing from the bundle slid out, and fell, with a crack, 
 upon the stone floor. He stooped to pick it up. 
 It was the little steel dagger that had come with him 
 from Windsor when he left his other life, years ago. 
 Thinking nothing of the omen, he slipped the forbidden 
 weapon between the leaves of a little-used book, which 
 he put on his table, and there it remained for many a 
 long day. Then, without further ado, flinging day-cowl 
 and scapular aside for the night-garment, Anthony put 
 out his cresset lantern, and laid himself upon his bed. 
 Here, in the western wing of Glastonbury Abbey, a 
 hundred miles from any familiar sight or soul, he slept ; 
 and his dreams, as ever, were kinder than his waking 
 thoughts ; so that matins came all too soon. 
 
 Matins formally began the monastic day. At Glas 
 tonbury they were held in the chapel; and the order 
 was the singing of fifteen psalms, followed by the noc- 
 turn. A few final verses being chanted, the service 
 ended at about half-past three, an hour and a half after 
 its commencement. For the next twenty minutes there 
 was a pause, during which many of the novices, the 
 choir, and some few monks were permitted to retire till 
 the beginning of lauds, which were not finished until 
 six. Then for an hour there was reading, very drowsy 
 reading, in the library. At seven the monks returned 
 to their cells to dress for the day, doffing the coarse 
 night-tunics, and putting on scapulary, cowl, hood, and 
 shoes ; and it must be confessed that at this hour some 
 very unseemly mirth, and not a few ardent discussions 
 passed along the corridors from cell to cell. Then at 
 
H2 
 
 half-past seven a long procession from the lavatory, 
 which was placed next to the refectory, marched with 
 solemn chant into that great room for the first meal of 
 the day. No conversation was supposed to take place 
 during any meal, but human nature is prominent in all 
 men; Saint Benedict had been dead a conveniently 
 long time ; and therefore the early breaking of the fast 
 was wont to be a pleasant one. After it there was a 
 half-hour available for idling, or extra prayers, or 
 work, until tierce, the service for the third hour. This, 
 high mass immediately followed. Between half-past 
 ten and eleven there was a general assembly in the 
 chapter-house, where the chief officer in the abbey 
 gave his dally homily, and decreed penitences; after 
 which, abbot (when there was an abbot in Glastonbury), 
 prior, sub-prior, and deacons conducted whatever busi 
 ness might have come up during the last four-and- 
 twenty hours ; the almoner saw to his daily work among 
 the poor; the farmerers busied themselves in their 
 offices, or rode off to attend some part of the abbey 
 lands ; the hebdomadary, refectioner, cellarer, and cooks 
 gat them to their respective apartments, to work over 
 affairs of the flesh ; the master of novices held his 
 school in the apartment next the prior's rooms, the pre 
 centor drilled his choir in the chantry, the tailors hur 
 ried to their sack-cloth, the scribes to the scriptorium, 
 and those monks who were unofficially employed con 
 ducted the service of sext in the chapel. After all this 
 came the great event of the day, obviously, dinner. 
 This usually occupied close upon an hour and a half, 
 and was strictly conducted. Dinner etiquette in the 
 abbey was a rigorous and curious matter. Always, 
 through the meal, a monk, stationed in the pulpit 
 at one end of the refectory, read to the brethren 
 some authorized sacred or philosophic work. He, poor 
 fellow, was obliged for the day to forego his meal, 
 unless he chanced to stand well in the graces of the 
 
refectioner or some member of the temporary staff of 
 cooks. 
 
 After dinner there was a needed hour for rest or 
 recreation, which period was always the dullest in the 
 day. At three o'clock came nones, service for the ninth 
 hour, which was followed by vespers. From four 
 o'clock until seven all in the abbey went to work, each 
 according to his professed duty. Many of these monks, 
 otherwise unemployed, went into the fields to labor with 
 the secular farmers of the Glastonbury lands, a health 
 ful task, and no unpleasant one, in this exquisite Som 
 erset shire. From seven o'clock until eight there was 
 a general assembly in the great room of the abbey, at 
 which time the monks read, indulged in controversy or 
 dialectic over religious matters, or talked among them 
 selves, in their peculiar way, half gentle, half barbarous, 
 of the topics of the day their day. At eight o'clock 
 came collation, a much needed meal; one sometimes 
 prolonged until compline, which followed it, had to be' 
 garbled quickly through. The long day was often 
 finished by confession and evening prayer, and half-past 
 nine was supposed to see the brethren upon those 
 couches from which they must rise again little more 
 than four hours later. 
 
 Such was the changeless, endless round endured by 
 many thousands of human souls for all the years of their 
 lives; this not alone during the ages of semi-barbarism, 
 but also before, and after. Heaven rest their souls in 
 prayerless peace forevermore ! 
 
 One week in Glastonbury sufficed to show Anthony 
 that he was not destined to find many friendships 
 there. Prior Harold had not seen fit to keep the knowl 
 edge of his sonship secret ; and the unconcealed com 
 ments, and the curious, unfriendly glances that met him 
 on every hand, soon proclaimed this fact to the new 
 comer, who writhed inwardly, but endured in silence. 
 With one of Anthony's accomplishments, however, uni- 
 
H4 2Jncanoni?e& 
 
 versal satisfaction was expressed. This was his manner 
 of reading aloud. The first time that he was called 
 upon to do so, and it was but three days after his 
 entrance into the abbey, he quite astounded the brethren. 
 The melodious, perfectly modulated voice, the easy 
 manner, the delicate shades of expression, gave to his 
 subject a beauty and an interest that was more sensuous 
 than intellectual. Against their own wills he charmed 
 and tantalized his audience, till he was urged into the 
 promise of taking the pulpit for one day in each week. 
 This pleased the monks highly ; though none of them 
 had the heart to propose that he be allowed some 
 thing to eat during recreation hour. And, amid their 
 satisfaction, they failed also to perceive that it was 
 always toward one man that Fitz-Hubert's voice was 
 directed. Only that one knew, and thought about it, 
 with pleasure in his absent eyes. It was the little monk 
 whom Anthony had watched on the evening of his first 
 arrival, the one of the golden hair, whose face the 
 candle-light had not idealized, but who appeared, among 
 the dark and motley forms among which he moved, 
 like some unappreciated saint. 
 
 Philip, films Benedicti. Him Anthony addressed, 
 week after week, in his reading ; but to him, personally, 
 he never spoke. Philip was a strange spirit. Amid 
 those surroundings where were many things, and many 
 men, infinitely distasteful and coarse, Philip walked, 
 apparently a brother to all, yet in reality alone, in per 
 fect gentleness, in perfect refinement. His position did 
 not render him unhappy, because anything other and 
 better than Glastonbury he had never known. His very 
 parentage was too obscure to have provided him with 
 one of those ready surnames, so easily manufactured in 
 those times. Long before he was old enough to take the 
 monastic vows, Glastonbury sheltered him as a novice. 
 He had no history. He was taken by his fellows almost 
 as something that went with the abbey. His life ap- 
 
us 
 
 peared to them all to be irreproachable, even as it 
 was unapproachable. They left him to live in peace 
 in the world of his own creating. Philip's dreams were 
 strange; and the proof that they were the strongest 
 things in his nature was the fact that they material 
 ized. His two great passions were music (which he, 
 like nobody else who ever attempted it, contrived to 
 evoke from the throats of the choir-boys) and illumi 
 nating. He was the first scribe of the monastery ; one 
 of the five antiquarii, or copyists and translators. 
 And he never permitted it to be guessed that at times 
 he departed from these venerable occupations, to join, 
 out of sympathy, the ranks of the far less respected 
 librarii, or composers of original text, something of 
 far less importance, from a thirteenth-century point of 
 view, than exploiting the brains of another man with 
 plenty of red and blue flourishes, and all the gold-leaf 
 that one chose to introduce. Philip was, by profession, 
 an antiquarius, because he was quaintly conventional 
 at heart, and wished to do the most estimable thing. 
 Otherwise he was a librarius, because instinctively he 
 knew it to be a glorious thing to see his own thoughts 
 laid upon parchment, and find afterwards that they 
 were good. 
 
 To his two pleasures had, of late, been added a 
 third, which contained the great and wonderful nov 
 elty of human sympathy. It was Anthony's reading. 
 Anthony's voice went straight into Philip's heart; and 
 Philip's answer might always be read in his open face. 
 Of this silent relationship both were perfectly aware, 
 yet for more than a month after the coming of Anthony 
 no attempt was made by either to seek a closer com 
 panionship. It would have been difficult for them 
 to have explained that reluctance. Anthony's reason 
 was a sense of dread, dread to come nearer and find 
 this new purity in some way sullied. He hesitated 
 to try the character of the other, because he feared to 
 
find at last what usually he could see immediately, and 
 scorn. Philip was only in a state of dreamy vacuity. 
 He would have considered the possibility of a nearer 
 acquaintance with the stronger man in the light of 
 an entirely new idea; but, upon the whole, not an 
 unpleasant one. 
 
 In the monastery there was but one monk who had 
 ever desired to claim intimacy with the young scribe. 
 This was David Franklin, the precentor ; whose reason 
 for such a friendship was the benefit to be gained for his 
 office by Philip's innate musical ability. Otherwise 
 their affinity might have been regarded as purely an 
 accident. David Franklin, in all probability, was the 
 most disagreeable person in the abbey, excepting 
 neither Joseph Crandalle, master of the unfortunate 
 novices, nor Benedict Vintner, the cellarer, who, indeed, 
 had been known to laugh at a ribald joke, when drunk. 
 
 David Franklin's face resembled his character. It 
 was gnarled and twisted and dark, till it looked like 
 a gargoyle. His mouth was thick-lipped and small. 
 His nose was that very one with which Noll Goldsmith 
 was presented some hundreds of years later ; and his 
 eyes were so sunken and so fiery that he was com 
 monly supposed to see in the dark. The barber had 
 never much work to tonsure his half-bald head. His 
 hands were a knotted mass of bones and sinews. A 
 strange shadow, truly, for Philip the graceful to cast; 
 but accepted now as inevitable by every monk save 
 Anthony the stranger. He, while never obtruding 
 upon Philip, nevertheless often watched him, half uncon 
 sciously. He saw him at various unwonted pursuits, 
 and formed a very good opinion of the scribe's domi 
 nating self-life. The wish to come closer to that life at 
 last began to take root in his lonely mind. And still, 
 unaccountably, he hesitated to approach. Finally, how 
 ever, a circumstance made an understanding between 
 them possible, desirable, and necessary. 
 
"7 
 
 It was the hour for recreation in the abbey, on a cer 
 tain stifling afternoon at the very end of August. Few 
 of the monks felt energy enough to go about their 
 usual half-hearted pastimes, and nearly all had retired 
 to their cells in comatose languor. Anthony went up 
 with the rest, but the sun streamed brilliantly into his 
 little room through its western window ; and from with 
 out there came to his ears the myriad busy, droning 
 murmurs of ephemeral insect life. His mind was 
 weighted with many thoughts that clamored for anal 
 ysis. Gradually he fell into a morbid train of reflection 
 concerning, as ever, the utter emptiness of his own 
 existence, now really more exiled in loneliness than 
 ever before. For six weeks he had been housed in the 
 abbey, and not one single word from the outer world 
 concerning his supposed mission there had he received. 
 He had come hither on behalf of the King to learn what 
 he could of the deceits of Jocelyn of Bath. Jocelyn 
 had been neither seen nor heard from. It appeared 
 that the aims of the abbey were entirely self-centred 
 and sordid. The monks seemed not one whit disturbed 
 by any foreboding concerning the Bishop of Bath. 
 Secondly, in coming here another office had been con 
 signed to him, a sacred duty had been trusted to him ; 
 one whose performance had promised to be both inter 
 esting and congenial. Was this also a mere decep 
 tion? Where was the Princess Eleanor? If she had 
 been told where and who he was, why did she not send 
 for him? What had become of De Burgh, whom he 
 was to have met so frequently? If the object of King 
 and Pope alike had been to get him out of the way, why 
 had they not let him depart into Europe with the 
 monks of the chapter, where he would have been far 
 more efficaciously lost than now, in the King's loyal 
 county of Somerset? And De Burgh his old friend, 
 he to whom, next to the Earl of Salisbury, he had ever 
 looked up as the model of all that was gentle, De 
 
n8 (HncanoniieD 
 
 Burgh a party to so cruel a thing? No. These con 
 jectures were worse than nothing. There was some 
 mistake. At best he, the monk, was utterly powerless. 
 It were far better not to yield himself to these unwise 
 fears. And with this last sensible idea, Anthony 
 sprang from his couch, opened the door of his cell, 
 and stepped out into the corridor. 
 
 About him there was absolute silence. He stood in 
 the furthest corner of the western wing, and nearly all 
 the cells immediately about him were untenanted. The 
 greater number of rooms for common monks were in 
 the eastern portion of the dormitories ; those for dea 
 cons, priests in orders, and visiting friars, being in the 
 west. For a moment or two Anthony stood undecid 
 edly before his door. Neither the lower rooms, still 
 permeated with an odor of cooking, nor the abbey 
 grounds, on one side of which were the stables, on the 
 other the infirmary, promised satisfactory solitude. 
 Finally, with a sudden light in his face, the monk 
 turned from the great corridor down a small passage, at 
 the end of which was a small, seldom opened door. 
 Through this he passed, entering the clerestory, or 
 upper gallery of the great, half-roofed church. Here, 
 for a little, he wandered idly, till there came to his ear 
 the distinct murmur of voices from below. Leaning 
 over the railing of the balcony, he looked down, be 
 holding, and recognizing at once, the two whom he 
 could hear. They were Philip and David Franklin. 
 The scribe leaned against a reading-desk, facing the 
 precentor, who paced restlessly before him, talking as 
 he did so. 
 
 " Again I tell thee that 't is Harold, not I, that coun 
 sels thee to this move. Thou knowest, as do we all, this 
 fellow's parentage, and the unexplained strangeness of 
 his coming hither." 
 
 Anthony scowled. 
 
 "David, I know only what ill natured gossip saith 
 
119 
 
 concerning the man. For myself I would know no ill 
 of him. I beseech you tell me none ; " and the young 
 monk tapped nervously upon the desk. 
 
 " T is not that we know ill of him ; but would learn 
 the real secret of his mission among us. When that be 
 known I '11 warrant me he '11 be treated with more of the 
 courtesy that thou desirest." 
 
 There was a pause. Philip regarded the precentor 
 with troubled eyes. Then he said, slowly : l< Let some 
 other than me win his confidence. The idea of it liketh 
 me not. T is base." 
 
 " Tut ! Thou 'rt silly, Philip. There is no harm in 
 it. Only his lordly ways, and his great words, when, 
 indeed, he speaks at all, and his scorn of us Oh ! 
 he maddens me ! It smacketh more of court than of 
 the lowly manner which befits us " 
 
 " Thou lowly, David ! Not as Saint Dunstan willed, 
 I warrant me ! " 
 
 " Enough of fooling, then. I am off now for my rest, 
 so tell me thy mind ere I go. Thou knowest, Philip, 
 this monk Anthony courts thee from the pulpit, o' 
 Fridays, as doth a man a maid. Nay, I have seen it, 
 child ! Now surely 't will be none so difficult a task 
 to bring him closer talk with him learn his mind; 
 and, for thy report, Harold will grant thee three indul 
 gences in this month, and as many i' the next." 
 
 Anthony strained his ears for the answer to the bribe. 
 It came. 
 
 " Go on to thy rest, David. No further will I speak 
 with thee to-day. I like not thy talk. At least I will 
 not be bought. Indulgences ! For penetrating the 
 mind and heart of him who reads the ' De Consolatione ' 
 with the voice of an angel ! nay, David ! Why hast 
 thou spoiled my delight? Be off! I would think here, 
 alone." 
 
 And David, learning wisdom from the tone, turned 
 shortly upon his heel, and left the church. 
 
120 
 
 The scribe remained standing just where the precen 
 tor left him. He leaned a little more heavily upon the 
 desk, and pressed his temple with his hand. The door 
 was behind him. Presently he was startled by the 
 sound of a light, rapid footstep. He turned, and per 
 ceived some one in the shadow, near him. 
 
 " Philip," said the gentle, familiar voice. 
 
 " Anthony! " responded the scribe, confusedly. 
 
 "Ay; I am Anthony. I heard something of thy 
 converse with David Franklin, and so I am e'en come 
 hither now, of mine own free will, to set thy mind at 
 rest concerning me. Wilt listen, patiently and with 
 out suspicion? " There was a dubious inflection in the 
 last phrase. 
 
 Philip raised his eyes to those brilliant black ones 
 which confronted him ; then answered slowly, with a 
 manner much abashed : 
 
 " Brother, I would know nothing of thee, now. 
 Rather, I will speak of myself, and you shall judge me. 
 In aftertime, when thou hast confidence in my wish to 
 keep thy words sacred from all prying ears, thou shalt 
 speak of thyself for mine own sake, for love of me. 
 For I would have thee, gladly, for my friend." 
 
 With a rare smile Philip held out his slender hand ; 
 and Anthony grasped it in his own. The bond was 
 sealed ; and two lonely men rejoiced. 
 
 The mellowing sunshine poured through the chinks in 
 the wooden roof; and from the bright windows lay 
 upon the floor great isolated pools of purple, scarlet, 
 and green. Around and about the dusky recesses over 
 head, in through the vault, then away again, darted a 
 pair of busy swallows. The drowsing murmur of the 
 summertide also entered here ; and Anthony heard it 
 with new ears. His melancholy had fled. He had 
 given himself up to another, who was pouring out to 
 him all the story of that inner life which he had been 
 reading for so long. 
 
121 
 
 " Oft have I thought thee ill content with monastic 
 rule, Anthony; and I remember that here, for long 
 years, as a novice, I, too, chafed at my place. But after 
 a time I fell to walking quietly in the way, and then, 
 what with the familiarity of all the faces, the knowledge of 
 all my Brothers' tasks and notions, the regular sound of 
 the bell in the tower, the assurance of each hap to come 
 throughout the day, I came to be most peaceful, and, 
 withal, ever somewhat far away with mine own thoughts. 
 Save only matins, which betimes are drear and chilly, I 
 love the services and the prayers. The oft-repeated 
 words lie ready on my tongue, and mine eyes are free to 
 watch the melting colors which lie on the floor yonder, 
 underneath the window. Constantly am I striving to 
 reproduce their beautiful mingling upon my parchment. 
 Then too, there is music, the organ, and the chanting 
 of the brethren, whose voices spread out through this 
 great church, and fill it tremblingly full. The mystery 
 of sound, and how it doth appeal to different souls 
 this also I can never solve, but dearly love to dream 
 about." He paused. 
 
 " And these, all these quiet and simple things," 
 questioned Anthony, " are these sufficient to keep thee 
 content amid such unending duties? Thy music, and 
 thy manuscripts true, these are pleasures. But it 
 seems incredible that such unspeaking companions 
 should keep thee in content year after year." 
 
 " Nay, Anthony," and Philip's voice was troubled. 
 " I do perceive that I should tell the rest that thing 
 which, God pardon me, I never have had strength to 
 confess, and for which I pray that my soul may be shrived 
 when my day cometh, else may I be damned forever 
 hereafter ! " and there was fear now in Philip's voice. 
 
 " 'T is a woman, Philip ? " asked Anthony, with some 
 surprise. 
 
 Philip raised his head quickly. " How didst thou 
 know that? Hast seen her? " he demanded. 
 
122 
 
 "Seen her? Nay, surely not. How should I see 
 any one? There hath been no woman about the abbey 
 since I came." 
 
 "About the abbey? God forbid! Nay, Anthony, 
 you judge me wrongly. 'T is no woman, but rather a 
 girl, and one so fair, so pure, so perfect, that I scarce 
 dare gaze upon her even while I teach." 
 
 "Teach? Oh! How, and when?" Anthony's in 
 terest was growing. 
 
 " Ofttimes at this very hour, when, unobserved, I can 
 steal away from the grounds. Thou knowest the cloaca, 
 on the southeastern lawn?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " There, in a corner of the wall, hidden by bushes, is 
 a little opening, left when the wall was built. Through 
 this I pass, and upon the border of the neighboring 
 wood she waits for me. She is learning to read from 
 parchments writ by mine own hand, which I do bring 
 to her. Ah, Anthony ! T is a wondrous thing ! " 
 
 "Her name, Philip?" inquired the friend, breaking 
 in upon the young monk's pause with a quiet smile. 
 
 " Mary, the name of the Mother of God." 
 
 "And doth she dwell in Glastonbury hamlet?" 
 
 " Nay. She is the child of William of the Longland 
 farm, that borders the road to Wells 't is of the 
 abbey lands." 
 
 " I know. Joseph Antwilder rides thither full often," 
 responded Anthony, without thinking. 
 
 "What say you! Joseph Antwilder? He hath no 
 fair " 
 
 "Nay, Philip, be not disturbed. 'Tis but natural 
 that he should ride there, being farmerer," responded 
 the elder monk, a little surprised at the amount of feel 
 ing that Philip so suddenly disclosed. 
 
 " I know I know. T is not my right ever to think 
 of her. I should not have spoken to thee, Anthony. 
 Thou wilt, as is thy duty, betray me to one of the 
 
123 
 
 confessors. I shall see her no more ! Mary ! Mary 
 mea ! " 
 
 " Philip, Philip, thou 'rt unjust ! Why ! Think you 
 that I could take away from a fellow-slave the one 
 divine joy that hath been given him ? Heaven forbid ! 
 Nay, I love thee for thy love of her, since 't is pure. 
 Now ere the bell for nones thou shalt tell me more, how 
 she looks, and what it is that you do read together." 
 
 Philip looked up at his companion with an expression 
 that had never crossed his face before. Impulsively he 
 once more took Anthony's hand in his own, out of pure 
 delight. " Thank thee and bless thee," he murmured. 
 " Now, an thou 'It come up to my cell, I will show thee 
 the reading. They are no dry and sacred tomes and 
 treatises, but madrigals and songs and lays that I 
 myself devise and indite for her, all for her." 
 
 They rose from the praying-desk upon whose edge 
 each had rested, and moved together, side by side, out 
 of the church ; the one with his face alight with eager 
 ness, the second looking down upon the fair gold-brown 
 head, his sombre eyes filled with a strange glow. And 
 thus they left behind the silent church, and the sun 
 light, and the color-pools ; and the hot cloister saw 
 them thus, for the first time, together. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 TONSURE AND THORN 
 
 FOUR months dragged themselves away in hopeless 
 dulness at the abbey. Christmas-tide was at 
 hand, and, true to its sacred tradition, the Glas- 
 tonbury thorn was in blossom. The story that matches 
 this statement would be, perhaps, worth the telling. 
 
 About eighteen hundred and seventy years ago, upon 
 the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, on the southern 
 coast of Gaul, a man and a woman, who had helped to 
 make one scene of history which will endure while earth 
 still cherishes humanity, parted from each other forever. 
 The woman was Mary Magdalene; the man, Joseph of 
 Arimathea. The saint left his companion at the rude 
 city of Massilia, where she was to preach the gospel for 
 the first time to western Europe; while he went on 
 again his toilsome way, in his fragile, indestructible bark, 
 to carry the new story of the world still farther among 
 men. In a month after his separation from Christ's 
 thirteenth disciple, he landed upon British soil ; and 
 about three months after this, while the Celtic language 
 still came hardly to his lips, Joseph and a little group of 
 companions who had accompanied him from out of the 
 east, stood within this very vale of Avalon, later to be 
 known as Glaestings. Across the valley, and toward 
 the southeast hill they walked, slowly, and without 
 speaking, Joseph, his worn face painfully haggard 
 and strained, still taking the lead. Up and up the long 
 ascent they toiled, and, having reached its summit, out 
 of necessity permitted themselves to halt at last. Indeed 
 
anti Cljotn 125 
 
 they could walk no more, but dropped there heavily to 
 the ground, and " Weary-All Hill " it is become to-day. 
 After a little while the Arimathean, with a strange light 
 in his face, sprang to his feet and struck his long-used 
 staff firmly into the ground. 
 
 " Here, my brothers, we will find rest at last. Upon 
 this barren spot shall the first church of Our Lord in 
 the new country be built. And it shall prosper, and 
 wax rich and great, till all the vale about it shall be 
 famed for holiness, for His house is founded upon a 
 rock, as He Himself hath said. Behold, I have spoken." 
 
 " And well hast thou spoken," responded the inward 
 voice which was known to all. And thereafter the 
 miracle came to pass. For that poor, wooden stick, 
 plucked a year agone near Jerusalem of the Jews in 
 the land of Judea, at that very time of the year (which 
 was Christmas), did take root in this new spot, and 
 grew, and put forth a wealth of white thorn blossoms, 
 together with leaves so delicately green that it seemed 
 a little piece of paradise in the midst ol the chilly 
 waste. 
 
 So for the first time bloomed that Glastonbury thorn, 
 upon the spot where now lies but a white stone to mark 
 its history. But for many hundreds of years, at the 
 same season, it put on its garb of white and green, 
 until a Puritan cut it down. And in the reign of King 
 John the merchants of Bristol and Bath, at Christmas- 
 tide, did a thriving trade in selling buds, blossoms, or 
 slips from the famous tree. 
 
 Many a time had Anthony heard this story, it being 
 one of the holiest of the traditions of the Church. Once 
 even he had seen the tree itself; taking Philip's repre 
 hensible method of leaving the enclosure, and thence 
 making a circuit to the south and west outside, till the 
 top of Weary-All Hill, and the thorn-tree, with its bare, 
 sapless branches were before him. That had been in 
 November. Now, a month later, when, according to 
 
i26 (3ncanont?e& 
 
 the miracle, it should be unrivalled in beauty, more 
 lovely than could be imagined, by contrast to its bleak 
 surroundings, the monk was unholily sceptical, and 
 neither went to see it again for himself nor thought to 
 ask about it. 
 
 With the approach of Christmas a spirit of festivity 
 came upon the abbey. Two high feasts, one before, 
 and one after the rigorous extra masses of the twenty- 
 fifth, were permissible, and quite customary in Benedic 
 tine houses; but this year a third holiday was joined 
 to the other two, by the chance that caused " shaving- 
 day " to fall toward the end of December. No matter 
 how many private seances as to chin and hair a monk 
 might have undergone at the barber's hands within 
 three months, it was an unbreakable rule in the cloister 
 that four times a year each monk should be shaved 
 over his tonsure, in the presence of his immediate 
 brethren. 
 
 So, on Saturday, of the twentieth of December, in 
 that year of 1207, there was an unwonted air of holiday 
 about Glastonbury. At dinner the rule of silence was 
 broken with light heart and great frequency. The 
 reader, having struggled through a weary chapter or 
 two, and finding himself unheeded, glanced doubtfully 
 at the prior, beheld him lost in the effort of drinking 
 two pegs downward in the great flagon, decided the 
 moment to be auspicious, and forthwith darted from 
 the pulpit, leaving Saint Matthew face down on the 
 desk, while he quickly disappeared through the door 
 which led to the kitchens. His departure was hailed, 
 alike by lay-brother and deacon, with serene satisfac 
 tion. The clamor of conversation burst unrestrainedly 
 forth; and Harold, having emerged from the home 
 brew, looked down the long tables, hesitated, coughed, 
 and suddenly addressed a ribald remark to William 
 Vigor, the austere little sub-prior, at the foot of the 
 table. 
 
Conjsmre and c^orn 127 
 
 The prolonged meal being finally ended in a chorus 
 of laughter and doggerel verse, set to a chant, a dis 
 orderly recessional was made to the lavatories. In the 
 meanwhile Benedict Caldwell, the barber, had left the 
 refectory sometime before grace, and made his way 
 across the abbey grounds to the shaving- house, which 
 stood on the western side of the enclosure, in the 
 shadow of the stone wall. 
 
 Glastonbury Abbey and its lawns and out-buildings 
 occupied, at this period, about sixty acres of ground. 
 Of this space perhaps thirty acres, in the centre of the 
 park, were occupied by the monastery proper, together 
 with the extensive foundations for further apartments, 
 upon which, just now, work had ceased, for want of 
 money. Immediately about this central mass of build 
 ings were spacious terraces, kept in perfect condition, 
 shaded here and there by magnificent trees or a group 
 of shrubs, and varied on the eastern side by an exten 
 sive garden, where greens, roots, and the few vegetables 
 common at that day were raised. The great entrance 
 was in the northwestern wall; and just within the enor 
 mous gates was the porter's lodge. On the west side, 
 farther down, was a smaller entrance, used by lay- 
 brethren, the farmers, and the almoner. A hundred 
 feet south of this small gate was the shaving-house ; 
 and in the angle of the southern and western walls stood 
 the infirmary, a good-sized building, and one never 
 empty. Along the south wall, beginning at the centre 
 and extending eastward as far as practicable, was sit 
 uated the reservoir, a deep trench, lined with stone, 
 and fed by a branch of the little river Brue. This har 
 bored the fish used in the abbey on fast-days, and was 
 the most carefully tended detail of the kitchen depart 
 ment. The entire length of the reservoir was shaded by 
 rows of bushes and low trees, a group of which entirely 
 concealed a certain narrow opening in the wall, so 
 useful to some of the erring monkish spirits that its 
 
128 
 
 existence, by common understanding, was never men 
 tioned in the abbey. Following the eastern wall, along 
 a pleasant path, past the gardens, one reached the 
 stables, which were built in the northeastern angle, and 
 extended spaciously both west and south. Passing 
 therefrom back toward the entrance, along the outside 
 of the great church, near the chapel of Joseph, lay the 
 last thing to be seen, the first visible to the stranger 
 who should enter the monastery gates : the cemetery. 
 Possibly its site had been selected with some little art, 
 for the purpose of reminding the visitor, whose soul 
 might need shriving, that he stood upon the threshold 
 of the shrine of the most celebrated and quarrelled-over 
 saint in England ; 1 and that presents left at this shrine 
 would be rewarded by his saintship with soul's peace, 
 and would be graciously put to use by my Lord Abbot 
 and his deacons. Here also, beneath the only mound 
 in that resting-place, lay the bones of two who have 
 gone on to eternity in a blinding cloud of golden 
 romance, Arthur, King of the Welsh, and Guinevere 
 his Queen. Here in the vale of Avalon, in the year 
 1192, the monks of the abbey had discovered within 
 their grounds a gigantic leaden coffin, containing two 
 skeletons and a great mass of shining yellow hair. On 
 the outside of the coffin was graven the name of the 
 King; and within it he lay at rest, the arms of the 
 woman he loved thrown passionately about his stalwart 
 bones. The two were buried once again, just as they 
 had been found ; destined at last to a peaceful slumber 
 after the turbulence of their earth-life, and love, and 
 woe. Only, when the casket was lowered once again 
 into the earth, the golden hair that had been within it 
 was gone ; and in its place was but a little heap of dust. 
 Now whether this undeniable fact of their common 
 burial would seem to cast a doubt upon the long- 
 accepted story of the faithlessness of that queen of 
 
 1 Dunstan. 
 
anti C^orn 129 
 
 old, I leave for other lips than mine to say ; but the tale 
 as here 't is told is true, according to the annals of the 
 sacred Abbey of Avalon. 
 
 So the Glastonbury grounds have been viewed, from 
 a distance. But the true atmosphere of the place, the 
 beauty of the old park, the magnificence of the trees, 
 the blue of the horizon-line of hills, and the melancholy 
 induced by the vasty silence, all these defy descrip 
 tion, and must grow, by lingering imagination, into the 
 heart itself. 
 
 By this time, twenty minutes after the end of dinner, 
 the shaving-house and the space about it, were filled 
 with monks, who moved about restlessly from one 
 position to another, talking with great animation, and 
 making vain attempts to banish the thought of the 
 northern wind, which was sweeping heavy December 
 snow-clouds up into the languid sunlight. The first 
 monk was already seated, with Benedict Caldwell bend 
 ing professionally over him ; while round about, from 
 every tongue, rose a babel of conversation, upon every 
 possible topic, general or particular, that chanced to 
 come into any one's head. 
 
 Anthony and Philip, arriving at the shaving-house 
 side by side, a little after the general throng, stopped 
 near a group whose central figure and moving spirit 
 was Harold the prior. Harold never disdained, on 
 holidays, to mingle freely with the brethren ; and 
 the most interesting conversation came, for obvious 
 reasons, from the corner where he happened to be. 
 As spiritual head of his cloister for the time being, the 
 friar's privilege of travelling abroad was, by Benedictine 
 law, his. And, since he took frequent advantage of 
 this liberty, he was apt to be excellently informed upon 
 topics, political and clerical, of the day. Just now a 
 few chance words, spoken with unintentional clearness, 
 drew Anthony closer to the group. 
 
 " Ay, 't is true. Jocelyn is at Bath may Saint 
 
 9 
 
i3 ajncanoni?eti 
 
 Thomas confound him ! Methinks it bodes something 
 none too good for us that he hath been there for a full 
 month in secret." 
 
 " T is unusual that in so long a time he hath not 
 once approached us," responded Eustace Comyn, a 
 deacon, once brain and body of the abbey, but latterly 
 in disfavor. 
 
 " Perchance, Master Eustace, he hath not been so 
 silent as thou thinkest," retorted Harold, with disagree 
 able intent. 
 
 " But how should he find so much time to be spent 
 hidden away here when his friends are all in counsel 
 with Stephen Langton in France, that is the marvel," 
 continued William Vigor. 
 
 " All England is being turned over to France," snarled 
 David Franklin. " What with a French Archbishop, 
 and a French Queen, and the King's French ' cousins/ 
 and his French favorites always about him, there will 
 soon be no England left, but only a petty French 
 dependency." 
 
 " As to the archbishopric," said William Vigor, " as 
 suredly the King taketh that ill enow." 
 
 " T is sooth. What with his wretched stubbornness 
 on the matter toward his Holiness, we '11 have interdict 
 down upon the land ere long." 
 
 " Oh, 'tis little likely that the matter will go as far as 
 that," rejoined Harold. " The King is but showing his 
 power. He already is highly unpopular among the 
 barons. Ere long he will give in and acknowledge 
 Lord Stephen." 
 
 " Not while he hath Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, and Peter 
 de Rupibus, and Hubert de Burgh, about him," cried 
 Comyn, and at the sound of the last name Anthony 
 pressed still closer. 
 
 "Is the King now in England with the court?" he 
 ventured, after an instant's hesitation, to inquire. It was 
 bitter to him to think that he must ask the whereabouts 
 
Conswre anti C^orn is 1 
 
 of his supposedly intimate friends, of these monks; 
 but far more bitter was the thought, now growing 
 steadily upon him, that he was, in truth, deserted here, 
 hopelessly, in a decaying monastery. The desire to 
 have some knowledge to go upon had prompted the 
 question. 
 
 Harold was the only one of the group who turned at 
 his words. The prior also answered him, while the rest 
 moved slightly together as if they feared that he might at 
 tempt to enter their party. They need not have dreaded 
 this, as a thought of including himself among them had 
 not entered Anthony's mind. 
 
 " John hath sailed again for Normandy, with half the 
 court and all his fighting men, 'tis said. Doubtless 
 there is trouble in Poictou." 
 
 " A turbulent State, but never dangerous without its 
 leader," came from Anthony's lips, unconsciously. 
 
 "Its leader? Arthur, mean you?" inquired Comyn. 
 with curiosity. 
 
 " Nay, De la Marche, who is in John's hands." 
 
 " Ah ! I bethink me now. The Queen's ancient 
 amour." 
 
 " Ancient in more ways than one. He was of years 
 enow to be her father." 
 
 " Yet still, they say, she doth cherish his memory." 
 
 " Nay. The King hath been passionately devoted to 
 her " 
 
 " Hath been, but the passion is spent by now. She is 
 not gone to Normandy with him." 
 
 " Say you so, Harold ! I had thought she ever jour 
 neyed in his company." 
 
 " Not this Ah ! So, Master Precentor, Benedict 
 Caldwell summons thee. Nay, look not so sorry, 
 David ! In very truth thou 'st a right secular coat 
 of down upon thy tonsure." 
 
 The rest of the group laughed heavily as Franklin, 
 with a rueful face, was seized and seated on the shaving- 
 
132 
 
 stool, the first coat of lather being applied to his head, 
 and another playful one to his misshapen chin. The 
 small circle thus lessened, the conversation turned to 
 other and lighter matters, and Anthony moved farther 
 away to think. His meditation was unprofitable, and 
 upon the one subject which now scarcely left his 
 thoughts, his desertion here by De Burgh. This 
 time, however, he was more bitter than ever, for his 
 brain had been set on fire by hearing the names and 
 matters of which he had once known so much. His 
 heart was full, and his face as gray as the sky overhead, 
 while continually his gloomy revery was pierced by the 
 noise from around him. At last the shouts of laughter 
 from about the shaving-stool grew so uproarious and 
 so genuine that he, with the rest, pushed forward to see 
 what it meant. And when the real cause of the hilarity 
 became apparent to him, he, even he, was betrayed into 
 a smile. 
 
 The bursar of the abbey, Michael, nicknamed " the 
 stout," was as vain of his personal appearance as he was 
 corpulent of body. Hitherto he had always taken the 
 greatest pains that his tonsure should not measure more 
 than the size of a copper penny, and that it be placed 
 directly upon the top of his head, where it might not 
 be seen. Upon occasions he was called, with intent to 
 flatter, " the novice," on account of this secular appear 
 ance. To-day a plot had been set on foot for his dis 
 comfiture. When Benedict Caldweil at last seated him 
 upon the stool and heard his repeated directions con 
 cerning his tonsure, a group of Michael's intimates closed 
 about him, so that the steel mirror, which was permitted 
 to be hung upon the wall opposite the stool, became 
 invisible. A lively conversation ensued, of which Michael 
 himself formed the principal theme, so that he became 
 highly interested in talking. And presently a flagon of 
 good red wine was handed him (this indulgence being 
 taken on shaving-days), and by the time that the cup 
 
and C^orn 133 
 
 was emptied well down to the third peg Caldwell's 
 unerring dagger had shaved away half of the bristling 
 hair. The monks about him had great ado to keep their 
 faces straight as Michael calmly continued to expound 
 his ideas as to how the tunic was to be made more be 
 coming and more easily adjustable. Presently, however, 
 the barber's hand, shaking slightly from subdued mirth, 
 introduced the fine edge of his instrument to the flesh 
 far down upon the right side of the bursar's head. Up 
 sprang Michael, with an expression which afterward 
 cost him a dozen Aves, and, wrathfully overturning the 
 stool, forced his way to the mirror, confounded at the 
 first moment with the sight of himself. One half of his 
 head was shaved clean and bare ; the other half, already 
 cut close, was hidden beneath a plastering of brown 
 paste, in which Master Benedict had not spared the best 
 of his preparations for the purpose. 
 
 For a moment only was Michael still. Then his wrath 
 burst forth with the fury of a brute upon those who had 
 played him this trick. Against Caldwell particularly did 
 he storm. The monks defended themselves with interest 
 from personal violence, while some of those from the out 
 lying groups, taking Michael's part, threw themselves in 
 his behalf into the fray. In five minutes the room was 
 the scene of a pitched battle, and there appeared to be 
 danger of the afternoon's ending in a general brawl. 
 
 Anthony, at a little distance, looked on with indiffer 
 ent displeasure. He perceived that every monk in the 
 abbey was being drawn into the affair, and that it was 
 unlikely that William Vigor himself would be able to 
 restore quiet for some time to come. Even after this 
 should be done, it would probably be three or four 
 hours before he himself would have a turn at the shav 
 ing-stool ; and the prospect of the waiting was anything 
 but pleasant. On turning to Philip, who was still beside 
 him, he read his own thoughts written in the younger 
 man's face. 
 
134 
 
 " It were well enough to leave here for a time ; think 
 you not so? " he asked. 
 
 "Ay," was the immediate response. 
 
 "Whither, then? To the library? Or, better, wilt 
 come with me to Tower Hill, where we may talk in 
 peace, without fear of interruption?" 
 
 Philip's reply to this was not so ready. After some 
 hesitation, and much nervous twisting of the fingers, 
 while Anthony watched him curiously, he asked, " Hast 
 seen the Glastonbury Thorn of late, Anthony?" 
 
 "Nay. I went to it but the single time of which I 
 told thee." 
 
 " Thou rememberest the legend ? " 
 
 " Certes. A pretty tale for children." 
 
 Philip laughed. " 'T is in bloom now," he said. 
 
 Anthony stared incredulously. " It cannot be." 
 
 " Even so, ne'ertheless. Dearly would I love to prove 
 thee wrong. Come with me, Anthony, and see it." 
 
 Anthony looked at him again, sharply, but would 
 not ask the question that rose to his lips. Philip read 
 his face, however, and answered : 
 
 " Mary will be there, I ween, and I would get a 
 manuscript for her ere we go." 
 
 " Then hadst not better go alone, Philip?" 
 
 " Art afraid of a maiden, brother?" 
 
 " Nay, verily but " 
 
 " Then come. We can readily escape without notice. 
 How they shout, there ! I will ascend first to my cell, 
 and meet thee round by the little opening at the 
 cloaca." 
 
 " T is well. On thy head be it if the lady upbraid 
 thee for over much company. Thou knowest, Philip, 
 three hath spoilt many a pretty game for the lesser 
 number." 
 
 " A fig for thy modesty. Thou knowest thou 'rt 
 longing to see her but thou 'It not laugh thou 'It 
 be very gentle, Anthony?" 
 
Congure and C^orn 135 
 
 And the elder, not dreaming to think Philip's earnest 
 ness the discourtesy that it might have appeared, 
 grasped his hand for a moment as they separated, to 
 meet again at the cloaca. 
 
 Meantime the tumult in the shaving-house subsided 
 by degrees, as it was bound to do. In half an hour the 
 united efforts of Harold, William Vigor, and John 
 Cusyngton, had restored the factions to order and 
 peace ; Michael was ordered to his cell to sleep away 
 his wrath, and cover his bald head from the cold with 
 a hood ; while Caldwell, vowed to commit no further 
 depredations on cherished locks, was set to work quietly 
 upon Master Comyn. For a few minutes, then, un 
 usual repression brooded about the little building. Cer 
 tain bold spirits, however, with blood roused by the 
 recent excitement, were still determined not to be 
 balked of their holiday. Some rising murmurs of 
 renewed conversation were encouraged by the depart 
 ure from the scene of William Vigor, Harold, and 
 several officers ; and high humor was entirely restored, 
 shortly after, by Benedict Vintner, who, visibly under 
 the influence of the grape, was walking back and forth 
 busily, from cellar to shaving-house, bearing jars and 
 flagons of wine and mead, which now passed merrily 
 from lip to lip among the brethren. Snatches of song 
 and choruses in Latin and English began to be heard 
 here and there ; and coarse jests were bandied about. 
 Presently Benedict Vintner was seen to come out of the 
 abbey with a broad grin stretching his unpleasant 
 mouth ; and this fact was instantly connected with that 
 of the disappearance of Harold and three other good 
 fellows, not counting the sub-prior, who rarely went in 
 for dissipation. The significance of the connection was 
 marked, as one monk after another called out or looked 
 a question to the cellarer, when he was among them 
 again. 
 
 " Ay," responded Benedict, gruffly, to one of these 
 
136 aincanonf?eD 
 
 delicate queries; "Antwilder, Martin le Rane, and 
 Comyn, not gone yet, but full noisy. They sit shout 
 ing out every foul secret of the house that they chance 
 to know, from the day of Benignus to the death of Will 
 Pike God rest his soul ! They be still over mead 
 and posset wines; but, an I know the symptoms, 
 they '11 not stop there long ; a pity, because there 
 be a fifty-year cask of Romany near to them, whose 
 praises Brother Martin already singeth." 
 
 A little groan went the rounds at this news, but no 
 man doubted the cellarer's word. No one of the shav 
 ing-house party made any move to go in rescue of the 
 venerable Romany; but there was one of that throng, 
 a man not too generally popular, who, at the men 
 tion of " secrets," though they might be as old as the 
 day of Benignus, pricked up his ear. This was David 
 Franklin. Ten minutes after Vintner's speech, he had 
 contrived an unnoticed disappearance from the shaving- 
 house and was making the best of his way to the cellars. 
 
 The great vaults that undermined the first floor of 
 the abbey were always dark. Therefore, at the foot 
 of the cellar stairs was fastened a rack, filled with 
 torches, and an ever-burning stone lamp. Lighting one 
 of these, that he might make no blunder on his way, 
 Franklin went carefully through the first damp vault, 
 stopping now and again to listen, and guiding his steps 
 toward a confused echo of voices that grew continually 
 louder as he came near. There was wild laughter, 
 shouting, and a loud gurgling sound. Finally some one, 
 who was presently to be recognized as Harold, began 
 to speak in a thick monotone; and, as soon as he was 
 near enough to hear distinctly all that was said, though 
 he could not see the prior, Franklin put out his torch, 
 crept to the wall, and stood there, listening to some 
 thing, indeed, which was very well worth hearing. 
 
 " By heaven, Joseph, thou shalt pester me no more. 
 Dost hear? Forsooth, the sulky, impertinent fellow 
 
Congure an& C^orn 137 
 
 may look to his own missives from his lofty f-f-friends. 
 Silly to question thus. The letter was wh-what 
 said I ? Oh certes the letter was unreadable, I 
 tell thee. None could read it, that swear I.' None. 
 Tira lira lay! Hi, Joseph! Be not more sour 
 than this good Burgundy, and thou 'It be as sweet i' 
 the face as sweet as sweet as a lady's kiss, per 
 Bacchum ! " 
 
 Franklin moved uneasily. He was strangely eager 
 for Harold to say more of that letter which had not 
 reached him to whom it was directed. But Joseph, Le 
 Rane, and Comyn were all of them very far gone by 
 this time; and showed much hazy annoyance that 
 the prior's mind seemed to run continually upon one 
 unsociable theme. 
 
 " A lady's kiss," he drawled, affectionately. " Sweeter 
 than a " Then, all of a sudden he sat bolt upright, 
 and spoke distinctly. " This missive from my Lord de 
 Burgh was so wet so wet (verily, it trippeth like a 
 refrain) so wet, so wet nay; this missive, I say; 
 did its bearer fall into ajar of mead that ruined the 
 letter? 
 
 " A jar of mead ! On my soul 't is good ! Verily, I 
 know not. H-he had no time to tell the spot where 
 it may be found, but rid away or ere I saw him, or 
 Anthony either. John, nay, William Lorrimer was 
 holding the spattered and soaked parchment when I did 
 see it first. John ! Benedict ! Another flagon here ; 
 by all ourselves, another flagon ! " 
 
 Harold sank back exhausted, with a jar at his lips, 
 which Antwilder had crossly given. There was small 
 prospect of the worthy prior's speaking again that night. 
 But the listener, Franklin, had heard enough to set his 
 eyes alight. What had not been said, he guessed. A 
 letter had come for Anthony, which Harold received, 
 and had not given to its owner. Whether that missive 
 were, indeed, unreadable, as Harold intimated, it was 
 
138 
 
 impossible to tell. But Franklin was satisfied quite 
 satisfied. He would yet have his revenge on the man 
 who had lured Philip from his side, and made his work 
 in the chantry heavy triple-fold. So, with a broad 
 smile on his twisted features, he made his way back to 
 the stairs, and ascended them once more, to return to 
 the shaving-house; while, long ere the tonsure of the 
 last monk had grown white under Benedict's swift steel, 
 Harold, the prior of this famous and sacred retreat, lay 
 upon the earthen floor of the cellar, amorously clasp 
 ing, in his two helpless arms, a mighty flagon of slowly 
 dribbling mead. 
 
 Anthony ! Poor Anthony ! Had he only been at 
 Franklin's side, what long hours of woe might have 
 been spared to him ! But, just at this moment, Mas 
 ter Anthony's lot was cast in a place by no means 
 unpleasant. 
 
 Philip had spoken truly; the miracle had come to 
 pass ; the Glastonbury thorn was in blossom. As yet 
 its flowers were scarcely more than half-open buds, 
 exquisite things, delicately perfumed, and lightly veined 
 in brown, as all thorn-blossoms are. The old .tree stirred 
 a little in the wind, that seemed not one half so chilly 
 when playing about its sturdy branches. And before 
 the tree, her hair, like its leaves, caressed by the 
 breeze, stood another flower, a child of the meadows, 
 Philip's pure-hearted pupil, Mary. She might, not 
 sacrilegiously, have been christened Notre Dame des 
 Champs. She was, indeed, the familiar spirit of that 
 valley, near to which, upon the Longland farm, she had 
 dwelt through her whole life. Tall, sturdy, straight of 
 figure and round of limb was Mary. The poise of her 
 head was such as went with the entire freedom that had 
 always been hers, and which had known nothing of 
 companionship loftier than herself. This dignity of at 
 titude, all unconscious though it was, was truly remark 
 able. Her heavy hair was of a dark brown, and fell 
 
Conjure anD C^orn 139 
 
 loosely about her shoulders ; her eyes were large and 
 dark, and as expressive as those of the wild creatures 
 among which she loved to be ; her nose and mouth 
 were good in line, self-reliant in character; and her 
 hands were small, delicately formed, with strong fingers, 
 deft at any out-of-door work, but awkward enough 
 at the loom or the tambour-frame. Her manner was 
 peculiar, being neither forward nor shy, but intense 
 and unconscious, even when Philip's glowing eyes 
 were fixed upon her, holding her stronger nature 
 spellbound in wonder of the quaint weakness of his 
 character. 
 
 At this very moment, while Mary stood at the thorn- 
 tree, gathering some of its flowers into a basket woven 
 of reeds, she was waiting for the young monk, and look 
 ing forward to her reading-lesson. In her heart there 
 was not a thought of the feeling called love, for this 
 Philip ; but would two sober, middle-aged people, or 
 even two youths or two maids, have chosen such a spot, 
 at such a season, to come together to indulge in the 
 pleasure of a difficult task? And Mary waited neither 
 vainly nor long. When, however, she at last perceived 
 and recognized the usual dark-robed figure coming 
 swiftly toward her over the fields, she drew back 
 apace, frightened, for Philip was not alone. Mary did 
 not run away. Inarticulate instinct made her feel that 
 such a thing would put her action in coming here in 
 the light of something stealthy and wrong. . Such she 
 had never felt her intercourse with Philip to be, though 
 she, as well as he, knew that it was against the abbey 
 rule. Thus she stood awaiting the two, motionless, but 
 with her eyes fixed in unconscious interest upon An 
 thony's face. Fitz-Hubert was also closely examining 
 her, from the little distance which still separated them. 
 Their glances crossed, and before his shining, green- 
 black orbs, hers fell. 
 
 When the three met, Philip did not so much as touch 
 
140 
 
 her hand, saluting her only with the monkish shibboleth, 
 eagerly pronounced, " Pax tecum," then slowly adding, 
 " Mary." Anthony stood unobtrusively in the back 
 ground, until Philip turned, laid a hand upon his shoul 
 der, and spoke again : 
 
 " Mary, this is my brother. Anthony hight he, and 
 he cometh of a race that is noble, far higher than yours 
 or mine. He came to see thee, and the Glastonbury 
 thorn." Thus awkwardly did Philip conclude, suddenly 
 becoming ill at ease with his responsibility in the 
 matter. 
 
 Once more Mary looked up at Anthony, forgetting 
 her odd courtesy in trying vaguely to fathom the smile 
 which she saw flickering in his eyes. 
 
 " And the thorn, indeed, is wondrous beautiful. 
 None the less hath Philip put it at sorry disadvantage 
 in letting me see it first with you beside it, ma demoi 
 selle," responded Anthony immediately, carried back, 
 for the moment, to Windsor. 
 
 Then, indeed, Mary made her genuflection, but only 
 because of the melody of his voice. It was just three 
 months afterward that the meaning of that compliment 
 dawned upon her. It came to Philip next morning; 
 but then, he was a lover, and he had an ounce or so of 
 French blood in his veins. 
 
 Now, while Anthony pulled down a white, full-laden 
 bough to examine and to toy with, his eyes were still 
 fixed, perhaps unconscious of their deep interest, upon 
 the womanly face, which was not pretty in profile. 
 Philip produced his Latin manuscript, and Mary went 
 to him, unaffectedly, to look at it. Her words, as she 
 began to read, were far more hesitating than usual, for 
 she was timid in Anthony's presence. Philip, as she 
 went on, became depressed with the thought that An 
 thony might believe his pupil dull, and himself but a 
 poor teacher ; or that he might put a worse construction 
 on the matter, and fancy that they had devoted but 
 
Conjsure anti C^orn 
 
 little of their time together to work. His thoughts were 
 written in his mobile face, and Anthony read them, the 
 first moment that he turned to look upon his friend. 
 Thereupon, going a little closer to the two, he glanced 
 over Philip's shoulder upon the manuscript, exclaiming: 
 . " On my soul, Philip, the damp and cold of the scrip 
 torium have given thy hand a cramp ! Thy writing is 
 wondrous crabbed. Verily, Mary hath a skilful eye to 
 distinguish such lettering. Methinks I could scarce 
 read it at all." 
 
 " Perchance that is true," said Philip, eagerly. " The 
 scriptorium hath been chill of late. But that thou 
 couldst not read it is not so. I know thy skill. I 
 prithee take it and read it to us both. I have told 
 Mary of the noonday readings, and 'twill be a lesson 
 to us to hear thee. This, as thou seest, is a poem, in 
 the Latin tongue, upon the legend of the thorn. I had 
 thought the metre went right trippingly when I 'did 
 compose it." 
 
 Anthony, smiling at his unselfish modesty, took the 
 glowing sheet of parchment from Philip's hand, and, 
 scarcely seeming to take his eyes from Mary's face, 
 read the quaint verses, the prototype of their author's 
 dreamy imagination, in his usual liquid tone, with here 
 and there a purposeful stumble. Even then Anthony 
 perceived that Mary understood but little of it all. 
 Possibly her mind was not on it to-day ; but, however 
 it might be, she was not stupid. Remember the days 
 in which she lived, and the generations of absolute 
 ignorance which came before and after her; -days in 
 which people, and women especially, could oftentimes 
 not write their own names, much less read what any 
 other soul had written. Anthony found the girl less 
 dull than he had expected ; for there was a sympathetic 
 light in her eyes that meant more than the few words 
 which she spoke after his voice had fallen for the last 
 time. " I thank thee for the reading s sir. I 
 
142 
 
 would fain hear thy voice again, at some time, in some 
 few chapters of Boethius, which I know better than 
 other manuscripts." 
 
 Then, turning to Philip, she received the poem from 
 his hand and placed it on top of the flowers in her bas 
 ket, saying, as she did so : "I can stay no longer to-day. 
 Tis full cold, and besides, my father rides to Bristol 
 on the morrow, and would have these blossoms fresh to 
 take with him. They will wither an I leave them long 
 tumbled together. On Sunday I will come again, 
 perchance." 
 
 Philip made no effort to detain her, saying only, in 
 answer to her last phrase : " I will await thee here, on 
 Sunday, at this hour. Wilt bring the poem once more 
 back with thee ? " 
 
 " Verily, yes. By that time I shall have spelt it out 
 aright, that I may read it for thee something better than 
 to-day." 
 
 " God speed you." 
 
 " Farewell." 
 
 There was a faint, hesitating smile toward Anthony, 
 who only bowed and did not speak, and then she was 
 running across the moor, toward the abbey walls at the 
 northwest. 
 
 The two men watched her go, in silence, thoughtfully. 
 Philip's face was grave, but his eyes glowed. A smile 
 still lingered upon Anthony's lips, but there was no 
 smile, and yet no sorrow, in his heart. When the 
 younger man turned at last with a faint sigh, Anthony 
 looked into his face. " She is true at heart, and good 
 to look upon, and one who loves beauty," he said. 
 "But thou, O Philip, 'tis well that thou wert born 
 a monk, and not a courtier." 
 
 " And why, Anthony?" he asked wonderingly, but 
 with a tinge of suspicion in his voice. 
 
 "Thou art too good and too susceptible for both, 
 Philip ; but as a lover thou wert, indeed, impossible. " 
 
Conjure anti CIjonT 143 
 
 Philip looked at him. "Judge not so lightly, An 
 thony. Mistake me not. God knows that I can love ! " 
 And though the last word was faint, it was not so doubt 
 fully spoken but that Anthony, in surprise, glanced 
 searchingly into his eyes, to find there more than he 
 had had reason to expect. 
 
 Silently they moved back again, side by side, toward 
 their prison-house ; and Anthony still absently caressed 
 the flower that he had plucked from the thorn-tree 
 of Saint Joseph. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE DAWN OF HOPE 
 
 DURING the past three months of Anthony's life at 
 the abbey, it had become his habit to spend most 
 of his leisure time in loneliness at the chapel upon 
 Tower Hill. Through the short winter afternoons, when 
 no field work was to be done, about three hours were 
 his own to waste ; and, Saint Michael's being somewhat 
 too holy a place for the brethren to resort to when 
 their ordered prayers were over, Anthony's solitude was 
 not interrupted. He never prayed, nor held even a 
 religious thought while there ; but certainly the chapel 
 was a well-chosen place for meditation. Situated upon 
 the very summit of a lofty hill whose slopes were 
 bathed in the purest of Somerset air and sunlight, one's 
 eyes could easily traverse the intervening lands to 
 follow the shining course of the river Brue down to its 
 ending in the blue waters of Bristol Channel, twenty 
 miles away. To the northwest, at no great distance, 
 rose the towers of Wells Cathedral ; and again, a little 
 farther, the monk might even see the ford at which 
 three months of acute misery for him had been com 
 passed by a horse's misstep, a rider's lax hand, and a 
 parchment too little protected from the possibility of 
 water. Following the same direction still, till vision 
 was repulsed by a group of shadowy hills, one knew 
 that just beyond lay Bristol City that spot to which 
 Anthony's eyes ever returned, toward which, once, he 
 had stretched out his arms in a passion of rebellion, 
 then let them drop again, helpless, at his sides, acknowl 
 edging his impotence. 
 
2&aton of Jpope 145 
 
 It was here that Anthony, never dreaming that he 
 was watched, day after day abandoned himself to his 
 emotions, or forgot his tmhappiness in sleep. One 
 afternoon in January, when he had closed his eyes upon 
 the present, and dreams had led him back to Canterbury, 
 to Alexander, to that cathedral wherein he had been 
 almost happy, he was roused in a totally unlooked- 
 for way. Reginald's pretty face was before his mental 
 vision ; then there came the murmur of a delicate voice 
 in his ears, and, finally, a fearful touch upon his knee. 
 Anthony was a light sleeper. His weary, dark eyes fell 
 instantly open. He rose. Mary stood at his side. 
 
 Now that she had really awakened him, she was afraid 
 of having done so, and drew backward, her eyes falling 
 before his. Her long brown hair had been roughly 
 tumbled by the wind ; her homespun kirtle was quite 
 short, leaving her bare ankles and the feet shod in 
 wood and leather plainly visible. This was not 
 poverty, but fashion. 
 
 When Anthony had thoughtfully regarded her for 
 a moment, he said, with indifferent kindness : " Thou 
 hadst best come into the chapel, Mary. The wind 
 about the hilltop here is fierce enow." 
 
 She followed him inside obediently, then stood un 
 easily avoiding his expectant look. 
 
 " I see thee here often," she said at length. 
 
 " That is not strange, if you care to look for me," he 
 responded. 
 
 Evidently there was no help for her. " And so 
 and so, seeing that thou wert ever alone, I was bold 
 enough to come to thee, to make my confession, sith I 
 have not now been absolved for many months, my father 
 riding with me but seldom to Wells." 
 
 "Confess to me, Mary? Why, I am no priest. I 
 have authority of absolution over but one person in the 
 world," Anthony answered in surprise, and, withal, 
 smiling bitterly at his last words. 
 
 10 
 
2Jncanoni?eU 
 
 Mary was silent for a moment or two, lost in thought. 
 " How is it that thou hast power of absolution over one 
 person and over none other? Methinks if thou art 
 holy enow to shrive one of her sins thou hast power 
 for all." 
 
 Anthony fixed his eyes upon her now with more 
 interest than he had ever shown before. Looking 
 searchingly into her face, he tried to fathom the depth 
 of the understanding which she had just revealed. 
 Continually he was baffled by the curious light which 
 met him in the large eyes that opened, limpidly, to his. 
 With a sigh he seated himself upon the step of the 
 chancel, his hands clasped behind him, his face raised 
 to her who stood before him. She was wondering a 
 little, but happy, in having attained the object which 
 she would scarcely have confessed to herself, much less 
 to him, that of hearing his voice again. At length 
 Anthony lowered his eyes, in thought, to the floor; 
 and, hand on chin, spoke thoughtfully, half to her, half 
 to himself: 
 
 " Mary, you believe that the priests to whom you have 
 been wont to confess your sins were born as you were, 
 of woman ? " 
 
 " Certes," was the answer, indifferently given. 
 
 "You believe that they also may have sinned, at 
 some time?" 
 
 " Doubtless they did. Verily, they be human, I do 
 suppose, and thus confessed unto each other and were 
 absolved." 
 
 " And were they so much greater in mind, in body, 
 in understanding, than other people that none tfther, 
 thy father, perhaps, could e'er have hoped to vie with 
 them even after years upon years of training? " 
 
 " Nay, nay, indeed, Father Anthony ! Thinkest thou 
 my father is a foolish dotard? " 
 
 " Call me not ' Father ' in thy speech, Mary, and be 
 not offended where no offence was meant, I pray you." 
 
^aton of ^ope 147 
 
 " I crave pardon," was the humble answer. 
 
 "Then the father confessor, to whom you brought 
 all your human follies, and weaknesses, and fear (you 
 being in great terror of those punishments which it had 
 been told you that an unshriven soul must endure), 
 that he might wash them from you by a word, and 
 make you clean before God Almighty, this man whom 
 the Church does vest with the very power of that God 
 which he pretends to worship as supreme, who dares 
 reprove and punish you, and such as you, for sins, is 
 but a man, a human, a brother to the rest of us, mayhap 
 weaker, and lower, and far less good than we. Ah ! 
 what are such creatures that they should presume to 
 judge that which God alone can know? How can they 
 absolve one far above them in spirit and matter from 
 confessed sin? Christianity, methinks, hath driven the 
 world mad, that it should foster such dogmas ! Soul of 
 Socrates the mighty, of Christ of Judea ! didst in 
 deed come into the world for this that the iron 
 power of papal terror might press the souls of its 
 people till they are twisted into horrible deformity of 
 belief? O thou Eternal Spirit! have pity upon my 
 misery ! Have pity upon thy children ! " 
 
 Physically exhausted, mentally startled at his own 
 useless vehemence, the real meaning of which lay not 
 within the comprehension or knowledge of the girl 
 before him, Anthony's arms fell ; he sank again to the 
 chancel step, his head drooped to his breast. Mary 
 herself was trembling with the emotion caught from his 
 fire. With one strain of her mind she had followed his 
 speech intently, and, moreover, her astounded intellect 
 had grasped something of his heresy. He, his head 
 sunk in his hands, was suffering the reaction of passion, 
 and had let his mind fall back into the memory of that 
 old injustice of his father's, which, by the ruin of his 
 life, had so imbittered his religious ideas. He forgot 
 her, till her words roused him 
 
148 
 
 " ' Tis well that none but me heard thee, Anthony." 
 
 He was suddenly become human to her now, and she 
 had no hesitation in addressing him as she did Philip. 
 
 "Ay," he answered thoughtfully. "Doubtless I 
 should have been excommunicated." 
 
 "And would e'en that not fright you? " 
 
 He looked quickly into her face on hearing the tone 
 of sadness and anxiety. "Trouble thyself not over my 
 state of soul, Mary," he said, with the flicker of a 
 smile passing over his lips, "but tell me if thou art 
 still resolved upon the confessional." 
 
 Her expression did not change, but her tone, when 
 she answered, was singularly intense. " How could I 
 know my soul's safety an I confessed not? But I 
 would confess to thee only to thee to none other." 
 
 He heard her with displeasure, not knowing what a 
 depth her words covered. "Already have I told thee 
 that that cannot be. I am empowered to confess but 
 one. Rome would not consider thy confession to me 
 as aught but one more sin necessary for absolution by 
 a priest." 
 
 "I think not of Rome," she said, with a catch in 
 her breath. 
 
 He looked at the country maid with amazement. 
 Her persistence was certainly original. Her purpose 
 he could not fathom, but the rare stubbornness he did 
 not dislike. 
 
 "Well, then, Mary, I accept thy word; and most 
 sternly will I hold thee to it. Confess to me and to 
 none other ever. " He rose abruptly. " But there is 
 no time for that now. Already the bell ringeth for 
 nones. Come to me again, Mary, and fear no arduous 
 penances. Nay the most sacred things thou shalt 
 not even tell." 
 
 " The the other she whom you may confess ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " A princess whom I shall never see, " he responded 
 
J^aton of ^ope 149 
 
 coldly. Then, picking up his torch, he disappeared 
 without another word down the dark mouth of the 
 long underground passage leading to the abbey, not 
 wholly pleased with Mary's new manner, which seemed 
 like forwardness; disturbed also by the thought that 
 his solitude here might, henceforth, be broken at any 
 time by the presence of a woman. 
 
 Mary still stood in the chapel where he had left her, 
 a chaotic tumult of emotion in her breast, thinking no 
 longer of the fierce heresy of his words, but rather of 
 the last hopeless sentence, "A princess," then, with 
 a rare light breaking over her face, "and one that 
 he will never see! " 
 
 Long days and endless weeks went by, and Mary 
 ascended the Tower Hill sometimes, to confess to the 
 man who had come into her life. Then, to her instinc 
 tive anger and shame, he stopped his frequent visits to 
 the hill, going there only at long intervals. Winter 
 was over, and spring came in with March. That month 
 advanced apace, till its raw nights were contrasted 
 with mild noons, and work in the abbey fields was 
 begun again. 
 
 The evening of March twenty-eighth was Saturday, 
 and consequently a night of confessional and special 
 Aves at the abbey. At a quarter after eight compline 
 was still in progress; and Anthony, kneeling in the 
 last row of full-vowed brethren, was striving to turn 
 his thoughts from useless unhappiness by watching, as 
 was his ancient custom, the play of the candle-light 
 over Philip's bright hair. His efforts were finally so 
 successful that he failed to hear the opening of the 
 outer door, and the rapid steps that passed and returned 
 by the corridor. That was but a lay brother; and not 
 a monk turned his head. But when a murmured mes 
 sage was delivered in the vestibulum, and then the 
 jingle of chain armor and the heavy tread of spurred 
 feet came echoing toward them, there was a general 
 

 150 
 
 lifting of eyes, a. craning of necks, and a perceptible 
 increase in the speed of responses. 
 
 Compline ended, and the fathers gat them to their 
 confessionals. Still a number of the brethren lingered 
 about the doors, waiting in hopes of the possible arrival 
 of Harold, or at least the approach of old William 
 Lorrimer, from whom might be learned the title of the 
 stranger. Anthony alone sat in a dim corner, talking 
 in whispers with Philip, and seemingly taking no in 
 terest in the advent of the visitor. This appearance 
 was not so much affectation as a great struggle to crush 
 back the half-roused hope that would sometimes slum 
 ber but never die within his breast. 
 
 Presently, however, there was a little stir in the arch 
 of the corridor, caused by the advent of one of the 
 prior's attendants, who stopped still to look about the 
 chapel. Finally, discovering what he sought, he called 
 out loudly: 
 
 " Ha ! Brother Anthony ! Thou of Canterbury ! 
 Come thou here. Harold bids thee haste to him after 
 confessional, which, indeed, thou must hurry through, 
 sith a knight would speak with thee who is to depart 
 erelong. " 
 
 Anthony rose and came forward, his knees shaking, 
 and his heart palpitating uncomfortably. His voice, 
 however, he managed to steady. " Tell the prior that 
 I will come as he bids, when confessional is ended." 
 
 Staring a little at the indifference of tone, the lay- 
 brother nodded and went back to Harold. Anthony, 
 however, to the profound amazement of the monks, 
 made no haste to the confessional. Indeed, he was 
 among the very last to rise from his knees beside the 
 wooden lattice. He left the chapel without a word 
 to Philip, and took the longest way round to the prior's 
 rooms. He moved very slowly, that he might regain 
 something of his self-possession. It was a message 
 from De Burgh that he expected. Concerning its im- 
 
of f ope 151 
 
 port he did not speculate. Arrived at Harold's room, 
 he was admitted at once, and found himself, within, 
 facing one of De Burgh's most trusted men-at-arms. 
 To Harold's surprise, this messenger, at Anthony's 
 entrance, bowed low before him, showing in his 
 greeting every mark of respect. 
 
 " Good-even to you, Richard. 'T is some time since 
 we met. All is well with my lord? " 
 
 "Excellently well, an it please you, sir." 
 
 Again Harold stared. 
 
 " Thou hast, perchance, some missive for me ? " 
 
 " Nay; I have no letter. I was bidden to speak with 
 you privily." 
 
 Anthony hesitated for a moment, and saw Harold, 
 with an unaccountably relieved expression, move toward 
 the door. The prior, to tell the truth, was uneasy 
 under the memory of that letter received months ago, 
 and never put, even in its unreadable condition, into 
 the hands of him to whom it was addressed. His fear 
 lest mention should be made of this in his presence 
 was great. But Anthony knew nothing of it, and at 
 Richard's suggestion he raised his brows. 
 
 "Well, speak on. There will be naught that the 
 prior may not hear. My lord hath not paid me so 
 much attention in the last months that he may expect 
 my reverence unchanged." 
 
 So Harold, fraught with nearly as much curiosity as 
 uneasiness, remained; and Richard, a dull-witted fel 
 low, faithful, and accustomed only to obedience toward 
 his master's intimates, spoke without more delay. 
 
 " My lord would have you to set forth on the mor 
 row, which is Sunday, at sunrise, toward Bristol town. 
 There he bids you inquire out the Falcon Hostelrie, 
 where you may rest, and where he will see you. On 
 Monday, after the noon meal, you shall repair to Bris 
 tol Castle, where you are awaited. An my lord see 
 you not on Sunday, he will assuredly be ready to re- 
 
152 
 
 ceive you at the inn on Monday, after curfew. On 
 Tuesday you will return hither." 
 
 "And if De Burgh fail his tryst upon both days, 
 Sunday and Monday," inquired the monk, after a long 
 and thoughtful pause, "what then?" 
 
 "He will not fail." replied the henchman, stolidly. 
 
 "Where bides he'now?" 
 
 " At Dunster Castle. He leaveth his charge there 
 to join the King at Windsor, whither he hath been 
 summoned to a council of King's gentlemen, concern 
 ing the Interdict." 
 
 " Interdict ! What mean you? " 
 
 Richard stared at him open-mouthed, while Harold, 
 glad to take some part in the conversation, answered 
 with hasty importance: "'Tis an Interdict from Inno 
 cent at Rome, to be laid over all England, until the 
 King shall come to recognize Stephen as Archbishop of 
 Canterbury." 
 
 "Ah! the old injustice!" 
 
 "Thou shalt not find wrong in his Holiness," cried 
 Harold, hotly, while the man-at-arms looked on with 
 interest. 
 
 Anthony made no answer to this, save a cold stare at 
 the prior. Then, after an instant, he turned to him 
 again. " You have heard the command of Hubert de 
 Burgh," he said. "After lauds, on the morrow, I 
 must needs depart for Bristol." 
 
 The prior was silent. He was greatly irritated with 
 the presumption of this common monk, and he would 
 have liked very well to forbid Anthony's departure. 
 Quite this, however, he dared not do. Anthony, 
 comprehending his thought, turned again to the 
 messenger. 
 
 "Go you to join De Burgh ? " 
 
 " I ride to-night to Bridgewater, where I shall assur 
 edly see him ere he reaches Bristol." 
 
 "Then tell him that, an death spare me till to- 
 
2E>atn of ^ope 153 
 
 morrow's curfew, I will do his pleasure. Now fare 
 you well, sith you ride on to-night." 
 
 "Ay, an it please you, sir," responded the man, 
 saluting; and the monk then left the room. 
 
 Upon reaching his cell in the dormitory above, 
 Anthony found his cresset lighted, and Philip, who 
 was breaking a stringent rule, seated before his table, 
 eagerly awaiting him. Fitz-Hubert entered quietly and 
 closed the door. From the next cell came the reassur 
 ing sound of Peter Turner's masterly snores. As his 
 friend came in, Philip jumped to his feet. 
 
 "Ah, Anthony! Well art thou come at last. Now 
 tell me if thy heart's desire hath been brought to thee? 
 Who was the stranger knight? Perchance my Lord de 
 Burgh himself? Thou seest I am filled with curiosity! 
 Prithee, tell me all, and quickly." 
 
 "Verily, thou 'rt more like a woman than a monk or 
 a man, Philip." 
 
 " Are women curious ? " 
 
 Anthony laughed, and then answered the first ques 
 tions. "T is true, indeed, my brother. To-night has 
 brought me new hope of life. Ah, Philip! Too long 
 hast thou been a monk to feel, as do I, the horror 
 of this death in life ! Or else thy nature is different 
 from mine. 'Tis more that, methinks. But now, 
 sith this message hath really come, I do begin to 
 wonder how it is that long ago I had not been driven 
 to madness, by very helpless inaction. De Burgh ! 
 De Burgh ! Who so well knewest me and my father, 
 both! That thou thou couldst so long have left 
 me to rot here in this " 
 
 " Nay, nay, Anthony ! Speak not like this ! Come, 
 I must leave thee presently. Sit here, and tell what 
 thou art going to do." 
 
 Philip had risen in alarm at the growing .abandon of 
 Anthony's manner, and now, laying his persistent 
 hands upon his friend's arm, he forced him to sit down 
 
154 
 
 upon his pallet, where, under the influence of Philip's 
 unselfish interest, the other's emotion died out and he 
 grew calm again. He spoke now with a different sort 
 of animation. 
 
 "Philip, I have learned to-night that an Interdict is 
 to be pronounced upon England only because of the 
 King's firmness." 
 
 "Oh, ay. I know of it," returned the other, un 
 guardedly. 
 
 "Thou, Philip? How didst thou learn the news?" 
 
 "It hath been much discussed in the abbey." 
 
 "None spoke of it with me." This last was uttered 
 in a tone so peculiar that Philip started and looked at 
 him. 
 
 "I I had not thought to speak of it to thee," 
 he stammered uncomfortably. "Thou knowest that 
 thou 'it so different from the rest, Anthony thou art 
 so much alone the brothers feel it ofttimes. Thou 
 seemest above them. Even to me thou 'rt scarce a 
 monk." 
 
 Anthony rose slowly from his place, and on his face 
 was at last unveiled all the majesty of the bitter loneli 
 ness which he had suffered so long and so silently. 
 When he turned upon Philip his words dropped mo 
 notonously from his lips. 
 
 "Thou hast transgressed enow for the night, Philip. 
 It were better that we slept. I depart after lauds on 
 the morrow." 
 
 There was neither farewell nor good-night. An 
 thony raised his hand, ready to extinguish the candle 
 in the lantern. His manner was impassively expec 
 tant. With an overpowering, conscience-stricken sense 
 of pity in his heart, which refused to come to his lips 
 in intelligible words, Philip rose, stretched one hand 
 out impulsively to his brother, and then, under the 
 steady glance of the black eyes that burned upon 
 him, he went sadly out into the empty corridor. A 
 
J^atun of f ope 155 
 
 moment later the cell that he had left was black. The 
 monk donned his night-clothes in the darkness. But 
 could Anthony's open eyes have served the purpose of 
 a lantern, a dozen monks might have read by their 
 light, unceasingly, until matins. 
 
 In the raw darkness of a March morning, Sabbath 
 lauds, extended by an extra Psalm, ended drearily. 
 The monks poured out of the damp chapel, and all 
 save a very few hurried into the day-room, to warm 
 themselves for a moment at the grateful fire there, 
 before the bell should toll for the reading-hour. The 
 few who were willing to forego this luxury were the 
 curious ones who had gathered peepingly near to 
 the chantry door, beyond which Anthony, ready for 
 his ride, stood talking inaudibly with the prior. 
 
 A lay-brother glided noiselessly in from the vesti 
 bule. "Thy horse waits," he announced. 
 
 At once Anthony started toward the outer door, his 
 heart beginning to beat high. A moment more and 
 he had scrambled upon the back of the good black 
 steed, which had seen heavy service since last he rode 
 it; and, hampered though he was by skirts of sack 
 cloth, sat in the saddle with the poise of a nobleman, 
 while he gathered up the reins. 
 
 " See that you fast throughout the day, and forget 
 not the Aves and Pater Nosters at the shrines," bawled 
 Harold. But Anthony did not heed the cry. With a 
 cut upon his horse's neck, and a word in the pointed, 
 black ear, he was off at a swinging gallop, out and 
 away through the open gate, past the walls of his prison, 
 giving never a thought to the twenty pairs of envious 
 eyes fastened upon him from the door that he had left. 
 
 Free from Glastonbury, if only for a day ! Oh, the 
 rare intoxication of that thought! And quickly upon 
 it came the memory of the other departure, now more 
 than eight months past, when he had turned his back 
 
156 
 
 to the east and strained his eyes to the setting sun. 
 The scene was different enough to-day. No mature, 
 dusty foliage, and hot dew, and drooping, odorous 
 midsummer flowers, but something as fair, it seemed 
 to him who beheld it so eagerly the promise of 
 spring ! For spring was dawning in southern Eng 
 land. Though the sun was yet scarcely a hand's 
 breadth up the horizon, though the morning air was 
 damply cold, and not a leaf could be seen on the trees 
 in the forest, there was a hint of rare softness in the 
 breeze that soon he could feel upon his cheek, as it 
 came swishing idly northward from the southern dells 
 of Devon. The branches of the trees in the wood 
 which Anthony skirted were no longer outlined against 
 the pale sky in gaunt, black nudity. They were 
 blurred, veiled, and feathery with the most delicate of 
 swelling buds, among which swallows sat lazily swing 
 ing, thinking of love and of nests to be built, that the 
 lengthening May days might see a great brood of eager- 
 mouthed children waiting to be fed. And upon the 
 muddy black of newly furrowed fields lay also a hazy 
 shadow of pale grayish-green, and this too was a 
 promise. Before eight o'clock the last shred of half 
 hearted frost had melted from the tangled undergrowth, 
 and the sun, long clear of the tree-tops, poured in a 
 yellow flood over the out-buildings of the Longland 
 farm, which stretched its fertile fields for four miles 
 on either side of the Bristol road. 
 
 Anthony had been riding slowly enough. He had a 
 comfortable notion in his head, and, besides, was in 
 no hurry to finish his easy journey to the city that 
 morning. The fresh, free air came joyously to his 
 nostrils. His eyes, less sunken than they had looked 
 for months, though he knew it not, were longingly 
 seeking out those small signs of coming beauty which 
 friendly nature gladly exhibited to so devoted a stu 
 dent. Two shrines had he already passed without ever 
 
J&attn of J^ope 157 
 
 a Pater Noster, save those of unwarranted happiness, 
 which rose continually from his heart to his lips. 
 And so he approached that rude farmhouse in which 
 dwelt Philip's lady of the fields. Lo, as he anxiously 
 scanned the spacious yard in which cackled two or 
 three dozen good hens, together with their lords of 
 the comb, a short-kirtled figure stepped quickly out 
 of the hut. It was Mary, who, as she saw the monk, 
 ran hastily down to the road, at the side of which the 
 horseman had drawn rein. 
 
 "Anthony! Indeed thou 'It be welcome! But I 
 how is it that thou 'rt here? We knew not that " 
 
 " Perchance- it is that I have turned farmerer, Mary, 
 and am come in place of Master Antwilder," he said, 
 regarding her smilingly. 
 
 " An that were so " she began with eager pleasure 
 in her voice, but a pleasure which quickly turned to 
 doubt "nay; Master Joseph rides never on the Sab 
 bath day " 
 
 "True enow. Verily, I had forgot the day in mine 
 happiness," he cried gayly. "Nay, Mary, to tell thee 
 truly, 'twas not to thy father and his men that I was 
 riding; but, now that I see thee, wilt grant me an 
 indulgence? Master Harold did send me off fasting 
 for the good of my soul, which will, I warrant me, be 
 soon most direfully blackened by blasphemy, an I go 
 hungry longer. So, for the saving of me, I do beg 
 thee, as a charitable maid, for one horn of milk, a 
 smile from thy lips, and then, lastly, silence concern 
 ing my unholiness!" 
 
 Mary looked at him contemplatively. Was this 
 indeed the Anthony of Saint Michael's on the Tower? 
 this lively young monk the sombre, dull-eyed, middle- 
 aged man of the other days? His speech she answered 
 only with her long look; then, turning, went into the 
 house, from which she presently came back with the 
 horn of milk and a piece of black bread. Anthony 
 
158 
 
 drank with great satisfaction, but put the bread into his 
 pouch. 
 
 "This I will keep, Mary, for my noon meal. Now 
 for the second of my wants a smile from thee, to 
 speed me on my way. " 
 
 But Mary's face was very serious as once more she 
 looked into his face. " I will keep the secret of thy 
 unholiness. Whither goest thou ? " 
 
 "Ah ! that is no secret, mistress. I ride to Bristol, 
 to my friend, De Burgh, and to the unknown princess. " 
 
 So, by the magic of that last word having banished 
 even the thought of the peasant's smile, Anthony 
 spoke to his horse, and was off again, lost in a strange 
 revery, and never knowing that behind him he left a 
 heavy heart and two eyes so blurred with a strange 
 mist that they could hardly see his figure, after which 
 they gazed till the winding road hid him from sight. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 INTERDICT 
 
 TWO hours of twilight still remained when 
 Anthony, on that Sunday evening, entered the 
 yard of the Falcon Hostelrie at Bristol. The 
 stables were by no means empty, nor was the inn 
 void of guests and city idlers, come for an evening of 
 gossip and mead. In a Catholic country Sunday is for 
 recreation and rest; which two words, very probably, 
 mean much the same thing. A score of curious eyes 
 were turned upon him as the monk slipped down from 
 his horse and gave the animal into a hostler's care. 
 For, though a monk was certainly no strange sight in 
 such a place, one of the dress of the Benedictine clois 
 ter, and mounted upon a black charger, instead of a lean 
 mule, was not so ordinary a spectacle. The little sen 
 sation was increased, moreover, when the landlord of 
 the inn met Anthony at the door of his house, and, 
 with unusual obsequiousness, inquired his name. 
 
 "Anthony Fitz-Hubert," responded the monk, reluc 
 tantly, annoyed at the looks cast at him by those seated 
 within. 
 
 "Thank you, sir." Anthony glanced at him curi 
 ously. " I ventured to ask, sith a room hath already 
 been prepared for you, and I wait your bidding con 
 cerning your evening's entertainment." 
 
 " By whose order hath a room been made ready for 
 me? Methinks thou art mistaken, Sir Landlord. " 
 
 " Nay, verily, Sir Anthony, 't is thou who art pleased 
 to jest. The messenger from my Lord de Burgh rode 
 through the city this morning, leaving the order." 
 
160 C3ncanoni?eti 
 
 " Then De Burgh is not yet here ? " inquired Anthony, 
 quickly. 
 
 " Nay. He and his train rest here to-morrow, on 
 their way from Dunster to London town." 
 
 "That is well, then. May it please you, direct me 
 to my room." 
 
 Anthony's lodging was one of the most sumptuous 
 which the inn afforded. Evidently De Burgh had 
 taken the greatest pains to provide for his welfare. 
 "And, indeed, 't is time he showed some consideration, 
 though in good truth much display of my name pleases 
 me not," thought the monk, as at length he was seated 
 before a meal which bore slight resemblance to that 
 prescribed as fitly lenten by Harold of Glastonbury. 
 Of the well-cooked meats, and rich, long-untasted 
 wines, the erstwhile courtier partook in great content, 
 and with never a thought for the good of his soul, save 
 the remembrance of a certain pagan remark made by 
 Epictetus the great. 
 
 For his peace of mind it was very well that he had 
 chosen to dine in the solitude of his room. Two 
 strangers had entered the inn below, demanding rooms, 
 which could not be given them. It was necessary that 
 they should seek another and less frequented place in 
 which to stay ; but, ere they departed to one such, near 
 at hand, the smaller of the two had carelessly inquired 
 after the arrival of a certain monk, one Fitz-Hubert of 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 " Certes. He is here. Would ye have speech with 
 him?" asked the landlord's son, a clownish fellow, 
 without great good sense. 
 
 "Nay, nay, 'twas but curiosity," was the quick 
 reply as the two departed. 
 
 These new-comers were monks, and, oddly enough, 
 from Glastonbury. One of them was named Eustace 
 Comyn, the other Joseph Antwilder. And their business 
 in Bristol at this time was an abbey secret. 
 
161 
 
 On the morning of Monday, March thirtieth, a his 
 toric day, Anthony broke his fast in the somewhat 
 disorderly public-room of the hostel. The dining- 
 room of the Falcon was also its reception-room and its 
 drinking place; for the ground floors of hotels in those 
 days were not given to wasted suites of common par 
 lors. This was a place where no lady would ever seat 
 herself, though many such had lodged in the inn. 
 Here were always men, of one degree or another, sit 
 ting at table, standing in the doorway, or perhaps lying 
 helplessly supine upon the rush-strewn floor. A foul 
 and noisome thing was this floor, upon which branches 
 were never changed, but only kicked out to be renewed 
 when filth and vermin had so rotted them that even 
 thirteenth-century hardihood could endure no more. 
 
 As Anthony entered the place, he drew his monkish 
 skirts up about his limbs and walked lightly over the 
 putrefying mass of leaves, branches, scraps of food, and 
 thick dregs of wine or ale, about which, even at this 
 season, buzzed a swarm of flies which scarcely heeded 
 him as he seated himself at the table. Early as was 
 the hour, one or two soldiers, a mendicant friar, and a 
 pair of itinerant magicians or peddlers were seated in 
 the room at breakfast. They looked up for a moment 
 when Anthony entered, distantly saluting the black 
 friar as he sat down. Then the general, good-natured 
 conversation was renewed. There seemed to be an 
 argument in progress as to the " whereabouts of the 
 King. 
 
 "I tell thee," exclaimed a soldier, pounding vigor 
 ously on the table, and speaking in an extremely mild 
 tone, "the King is in the northwest, preparing another 
 blow for the Lion. 1 Not a fortnight agone did I hear 
 it, from one of the suite of the Earl of Clare, who 
 was even then hastening to his aid." 
 
 "Nay, nay," interposed the friar. "John hath 
 
 1 William, King of Scotland, nicknamed the " Lion." 
 ii 
 
162 
 
 crossed into Normandy, where he is once more to be 
 waited on by the bishops at Rouen. The word came 
 from Jocelyn of Bath himself." 
 
 " What need be there of more councils, forsooth, now 
 that his Holiness hath ta' en the matter up?" queried 
 one of the peddlers. 
 
 The black friar crossed himself. " Alack ! " he mur 
 mured, sighing, " it pleaseth his Holiness to punish 
 England for the baseness of England's King." 
 
 " ' Sblood, but 't is no baseness ! " shouted the soldier. 
 "Think you that John hath not had enow to try him, 
 what with monk, bishop, cardinal, pope, half his own 
 barons, and all of France continually in arms against 
 him ? Baseness ! Ugh ! these priests " he ended 
 in a snarl, having suddenly discovered Anthony's glit 
 tering eyes upon him in wrath, he supposed, though in 
 truth they had the appearance of amusement. 
 
 "We go to Saint Peter's this morn, to hear the Bull 
 read," announced the second of the clowns, cheerily. 
 
 Again the stout friar sighed, but left off his pious 
 gesture as Anthony quickly asked, 
 
 " Is the Interdict to be pronounced to-day? " 
 
 All the guests looked up to stare at so strange a 
 question from a person of such lofty manners. The 
 landlord showed his long experience with many men by 
 being first to recover manner and voice. " Yes, an it 
 please you, sir. The papal anathema is to be pro 
 nounced over England to-day; and will be read in 
 Bristol City this morning, at eleven of the dial, in 
 Saint Peter's Cathedral, which is in the great square, 
 not far from here, in the southeast part of the town, 
 next to the castle wall." 
 
 With a slight nod of thanks for this exhaustive infor 
 mation, the monk silently resumed his meal, his 
 thoughts now fully occupied with the news, and the 
 opportunity that was open to him. He would be pres 
 ent at the reading of the Interdict. 
 
163 
 
 Tt was indeed upon the noon of this Monday, March 
 30, 1208, that the most cruel punishment within the 
 papal power was to be laid over a realm whose king 
 had dared to defy a command from Rome. And to 
 those who look back down the narrowing vista of past 
 centuries, it is difficult to grasp comprehensively the 
 situation in which, for eight years/ England was now 
 to lie. 
 
 Owing to imperative necessity, the laws which gov 
 erned the fulfilment of this Christian punishment were 
 flexible, and but seldom carried out to the letter; for 
 the simple reason that humanity, taken even as a body, 
 has an actual limit of endurance, and beyond this limit 
 a completely claused Interdict passed. While under 
 the ban, a nation was absolutely forbidden measures 
 of the most elementary sanitation, and the oldest 
 customs of society. No dead could be buried in 
 consecrated ground, and service over a body was pro 
 hibited. Marriages were not allowed. Absolution 
 was not to be had save by special indulgence. Neither 
 baptism nor christening might take place. No church 
 was open for public service. The Almonry of the 
 monastery, the only hope of relief for the poor, in 
 those days, was not required to do its work; while of 
 all the offices that the myriad clergy were paid to per 
 form, extreme unction to the dying was the single one 
 that was permitted. Thus a people whose lives, from 
 birth till death, were interwoven, enclosed, bound up, 
 entirely centred in the functions and superstitions of 
 their religion, were totally deprived of the marrow, 
 bones, and muscle of their spiritual and mental 
 existence. Would humanity bear all this? Nay. 
 Before its actual experience a people never imagined 
 its horrors; else would soldier and gallant never have 
 been seen laughing and love-dreaming side by side 
 upon that fatal Monday of the passion week of 1208. 
 
 Anthony, thinking of these things and of others, rose 
 
164 
 
 at last from his morning meal, and, with the barest sign 
 to his fellow-monk in the corner, and a lofty disregard 
 alike for the soldiers near by and the ogling wench 
 at the door, hied him out of the inn and down the 
 thronging street of Bristol town. A narrow, wind 
 ing, dirty highway it was; the street itself nothing but 
 trampled mud at this season. On either side of it rose 
 crooked houses of wood, thatched with straw, bearing 
 here and there upon their walls, perhaps, a rough 
 statue of Mary Mother, and beneath her a small stone 
 basin, which, filled with oil and a floating rag, served 
 at night to make a greasy, flickering spot of light in 
 the dense darkness of the way. 
 
 This morning was gray, damp, and cheerless enough 
 even for early spring in England. The people who 
 moved through the town, though bright in their holi 
 day dress, had small look of happiness about them, and 
 appeared undecided as to the expression that they 
 ought to wear. To them, poor souls, his Holiness, the 
 Pope, was a very distant personage, who dressed ever 
 in cloth of gold, and continually carried in his hands 
 rich largesse for paupers. How, then, should anything 
 very terrible come to them from him, and from that 
 imperial city in which he lived and ruled ? Such 
 children were all men in that bygone, silver age all 
 men save kings and princes. And perhaps that is why, 
 out of contrast, the kings seem to us so brutally cun 
 ning, so fierce, so bloodily unworthy of their own 
 people. 
 
 Saint Peter's Cathedral was a massive stone build 
 ing of early Norman handiwork, little ornamented, but 
 imposing in its majestic simplicity. To the west and 
 the south of the great square in which it stood, were 
 the houses and shops of the city. Across the long 
 strip of cobble-stones which paved the mart, and behind 
 a broad ditch of water, rose the heavy stone walls, 
 ramparts, towers, and roofs of the castle and keep of 
 
165 
 
 Bristol, fortress and royal prison, within whose im 
 passable barriers lay the ambition of Poictou, the love 
 and despair of Brittany, the hope, fear and imagination 
 of Anthony Fitz-Hubert of Glastonbury. 
 
 By ten o'clock upon this morning the square was but 
 a moving mass of people. Of all ages, stations, and 
 callings were they; sober citizens in tunic, lengthened 
 shoe, and peaked hat; housewives and gossips in trail, 
 kirtle, and coif; maids in the same, with the addition 
 of lofty, new-fashioned, sugar-loaf head-dresses, with a 
 handful of merry-colored streamers flying from the top; 
 soldiers in buff jerkins or chain coats of mail, bare 
 headed or helmeted, shod or spurred as they chose; 
 country-folk in homespun ; children and fools alike in 
 motley; gallants sighing after maids or women; and 
 among the throng, looking like a pinch of pepper scat 
 tered over a mixed salad of bright-hued vegetables, 
 wandered the sober-vested canons, friars, and priests, 
 who had naught to do with the business of this long- 
 cursed day. Anthony moved among them with his 
 eyes on the ground, his ears strained to catch the lan 
 guage of the throng, once so familiar and so dear to 
 him. But the assemblage was no light-hearted one. 
 The sky and the people were in accord : the one heavy 
 and gray, the other weighted with some undefined, 
 anticipatory dread. And ever behind the monk, at no 
 great distance, there followed two others in his wake, 
 the one Eustace Comyn ; the second, he who had 
 looked oft and eagerly upon the grave face and the 
 clear eyes of Mary of the Longland farm. 
 
 A sensitive person might have felt with a heart 
 throb the shock that passed over the uneasy crowd 
 when the first deep boom of the cathedral bell vibrated 
 slowly out from its tower above the square. The mass 
 was instinctively responsive. There was an immediate 
 drifting toward the open doors of the church. None 
 hurried, none lagged. The hand of the great Dictator 
 
166 c3ncanom'?et) 
 
 of Christendom held the reins that drove these people. 
 That hand used the individual lash but seldom, but 
 relentlessly it could wheel the world. Over the cobble 
 stones sounded no hurried trampling of many feet. 
 Inch by inch, quietly, the people moved forward. And 
 as the foremost in the throng entered the chilly stone 
 aisles, the first cold drops of a slow rain fell heavily 
 upon those who still stood without. 
 
 In twenty minutes the mass was motionless. The 
 cathedral was crowded to its doors, and outside, still in 
 the square, stood groups of those willing to be wet 
 with the shower for the sake of gathering some inkling 
 of what was going on beyond them, within the church. 
 In the centre of the nave stood Anthony, pressed close 
 on all sides by men and women and little children. 
 And the great vault above them caught up each faintest 
 whisper from below and rolled it on, and echoed it, 
 till he who had spoken grew startled and ashamed of 
 the clamor which he seemed to have made. 
 
 "Is the Bull to be read in our tongue, think you?" 
 questioned a stout burgher upon Anthony's right hand. 
 
 "I fear not," responded a neighbor. "Papal bulls 
 are ever in Latin ; or, at best, this will be in French, 
 the language of the court. " 
 
 "Of what use, then, our coming hither? Neither 
 the one nor the other do I, at any rate, understand." 
 
 "But dost forget that I am something versed in the 
 French language, having been once acquainted with a 
 lady-in-waiting to her Grace, the Countess of Clare?" 
 quoth the wife of the latter, loftily. 
 
 "Ay. Thou canst perchance give 'greeting, duty, 
 and obedience ' to some higher than thyself; or chit 
 chat concerning thy finery may come from thy mouth in 
 the French language. Think you that either will serve 
 you for the understanding of a holy writ?" retorted 
 her spouse, having, in truth, a somewhat better case 
 than she. 
 
167 
 
 The goodwife flung up her weighted head angrily, 
 but dared make no reply. A foreign monk, one of 
 Pandulph's own men, and therefore a direct messenger 
 from Rome, was mounting the pulpit steps. Anthony 
 turned suddenly to the group beside him. 
 
 "The reading will be in Latin," he said. "An you 
 will, I can translate to English for your pleasure." 
 
 The woman stared at him as though he had proposed 
 some insolence, but the men seemed greatly pleased, 
 and one of them replied at once: 
 
 "That were indeed kind, good father. We would 
 gladly learn what is said, and would thank thee for 
 telling it." 
 
 Anthony merely nodded to them, then waited in 
 silence for the first words from the pulpit. A perfect 
 hush had now settled over the expectant multitude. 
 In the central stand of carven stone were two priests : 
 one belonging to the cathedral, and well known to the 
 congregation ; the other the stranger, who held within 
 his hand a roll of parchment, from which dangled a 
 heavy red seal. The common interest was centred 
 in this document. The Englishman, stepping to the 
 front, spoke first, and his words were clearly enunciated 
 and comprehensible to all. 
 
 " Good people, ye are gathered here together in obe 
 dience to the direction of our temporal ruler, Pope 
 Innocent, the third of his name. Doubtless all here 
 are acquainted to some degree with those diverse and 
 sundry reasons wherefore the Holy Father seeth fit to 
 lay upon our stricken land a grievous and heavy pun 
 ishment." Here the priest paused for an instant, but 
 there was no sound of comment from the assembled 
 multitude. " Of those reasons I shall say naught. 
 The father beside me here, being one of the train of 
 Lord Cardinal Pandulph himself, who, as ye know, 
 hath come to England as the envoy of his Holiness, 
 bears with him in his hand a copy of the Interdict 
 
168 aincanoni?e& 
 
 which is to be pronounced over us all. The writ 
 being, as is meet, in Latin, should ye fail to under 
 stand any part or parts of it, ye may come hereafter at 
 any hour to-day, as many as please, to any monk or 
 canon of the cathedral, or to any one in order who 
 chances to know the law, and have this matter trans 
 lated to you in English, that ye may learn and under 
 stand its import. Now from the hour of twelve o'clock, 
 noon, upon this day, Monday, the thirtieth of the 
 month, which is March, in this year of our Saviour 
 1208, this law will be in force over every subject of 
 King John in the isle of England, or wheresoever one 
 may chance to be, abroad." 
 
 The priest paused, uncertain as to whether he had 
 finished or no, hesitated for an instant, then drew 
 back, allowing his companion to take precedence at 
 last. There was a breath from the throng, a slight 
 rustle, as of attitudes changing, then once more silence. 
 The Italian gazed down upon them, expressionlessly. 
 The burghers greeted his looks with answering stolid 
 ity; they were here to listen, and they waited patiently 
 for the beginning. Leaning slightly upon the reading- 
 desk, the priest raised his parchment and slowly un 
 rolled it. He cleared his throat faintly, and glanced 
 along the first line of Latin. 
 
 "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he 
 began, pronouncing the unflexible syllables of the 
 dead language with a melodious Italian accent. The 
 crowd moved again, and those immediately about 
 Anthony turned to him. He commenced at once to 
 translate into English each sentence as it was carefully 
 read from the pulpit. It was not long before he re 
 pented of his offer. As, item by item, this Interdict 
 of Souls was made clear to them, the people who must 
 lie under the ban, they became first half incredulous 
 with astonishment that it went so far beyond what 
 they had expected, then grew speechless with foreboding 
 
169 
 
 at the vista of a future life, godless, comfortless, mate 
 rial, which opened before them. No marriages ! no 
 births that could be sanctified ! no burials made holy ! 
 no alms! no absolution! above all and over 
 all, no absolution ! It was inconceivable. 
 
 The document was curt. Its phrases were unsoftened 
 and unornamented, and it took not long to read. 
 Nevertheless, before the Teste Meipso had been spoken, 
 certain lowly muttered expressions and murmurs that 
 rose from the crowd showed that not all in the assem 
 blage had found their ancient mother-tongue untrans 
 latable or incomprehensible. And when the people 
 understood that this curse had come upon them be 
 cause of their King's firmness in refusing to accept as 
 head of his realm, under him, a foreigner, and a traitor 
 to the kingdom, was it any wonder that their short 
 sighted wrath was roused, not against the Pope, whose 
 injustice this Interdict so loudly proclaimed, but 
 against the King, him whose punishment they were 
 being made to take? 
 
 The great cathedral bell was tolling again, this time 
 in woe, as the mass of people, giving vent to their 
 feeling in action, poured from the church into the 
 square at such a pace as a crowd in Bristol never 
 assumed again. Once in the air ; however, beneath 
 those gray, fire-quenching clouds, they stopped to talk 
 of it among themselves. And when a nation stops to 
 talk, the fear or the hope of a rebellion is gone. 
 
 Anthony, his proffered task finished, refused the 
 advances of the two burghers and the woman, to remain 
 of their group, and, knowing no one else among the 
 people, made his way slowly across the square, lost in 
 thought. For the moment he had forgotten his duty. 
 Presently, as his steps bore him to the left, he felt 
 upon him, even in the gray light, the oppressive 
 shadow of a great building. He looked up. Above 
 him rose the towers and mighty battlements of the 
 
stronghold that had been built by Robert of Gloucester, 
 and had once held a harassed queen safe within its 
 walls, and an English army and an English king at 
 bay, outside them. 1 It was Bristol Castle. He stood 
 near to its drawbridge. Across that he was awaited. 
 Somewhere in this stranger city he would be welcomed. 
 With a little quickening of the pulses, he straightened 
 up and hurried with vigorous steps down to the edge 
 of the moat. Close behind him, a double shadow, 
 still hovered those two gray, monkish figures, whose 
 presence lay an undefined weight upon his heart. But 
 beyond the threshold that was before him they might 
 not penetrate. And standing for a moment gazing into 
 the sluggish waters at his feet, great fear and a mighty 
 hope struggled together in his heart for supremacy over 
 the new world on whose borderland he was, his 
 world alone, into which none, unbidden, might go 
 with him. Was the watchword of that kingdom to be 
 happiness or disappointment? Its password was 
 "Eleanor," the fear, more of himself than of her, 
 and the hope, he dared not define in words. 
 So at length, alone, he entered into his castle. 
 
 1 The Empress Maude, daughter of Henry I., was besieged in this 
 castle by the rival claimant to the English throne, Stephen, Count of 
 Blois, grandson of William the Conqueror, in the year 1136. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ELEANOR OF BRITTANY 
 
 WITHIN a dark-walled and heavily furnished 
 room sat three young women, the pretty 
 whiteness of their faces contrasting strongly 
 with the oaken furniture, tapestried walls, and bare, stone 
 floor. Two of the three, the most sombrely garbed, 
 bent laboriously over tapestry frames, while the third, 
 whose great coils of black hair seemed too heavy for 
 her delicate head, sat idle, beside an unglazed window, 
 taking no heed of the man-at-arms in the court below, 
 but letting her large gray eyes wander restlessly over the 
 gloomy sky, which, beside the courtyard, two stone 
 walls, and a mysterious patch of white road that seemed 
 to rise from nothing far up on to the horizon, beyond 
 the castle, was all that was to be seen from where she 
 was. Her ringers tapped with mechanical nervousness 
 upon the sill, in time with the low madrigal which one 
 of her companions softly crooned. But when this sound 
 ceased, she turned her head quickly toward the room. 
 
 " The drawbridge was lowered then, methinks, 
 madam," said the sharp-eared one, in answer to a 
 look, and speaking in French. 
 
 "'Tis John, returning from the market-place; or a 
 new guard from the King, or or a beggar, perchance." 
 
 " Yes, or the monk, lady thy " 
 
 " Be silent, Clothilde. The confessor, you would say? 
 Speak not that word to me again. Confessor ! There 
 is none. The King's henchman but mocked at me 
 when he spoke of it. That I know. Well-a-day ! My 
 
172 2Jncanom?eti 
 
 soul hath gone unshriven for so long that it may not 
 unhappily go longer. I care not. Ah ! death were a 
 pleasant change from this 
 
 " Lady ! dear lady, say not so," came in timid re 
 monstrance from the other attendant, Marie. 
 
 " I shall say as I choose. Besides, thou didst not let 
 me finish. I had said that death were a pleasant change 
 from this, were it not for one thing. One only thing 
 maketh me cling to life." 
 
 A significant glance passed between the two maids. 
 At the same moment the Princess Eleanor rose impetu 
 ously from her stool, and began nervously to pace the 
 narrow apartment, her long garments of cream-colored 
 wool trailing over the chill stones as she went. The 
 murmuring song was taken up again. The day was 
 passing like the hundred that had gone before it. 
 
 Suddenly there was a clapping at the door, which 
 broke upon the feminine atmosphere with strange un- 
 timeliness. The Princess stopped short in her walk and 
 turned her head, only the little straightening of her 
 shoulders signifying her eagerness. 
 
 " Clothilde," she said quietly. 
 
 Clothilde left her frame and hurried obediently to 
 the door, opening it just in time to save a repetition of 
 the knock. Outside stood John Norman, porter of the 
 lodge, general servant to the King's guard of the keep, 
 chamberlain of the deserted castle halls, and devoted 
 and admiring servitor of the royal demoiselle under his 
 charge. With great alacrity he stepped into the apart 
 ment, bowing low, with an ease born of long habit, to 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Well, John ! well ! Your errand? " 
 
 " Madam, at last your confessor is come from 
 Glastonbury, even as my Lord de Burgh did promise 
 you. He is below, and would know whether he is to 
 await you in the chapel or not." 
 
 "Now verily, John, should I be as laggardly in seeing 
 
(Eleanor of isrittant J 73 
 
 him as he hath been in coming here to me, 'twould seem 
 discourteous indeed. Perchance I should not see him 
 at all ; he dying of old age ere I made ready to come 
 to him. Will the midday meal be served soon, good 
 John?" 
 
 " The m dinner, madam ? " stammered the old fellow, 
 confusedly. From the confessor to dinner at a breath 
 in these dull times was a brain-whirling thing. Madam 
 was young, else she would not thus waste excitement. 
 " Oh, ay. Dinner shall be served as soon in short, 
 when you wish it, lady." 
 
 Eleanor regarded him seriously. " Let it be served at 
 once, then ; and lay the table with two trenchers and 
 flagons. My father confessor shall dine with me to-day. 
 Until the meal be served, he may talk with me here. 
 We have not so many guests that we can waste much of 
 their stay when they do come." 
 
 With a silent bow John backed reluctantly away. 
 Before he reached the door, however, he stopped and 
 said, with daring remonstrance, "A a common monk 
 madam?" 
 
 " De Burgh informed me that he was not a common 
 monk." 
 
 John's shoulders went up ever so slightly. He was at 
 the door. Suddenly the Princess started toward him, 
 across the room, with light haste. "John hath mon 
 Sieur no word for me to-day?" 
 
 " His duty, madam, and profound devotion. There 
 was no time for aught else. The keep was in a broil 
 this morning." 
 
 Eleanor smiled, nodded, and dismissed him. The 
 door closed. Once more she returned slowly to the 
 rain-splashed casement. 
 
 " Clothilde and Marie, pick up your threads there and 
 put away this endless work. I need you no longer now. 
 You may retire till the dinner hour. This afternoon 
 shall you, likewise, absolve your souls from sin, if 
 
174 Oncanoni?eD 
 
 mine own burden hath not by that time prostrated our 
 holy confessor. Go now to your own apartments, and 
 prepare yourselves for the service by prayer. Mind 
 also that your backs are kept to the window that 
 looketh upon the court of the keep." 
 
 This last warning occasioned another glance between 
 the ladies-in-waiting, who, though somewhat disap 
 pointed in not obtaining a first view of the visitor, were 
 none the less pleased at being relieved for an hour from 
 the irksomeness of the demeanor required in the pres 
 ence of her Highness, and, incidentally, from the tapes 
 try. So Eleanor of Brittany, left alone, seated herself 
 once more by the casement, to listen for the approach 
 ing steps of the stranger. There was no thought of her 
 own appearance in her mind. Her idea of the confessor 
 did not allow of that. 
 
 " An old man, and a reverend, will he be. One with 
 whom, doubtless, I may trust the dear secret. 'Twill be 
 like once more beholding my grandsire to look upon 
 his mild face and white hair. His manner will be gentle, 
 and his faded eyes will look at me tenderly. I shall 
 have great comfort in him. Mayhap he will be weary 
 with long riding. He shall have a flagon of good Bur 
 gundy or ever our dinner begins." 
 
 There were sounds from the corridor outside. The 
 door was opened without preliminary. Eleanor rose 
 nervously. 
 
 " The confessor, madam," said John. 
 
 Anthony entered the room. 
 
 He seemed at first incapable of speech, bowing only, 
 with a mixture of high dignity and humility. Eleanor, 
 too, was silent, out of surprise. She stood just where 
 she had risen, her pale, broidered robes clinging to her 
 slight figure, her long, twisted coils of hair falling to 
 her knees, one blue-veined hand resting upon the jutting 
 corner of the wall, astonishment written in every line of 
 her face. 
 
(Eleanor of TBtrittan? 175 
 
 " Thou a confessor ! " she said at length, slowly. 
 
 Anthony's black eyes had flashed over and through 
 her. " Even so madam," he responded steadily, 
 though his heart had suddenly been set running like a 
 trip-hammer. 
 
 The Princess recovered herself. "You are younger 
 than I had thought," she said, with a hint of displeasure 
 in her tone. 
 
 The monk raised his brows. " I am not young," he 
 said. 
 
 " Thy gray hairs and wrinkles are full slow in com 
 ing, then," she responded, with a faint curling of the 
 
 HP. 
 
 Anthony could not help smiling, though he per 
 ceived her intended scorn. 
 
 " Be seated," she continued, with an unconscious air 
 of royal graciousness that showed her breeding. "The 
 sight of a new face, however young, refreshes me. 
 The days here are long, wearily long." 
 
 " None the less have you been long in summoning 
 me, madam. Through the whole winter I have awaited 
 your call," he said, all at once feeling that the waiting 
 had been repaid in full. 
 
 She had resumed her seat before he spoke. This 
 time her back was toward the window, so that the 
 light shone upon her hair and shoulders, but left her 
 face in misty shadow. 
 
 " 'T is now. ten months since I was absolved from sin. 
 Methought John Lackland had assuredly designed me 
 for an age in purgatory." 
 
 " You are unjust to the King." 
 
 She started at his temerity. " Hath the King, then, 
 been so just to me? " she said at last. 
 
 "Nay. I grant you 'tis wrong of him, unfeeling, in 
 keeping imprisoned one such as you. Otherwise, lady, 
 methinks the King has done no injustice." 
 
 "No wrong! Then where where is the rightful 
 
i7 6 2Jncanom?et> 
 
 King of this hateful land? Where hath John hid my 
 brother, my little brother Arthur?" There were 
 tears in her eyes and in her voice alike. She did not 
 look at the monk, but let her face sink into her white 
 hands. 
 
 Now Anthony, regretting bitterly his rashness in 
 having impelled this outburst, exercised one of his 
 privileges as spiritual director over the forlorn girl. 
 Rising, he came and stood near her, speaking in a 
 voice that was firm, and yet so gentle that Eleanor, 
 astonished at its melody, forgot herself for the moment, 
 raised her -head, and listened to him quietly. 
 
 " Peace, Eleanor. Be thou not fearful for the fate 
 of thy brother, Arthur of Brittany. He is in the Castle 
 of Rouen, a prisoner, 'tis true, but well in mind and 
 body, and kindly treated.- Grieve not over him. Thy 
 lot is as hard." 
 
 " Dost know this ? " she asked eagerly. 
 
 And Anthony perjured himself, unwisely, willingly, 
 madly, for her heart's peace. His good sense, and 
 his usual phlegmatic calm, had fled together. " Upon 
 my life I know this, Princess." 
 
 Eleanor looked into his face, her eyes brilliant with 
 tears. " I thank thee," she said, using the familiar pro 
 noun inadvertently. 
 
 By the look and the words Anthony was repaid in 
 full for the oath which might have been true or might 
 have been false; he cared little which, so that it 
 brought comfort to the friendless prisoner, who indeed 
 owed all her unhappiness to that same quick-tempered 
 and ill-advised brother whom she so mourned. 
 
 There was a pause, Eleanor being apparently ab 
 sorbed in her own thoughts, till Anthony, with no 
 little trepidation, ventured to break the silence ; though 
 be it understood that, as her confessor, he was com 
 monly recognized to be on a level of intercourse with 
 the Princess, of royal blood though she were. 
 
Cleanor of isrittan? 177 
 
 " Princess, there is a certain question that I am 
 eager to have answered, for mine own peace of mind. 
 Thou sayest that for ten months thou hast confessed 
 thy sins to none. Is it then possible that throughout 
 that time thou didst know naught of my near presence 
 at Glastonbury?" 
 
 "Nay," she responded frankly. "'Twas in let me 
 think 'twas in August of last year that mine uncle's 
 tool, Hubert de Burgh, did visit me here for, as it 
 seemed, the sole purpose of informing me of your 
 presence and office. He even so far forgot his posi 
 tion as to advise my summoning you hither at once. 
 When he had departed, I was, to speak truly, angered 
 with him, and the indignity to which I was subject 
 under the usurper's will. Before that time I had 
 longed for a confessor, and wept for many an hour 
 over the death of mine old Norman father, who had, 
 indeed, been as a father to me. But a stranger was 
 hateful, e'en in thought, after De Burgh had gone. 
 Then, too, I dreaded lest a trick had been played, to 
 cause me to send to Glastonbury for one who was not 
 there. Therefore have I waited these many months, 
 till a second visit from De Burgh broke my resolution. 
 Perchance I was weak, but he spoke kindly to me, and 
 I could find no flaw in his behavior. Therefore, when 
 he offered to send one of his own men for you, I did 
 consent to let him, being weary of withstanding every 
 hope of some diversion in this lonely place. 
 
 " But you, Sir Monk, were full long in coming. I 
 had expected you yester even. When you came not 
 I did blame my folly for having believed my lord's 
 words. Then all this weary morning have I sat here 
 idly, with my heart burning in anger against them all. 
 Prithee, what kept you for so long a time? " 
 
 " Ignorance, Princess," was the answer. " I had a 
 fancy, I know not how it came, that you kept here 
 some sort of little court, where the evening would pass 
 
in entertainment and there would be small place for a 
 monkish confessor. And this morning, indeed, I was 
 up betimes, but did not imagine that you would be 
 visible at all ere noon, after the fashion of Isabella of 
 Angouleme. Therefore have I been for two hours in 
 the square just beyond the castle moat, and likewise 
 within the cathedral, and have heard the pronounce 
 ment of Interdict over the realm." 
 
 " Interdict ! " she interrupted eagerly. " Hath the 
 usurper then gone so far as that? Hath his Holiness 
 at last interfered for us? Thanks be to God ! " 
 
 "Stop, lady I pray you! This Interdict from 
 Rome is gross injustice, nay, tyranny. Naught hath 
 the King done to merit it, save in the refusal to 
 acknowledge the consecration of a traitorous French 
 Bishop, who goes hand and glove with Philip of 
 France, an intriguer and a plotter for the see of Can 
 terbury, the loftiest and the holiest place in England. 
 The Interdict can bring no good to Innocent, but, alas ! 
 still less to the King, and the people of this realm." 
 
 As Anthony stopped he found Eleanor's eyes, burn 
 ing with wrath, fixed on him. When she spoke it was 
 in a voice tremulous with angry despair. " You are no 
 monk, only some other of John's nobles sent here in 
 sacrilegious guise to taunt and insult me with this 
 cruelty. T is grown past bearing at last. Know that 
 I will endure no more. Thanks, indeed, to the Al 
 mighty Father, my poor life may be soon ended. But 
 my death shall not be debased by your presence ! Out 
 of my sight ! Traitor ! Dastard ! Coward, persecutor 
 of a helpless woman ! Shame, indeed, upon such a 
 manhood ! " 
 
 She was upon her feet, now, and one thin hand was 
 lifted against him, to emphasize her wrath. Anthony, 
 his face whiter than her robe, had drawn back a pace 
 before her. Then, seeing her quick smile of scorn, 
 he stood quite still, gazing at her so fixedly that she 
 
(Eleanor of isrittanv 179 
 
 grew finally disturbed at the look. Gradually his head 
 assumed a poise as lofty as her own. Pointing to the 
 stool from which she had risen, he said, in a voice not 
 well controlled : " Sit there." 
 
 Answering his long gaze with a glance of sudden 
 curiosity, she obeyed his wish ; and, by the varying 
 emotions that played over her mobile face at his words, 
 one might have guessed very accurately what he was 
 saying. Scarcely looking at her, and speaking stiffly 
 from the fierceness of his struggle to keep down any 
 suspicion of emotional sentimentality, he began his 
 justification : 
 
 " You believe that I am no monk. In a way, Prin 
 cess, you are right; in another, you are cruel. 
 
 " I am the son of Hubert Fitz-Walter, the last Arch 
 bishop of Canterbury. My mother has always been 
 unknown to me. For the first three-and-twenty years 
 of my life I lived only at court, first that of Henry, 
 then of the Lion-heart. Henry himself, the father of 
 John, and your grandfather, was pleased to make me 
 the close companion of his own natural son, William of 
 Salisbury. I looked forward always to the life of a 
 courtier. Those men who are high in the kingdom 
 now, knew me as a boy younger than they. So power 
 ful was the position of my father that no difference of 
 birth was heeded in me. 
 
 " When I was twenty-three years old I was summoned 
 to the bedside of my father, at Lambeth. What passed 
 between us in the interview that we held together then, 
 neither you nor any one on earth can know. I went 
 into his room a happy, careless, spendthrift boy; I 
 came out of it a monk, a celibate, a man. Two days 
 later I entered into the great Augustinian monastery at 
 Canterbury as a novice, where, six months afterward, I 
 took the vows which made me a prisoner, far more 
 closely bound than you can be ; for death alone shall 
 release me from a life that is grown to be a torture. I 
 
became a monk half out of pity, half from fear. The 
 pity is nearly gone, the fear left me ere I had taken the 
 vows. After a time I was removed to the Chapter of 
 Canterbury, where I had the pain of frequently behold 
 ing my father. After his death I was left desolate 
 among men. In the July of last year, upon the break 
 ing up of the chapter, Hubert de Burgh sent for me, and 
 showed me that dispensation from the Pope which per 
 mitted my coming to Glastonbury, and to visit Bristol 
 as your confessor. 
 
 " The Church, Princess, I love not. I am unfit for 
 my place. The clergy are to me a hateful body. Will 
 ingly, gladly would I see my scapular replaced by 
 the tunic for the coffin. Yet death is not for me to 
 hope for or to dream of. 
 
 " And so that is my history, madam. Doubtless your 
 tolerance have I forfeited by my words. You will see 
 how unfitted I am to absolve any living one from sin. 
 None the less I regret not that I have spoken. You 
 see how it is that King and noble they who were 
 my friends long ago are dearer now than any priest, 
 bishop, or pope could be. There is left but one word 
 for you to speak. An I misdoubt me not it will be 
 < Go.' " 
 
 The head of the Princess had sunk upon her hand. 
 Her eyes wandered blindly over the floor. Anthony 
 watched her expression with incredulity. A warm drop, 
 leaving its gray home, fell to the stone at Eleanor's feet. 
 Impetuously she raised her hand, and stretched it out 
 to him the apostate. There was a faint, sad smile 
 about her lips. Something hard pressed at his throat. 
 He tried to speak, but articulation was beyond him 
 then. Seeing it useless, he dropped upon his knee, and 
 took the cold, delicate hand to his lips. 
 
 " Thou spakest truly," she whispered. " Thy lot is 
 harder than mine." 
 
 It was well that at this moment there was a pound- 
 
Cleanor of oerfttan 181 
 
 ing at the door of the corridor, through which, an instant 
 after, came old John, with the announcement that their 
 midday meal awaited them. Indeed it was already past 
 the ordinary hour, though in their converse both prin 
 cess and monk, for the first time in many months, had 
 failed to note the flight of time. The little dining-apart- 
 ment was reached by a stone hallway which connected 
 it with the living-room ; and Anthony and John stood 
 on either side of the door with lowered heads as Elea 
 nor swept by them in silence. 
 
 The room where their meal lay spread was the last of 
 the little suite which had been assigned to the captive 
 Princess. It was a small place, and the extreme height 
 of the two windows in its walls gave an odd effect of 
 light and shade to an apartment doubtless once de 
 signed for a praying-closet, or possibly a privy council- 
 chamber. In its centre stood a small, unpolished table, 
 covered with coarse damask, and laid with places for 
 two. Behind one of the high oaken chairs, with stiffly 
 folded hands, and faces punctiliously devoid of expres 
 sion, stood the demoiselles Marie and Clothilde. 
 
 With a pretty gesture Eleanor motioned Anthony 
 to his place, and then stopped, waiting, at her own. 
 The maids lowered their heads, and expectantly drooped 
 their eyelids. Then, happily, Anthony's wits came to 
 him again. Raising both hands, after the approved 
 fashion, he pronounced the Latin grace with what fervor 
 he could command. In the " Amen " the Princess 
 joined him, softly. Then together they were seated, 
 both, somewhat oddly, feeling constrained at the thought 
 that they were not alone. 
 
 Now once more came John, man of all work, bearing 
 in his hands a large metal bowl filled with broth of his 
 own making. This was set before the Princess, together 
 with a silver vessel, into which she poured her portion 
 of this first course. Thereupon the original dish, with 
 its contents not much lessened, was given Anthony, to- 
 
gather with a large and awkward spoon of horn. Memo 
 ries of his gallant days, when he had been wont often to 
 dine with ladies, returned to him. The customs seemed 
 to be unchanged even though now he was a monk, 
 and his hostess of blood royal. 
 
 The meal proceeded with a dish of well-made comfits, 
 marchplanes, and sweets, which, in those barbaric times, 
 were served toward the beginning of a meal, if they 
 were served at all. After this came a brace of wild 
 fowl, with boiled roots, wheaten bread, and a flagon of 
 excellent red wine, following which was a dish with 
 which Anthony was unfamiliar; a French compound it 
 was, indeed, made, for Eleanor's delectation, by the 
 skilled hands of her lady, Marie. Truly, whatever other 
 cruelties might be practised upon his hapless niece by 
 King John, the stinting her in royal table appointments 
 seemed not to have occurred to him, thought Anthony, 
 as the meal progressed. Neither of the diners ate 
 heartily. The monk, at any rate, felt unreasonably dis 
 turbed under the unwinking stares from two pairs of 
 black eyes which gazed at him over the back of 
 Eleanor's chair. The prolonged repast was at last con 
 cluded with the drinking of .two little cupfuls of rare 
 white wine, hot and spiced ; and it was indeed with no 
 small relief that Anthony rose at last and stood aside, to 
 let the Princess pass. As he did so he caught a whispered 
 French conversation between the ladies-in-waiting. 
 
 " A splendid face, think you not so? and a bearing 
 which would grace a king." 
 
 "Ay. He is rarely handsome, but no more so than 
 my Lord de la Bordelaye, meseemeth; though he 
 seems to please our lady." 
 
 " Nay, for shame, Marie ! " 
 
 There was a suppressed giggle, then the door closed 
 behind the monk. He had time neither to wonder over 
 nor grow angry at their words. Eleanor had turned to 
 him and was speaking. 
 
(Eleanor of istittant l8 3 
 
 " It would please me were you to go at once to the 
 chapel below, and see that the confessional is in order. 
 It hath been now long unused. I wili come to you there 
 somewhat later, and afterwards my demoiselles shall be 
 sent. At the end of this passage are the stairs. De 
 scending them, you will find yourself in another hallway. 
 The first door upon your left hand will lead you into 
 the chapel, with the vestry beyond it. John hath put 
 the keys into the lock. You will find no difficulty in 
 entering. Await me." 
 
 So saying, she pointed out his way and seemed about 
 to leave him to follow it. He detained her for an in 
 stant by a light touch on the sleeve. Turning his face 
 slightly from her he asked, in a muffled voice : 
 
 " Canst confess freely to me, madam? I would not 
 force it on you. A more venerable person " 
 
 "What say you, father? Hath not his Holiness 
 himself sent you to me? Go now to the chapel." So 
 did Eleanor voluntarily repudiate her own first thoughts 
 of Anthony, his daring, and his youth. 
 
 Bowing humbly, the monk turned, and heard her 
 steps pass swiftly away behind him. She was a princess 
 royal. He had gained her compassion, her sympathy, 
 her good-will. Why should he have wished for more 
 than that? At least he had not the temerity to analyze 
 his unwarranted and unaccountable feeling of disap 
 pointment at her gentle unconsciousness. But Anthony 
 Fitz-Hubert's last years had lain too close to tragedy 
 for many emotions to need dissecting before he should 
 understand them. 
 
 The large key to the chapel turned rustily in its lock, 
 and the heavy door creaked open before him. For a 
 moment or two the dim twilight which met his eyes con 
 fused their sight ; and, when finally he could look about, 
 all, at first, that he could see, was dust. Dust covered 
 the walls and darkened the groined and carven ceiling; 
 dust lay thick upon the floor, and was caked upon 
 
1 84 ancanom'?e& 
 
 the sills of the two long narrow windows that served 
 to light the little place. At the south end of the 
 room was the altar, hung with a bit of coarse and 
 faded linen ; and about the arms of the tarnished cross 
 above it, a lusty spider had woven a delicate, sacrile 
 gious web. At the other end of the chapel a small 
 doorway led into a vestry, along one wall of which hung 
 some faded stoles of crimson and dull yellow, together 
 with one or two acolyte's dresses. The air in both 
 rooms was musty and thick. The little wooden confes 
 sional was placed just back of the entrance door. This 
 Anthony opened, and glanced inside. The small com 
 partment was a mass of cobwebs. Sweeping some of 
 these out with his hands, he stood picking their clinging 
 shreds from his gown and fingers, marvelling, the while, 
 at the neglect around him. It might do the Princess 
 Eleanor no harm to let her have a sight of this. But how 
 ask so delicate a damsel to remain in so unwholesome a 
 place ? Even then her steps were to be heard advanc 
 ing toward the chapel door. He glanced at the con 
 fessional, hesitated for an instant, then hurried out into 
 the passage. Eleanor, clad in long robes of black, a 
 white veil floating back from her -close coif, was beside 
 him. She seemed surprised at his appearance. 
 
 " The chapel is scarce fit place for a lady, Princess," 
 he said, in answer to her look. " It will need much prep 
 aration ere it be meet for your presence. Perchance the 
 confessional may be held in some other ap " 
 
 " Nay now, Sir Monk, dost think indeed that for more 
 than two years I have been locked securely within mine 
 uncle's oldest and most unused fortress to be frightened 
 by an ounce of dust at last? You do my courage 
 much discredit. Let me go in. How now? Listen! 
 It shall be part of my next penance that I kneel to con 
 fessional therein, and tremble not if mighty spiders or 
 other fearsome things accost me during my devotion. 
 What say you?" 
 
(Eleanor of isrittant 185 
 
 She was smiling lightly at him, and he drew aside at 
 once, letting her pass. Upon seeing the place she said 
 not a word, though indeed she would not have had 
 Anthony guess the restraint by which she forced herself 
 to suppress an exclamation. He, not wishing to be 
 behind her in restraint, entered calmly into the confes 
 sional, and shut himself in, much to his secret distaste. 
 But he forgot the dust, the cobwebs, the spiders, the 
 place, the hour, his very life, as, pressing his cheek 
 hard against the lattice, he felt her delicate breath just 
 stir the dark locks that grew about his ear, and listened 
 to the murmur of that most sacred and secret service of 
 the Roman Catholic faith. 
 
 The confession was not a short one, it being a woman 
 who spoke ; and there were, besides, nearly nine months 
 of time, meagre in outer action, but overflowing with 
 heart-history and inward conflict, to be accounted for. 
 The story of her love she told simply, concealing 
 nothing but a name. And, as simply, Anthony the 
 monk received it. What more could come out of this 
 thing for him than was already his? And yet his heart 
 had fallen again. He was once more alone, alone with 
 an unhappiness that had not had time to become acute. 
 Silently he blessed her for telling him all so soon. And 
 lo ! before he had begun to think, the confession was 
 ended ; her voice had ceased to sound. The penance 
 which he imposed upon her came back to him long 
 afterwards as being very harsh. At the time he had 
 scarcely noted what he said. She was gone. Eleanor 
 was gone. One of her ladies was beside him now, and 
 he heard her recital, and that of her sister, listlessly, 
 although, indeed, the name of their royal mistress was 
 often enough in the mouths of each to have warmed his 
 heart, had he not known. And finally the weary 
 time was past. Anthony crept stiffly from the chok 
 ing box, and stood watching the sunlight which, having 
 broken through the clouds, half-way to the horizon, 
 
i86 C3ncanoni?eD 
 
 streamed hotly in at the windows of the chapel. The 
 monk's head was swimming, and he grew suddenly 
 blind. His flesh quivered. He stood with difficulty. 
 When he could see again he made his way painfully 
 to the door, and locked it behind him. The fresh air 
 in the corridor revived him. Now, however, he was 
 puzzled to know what to do, or where to go. Must he 
 depart without another word to the Princess? Certainly 
 he hesitated at the thought of intruding upon her in her 
 apartments again. Even as he meditated, out of the 
 very mists, as it were, appeared the providential John, 
 hobbling jovially toward him down the hall. 
 
 " Ho, Master Monk ! T is you I seek. Nay, fear 
 not, 't is for no confessional. Madam will not let you 
 go just yet. You must, forsooth, break your fast with 
 her again, in the little Frenchery meal of which she ever 
 partakes now, naught but comfits and such-like stuff. 
 T is little for a man, but less for a lent- fasted monk, 
 though at Glastonbury I would svyear that ye have none 
 too many cups of rare, spiced wine with your march- 
 planes ; so it may please you for once. Therefore get 
 you gone to her apartment, while I drag my poor limbs 
 once more to the kitchen at madam's pleasure." 
 
 By the time that John's last voluble sentence was half 
 way from his lips, Anthony had left him, and started 
 down the corridor, out of no haste, in reality, but from 
 pure weariness of sound, and particularly the raucous 
 tones of the old porter's voice. 
 
 The Princess had thrown aside her black cloak, and, 
 with her heavy hair in some slight disorder, sat in her 
 living-room, upon a low stool, bending over a brazier 
 in which burned a kind of charcoal. Her white face 
 was slightly flushed from the ruddy glow of the coals in 
 the tripod. The room was dusky, for, as the sun 
 approached the horizon, the clouds had conquered it 
 again ; and, despite the little fire, a chill was to be felt 
 in the air. 
 
Cleauor of I3i;ittan^ 187 
 
 Anthony entered without knocking, reluctance at his 
 heart. The Princess looked up absently at his appear 
 ance, and, without speaking, motioned him to be seated. 
 He accepted her permission, and remained in silence, 
 watching her face, which wore a weary and unhappy 
 look. She made no move toward conversation, and 
 so presently he drifted off into a revery of his own, 
 concerning many things. 
 
 He was startled from his moodiness in a curious way. 
 
 "Well! Why speakest thou not? Thou 'rt worse 
 than my very maids, Sir Monk ! Thinkest thou that I 
 had summoned thee to return hither that thou mightest 
 sit and stare blindly at me, like a Breton owl? " 
 
 Anthony sat up quickly. 
 
 " Pardon, madam. I had thought that silence was 
 your pleasure." 
 
 Now John Norman entered, bearing a large wooden 
 salver, upon which were two or three novel dishes, and 
 a small silver pitcher, from which curled a fragrant 
 steam ; while beside it lay two hollow and exquisitely 
 inlaid goat's horns, of minute proportions. These he 
 arranged deftly at the Princess's side, upon a small stool. 
 Eleanor, however, took no notice of him, but replied 
 impetuously to Anthony's indifference. 
 
 " Silence ! Ah ! this everlasting silence ! The abode 
 of Silence is with me, and hath been so for years now. 
 I am aweary of living at* all ! Weary of food, and drink ; 
 weary past bearing of these old companions; weary 
 even of my well-loved tongue of Brittany ; weary of the 
 gray English skies ; and wearier than all, heart-sick, over 
 mine own brooding, over all our wretched puppet-lives, 
 of the way that it seems royalty must ever live, in quar 
 rels and with cruelty toward one another ; weary of all 
 the misery in our ill-starred family ! Nay," and now 
 her voice became suddenly soft with tears, and her man 
 ner gentle and subdued, " how oft doth the memory of 
 those golden days of mine uncle Richard's reign visit 
 
1 88 2Jncanoni?eB 
 
 me, to rend my heart in pieces ! My brother Arthur, 
 and I, and mine honored grandmother, after whom I 
 was christened, and whilom my mother also, and all 
 our little Breton court, dwelt merrily in old Falaise, 
 wherein Arthur after was imprisoned, and John's mother 
 died of grief, and whence I was borne away to an Eng 
 lish prison. Ah, good monk, good monk, indeed you 
 know not all that I have lost!" 
 
 There were no tears in her eyes when she ceased to 
 speak ; and her voice had gradually grown monotonous 
 from excess of feeling. Anthony could think of no 
 words gentle enough to speak to her; he did nothing 
 but rise unsteadily, and move nearer, standing close be 
 side, but never venturing to touch her who sat, even as 
 he had done so many times before, alone in her sorrow. 
 And she was a woman, and he a man. 
 
 Eleanor of Brittany had come of a race that was not 
 accustomed often to show its trouble before any man, 
 or woman, or monk. And she was a true daughter of 
 her people, tried though she had been through all the 
 fairest of her years of maidenhood. Recovering her 
 reserve with astounding rapidity, she looked up at her 
 confessor with a faint smile, although as yet she could 
 think of nothing adequate to say. Anthony, however, 
 instantly recognized the change. 
 
 "Princess," he said, and the word, though he had 
 made no effort over it, was like a pearl suddenly re 
 solved into sound, " you have said that you were weary 
 of your companions here, weary also of the French 
 tongue that they speak. To-night I am to see my 
 Lord de Burgh. Methinks that it might be possible to 
 gain his assent to your having another maiden to abide 
 with you. Such a one I know of; one who might per 
 chance be willing to yield herself to captivity for you. 
 She is, however, no daughter of nobility " 
 
 " Ah ! that matters not," interrupted Eleanor, eagerly. 
 " She is of England, say you, and fresh from the outside 
 
Clcanot; of isrtttant 189 
 
 world? Verily 'twould be as balm to a wound to re 
 ceive such an one. Wilt bring her here?" 
 
 The monk smiled at her pathetic pleasure at the 
 prospect of something new. " If it would please thee 
 thus, lady, I will most assuredly try. She might ride 
 with me, an permission were got, at my next coming." 
 
 "When will that be?" 
 
 Anthony looked thoughtfully out of the window 
 into the darkening sky, whence the sun had finally 
 departed. 
 
 " When you command," he answered softly. 
 
 "Let it be soon, soon," she cried, not noticing his 
 face. 
 
 Again a clap at the door, and the old keeper's head 
 peered in. The two turned. Eleanor was annoyed. 
 
 " My lord monk ! " 
 
 Anthony started ; Eleanor looked up at him quickly. 
 
 " Well, John Norman." 
 
 " An it please you, sir, the Count de la Marche hath 
 sent to request your attendance upon him. He too, it 
 seemeth, hath been stricken with a sudden desire for 
 holiness ; and, he being a Frenchman, the Inter " 
 
 " Peace, peace, John, for the love of Heaven ! Doth 
 the Count require my presence soon?" 
 
 " ' At once/ said he, my my your lordship ! " 
 stammered the old fellow, confounded by a sudden 
 revelation from the keep that this Benedictine's birth 
 was lofty. 
 
 Anthony hesitated, and looked down at the girl be 
 fore him. For some reason her cheeks were strangely 
 flushed. A pang leaped to the heart of the monk. 
 De la Marche 
 
 " Father Anthony, thou must go. For now I do bid 
 thee farewell. Thou must not keep the Count waiting, 
 e'en though thou hast not partaken of my comfits here. 
 In very sooth I had forgot them. Now, I pray thee, 
 forget me not in my loneliness, good monk and I 
 
190 
 
 shall see thee soon again. When next thou comest 
 thou wilt bring the maid?" 
 
 " I will do all that I can, madam. When you send I 
 will make all haste to your side with Mary, if it be 
 possible. Now fare you well, and peace be with you." 
 
 Such was his good-bye to her, and, when it was 
 spoken, he strode away by the keeper's side, down the 
 stairs, and through long passages, and so into the 
 courtyard, just beyond which, in an enclosure of its own, 
 stood the great keep, wherein, with his four gentlemen, 
 was entertained, at the expense of John of England, the 
 noble Poictevin, Count Hugh de la Marche, erst 
 while the guardian and betrothed of Queen Isabella 
 of Angouleme, and now lover of Eleanor of 
 Brittany? 
 
 At the thought and the instant suspicion, Anthony 
 ground his teeth. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 DE LA MARCHE 
 
 OF that castle-fortress which Robert of Gloucester 
 had built there upon the southeast corner of Bris 
 tol town nearly a hundred years before Anthony's 
 first visit to it, not even the trace of a foundation can be 
 found to-day. But in the ever-useful Tower Records is 
 a description of its plan, given in the curt language of 
 the period, which must be accepted to-day as the best 
 authority extant for its existence. Its drawbridge and 
 portcullis faced upon the square of St. Peter's, at the 
 southeastern extremity of the city. Its walls were lofty 
 and thick, and its moat bountifully fed by the two rivers, 
 Frome and Avon, which swept it on either side. Past 
 the drawbridge was the porter's lodge, inhabited by 
 John Norman, and flanked on the south by a great 
 watch-tower. Straight in front of this, in its own court 
 yard, was the keep, square, solid, three stories in height, 
 lighted by loopholes, a watch-tower on each corner, 
 and only to be entered through an iron-bound door of 
 such thickness that none but a grown man could move 
 it. About this central structure were other buildings, 
 equalling it in appearance, if not in reality, two store 
 houses, a wine-cellar, and the stables. A heavy wall 
 with but one gate, and that almost touching upon a 
 corner of the keep, separated this little group of de 
 fensible structures from the palace itself, which was built 
 about three sides of an inner court, stone-paved and 
 treeless. Such were the buildings. One more bit of the 
 plan, however, and that the quaintest, shortest-men- 
 
i9 2 2Jncattoni?et) 
 
 tioned, and therefore least impregnable and most in 
 viting, in this sombre dwelling-place, remains to be 
 given. Outside the walls, but within the moat, reached 
 by a small gateway from a corner of the keep court 
 yard, protected on three sides by the Avon's stream, and 
 nestling close to the great wall upon the other, lay the 
 only jewel in this box of stones. It was called the 
 King's Orchard, and was, in truth, a tiny garden, 
 bowered and posied for ladies, lovers, and children 
 should any of these hapless beings dare to dwell within 
 yonder unbeautiful walls. Here had been made all the 
 whispered history of the fortress, and from here apple- 
 trees, rustling among themselves, peered with flagrant, 
 fragrant impudence over the walls and into the court 
 yard, or out over the swift-flowing water, a little nearer 
 to the free fields beyond, as they chose ; spoiled, after 
 the manner of lovely living things. 
 
 It was six o'clock in the afternoon and gloomy enough 
 outside, when Anthony and John Norman left the 
 castle, crossed the cobble-stones, and passed the open 
 gate which admitted them to the outer wall of the keep. 
 The ponderous door of this great building was unlocked, 
 the key, which lay in its hole, being as long as a man's 
 leg from his thigh to his knee, and almost as heavy. 
 The first floor of the fortress was occupied by the hand 
 ful of men composing the King's guard, together with 
 their captain. At this time nine of the dozen were 
 within their room, sprawling out by a roaring fire, 
 before which lay roasting the meat for their evening 
 meal. Amusement was furnished these rough creatures 
 by the driving away and harassing of a little army 
 of dogs that besieged them again and again, eager to 
 reach the food whose odor came in maddening strength 
 to their nostrils. 
 
 Some of these members of the royal army looked up 
 at the entrance of the monk, but, contrary to their usual 
 custom, offered neither jest nor comment upon the 
 
la jttarc^e 193 
 
 visitor's garb. Anthony and the keeper turned off to 
 the right, and entered the tower, up through which 
 ran a narrow, spiral staircase. Ascending this for some 
 little distance, a new sound reached their ears, to mingle 
 oddly with the noise from below. It was the music of 
 a troubadour's lute, which was accompanying a man's 
 voice, singing pleasantly a chansonette from a land over 
 the sea. For here, in the second story of Bristol keep, 
 lodged, for the most part in peace, the Lord Count 
 Hugh de la Marche, and his four gentlemen, who sat 
 now about their fire; the remains of food and wine 
 lying on a table which had been pushed aside, showing 
 that their evening meal was already over. The five of 
 them were all good-looking fellows, clad in garments 
 excellent of material and make, if somewhat ancient in 
 fashion. He who held the lute was the handsomest of 
 all, with his pointed beard, curling black hair that 
 reached to his shoulders, and eyes dark and severe as 
 Anthony's own. 
 
 At the doorway to this good-sized room John Norman 
 turned about and retraced his steps down the stairs, 
 leaving Anthony alone behind the strangers. He stood 
 there for a little time in shadow, unnoticed, watching 
 the men, and intently examining the great, broad- 
 shouldered, broad-belted figure of De la Marche, who, 
 by every trick of manner, showed himself to be the ruler 
 of the other four. Clad as he was in a much-patched 
 tunic, and hose that bore strong evidence of a man's 
 clumsy attempt at needle-wielding, his brown beard 
 and hair much lightened with gray, his face sombre and 
 careworn, there was yet enough of majestic dignity 
 in his appearance to mark him as a man whom, per 
 chance, a royal maiden might believe herself to love 
 distantly. 
 
 It was De la Marche who finally perceived the monk. 
 Rising silently from his place beside the fire, he strode 
 to the doorway, and grasped Anthony by the shoulder 
 
194 2Jncanottf?ct) 
 
 with such unconscious strength in his iron fingers that 
 the other's brows contracted with pain. 
 
 " Soho ! Mes Sieurs ! Behold here our timid con 
 fessor," he cried in a deep voice, and speaking in ex 
 cellent English. Then, instantly, he turned again to 
 Anthony, with a manner totally changed. " Pardon me. 
 For the moment I had forgot your birth." 
 
 " My birth ! De Burgh hath been here, then? " 
 
 " Gone not half an hour." 
 
 " So I had thought. Verily I would thank my lord 
 an he prated something less about my parentage. T is 
 none too honorable. Behold me here a common Bene 
 dictine monk, and treat me thus, Count Hugh de la 
 Marche. I am no more than that." 
 
 " A common monk you are not, and could not be, 
 speaking so," responded one of the gentlemen, he with 
 the lute, looking up pleasantly. And Anthony liked 
 him at once for his manner. 
 
 De la Marche courteously mentioned each of the 
 knights by name, Louis de la Bordelaye being the 
 minstrel, and Anthony bowed to them all, with an air 
 so obviously of the court that the Count smiled beneath 
 his beard, and the others felt it only right that they 
 should receive him as an equal. 
 
 "You come from the Lady Eleanor? " asked Hugh at 
 last, with a side-glance at De la Bordelaye, which none 
 but Anthony failed to notice. 
 
 " I have been with her since noon," was the stolid 
 response, as the monk stared into the flames. 
 
 "She is well?" 
 
 "In body yes." 
 
 "Nay, come, Sir Monk, assuredly she hath no^ mental 
 ailment? " 
 
 " Save a certain right pleasant one, to which young 
 damsels are, I am told, most prone. Look you, good 
 father, she doth imagine that De la " the speech thus 
 merrily begun by one of the other knights was speedily 
 
la jttarc^e 195 
 
 interrupted by La Marche, and the speaker subdued by 
 a black look from Louis De la Bordelaye. The Count 
 spoke. 
 
 " Your answer, Sir Anthony, as to madam's state ; and 
 then methinks we must to business, an you would see 
 De Burgh. to-night." 
 
 " Truly, my Lord Count, the Princess hath no mental dis 
 traction that I wot of, but rather a sickness of the heart " 
 
 "What said I?" cried the fool, delightedly;* and 
 Anthony could not repress a flickering of the lips, as he 
 went on as phlegmatically as he was able : 
 
 " A sickness of heart caused by the long solitude of 
 her imprisonment; and mourning over the like con 
 dition of her young brother, Arthur Fitz-Geoffrey ; and 
 the death of the Queen Dowager, her grandmother. 
 'T is a lonely life, and a sad, for such a maid." 
 
 "'True; true. But indeed we hold little power to 
 help the poor damsel, being ourselves in a somewhat 
 melancholy plight. Now, father, thy excuses and mine 
 to these gentlemen, and we will retire to the privacy of 
 mine own luxurious room, in this hospitable keep. 
 And see, La Ferriere, that when an hour be passed 
 you summon us ; for De Burgh awaits his good friend 
 at the Falcon Inn." 
 
 So, using his gruff voice most courteously, Count 
 Hugh led the way into one of the tiny rooms, which, 
 opening from the central apartment at each corner of 
 the keep, formed, on the ground floor, arsenals and 
 guard-rooms, and on the third story made turret watch- 
 towers, but here, in the middle, had been furnished as 
 meagrely as possible, and turned into sleeping-rooms 
 for the Wolf of Poictou and his followers. The door to 
 the Count's room once closed, the twain inside found it 
 cold enough, and were glad to bend over the brazier 
 which De la Marche now lighted, illuminating, at the 
 same time, the two cresset lanterns in the walls of his 
 comfortless abode. 
 
*9 6 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 " Now," he said at length, when both were seated, 
 " from De Burgh who, as thou knowest, was with me 
 to-day, I have learned somewhat of thy history, so that, 
 ere I saw thee, I was fain to regard thee as more courtier 
 than monk, and a rabid supporter of the usurper. But 
 in some way this sackcloth doth become thee well, and 
 the tonsure so finishes the disguise that verily his Holi 
 ness himself might have believed thee born to the 
 novitiate." 
 
 " And to what end this discourse, my Lord Count? " 
 inquired Anthony, with chilly anger. 
 
 " You like it not?" queried De la Marche, eying him 
 closely. 
 
 " I would have you to understand only that I am no 
 more than I seem, a Benedictine monk, without rank 
 in my abbey. Pope Innocent hath empowered me to 
 confess the Princess Eleanor of Brittany, in the castle 
 yonder; and if Hubert de Burgh hath thus imagined 
 me an ordered priest, with all hope of rising to a Car- 
 dinalship, he is indeed sorely mistaken. An you bid 
 me do so, I will go with you through the forms of con 
 fession ; and rest assured that the law of secrecy shall 
 be in no way violated by me. Absolution I cannot 
 promise you. That is all that I will say." 
 
 " And bravely spoken, man or monk, whiche'er thou 
 art. But in this way my course is made none so easy." 
 
 " Thy course? What should that be? " 
 
 " Just this. From what Hubert de Burgh did say I 
 understand that you are to be the only thing in sem 
 blance of priest or confessor permitted to come to us in 
 this cursed, interdicted land. Now, Father Anthony 
 (out of jest, at least, I will so call you), I, Hugo de la 
 Marche, am verily in sore need of advice. There be 
 many things in this England of to-day which an im 
 prisoned man, who hears naught of out-world opinions, 
 finds all but impossible to comprehend. Thus one who 
 knows somewhat of the damnable twists and quirls of 
 
la |Earc^e 197 
 
 intrigues of the court would indeed be a valued counselor 
 for him who hath been, for many years gone by, a rude 
 fighting man from the distant province of another land. 
 In sooth, the glitter of your eyes tempts me to disclose 
 some of the haps in this strange centre of cross-roads 
 where I stand. Say, good monk, wilt speak out honestly ? 
 My Lord de Burgh as confidant was not to be thought 
 on. Only you courtier will you use your wits as 
 well as your secrecy in my behalf? " 
 
 " Time presses, Count Hugh. An thou wilt speak at 
 once, do so. My mind is thine. My word as to dis 
 closure hath also been given. In other case I would 
 fain bid thee good-even, and get me at once to the Falcon 
 Inn, and to my lord." 
 
 "Well, then, the parley ends. I will tell thee what I 
 myself do know. Then 'twill be thy turn for the 
 unravelling. Firstly, however, answer me this. Thou 
 knowest mine old relations with Is with the Queen of 
 England?" 
 
 " You were her guardian, and lawfully betrothed to 
 her." 
 
 " Ay ; guardian and lover of a spotless maid, whom 
 John John Lackland, he whom you call King of this 
 broken realm " De la Marche's eyes were flaming, and 
 his voice was husky. 
 
 " Enough, Lord Count. John of England wedded the 
 maiden, Isabella of Angouleme, and hath dwelt with 
 her since then. For you, fruitless rage and rebellion 
 brought you to this strong-walled and ill-kept fortress of 
 the King's grace. So much, indeed, I know." 
 
 " So I hear," quoth the Count, lapsed again into gloom. 
 " What you have said, though somewhat brief, and par 
 tial withal, is truth. T is history of my happiness and 
 my hate. Isabella of Angouleme I have learned to know 
 at last. She hath grown like to her husband heartless 
 and cruel ; lovely as a morn of summer is she, all ex 
 cept her mouth; she is frivolous, extravagant, vain, 
 
scornful. And this woman I despise as once I did love 
 her mightily. I would that I might not look upon 
 her face again. And yet, Anthony, it may perchance 
 be that my homeward road lies through the palace where 
 she dwells. And how it is that I long for the borders 
 of Poictou, and for my people, my trusted knights, my 
 faithful servants, only an exile from them all could un 
 derstand. 'T is not in me, as a man, to weep ; else, 
 methinks, mine eyes would have fallen out in hot 
 showers long ere this, so sore is my heart. Seven 
 months have I lain here, and before that we were eleven 
 in Corfe, and e'en ere that in Falaise, during the sum 
 mer after its siege. So, you see, I am no stranger to 
 barred loopholes, and locked doors, and vile fare. 
 Now list you well. 
 
 " During all these many months and years has come 
 never a word from Isabella. Here, four days since, 
 while I walked for an hour at noon in the mud of the 
 King's Orchard, there appeared, upon the farther shore 
 of the swirling Avon, an archer, with his crossbow and 
 arrows. From over the river he accosted my guard, 
 like a merry rascal, asking if he should shoot from his 
 helmet the ragged gage that some wench had fastened 
 there. The guard did but laugh, when, presto;! swift as 
 the pebble that slew Goliath of old, came the arrow, 
 and carried right cleanly the gauntlet before it, nor 
 scratched the iron of the cap, grazing it by a hair's- 
 breadth. 'T was a rare archer, truly, and I laughed at 
 Master Nicholas as have not laughed, methinks, since 
 my last Poictevin feast. Nicholas raged like a bear, 
 and being himself without spear or bow, forgetting my 
 presence utterly, all in an instant dashed away from the 
 garden and up toward the guardhouse for his weapon. 
 Now, when he was gone, I turned mine eyes upon the 
 stranger, albeit I could make out no feature of his face, 
 for the sun in my eyes. He, too, when the worthy man 
 had left me, came close to the water's edge and looked 
 
la jttarctye 199 
 
 at me. Presently, he waved his hand. Then I, from 
 curiosity and sudden suspicion, likewise, went down to 
 the water on my side, and there we stood, with but 
 thirty feet of the river between us. Leaning over, he 
 spoke to me warily. 
 
 " ' This arrow bears you a gage, better than that which 
 I shot away, Count Hugh de la Marche.' 
 
 " And immediately bringing a small gray arrow out 
 from beneath his cloak, he made a delicate half-shot 
 with the bow, and the thing dropped perhaps three 
 feet beyond me. I hurried to it, fearing mightily lest 
 Nicholas might be already near. Picking it up I 
 found, as indeed I had hoped, a small parchment fas 
 tened upon it. This I unbound and had concealed but 
 just in time; the arrow I flung quietly into the stream, 
 whose swift waters bore it out of sight. My guard, 
 having returned, came toward me, bawling to know 
 whither the insolent had departed ; and, in truth, when 
 I looked once more about, he was nowhere in sight. 
 It was an hour ere I could read my letter, and never 
 hath a recreation time passed on such laggard feet. 
 'T was a curious and needlessly troublous way to get it 
 to my hand, I had thought ; and yet when 't is read 
 See here, Anthony. Behold, I will trust thee even to 
 this. Here is Isabella's very missive. Read it for thy 
 self, and tell me thy thought upon it." 
 
 Anthony took the small, yellow thing into his hands, 
 and, in the dim light, hurriedly perused the few ill-spelt 
 words which it contained. 
 
 To MY LORD COUNT, HUGO DE LA MARCHE: 
 
 Perchance thou, in anger, hast forgot a woman unworthy. 
 Not so have I forgotten thee. My heart is bitter at thought 
 of thy long imprisonment. I would aid thee to be rid of it. 
 This, I swear to thee, shall be done, an thou consent to my 
 hope, and give some gage of thine own as pledge to one who 
 shall come to thee during the next few days. 
 
200 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 With the assistance of my good friend, the Bishop of 
 London, who is, likewise, no friend to the King of this king 
 dom, thou and thy gentlemen shall be removed from Bristol, 
 which is too far from here, to the Tower of London. Here, 
 while the King is in the North, whither presently he departs, 
 I shall have chance to see thee, and then, if thou assent to 
 my prayers, thou shalt be freed, through me, 
 
 ISABELLE D'ANGOULEME. 
 
 Anthony finished the letter, and sat meditating over 
 it for some moments. The Count watched his face 
 narrowly, but ventured no interrupting remark. Finally 
 the monk looked up. 
 
 " The second messenger hath not yet come? " 
 
 " Assuredly not." 
 
 " And dost understand that phrase, ' if thou assent 
 to my prayers ' ? " 
 
 " Tis capable of two meanings, Sir Monk. I confess 
 that I know not which the woman would have us read." 
 
 " Methinks it means not only that she would pray 
 you to escape ; 't is something she would ask of you." 
 
 " There is full little that I would grant her," returned 
 Hugh, his face flushing. 
 
 "The question lies not so much in that, my lord. 
 The matter is this ; art thou, Count of Poictou, so lack 
 ing in power of endurance of hardship, and honorable 
 discontent, that thou wouldst eagerly consent to being 
 aided in dishonorable flight by a woman who, once 
 before, did play thee doubly false? Wouldst place 
 thyself at mercy of her caprice, for the very thought of 
 escaping to thy home again ? Thinkest thou that when 
 thy flight is known, its means will long be hidden? 
 And be well assured that with its discovery all England, 
 ay, and France, too, will ring with news of thy sh - 
 
 " Enough, enough, enough ! Be silent, monk ! " cried 
 the Count in a passion. Then, after a pause, he pro 
 ceeded more calmly. " Now see. I had not before 
 
la ttarcle 201 
 
 looked upon this matter in such a light. Mine only 
 fear had been lest Isabella had not indeed hatched this 
 idea. Might it not, perchance, be the King himself, 
 wishing to entrap me, she giving willing aid labori 
 ously writing ('twas I that taught her) and he 
 grinning with thought of my disappointed hope over 
 her shoulder? " 
 
 " That is alike ungenerous and untrue. This letter, 
 I would swear, was writ by Isabella's hand, and the plot 
 intrigue what you will, is hers alone. 'T is a 
 woman's idea, romantic, indefinite, and well-nigh im 
 possible to be carried out." 
 
 " Thy reasons are as flimsy as a woman's own, Master 
 Anthony ! " 
 
 "Wouldst really go, then? Well, hear the real 
 reason why John would lure his wife into no such un 
 worthy plot. The King and Queen are lovers no 
 longer. Over all the land has spread the story of 
 faithlessness and frivolity on her part, high-handed 
 scorn on his. No longer do they e'en keep court at 
 the same castle. The King travels continually, hither 
 and yon, while Isabella dwells chiefly at Winchester, 
 with her children and train. Now, Hugh de la Marche, 
 thou shalt decide for thyself." 
 
 Isabella's old-time guardian frowned, paced the room 
 once or twice, then looked up with a grim smile. 
 " Well wert thou instructed in thy youth at court, and 
 easily hast thou prevailed over me, a bluff fighting-man. 
 So be it. De la Bordelaye, at least, will be content, 
 methinks." 
 
 " Thy gentlemen have been consulted?" 
 
 " Of a surety. They are faithful comrades near to 
 brethren by now. Much do I owe them, that can be 
 ill repaid." 
 
 " And the Sieur de la Bordelaye doth so love this 
 gloomy place?" 
 
 " Again, yes ; sith it holds another heart for him." 
 
202 
 
 "Another heart?" 
 
 " Ah, well, good Anthony, sith Louis hath not, this 
 evening, the honor of confessional with thee, I will e'en 
 speak for him. Alack ! Poor soul ! He is lost, mind 
 and body in love." 
 
 " Over whom ? " asked Anthony, harshly. 
 
 "One too high ay, far too high, for him, were 
 either of them in free estate. But here here 'tis at 
 best only a note now and again, amiably delivered by 
 old John, who also spells them all out, if spell he can, 
 I doubt not; or possibly a meeting once in a twelve 
 month i' the King's Orchard, where they need no guard 
 to watch lest they attempt some desperate measure. 
 Yet how is it canst tell me, monk, how is it that any 
 henchman in the place would rather watch mon Sieur's 
 languishing eyes, and the lady's faintly smiling lips, when 
 they two are alone together, than " 
 
 "Then it is Eleanor, Princess of Brittany?" cried 
 Anthony, angrily. " And how dare he your Sieur de 
 Rien du Tout, raise his presumptuous eyes to one such 
 as " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. Hugh had laid a quiet finger 
 on his arm, and was smiling at him, albeit sadly. " Thou 
 also, Anthony?" he asked. " But be not so wroth with 
 Louis. No wrong will he ever do, I swear to thee, for his 
 honor is as quick to fire as thine own. His very worst 
 offence, I deem, is his torturing of our ears here with 
 love ditties on his lute, till we go well nigh 'mad with 
 laughter and envy. Ma Dame la Princesse is in very 
 truth scarce likely to see a court again, in all her poor 
 pitiful life, an I do rightly judge John of England. 
 Why, then, should not that bit of pleasure, if pleasure 
 it be, indeed, be won for her by Louis de la Bordelaye, 
 O monk of the haunted eyes?" 
 
 Anthony rose abruptly. " Well, my Lord Count, an 
 thou hast finished with me for the time, I will e'en bid thee 
 good-even. My Lord de Burgh awaits me at the inn." 
 
la jHarc^e 203 
 
 " Then part not with me in anger, for I trust that 
 ofttimes we shall meet again." 
 
 "Thou hast decided to remain here?" 
 
 " 'T was thou didst wake within me a tardy con 
 science i' the matter. But oh ! the mind of a woman ! 
 How fathom, untangle, or get it into light? Isabella! 
 'Tis the word most natural to my tongue in any lan 
 guage ; and yet how far I am ! Nay, now. Thank thee, 
 and fare thee well, and commend us all to God, and 
 to my Lord de Burgh ! " 
 
 So it was with a slight smile that Anthony passed 
 out of the room, bowed gravely to the little group of 
 gentlemen who sat still before the fire in their common 
 apartment, and ere long felt the raw night wind sweep 
 into his eyes, in the courtyard below. Over the draw 
 bridge and into Saint Peter's square, empty now, and 
 desolate, and thus down into the dark, narrow, and 
 filthy streets of the city, he passed. And in ten min 
 utes he stood again upon the threshold of the Falcon 
 Inn, which was filling rapidly with guests of an hour, 
 before whose eyes lay no longer any disturbing vision 
 of confession and penance for unseemly carousal, to 
 follow the evening's hilarity. 
 
 With his day, his thought, his life, behind him, 
 Anthony entered in, asking wearily of the landlord 
 for the apartment of Hubert de Burgh. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE APOSTASY 
 
 HUBERT DE BURGH, attired in a gaily broid- 
 ered tunic of blue, with white jewelled belt and 
 fur-bordered shoes of endless length, sat in 
 one of his rooms, at the Falcon Inn, before a table 
 upon which lay some curious toilet articles and a 
 steel mirror. One of his gentlemen of the chamber, 
 who to-day would be nothing more nor less than a 
 valet, was combing, perfuming, and twisting his long, 
 brown hair, while he himself went carefully over his 
 nails and his well -shaped hands, after the manner of 
 the French courtiers. At that day no Englishman of 
 any class took particular care of details of his person, 
 and those few who had been vain enough to ape the 
 fashions of a rival nation rarely ventured to mention 
 it even among themselves, for fear of merited jests. 
 But it must be acknowledged that the result of De 
 Burgh's secret pains had won him large reward in the 
 favor of a king and the envy of a court. 
 
 According to the provincial ideas of the Falcon's 
 keeper, the hour for heavy meats had passed. Evi 
 dently, however, such was not my lord's notion, since 
 in the room beyond that in which the toilet was being 
 performed could be seen a table ready set, laden with 
 food and richly spiced wines; and the stools beside 
 it numbered two. 
 
 "That is a right shapely curl over my left ear, 
 Geoffrey. Hath Martin brought any word as to the 
 reluctant men-at-arms who must join our train for 
 Windsor to-morrow?" 
 
205 
 
 " 'T is reported that they are reluctant, indeed, my 
 lord, saying openly that it is in no way their wish to 
 serve a usurping king." 
 
 " Ay John ! John ! 'T is as if the hand of every 
 man, within his kingdom or out of it, were turned 
 against him ! De Rupibus and three other bishops, 
 and Henry, and Peter, and Robert de Laci, and one 
 or two others, so few that all could be accommodated 
 within this very inn, methinks, these we know. 
 The others turn by starts toward Rome or Paris. 
 How came this scratch across the mirror, Geoffrey? 
 The line of my nose is grievously obscured by it ! " 
 
 " An it please thee, my lord, 't was thine own 
 signet " 
 
 A stout knock interrupted the man's reply, and De 
 Burgh motioned him to the door, not rising himself. 
 Geoffrey opened it with a flourish. Outside stood the 
 son of the landlord. 
 
 " Ohe ! " cried Hubert. " What would you, villain ? " 
 
 "Oh, my lord," responded the boy, with a grin of 
 confusion, " my father bade me say there was a monk 
 below would see you." 
 
 "Anthony at last! Have him lighted hither in 
 stantly, boy. Get thee gone! Dost hear? " 
 
 When the messenger departed De Burgh rose from 
 his stool, shaking himself vigorously, and at the same 
 time sending forth a strong odor of perfume from his 
 hair and garments. Then he strode into the small 
 dining-room and surveyed the repast outspread. A 
 clap of his hands brought another of the train his 
 steward out of a third room. 
 
 " Look you now, Edward, have the hot viands 
 brought in at once, and see that we are right well 
 served. Some of the wine ye may have heated. 
 There's a rare chill in the air for a spring night 
 and no fire in these petty rooms." 
 
 "My Lord de Burgh!" 
 
206 eancanonf?et) 
 
 Hubert turned about with smiling haste and held 
 out both his hands to Anthony, who stood upon the 
 threshold, behind him. 
 
 " Well met and well come, at last, dear monk ! The 
 sight of thee, Anthony, brightens mine eyes, as doth 
 that of a lady her lover's." And despite the extrava 
 gance of the words, De Burgh's pleasure was so evident 
 that Anthony had almost grasped the hands held out to 
 him without further ado. 
 
 Some other feeling came over him, however, and he 
 stopped still where he stood, retaining his grave 
 manner. "'Twill be easier and better without sem 
 blance between us," he said, with open bitterness. 
 
 De Burgh's hands fell to his sides. He stepped 
 back a pace, and looked earnestly into Anthony's eyes. 
 Having done so for a long minute, his gay and slightly 
 artificial air fell from him, and there was sincerity in 
 his voice as he said in an ordinary tone : "Sit thee 
 down here at table with me. Thou canst have had full 
 little to eat to-day. Hot wine and a stew will appear 
 directly, an I mistake not, We will talk as we satisfy 
 our hunger." 
 
 The monk, seeing nothing simpler to be done, sat 
 down at one end of the board, the courtier being oppo 
 site him, at the other. Anthony remained silent, 
 though he tried to force himself to speak. De Burgh, 
 after waiting for a little, presently broke silence. 
 
 "Well, thou'st seen the Princess, Anthony, at 
 last ? " 
 
 "At last, yes." 
 
 De Burgh took quick note of the tone, but gave no 
 sign. " And she is as fair as thy fancy painted ? " 
 
 " She hath two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and is straight 
 of limb. I came not to you to prate of a maid. Me- 
 thinks that by now, at least, De Burgh, you should 
 know that women are naught to me." 
 
 "And yet at Canterbury," mused the courtier, 
 
207 
 
 gently, " I mind me that thou wert not so indifferent 
 to the mention of her. Nay, man, the idea of behold 
 ing her for thyself brightened thine eyes wondrously." 
 
 " You have a long memory. But could you not sur 
 mise, my lord, that nine months of waiting were suffi 
 cient to cool such heat? " 
 
 "Ay. I forget not that those months must have 
 been sorely tedious for thee, albeit to me they have 
 flown like a troubled day, a fevered day, Anthony, 
 when we cannot count the turns we make upon the 
 pillow, and still the twilight seems to fall atop o' 
 sunrise. But thou, good Aha ! the stew at last ! 
 It hath an excellent flavor to the nostril, hath it not? 
 And the wine! Here, fill thy horn, comrade, and 
 drink with me to our king, thine and mine!" 
 
 Despite his persistent gloom, Anthony was affected 
 by the kindly, jovial manner of this many-sided man, 
 and, filling his ox-horn with the excellent red bever 
 age, he looked straight into the clear eyes of De Burgh, 
 and proved his loyalty with such good-will that his 
 horn was empty ere he had ceased to drink; a matter 
 of custom and necessity alike, indeed, in those days 
 when " tumblers " were originated. The toast finished, 
 both set to work upon the pigeons, De Burgh appearing 
 to be of better appetite than he was; while Anthony 
 ate honestly of the fare so long strange to his palate. 
 
 The monk was first to break this silence, though it 
 was with slight hesitation that he did so, and only 
 after a little struggle within himself to let open frank 
 ness gain the victory. As he spoke he bent over his 
 trencher, toying with the dagger in his hand, and not 
 raising his eyes to the other's face. 
 
 "Nine months have gone for you like a fevered 
 dream, Hubert. In all that time had you indeed never 
 a thought to send a word or a missive bearing greeting 
 and courage to me? Great man you are; yet once 
 were a friend, my friend." 
 
208 2Jncanoni?cD 
 
 De Burgh finished his bite, regarding Anthony in 
 puzzled fashion the while. " Robert the Slight my 
 churl bore thee a letter from me 't was, let me 
 think, 't was now three months agone. The King was 
 in France, and I in the North ; and I sent to tell thee 
 that none had forgotten thee ; that the Princess was stub 
 born; that France filled John's mind; the Lion mine; 
 and the Pope the leisure hours of us both. Hast for 
 got? For I mind me that Robert did deliver it." 
 
 Anthony rose slowly to his feet, raising his eyes. 
 De Burgh met his gaze openly and calmly. "I had 
 no letter/' said the monk. 
 
 De Burgh looked troubled. " Anthony I swear to 
 you 't was sent. Would that the man who carried it 
 were here. But the wish is useless. He died in 
 Scotland a month since. Now might the message 
 not have reached the hands of some other in the abbey 
 the prior, who forgot to give it you or " 
 
 Anthony sat down again. His expression was im 
 passive. He did not believe De Burgh; he could 
 not. Yet he was generous enough to appreciate and 
 to forgive the wish for friendship and good-will that 
 apparently prompted the lie upon the courtier's part. 
 " Say no more, Hubert. The matter shall be forgot 
 ten. Doubtless some accident occurred to the missive 
 that it reached me not. We will speak no more on the 
 affair." 
 
 And Hubert de Burgh, recognizing Anthony's atti 
 tude, and knowing himself to be powerless, accepted 
 the inevitable, and silently stretched out his hand, 
 making only this silent plea for belief. 
 
 Anthony accepted the hand, albeit with a scarcely 
 perceptible hesitation, and with another look into 
 Hubert's steady eyes. So the incident passed; nine 
 months of suffering were slid over by a word, but the 
 trace and the scar remained, sealed invisibly upon 
 a soul. 
 
209 
 
 " And now, Anthony, to business, though affairs of 
 state after evensong like me none too well. Still, 
 since I am for London and thou for Glastonbury in 
 another twelve hours' time, it must be so. What of 
 Jocelyn of Bath?" 
 
 As he finished this abrupt question there shot into 
 Hubert's eyes a gleam of -amusement, which Anthony 
 perceived. 
 
 "Jocelyn of Bath? Who is Jocelyn of Bath, my 
 Lord de Burgh? " he inquired with great deliberation. 
 
 The King's favorite laughed loud and deeply. 
 "That is thou, indeed, the Anthony of old! 'T was 
 well spoken, I do affirm. ' Who is Jocelyn of Bath ! ' 
 But be not so bitter, friend; though, verily, thou 'st 
 right enow to be so, living all claustral-like within 
 thyself as thou dost. But, ah me, Anthony ! Merry 
 England 's in moil enow to take ten men's tongues to 
 recount the happenings since Canterbury Chapter was 
 dissolved." 
 
 " Somewhat of those doings and all their weight I 
 can surmise, since they have come to end in Interdict 
 at last," responded the monk, with growing interest. 
 
 "Ay, and thy training at court will stand thee in 
 good stead now, for the tale that must be told thee in 
 excuse for leaving thee so long without news of the 
 outer world. Thou shalt see that our life hath been 
 neither idle nor easy. Now list. 
 
 "'T is, as you will guess, this same, ancient, never- 
 ending quarrel betwixt mitre and crown, that began 
 half a century ago, with the second Henry, and that 
 Becket saint or devil, whichever you like to call 
 him. Ay, and before him 't was the same thing, if 
 less bitterly, with the Normans and the Saxons, and 
 where 't will end the good God knoweth. The Pope, 
 the Pope, the Pope would rule earth and heaven 
 alike, and never a strong king that will not fight for 
 his right. Since the popes have been, so long, too, 
 
 14 
 
has the See of Canterbury made the thorn i' the 
 wound. This Stephen Langton, as all Christendom 
 knows, is a French dogmatist, high in favor with 
 Philip, and leaning ever an eager ear towards each 
 insidious whisper of his master. Place him in power 
 second only to the King in England? 'Nay!' cries 
 John, and with him every loyal Englishman. ' Thou 
 shalt!' bawls Innocent. Philip of France swells out 
 in silent importance (greatly do I fear lest some day he 
 will burst with schemes and vanity, O Anthony!). 
 And the rest of the world looks on, with finger in 
 its mouth, and eyes staring. Presently Stephen 
 catches a wink from his Holiness and grins. The 
 fighting barons smell trouble; and, comprehending not 
 the cause, go lock themselves each in his castle, send 
 insulting couriers to the King, and make them ready, 
 like the stupid owls they are, to foster siege and rebel 
 lion. Meantime John, all melancholy, sits at Windsor, 
 and there do wait upon him envoys from the Pope, 
 cardinals from the Pope, legates from the Pope, and 
 fair deputations of our own English bishops, false to 
 the core, every man of them but three. Each party 
 hath new wiles, smiles, and propositions. Each the 
 King receives and sends away, with small etiquette and 
 promises few. Stephen Langton hurries privily to his 
 poor rotting See, to learn what favor waits him there. 
 And Stephen Langton is hurried right speedily out of 
 Canterbury by his good enemy, John, and landed, with 
 neither wound nor oath, once more upon the shores of 
 Normandy. Then the Pope, at last enraged to action, 
 ordered the Interdict. 
 
 "With all this coil, Anthony, there have been rebel 
 lions in Wales and Ireland, raids upon poor North - 
 umbria by the accursed William of Scotland, and 
 discontent where'er it might be hatched. The King 
 smiles still, but his eyes are weary. Isabella hath 
 betaken herself again to Winchester to mope and sulk. 
 
211 
 
 She refuses to see John. And I I, Anthony, 
 throughout the winter, have been my beloved master's 
 second self. Methinks there is not a single spot where 
 people dwell in this poor land that I have not stood 
 upon, with pleasant words, and patience, and largesse 
 for all. No rest has there been for me, and I am glad 
 that it is so. I have not had the time to think. But 
 I swear to thee, Anthony, that ofttimes when I have 
 glanced at the King's face in an untoward moment, the 
 tears have started to mine eyes for him. 
 
 " And now for the end of all, and the pith of it for 
 thee: Jocelyn of Bath, Stephen Langton's sworn 
 friend, the Pope's favored son, and, as he saith him 
 self (having none better to say it for him), King 
 John's most loyal subject, hath been in his town of 
 Bath but once during the winter. Glastonbury he has, 
 for the moment, ceased to trouble, being intent on 
 vaguer and greater hopes. Ods blood ! How the 
 little spider crawls over and through his shaky web of 
 intrigue ! In a hallucination he dreams that there lie 
 within it flies for him to eat at leisure ; Langton and 
 the King, and, mark you, monk, the good folk who 
 dwell in the See of Canterbury ! A petty fool he is ; 
 looking well, he fancies, in his mitre and robes of 
 state. John will have none of him, Stephen caresses 
 him, Innacent smiles at him distantly. Therefore 
 Glastonbury lies untroubled now, and also, for all these 
 weary reasons, Anthony, thy mission was useless, and 
 thou hast been neglected; but earnestly do I beg 
 forgiveness, since at last thy loneliness is broken, and 
 thou shalt never be left so again. My history is 
 ended. What thinkest thou of it? " 
 
 "But the Interdict, Hubert! the Interdict!" cried 
 Anthony, eagerly, even while once more he cordially 
 grasped the outstretched hand offered him. " How 
 doth the King receive that?" 
 
 "You forget that I have seen him not since 'twas 
 
212 
 
 pronounced. However, when last I was with him in 
 London he was anticipating its coming. And he 
 laughed over it but such a laugh as I have prayed 
 never to hear again. He will not give in, I promise 
 you ; nor will the Pope. And so where will it all 
 end ? " 
 
 "Thine eyes betray thy trouble, Hubert. 'T is a 
 serious thing, all this; yet not such as should kill a 
 man. Forget it now, for the nonce, and let us speak 
 of other things." 
 
 De Burgh's face brightened a little, and the corners 
 of his mouth loosened. "Heigho! Thou 'rt comfort 
 able, verily, Anthony. And art not discontented at 
 the want of thy work at Glastonbury?" 
 
 " Since I never had it, it is not lost ; and as for con 
 tent, one monastery is as good as another, I ween," 
 responded the monk, with less life in his tone. The 
 thought of the monastery had left his head that day for 
 the first time since his monkhood, and the recurrence 
 of it was like a blow upon an unhealed wound. 
 
 "And for thyself. Thou wert pleased with the 
 Castle of Bristol town ? " inquired the noble, refilling 
 his horn. 
 
 "I looked not so much at the castle as at its habi 
 tants." 
 
 "Ah ! you saw La Marche, then ? " 
 
 " I came to the keep over your scarce cold foot 
 steps." 
 
 "True. I visited him to-day." 
 
 "On whose behalf?" questioned Anthony, un 
 guardedly. 
 
 "Whose but the King's?" was the instantly wary 
 reply. 
 
 "Nay. I had thought it perhaps but curiosity on 
 thy part ; that, or a desire to further me a reputation 
 with the Count. It appeared that thy tongue had run 
 right trippingly over my family and myself, Lord 
 
213 
 
 Hubert. Thou 'st given me a pretty standard to keep 
 with them." 
 
 Hubert laughed. "Good Anthony, 'twas but an 
 earnest desire on my part that you should see all the 
 curiosities within those walls, that led me to laud you 
 before De la Marche. Poor man ! I do pity him. He 
 was a right gallant fighter in the old French days." 
 
 Now Anthony, setting down for the last time the 
 jewelled dagger with which he had been eating, dipped 
 his hands into the bowl of water set for the purpose, 
 waved them dry in the air after. the most approved and 
 elegant manner, then rose restlessly from the table. 
 He had something to say concerning which he was 
 unaccountably reluctant. 
 
 " Surely thou hast not yet finished?" asked De 
 Burgh, pleasantly, himself washing his hands, how 
 ever. 
 
 " Ay. I have finished, and must presently be off to 
 my chamber to sleep." 
 
 "'Tis not late. Though both of us will be up 
 betimes i' the morning." 
 
 " Yes. Before I leave thee, however, I have some 
 what to request on behalf of the Princess Eleanor." 
 
 " So-ho ! Already knight-errant and protector, eh ? " 
 responded De Burgh, using, however, a most agreeable 
 tone. 
 
 " 'T is naught that thou needst fear, Hubert. Only 
 this: the lady is pitifully weary of her life, of its 
 lonely monotony, and of her only companions, the 
 two French demoiselles, who, as thou knowest, have 
 been with her since she left Falaise. I did promise, 
 when I left her, that, an thou wouldst consent, I 
 would bring to her on my next visit a new attendant, 
 one of our own English girls, who would be willing to 
 be excluded from the world an she might serve the 
 Princess. What sayest thou ? " 
 
 De Burgh was silent for some moments; then he 
 
214 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 asked : " Who is the woman ? Some one near to 
 Eleanor's own station, who knows somewhat of courts 
 and kings and lies?" 
 
 " Nay, just the opposite to all of that. She is but a 
 peasant maid, the daughter of the tenant of one of the 
 Glastonbury farms, who is, methinks, in danger from 
 one or two of the lay-brothers, farmerers of the abbey. 
 'T would be a boon to her to take her away for a little 
 time." 
 
 " Um. So it might seem. What says the Princess 
 to the introduction of a peasant to her household ? 
 And the girl knows not French, I should surmise." 
 
 "Those are two reasons why the Lady Eleanor is 
 most eager for her coming. 'T is aught for novelty to 
 a prisoner." 
 
 "So. How think you that your peasant would be 
 treated by the demoiselles d 1 honneur of her grace? 
 Would there not be jealousy, haughtiness, and much 
 unhappiness ? " 
 
 " Of that I know little. 'T would be a Babel indeed 
 an they quarrelled. But that is not for us to think 
 upon. Wilt thou consent to the plan ? " 
 
 "Methinks the King would find small objection to 
 it. Thou mayest bring the maid." 
 
 "Thank thee, my lord " 
 
 "But hark you, she must have no communication 
 with the outer world, be assured. The Lady Eleanor 
 is a prisoner of state, and, as such, a dangerous one. 
 Once within the castle 'twill be more difficult to 
 release the girl. Will she consent to the plan, think 
 you?" 
 
 "I can but lay it before her," responded the monk, 
 thoughtfully. It suddenly occurred to him that he 
 had not much considered Mary's feelings in the 
 matter. 
 
 "Enough, then. And now, Anthony, for thee. For 
 a time this Interdict will cause a lull in the action of 
 
215 
 
 the quarrel. His Holiness and Philip will, perforce, 
 lie back and wait to perceive the effect of their last 
 blow. John must have time to learn its influence over 
 the people, for he runs a dangerous chance. There 
 fore I, servant of the one, antagonist of the others, 
 will find myself in so far benefited by the truce that I 
 shall have more leisure for many things than of late 
 hath fallen to my share. So rest assured that thy old 
 lot at Glastonbury will be changed. Once in the 
 month, at least, I shall send for thee hither; and what 
 I command, Harold must obey. Mine ancient play 
 fellow shall be ever in my heart as he hath been, 
 Anthony, though with reason thou doubtest me. And 
 so, good-night ; and, for the nonce, fare thee well." 
 
 While he spoke, Hubert had moved closer to the 
 monk, and, with his last words, laid his hand upon the 
 coarsely covered shoulder. In silence Anthony grasped' 
 De Burgh's other hand. Then, with a pressure, a long 
 look, and a smile, that seemed not all for the states 
 man, he left the room. 
 
 The favorite glanced after him thoughtfully, and, 
 even when he had long passed from sight, stood star 
 ing into space, with unseeing eyes. "Thou art a 
 monk," he murmured. "And a miserable man thou 
 thinkest thyself. But oh, Anthony! if thou couldest 
 but know how gladly I would lay off these garments, 
 and with them all my struggles to keep pace with other 
 men, for the sackcloth and the monotonous peace of a 
 Benedictine abbey ! " 
 
 De Burgh turned sharply about, and clapped his 
 hands. Instantly his lackey entered, with bended 
 head. 
 
 "Clear this table, Geoffrey, and then have the cap 
 tain of my guard sent hither. I would confer with 
 him about the new men." 
 
 It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening when 
 Anthony left De Burgh's rooms to go to his own nar- 
 
216 (Hncanoni?eD 
 
 row sleeping-apartment. Upon his way along the ill- 
 floored hallway he passed the top of the stairs which 
 led down to the main room of the inn upon the ground 
 floor. Up this stairway came to him the sounds of a 
 half dozen unguarded phrases whose meaning struck 
 interest into the monk's ears. They were unusual 
 things to be spoken in a tavern, and at this hour of 
 the night. All unconscious of his action, he paused 
 to listen. 
 
 "And think you that 'twas the King who com 
 manded the Interdict ? " 
 
 " A soul for a soul, say I " 
 
 "And wouldst have Innocent's in exchange for 
 thine?" 
 
 There was a shout of laughter, broken by the bold 
 reply : - 
 
 "On my life, no! Bound I may be for hell, for 
 want of venial absolution. I would not go out from 
 earth with Innocent's weight of sin and crime upon 
 my shoulders ! " 
 
 " Hush ! Not so fast ! Some one may hear ! " 
 
 An instant quiet descended over the room, broken 
 only by the murmur of an indistinguishable voice, 
 which spoke for some minutes, interrupted now and 
 again by a grunt of assent or an exclamation of dis 
 agreement. 
 
 Anthony, above, hesitated. He was greatly curious 
 to hear all of this unwonted dispute, plot, or whatever 
 it was; yet fully aware that the appearance of his 
 gown and cowl must of necessity stop at once all talk 
 ing, whether for or against the Church. He vacillated 
 for only a short time. When an idea occurred to him 
 he was accustomed to judge it as soon as his mind 
 could be brought to bear upon the subject. At last he 
 turned hastily and went back to De Burgh's rooms. 
 That gallant gentleman was still alone, his captain 
 not having come as yet. He greeted Anthony with 
 
217 
 
 surprise, which feeling turned to sudden mirth at the 
 monk's straightforward proposition and request. 
 
 " Nay I know not, verily, Anthony ! 'T is against 
 your vows. 'T would be an adventure for a hare-brained 
 courtier. You wish but to listen? In the cause of 
 the Church, doubtless?" 
 
 Anthony smiled brightly but made no answer. 
 
 "And for thy tonsure? They would see that." 
 
 "A cap, my lord." 
 
 De Burgh pondered for a moment, then leaned back 
 and laughed again, heartily. 
 
 "Well, be it so. Come in here. Thou shalt be 
 undisturbed. Return with them when thou art through 
 thy game, and hasten now, indeed, lest their con 
 verse be over soon." 
 
 The Falcon Inn, on this Monday night, contained a 
 little throng of guests of unusual estate. The com 
 mon roysterers had been driven away early in the 
 evening to more congenial haunts by the grave 
 demeanor and spirit of deep controversy which seemed 
 to dominate the majority in the tavern. And these 
 were all who had remained. Widely, indeed, did such 
 men differ from the common, younger classes. They 
 were ruder men, more rudely born, homely in counte 
 nance and dress, showing in the eyes a lustre of 
 thought that was lacking in the Englishman of com 
 mon class of that dim, distant day; betraying in their 
 every move an earnestness and a spirit that was rarely 
 to be discovered. And whether the men of such a type 
 had come together by purpose or chance in this place, 
 it was certainly a curious fact that the heavy doors of 
 the inn, which usually stood hospitably open to all 
 men, of an evening, were now shut fast, and bolted. 
 
 Had it happened that one of to-day had been caught 
 up and carried back, seven hundred years, and set 
 down inside this great room for a dozen minutes, he 
 might have caught a curious notion, this: that the 
 
2i 8 
 
 great English Reformation, still, according to history, 
 centuries away, down the future, was already begun, 
 here in this western city of Bristol, and in no less 
 imprudent a place than the great room of the Falcon 
 Hostelrie. The grave, puzzled converse into which 
 these men had fallen held the germ of the liberty of 
 thought that has not even yet reached its full matur 
 ity, though to-day Atheist, Catholic, and Protestant 
 stand together, undisturbed, and no man, in Religion's 
 name, lifts a hand against a brother. 
 
 Not one iota of such prophetic vision, however, 
 penetrated the minds of these leather-clad burghers, 
 who interspersed their timid discussion with genu 
 flection and jest. Their ideas were vague and ill- 
 expressed. Only the dim feeling, nothing more, was 
 there. How should any hint of breadth have crept 
 into their hearts? All their lives long they had been 
 hurled down and bruised by the pitiless dogmas flung 
 out in the same breath with threats of torture everlast 
 ing, as punishment for unbelief. Surely, then, it was 
 enough, at this day, that even this feeble little plant 
 of doubt, sprung rather from a seed of anger than 
 reason, had pushed its way between the stones of such 
 a wall. 
 
 To tell the truth, this concourse at the Falcon was 
 not the first of its kind, but the third, and the third 
 within a remarkably short space of time. None of 
 those present would have dared call any one of them 
 a planned meeting. They were met purely by chance, 
 and the cause of their meeting was the Interdict that 
 oft-talked-of threat that now was here. It was the In 
 terdict and the arguments over it that had led Master 
 Plagensext, the landlord, a worthy man, but one of 
 ideas, to close his doors at so early an hour against 
 possible guests and intruders. My Lord de Burgh 
 and his train were of no consequence. They would 
 trouble no one, being friends, kingsmen. As for 
 
219 
 
 the lordly monk, he, too, was my lord's good friend, 
 and a quiet fellow, like to take small note of a 
 burgher. There was no fear of him while half a dozen 
 of the great noble's men-at-arms were themselves 
 seated about the dining-room, joining right gallantly 
 in the talk, being still sober and in fighting trim. 
 The conversation did not flag. 
 
 "Sinful or no, friends, and methinks 'twould be 
 deemed sinful were it far o'erheard, there is one 
 point i' this Interdict that ye cannot make just, try as 
 ye will. And that " 
 
 "That is," came an interruption, "that we had no 
 hand in the refusal of Archbishop Langton, and why, 
 therefore, should we suffer for it, under this Inter 
 dict?" 
 
 "'Tis the King's fault, and no other's," growled a 
 sour-visaged fellow at the farther end of the room. 
 
 At his words one of the soldiers in the corner 
 stamped heavily upon the floor. " Ods nails ! Sir 
 Lean-face ! An we have aught more o' that treason I 
 shall make short work of running thee through, small 
 as thou art!" 
 
 The little man squirmed and frowned, but remained 
 silent. 
 
 Then one of the three great fellows, who, seated 
 importantly at the centre-table, had, all through the 
 evening, ruled the trend of the discourse, and done 
 much of the talking, lifted a huge flagon of ale to his 
 lips, and drank deeply, and with heavy import. When 
 he set down the frothing liquor, there was attentive 
 silence about him. He spoke: 
 
 "There is, verily, somewhat wrong in the tangle, 
 howe'er you look at it. His Holiness maketh us, for 
 no cause of our own, to suffer the danger of losing our 
 souls. Yet, an we rebel at it, the King and his 
 troops give us good promise that we lose our bodies. 
 How is this? Is there no right for us? We are 
 
220 2Jncanoni?eti 
 
 men, even like King and Pope. How, then, should 
 they press us into misery as they do?" 
 
 There was an utter silence. The very soldiers were 
 stilled by the non-belligerent trouble of the tone. With 
 his untrained wits, and intellect weakened by long 
 disuse, each man there sat trying to solve the problem 
 over which half of Christendom was itself poring at 
 that day. Upon this puzzled and painful stillness fell 
 a voice, not with any startling suddenness; it was too 
 mellow for that ; but one to which each man suddenly 
 found himself listening, astonished at the thing that 
 it was saying, into his ear, and to him, alone, and 
 straight. 
 
 " My masters, in all your surmises as to King and 
 Pope, and how they should rule you, your souls and 
 bodies, as they seem to do, have ye in truth forgot 
 that it was not they who made you to be ruled ? That 
 it was not they who made themselves? Hath it, in 
 deed, never occurred to you, in your wisdom, that it 
 is God, not Pope, who ruleth over sin and injustice, 
 who will see that ye be judged according as ye have 
 lived; to whom ye owe loyalty and allegiance above 
 all others; for whom there is neither pope nor king, 
 but only man, his child? " 
 
 Every eye had turned to the corner at the stair's 
 foot, where stood a man ; slight, neither young nor 
 old, clad in a sober suit, tunic, hose, belt, and cap of 
 olive green. A shapely leg had he and a good 
 shoulder, and a well-turned wrist and hand. All this 
 was absorbed by degrees into the slow minds of those 
 before him. Then one of the soldiers rose, threaten 
 ingly; but for once a burgher was ahead of him, 
 advancing, flagon still in hand, toward the stranger. 
 
 Halting, at length, two feet away from the new 
 comer, he asked ominously, "Who art thou? " 
 
 And then from behind, out of every throat in the 
 room, came an echo of the words, " Who art thou ? " 
 
221 
 
 Anthony looked calmly about him. "A stranger 
 here and to you, good men, yet truly a friend in 
 thought and heart," he answered, in a quiet mono 
 tone. 
 
 "More like a spy from King or Pope " came 
 from the lean man in the corner; and at his words 
 there was a universal shudder. 
 
 One of the soldiers sprang to his feet. " Come, 
 masters, would ye have him killed? If so, my good 
 sword is ready." 
 
 There was a murmur of remonstrance at this, how 
 ever; and when it ceased, Anthony was speaking 
 again, still with easy nonchalance. 
 
 " Why, good people, do ye condemn me thus ? I am 
 no spy, that I swear, but rather one who thinks with 
 you, and curses the injustice of the anathema put 
 upon us all. Why not hear me, what I have to say, 
 ere you judge me? " Here he turned smilingly toward 
 the soldier, who turned suddenly red and speedily sat 
 down. " Let me stand there by the central table, and 
 there I will tell you what hath long lain in my heart. 
 By it shall ye know me." 
 
 He looked questioningly about upon them all, and 
 they were silent. Silence consents, or so Anthony 
 regarded it. Forthwith he walked over to the table 
 and unhesitatingly took his stand. Here, and now, 
 was preached the first non-Romish sermon in the 
 Island of Britain. 
 
 "Friends, I have been listening many minutes now 
 to your converse here together, and your words have 
 entered into my ears like water into the throat of a 
 man who dies of thirst. For many years have I longed 
 to hear thoughts such as yours expressed. Only ye say 
 too little for the truth. Now, as brothers, do I greet 
 you all. 
 
 "You have been speaking of this newly pronounced 
 Interdict, which, for no other reason than a royal vow, 
 
222 
 
 hath deprived you all of what ye have been taught is 
 your soul's salvation, confession and absolution ; hath 
 damned your infants from their birth, by denial of 
 baptism ; and refused your sacred dead a sacred burial. 
 And who is it that hath had so little to fear for his 
 own soul that he hath dared to do all this? A man; 
 of the race of men; no more than a younger son of 
 Trasimundo of Conti. Ten thousand men of Italy, or 
 England either, are as lofty of birth. And in the 
 sight of the Most High we are taught that pride of 
 blood is as nothing. How, then, should Innocent of 
 Rome have power over all of us, to damn us into hell 
 eternal for the sake of a quarrel with King John over 
 Canterbury? Too long, brethren, hath the Church of 
 Rome bade you look to it and its calendared saints for 
 salvation. Who is it that saves them? God, and 
 the Christ, and Mary Queen of Heaven, they will 
 answer. Then why should we fail to turn to these as 
 our hope; and heed but the words of priest and bishop, 
 who are themselves but sinners? This Interdict, 
 which looks so woeful a calamity, and so unmerited a 
 punishment, may be readily turned against the soul of 
 him who sent it on us; and he shall see, when it be 
 finally removed, that we are no longer grovelling 
 before the lattice of the confessional, but acknowledg 
 ing our sins and receiving absolution only at the 
 throne of Jesus of Nazareth, the all-pitying One, and 
 of our just God, the Father." 
 
 Anthony ceased to speak, but his face, that was so 
 deeply marked by suffering, had become transfigured 
 by the depth of feeling which had led him, thus unex 
 pectedly, to lay his heart bare before men. The aban 
 donment with which he had spoken had carried the 
 listeners with him into enthusiasm and belief, for the 
 moment. Their minds had, involuntarily, gone beyond 
 them. When the leader relinquished his hold, they 
 dropped heavily back again. Poor, stunted intellects! 
 
223 
 
 They were not to be forced. This Anthony perceived 
 at once; but he saw also, with a strange feeling of 
 hope, that some instinctive impression of truth had 
 been left. Seating himself upon a stool he looked 
 about him, his face dark again, and his eyes less 
 brilliant. 
 
 "This be heresy," came at last in nervous tones 
 from one of the large men. 
 
 " Heresy ! " responded the feeble, frightened echo of 
 the rest. 
 
 "Heresy "they would call it," assented Anthony, 
 with a saddened look. " Ye fear to go on ? " 
 
 "We we would think upon it, Sir Knight." 
 
 Fitz-Hubert brightened. "Ye shall have time," 
 he said. "Ye shall have a full month, friends." 
 
 "A month? Nay, 'twould scarce take so long, 
 think you? " asked one, looking about at his fellows. 
 
 In answer there was a universal murmur of " Nay, 
 not so long as that," and much shaking of heads. 
 
 As Anthony perceived the undoubted interest in the 
 matter a new feeling stirred at his heart. It took him 
 a moment to guide his voice to indifference. "It 
 must be a month ere I can come again to you. I 
 dwell not in Bristol. Early on the morrow's morn I 
 do depart, and shall not again come hither until this 
 time in April." 
 
 "Art of my Lord de Burgh's following?" 
 
 " Ask me not. Mayhap, perchance not. What 
 matters it ? " 
 
 At this the landlord, Martin Plagensext, who, all 
 this time, had stood at one side of the room against 
 the wall, looked long and scrutinizingly at the well- 
 disguised figure, with its closely covered head. If he 
 discovered anything he did not speak. Should An 
 thony's calling be disclosed, he would undoubtedly 
 suffer death on the spot, as being a spy, sent to entrap 
 these men. Master Martin would not dare a murder 
 
224 
 
 within his doors; and, moreover, his intellect, keener 
 than the rest, had probably perceived what no one else 
 had thought to doubt, that Anthony's words, whatever 
 his motive, were sincere and heartfelt. At any rate, 
 action or inaction being alike dangerous, the landlord 
 chose the momentarily lesser evil, thereby deciding 
 his own destiny and that of Fitz-Hubert. 
 
 The monk went slowly to the stairs; all the others, 
 more from habit or curiosity than respect, standing, as 
 he passed from them. Seeing that they did not speak, 
 he turned half about, before he left them, cast a half 
 smile into their midst, and spoke : " Good-even, friends, 
 and peace be with you \ " 
 
 "But thou wilt return? " called out one of his little 
 audience. 
 
 "Thou wouldst have me, verily? " 
 
 "Ay! verily! " from all parts of the room. 
 
 "Then so be it. An I live I will be here upon the 
 evening of April the thirtieth, a month from to-night. 
 We shall speak further, then, when you have 
 thought." 
 
 And with a sharp gleam from his dark eyes, and a 
 gesture of good -will, Anthony disappeared up the stair 
 way. A moment later he was once more admitted to 
 De Burgh's bedroom, where that lofty personage re 
 ceived him alone, with amusement and curiosity. 
 
 " 'T is indeed a pity, Anthony, that thou hast oppor 
 tunities so rare of showing off that shapely leg of 
 thine. Verily, I would that mine were of half so neat 
 a turn." 
 
 "Then thou canst give me a quondam chance of 
 exhibition, an thou wilt, good my lord." 
 
 "What now, rash one? " 
 
 " May I ask two favors, Hubert? " 
 
 "Surely thou mayest ask, friend. But I promise 
 not to connive at all thy adventures." 
 
 " They are these : first, that thou make me a present 
 
225 
 
 of the garb I wear, 't is the first time ever I begged 
 my clothes, Hubert; secondly, that, whether thou art 
 here or wouldst see me or no, thou wilt send a messen 
 ger to Glastonbury, demanding my presence at Bristol 
 on the thirtieth of April next, and this last espe 
 cially I do most ardently desire." 
 
 De Burgh clapped his hands over his knee, and 
 stared long and thoughtfully at the monk. " I know 
 not, Anthony. Dost, indeed, realize the risk of 
 carrying this madcap folly further?" 
 
 "It is not folly, Hubert. Risk there is, I do 
 admit, and one in which I glory. Grant me ay, as 
 payment for my past misery (for I will be ungenerous 
 in my fervor) these things that I do ask. I have so 
 little in my life, Hubert! Think! Think!" 
 
 " You disarm me, Anthony. They are granted. And 
 yet I warn you, for your own sake, boy; I warn you 
 that I fear for you." 
 
 "Fear? Why?" 
 
 "You must know well what discovery would bode. 
 And yet, I, too, love not the popish ways." 
 
 " Hubert ! Didst hear, then ? " 
 
 De Burgh started. It was not an admission that he 
 should have made. Even Anthony himself would 
 scarcely have imagined that his requests could have 
 been granted had De Burgh known of his speech, and 
 his intent to follow it out. But now my lord looked up 
 at him gravely. "I am, indeed, a heretic at heart," 
 he whispered. 
 
 "And I!" echoed Anthony, with fierce abandon. 
 " Rome I renounce ! From the bottom of my soul I 
 cry to you my disbelief! With all my hope of seeing 
 God, and as I pray for the eternal happiness of my 
 father, I renounce them all, monk, priest, and pope, 
 and open my arms and my spirit alike to what they 
 have denounced as heresy ! " 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AN EXCOMMUNICATED KING 
 
 EIGHTEEN months had passed since the Interdict, 
 - months filled with a monotony of misery to the 
 afflicted country. The fulfilment of the prom 
 ised horrors of their unmerited degradation had fairly 
 cowed the English people ; but they had not weakened 
 England's King. By the September of 1209 the patience 
 of Archbishop, Cardinal, and Pope, which had been ex 
 ceeding great and well-continued, as they themselves 
 said, and nobody dared deny, suddenly gave out. Not 
 a single sign, even of the slightest, had John shown, of 
 submission to Langton ; therefore, another block of iron 
 was added to his burden. On September twelfth the 
 King was personally excommunicated ; and Jocelyn of 
 Bath was in despair. He was forbidden to defile himself 
 by any contact with John ; and his skilled manipulations 
 of circumstances were checked. 
 
 The anathema against the King was pronounced 
 while he was up on the borders of Scotland, giving one 
 last, agonizing tickle to the Lion, who was already 
 weakened by much hysterical laughter caused by the 
 same process. The news of the fresh punishment was 
 brought northward by a special courier, who crossed 
 himself before he ventured to address the unbeloved of 
 the Pope. By leisurely stages John journeyed back to 
 his palace at Winchester, whence Isabella had suddenly 
 departed, leaving her children behind her. The clergy 
 of Winchester, to the humblest monk, turned its head 
 away when the King and his train rode through the 
 
]ccommunicateti fting 227 
 
 streets of the city. Next morning, however, the sun 
 rose as usual. 
 
 Upon that thirtieth of September, just at the dawn of 
 the mellow autumn day, five gentlemen entered the ante 
 room to the royal dining-apartment, there to await the 
 morning appearance of their liege. All the five were 
 men of lofty birth, were themselves willing to forget the 
 Church and their own souls for the sake of him who 
 was both their king and their friend, and were those 
 whose names were oftenest on England's lips in relation 
 to public matters : Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, chief-justiciary 
 of the realm, a white-haired peer; Hubert de Burgh; 
 Hugo de Neville, the head-forester of England, whose 
 office was no sinecure in those days; Roger de Laci, 
 a gallant courtier and an excellent comrade ; and Peter 
 Fitz-Herbert, a baron of no great position save that of 
 boon companion to all the others and to the King. 
 These five were by no means the only stanch nobles 
 who had remained with the court; and there were 
 others, still true to their liege, who were scattered over 
 the realm, in England, Ireland, or Wales. But this privi 
 leged group was more with him than any of the others ; 
 for, to tell the truth, John had small heart to receive 
 numbers, when, according to his Holiness, he was no 
 longer King by divine right. The friends spoke but 
 little to each other, as they waited. Each was occupied 
 with his own thoughts. Presently, however, De Neville 
 looked up. 
 
 " I am told that the forest fairly swarms, at present, 
 with game, if the King chooses to hunt this morning." 
 
 " Ever at thy professional tasks, Hugo?" 
 
 There was a little smile ; for De Neville's devotion to 
 the chase was a matter of many a sally in other times 
 than these. . 
 
 " It may indeed please the King to forget his trouble 
 in the excitement of the hounds," remarked Peter Fitz- 
 Herbert, mournfully. 
 
228 
 
 " Nay, nay, gentlemen. John will be wearied by his 
 long journey to-day, and it were best not to tempt him 
 to over-doing by prospect of a hunt," expostulated De 
 Burgh, while the rest listened respectfully. Nothing 
 more was said upon the matter, and again silence fell 
 over the little party. This lasted until a door was 
 thrown open, and a lackey entered with the words : 
 
 " Gentlemen, the King." 
 
 The five rose at once. Voices were heard in the 
 corridor, near at hand. 
 
 " Salisbury is with him," whispered De Laci. 
 
 There was no reply, for the King was entering the 
 room, arm in arm with his half-brother. 
 
 " Good-morning to you all, friends. Thou art rested, 
 Geoffrey, I trust? Come, gentlemen, we break fast to 
 gether. I, for one, am an hungered." 
 
 John spoke these words in a somewhat monotonous 
 tone, and then led the way into his dining-room, 
 through whose open windows streamed the fearless 
 beams of the autumn sun. Here the King, most slan 
 dered monarch of the Christian era, sat him cheerfully 
 down. 
 
 John of England was still comparatively a young 
 man, being under forty-five years of age. In the cruel 
 glare of the morning light, however, he looked strangely 
 old. His skin was as white as that of a corpse, not a 
 particle of color enlivening it anywhere; and its minute 
 corrugations gave him a haggard and weary appearance, 
 difficult to describe. His short beard and moustache 
 were black, well sprinkled with gray ; though the curling 
 hair that hung upon his neck was still of a pure raven 
 hue. His hands were shapely, and bore no rings. 
 His well-proportioned figure was set off by a plain 
 dark-green tunic with leathern trimmings, hose of the 
 same color, and short shoes. He was, altogether, a 
 handsome man, and there was enough of personal charm 
 in his manner to make it explicable why such a mon- 
 
(^communicated &ing 229 
 
 ster in spirit should possess so many and such close 
 friends. 
 
 Between William of Salisbury and the King there was 
 a slight personal resemblance, nearly concealed, how 
 ever, by the Earl's excessive fairness. The close friend 
 ship between the half-brothers was productive of mutual 
 good. Both were honorable, chivalrous gentlemen. 
 By his frequent intercourse with William, John gained 
 something of a needed calm in demeanor; a fierce out 
 burst of temper, which was his greatest bane, being 
 oftentimes subdued by the mere appearance of the 
 gentle-mannered Earl. And Salisbury, shining in the 
 reflected light of John's marked individuality, lost much 
 of the effeminacy and unmasculine softness for which 
 he was laughed at in some circles of nobility. 
 
 Such was the company that assembled at the royal 
 board at so early an hour in the morning; a king, 
 exiled in his own land, and the companions of that 
 exile, made holy in unrighteousness. For the first time 
 in many a year John was about to taste rest in his own 
 palace. No duties of Church or of State awaited him, 
 upon his return to his own again. The Church had 
 openly banished him from her councils ; the State stood 
 aloof from his presence, waiting and doubting. Ah ! 
 how bitter was the thought of this rest to him ! Face, 
 manner, and voice all betrayed weariness and sadness ; 
 yet his words themselves bore not a trace of feeling. His 
 companions were his familiars. They knew him, his 
 lineage, his history, his faults, his character, better than 
 any others. Knowing all, they loved him. He, real 
 izing this, was himself when with them. 
 
 John was in a difficult mood. The courtiers recog 
 nized the fact before he had been with them for five 
 minutes. They knew that the first untoward remark from 
 any of them would be apt to drive him into one of those 
 prolonged fits of melancholy for which his race was so 
 noted. He sat looking down into his plate, whereon 
 
230 
 
 the food was untasted. With one hand he crumbled a 
 piece of black bread, with the other he played with the 
 handle of a silver flagon filled with mead. When he 
 spoke it was still with a tone curiously expressionless, 
 and his remarks were jumbled together in a manner 
 peculiar to himself and this particular state of mind. 
 
 " A boar's head is an excellent thing at noonday, but 
 something heavy for a man newly risen. Have it re 
 moved, Edward. We must arrange some pastime for 
 the day. Eh? Say you not so, Fitz-Herbert? And 
 how is thy young Lord of Dunster, De Burgh? and all 
 our western county, and our good friend De Briwere? " 
 
 The King glanced up for an instant, languidly, at 
 Hubert, after he had stopped speaking. Fitz-Herbert 
 moved uneasily upon his stool ; but De Burgh, acting on 
 a look from Salisbury, replied : 
 
 " Young Reginald de Mohun grows into a manly boy 
 hood. Well hath he been taught what he owes to his 
 King ; and in his knighthood he will make a devoted 
 subject of England and England's lord.' 
 
 " Um. Were I not in disgrace with Christendom I 
 would have had him knighted and brought to court by 
 now, to count by. But a palace, priestless and Godless, 
 with neither mass nor confessional permitted within it, is 
 a sorry place for an unfledged youth. In very sooth I 
 have a mind to return all my young hostage pages to 
 their noble families. Though, an I did that, it were as 
 well at once to deliver up crown and seal to one of their 
 fathers. 'T would be an easy method of laying down my 
 load, in very faith ! What say you to the notion, 
 Peter?" 
 
 The chief-justiciary was not startled. The King had 
 been known to make such remarks before. Now he re 
 sponded gravely : " My liege, you yourself could bear 
 least the calamities which would fall upon England 
 through your abdication. Well do you know how, with 
 you gone, either civil war would descend upon the 
 
(^communicate!) ling 231 
 
 realm, or France would rule our kingdom through Ar 
 thur, your nephew, a petty boy. Neither you nor 
 England would endure that." 
 
 The King swiftly raised his head, looking with fixed 
 intensity at the old official. Then he lifted a hand to 
 his brow. It seemed that of a sudden his eyes had 
 grown darker and more melancholy. " Thou sayest, 
 Peter, that my abdication could not be. That is true, 
 perhaps. But thy last reason for England's sorrow is 
 impossible. Arthur of Brittany, Geoffrey's boy, will 
 never rule in England ; for Arthur, our nephew, lies to 
 day in heaven or in hell, I know not which." 
 
 A sharp breath went round the table. No one there 
 dared speak. There was a change in the expression of 
 every man, save only that of William of Salisbury. The 
 suspicion in Fitz-Herbert's face was scarcely concealed. 
 In the sudden, chilly silence John's head fell, and his 
 eyes closed for a moment. He had seen. The heart 
 within him bled. These oldest friends even these 
 could not trust him. 
 
 Earl William gazed long at his brother, and his face 
 was full of tenderness and pity. Then he looked up 
 and spoke, his tone scornful, his voice ringing loud and 
 clearly through the room. 
 
 " How now, gentlemen ! Have ye no word of sorrow 
 for the Prince's loss? No question to ask as to the 
 manner of his death?" 
 
 Every man at the table winced, and John glanced up 
 again. None of the others could guess whether the 
 words were ironical or in earnest. Still there was si 
 lence. John's shoulders contracted. His brows met 
 over his eyes. He breathed deeply, and a quick spasm 
 of pain passed over his face. He said nothing. Salis 
 bury, after a little glance around the table, continued : 
 
 " I perceive that ye must have the tale. Three 
 months ago John de Gray and I were in the Castle of 
 Rouen together, when Arthur of Brittany at last came to 
 
232 2Jncanpni?ct) 
 
 his senses. After a long interview with us he did finally 
 decide to abandon his useless project of becoming King 
 of England, which title was his right by birth, but which 
 you, gentlemen, and not King John, did strip from him 
 at Richard's death. He professed himself willing at last 
 to become reconciled to his uncle, and desired to return 
 with us to Windsor, as the King's ward. This was be 
 fore the excommunication had again raised Philip's 
 hopes for the throne of England. France's King 
 learned of Arthur's new decision. He felt that his 
 hold on England was going. Some new scandal must 
 be brought against John. Five days later, when we were 
 hourly expecting the King's order for the Prince's release, 
 Arthur of Brittany was foully murdered by order of 
 Philip, the arch-traitor of Europe." 
 
 William spoke these last words without emotion, for 
 the tale was old to him. The King did not even look 
 up. His head rested upon one hand, and he sat abso 
 lutely motionless. It was Hubert de Burgh who rose 
 quickly to his feet. The rest waited for him to speak. 
 He did so without hesitation. 
 
 " Thou knowest the rumors that have had wing con 
 cerning Prince Arthur, my Lord Earl? " 
 
 "Who better?" responded William, sharply. 
 
 " And they are false ? " questioned the courtier, fear 
 lessly. 
 
 Salisbury looked up with unwonted anger in his pale 
 face. " Since when hast thou learned to doubt my given 
 word, Hubert de Burgh? Thou 
 
 The four quiescent courtiers were looking at each 
 other dubiously, when the King himself, rising to his 
 feet, interrupted his brother. His voice was not gentle, 
 but harsh with strong feeling, although anger was in 
 neither his face nor his words. He addressed not De 
 Burgh alone, but all five of the old friends who stood 
 close about him. 
 
 " I declare to you, gentlemen, in the presence of the 
 
]ccommiinicateD Sling 233 
 
 God from whom Innocent of Rome hath not the power 
 to bar me, that I am absolutely innocent of the murder 
 of my brother's son, Arthur of Brittany. Moreover, at 
 the very hour of his death, I was, as can be proved, 
 upon the waters of the British Channel, on my way to 
 Rouen, in answer to the message of my brother here, 
 and my Lord de Gray, whither I was going to extend 
 free pardon and personal protection to my nephew. 
 You who are here about me, my friends (though in very 
 sooth ye doubt my honor right easily), are welcome to 
 have heard my vindication. To England and my people 
 I owe none, sith they have asked for none, but have 
 chosen rather to believe the worst that rumor hath to 
 tell about their King. And be ye all well assured that 
 John of England will never bend the knee to any man, 
 pope or serf, who refuses him the right granted to the 
 lowliest of his subjects." 
 
 Such were the words of the King, spoken here, in pri 
 vate, to his intimate companions. But they were words 
 that the world was never to hear, either from his lips or 
 those of any other. One by one, in silent repentance for 
 their doubt of him, his courtiers knelt down and kissed 
 his hand in loyalty and renewed love. Last of all ad 
 vanced Earl William, in whose bright blue eyes shone 
 tears of overwrought emotion. Him the King forbade 
 to kneel, but saluted with affection upon the cheek, an 
 action regarded without surprise by the sturdy English 
 men present; for Rosamond's unselfish son had some 
 thing in his nature with which Eleanor the masculine 
 had failed to endow her own children, but which John 
 regarded with much of the feeling that, long ago, had 
 drawn his father so closely to the one woman whom he 
 had really loved. 
 
 The atmosphere about the royal presence was cleared. 
 The heart of the King had suddenly grown light, and the 
 tone of his voice now betrayed his changed mood. 
 
 " Come, friends, let us to mine own apartments, and 
 
234 
 
 there choose out our pastime for the day, sith for the 
 nonce I am burdenless alike of councils and of the endless 
 deputations of conscience-wearing monks and bishops. 
 Now who shall say that excommunication hath not its 
 comforts, eh?" 
 
 A little glance of satisfaction passed among his follow 
 ers at his last words, for it was the first time that John, 
 of his own accord, had spoken of his punishment. That 
 he should do so now, was taken as a propitious omen of 
 the return of that cheerfulness for which, through all his 
 difficulties, he had been so noted. More light-heartedly 
 than at any period during the last month, therefore, all 
 assembled in a small room next to the King's bedcham 
 ber. Once this apartment had been used as an oratory, 
 but the prie-dieu had been removed from it, and in its 
 place stood a kind of settle, or couch, upon which John 
 now flung himself. The sun, which streamed in upon 
 him from a window above his head, he permitted with 
 delight to play over his figure, and even upon his face ; 
 for sunshine was a thing of which his life had known 
 none too much. The courtiers, except Fitz-Peter, who 
 had been excused on the plea of official business, seated 
 themselves about the little room, and waited in silence 
 for the King to speak. This he seemed in no hurry to 
 do. Evidently his thoughts were wandering in not un 
 pleasant places, for a half smile played over his lips and 
 lighted his eyes. 
 
 "There stands a certain little dwelling, not far from 
 Winchester," began John, suddenly, " where once I did 
 meet a maid, and she was passing fair." Here he 
 stopped, still smiling to himself. 
 
 " It beginneth like a minstrel's tale," murmured De 
 Laci, complacently. 
 
 De Burgh frowned a little, and Salisbury spoke, 
 imploringly. 
 
 " Nay, John, let me beseech that you tell it not." 
 
 The King looked over the faces of his companions, 
 
3ln (^communicated SKt'ng 235 
 
 caught a dark look from De Neville, and a hesitating 
 smile from Fitz-Herbert. Then he put his finger-tips 
 together, and continued in a well-satisfied tone, though 
 with an unnoticed gleam of displeasure in his eyes : - 
 
 " The little maid, I say, was passing fair. When first 
 I saw her I was upon a hunt. My good steed had borne 
 me, all alone, straight out of the forest, after the stag, 
 which, after all, escaped. The little maid knew not my 
 estate. I asked a tankard of cold water from her well. 
 She gave it me, I myself having pulled the bucket up. 
 I drank my draught. And then " 
 
 "Then, my Lord King? " demanded De Burgh, in a 
 tone that might have been called disrespectful. 
 
 " Then," returned John, solemnly, " then I rode away 
 again." 
 
 " And hast not seen her since? " questioned Salisbury, 
 quickly and softly. 
 
 " No, Brother William," responded the King, with 
 irony very apparent in his tone. " I have not seen her 
 since." 
 
 Again the King lapsed into silence, but this time his 
 little audience knew why. Before the pause grew un 
 comfortable, however, John sat up, languidly, on his 
 couch, and put his feet to the floor. 
 
 " Well, Hugo," he began, when there was an inter 
 ruption. 
 
 Through the open doorway, from the apartments 
 beyond, sounded a high, shrill voice, calling loudly: 
 " My Lord William ! My Lord William ! " 
 
 The Earl of Salisbury, who faced the door, smiled, and 
 leaned forward on his stool. Suddenly, before any one 
 had had time to speak, a little bounding figure, with 
 long hair flying behind it, and miniature coif askew, ran 
 into the room, and flung itself with a leap into William's 
 outstretched arms. 
 
 " Oh, but I have hunted for thee ! " gasped the voice 
 again. 
 
236 
 
 Deftly, and with a hand accustomed to the business, 
 Salisbury straightened out the rumpled little object, and, 
 with as severe a look as could be mustered, set it down 
 upon the floor. There, in quaint astonishment at seeing 
 so many strange faces, stood a tiny little girl. Her 
 woollen garments of dark red trailed upon the floor 
 about her feet just as her mother's did. A small, peaked 
 cap, with a torn veil falling from its summit, was set 
 over her dishevelled black curls. Her dark eyes were 
 sparkling from the vigor of her run, and her face glowed 
 with color. Earl William looked down at her with 
 great tenderness in his face as she clasped his knees. 
 
 "Thou hast escaped thy nurse, Lady Alice. It is 
 a great breach of etiquette, *as thou knowest. Thou 
 shouldst be punished for it, and also for thus entering, 
 without permission, thy royal father's closet." 
 
 " My father ! " she cried quickly, turning about and 
 facing the King, who sat regarding her soberly. Instantly 
 the Princess, frightened though she was, dropped him a 
 low and well-learned courtesy. Then, still looking at 
 him with her great eyes, she backed slowly into the 
 nearer vicinity of her uncle ; for Princess Alice of Eng 
 land was not very well acquainted with her father. 
 
 The courtiers watched the scene with interest. A 
 strange story of a strange passion lay behind this un 
 foreseen meeting of the King and his daughter. None 
 of the onlookers ventured to speak, however, nor did 
 any betray ill taste enough to show curiosity in the 
 matter. 
 
 " Thou art somewhat over- fond of rough play, me- 
 seemeth, Alice," said her father, slightly ill at ease 
 before her. 
 
 " An it please you, yes, my Lord King," responded 
 the little lady, with but small trace of fear in her voice. 
 She was regaining her self-possession rapidly. 
 
 " A Princess of England does not run about and 
 scream. Thy nurses should have taught thee better." 
 
an E]ccommimicateD fting 237 
 
 " They did teach me better," replied her ladyship ; 
 and Salisbury and De Burgh ventured to smile. 
 
 " Aha ! And thou didst disobey them. Come, then, 
 I will not punish thee. Kiss me once, and then thine 
 Uncle Salisbury shall take thee back again to thine own 
 apartment." 
 
 The King held out one arm to her, but she did not 
 come forward. 
 
 " Pardon, my lord, but but I may not kiss you," she 
 said, with a troubled air. 
 
 The King and his gentlemen alike stared in astonish 
 ment. "Why why mayest thou not kiss thy father?" 
 asked John, at last. 
 
 " My mother did tell me, ere she went away, that his 
 Holiness the Pope had had nay, I forget the word. 
 But you had done dreadful things, she said, and Europe 
 is angry with you, and no good church person can touch 
 you. Therefore may I not kiss you." 
 
 With childish innocence the little girl had spoken 
 these heartless words, and she wondered at seeing the 
 King suddenly cover his face with his hands. The 
 courtiers looked at one another in consternation, all 
 save Salisbury, whose face was very pale. After an in 
 stant's pause he rose, and, crossing to the King, took 
 one of the passive hands from his face, and kissed it 
 with gentle reverence. Then he stood aside, gravely 
 regarding Alice. 
 
 " I have kissed the King," he said. 
 
 Alice hesitated. Memory of her mother's stern 
 teaching was struggling within her with her love for the 
 Earl, and her own sudden liking for this strange father. 
 John's hands had dropped from his face, at his brother's 
 words, and he sat watching his daughter, a sudden long 
 ing in his heart. Then, while he looked, she slowly 
 moved forward, until she could raise her delicate little 
 lips to his. With fierce eagerness John caught her up 
 into his arms, bending his dark head over hers, so that 
 
238 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 none might see his face. Then, still holding her, he 
 rose, and, without a word, walked quickly from the 
 room. 
 
 A deep breath passed through the little place after 
 the King's departure. Hubert de Burgh sat gazing 
 thoughtfully into space, and Salisbury passed one hand 
 lightly over his eyes. 
 
 " Meseemeth the Queen's teaching was a cruel thing," 
 murmured De Laci, at last; and, though there was no 
 answer, the very atmosphere assented to his words. 
 
 Isabella of Angouleme -was not a favorite in her 
 adopted country; and, to tell the truth, she deserved 
 but little love from her subjects. During the first years 
 of her life with the King, before their quarrels began, 
 her imperial beauty had carried everything before it. 
 But the possession of power, and much adulation, had 
 completed the ruin of a somewhat spoiled girl, until now 
 no one in England, save her own handful of sycophants 
 and flatterers, ever spoke her name with anything but 
 indifference or open sneers. Her husband scarcely saw 
 her, and she spent but little time with her family. The 
 royal children Alice, the eldest, born in 1201, the two 
 boys, Henry and Richard, and the last-born, Eleanor, 
 some day to become Lady Simon de Montfort, now a 
 babe of two months had spent their lives here at Win 
 chester Castle, seeing their parents only at long inter 
 vals, and then never together. They had been reared 
 wholly by servants (ill company indeed for the future 
 rulers of England), while their father struggled to hold 
 his kingdom for them, and their mother played her 
 frivolous part at various castles. 
 
 All this common history was in the minds of the 
 courtiers as they sat silently awaiting the return of the 
 King. He came at last, striding rapidly, with his head 
 up and his shoulders straight, and good cheer in his 
 face. He gave no hint of returning to the couch he 
 had left. 
 
(BjrcommiwicateD ^tng 239 
 
 " De Neville ! The hunt ! Gentlemen, you shall 
 accompany me. Let horses be prepared, and our din 
 ner may wait. Thou, De Laci, get off that delicate 
 tunic, and don jerkin and hose, that will exhibit those 
 pretty limbs of thine. We will meet below, in the 
 courtyard, within the half-hour. Thou, Salisbury, 
 come with me." 
 
 Thus vigorously speaking, the King deigned to return 
 the obedient salute of his gentlemen. Then, drawing 
 Salisbury's hand under his arm, he passed into his bed 
 room, and the oaken door swung to. 
 
 The courtiers likewise left the small apartment, to 
 seek their own rooms and valets as hastily as might be. 
 Fitz-Herbert and De Laci went off together, down the 
 hall, indulging in a little whispered conversation which 
 it was well that the older men did not hear. 
 
 " The hunt and the maid that is passing fair," 
 murmured Roger. 
 
 " And in pursuit of the stag, cousin, what think you 
 of the chance of the King's losing his way? " 
 
 " He will be hungry, this time, as well as athirst." 
 
 " And dinners are hauled not out of wells." 
 
 This topic, curiously enough, seemed a prevalent 
 one. In the King's own bedroom the brother of the 
 King had chosen to introduce it. 
 
 " Pardon, John, but may I speak? " 
 
 " Always, Will. That thou knowest." 
 
 " Thou wilt be angry, but that tale of thine this 
 morn, concerning the hunt, and the maid that is fair, 
 was it but a reproach to us that thou didst tell it? " 
 
 " Still doubtful, my lord? Well, listen. Thou shalt 
 be at my side hereafter, whenever I hunt near Win 
 chester. Dost remember William Rufus, my forbear? 
 I whisper to thee, Salisbury, that, since his day, hunts 
 have been unlucky to the Norman race." 
 
 No more said the King ; but the Earl could remem 
 ber, without the telling, that it was at a hunt in Poictou 
 
240 
 
 that King John had first seen the woman who became 
 his wife. 
 
 So, locking arms together, in mutual love, the 
 brothers descended to the courtyard, where the horses 
 already were awaiting them. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FROM BRISTOL TO GLASTONBURY 
 
 AMONG human kind there are to be found three 
 distinct types of faces. The first kind, the rarest, 
 and the one which will bear out a life-study and 
 be worth the effort at the end, is that which shows the 
 soul within the body to have suffered and to have under 
 stood, however gropingly, its suffering. The second, not 
 the commonest, and the most beautiful of the three, is that 
 which might have suffered rarely well, but has, in some 
 way, missed its opportunity. The third class, least 
 interesting, most often seen, and really most wonderful 
 of all, is that array of set features which tells, as plainly 
 as things may, that it hides a creature which has perhaps 
 passed through climaxes and crises holding a possible 
 thousand years of soul-life in the balance, and the 
 creature has remained unmoved, uncomprehending, 
 through all. 
 
 In three rooms of the west wing of the Castle of 
 Bristol lay sheltered from the outer world rare specimens 
 of these facial types; and all were feminine. In a 
 woman, and especially one of so many hundred years 
 ago, when women were something less than they are 
 to-day, there was but one key which should unlock her 
 nature, and free that nature's expression - the key of 
 Love. And as only some men are capable of under 
 standing the highest suffering, so only some women are 
 capable of that earth-love which will dare hell, and, of 
 a certainty, win heaven. Mary of Longlands and 
 Eleanor of Brittany were alike capable of this, one not 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 more so than the other. But, within one of them, the 
 flames were already blazing high, with the other the fire 
 was scarce alight. Mary o' Longlands would have 
 sacrificed her soul for Anthony Fitz-Hubert. Eleanor 
 of Brittany eventually renounced a crown and took up 
 the cross for the love of Louis de la Bordelaye, a simple 
 gentleman of Poictou. For the third type there were 
 Clothilde and Marie. They, also, loved mon Sieur de la 
 Bordelaye, because madam did. And a deal of relief 
 did the good little souls gain from the monotony of 
 their lives out of the occasional glimpses which they 
 obtained of his fine face. An instant's view of him 
 crossing the second courtyard from the keep to the 
 orchard, where he took his exercise, furnished conver 
 sation for a week to these enthusiastic demoiselles. 
 Rarely did they obtain a nearer view, for the Princess 
 took excellent care that they should not see too much 
 of the man over whom, as yet, she only dreamed. 
 
 Mary, poor Mary, perceived everything that went on 
 about her, and was heart-sick. She knew more, perhaps, 
 of Eleanor's state of mind than the Princess herself; for 
 Mary's eyes had been opened to many things of late, 
 and her own starvation had so sharpened her percep 
 tions and sensibilities that she would scarcely have been 
 recognized for the same girl who had, so long, long ago, 
 gone to Anthony at St. Michael's on the Tower and 
 begged him to confess her. Here, in Bristol Castle, 
 she was far more unhappy than in her freedom at her 
 father's farm. Yet now that she stood at the very 
 knot of the tangle of matters that so involved her happi 
 ness, she realized that she would have been wretched in 
 being forced to leave the vantage-point. That Anthony 
 did not care for her in any way she was perfectly aware. 
 It could not be otherwise, as she saw only too well. 
 But, however deep his feeling might be for the Princess, 
 she knew his honor and his sensitiveness far too per 
 fectly to doubt his power of self-restraint. She knew 
 
ftom OBrtetol to d&iastonbut:? 2 43 
 
 that never, by word or look, would he betray one iota 
 of his feeling to any one ; least of all to Eleanor herself. 
 And she believed also in her own powers of conceal 
 ment, sure that the monk need never guess all 'the 
 bitterness that life held for her. 
 
 As for the triviality of her two companions, their 
 thoughts and their pleasures, what she saw of them 
 annoyed Mary, oftentimes ; but she was forced to endure 
 but little, on the whole. It was difficult enough for her 
 to hold the simplest conversation with them, though she 
 herself struggled hard with the French language, and 
 the sisters, at the command of their mistress, tried in 
 their foolish way to fix a few phrases of the Saxon tongue 
 in their unstable memories. Eleanor was wonderfully 
 kind to the English peasant girl, of whom she had grown 
 strangely fond, during the long, dreary winter. And 
 personally Mary dearly loved the sad-eyed, beautiful, 
 girlish woman, whose lot was cast in such grim abodes. 
 That Eleanor did not comprehend Anthony was the 
 one unforgivable thing about her. But if Eleanor had 
 understood, and so far forgotten the monk's place and 
 her own dignity as to return anything of his feeling, 
 then Mary would have found it difficult indeed to have 
 lived. 
 
 And out of what little things was all this intricate 
 inner life composed ! It was the life of a prison, where 
 a crumb is a loaf, and a glance is a book. Here was a 
 courteous greeting from the Count de la Marche to the 
 Princess, and in return a stately acknowledgment from 
 her Highness ; now came a whisper into Eleanor's ear 
 from old John, the porter ; a blush from the Princess, 
 and an answer was returned ; then there was sound of a 
 lute in the courtyard of the keep, and the singing, in a 
 rich baritone voice, of some ditty that Eleanor ofttimes 
 hummed at her work. At Anthony's regular visits there 
 was even less to go upon, but one heart, at least, was 
 readier to transmute his evidence than the other, a hun- 
 
244 2Jncanoni?et 
 
 dred times over. Eleanor now no longer sent for the 
 monk. It was understood that he was to spend one day 
 in each month at the castle, and he never failed to come. 
 That Eleanor always liked his visits, and looked forward 
 to them, Mary knew. That Anthony was regarded as 
 an elderly counsellor and friend, Mary guessed ; but that 
 Eleanor had, in her very first confessional, told Anthony 
 all that there was to tell of her love, and so put him 
 forever out of danger of himself, she never dreamed. 
 The peasant girl did not share the common notion that 
 a man is one thing, and a monk, generally, another. 
 She knew very well that no amount of prayers and 
 penances can ever materially change human nature; 
 which fact did Mary's comprehension good credit. For 
 Anthony's early life she cared nothing. The present 
 was super-vivid to her. A certain light in his face, the 
 musical gentleness of his voice, when he spoke to 
 Eleanor, the eagerness with which he listened to her 
 slightest remark, the look with which he bade her fare 
 well for another thirty days, these were all ; but for 
 Mary they were everything. 
 
 The long winter dragged away. The King's Orchard, 
 luxuriantly lovely during the summer and autumn, was, 
 in the rainy season, but a great pool of mud. If the 
 prisoners wished to go out at all, they took their exercise 
 in the stone-paved courtyards. The Frenchwomen wept 
 with the skies, and grew pallid and listless through the 
 gloomy days and endless nights. In the spring the Prin 
 cess fell ill, not violently, but with a lingering fever, which 
 at times flushed her thin face into flaming scarlet, and 
 left it again white as the sky full of unfallen snow. Mary's 
 care was unceasing and tender. Anthony came as ever, 
 though he saw her but once in three months, and only 
 Philip at Glastonbury guessed how he lived upon his 
 heart during this time. While in the keep at Bristol, the 
 Sieur de la Bordelaye had become so unendurably rest 
 less and ill-tempered that the Count de la Marche had 
 
fjrom osn'jstol to d&lagtottburi? 245 
 
 him copiously bled and blistered by a member of the 
 guard, who had practised both physic and French. 
 
 Like a breath from God came the spring of that 
 second year of the Interdict. Eleanor grew brighter 
 at the unfolding of each new leaf, and with the first 
 rose, sent her in silent beauty, by a well-guessed hand, 
 she arose from her couch, and descended, for the first 
 time in many weeks, to the little chapel, to pray. 
 When the King's Orchard, bright with sunny color, 
 murmurous with the ripple of the river which bounded 
 it, velvet-swarded, perfumed with the blossoms of its 
 famous trees, first saw her again, there was the flush of 
 the rose in her cheeks, the sparkle of dew in her eyes, 
 and her slender figure was clothed in garments of 
 apple-green. The guard at the wicket-gate smiled with 
 pleasure when he beheld her, and doffed his helmet as 
 she passed him. Mary followed, bearing the coif and 
 cloak which she had refused to don. As the maid reached 
 the gate the soldier boldly whispered to her : - 
 
 " Sooth, mistress, methinks 't were better that you 
 kept me company outside, for once. Her Grace '11 not 
 be lonely in the garden, and there be times when three 
 are full too many." 
 
 Mary, for once unconscious and unsuspicious, looked 
 at the man haughtily, and entered into the garden. 
 There she perceived that the guard had spoken only 
 from a kind of rough sentiment, for, in very truth, she 
 was not needed in the orchard. 
 
 Near the gate, motionless upon the turf under the 
 blossom-laden branches of an apple-tree, was the 
 Princess. Her back was toward her maid, but Mary 
 guessed the look upon her face. Opposite to her, 
 eager, hesitating, with the sunlight playing over his 
 features, the light of love dimming his fine eyes, stood 
 Louis de la Bordelaye. A lute lay upon the grass at 
 his feet, and his hands were clenched tightly. Before 
 the fixity of his gaze Eleanor's head drooped. 
 
246 <3ncanoni?ei> 
 
 Slowly she began moving toward him, as the summer 
 dreams imperceptibly into the place that spring has 
 held. Her moving seemed neither conscious nor im 
 pulsive ; it was law. Mary stood spellbound, watching. 
 The guard from his post could see nothing. Now she 
 was beside him, and had stopped. At once he fell 
 upon his knee, pressing one of her slight hands to his 
 lips. Eleanor, no princess, but queen of a good man's 
 heart, raised him gently. One more long look, and he 
 was leaving her, leaving her to the perfume of the 
 garden, and the music of the rippling stream, and the 
 lute that lay forgotten at her feet. 
 
 He did well to go. There are some moments which 
 it is beyond human .possibility to prolong. Eleanor 
 knew this, and so did her lover. The afternoon that 
 followed was only a dream of memory to them both. 
 And the Princess never guessed that beside her, in her 
 ecstasy, was one whose heart was bleeding in sorrow 
 for a useless cause. 
 
 How was it, all this time, with Anthony, in his prison, 
 twenty miles away? Totally unconscious of that dis 
 tinctly enacted climax, he was just now not unhappy in 
 his way. For spring was even at Glastonbury, and no 
 monk could be forbidden to love the green things, and 
 the long, mild days, and the new bird-songs that had 
 come. The sacred thorn-tree wore a second coat of 
 white. The little river ran merrily among the orchards 
 of Somerset ; and many a robin violated the asceticism 
 of the monastery, and built a nest for his wife in the 
 gnarled branches of the old elms within the abbey 
 walls. 
 
 Spring had entered into the prayer-worn heart of 
 every monk. Anthony's face and manner grew brighter. 
 Some of his melancholy left him, and his usual silence 
 was frequently broken. Twice had he condescended 
 to argue a disputed point in Nominalism with David 
 Franklin, a bigoted scholastic, and twice he smiled to 
 
from I3ri$tol to d&lagtonfcut^ 247 
 
 himself in honest victory of logic over his enraged 
 opponent, while the other brethren looked on. No 
 one spoke to him of his little triumphs, for he was 
 in disfavor among the monks; but long since had 
 Anthony ceased to feel the slights of unpopularity. 
 He went his own lonely way, cherishing great ambitions 
 within his breast, glad in the knowledge that out of the 
 deep void of past years Time had brought him less 
 heart-stirring violence of realization. Still he felt the 
 ruin of his life, but in a calmer way. Out of the change 
 to Glastonbury, which was not haunted by memories of 
 his father, nor peopled with the monks who knew his 
 earlier, pitiful rebellion against fate, a kind of self-reliant 
 quietude had come to him. Within himself he felt 
 that there was a great strength, a strength which might 
 some day be powerful enough to resist the fiats of the 
 Benedictine order of England. Secretly he was already 
 opposing their laws in his teachings at the Falcon Inn, 
 at Bristol. 
 
 Much had been evolved from that first impromptu 
 meeting. It was now as regular a monthly gathering 
 to those who came to listen to Anthony's lessons as, be 
 fore the Interdict, mass and the confessional had been. 
 Of late years, through much study and deep meditation, 
 the monk had become no mean philosopher. He was 
 now familiar with as many branches of olden-time pagan- 
 istic theology as were open to the scholastic of that 
 day. It was just at the time that Aristotelianism made 
 its primal entrance into Europe through the portals of 
 the East; long before the era of common heresy. 
 Still, the synod at Paris was beginning to find work cut 
 out for it in the determining of uncatholic creeds, and 
 their condemnation. Anthony possessed two manu 
 scripts (written by men who had dared to disclose 
 injustice, and whose works, wherever found, were, in 
 the summer of that very year, 1209, condemned to be 
 publicly burned as pernicious) that he prized more 
 
248 2Jncanoni?cD 
 
 highly than any volume in the library of the abbey. 
 They were the books of Almarich of Bena, a Neo- 
 platonist, and David of Dinant, an advanced scholastic ; 
 and their owner took excellent care that they should 
 never fall into the hands of one of his fellow-monks. 
 From these writings, and with the addition of other 
 works and his own thoughts, the solitary monk had 
 brought to life a creed of his own. It was not a bad 
 system, his, nor was it complex. At least his pupils 
 could find no flaw in it, or in his logic. It was heathen 
 ish, however. His major premise was : " God and 
 matter were. God and matter are. God shall be." 
 Gnosticism and dogma were alike eschewed. Along 
 certain paths he went not very far. But perhaps the 
 great point of all his expositions was the gradual, 
 perfect, complete demolition of the bombastic proposi 
 tions, the impossible laws, and the altisonant assertions 
 of the Roman Catholic theology. Blind faith was abol 
 ished ; so also, occasionally, was reason, for the sake of 
 comfort ; for the intellects of children are small. And 
 eagerly, gladly, lovingly did the good people grasp 
 what their master held out to them so freely. What 
 they took away, oftentimes they brought back again 
 to the meeting, with the outward as well as inward 
 assertion that it was good. 
 
 Among a certain set of Bristol burghers, the little 
 room in the hostel was always connected with the even 
 ing of the thirtieth day in each month. Now, at each 
 assembly, every seat was filled ; and, after the first three 
 months, a new face was a rarity. This was a natural 
 thing. Care in the selection of new-comers was neces 
 sary ; for, though the word danger was never spoken at 
 these meetings, or in regard to them, it was neverthe 
 less a silently recognized fact that a hint from one out 
 of sympathy with new doctrines, to a member of the 
 Catholic body, would portend direful things. Heresy 
 was regarded with unspeakable horror, and the word 
 
from 'Bristol to d&lagtonliuri? 249 
 
 itself was tabooed from common parlance. Not one of 
 the little body dared deny to himself that the teach 
 ings of Anthony were heretical, and yet, month after 
 month, each returned to the Falcon Inn. They were 
 not slow, either, to perceive the result of this practice. 
 Their hearts were lighter than those of their neighbors, 
 and the gloom of the Interdict, with the fears that it 
 brought, had left their lives. 
 
 Sentimental necessity though it be, it is none the less 
 truth that one of the strongest needs of man's existence 
 is that of a faith. No one, looking over history, need 
 ask for proof of this. The hunger for something to cling 
 to, above life, above toil, is innate in every human breast. 
 To comprehend the moral effect of an interdict upon a 
 nation, this fact must be thoroughly understood ; take 
 away a man's God, and you have in nine cases out 
 of ten taken away also the highest part of his nature. 
 And a man whose God can be taken away from him is 
 helpless indeed. Anthony, having restored to a certain 
 number of his fellows their staff of existence, had won 
 from them such dog-like devotion and confidence that 
 he had become fearless in their presence. Though 
 he continued to appear before them in the dress that 
 Hubert de Burgh had given him, he was pretty well 
 aware that they, knew his vocation in life. No other 
 proof of their love did he need than the fact that they 
 accepted him, knowing this. All their old-time " blind 
 faith " they bestowed upon him, since their new religion 
 did not require it. 
 
 To Anthony, the master, this sway over a few, this 
 open denunciation of those sickening doctrines of prayer, 
 and fasting, and confession to human gods, was as meat 
 and wine, as home and friendship, hope and youth, 
 returned to him again. He had now a place in the 
 world, a reality of existence ; he was a necessity to a 
 few, a few of understanding. Eleanor of Brittany was 
 not to him what these people were. She was his sweet- 
 
250 
 
 est pain ; here was his heart's peace. He possessed two 
 things, now, that were his alone. He had a life to live ; 
 a life that was livable, through hope, energy, and ambi 
 tion. Out of the depths had he risen. God and his 
 angels had pitied him. He was content. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT WINDSOR 
 
 IT was truly astounding how that summer of 1210 
 dragged out its length at Bristol Castle. Such a 
 volume of heart-history as the three acres within the 
 walls held should have been productive of almost any 
 action within a space of six months. In reality, nothing 
 at all had happened. Prisoners are beings who live 
 according to the laws of others, and those others enter 
 into no consideration of the mass of minute details which 
 can make or unmake the happiness of the individual. 
 Thus my Lord de Burgh, the most sought after and 
 sought for gentleman in the realm, thought nothing 
 of certain possibilities when, one rainy day at Dunster, 
 he drew up a revised code of rules which the Captain 
 of the Guard at Bristol was to use in regard to his 
 prisoners. The rules were, as De Burgh thought, most 
 considerate and courteous. He decreed the King's 
 Orchard to be at the service of the Princess Eleanor 
 and her ladies from six until eleven in the morning (for, 
 in those days, six o'clock was a late hour to be just out 
 of bed) ; and that the same garden should be open to 
 the Count de la Marche and his companions from two 
 in the afternoon until sunset; all the prisoners being, 
 at other periods, safe under lock and key. Then Hubert, 
 looking disconsolately out of the window at the rain, 
 and having nothing better to do, fingered his light and 
 unofficial-looking document, and saw fit to add to it a 
 clause, saying that the two parties should hold no hint 
 of communication with each other, by word, writ, look, 
 
252 
 
 or deed. And in decreeing this thing De Burgh had 
 not an idea that some Poictevin soldiers in the keep, 
 and a daughter of the proudest reigning family in 
 Europe, in the castle, would have a single thought in 
 common with each other. Had my lord known the 
 real feeling between King John's captives and his niece, 
 it would have depended very much upon my lord's 
 dinner, and the prospect of the weather's clearing, 
 whether or no he would strike out those sorry lines. 
 
 And thus it happened that the memory of that one 
 swift love-passage between Louis de la Bordelaye and 
 Eleanor, in the King's Orchard, had to last them both 
 throughout the summer as mental food for their feeling 
 toward each other. And that this feeling throve, and 
 waxed stronger upon sustenance so light, was the result 
 of its depth, and their great loneliness. And who would 
 blame mon Sieur if he sometimes bitterly cursed the 
 quick impulse of delicacy in leaving her alone in that 
 garden at the instant of their first coming together? 
 And would many women have deemed the Princess 
 unnatural when she would fancy, in her solitary hours, 
 that he cared not much for her, on account of that very 
 action which, at the time, she had been grateful for? 
 
 It was not until late autumn had made the little garden 
 too dreary to be resorted to, that old John Norman 
 took pity upon the desolate pair, and managed, now 
 and again, to convey a note from keep to castle, and 
 even, on one occasion, took upon himself the responsi 
 bility of a meeting between them ; which matter, how 
 ever, was so difficult to arrange and so dangerous in 
 its carrying out that it was hardly to be repeated. So 
 the fall months dragged on, and snow and winter fell 
 together. 
 
 At Glastonbury, life was a void, a great blank of 
 prayers and scanty meals, and broken sleep. Philip 
 mourned and wrote. Anthony lived during two days 
 of every month, and dreamed through the rest of the 
 
at minbgov 253 
 
 time. The same old quarrels and the same old jests, 
 with an occasional week's abandonment of every rule 
 and law, were enacted there. Harold was still the head 
 of the establishment, for no abbot dared the monks elect, 
 since Jocelyn of Bath was in England again. 
 
 So much for castle and monastery; but what of 
 interdicted Britain and her excommunicated King? The 
 great masses of people now groaned and now blas 
 phemed against the damning laws. Unused churches 
 were profanely piled with coffins containing the uncon- 
 secrated dead, with the result that many communities 
 were stricken with disease and plague. Marriages, 
 sacred in the eye of the law, there could be none ; but 
 unhallowed marriages were many; and these, in all 
 bitterness, were universally accepted. There had also 
 been a decided diminution in the clerical element of 
 the island's population in the last two years. King 
 John had busily shipped boat after boat load of growl 
 ing popemen from the shores of his realm into countries 
 of Europe where their tongues, now so used to the 
 exercise, continued to wag over the matter of the dis 
 grace and depravity of Lackland. On a far more annoy 
 ing and treasonable scale this same thing was being 
 done in France by five commendable English bishops 
 and the Archbishop of Canterbury elect, Stephen 
 Langton. Matters of loyalty and patriotism were 
 simple things to put aside, in the face of such pleasures 
 and honors as the King of the French heaped royally 
 upon them. His Holiness also should be included in 
 this religious galaxy. He was a sedentary man, and 
 never given to fierceness in speech, or in immediate 
 action. He remained much in the papal chair, and 
 frequently, while there, he dozed. But when he awoke, 
 as the Mohammedan to his Mecca, so did Innocent turn 
 his eyes in the direction of England ; for it was through 
 that gateway that he expected to enter heaven, the 
 heaven of a pope. Looking there, he smiled, as he had 
 
254 
 
 done before the Interdict. Then once more he grew 
 thoughtful. Deep thought on the part of the Pope 
 had preceded the excommunication of John, a year 
 before. This time, after that long revery, his eyes 
 turned, by chance, in the direction of France. But 
 now his Holiness sighed. The time was not yet. 
 
 In the midst of all the treason, and intrigue, and 
 smiling dishonesty, King John was a refreshing thought. 
 The summer of 1210 he spent in Ireland, bent on 
 making friends with that good-natured people, whom 
 he had not been among since the year when he, a boy 
 of ten, was vested with the dignity of Lord Regent of 
 "Our Dependency of Ireland." In those days the 
 people had not loved him overmuch. He had never 
 sought their affection then, because at that time he loved 
 better to play at quoits or cup-and-ball than to hold 
 councils and make progresses of state ; unnatural though 
 it be in any sovereign ever to have been a child. But 
 now his popularity was as sudden and as signal as it 
 was curious, for so Catholic a country. To be sure, 
 the government that he established there was more just 
 and more kindly than any that these people had ever 
 known before. But was that any excuse for those 
 rough creatures to have gathered round him, monster 
 as he was, at his departure from their shores, with laugh 
 ter and with tears, and many extravagant expressions 
 of love and everlasting loyalty? Their priests saw no 
 extenuating circumstances for such an act, and many 
 a man afterwards did penance for his new-sprung faith 
 in the faithless. 
 
 John landed in England upon a September day. 
 Preparations had been made to give him a royal wel 
 coming reception when he arrived, for royalty is royalty, 
 at least, and the King had been away for four months. 
 John was glad to see his own people once again ; but 
 there was a face which had haunted his memory for 
 many a day, now, and that face he had looked to see 
 
at auinDgor 255 
 
 waiting for him just upon the shore. Why he had 
 hoped for it, he could not himself have told; and an 
 unreasonable hope in a thing is most unwise to indulge. 
 One question he asked about it, and his answer was 
 immediate. Queen Isabella was at Hurstmonceaux. 
 As all men know, Hurstmonceaux is not on the western 
 coast of England. So the King, out of unpardonable 
 caprice, though some might call it a bitter grief, waived 
 every festivity that had been made ready for him, and 
 journeyed away like a common courier, across the 
 country; not to his Queen, for whom he yearned so 
 unaccountably, but back to gloomy Windsor, which 
 once had known her so well. Here he shut himself 
 up, away from the world, with his melancholy and a 
 dozen friends. 
 
 As usual, during Christmas week, high festivities had 
 been planned to take place at the royal abode. Though 
 not a priest nor a monk was to be found about the 
 castle, four bishops, who had flung holiness to the 
 winds, it would appear, numbered themselves among 
 the goodly company of loyal men who were now gath 
 ering about their liege. These four were Henry of 
 Dublin, the two De Grays, John and Walter, bishops 
 of Norwich and Worcester, and Peter de Rupibus, who 
 arrived in December, in the train of the Queen, from 
 Winchester. 
 
 After much pleading and argument Isabella had been 
 persuaded by De Burgh, De Rupibus, and Geoffrey, 
 to join the King for Christmas week. It was the first 
 time that she had seen him in eleven months. John 
 was told that she came of her own will, and he gave her 
 the welcome of a young lover, whom she had at last 
 accepted. To her credit be it said, she had the grace 
 not to undeceive him as to her preferences. 
 
 Christmas day of the year 1210 dawned over Wind 
 sor frosty and gray. At five in the morning the gentle 
 men of the bedchamber were admitted to the King. 
 
256 
 
 The Queen and her suite had been lodged in another 
 wing of the castle. John was long over his toilet. He 
 had determined that no gloom of the heart should 
 creep into this single day for him. To the astonish 
 ment of the attendants, their lord whistled like a 
 plough-boy while they curled and perfumed his black 
 locks, and trimmed his short gray beard. While they 
 vested him with his hose and tunic, which, in truth, 
 were simple enough for a festival morning, he hummed 
 the tune of a morris-dance. At six he was fully dressed. 
 Ere he left his apartment a page entered his room to 
 bear him morning greetings from his Queen. These he 
 returned, with light-hearted formality, and went forth 
 into his anteroom with appetite primed for the break 
 ing of a very short fast. There were no prayers, no 
 penances, no confessions to be made before he should be 
 at his own liberty. His oratory was closed. In some 
 ways excommunication is a thing not inconvenient, 
 when, on a wintry day, you are eager to be out at dawn 
 to see the hoar-frost glisten with the first shafts of the sun. 
 
 In the anteroom stood De Burgh. He greeted his 
 master with respectful wishes, and smiles that were 
 something of an effort. His face was gray and drawn 
 from sleeplessness. 
 
 " Hey now, Hubert ! " quoth the King. " Thou 'rt 
 scarce so cheerful as a love-sick swain. Hast a rheum, 
 or the swelling of a joint, from overmuch cheer? " 
 
 "Would that it were either of those, sire; but 'tis 
 naught so light. I have had news which should keep 
 us both in the council-chamber till evening. The 
 message came after you slept last night." 
 
 The King stopped in their walk through the hall, and 
 stood silent, nervously fingering his dagger-hilt. The 
 light had all gone from his face, and his eyes looked 
 far away into space. Finally he spoke, and his voice 
 had in it a ring which, long, long years after, became 
 habitual to Charles Stuart in his last days. 
 
at aBintJgot 257 
 
 "Answer me this only question, my lord. Comes 
 thy word from Rome, from France, or from England ? " 
 
 " 'T is from England, my Lord King." 
 
 " Then by the Heaven above me, it shall wait ! " 
 cried John. " They would keep me in mine harness 
 like an ox, throughout my life, 'twould seem ; and I tell 
 thee that for once, beast as I am, I will give no heed 
 to the goad, but rest a moment ere we go on again. 
 Why, man ! " he cried out, and his mirth was not very 
 apparent in his voice, " there is to be tilting in the lists 
 this morning, and the boar-hunt this afternoon, and the 
 great feast this evening ! And thou wouldst drag me 
 from it all to council? Nay, Hubert, this one day 
 shall be ours. Then, on the morrow, they shall have 
 us again. Dost hear? Not another word o' the subject 
 to any soul to-day ! " 
 
 Despite his words, however, the King's face was not 
 bright, and his manner became more preoccupied than 
 De Burgh's as they moved on again. Arm in arm they 
 entered the banquet-room, wherein all the masculine 
 members of the court awaited them. The Queen and 
 her ladies were not expected to appear before the 
 beginning of the tournament, of which the first encoun 
 ter was to take place at eight o'clock, a most fashion 
 ably late hour. The royal breakfast passed off with 
 much noise and jollity. None seemed to notice that 
 the jests of the King and his laughter alike were 
 forced. Poor John ! His simile of the ox and the 
 king had not been a happy one. Despite his deter 
 mination not to be driven, the goad had touched him 
 on a spot where no beast could have been reached. 
 He had repudiated apparent care, but he could not 
 drive the weariness from his heart. De Burgh watched 
 his master covertly, and, as he caught the look in his 
 eyes, regretted that he had done his duty, and told 
 what he dared not keep to himself. 
 
 The meal over, all those knights who had entered 
 
 17 
 
their names for jousting, repaired to the lists. At each 
 end of the long, smooth course, situated at the bottom 
 of the great hill, rose long wooden structures, hastily 
 put together, that were to shelter the horses and serve 
 for the retirement of those who should be hurt or 
 unhorsed in a tilt. On the east and west sides of the 
 square were tiers of wooden seats. Just beyond the 
 smaller of these stood a little building, better constructed 
 than the larger sheds, and, as a great luxury, containing 
 a fire. This was the place where the King and his 
 brother Salisbury were to dress for their encounter, 
 which was to be the last trial of the morning. 
 
 By half-past seven the two large sheds were thronged 
 with knights, horses, and their attendants. By eight 
 the spectators' seats were nearly filled ; one side by 
 common folk, from Windsor town and the country-side, 
 the other by ladies, bishops, and those gentlemen of 
 the court who were not going to take part in the 
 sports. The royal seats and a few of those immediately 
 about them alone remained empty. At ten minutes 
 after the hour a gayly dressed group could be seen 
 leaving the castle from the west side, and descending 
 the terraces toward the forest's edge. There was a 
 great flourish of trumpets and bugles, an instant's 
 silence, then a cheer of greeting from five hundred 
 throats, as the King and Queen of England, hand in 
 hand, with Salisbury close beside them, surrounded by 
 De Rupibus* De Burgh, and two or three dozen ladies 
 and gentlemen-in-waiting, entered the lists, passed about 
 them, and finally, mounting to their places, signalled 
 the tourney into life. 
 
 It was a truly royal entertainment in this much, that 
 never had there been richer purses, jewels, and chaplets 
 to be competed for, and that the hand that would 
 bestow these things upon the victors was that belonging 
 to the most beautiful Queen, and, some said, the most 
 beautiful woman in all Europe. 
 
at JKtlin&got; 259 
 
 When, at length, every mel^e had been fought, every 
 tilt run, and every victor rewarded, save the very last, 
 interest began to run high upon the question as to 
 whether the wife of one of the contestants for this 
 ending scene, and the sister of the other one, would 
 still remain the Queen of love and beauty in whose 
 honor they were supposed to fight. Instances had 
 been known where kings had fought for some lowlier 
 favorite, and it was not at all impossible that John 
 would choose again. But no other name was whispered 
 in rivalry of Isabella's, and there was no move near the 
 royal seat when the brothers retired to prepare for their 
 encounter. Betting was much in fashion in that age, 
 even ladies sometimes staking creditable sums upon a 
 good horse or a better knight; and the amounts put 
 up on the last tilt of the day were very large. The 
 odds were rather in favor of Salisbury. The Earl, 
 though somewhat slight to oppose a heavily wielded 
 weapon, was in excellent practice, having taken part 
 in numerous jousts through the winter, in which he had 
 acquitted himself with unusual success. John, on the 
 contrary, though a famous lance in his youth, had now 
 not entered a list for more than seven years, in fact 
 since the mad days that he had spent with Isabella at 
 Rouen, after their marriage. This, together with the 
 fact that Salisbury was near enough his own rank, and 
 a favorite great enough to dare defeat him in open 
 struggle, made it more than probable that the King 
 would not be a victor to-day. 
 
 Despite the weariness of the trumpeters, they made 
 a brave noise with their instruments, as two magnifi 
 cently caparisoned horses were led down the lists to 
 the door of the royal dressing-room. From out of the 
 little square house came two knights, stiff with armor, 
 but with visors raised. John's tall and burly figure 
 was, at any distance, easily to be distinguished from 
 the slight and graceful one of his brother. Despite 
 
260 
 
 the weight of the iron and silver on him, the King 
 mounted his steed without assistance from the Master 
 of the Horse ; while Salisbury, less powerful, was lifted 
 bodily into the saddle. Thereupon, amid loud demon 
 strations from the people, the friendly adversaries rode 
 slowly down the course, side by side, stopping at length 
 below and in front of their royal lady. Isabella re 
 sponded graciously, if unsmilingly, to their salute; after 
 which the horsemen wheeled elaborately, greeted each 
 other, and finally galloped to opposite ends of the lists, 
 where attendants awaited them with lances. 
 
 The day was bitterly cold and cheerless. The vast 
 sky was uniformly gray, and out of it, once and again, 
 fluttered a snow-flake, small, and frozen into powder. 
 The riding-course was bordered upon the south and 
 west with the black, leafless trees that began the great 
 forest. To the north rose the hill, with its stony crown, 
 which towered far aloft into the colorless air. It was 
 wonderful how such a throng of people could remain 
 for so many hours in that bitter atmosphere, gaily 
 and thinly clad, totally forgetful of themselves in their 
 eagerness over the pleasure of the day. 
 
 These thoughts passed through the mind of the 
 King, as he sat motionless upon his horse, awaiting 
 the signal for the start. He was in no wise concerned 
 over the outcome of the approaching encounter. He 
 scarcely remembered how long it was since he had been 
 in this position. The days at Rouen, as his memory 
 glided back to them, seemed to have been but yes 
 terday. In accordance with this recollection his eyes 
 travelled to the spot where sat his Queen. It was 
 strange that that moment found her also looking 
 thoughtfully toward him. At such a distance, and, 
 moreover, since his visor was closed, she could see 
 nothing of his face ; but he knew that her eyes were 
 on him, and his heart throbbed a little. 
 
 Now, at last, the trumpet had sounded. Without 
 
at JGBfnDsfot 261 
 
 knowing what he did, King John found himself flying 
 down the list, lance couched, reins on saddle-bow, 
 toward that other who was coming straight upon him 
 from the opposite end. Then the royal charger, not 
 yet primed for battle, swerved. In an instant the first 
 tilt was run. They had passed without touching. Once 
 again they stood motionless, opposite each other, but 
 this time at different ends of the lists. Again the signal, 
 and again the clanking run of the armored steeds. This 
 course was watched with more indifference, for all the 
 audience knew the perfect courtesy of the Earl. Salis 
 bury's horse shied gently, at the right instant. They 
 passed. Underneath his armor John laughed. Now, 
 however, there was a pause. The King despatched a 
 page to his brother, just before the crucial tilt: for 
 three was the legitimate number of runs to be made, 
 and if this last proved as gentle as the two former, a 
 chaplet of bay-leaves would have to be destroyed, and 
 a hundred pounds would hang in a stupidly even 
 balance. 
 
 The message sent down ,to the Earl, and which was 
 afterwards noised approvingly about among the crowd, 
 was this: "The King commands my Lord of Salisbury 
 to forget, for a quarter of an hour, that he has either 
 a liege or a brother." And by William's subsequent 
 straightening in the saddle, and the gathering up of the 
 bridle-reins, it might have been surmised that the Earl 
 had cast a brother's kindness and a courtier's fear from 
 his mind, according to the suggestion of his opponent. 
 
 Shrilly the trumpets blared. There was a thunder 
 of iron-shod hoofs and a great din of armor, the 
 jangling and clattering of shield and gauntlet, cuisse 
 and steed's caparisons. Then two great warhorses 
 were on their haunches, head to head, in the centre 
 of the lists; and the spectators had risen as a man. 
 Now came a second sharp thrust of the lances. One 
 of the animals screamed, pitifully; and the next 
 
262 
 
 instant a horse and his rider lay together on the 
 ground. The victor, still holding in his hand the 
 stump of a lance, backed away his steed, stood still 
 for one moment, to regain his equilibrium, and then 
 leaped out of his saddle and, in another instant, was 
 kneeling beside his brother. 
 
 When the fallen man was lifted from beneath his 
 struggling horse, there came a shriek of delight from 
 the crowd; but that shriek changed to a wild cheer 
 when the victor gently removed the suffocating helmet 
 from the other's head, and the white face and tangled 
 yellow hair and beard of Salisbury were revealed. 
 There was a respectful hush, however, as William, who 
 had knelt to kiss the hand of his conqueror, was raised, 
 in kindly fashion and, the black visor of the King 
 being lifted, kissed royally upon the brow. 
 
 A throng of grooms from the sheds led away the 
 unhurt horse, and removed the trappings of the other, 
 which lay in its death-agony. Then all eyes followed 
 the majestic figure of John, as he walked slowly toward 
 the seat of his lady, Queen of England and of the 
 tournament alike. As her lord approached, Isabella 
 rose to. her feet, removed his helmet with her own 
 hands, and they say that the King trembled when she 
 placed the unadorned crown of bay-leaves upon his 
 disordered black hair. 
 
 Altogether it had been a most satisfactory joust from 
 first to last. The crowd left their seats leisurely, talk 
 ing among themselves over each encounter that had 
 taken place during the morning, and proceeding, at 
 length, up the hill to the castle, where the noon meal, 
 delayed long beyond its usual hour, was about to be 
 served. Ordinarily this repast was a heavy one, and 
 its consummation took some time; but to-day it was 
 eaten hurriedly, since all were eager for the afternoon's 
 hunt, and it was also known that the great Christ 
 mas feast was to take place when the day was done, 
 
at flUin&gor 263 
 
 and the whole night should be before them for eating 
 and drinking. Ladies as well as gentlemen were pres 
 ent at this meal. King and Queen sat side by side 
 upon a dais, and were, ostensibly, most courteous to 
 each other. At the great table conversation ran upon 
 hunting and hunting matters ; and in the talk many a 
 fair dame kept pace with the lords in knowledge of the 
 intricacies and etiquette of the sport. For in those 
 days it was rather the fashion for women to ride to 
 hounds, though in immediately succeeding centuries 
 the custom was regarded as in bad taste. 
 
 Despite his excitement and triumph of the morning, 
 the King was preoccupied at noon ; and his unaccount 
 able silence through the meal was much commented on. 
 He ate unusually little, and his head drooped continu 
 ally; while every now and then he shot a troubled 
 glance at De Burgh, who had taken the head of the 
 first great table, and sat with his back to the King. 
 The Earl of Salisbury and the bishops were at the 
 royal table, the Earl having been bandaged up enough 
 to permit him to take his place at the meal, though a 
 hunt was out of the question for him. Both he and 
 the Queen wondered at John's abrupt closing of the 
 dinner. With the rising of the King, eating, both above 
 and below the salt, must instantly stop; and it must 
 be confessed that unsatisfied hunger was prevalent, that 
 afternoon, among the inmates of Windsor. 
 
 Just before John stood, a hurriedly whispered collo 
 quy had been held among the four bishops at the royal 
 table. De Rupibus seemed to be the questioner, and 
 the faces of his colleagues were extremely dubious, as, 
 leaning over, he ventured to address the King, just as 
 that monarch was on the point of leaving the hall. At 
 the old councillor's question the King's face grew dark. 
 Nevertheless he must have assented to the request, for, 
 taking three steps from the table, he turned his back 
 toward all in the room, and stood there, motionless, 
 
264 <3ncanom?e& 
 
 with his arms folded and his shoulders bent so that it 
 was nearly impossible to see his head at all. The 
 company wondered, and stopped eating. Peter de 
 Rupibus raised toward them one thin white hand, and 
 began to speak a Latin benediction, that was length 
 ened out into a prayer. For the first time that day 
 the reason for all this festivity and good cheer was 
 spoken of; and when the name of Christ fell from the 
 reverend man's lips, and while each man and woman 
 made the sign of the cross, every eye was raised to the 
 bent figure of the excommunicated one, upon whose 
 ears the name of God was not supposed to fall. At 
 the sense of this publicly exposed degradation John's 
 face flushed red, and the moment that the grace had 
 ended he turned swiftly, and cried out in a brusque 
 voice : 
 
 " Hugo de Neville, thou and the Master of the 
 Hounds get you gone to prepare the meet. Gentlemen, 
 the horses will await you on the last eastern terrace. 
 There will I join you presently. De Burgh ! a word 
 with you ! " 
 
 So saying the King strode with grim haughtiness from 
 the room, with Hubert at his side. The two were fol 
 lowed by the half-fearful, half-pitying glances from all 
 the court ; for these people could feel more than they 
 could understand. So ended the single tribute to God 
 for his gift to the world, that was spoken in England 
 that day. For was not Innocent of Rome displeased 
 with the English King's opinion regarding a certain 
 French priest? And in the year 1210 who was God in 
 comparison to Innocent of Rome? 
 
 De Burgh accompanied the King up to John's own 
 bedroom, where lay his hunting-suit, gauntlets and 
 weapons. It was not till they stood within this cham 
 ber, out of the hearing of all listeners, that the silence 
 was broken. 
 
 " What was the ill news, to-day?" asked the King, 
 
at fKlinDgor 265 
 
 finally, with a kind of jerkiness, as if driven to the 
 question. 
 
 De Burgh, who knew the uncomfortably acute con 
 science of his master, which generally forced him back 
 to the goad in this same fashion, had expected the de 
 mand ; and he answered with the quick, determinative 
 fearlessness that had won him the favoritism of a high- 
 tempered King, accustomed to be surrounded with 
 sycophants and cowardly flatterers, who would sooner 
 have died than trouble John's mind on a festal day. 
 " At three points in the realm, to-day, at Saint Albans, 
 Salisbury, and Nottingham, treasonable assemblies are 
 being held by such barons and clergy as are in direct 
 communication with Langton and his confederate 
 bishops. The names of the ringleaders of these coun 
 cils are in my possession. It would seem to me that 
 these things portend more than might immediately 
 appear. There is strong possibility that the Pope 
 may desire civil war in England, in order that, sooner 
 or later, France may put its hand upon our weakened 
 forces. There is always this to be thought upon, my 
 Lord King." 
 
 The King was silent for a moment. Then he asked 
 slowly: " Those at the abbey Saint Alban's would 
 they remain there overnight, think you? " 
 
 " Probably. Methinks there will still be time to 
 reach them." 
 
 " In one hour, then, I join you in the council-cham 
 ber. I will ride as if to the hunt, make a detour, and 
 return here. Thou must have a band of soldiers ready 
 for quick riding. Wilt lead them thyself, Hubert? " 
 
 "If you command, my liege." 
 
 " I command not. I but request it of you." 
 
 " Tis the same." 
 
 " Thank thee, Hubert. Now the councillors must 
 some of them be acquainted with the matter. Thou 
 hadst best summon the Earl Marshal, William Warenne, 
 
266 Oncanom?et) 
 
 De Fortibus, Fitz-Peter, Salisbury, Chester, Arundel, 
 Winton, and Ferrars. Methinks but few of them had 
 thought to accompany the hunt. We must talk upon 
 the thing which thou suspectest and which in very truth 
 seems not unlikely. Indeed this morning I was mad, 
 so to have disregarded thy wish." 
 
 De Burgh answered his master with a bow. He was 
 used to the King's manner of grasping situations, and 
 by long companionship had so trained himself to the 
 same way of thought, and method of action, that he 
 needed no further command as to what was to be done. 
 The man's impatience at thought of a festivity spoiled, 
 the ruler's weight of conscience in the knowledge that 
 an important matter was being neglected, the states 
 man's keen interest in an intricate and pressing 
 affair, all these things had been anticipated by cour 
 tier, favorite, and councillor. The one thing that 
 Hubert had not foreseen was the bestowing of the 
 leadership of the fighting faction upon himself. This, 
 for multifarious reasons, was very distasteful to him ; 
 but he had been too long a public man to be unable 
 to accept bitter and sweet alike, with unchanged face 
 and not too much disturbance of feeling. 
 
 The King turned at length from his mirror, ready 
 equipped for the hunt in which he was to take so small 
 a part; and, without another word of business matters, 
 walked with De Burgh clear to the courtyard of the 
 castle, chatting upon a variety of light subjects, with 
 a wit and deftness that not one of his courtiers could 
 equal. He left Hubert smiling, and totally forgetful 
 of the prospect of the disagreeable journey and unpleas 
 ant mission which lay before him. 
 
 At the foot of Windsor hill, upon the strip of dead 
 grass that bordered the forest, John came upon a 
 busy scene. Here was a conglomerate and continually 
 moving company of men, women, horses, and dogs, 
 whose laughter, barking, and neighing rose shrilly upon 
 
at 2Hint)j3ot; 267 
 
 the frosty air. An occasional trumpet blared, for all 
 were becoming impatient for the unleashing of the 
 hounds ; and the appearance of the King caused great 
 satisfaction. Order issued rapidly from the confusion ; 
 there was a general mounting of horses, and the usual 
 lingering of those ladies who did not ride, to watch the 
 start. The King, however, seemed in no hurry, and 
 before giving the signal had carefully scanned the face 
 of each of the huntsmen. His scrutiny ended, he 
 mounted his horse, and rode carelessly up to two knights, 
 both bulky, sober-looking men, who kept together in 
 the little throng. These the King saluted courteously, 
 but with a slight significance. 
 
 " My Lord Chester, by some strange chance I have 
 forgot my hunting-horn. If thou wouldst do my pleas 
 ure, thou, together with Ferrars, here, wilt return to the 
 castle for it. 'T is in the possession of my Lord de 
 Burgh, who, together with certain other gentlemen, will 
 not hunt to-day." 
 
 Both earls were looking at the King with mingled 
 curiosity and astonishment. Presently, however, Fer 
 rars' face changed. " These others shall we find 
 them with De Burgh?" he asked. 
 
 " Ah ! " muttered Chester, adding aloud : " And will 
 the hunt be long continued, this afternoon, sire? " 
 
 John answered them with a long smile. " Perchance 
 ye may find De Burgh in the council-chamber ; and how 
 can I tell if, chancing to find myself alone in the forest 
 this afternoon, I should not break a saddlegirth ? " 
 
 This was enough. With an obedient salute the two 
 earls wheeled about and urged their horses rapidly 
 toward the road which wound upward toward the 
 castle. 
 
 To cover their retreat, John, at the same moment, 
 cried out loudly : " Let the hounds be unleashed ! A 
 guinea to each who can, this afternoon, show his spear 
 head red with a boar's blood ! " 
 
268 <ancanoni?eti 
 
 The ladies on foot drew away from the company. A 
 quick scamper of long-nosed dogs, a plunging forward 
 of powerful horses, a long call from the silver-throated 
 horns, and then all had disappeared from sight into the 
 dark aisles of the forest. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later the King, after three or four 
 adroit manoeuvres, found himself galloping alone through 
 the gray labyrinth of tree-trunks, while the pack and the 
 hunters were racing madly away, far to the right. 
 Through the heavy air the long cries and the shouts 
 came faintly to his ears. The solitude, and the speed 
 of his horse, pleased him. He dug his golden spurs 
 deep into the smooth flanks of the animal, which 
 bounded forward, faster than ever, over the fallen 
 leaves. A magnificent and fearless rider was this true 
 son of the Conqueror. His head was raised high, and 
 his nostrils distended, as he inhaled deep gasps of the 
 frosty oxygen, while he guided the steed on through 
 the masses of underbrush that impeded their progress. 
 He was making now a long detour to the left, which 
 would put him completely out of the reach of any 
 courtier who might have happened to miss his presence. 
 Ten minutes brought him into open country, and in 
 another five he had drawn rein under the southern wall 
 of Windsor Castle. Here he dismounted, leaving his 
 animal to wander at will over the ground, knowing 
 that it would not stray far. A small, concealed pos 
 tern door admitted him into the castle, and a private 
 flight of stairs led him up into his own apartments, 
 whence he swiftly gained the council-room. Within 
 the small, circular chamber eight men were assembled. 
 They rose eagerly as John entered, knowing by his 
 expression, and the swing of his stride, that they had 
 work before them. 
 
 The council was long, and the discussion ranged 
 over many subjects, all of which, however, bore upon 
 the single object of England's safety. It lacked just an 
 
at minb&ov 269 
 
 hour to the time set for the grand banquet of evening ; 
 the debate was nearly ended, and the King's mind had 
 flown away to the thought of his wandering horse and 
 the outcome of the hunt, when there came an agitated 
 knocking at the closed door of this most important room 
 in the castle. There was no time for it to be opened, 
 for De Warrenne had but just started to his feet when it 
 was flung back quickly. 
 
 " My lords ! The King ! John ! " 
 
 Isabella of Angouleme was standing in the doorway, 
 while behind her might be seen the nervous-looking 
 face of a maid. The Queen was in most unregal array. 
 Her black hair fell in loose, showering masses over her 
 slender figure, which was clothed in a neglige robe of 
 gray, while in her agitated hand she held a small, steel 
 mirror. 
 
 The lords of the council stood staring at her in silent 
 amazement, making nothing out of her exclamations. 
 But the King, who knew her vanity and the usual stiff 
 decorum of her public behavior, advanced nervously to 
 her side, fearing some calamity. 
 
 "Thou didst ask for me, madam?" he said. 
 
 At sight of the King, Isabella's manner changed. 
 She shrank visibly within herself, and her cheeks 
 colored. She would have drawn back before he reached 
 her, except for the knowledge that her unusual action 
 must be explained. When she replied to his question 
 her tone was haughty, and her manner reserved. 
 
 " I crave your pardon for this intrusion, my lord. It 
 was rumored that the hunt had returned without you, 
 and that your horse had been found wandering riderless 
 without the castle. Thus I feared that some accident 
 must have befallen you, and that it were well to ac 
 quaint these gentlemen at once with the matter. Again, 
 my lord, I crave pardon for my foolishness." 
 
 " Not foolishness, Isabella," answered the King in a 
 low voice. " In sooth I thank thee for having shown 
 
270 (tJncanoni?eD 
 
 such concern for my welfare. I can remember a day 
 when thou wouldst have asked no pardon for such 
 ' folly.' " 
 
 She moved away without replying, the heat of the 
 moment having burned itself out, and only anger that 
 she had been seen in such garb being left in her mind. 
 Her interruption ended the council. The earls saluted 
 the King and one another in embarrassed silence and 
 went their way. Even among themselves none cared 
 to speak the thoughts that Isabella's action had awak 
 ened in each mind ; but not one who had been present 
 at the little scene wondered at John's high humor, even 
 in the face of the possible danger which threatened 
 Hubert de Burgh. And, with him, all England was gay 
 that night. 
 
 When darkness finally fell over Windsor Hill, the 
 castle seemed to waken to a new kind of life. The 
 banquet-hall had been filled, through the whole after 
 noon, with a busy swarm of attendants, preparing for 
 the coming feast. A thousand flickering torches made 
 a twilight within the dimly towering vaults of the 
 lofty stone roof. The long, narrow tables were almost 
 brilliant with the pleasant light of lanterns, copper 
 lamps, and candles. There had been some idea of 
 beauty in the arrangement of great banks of holly 
 and mistletoe about the royal dais at one end of the 
 room, but on the common tables there was no place 
 for such frivolities, for already they were overloaded 
 with the weight of food and dishes. The royal party 
 entered the room to a well-meant burst of music 
 from the musicians' gallery which overlooked the hall, 
 and the instant that the King was seated, a throng of 
 waiters appeared from the kitchens, bearing the first 
 course. It was a feast such as only our ancestors could 
 have endured. Every dish then known to England was 
 served, and served in such quantities as would have 
 satisfied a moderately hungry man simply by its ap- 
 
at fKKinDgor 271 
 
 pearance. Pages fairly staggered under the weight of 
 platters and bowls, and the boars'-heads were car 
 ried upon the shoulders of two men, as much for com 
 fort as for display. There were roasts of beef, mut 
 ton, venison, and pork, with broths and soups of the 
 same ; there were stews of lamb and of kid ; pasties 
 of every possible species of poultry and game; there 
 were peacocks, lampreys, carp, and salmon; boars'- 
 heads, oxen's heads, and calves' brains; there were 
 roots boiled and roasted ; there were puddings, black, 
 Yorkshire, white, and plum ; loaves of bread, black, 
 white, and rye ; there was salt at both ends of the 
 table ; and there were comfits, sweetmeats, and march- 
 planes of every variety, many of them not at all unac 
 ceptable ; lastly, and most necessary of all to the good 
 cheer of such a banquet, came the wines, ales, beer, 
 possets, or stronger fermented liquors ; goat's or cow's 
 milk was drunk by many of the ladies, and no known 
 species of liquor, save only water, might not have been 
 obtained at will. 
 
 And the company? Truly, on that night the Eng 
 lish court was resplendent. There was not a beam of 
 light but had its jewel to shine upon, and no rainbow 
 would ever have dared attempt to rival the colors that 
 were mingled together in that hall. Moreover, the crowd 
 fairly breathed of perfumes, of nearly as many odors as, 
 and rather more strength than, can be claimed for to 
 day. After the first ten minutes at table the noise 
 of laughter and talking that rose to echo among the 
 stone arches above was fairly deafening. Every one, 
 noble, servant, and lady alike, talked at the top of his or 
 her ability. Listeners were there none. As at noon, 
 the King and Queen, with Salisbury and the bishops, 
 sat at. the royal table, with the earls ranged in order of 
 rank below; and innumerable were the unanswered 
 queries as to the whereabouts of my Lord de Burgh ; 
 who happened, at that moment, to be upon horseback, 
 
272 2lncanont?et) 
 
 about ten miles away, and making an uncommonly disa 
 greeable progress, against a biting north wind, towards 
 Saint Alban's Abbey. 
 
 The royal table was closely watched, and its occu 
 pants much commented upon to-night. Certainly the 
 figures at it were as splendid as possible. The 
 bishops, of course, could wear only their violet robes 
 with orders as heavily jewelled as might be. The 
 King's dress, however, was almost beyond cost; the 
 Queen's, to make a paradox, still more costly ; while 
 Salisbury's costume was a white tunic, with belt and 
 baldric thickly sprinkled with sapphires and pearls; his 
 long shoes of white, lined with sables, and heavily em 
 broidered in gold ; while his fair hair was crowned with 
 a coronet of sapphires and diamonds. 
 
 By midnight the eating was over, and some of the 
 more refined among the women, and a fair sprink 
 ling of effeminate gallants left the room. Now the 
 singing, jesting, drinking, and unseemly carousing 
 steadily increased in noise and unpleasantness, and 
 before long the most salient marks of civilization would 
 disappear from the scene. 
 
 Queen Isabella was one of the first to leave the hall. 
 Despite the King's attentions and Salisbury's courtesy, 
 the feast had been very wearisome to her. Perhaps 
 she envied the commoner folk below, who seemed to 
 be enjoying themselves so honestly. At all events, she 
 took the first opportunity of requesting the King's indul 
 gence as to her departure ; and, as soon as she was seen 
 to have gone, etiquette permitted any lady in the room 
 to follow her. 
 
 After Isabella had left, the King grew thoughtful. 
 He replied absently to the remarks and comments of his 
 companions, and gazed with unseeing eyes down the 
 immense room, and at the crowd which filled it. Fi 
 nally he became restless and impatient. His face wore a 
 disgusted look as now and then the refrain of some very 
 
at flUtnUsior 273 
 
 free song would reach his ears ; though Salisbury could 
 very well remember the day when that species of mirth 
 had in no wise troubled him. At length, unable to en 
 dure it longer, he called a lackey to him and sent him 
 from the room upon a whispered errand. No one at 
 the little table spoke while the man was gone. The 
 bishops were sleepy, and the poor Earl weary and 
 aching with the day's length and his morning's fall. 
 
 The King's servant returned, bearing with him a long, 
 dark cloak. This John threw about himself, then rose 
 from his place. Smilingly he leaned over the table and 
 spoke to the five who sat stiffly about it. 
 
 " God give you good-even, friends, and send you all 
 as easy an escape from this merriment as have I. I go 
 to join the Queen. Good-night." 
 
 Slipping unperceived from the dais, the glittering 
 brilliancy of his dress concealed beneath the cloak, 
 he glided quietly around the tables and out at a small 
 side door. 
 
 Salisbury looked about him disconsolately. Three of 
 the bishops were nodding over their glasses, and the 
 fourth, Peter de Rupibus, had allowed his white head to 
 sink upon the table before him, and in the midst of all 
 the uproar lay wrapped in sleep. 
 
 18 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 ELEANOR'S ENVOY 
 
 THE year 1211 entered drearily into the calen 
 dar, and its first months sped by with ominous 
 rapidity. Europe was watching England with 
 one eye and Rome with the other, and appeared to 
 be highly interested in the sight presented. The 
 Eternal City looked only at England, but held out a 
 sympathetic hand to France at the same time. And 
 the poor little island, in troubled embarrassment at so 
 much attention, glanced first up, then down, then let 
 its eyelids fall in weariness. That is to say, King 
 John at last became callous to the increasing difficul 
 ties which confronted him. He paid no attention to 
 the spasmodically increasing rigidity of the Interdict ; 
 he only shrugged his shoulders when he heard of the 
 publication of an illegal and insulting papal document, 
 forbidding any Englishman, or any foreigner either, 
 for that matter, to pay reverence and obedience to the 
 English ruler; and companies headed by Hubert de 
 Burgh were no longer sent to put a stop to treasonable 
 councils, whether held by barons or clergy. Indeed, 
 had John attempted to do this last, his favorite could 
 not have stood the strain of overwork for more than a 
 month; for growling assemblies had come to be one of 
 the most popular pastimes of the nation. In defiance 
 of Innocent's latest Bull, however, the King kept open 
 court at Windsor, and found that he was not yet 
 friendless. The four bishops, twenty-seven earls and 
 barons, and as many knights as the castle would hold, 
 
(Eleanor's nfco? 275 
 
 were in constant attendance upon him. Early in Jan 
 uary, however, the Queen returned again to Winches 
 ter, having been offended by some unconscious act of 
 her husband's, and absolutely refusing to be pacified. 
 At Winchester she remained, untouched by any over 
 ture of peace from John or his intimates. She kept a 
 large court of her own always with her, and seemed to 
 prefer ruling them with undisputed sway to being 
 merely an adjunct of the King's authority. 
 
 The Pearl of Brittany knew nothing of all the gossip 
 concerning her uncle and his Queen; neither did she 
 think much about them, save that she was aware of the 
 fact that in some way Isabella held in her hands the 
 destiny of the Count de la Marche, and, with him, of 
 Louis de la Bordelaye. This, however, was much. 
 Continually Eleanor was exciting her brain with a 
 prisoner's fancies of plots, plans, and hopes of freedom ; 
 freedom for herself and for the man she loved. Daily 
 her solitude and restrictions grew more unbearable. 
 Only a weekly note or message from La Bordelaye, or 
 possibly, as of old, the sound of his voice or lute from 
 the courtyard, that was the closest communication 
 permitted them. The regular visits from her confessor 
 were more satisfactory. Those breaks in her monoto 
 nous existence were beginning to take on a new form 
 in her eyes. It was now three full years since she had 
 seen Anthony for the first time. His coming never 
 varied in its perfect regularity; and had they not been 
 placed so far apart, these visits, too, might have be 
 come wearisome to her; for each was but a repetition 
 of the last. She had come to look upon the monk less 
 as an individual than as one of a vast, unvaried type 
 of humanity. But this opinion of him was changed 
 in the flash of a single instant, and by the barest 
 chance. It was on a March afternoon, and Eleanor 
 and Fitz-Hubert sat alone together in her small 
 living-room, partaking, as usual, of cakes and posset. 
 
276 <Uncanom?ed 
 
 The lazily moving eyes of the Princess happened to 
 rest for a moment upon the unconscious profile of the 
 monk, who sat, with the little horn in one hand, gazing 
 meditatively into the log-fire, which was granted the 
 royal prisoner from November to April. The leaping 
 light of the flames threw his features into bold relief, 
 while the rest of his figure was left adumbrated in the 
 twilight. After she had looked at him long and 
 thoughtfully, in silence, Eleanor continued her think 
 ing, aloud. 
 
 "Thou hast a strong face, Anthony," she said, drop 
 ping the ' father.' "'Tis not handsome, but me- 
 seemeth one might trust thee rarely in time of trouble. " 
 
 Anthony turned toward her instantly, with a new 
 feeling at his heart. It was the first time that she had 
 ever made a personal remark to him. After a moment 
 he answered her quietly: "Thou art in trouble, 
 madam ? " 
 
 " Nay, " was the quick response. " 'T was but an idle 
 thought that I did voice." 
 
 Then silence fell over them again, until at last 
 Anthony took his leave. Nevertheless that moment of 
 conversation stayed in the minds of both of them, and 
 'in the end bore fruit. The next time they met, El 
 eanor spoke to him quite freely of herself and of her 
 past life, which was a subject that had scarcely been 
 touched save in the confessional, since that first visit, 
 now so long past. Hitherto, also, she had shown 
 great reticence concerning whatever unhappiness she 
 endured. Now, at last, her loneliness and her sorrow 
 were passionately poured out to him, and all that he 
 had hitherto read in her face was verified in her words. 
 One topic, however, whether by design or unconquer 
 able shyness, she never opened. Constantly Anthony 
 listened for the name of De la Bordelaye, and not once 
 did he hear it. He wondered if the slight intimacy 
 could have been ended. Hope came and deepened, till 
 
277 
 
 it grew into belief; and then, indeed, was Anthony mad 
 with happiness. One person only knew how he was 
 being all unwittingly deceived. She who had by 
 chance overheard many of the long talks between 
 Eleanor and the priest from the darkness of her own 
 room knew much that went near to make her tell what 
 was so clear to her, to him who seemed so willing 
 ly blind. At times Mary had even been permitted 
 to join her mistress and the confessor before the bring 
 ing of the sweetmeats ; and these moments had been the 
 happiest that the country-girl knew. Always Anthony 
 was her idol. Once she had mourned over his uncon 
 sciousness of her feeling for him. Now she was heart 
 sick at sight of his growing devotion toward one so 
 impossible in every way for him. Mary's insight had 
 become abnormally keen. It was alike her torment 
 and her delight. Anthony's heart and brain were an 
 open book to her; and Mary could read manuscript 
 without stumbling by this time. Eleanor she had long 
 known completely. She saw clearly, and blamed 
 neither the one nor the other for what was taking 
 place between them; the grave misunderstanding that 
 she dared not right. Because Eleanor had, by chance, 
 poured out a long-restrained confidence into the ears of 
 a suddenly found friend, that friend had dared to hope 
 so much that was unwarranted! And so Mary ever 
 longed to cry the truth to him, and ever fought with 
 herself to keep back the wish, knowing how useless it 
 would be, and how he would hate her for what she 
 tried to say; till finally the impulse lessened, and 
 then died, and she had kept her silence. 
 
 At last the spring advanced apace, and the freshen 
 ing turf of the King's Orchard was swept again by 
 Eleanor's trailing garments. There was a strong hope 
 in her breast that she might see Louis de la Bordelaye 
 here some day, that he might come to her as she had 
 found him, a year ago; and this time, she vowed, he 
 
278 cUncanom?eD 
 
 should not leave her at the very moment of their 
 meeting. But the Sieur did not come. Eleanor grew 
 impatient, and nursed her hope all the more carefully. 
 An accidental glimpse of his head through a loophole 
 in the keep threw her into sudden despair. The 
 warm days dragged on. Sunshine gave her no lighten 
 ing of the heart. She refused to go out. She ruined 
 her tapestry, broke her tambour-frame, flung aside her 
 lute, and gave herself up to alternate fits of violent 
 weeping and unapproachable moodiness. Her ladies 
 were of no use. Mary was better. Eleanor seemed 
 not to mind her presence, and would even, at times, 
 deign to listen to the quaint stories that had come to 
 Somerset over the Welsh border, and which the French 
 Princess now heard for the first time. Gradually, how 
 ever, Eleanor grew weak with her long seclusion. All 
 color left her face and lips; and her magnificent hair 
 became so thin that the old-time coifs could scarcely be 
 used upon her head. She was very irritable, also, 
 now. Poor little Clothilde and Marie wept together 
 daily over the rebuffs that their formerly gentle lady 
 now chose to give them, and then wailed again, as 
 loudly, over her failing health. 
 
 The Sieur de la Bordelaye in some way got news 
 of his lady's illness and contrived to send a note to 
 her by means of the old porter. It was a missive full 
 of tenderness and loyal devotion, albeit expressed in 
 terms of such honor and courtesy that no princess 
 could have taken offence at it. He waited long for 
 some reply, whether by word or letter, to his token. 
 Nothing came. Eleanor, in all the capriciousness of 
 one ill, had fallen out of humor with the very one for 
 want of a sight of whom she had got into so deplorable 
 a state. She read the letter, turned whiter than ever, 
 then feebly bade Mary burn it. In astonishment Mary 
 obeyed the command. Five minutes later madam was 
 in tears because she had not kept it. 
 
(Eleanor's Cnfco? 279 
 
 Then, at last, all Mary's patience with destiny fled. 
 She had grown to love the Princess very dearly, des 
 pite, or, perhaps, because of her misunderstanding of 
 Anthony. However .it was, the peasant, who was at 
 heart no peasant, had great pity for the girl who, 
 though no older than herself, had never had any one to 
 lean upon in times of irresponsible weakness. Now 
 she took upon herself a daring action. In Eleanor's 
 name she despatched old John Norman, post-haste, to 
 Glastonbury, for madam's confessor. Old John rather 
 approved the idea of a day's ride in the country, and 
 set forth on his mare with right good-will. It was 
 barely dawn when he left the castle, and evening when 
 he came riding in again ; for what horse, however old 
 he might be, could not be made to do forty miles in a 
 day for the sake of Eleanor of Brittany ? 
 
 Through that long day Mary sat in the bedchamber 
 of her Princess, bearing with unwearying courage all 
 the nervousness, caprice, and tearful complaints that 
 must be endured ; for Mary had come of a sturdy old 
 stock, whose sensibilities were armored with a solid 
 layer of flesh and good, rich blood, in whose brilliant 
 life there was not a hint of blue. 
 
 It was a July noon, hot and droning, and fourteen 
 days after Anthony's last visit to Bristol. The refec 
 tory was not thronged that day at dinner. For once it 
 was too warm for even a monk to wish to eat ; and, 
 besides this, there happened to be a goodly number in 
 the infirmary just now. The usual rigidity of dinner 
 etiquette being relaxed, Anthony had seated himself 
 beside Philip, and, there being no reader, talked with 
 him quietly throughout the meal. The prior, about 
 to start upon a journey, dined in his own apartments, 
 together with William Vigor. They were going to 
 one of the four country-seats which belonged, in real 
 ity, to the abbots of Glastonbury, but which any tem 
 poral head of the monastery might use. 
 
280 
 
 When dinner was nearly over, a lay-brother was 
 obliged to leave the table, that he might answer a pon 
 derous knock which sounded at the front entrance, near 
 St. Joseph's chapel. Presently William Lorrimer, 
 the lodge-keeper, entered the refectory, calling out : 
 
 " Brother Anthony ! Brother Anthony ! A messen 
 ger for thee ! " 
 
 Anthony rose quickly to his feet. 
 
 "Come hence with me, William," he said in a low 
 voice. "Give me the message while we go to him 
 who brought it." 
 
 Old William chuckled maliciously at the murmur of 
 disappointed curiosity that followed them from the 
 room. He thought that he knew why he was being 
 drawn away ; but as he passed the doorway, he looked 
 pleasantly over his shoulder and winked at the assem 
 bled company. They should have satisfaction when 
 Anthony was gone. 
 
 " Who is the messenger, and whence comes he ? " 
 
 The old fellow hesitated. He was divided between 
 a desire to be first to impart news, and the wish to 
 tantalize the monk by making him wait. However, the 
 waiting would be very short. He decided to tell. 
 
 " 'T is a rider, who saith he comes from Bristol 
 Castle. His name is John Norman, and " here 
 William suddenly found himself staring after the flying 
 form of Anthony, who had started forward as if mad on 
 hearing the name of the messenger. 
 
 Old John still sat his horse outside the farthest gate. 
 He was in a state of high indignation at not having 
 been immediately invited in for refreshment. He 
 delivered his message rather sulkily, but softened at 
 once when the monk, who, at a glance, had perceived 
 his weariness, bade him dismount and accompany 
 Lorrimer into the refectory. 
 
 " I must gain permission to return with you an 't is 
 possible," explained Anthony, as he hurried away 
 
281 
 
 from the old pair and bent his steps toward Harold's 
 rooms. He was not at all confident that the prior 
 would consent to his unusual departure, but he would 
 move heaven itself in order to gain the permission. 
 
 To his astonishment no objection whatever was made 
 to his proposal. Instead of objecting, Harold seemed 
 positively pleased at the prospect of his going. 
 Anthony could not understand this unusual attitude, 
 but he comprehended it a little later, very well. Harold 
 was, indeed, relieved. He dared not tell the monk to 
 stay as long as he would at Bristol Castle, but, if 
 wishes could have been effectual, Anthony would not 
 have returned to the monastery under a week. For, 
 unaccountable as it appeared, the prior of Glastonbury 
 Abbey was afraid of the son of Hubert Walter. 
 
 During the whole day Princess Eleanor had not risen 
 from her couch, nor had she spoken save once or twice, 
 to send Mary on an errand, to voice a grievance, or 
 to refuse an offer of food. The French demoiselles 
 had spent most of the morning in the room, at their 
 embroidery, but were dismissed at last by their impa 
 tient mistress, and retired, 'dismally, to their own 
 apartment. Mary's presence, however, was soothing. 
 Her calm, strong face reminded Eleanor of that 
 Madonna to whom she had been wont to pray long ago, 
 at Falaise. In the half-torpid state to which, in the 
 afternoon, she gradually sank, the Princess even con 
 founded her attendant with some presence more spir 
 itual than tangible. 
 
 One by one the hot hours dropped away over the 
 western horizon, and the noontide clatter of the court 
 yard was but a memory. The afternoon sun fell lower. 
 Mary sat at the window, watching the little space of 
 white road that seemed to rise, so unaccountably, out 
 of St. Peter's square. Eleanor lay vaguely dreaming 
 of the perfume of flowers, and the fresh freedom of 
 great fields that she so longed to enter. Then her 
 
282 ctJncanoni?eD 
 
 thoughts turned in another direction. Her gray eyes 
 opened widely, and the color in her face deepened. 
 She was awake now to her own thoughts. Her lips, 
 once and again, moved a little, but no words came 
 from them. She never noticed the deepening twilight. 
 The last twittering of birds that sang, Heaven knows 
 where about that -lonely place, was inaudible to her. 
 She did not see Mary, who had half started to her feet, 
 and was gazing earnestly up the bit of road. In five 
 minutes came a clatter of horses' hoofs through the 
 twilight stillness. When these had stopped, Mary 
 moved nervously toward the door, listening. The 
 sound of footsteps came to her ears. She had put out 
 her hand to open the door when Eleanor spoke. 
 
 " Mary, I would have thee send for Father Anthony, 
 my confessor. I have a matter of great import on 
 which to speak with him." 
 
 Mary flung back a leather curtain, opened the door, 
 and spoke a few words apparently to some one without. 
 Eleanor looked at her curiously. " What sayest thou, 
 girl?" 
 
 " You ask for me, Princess ? " came a mellow, mascu 
 line voice. 
 
 Eleanor started up, and her eyes were frightened. 
 "How comes this?" she murmured to herself. "Do 
 I dream?" 
 
 "Nay, dear lady," answered the maid. "Thou 
 dreamest not. This morning I myself did send for the 
 confessor, for I saw thee troubled, and ill, and there 
 was none here to help thee." 
 
 A look of mingled relief and joy spread over the face 
 of the Princess. " God bless thee, dear Mary. Wilt 
 leave us, now ? " 
 
 Anthony, too, as he entered, gave a look of gratitude 
 to the girl. But after that his eyes were turned 
 toward Eleanor, and the love-light in them was so 
 strong that an agony came over the other woman. As 
 
'js Cube? 283 
 
 she crept out of the glowing room, Mary's eyes were 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Anthony, after a moment's hesitation, seated himself 
 upon a stool beside the bed. Eleanor drew her gar 
 ments more closely about her feet, and then lay back 
 again on the pillows. One lock of her black hair fell 
 over the couch and down close to the monk's hand. 
 He looked at it reverently, then fixed his eyes upon 
 her face, waiting. 
 
 "Didst know that I was wishing for thee?" she 
 asked dreamily. 
 
 "It was Mary's message that came," he replied. 
 
 She paused again, and again he waited. 
 
 " Wouldst thou do me great service, go a long and 
 weary journey if I asked it?" 
 
 "To the ends of the earth," he answered instantly, 
 not thinking of his bonds. 
 
 Eleanor smiled. Such devotion was not strange to 
 her, though it had never before been proffered by a 
 monk. She continued: "I will make unto thee a con 
 fession for which no penance need be done, and which 
 I told thee of once, long ago. But first, I must ask 
 thee, dost know where mine uncle's Queen, Isabella 
 of Angouleme, dwelleth now?' 5 
 
 "She is at Winchester, I have heard." 
 
 " And is that far away ? " 
 
 "Two days' journey from Glastonbury." 
 
 " I have been told that Isabella is wondrous fair. Is 
 she good, also? " 
 
 " How should I know the Queen, madam? " 
 
 " Hast forgot how thyself didst tell me of thy early 
 life, and the pitiful end of it? " 
 
 Anthony was silent. 
 
 "Is Isabella kind is she pitying would she pity 
 me? " persisted the girl. 
 
 "Satan himself would pity thy captivity," was the 
 answer. 
 
284 
 
 " Nay, that was not my question. 'T is the Queen I 
 would learn of." 
 
 He was forced now to a direct reply, and not know 
 ing what was in her mind, said, with but short hesita 
 tion: "The Queen would doubtless be kind, Princess." 
 He was not at all sure of that kindness himself; but 
 what could loyalty do ? 
 
 "Then listen, Anthony. As thou seest, I am un 
 happy here, alone. The days are ofttimes so long that 
 meseemeth I shall go mad with solitude and longing; 
 else die slowly, as I almost think that I do now. Not 
 many years ago I would not have dreaded death. I 
 prayed that it might come to me at Falaise, and some 
 times at Corfe too. Now God forbid that I should 
 go ere I taste that joy of living that is denied to 
 scarce a peasant, or a beggar, in all the world ! Ah, 
 Anthony ! Anthony ! I love ! Even in my captivity it 
 has come to me. For more than a year joy hath lain 
 ever just without my reach, withheld by lock and bar. 
 It is Louis de la Bordelaye, the truest, most gallant 
 warrior that e'er came out of Poictou, that I love. 
 He is attendant upon De la Marche, a simple gentle 
 man, without title or estate. Now think you not, 
 Anthony, that if the Queen, whom mine uncle in youth 
 did love so passionately that he bore her away from her 
 betrothed and her simple life to rule, with him, over 
 this great land, think you not, if she were pleaded 
 with to take our part, that her prayers might have 
 effect upon John? Willingly will I renounce all my 
 rightful claims. Surely a maid can be no such dan 
 gerous rival to a great king, even though my blood be 
 better than his. My word is royal. We would go 
 away together I and mon Sieur, to his country, to 
 live there alone in obscurity, with only our happiness 
 for dower. Why should it not be so? But one thing 
 do I need, that my freedom may thus be accomplished, 
 a friend. And him I have. Thou, Anthony, art 
 
285 
 
 my friend and my guide. Thou shalt go thou 
 wilt go to Winchester, to Isabella for my sake 
 Anthony?" 
 
 And Anthony heard it all. Every syllable uttered 
 by that low, silvery voice which never rose to great 
 heights of passion, yet whose quiet depths held in them 
 a living love and a living sorrow, had beaten down, 
 and down, into his heart and upon his brain. He saw 
 everything. The thin veil was quite fallen from his 
 eyes. His dream city had faded forever into nothing 
 ness. His hopeless hope lay, like a bunch of spring 
 violets, dead in his lap. In his heart there was a great 
 agonized cry, unutterable. He raised one chilly hand 
 slowly to his temples. Then, feeling her eyes upon 
 him, another kind of quiet came. That she loved 
 Louis de la Bordelaye he accepted. But that he he 
 who loved her so far beyond life and death should 
 plead for her love for this other, should go to Win 
 chester for his happiness as well as hers, no! no! 
 no! Anthony Fitz-Hubert was no saint yet. In the 
 midst of this inward tumult he lifted his head and 
 looked toward her again. Her head had fallen back 
 upon the pillows, the animation had died out of her 
 face, her eyes were closed. She was heart-sick again. 
 Pity came to take sides against the monk's inner 
 self. At that instant he was all but yielding to her 
 and promising to do whatever she should wish. Then, 
 once more, the strong, haughty face of De la Bordelaye 
 was before his eyes, and he shrank. From all that he 
 knew of the Poictevin (and that was much, since for 
 the last three years he had confessed him), he seemed 
 an honorable, loyal gentleman. So far as could be 
 surmised, Eleanor was without a rival in her lover's 
 eyes, since neither her name nor that of any woman 
 had ever passed his lips in connection with himself. 
 This made it only the more bitter for Anthony. He 
 and De la Bordelaye being alike irreproachable, he had 
 
286 2Jncanoni?e& 
 
 been cast aside. For the moment Anthony had for 
 gotten his monkhood ; but the remembrance of it came 
 back to him presently. A spasm of the deepest bitter 
 ness passed over his face. All this was but a part of 
 Hubert Walter's heritage. With what folly had he 
 been pleased to delude his vanity! He, a monk, base- 
 born ; she, a princess royal, at heart a gentle girl, 
 and he had, for one moment, dared, presumed, to be 
 jealous of her love ! A sweat of shame broke out upon 
 his brow. He knelt down beside the bed. 
 
 "Madam Lady I crave your indulgence to return 
 to-night to Glastonbury, that I may leave there for 
 Winchester at dawn to-morrow." 
 
 Eleanor's eyes opened wearily. "What didst thou 
 say? Thou wilt return to Glastonbury at once? Go, 
 then." 
 
 He considered her thoughtfully for a little, not 
 daring to be disappointed with the way in which she 
 had received his sacrifice. How should she under 
 stand that it was a sacrifice? " I should be back again 
 in five days; but, were there any delay, it might be 
 six." 
 
 "Why should you return again so soon? Methinks 
 that I shall not need confession till November at latest, 
 for I will not trouble you to come to Bristol now as oft 
 as you were wont before. " 
 
 " But, Eleanor madam you will wish to hear 
 Isabella's answer." 
 
 Then at last she understood. Springing from her 
 couch, she fairly threw herself at his feet, seizing his 
 hands and crying to him hysterically: "Oh, thou wilt 
 go? Thou wilt, indeed, go? Nay, forgive, forgive; 
 I had not heard aright! Methought thou didst refuse 
 my prayer thy long silence God bless thee, father, 
 friend! Go to-night to Glastonbury? Surely not ! I 
 would have thee a little longer at my side, and thou 
 must rest, too. Surely, surely Isabella will grant to 
 
'js Cube? 287 
 
 thee our freedom. T is so little a thing ! And thou 
 shalt have six days' absence. I will try to wait so 
 long. Thou mightest be back by then?" 
 
 He lifted her up from her knees, half frightened at 
 the demonstration, and answered her gently : " Nay, I 
 could scarce be back here in six days an I return 
 not to Glastonbury to-night." This was not true, but 
 Anthony, now that he was pledged, longed unaccount 
 ably to be away from Bristol, and on his painful jour 
 ney. "At the abbey permission must be obtained for 
 me to travel to Winchester. Fear not," seeing her 
 sudden look of anxiety, "they shall let me go. But 
 now I must bid thee farewell. See, it grows late." 
 
 "But the ride will be long and dark. I would not 
 have thee do it." 
 
 He made a gesture of pleading, and smiled gravely 
 at her fears. 
 
 "Then thou shalt not start again unrefreshed. 
 Where is Mary ? Mary ! " 
 
 The name had scarcely left her lips when Mary 
 came into the room, bearing in her hands a great 
 wooden tray, which held food and drink for Anthony, 
 and a little silver flagon of wine for her mistress. She 
 had been waiting in the next room for some minutes, 
 anxious for Eleanor to finish her conversation with the 
 monk, that she might take him what she had prepared. 
 As Mary came in Anthony looked toward her, and their 
 eyes met for an instant. The peasant girl gazed 
 searchingly at his haggard face, perceiving every change 
 that had come into it since last she saw him. He 
 noticed nothing. Anthony would have been incredu 
 lous had he been told that, in his way, his indifference 
 to Mary was quite as cruel as was that of Eleanor of 
 Brittany to him ; for both were entirely unconscious. 
 
 The maid had prepared a small table before him, and 
 Eleanor, while she drank the wine which had been 
 brought her, bade her confessor eat Eat? How 
 
288 
 
 should he do that? He could have eaten dust as easily 
 as food. Hastily forcing a few morsels down his 
 throat, he rose, and with many incoherent excuses, 
 lifted the hand of the Princess deferentially to his lips, 
 and so left her apartment and the castle. In the 
 courtyard, by the summer twilight, sat the guard of 
 the keep, gambling, drinking, and laughing together. 
 Of these men Anthony asked his horse, and one of 
 them, grumbling a little, went to fetch it. The poor 
 beast was weary, but no more so than its master. 
 Anthony led it through the inner court and stood near 
 the drawbridge preparing to mount, when there was a 
 sound behind him. He looked about. Mary stood 
 there, half hesitating, half anxious, with a little pack 
 age in her hand. 
 
 " 'T is but a manchet and some meat," she said, prof 
 fering it to him. "Thou wilt be faint ere reaching 
 Glastonbury." 
 
 He looked at her with a kind of smile. "Thou art 
 good to me, Mary. I thank thee for this." 
 
 Then, upon a sudden impulse, she took a step nearer 
 to him, and asked in a whisper, nervous at her own 
 presumption: "She has hurt thee, Anthony?" 
 
 He was startled and slightly confused. Recovering 
 himself quickly he answered : " Hurt me, Mary? Nay, 
 child. How should so gentle a lady as the Princess 
 Eleanor have hurt a monk ? " 
 
 She returned him an answer, after a moment, which 
 he barely caught, but which gave him some little food 
 for metaphysical meditation on his journey back to the 
 abbey: "Even as a vine, sometimes, may kill the oak 
 which sustains it; though it be no fault of either, but 
 God's law." 
 
 And Mary was a peasant. 
 
 Anthony clattered over the bridge and across the 
 deserted cathedral square, but did not take the wind 
 ing, country road which passed southwest of the city 
 
289 
 
 and up into Somerset. Instead, he entered the nar 
 row, curling streets of the west town, still lighted 
 by the sunset's afterglow; and presently he stopped 
 before the door of the Falcon Inn. A feeling of lone 
 liness had led him hither. Once more he wanted the 
 proof that somewhere he was welcome for his own sake. 
 It had been his only real possession after all; though 
 until now the dead dream had been fast clung to. 
 That being gone, his heart turned with double tender 
 ness toward the little company of people to whom he 
 was a friend in life, a comforter in death. 
 
 He was not expected to-night, and no congregation 
 awaited him within the tavern. But the landlord and 
 his son would summon as many burghers as could be 
 found at their homes, while he doffed his monk's gown 
 for the dress that was always kept for him, together 
 with a small room, above. How should Anthony, as 
 he dismounted from his horse beneath the grotesquely 
 painted sign of the inn, be aware that this was but the 
 third time that he had ever entered those doors 
 unwatched ? 
 
 Plagensext received him with exclamations of joy 
 and surprise. " Now indeed God be thanked, Master 
 Anthony, that thou art come ! Surely 't was Providence 
 led thee hither to-night of all nights !" 
 
 " And wherefore, Martin ? " 
 
 "For this. Hark ye. But this morning good Mis 
 tress Tomson, the mercer's wife, i' the next street, 
 was delivered of child. 'Tis but a delicate babe, and 
 not like to live long. Neither priest nor monk can 
 Master Tomson bribe to baptize the boy, and, despite 
 thy words, Mistress Madelon would feel far easier were 
 it consecrated ere it goes. Wilt not in pity come with 
 me, but to the next square, and perform the baptism 
 for them? They do know thou art a monk; and they 
 love and reverence thee for all that thou hast done, 
 since the coming of this cursed Interdict." 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 " And what have I done for them, Martin ? " ques 
 tioned Anthony, half sadly, half eagerly. 
 
 " Done for them for us all ? Thou hast given us a 
 faith that is far beyond the reach of what was taken 
 away; thou hast given us good courage; thou hast 
 uplifted us by thine own ensample," responded the 
 landlord, with earnest feeling. Evidently he had 
 not listened for naught to those sermons and discus 
 sions which he had permitted to take place in his 
 hostel. 
 
 Anthony's eyes brightened. " Certes will I go with 
 thee to Mistress Tomson and the babe. But there may 
 be no meeting to-night; for, the baptism over, I must 
 wend my way back with all haste to Glastonbury. Six 
 days hence, however, I shall return hither, and thou 
 must summon the company to be in readiness for my 
 coming." 
 
 At this Master Martin nodded with satisfaction. 
 Anthony's horse was put for the time into the stable 
 of the tavern, and the monk followed the inn-keeper 
 down the darkening street, and finally into a crooked 
 little shop, above which lived the family of Master 
 Thomas Tomson, mercer. 
 
 An hour later Anthony was in the highroad beyond 
 the city, guiding his animal carefully along, by star 
 light, amid the falling dew. In the darkness the eyes 
 of the monk shone, and his heart was lighter. His 
 mind was filled with the thought of the frail little body 
 which he had so lately held in his arms, while his lips 
 had murmured the words which the baby life was 
 soon to follow heavenwards. He heard again the 
 joyous welcome that had been given to him, Anthony, 
 the outcast. He remembered that they had trusted a 
 soul to his care. He saw the circle of kindly faces 
 that had gathered close about him in the candle-light. 
 They had given him reverence, had thought him worthy 
 of gratitude for what little he had done. They had 
 
291 
 
 kept hope in his breast with the thought that he had a 
 place in their lives. Comfort for that other loss had 
 been given him. 
 
 So the hours of evening and the long miles of his 
 ride passed by together, and it was after midnight when 
 his exhausted animal drew up at the great gate of Glas- 
 tonbury Abbey. Anthony himself ached with fatigue. 
 The warm breath of the midsummer night had shrouded 
 his senses with overpowering drowsiness. Loudly he 
 knocked at the gate, and waited for William to open it. 
 Presently the old man stumbled out of his lodge, lan 
 tern in hand, rending the air with unholy exclamations. 
 Standing on the inside of the gate, he called out in 
 his cracked voice : 
 
 " Confess quickly whoso you may be, man or woman, 
 for, by the bones of Saint Duncan, I swear, none other 
 shall pass this gate to-night! Answer, now, and see 
 that it be truth." 
 
 "What say you, William Lorrimer?" demanded an 
 unmistakably masculine voice. "I am Anthony Fitz- 
 Hubert, and, an you open not quickly to me, I shall 
 fall fast asleep without here, on my horse." 
 
 " Anthony Fitz-Hubert ! Lord ! Lord ! What to do 
 now!" muttered the old fellow to himself. At that 
 hour of the night a man's brains were not apt to be 
 lively. He could see no other way than to let the 
 monk in with all speed. This he did, mumbling like 
 one in a dream ; and, indeed, in a dream Anthony be 
 lieved him to be. His horse he gave into the old man's 
 charge, and entered the abbey by the door beside Saint 
 Joseph's chapel. 
 
 An unwonted stream of light fell athwart the stone 
 corridor from the doorway of the day-room. The great 
 monastery was absolutely still. From above there came 
 no murmur of matutinal psalms. Anthony wondered a 
 little, and stumbled wearily through the light. The 
 illumination was in the scriptorium, within which, at 
 
292 <ancattom?eti 
 
 a table, stood Philip, brush in hand, busy over a yel 
 lowed parchment. 
 
 "Philip!" 
 
 The young man looked up, peering sleepily into the 
 gloom before him. " 'T was Anthony's voice," he said 
 to himself. 
 
 Anthony stepped into the room. "It is I," he re 
 sponded, with, it must be confessed, no startling bril 
 liancy. But he added, curiously: "What dost thou 
 here at such an hour? Is it a penance? " Then, after 
 an instant : " And why is the abbey so silent ? Surely 
 it must be past the hour for matins ? " 
 
 A look as of bodily pain came into the gentle face of 
 the other monk. His large eyes rested mournfully 
 upon the sternly carven features of Fitz-Hubert. 
 Anthony noted the pallor of his face, and the dark cir 
 cles that lay beneath his lower lashes. Philip hesitated 
 long to answer, but at last he said slowly: "Ask me 
 naught, Anthony, I beg of thee. This is a penance, 
 an thou like it so." 
 
 Then a half knowledge of the truth came upon the 
 other, but he only asked: "Is Harold still here? If 
 so, I must have speech with him by lauds. " 
 
 Philip shook his head. "Harold departed for Ven- 
 ningwood before compline." 
 
 "And William Vigor?" 
 
 "Went with him." 
 
 Anthony drew a deep breath and seated himself upon 
 a stool. Standing was weary work, after such a day 
 as his had been. Philip also seated himself at the 
 table and waited for the other to speak again. Pres 
 ently he did so. 
 
 " Since there is none here to grant me permission or 
 to forbid a departure, I shall e'en leave at dawn for 
 Winchester. I go upon command of the Princess; and 
 it will be six full days ere I return again." 
 
 A look of relief crossed the weary, youthful face of 
 
293 
 
 his companion. "It is well that thou shouldst go," 
 said Philip. " Now will I bring thee some refresh 
 ment. Then thou shalt lie in the day-room and sleep 
 till dawn, at least. Thou art aweary." 
 
 Weary indeed he was. Anthony had almost lost the 
 power of coherent thought. He accepted gratefully 
 the milk, meat, and unsweetened cakes that Philip 
 brought from the refectory; and then, without more 
 ado, flung himself upon the improvised couch which 
 was already prepared in the day-room, and slept. 
 Philip still sat at his task in the scriptorium, his head 
 aching, his eyes half-closed with sleep, until the 
 shadowy summer dawn showed through the windows, 
 and the birds in the oaks outside began to pipe those 
 old-time virelays which we, of to-day, would surely 
 recognize. Neither psalms nor lauds had been sung 
 that morning; and at six o'clock there was not a single 
 monk in the library for the reading hour. A little 
 after that time Anthony, rested, refreshed, and melan 
 choly with returned memory, stood by his newly 
 saddled horse outside the great gate of Glastonbury. 
 Philip was beside him. 
 
 "Anthony," asked the young monk, after a slight 
 hesitation, "wilt thou need money for thy journey? " 
 
 "Far more than I shall want I have," was the 
 answer. 
 
 Indeed, Fitz-Hubert was more than amply supplied 
 with gold, brought to him at Glastonbury by De Burgh 
 himself, just as it had been sent from the royal treasury 
 through the King's generosity. It lay now in one large 
 bag, securely locked in the treasury of this abbey. 
 From it, at rare intervals, its owner extracted sufficient 
 to pay for his simple wants at Bristol, and something 
 for charity among his little company of followers there. 
 The Benedictine law concerning a monk's possession 
 of private moneys was very stringent in letter, very lax 
 in execution; so that while it was well enough known 
 
294 
 
 that Anthony as a monk had no right to a royal gift, 
 not even those prelates who held him in disfavor 
 thought of taking away his possession, but rather 
 viewed him with more respect for being of means. 
 
 Philip was quite satisfied by the answer. Still, how 
 ever, Anthony did not mount his horse. Both monks 
 wished to speak, both shrank from doing so. Finally, 
 laying one hand upon the other's shoulder, Anthony 
 said gently: "This this monkery is no place for 
 thee, Philip." 
 
 Philip flushed painfully. "Indeed 'tis rare that it 
 happens thus," he answered, with downcast eyes. "I 
 am accustomed to it. Thou knowest I am not of gentle 
 birth. The monastery is better than my first home." 
 
 "None the less dost thou deserve a higher place." 
 
 "Not so. 'T is thou who art not fitted to endure 
 such sin." 
 
 Anthony made no reply, for there was nothing to 
 say. Silently he pressed Philip's hand, and, springing 
 upon his horse, turned his face toward the east. He 
 was bent upon an errand which, though neither Eleanor 
 nor he could guess it, was forever to ruin the captive's 
 cause. If they had but dared to take the matter to 
 the King himself! But Anthony set off, full of hope, 
 full of grief, toward the cathedral city, where lay for 
 him a new sorrow, a new sacrifice, and a new glory of 
 the soul. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 
 
 THE royal city of Winchester was swathed in a 
 sunset glow of cloudy pink and gold. The three 
 great structures which had given to the cluster 
 of smaller huts and buildings the name of "city," all 
 monuments of royalty, two to man, one to God, were 
 haloed with the light that played about their turrets 
 and spires; and long beams of it were hurtled from 
 their white walls down into the little network of streets 
 below. The older of the palaces had for half a century 
 been the favorite home of England's kings, but now 
 was become the constant abiding-place of England's 
 Queen, not having been, for the past five years, empty 
 of its royal occupant for more than three months at a 
 time. 
 
 On this evening of August third, in the year 1211, 
 Isabella sat in one of her withdrawing rooms, sur 
 rounded by a small court of gentlemen, and attended 
 by four silent maids of honor, who stood, as masks of 
 propriety, uncomfortably behind her. Poor things! 
 They were machines of their royal lady's ownership, 
 belonging to her, body and soul, if souls they had. 
 Cleverly constructed, too, were they; for, when occa 
 sion demanded, they could say "oui" and "non" with 
 faultless pronunciation, and a gratifying vacuity of 
 manner, to which ma Dame had long since trained 
 them. 
 
 As over these women, so over everything about her, 
 Isabella dominated absolutely. To the ends of her 
 
296 
 
 fingers she was French. No language but her own 
 was spoken in her presence. The tapestry and ap 
 pointments in all her rooms were Gallic. The dishes 
 that she ate were made from recipes sent over the 
 Channel. Her very dogs and horses , were imported 
 from her native province, and at Paris were woven 
 the stuffs from which her gowns were fashioned. 
 Should an honest English sentence chance to be ad 
 dressed to her, her lofty grace shrivelled in an instant 
 to a mass of frowns. 
 
 The reputation of^this Queen of England was great 
 for nothing but her beauty of face and form ; and since 
 her entire state had been founded upon that, there 
 must needs have been truth in the reports of her 
 fairness. Lovely she certainly was, as she reclined 
 upon a couch more luxurious than any other in the king 
 dom, her garment of white damask trailing about her 
 feet in a mass of intricate embroidery. She was a 
 decided brunette. Her hair, black as night and 
 slightly coarse, was arranged loosely under a jewelled 
 coif. Her eyes were somewhat small, black, and very 
 brilliant. Her brows were delicate and her forehead 
 low. The satin skin for which she was so renowned 
 was of the creamy, colorless, southern type, in start 
 ling contrast to which was the brilliant scarlet of her 
 small mouth. Beautiful and delicate as the ensemble 
 was, there was none the less a lingering expression 
 about the face that a woman would have hated, and 
 an honest man have feared. Her manners were well 
 restrained, and but slightly coquettish ; and her voice, 
 as she spoke with those about her, musical and slow. 
 
 Seated close about her chair were six men, three of 
 them nobles, and high in the councils of the State; 
 the others were what an Englishman had once desig 
 nated as "puling French troubadours, fit only to sing 
 their silly songs to tavern wenches or to pussy-cats ". 
 Yet they amused their lady when none better was to 
 
of attQouleme 297 
 
 be had; and, truth to tell, their wit was quicker and 
 their thoughts more keen than those of many a beef -fed 
 baron of Isabella's adopted country. Of the nobles, 
 two were old admirers of the Queen ; the third, Sayer, 
 Earl of Winton, had been one of John's most devoted 
 friends, and was but newly entered into the lists of his 
 wife's favor. In consequence, he was at present more 
 smiled upon than any other at the Court of Winchester. 
 
 Winton was seated close at the Queen's right hand. 
 He sat leaning towards her from his stool, so that if 
 she moved an inch in his direction, her shoulder would 
 have touched his. He kept his eyes fastened unwink- 
 ingly upon her face and spoke to her in a tone so low 
 that she smiled lazily, every now and then, to see the 
 sulky jealousy of the others. But it was her policy to 
 pamper all of them to a certain degree ; therefore she 
 spoke as often to Almeric Percy and John de Moorville 
 as she replied to the murmurs of the Earl. The con 
 versation swayed from grave to frivolous, and was 
 rendered somewhat monotonous by the constant flattery 
 of the courtiers to the Queen. 
 
 " 'T is said," remarked Isabella, during a pause, "that 
 Peter de Rupibus, infirm with years as he is, hath got 
 himself to France on a mission of diplomacy." 
 
 "Ay; the Bishop would move heaven and earth to 
 straighten out this popish tangle." 
 
 "De Rupibus is most loyal to the King," put in 
 Percy, listlessly. 
 
 Winton sneered. 
 
 " Canst tell me where John is at present ? " queried 
 the Queen, who knew the whereabouts of her husband 
 perfectly well. 
 
 "Who could keep track of John when thou wert 
 near?" returned Sayer, in a half-whisper. He was in 
 constant communication with his master, who had the 
 grace not to be jealous of him ; but of this Isabella was 
 ignorant. 
 
298 Oncanonf?eU 
 
 "Thou shalt have a special audience later," she said, 
 in a tone that was inaudible to the others. 
 
 He kissed her hand. 
 
 "Art going to the King's council at Bradenstoke, 
 whither thou art bid, next week, my Lord Earl?" asked 
 De Moorville, with respectful malice. 
 
 "Verily I had not thought upon it," returned Sayer, 
 with a swift glance at the Queen. 
 
 " 'T is called for Thursday. Nay, now, I had made 
 sure thou wouldst go, sith the messenger came from 
 thee to me, and informed me that he had thy con 
 sent" 
 
 " Thursday is the day for my feast and morris-dance," 
 said the Queen, angrily, noting the rising flush upon 
 her admirer's cheek. Possibly the Earl would not, after 
 all, have his private audience that evening. 
 
 " Locquefleur, how runs that chanson of thine 
 'Vite, vite, 1'Amour s'envole, dans la crepuscule' ? " 
 queried Percy, who preferred milder forms of dispute. 
 
 The Frenchman had not framed a suitable reply when 
 there came a sudden, portentous knock at the door. 
 The Queen, frowning a little, for she was out of humor 
 with Winton, and still angry with the two others for 
 daring to taunt him, called out for it to be opened. 
 This permission granted, a lackey entered the room and 
 advanced to the royal chair. 
 
 "Well, villain, what would you?" deigned the Queen. 
 
 " Pardon, lady, but there is one newly come hither 
 who would have immediate speech with you, having 
 travelled a long journey for the purpose." 
 
 "What night he?" 
 
 " Madam, he is a monk." 
 
 Here Winton had the temerity to laugh. Instantly 
 Isabella's face, which had been growing dangerous, 
 changed. 
 
 " And whence comes this holy one? " she asked, so 
 graciously that the Earl was sober on the instant, and 
 
of angouleme 299 
 
 the servant, who had been quivering with apprehension, 
 straightened up. 
 
 " From Bristol Castle, he saith." 
 
 " Bristol ! " cried the Queen, with so strange a ring in 
 her tones that even her lay-figures shifted their expres 
 sions and pricked up their ears. " In ten minutes let 
 the monk be admitted to me here." 
 
 The lackey bowed to the floor and hurried from the 
 room. The royal lady, nervously twisting her long 
 fingers, turned to her little court. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I must pray you to leave me at once. 
 Ere many hours be gone we shall meet again at the 
 evening banquet." 
 
 Covertly the courtiers glanced at each other in 
 renewed amazement. It was the most discourteous and 
 the most abrupt dismissal that any one of them had ever 
 received from her. Then, one by one, they lifted her 
 fingers to their lips and silently left the room. Outside 
 the door, however, expressions changed. The three 
 Frenchmen, locking arms, hurried away together. The 
 Englishmen, for once enlisted in the same cause, passed 
 haltingly down the corridor. 
 
 " Bristol ! " ejaculated Winton. 
 
 " A monk ! " exclaimed De Moorville. 
 
 Percy, with a melancholy smile, put a greater signifi 
 cance into his gently spoken name : " De la Marche ! " 
 
 " Still?" 
 
 " I '11 believe it not." 
 
 " And yet 't is true." 
 
 Meanwhile, to their mild relief, the Queen had dis 
 missed her dolls. She felt that she must be alone for 
 a moment, at least, before the coming of that messenger 
 of whose arrival she had so often dreamed, that his 
 actual appearance promised to be far more startling 
 than it would otherwise have seemed. Blindly she 
 began to walk up and down the little apartment, her 
 breath coming in swift gasps. So violently was her 
 
300 <tJncanoni?e& 
 
 heart beating that she stopped at length before the 
 open casement, looking with unseeing eyes down over 
 the city which now lay quiet and indistinct in the fading 
 twilight. Isabella's thoughts had flown with her far 
 away, hundreds of miles, over land and sea, and into 
 the heavy walls of a fierce old Poictevin Castle, wherein 
 one lover alone had lived for her ; one lover, and 
 how much more than that, too, had he been ! guide, 
 friend, father, and, above all else, her master. He was 
 the only master she had ever known. Ah ! how the 
 years flee away, and how our minds and our wishes 
 change with them ! The Queen's head rested on her 
 hand. She was calm, now; for Hugo de la Marche 
 had suddenly become her own again, and the thought 
 of a messenger from him to her, his pupil, his betrothed, 
 could not seem strange. Her white figure glimmered 
 like a shadow at one end of the darkened room. When 
 the door opened it was so quietly that she heard nothing. 
 As, at length, she turned from her revery, a dim figure, 
 standing motionless in the centre of the room, faced 
 her. 
 
 " Wait," she said, in a voice that sounded strangely in 
 her own ears. " I will have lights brought. Then will 
 we hold converse together." 
 
 It was a relief to both of them to have a few minutes 
 of preparation for the approaching scene. Anthony 
 was painfully weary with the length of his ride. Besides 
 that, he feared this task more than anything that he had 
 ever feared before in his life, because he was not sure of 
 his own courage to carry it to the end. 
 
 The Queen struck a gong loudly, thrice. Presently 
 two men entered, bearing with them lighted candles and 
 fresh torches. When they departed the room was filled 
 with the faint odor of pitch, and the woman and the 
 monk were face to face, in the light. The jewels upon 
 the Queen's head glittered. Anthony's eyes wandered 
 over her form while she gazed intently upon him. 
 
of angouleme 301 
 
 " Thy look is not strange to me," she said at last, 
 in a puzzled tone, and a little unsteadily. 
 
 " I am Anthony Fitz-Hubert, once in the train of 
 the Earl of Salisbury, here and at Windsor," was the 
 immediate, expressionless reply. Anthony had anti 
 cipated this quasi-recognition, and was determined 
 that there should be as little said about himself as 
 possible. 
 
 " Oh ! I remember. Thou wert a handsome youth, 
 - and now a monk ! I should scarce have thought of 
 thee thus. Stay, now, I do remember the matter. T was 
 before Hubert Walter's death. Thou didst nearly break 
 the heart of a maid in my train, Helene de Ravaillac. 
 Dost remember her? She returned to me here all 
 gloomy and tearful, and to this day she hath not married, 
 nor ever will, I fancy. Thou 'It see her to-night, 
 methinks. She is scarce beautiful now; but doubtless 
 to thee, fresh from the cloister, anything that wears a 
 kirtle would be lovely." 
 
 Isabella had spoken from a desire to cover her own 
 feeling, and without in any way realizing what the effect 
 of her tactless words might be upon the man before her. 
 She had never a doubt that he came from Bristol on 
 behalf of the Count de la Marche; and inwardly she 
 vowed that no token of her eagerness and her confusion 
 should be taken back to his master by the monk. 
 Therefore she sought still to gain time. 
 
 But Anthony ! How little did the Queen realize what 
 a cold torrent of wretchedness her words had poured over 
 him ! It was not that he cared any longer for Helene 
 de Ravaillac. But the mention of her name brought 
 back again to him the memory of her cruelty and, with 
 it, once more, the realization of his fate. In the midst 
 of the present grief of his mission the memories were 
 doubly bitter. He struggled manfully to speak without 
 emotion, yet it seemed an age ere he could force a husky 
 response from his throat. 
 
302 
 
 " Doubtless Mademoiselle de Ravaillac has long since 
 forgotten the unfortunate monk," was his reply. 
 
 " Thou art wrong. Women cannot forget so easily ! " 
 she cried, thinking more of herself than of Helene. 
 
 The monk only bowed. This conversation was profit 
 less. He had not come to Winchester to talk over his 
 own love affairs. 
 
 A short silence ensued. The Queen, once more mis 
 tress of herself, turned about and walked slowly over 
 to her chair. Seating herself, she regarded her envoy 
 curiously for a second, and then spoke. 
 
 "Well, well, thine errand, Sir Anthony. Tell it me 
 in short words, and quickly, for I have not overmuch 
 time." 
 
 So commanded, Anthony advanced toward the royal 
 seat, his head bent, his right hand tightly clenched, the 
 fingers of his left hid in the breast of his loose scapular. 
 His mind was clear, and there was now but one purpose 
 in it. After a momentary pause for himself he spake. 
 
 " I am come to Winchester from Bristol Castle to 
 plead with a powerful queen, a kindly woman, in behalf 
 of one whom birth made equal with thyself, but whom 
 fortune hath brought far, far below. I plead for one 
 who looks to thee as an only friend, a single hope ; for 
 one who bears hint of wrong in neither thought nor 
 deed ; who would be no enemy to her royal jailer " 
 
 " Her royal jailer ! " cried the Queen, rising to her 
 feet. 
 
 Anthony lifted his head. " Certes," he said, wonder 
 ing. 
 
 Isabella sank back into her chair. " Of whom dost 
 speak? " she asked. 
 
 " Of the Princess Eleanor of Brittany, thy niece," he 
 answered. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Anthony heard, in amazement, the pitiful quivering in 
 that exclamation ; nor could he comprehend the sudden, 
 
of angowleme 303 
 
 extreme pallor that came over the Queen's face, leaving 
 her very lips pale. Disconcerted by her appearance, 
 however, he was silent. 
 
 " Then thou hast naught to tell me of the other pris 
 oner of Count Hugo de la Marche? Perchance thou 
 hast even never seen him," she said faintly, forgetting 
 everything but her great disappointment. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I had not told thee yet. That was the true 
 import of my mission their love I mean that of the 
 Princess for the Count's gen " 
 
 " Love ! Their love ! Her love for him! God ! " 
 And the French Queen suddenly burst into a fit of 
 laughter, so uncontrollable, so mirthless, so fierce, that 
 the monk shrank back from her. 
 
 A bad messenger indeed had Eleanor chosen for her 
 mission, one who could thus, at the very outset of a 
 battle, become confused by an action that he should 
 have been prepared for ! In a conflict with a woman, 
 surprise should be banished from one's faculties. An 
 thony himself realized this, as he watched the subse 
 quent actions of the royal lady, though their cause had 
 even yet not penetrated to his brain, so filled was he 
 with his own intent. 
 
 Isabella of Angouleme was of the fibre of which we 
 make tragediennes to-day. Her sudden change from 
 that unnatural laughter to absolute calm would have 
 affected any audience accustomed to the attempted por 
 trayal of great feeling. Anthony marvelled silently as 
 she spoke again, quietly. 
 
 " Proceed. Tell me now of the loves of the right 
 royal Eleanor and that most gallant count, Hugh de la 
 Marche. Truly 'twould be a splendid match for him, 
 Lord of Poictou ! " 
 
 " Hugh de la Marche," said Anthony, slowly. " Thou 
 hast misunderstood, O most puissant lady. It is not he, 
 but one of his gentlemen, the Sieur de la Bordelaye, who 
 loves the Princess, and whom she hath deigned to love." 
 
304 
 
 "That was indeed well done. Thou art a valuable 
 envoy, Sir Monk," muttered the Queqn, under her 
 breath. 
 
 Anthony glanced up for an instant, failing to catch 
 her words, but noting the deepening frown upon her face 
 with apprehension. He made haste to continue. 
 
 " Bethink thee, madam, how weary hath been the time 
 that Eleanor, delicately born and reared as she is, hath 
 languished in such confinement. It was God's mercy 
 that sent love into her prison. But now, unless thy 
 grace be also added, I fear me that Eleanor's love will 
 be but the means of sending her from this earth into 
 the life beyond. She lies deathly ill, kept fast behind 
 bolt and bar, and forbidden even a whisper of courage 
 from him she loves. Think, then, on thine own love 
 and happiness, and look with pity on that maid who 
 hath craved thine intercession with the King. The 
 thought of thee in her prison brought hope; and 
 I, her confessor, knowing thy goodness, am here to 
 plead with thee to obtain her freedom from John. Upon 
 her unstained honor she pledges her royal word that no 
 attempt will ever be made by her against the throne of 
 England, nor will she ever consort with enemies of her 
 uncle, the King, whose faithful servant thou knowest me 
 also ever to have been. She bids me tell thee that, be 
 ing freed, she will immediately marry him whom she 
 loves, and will set off with him to the country of Poic- 
 tou, where she will henceforth dwell, untitled, as the 
 wife of a simple gentleman." 
 
 Here Anthony paused, glancing up at Isabella in the 
 hope of some word of interest or encouragement. None 
 came. The Queen sat gloomily silent, her expression 
 venomous, her eyes half-closed. At last, seeing that he 
 would not continue, she asked : 
 
 " And what thinkest thou of the plan of this pretty 
 babe?" 
 
 " Most highly do I honor and approve the desire of 
 
of angouleme 305 
 
 the Princess," he answered quietly. " Assuredly, it 
 shows great power of love that she should w r ish to de 
 scend from her estate, giving herself to him, and so 
 winning freedom for him as well as for herself. Ah, 
 madam ! Thou hast never lived a prisoner. Thou 
 knowest not, nor can words tell thee, the endless weari 
 ness of days and nights, the dragging out of minutes 
 which, in making a single hour, seem to have stretched 
 themselves into eternity. Thou knowest nothing of the 
 weariness of self, of the hopeless longing for the voice of 
 a friend, the madness of the continued silence about 
 thee. And think, lady, think of this maid, reared ten 
 derly, to laughter, and pleasure, and delicate work, 
 worthy of her rank and her beauty, think how many 
 years of her poor life have drawn out in lonely misery 
 behind stone walls and bars of iron ! And now, at last, 
 when happiness seems to be within her grasp, oh, 
 queen woman mother bride help her ! In the 
 name of holy Mary, I implore it ! " 
 
 He had forgotten himself. He had pleaded as she 
 herself would have done. His voice might have moved 
 an angel to tears. For a moment he dared to hope that 
 he had pierced through the iciness of the woman before 
 him. That he had impressed her, he perceived for him 
 self; but he could not know that it was only he, his 
 manner, his unselfishness, by which she had been moved. 
 She had not failed to note how glorified his dark face 
 had been by the intensity of his feeling. Perhaps she 
 had once wished for some one who would plead as well 
 for her. But his words had fallen upon a waste. He 
 had tried to move a lonely woman, against her love, in 
 behalf of another woman. No man possesses the power 
 to do that. In a few seconds of silence her suspicions 
 had again attained the ascendancy over her other self. 
 
 " And the Count de la Marche," she said, suddenly, 
 watching Anthony's face as a cat does a bird, "will 
 tire noble Count accompany his pretty pair of doves 
 
 20 
 
306 ancanoni?et 
 
 back to Poictou, under this same oath of everlasting 
 dulness?" 
 
 Anthony was disappointed. Why should she be 
 continually dragging the Count into the conversation, 
 to the exclusion of all else? Isabella saw the blood 
 rise to his cheeks as he came out of his abstraction. 
 
 " The Count de la Marche i is " Anthony stam 
 mered and stopped. A sudden idea with regard to the 
 Queen and the Count had come to him. He remem 
 bered the incident of her letter, and the old tales, alive 
 when he was a boy at court, that Isabella had never 
 been able to ease her conscience with regard to De la 
 Marche, and that, old as he was, her former affection 
 for him as her prospective husband had not died. 
 
 The Queen saw all his confusion, and instantly the 
 suspicion within her was turned to conviction. She was 
 furiously angry. Slowly, in ferocious grace, she rose 
 again from her chair. 
 
 " The banquet hour approaches, Anthony," she said, 
 sweetly. " I would be excused now from longer con 
 verse concerning your amorous lady ; but, on the mor 
 row, at a half hour before noon, I grant you a further 
 audience here. Now a lackey will be sent to show you 
 to your apartment for the night." 
 
 Anthony bowed in silent dejection as she swept by 
 him in her white robes and left the room by a small 
 door which led into her private apartments. All hope 
 of succeeding in his mission had left him. He realized 
 now that no words of his had power to carry her 
 beyond herself. Her suspicion and her motives he 
 guessed pretty accurately, but was powerless to correct 
 either. She evidently believed that the real identity ot 
 Eleanor's lover was being kept from her; and that it 
 was De la Marche and not De la Bordelaye who was 
 to be freed that he might marry her. His only attain 
 ment had been to rouse Isabella's bitter jealousy. Her 
 pity was not reached. Anthony had tried to do all 
 
3|gabella of angouUme 307 
 
 that could be done for Eleanor's sake. Failure was a 
 bitter mortification to him. It seemed that even the 
 victory over selfish love was to go unrewarded. The 
 weariness of the struggle with himself, and its woeful 
 futility, swept over him. 
 
 In the midst of these thoughts came the servant who 
 was to lead him to his own room. Moodily he followed 
 the man through a long hallway and into a small cell- 
 like place at the end of it. Within the chamber it was 
 damp and hot. No rushes lay upon the floor. There 
 was but one window, and that high above his head. 
 The little apartment was well furnished, however, with 
 bed, table, stool, steel mirror, and even water in an 
 earthen dish. His small bundle of clothing had also 
 been brought here. Anthony looked around slowly, 
 and then, as the lackey turned to go, tossed him a piece 
 of money. The man accepted it in high surprise, and 
 departed to inform his fellows that the Queen's messen 
 ger was no monk, but a disguised lord. 
 
 The distant sounds of life about the palace came in 
 a familiar murmur to Anthony's ears. It was easy to 
 judge the right moment at which to leave his room and 
 descend toward the banquet-hall. The way to this 
 great place he knew well, for long years ago he had 
 lived much in Winchester, as a member of the suite of 
 Salisbury. Like one moving in a dream he entered 
 upon the evening that was to be his last memory of the 
 life to which he had been born. 
 
 The banquet-hall of Winchester equalled that of 
 Windsor in size and in state, and Isabella's court filled 
 it very creditably. Anthony found himself in the midst 
 of a throng which held many familiar faces. Every 
 now and then he encountered the puzzled gaze of some 
 erstwhile friend ; but none there was able to recognize, 
 in this thin, dark-faced monk, the old-time, favorite 
 gallant of the court. Anthony made no attempt to 
 address any one. The pain of it would have been 
 
308 cHncanoni?et) 
 
 unendurable to him. But his heart was heavy with 
 memory as he waited, with the rest, for the entrance of 
 the Queen. How should he have guessed that, while 
 he stood recalling his last days at Windsor, a horseman, 
 who bore in his pouch a small packet, sealed with royal 
 arms and addressed to a princess, was, at that moment, 
 galloping at full speed through the darkness, out of 
 Winchester, along the Bristol road? 
 
 Upon the appearance of Isabella the throng dispersed, 
 and each one, seeking out his or her seat, stood beside 
 it. Anthony, not knowing where to go, remained at one 
 side of the doorway and waited, quite at his ease, having 
 forgotten a certain speech of the Queen's that day. 
 
 John's consort, whom the historians love to describe 
 as meagrely and pitifully provided for in the matter of 
 clothing, was clad in a richly woven robe of sapphire 
 blue, glittering with gems, girdled and coifed with 
 silver, while from her head fell a veil of delicate tissue. 
 She was attended by her French minstrels, and followed 
 by six ladies of honor. Anthony, whose eyes were 
 fixed upon the regal form of this unpopular woman, 
 failed to notice her attendants. Isabella's glance soon 
 fell upon the monk. She was in a rather better humor 
 than when he had seen her last, and deigned to smile 
 slightly w r hen she motioned him to come to her. There 
 was something malicious in her voice, however, as, 
 extending her hand for his lips, she swiftly turned her 
 head and called, 
 
 " Helene ! " 
 
 Anthony started violently. Before his eyes passed a 
 swift vision of a delicate, golden-haired girl, clad in 
 garments of pallid green, with one scarlet rose at 
 her breast. Then he was bowing before a trembling 
 woman, a woman faded and old old enough to have 
 been that fair girl's ancestress. Helene de Ravaillac, 
 she who had turned upon him so soullessly in his grief, 
 was this indeed the same? 
 
of attfiouleme s9 
 
 And mademoiselle was asking herself that very ques 
 tion concerning the sad-eyed monk before her. Could 
 he ever have been the charming boy whom she so long 
 and bitterly had mourned ? He seemed no more like 
 that than was Isabella of England the fair and innocent 
 girl whom John had so fiercely wooed and so reck 
 lessly won. 
 
 " Anthony Fitz-Hubert, wilt conduct Mademoiselle de 
 Ravaillac to the royal table?" came the cool, hateful 
 voice of the Queen, who was smiling underneath her 
 eyelids at the apparent terror of her lady. She was, 
 however, scarcely prepared for the calmness with which 
 the monk obeyed her command. Anthony had been 
 brought back to himself by anger at the Queen's public 
 use of his surname. At this time and place her thought 
 lessness cut him sharply. Helene, after the first mo 
 ment, emulated him. She was roused into a semblance 
 of self-control by a quick series of whispers and glances 
 which was making the round of the tables. 
 
 Isabella dined at a small table, surrounded by a famil 
 iar few. Changes in this favored company were nightly 
 made, and guests of title were frequently honored by 
 being given a place at it during their stay at the castle. 
 But never before, within the memory of those present, 
 had such an invitation been extended to a common Bene 
 dictine monk, whose rightful place was at the third table, 
 just below the Queen's Guard and just above the salt. 
 Anthony, however, conducted himself too faultlessly for 
 the comments to be audible, and before the entrance of 
 the comfits he had been nearly forgotten. 
 
 As regarded the relations of the monk and her maid 
 of honor, the banquet passed off more smoothly than 
 the Queen could have wished. Helene managed to 
 keep herself under unusual control; and Anthony, to 
 be quite honest, felt no emotion whatever after the first 
 shock of surprise. Isabella's idea of an amusing bit of 
 byplay came to naught; and she was forced to content 
 
herself with the audacious remarks of the Earl of Win- 
 ton, who had been forgiven his graceless behavior of 
 the afternoon, and was reinstated into favor and the 
 chair beside the Queen. The meal did not last as long 
 as it would had a man been presiding over it. It was 
 not customary, even in those days, for ladies to linger 
 over their wine, amid singing and buffoonery, unless 
 some royal gentleman or the head of the household 
 were present to countenance the rudeness; and even 
 then the women always had the privilege of retiring if 
 they wished. Thus to-night, when the final Gratias Deo 
 had been given by one of the regular priests, the entire 
 court adjourned to the terraces of the castle to walk 
 there for an hour in the cool of the evening. 
 
 There was no moon, and the turf was lighted only by 
 the stars and the faint glow from the lights within the 
 palace. The company immediately broke up into groups 
 of four or five, or single pairs, and began slowly to pace 
 up and down the broad stretch of lawns. Anthony and 
 mademoiselle had tried hard to escape, alike from each 
 other and from the throng. This, however, the Queen 
 would not permit. A sharp word from her forced the 
 monk to offer his arm to Helene, and so, resigning them 
 selves to their painful position, they prepared to go through 
 the evening. Mademoiselle clung to him silently as he 
 began to walk, with agitated rapidity, up and down the 
 long, dusky terrace, edging gradually farther and farther 
 away from the company, until their course was clear. 
 Then the woman herself spoke, though her voice was 
 far from steady : 
 
 " Anthony, art thinking of the last time that we two 
 stood together upon a terrace, i' the evening?" 
 
 "I had not just now been thinking of it; but I 
 remember, mademoiselle." 
 
 He felt her hand tremble a little. " I wonder if memory 
 is bitter to thee," she murmured, with sad reflectiveness, 
 more to herself than to him. 
 
3!$al>eUa of angouleme 311 
 
 "It hath been bitterly cruel throughout the last 
 years." 
 
 " Ah ! It cannot have been to thee what it hath to 
 me," she said, and he heard the tears in her tone. 
 
 " I know not, I know not. Thou hadst remorse. I 
 was forgot." 
 
 " Nay, Anthony'! Not forgot ! Never forgot ! Night 
 and day, throughout the years, the thought of thee hath 
 tortured my heart, until I have grown old under it." 
 
 He glanced meditatively down at her in the gloaming, 
 and contemplated her as she was now : the faded eyes, 
 the face which bore a look of long-restrained sorrow, 
 the hair that had lost its glint, but that still curled be 
 neath its close coif. He saw how thin she was, and how 
 she had lost the vivacity that had been the charm of 
 her youth. Yet in her face there was something of a 
 beauty that it had formerly lacked, an expression that 
 thoughtful people would not soon forget. It was the 
 mark of repentance, of added gentleness, of patient 
 endurance. And there and then the monk forgave 
 her everything. Neither spoke much ; but each felt 
 a change of sympathy toward the other. 
 
 " It grows late," he said, at last. " I perceive that 
 the Queen hath disappeared. Shall we within? You 
 may be needed." 
 
 " My turn at the disrobing is not to-night. I shall 
 not be sought. Stay yet a moment, I beg. Ere thou 
 go in I would tell thee a resolve, a wish of mine. Thou 
 knowest we shall not meet thus again." 
 
 " Speak on, then," he answered, gently. 
 
 " Thou hast seen how old I am become, in face and 
 in feeling. Surely, then, thou must also see that the 
 court is no longer a fit abiding-place for me. All my 
 life have I lived at courts, save in earliest childhood, 
 when my home was in Normandy. France ! France ! 
 How always doth my heart turn back to thee ! When 
 I was young men called me beautiful, and I was to have 
 
312 
 
 been married more than once. But always, out of wil- 
 fulness, methinks, I did refuse at last. And then thou 
 earnest. I know now, Anthony, how I did love thee. 
 Thou didst think that I treated thee shamefully upon 
 that last night. But it was only that my heart was half 
 broken, and I could not bear the thought of what was 
 to come to me without thee. After thou hadst gone I 
 never again thought of marrying. T is unmaidenly, 
 perchance, to tell thee all this ; but methinks we both 
 are old enow to hear it. And here my life hath been 
 hard, and weary, and long. The Queen is pitiless in 
 mockery, and spares me not when she would gibe at 
 age and faded beauty. I have endured it too long. 
 At last my resolve hath been reached. Twill not be 
 opposed, I ween. I would seek a life of quiet piety, 
 where I might be at rest. Anthony, I have resolved to 
 take the veil." 
 
 The monk heard her speech with a strange feeling at 
 his heart. At her last words he drew a quick, sharp 
 breath. Still, for some moments, he did not speak. 
 Mademoiselle waited anxiously. Though his opinion 
 need make no actual difference in her desire, she still 
 looked for his words as though her fate hung upon 
 them. 
 
 " No, Helene," he said at last, gravely. " I beg of 
 you, by all the trust that you hold in God the Father, 
 to renounce that wish. Believe me you know not of 
 what you speak; you know not what you would do." 
 He stopped, hesitating. 
 
 " But, Anthony, I have known many ladies who have 
 done this very thing. 'T is by no means uncommon." 
 
 " Many have done it, mademoiselle ; but, tell me, 
 hast ever seen one of them after she became a nun? 
 Knowest thou how they liked the life ? " 
 
 " Nay," she said, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Accept' my word, then. Remember that I am a 
 monk, and that I have suffered ; how much, none 
 
31gabclla of 3ngouUme 313 
 
 can ever know. I implore thee to believe me and to 
 abandon thy wish." 
 
 " Nay ; I cannot, I will not live here longer ! Didst 
 thou not see how they insulted me to-night? They 
 gave " she stopped short, in confusion. 
 
 Anthony drew away from her slightly. "They gave 
 thee a monk for comrade at the banquet," he said, 
 slowly. 
 
 In the darkness her pale cheeks flushed crimson. For 
 the moment she could not answer. 
 
 " In thy France, mademoiselle, hast any, living, of thy 
 blood, or is there any who would care for thee?" 
 
 " There is my father," she answered. " Could I but 
 return to him he might provide for the remainder of 
 my days. He is not so old a man. But our family is 
 no wealthy one. Our revenues are diminished, our 
 manor scarce kept up. It would be a useless hope. 
 The money for such a journey and the escort which 
 would have to attend me could not be provided. I live 
 here on the charity of Isabella ; and, so long as I re 
 main thus, must ever be subject to her ill-humors and 
 her scorn. Nay, Anthony, hinder me not, I do implore 
 thee. A nunnery would be a grateful refuge." 
 
 " But Helene, suppose suppose the Queen should 
 help thee to thy father's house? What then?" 
 
 " Some queens, perchance, might do such things. 
 But Isabella ! Has thy monkery made thee forgetful, 
 Anthony?" 
 
 " Nay, mademoiselle, I forget nothing; least of all 
 my position. I remember that I am no man, but one 
 of a brotherhood vowed to humility and to poverty. 
 As thou shouldst know, charity is the greatest privilege 
 of the Church ; and to such of her children as are in 
 affliction she is bound to give whatever aid, material or 
 spiritual, they may require. For such things as these, 
 Helene, I possess money in plenty, ay, twenty times 
 more than thou wouldst need for such a journey. Wilt 
 
314 <Uncanonf?eti 
 
 accept, from my hand, in the name of the Church, what 
 soever thou mayest need to enable thee to return to 
 thine own country and thy father?" 
 
 For a moment, in the darkness, she stared up at his 
 shadowy face in utter silence. Then, swiftly withdraw 
 ing her hand from his strong grasp, she burst into tears. 
 The passion of grief was short-lived, but violent. It was 
 not often that she was allowed the comfort of weeping. 
 The monk stood over her helplessly until she once 
 more began to regain her self-control. Then, again, as 
 she spoke, he took her hands in his. 
 
 " Forgive me, Anthony, forgive me. I should have 
 told thee naught. I did not guess that thou hadst gold. 
 Nay, say no more. I should hate myself if I took it 
 from thee." 
 
 " Helene, thou dost hurt me, speaking so. The gold is 
 thine. Have I not told thee that I am vowed to charity 
 as a monk, that all my worldly goods are but part of 
 the Church? To-morrow I shall make bold to come 
 and give it thee with mine own hand. Thank me not, 
 for I do but my duty. Now, indeed, it were time that 
 we re-entered the castle. Come, rise. Verily, made 
 moiselle, this will not endure. There, that is better. 
 Behold, we are the last to linger here, and there are 
 not many lights in the windows above. Now, thou 'rt 
 better." 
 
 Overcome at last by the realization of her great need 
 of aid, the feeling that his words regarding a nunnery 
 were true, and the great longing for home that was 
 within her heart, the poor woman had yielded to his offer 
 at last; and, feeling herself miserably weak, had sunk 
 at his feet, overcome with gratitude. Anthony raised 
 her up, and, still supporting her bodily, led her from 
 the deserted terraces and into the silent castle. Here, 
 with only a glance and a half-smile, they parted for the 
 night. On reaching his room Anthony carefully took 
 from his bundle the gold concerning which Philip had 
 
of angowlente 315 
 
 questioned him, with which, indeed, he was amply sup 
 plied ; and, having counted it carefully, placed all but a 
 single piece within a leathern purse, and put it beneath 
 his pillow. Then, with a human affection once more 
 burning at his heart, he laid him down upon his bed and 
 closed his tired eyes. 
 
 Every monk of any reputable order was firmly 
 pledged to keep either monastic or canonical hours 
 when outside his cloister. And Anthony, it must be 
 admitted, was, in this, as in many other respects, not a 
 monk worthy the name. It was almost the hour for 
 matins before he slept, and before a stray sunbeam 
 stroking his face had fairly roused him, tierce should 
 have been well begun at Glastonbury. Glastonbury, 
 however, was fifty miles away, and these negligent sins 
 of his Anthony scarce thought of, himself, and much 
 less ever confessed in the chapter. This morning he 
 prayed not at all, but donned his day-clothes with some 
 haste, and then once more wrapped up his bundle ; he 
 was not to sleep a second night at Winchester. Finally, 
 taking his purse into his hand, he sought the dining- 
 room, where most of the court had already broken fast. 
 Great quantities of food still stood upon the tables, how 
 ever, and Anthony ate what he wished. Rising at last 
 from his place he loitered a little about the great room, 
 wondering when it might be time for his second audience 
 with the Queen. Just as he was turning toward the 
 doorway a page, running at full speed, entered. Upon 
 seeing the monk he uttered an exclamation. 
 
 " Ods blood, holy one, but I have had a hunt for 
 thee ! Albeit I might readily enow have guessed where 
 I should find thee. A Benedictine hath never so much 
 of prayer that he forgetteth when to eat, eh, brother ? " 
 And the youth laughed merrily. 
 
 This manner of wit was by no means novel to An 
 thony, but he relished it none the better on that account. 
 His reply was curt. "What would you of me, varlet?" 
 
316 
 
 "'Varlet,' to me, thou monk ! " flashed out the youth. 
 " I would have thee to know, insolent one, that I 
 am " 
 
 " Villain ! Thine errand ! " repeated Anthony, in a 
 tone of contempt, though inwardly he was wondering 
 at himself, and at the fact that it was still possible for 
 his vanity to be so easily wounded. 
 
 With sulky amazement the boy glared at him, but, 
 remembering that it was Isabella herself whom this 
 monk had sought at Winchester, he feared to offer any 
 further explanation of his lofty birth. "The Queen 
 bade me say that she awaits " he had begun; but, 
 ere the sentence was finished, Anthony had turned 
 upon his heel and walked rapidly from the room. 
 " Verily, verily/' remarked the page to the air, " this 
 monk behaveth strangely like unto a lord ! " 
 
 Isabella, not long out of bed, and with toilet just 
 finished, lay back upon her couch in the room where 
 Eleanor's envoy had first seen her. The late audi 
 ence granted on the previous night to the Earl of Win- 
 ton had resulted this morning in a violent headache 
 and a most execrable humor on the part of the royal 
 lady. She awaited the coming of the monk with ex 
 treme impatience. In some way the very thought of his 
 presence in the castle irritated her. She wished to be 
 free from all possibility of again encountering the glit 
 ter of those deep eyes, which seemed, somehow, to her 
 nervous imagination, to be able to pierce whatever 
 mask she chose to don, and, breaking through her 
 every pretence, reach to the very heart of all her frivol 
 ity and deceit. The more that she thought upon the 
 matter, the more impatient did she grow to have him 
 gone. When he finally entered the room where she 
 lay, she had awaited his coming for a full fifteen min 
 utes, whereby the pleasance of her mood was not 
 greatly increased. 
 
 " Good-morrow, your holiness. Shall I rise and 
 
of angouleme 3 1 ? 
 
 courtesy before you? I do perceive that the Church 
 hath greatly grown in importance of late, when the 
 lowest of its disciples can make the Queen of England 
 wait his pleasure." 
 
 Anthony's brows twitched up a little, but he addressed 
 her with marked respect : " Pardon me, madam, I beg. 
 Doubtless I did mistake the hour of audience granted 
 me." 
 
 Isabella made a grimace that was supposed to do duty 
 for a smile. Her eyes narrowed a little, and while her 
 words were hardly in themselves offensive, her tone was 
 not easy to be borne. " Well, now that thou 'rt come, 
 hast more, I doubt not, of those pretty pleas to put 
 forth for thy lady ? " 
 
 " If thou wilt listen, madam. But I would not tire 
 thee," he answered, wearily. 
 
 " Well, I will not listen, this morning, Sir Monk. In 
 stead thou must hear me ; and I, having not overmuch 
 to say, will make thine audience so short that thou wilt 
 have time to press another dozen of kisses upon Helene 
 de Ravaillac's hands or lips ere thou depart. 
 
 " In the matter of thine errand here I have been won 
 drous quick at decision. But yester even, ere the ban 
 quet, I framed my answer to thy artful plea. By now, 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert, my messenger should be half-way 
 to Bristol, with my greeting to the royal Eleanor of 
 Brittany, as thou hast rightly styled her, granddaughter 
 to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and niece to my husband, 
 John of England. Now, monk, what sayest thou to my 
 forethought." 
 
 A long, slow smile stretched itself over Isabella's 
 face as she saw the sudden pallor that overspread 
 Anthony's cheeks. She knew that at his heart lay 
 terror of what she might have done. After a moment 
 of struggle with himself he commanded his voice, and, 
 bowing before her, spoke his farewell. 
 
 " I can but compliment your speed in action, madam, 
 
318 
 
 and so have the honor to thank you for your attention 
 to me and to the Princess. I must depart immediately 
 from the palace ; but, ere I leave, let me proclaim my 
 gratitude for your royal hospitality, and, with all humil 
 ity, myself your most humble servitor." 
 
 The Queen acknowledged this regular formula with 
 her hand for him to kiss ; and so he retreated from the 
 room. 
 
 Thus the final audience was ended. Anthony turned 
 from the presence of the Queen, sick with dread. He 
 dared not even conjecture the import of the message 
 which it would now be impossible to keep from 
 Eleanor's eyes. But one thing lay within his power 
 to do. He must vindicate himself, if it were pos 
 sible, with Eleanor. He must reach Bristol as soon 
 as human power and his horse's speed could get him 
 there. As he hastened toward his room he met many 
 people in the corridors of the castle; but, until he 
 found her standing scarce ten paces from him in the 
 lower hall, never a thought of mademoiselle entered his 
 head. Then, catching the mute appeal of her eyes, he 
 recollected the gold. Approaching her he quietly 
 pressed the purse into her passive hand. The words 
 of gratitude that she poured out to him he scarcely 
 heeded. Not until an hour later, when he was racing 
 on horseback through the streets of the city, did he 
 realize that the phrase which was ringing through his 
 brain had been spoken by her: " May God's grace be 
 with thee, Anthony, forever and forever!" Then, for 
 the space of a few minutes, his thoughts did turn to her, 
 poor woman, and he knew that he was glad to have 
 saved her from the life of a nun. They never met 
 again, these two. But for many years thereafter, from 
 a certain beetling old castle in the battlefield of France, 
 there daily rose a fervent prayer for the happiness of 
 Hubert Walter's son. Perhaps, at the end, these pleas, 
 futile while their object lived, were taken all together, 
 
of angouleme 319 
 
 and won heaven after death for an heretical and disloyal 
 monk. 
 
 It was the noon of August sixth, five days after he 
 had last left it, when Anthony rode again into the court 
 yard of Bristol Castle. Horse and rider alike were 
 spent. The animal, wet With foam, stumbled with ex 
 haustion. The man was dizzy and sick with long riding, 
 little food, and the intense heat. He had been dreading 
 so much that, when he actually reached his destination, 
 his fears were deadened. Drawing rein at last, and 
 giving the poor steed into John Norman's care, he 
 hastened into the castle, in which the air seemed chilly, 
 and tottered with difficulty up the narrow stairs that led 
 to Eleanor's apartments. Not daring to picture the 
 scene which probably awaited him, he knocked quickly 
 at the well-known door. 
 
 Mary opened it. On seeing the monk she uttered a 
 little cry; but, though he minutely scanned her face, 
 Anthony could find in it no expression of sorrow or 
 pity; nothing but pleasure, joy. The next moment 
 he saw Eleanor, standing just beyond the maid, quite 
 still, pale, yet with an exquisite smile upon her face, and 
 both hands held out to him. 
 
 " My friend my friend ! " she faltered, and there 
 were tears in her eyes. 
 
 Anthony, amazed and still incredulous, came slowly 
 toward her, his head bent. " Princess, I tried for thy 
 sake indeed I tried. Blame me not, I implore," he 
 said, thickly. 
 
 " Blame thee ! " she echoed, wondering. " How 
 shouldst thou say that? All day have I waited to bless 
 thee ! Though thou couldst not obtain all that I had 
 dared to ask, yet what I have gained is precious far 
 beyond my deserving. And how shall I thank thee for 
 it all?" 
 
 "What mean you?" 
 
 "Why, hast not seen the Queen's letter? I had 
 
320 
 
 wished to ask thee somewhat concerning it. I under 
 stand naught of what she says of the Count de 
 la " 
 
 " Let me see the letter, quickly, I beg, madam." 
 She took it at once from the bosom of her dress and 
 handed it to him in silence. 
 
 To the noble and right royal Eleanor, hight Princess of 
 Bretagne, Granddaughter to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and 
 Niece to King John of England : 
 
 Thy envoy, the monk Anthony Fitz-Hubert, hath faithfully 
 done thy bidding and made ardent plea for the welfare of 
 thee and of thy lover, whosoe'er he may be. Freedom, it 
 lies not in my power to give. But so hath this imploring 
 touched my pity, that I grant full permission to a princess to 
 hold whatsoever communication she shall choose, as often as 
 she choose, with the Sieur Louis de la Bordelaye, if indeed 
 such a person doth exist. 
 
 But hereby let it be remembered, else shall it cost both 
 dear, that thou art never, by word, look, or deed, in any 
 manner, time, or place, to hold converse with Count Hugh de 
 la Marche, Lord of Poictou, at present a prisoner in Bristol 
 keep. Look to it that thou obeyest well this word. 
 
 So greets you, 
 
 ISABELLE D'ANGOULEME. 
 
 As Anthony slowly perused this singular letter, all 
 the irony, malice, and jealousy of its conception was so 
 glaringly presented to his understanding that he was 
 forced to marvel at Eleanor's innocent simplicity re 
 garding it. But when he looked at her again, and 
 saw the beauty of happiness in her face, his own 
 eyes grew dim with agony. His mission had been 
 successful. 
 
 "And hast thou seen the Sieur Louis yet?" asked 
 the monk. 
 
 Mary drew a sharp breath at the question, but Anthony 
 never noticed that she speedily left the room to avoid 
 
3jiabella of angouletne 3 21 
 
 crying out in very pity for him at Eleanor's low 
 reply. 
 
 " He hath been with me all the morning," she said, 
 drooping her head a little way that he might not see 
 the pink flush that memory sent into her transparent 
 cheeks. 
 
 21 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 "AVE! COLOR VINI CLARI!" 
 
 ANTHONY, now so long accustomed to the pas 
 sive life of the monastery, had been nearly 
 prostrated, physically, by his journey, the 
 strong excitement of his stay at Winchester, and the 
 rapid return to Bristol in the August heat. The Prin 
 cess as well as Mary noticed the unusual flush upon 
 his face, the effort of his steps, and the languor in his 
 manner. He himself, remembering the probable state 
 of Glastonbury, made no objections to stopping over 
 night and through half the next day at the castle. At 
 noon he was summoned to the keep, to confess, and 
 converse with, the Count and his comrades. Here he 
 underwent the pain of a few grateful and sincere words 
 of appreciation from De la Bordelaye; and the after 
 noon was waning ere he could start upon his home 
 ward road. Eleanor's farewell, and her new manner 
 of affection toward him, cut him to the quick; but 
 Mary's grave smile and glance of sympathy went 
 totally unfathomed. At last he was free to go. While 
 he was crossing the drawbridge, however, there came 
 to him, suddenly, in his abstraction, the memory of 
 the Falcon Inn, and the fact that he had promised to 
 be there on this evening or the next. So he turned 
 his horse's steps down through the city streets, and 
 Mary, watching the white hillside road for a last 
 glimpse of his departing figure, wondered that the 
 darkness came and still he had not passed. 
 
 Arrived at the inn the monk found the public room 
 occupied by a throng of idlers who would scarcely take 
 
! Color H>inf Clarfr 323 
 
 their departure before sunset. He retired upstairs at 
 once, therefore, to the small room that was always 
 kept at his service; and, being of no mind for three 
 hours of solitude, donned his secular dress and cap, 
 descended, left the inn by the rear door, and entered 
 again at the front like a new-comer. Stranger to all, as 
 he was, the young men in the place greeted him civilly 
 as a possible companion, after having examined studi 
 ously the cut of his garment. This, being of court 
 make, was of a fashion inimitable by the countrymen, 
 and, though it was now considerably more than three 
 years old, was still perfectly in the style of those tran 
 quil days. Thus Anthony, forcing himself to forget 
 his trouble for a little, really enjoyed the afternoon of 
 freedom, albeit his every move was attended with a 
 spice of danger, lest possibly his hat should fall off 
 and reveal his shaven head. No lady, however, 
 entered the inn, and there was never an occasion for a 
 scuffle. Talk ran upon many a good sporting subject, 
 and the home-brews flowed generously, till at length 
 the shadows of evening fell athwart the crooked little 
 streets, and one by one the young men and the soldiers 
 arose and went their way, leaving the monk at last 
 sitting alone over a table, with his thoughts come back 
 to him, and his head resting on his hand. 
 
 Now the great doors were closed and barred by the 
 landlord, to whose occasional eccentricities in this 
 line Bristol was becoming accustomed. Ever since 
 Anthony's arrival, Martin's son had been out, hurry 
 ing from house to house of those inhabited by the 
 usual congregation, to inform the people of the com 
 ing of their monk. Gladly did they all receive the 
 summons; and by eight o'clock of the evening, when 
 it was as yet only twilight, a goodly company had 
 assembled in the place which they had come to look 
 upon as they once had regarded the vast spaces of St. 
 Peter's Cathedral. 
 
324 2Jncanoni?et> 
 
 Since the first meetings the number of the congre 
 gation had greatly increased. It was curious, consid 
 ering how little effort had been made to bring new 
 converts hither, because of the danger of it all, how, 
 none the less, men instinctively sought out and found, 
 here, their kind and their religious home. By this 
 time, then, new faces were no novelty to Anthony. 
 To-night, as ever, he talked to them of the injustice 
 and malpractices in the Romish Church, and exposed 
 the weakness and the mercilessness of the creed of 
 Augustine, from whose writings he read, and trans 
 lated. Then he told of undeniable truths, and of the 
 beauties of individual thought and belief, much after 
 the manner of a Neoplatonist. His people listened 
 eagerly. Once started, as they had been, so long ago, 
 upon the daring idea of the thorough exposition of the 
 old religion, none could hear enough of its false .dog 
 mas, its contradictions, its unholy ambitions, and its 
 injustice. By the Interdict which had been laid on 
 England for the punishment of a single man, they, it 
 seemed, were to be deprived of their very souls. Now 
 they exclaimed in horror at the memory of their former 
 belief. Nevertheless, Anthony could not help some 
 times thinking that it was a still-living spark of doubt 
 and dread that made them desire so often to hear his 
 logic decry confession and absolution as means of 
 salvation, and refute the theory of eternal damnation. 
 The little service being concluded with prayer, im 
 promptu and heartfelt, on the part of the monk at 
 least, they all thronged about him, each eager for a 
 word spoken to himself alone. They gave to Anthony 
 a kind of fanatical devotion, born, though he did not 
 guess it, of the transfigured strength of his face when 
 he spoke, of the tones- of his unusual voice, and of the 
 mind which had had the initial power to probe into 
 those questions, doubts, and beliefs which it was now 
 giving forth to them. 
 
at>e! Color iMm Clartr 325 
 
 Late at night Anthony was once more upon the 
 road to the abbey, and at three o'clock in the morning 
 he stood before its gates. He had ridden hard, and 
 his animal was panting under him. Upon his ride the 
 thought of the monastic quiet and rest before him had, 
 for the first time in his existence as a monk, been 
 pleasant. Now, however, as he called loudly for the 
 lodge-keeper, a sudden revulsion of feeling came, for 
 he remembered what Glastonbury was. There was 
 no answer to his calling. The windows of the lodge 
 continued dark. Anthony dismounted at last, and 
 felt his way to the gates. They were unlocked. 
 Small care had the abbey to-night! One push, and 
 the way was clear before him. 
 
 In the midst of the blackness, for the skies were 
 dark with coming dawn, the monk, leading his horse, 
 stumbled his way to the stables. These presented an 
 unwonted spectacle. They were crowded with horses 
 of all sorts, sizes, and conditions, twenty or twenty-five 
 more than usual being visible by the dull light of the 
 lantern. Ousting one of the new-comers from its place, 
 Anthony put his own steed into a stall, and, not seek 
 ing for a groom, rubbed it down himself, and gave it 
 as much fodder as was to be found. Then,. guided by a 
 faint light that shone from one of the lower windows, 
 he started back toward the entrance of the abbey. 
 Before he reached the door of Saint Joseph's chapel 
 a noise came to his ears. It grew louder and louder 
 as he approached. When he stood inside the vestib- 
 ulum he could distinguish shrieks of laughter and 
 some snatches of song that were being sung by high, 
 hoarse voices. On the threshold he hesitated. The 
 sounds were coming to him across the cloister, from 
 the refectory. At length he made his way down the 
 corridor, past the day-room, clown the long halls that 
 led by the visitors' apartments, through the great, 
 unfinished assembly-room, across the open court, and, 
 
326 
 
 finally, into the lavatories, in whose doorway was 
 framed the scene in the refectory. Though Anthony 
 was totally unaware of it, one person in that bedlam 
 saw, and recognized, the outline of his form. And 
 after that chance look Anthony was not alone. 
 
 As the new-comer first beheld them, all the company, 
 men and women, were just beginning a chorus. It 
 was a song that he had heard before. Being old in the 
 monasteries it had once, by chance, crept out among 
 the laity, and shortly travelled the length and breadth 
 of the kingdom, translated into French or English by 
 those who did not appreciate the Latin. It was a kind of 
 parody, profane enough, upon the " O Sanctissime ! " 
 
 Anthony heard the ugly sounds and the uglier words 
 with disgust in his face, and a kind of savage anger, 
 which had always been natural to him at any such 
 sight, in his heart. But never, even in his wild youth 
 at the different courts of France and England, had 
 he known of a debauch like this. There was a fero 
 cious barbarity, an abandonment about it, that told 
 of the unnatural repression of every human feeling 
 that ordinarily dominated the lives of the men who 
 were taking part in this revelry. Fitz-Hubert turned, 
 wearily, from the scene of riot and disorder, and made 
 his way back to the scriptorium. He was closely 
 followed by one who had been in that room, but was 
 neither too intoxicated to think, nor popular enough 
 with his companions to be missed. It was David 
 Franklin, the precentor. 
 
 To reach the scriptorium one had to pass through 
 the day-room, and in both of these apartments dim 
 lights burned. At first Anthony looked in vain for 
 his friend, whom he had thought to find at work. The 
 scriptorium was empty. When he stepped again into 
 the other room a dark figure glided behind him, and 
 drew itself hurriedly back of the doorway, barely in 
 time to escape his notice. Then Anthony's eyes fell 
 
Color tini Clari!" 327 
 
 upon a picture that softened their angry light and 
 melted the harshness from his face. 
 
 In a corner of the day-room, between the jutting 
 fireplace and the west wall, with the faint light fall 
 ing upon the form which was wrapped in a coarse 
 blanket, lay Philip, asleep. His face was like chiselled 
 marble. Only his eyelids were faintly tinged with 
 color, and the veins in his temples were defined in 
 a sharp blue. The shimmering hair which circled 
 his tonsure had been pushed back from the fair fore 
 head as if by the passing of one of the exquisite hands 
 which he had flung behind his head, palm upward, 
 upon the floor. His right hand lay upon his breast. 
 Upon his thin cheeks, and under the long, brown 
 lashes, lay three or four crystalline tears, undried. 
 He had shed them in his sleep. 
 
 For a long moment Anthony and that other 
 gazed upon the recumbent figure. Then Fitz-Hubert 
 knelt by the sleeper's side, and, with a hand that shook 
 a little, from weariness, perhaps, wiped the drops from 
 the boyish face. The very gentleness of the touch 
 roused Philip. He shuddered, and then his dark blue 
 eyes, in which lay a dread that had lingered there for 
 a week past, flew open. The next instant there was a 
 deep cry of joy. 
 
 "Anthony! At last!" 
 
 "At last, Philip," replied the friend, tenderly. 
 
 For a moment, then, they did not move, but gazed 
 into each other's faces, reading, silently. Then 
 Philip rose. He listened for an instant to the noise 
 that came without cessation from the distant refectory, 
 and then said, wearily, with a quiver in his voice: 
 
 " Sit you here. I will bring some refreshment for 
 us both." 
 
 Anthony quickly laid a hand upon his arm. "Nay, 
 nay, Philip. Thou canst not go thither. I need 
 nothing." 
 
328 
 
 Philip shook his head. "I go to the kitchen of 
 the novices. I need not even pass the refectory. 
 Wait." 
 
 While the young monk had been speaking David" 
 Franklin, hastily and daringly, slipped through the 
 day-room and into the scriptorium beyond. Once 
 there he seated himself in such a position that he 
 could hear every word and see every move made by 
 the two whom he had set himself to watch. 
 
 When Philip was gone, Anthony looked about him. 
 Seeing an unlit lantern standing upon the floor near 
 the chimney, he lighted the candle in it at the flame 
 of the one already burning. This made the room quite 
 passably bright. Then the monk seated himself by 
 the table, and, in order to keep awake until Philip 
 should return with food, he picked up a manuscript 
 that lay thereon, and began to read. 
 
 Philip was not away long. He came back, bearing 
 in his hands a wooden tray upon which stood a loaf of 
 wheaten bread, a cold boiled fowl, a dozen purple 
 plums, and a great jug of ale. Anthony looked approv 
 ingly upon the collation. 
 
 " In good sooth, Philip, I had not until now guessed 
 mine own hunger. Come, let us eat. I have ridden 
 a long way since the supper hour." 
 
 " I also am hungry, now that thou art here to bear 
 me company," responded the other, as he set the 
 dishes out upon the table. 
 
 Drawing up their stools side by side, they began 
 with great good-will upon the meal, talking together 
 as they did so. Between them there was no restraint 
 of action or thought; yet for some time the con 
 tinuous flow of sounds from the direction of the 
 refectory distracted their attention sufficiently from 
 themselves to make the concealed listener fear that he 
 was, after all, to hear none of those things which he 
 had hoped to discover. Anthony ate with appetite, 
 
i Color iMni Clad!" 329 
 
 the simple viands being quite to his taste. Philip 
 was more listless, but partook of the bread and 
 fruit, of which he was very fond. The elder monk, 
 who knew Philip's hyper-sensibility to all forms of 
 grossness as did no one else in the abbey, sympatheti 
 cally studied the pallor of the young face, and the 
 painful way in which his head continually dropped, 
 and his eyes sought the plate. 
 
 " What a harbor for purity must Glastonbury have 
 been during the past week," thought Anthony. " Little 
 wonder that he is spiritless ! Methinks any other 
 would long ago have descended into that hell out of 
 sheer loneliness." Then he said, aloud: 
 
 "Canst guess how much longer -this will last, 
 Philip?" 
 
 The young fellow raised his head, and lifted his 
 eyes mournfully to his companion's face. "There can 
 be no sure prophecy; but I hope that 'tis now nearly 
 at an end. I had, this morn, a little glimpse of 
 Richard Friendleighe. He looked more weary e'en 
 than I felt. Harold returns now in three days; and I 
 trust that by that time it it order will be restored, 
 and this time of sin repented." 
 
 "God grant it," returned the other, dryly. Then he 
 ventured to ask again, with great gentleness, "It hath 
 been a dreary week for thee, Philip? " 
 
 For a moment the child-monk could make no answer. 
 His lips trembled. At last, with an effort, he raised 
 his voice: "Ere thou earnest here, Anthony, I used to 
 think this period of the year a special hardship given 
 me to endure, because I was ever so contented with my 
 life. Now now that Mary hath departed, I am often 
 lonely. Thou, whom I do love, hast a work of thine 
 own that is far beyond me. Therefore, nowadays, I 
 grieve much when alone; and this time of sorrow is 
 not easily to be borne." 
 
 At the mention of Mary and of Anthony's "work" 
 
33 
 
 the spy pricked up his ears. For the moment, how 
 ever, he was still disappointed. 
 
 " I am to stay now for a month, again, as usual, 
 Philip. I warrant that i' the end thou 'It have enough 
 of me." 
 
 "There could not be too much. But now, tell 
 me of the journey, how it hath resulted with thee, and 
 its cause. 'Twas to Winchester thou didst go. Hast 
 seen there my Lord Bishop, Peter de Rupibus? " 
 
 "Nay. My mission was to the Queen, and I lodged 
 in the palace. Half of all went right with me, and 
 half wrong. And which be wrong and which right, or 
 whether, mayhap, all was well, I know not. Verily, 
 verily, Philip, affairs take curious turns unto them 
 selves ofttimes. " 
 
 Anthony had not betrayed a hint of feeling in his 
 tone, and his friend was sorely puzzled. "'Twas for 
 the Princess thou didst go? " 
 
 "Ay," said Anthony, defiantly throwing back his 
 head, and not changing his tone, "ay, for Madam 
 Eleanor and her lover." 
 
 "Her lover!" 
 
 "The Sieur Louis de la Bordelaye, of the suite of 
 Hugh, Count de la Marche, the other prisoner, thou 
 knowest." 
 
 Philip examined the other's face anxiously. An 
 thony returned the look in some abstraction, and was 
 startled when Philip ventured the remark, 
 
 "Verily that was hard for thee, my brother." 
 
 "Hard? How?" 
 
 " Nay, nay. Pardon if I have said overmuch. I 
 will go no further." 
 
 " Say what thou wilt. Thou 'canst not go too far 
 with me, friend." 
 
 Philip hesitated still for an instant, then ventured, 
 slowly, " I had sometimes thought the Princess Eleanor 
 dear to thee." 
 
Color mni Clari ' 33' 
 
 "It is true," was the reply. "More dearly than 
 life, or heaven, or self do I love her; more than the 
 loss of my soul I fear her unhappiness; I endure more 
 than the torture of the rack when I see her; and yet 
 more sweet than Paradise is the power to obey her 
 slightest wish. What, then, Philip?" 
 
 If Philip was astounded at this open confession, he 
 was not more so than David Franklin, who had been 
 almost touched by the simple earnestness of the 
 avowal. Possibly there was a hidden romance in his 
 ugly little nature, for certainly, through several 
 seconds, he did battle hotly with himself, behind the 
 door of the scriptorium, on the point whether such 
 madness about a princess of the blood was not, under 
 the circumstances, admirable. Anthony, however, 
 was awaiting Philip's answer. It came. 
 
 " But doth it not cut thee to the heart to know that 
 madam hath a lover? Were it my love, methinks the 
 very life would be torn out of me through jealousy." 
 
 In the darkness Franklin nodded a vehement approval. 
 
 "Jealousy, Philip?" And now Anthony was to 
 prove the power of his self-control. "Jealousy, say 
 you? And how should I, a bastard monk, dare so to lift 
 my thought to her? Why, man, I am a slave! I am 
 a slave ! I forget not that ; and so I cannot suffer as 
 I would had my father given me a humbler and an 
 honester birth." 
 
 "He lies," thought Franklin, for Anthony's mean 
 ing was beyond him now. "He lies. No man but 
 would feel jealousy, an his love had reached such a 
 pass. He is a hypocrite." 
 
 Philip himself was puzzled here. Anthony's bitter 
 irony was lost to him, and he could not understand 
 the courage that should make any man speak so about 
 the great passion of his life. He decided, then, to 
 waive that point for the moment. 
 
 " Didst see the Queen herself? " he asked. 
 
33 2 
 
 " I had the honor of two audiences with her." 
 "And, doubtless, sith Eleanor is her niece, she 
 was gracious with thee?" 
 
 "Truly, she was most kind, doing that very thing 
 which pleased the Princess most." And by Anthony's 
 smile you could tell nothing. 
 
 At last Philip was hurt. He hated to be put off 
 with incomprehensible indifference, or, worse still, 
 mockery, at every turn. His face told this. Rising, 
 in silence, he went over to the fireplace, and stood 
 there, with shoulders bent, gazing into the great 
 blackness. Loudly to his ears came the distant sounds 
 of drunken mirth. Philip felt a hand upon his 
 shoulder. Turning, he saw that his friend's face was 
 very near to his, and that there was upon it an expres 
 sion of tenderness and affection. 
 
 "Philip, 'tis all unwittingly that I have distressed 
 thee. But knowest thou not that there be some things 
 in a man's life which he cannot tell, even to his 
 brother? And what we have been talking of is some 
 thing that I do not easily bear. Now let us speak of 
 other things, of Mary, an thou wilt." 
 
 Philip's eyes glistened a little, and his face took on 
 the expression of the dreamer. "Mary," he said. 
 "Mary! Thou hast seen her?" 
 "But to-day." 
 
 "And hath she forgot me, Anthony, think you?" 
 "Nay, Philip. Surely not. Surely not." 
 " Hath hath she ever spoken of me ? " 
 "Ah, yes, and bids me carry memory of her to thee; 
 but it seems that, selfishly, I do forget to do so." 
 Though Anthony did not hesitate over it, this was 
 a deliberate lie. Afterwards there came to him a 
 little wonder at the thought that, of all the times 
 he had been at Bristol Castle, the girl had never 
 proffered a single question concerning her old-time 
 instructor and companion of the vale of Avalon. 
 
Color i&ini Clati!" 333 
 
 At the answer Philip's eyes had lighted with pleas 
 ure, but he made no reply for some moments. When 
 he did speak it was with rapidity, and in a voice more 
 impassioned than Anthony had ever before heard him 
 use. 
 
 "Anthony, thou dost love a woman. Greatly do I 
 rejoice at thought of it, for now, at last, thou canst 
 understand somewhat of my feeling, however different 
 our loves may be. Thou knowest how Mary, my Lady 
 of the Fields, was all my life. It was thou who took'st 
 her from me. Nay, speak not " (Anthony had raised 
 his hand). "I know for what purpose it was done, and 
 I honor thee for it. But hast thou ever thought that 
 though three endless years have passed since mine 
 eyes did rest upon her face, yet the image of her in 
 my heart hath never faded? I love her to-day more 
 deeply, I think, than in the olden times when I was 
 most with her. Something in reparation for my loss 
 thou surely owest me. Monthly thou seest her. It lies 
 within thy power for once, one time only I ask, to let 
 me take thy place to Bristol Castle. Thou mightest 
 feign illness, or a wish for unbroken devotion for sixty 
 days, or any of a thousand things. This, which I so 
 long have dreamed of, I ask as my right. " 
 
 "'Twas well spoken, Philip," said Anthony. He 
 was surprised and rather pleased to find in the young 
 monk something more of strength than he had ever 
 believed him to possess. The comment upon the 
 words had leaped from his lips before he thought. 
 When he had paused to consider for a moment, he was 
 not so much in favor of the proposition. However, 
 since he had said so much, no selfishness should make 
 him retract. Philip was waiting anxiously for more. 
 
 " Thy demand is just, and thou shalt have thy wish 
 an I can bring it to pass. Even next month shalt thou 
 go in my place. But there is one thing which I 
 know not how to manage " 
 
334 
 
 " Thou meanest thy people at - 
 
 " Hush ! Speak not of them within this monastery. 
 Even though there were no seeming danger, thou 
 canst scarce know how much hangs upon secrecy with 
 us." 
 
 "I would thou hadst told me all concerning it, 
 Anthony," said Philip, anxiously. "Perhaps there 
 also might I take thy place." 
 
 Anthony looked first horrified, and then laughed. 
 "Nay, Philip. For once it must go. But when thou 
 art in the city thou shalt leave a message for me at the 
 place whose direction I shall give thee." 
 
 " God bless thee for that, Anthony. I shall not 
 easily for " 
 
 "Hark!" 
 
 Philip's breaking off and Anthony's exclamation 
 were simultaneous. The two men there and the one 
 in the room beyond stood motionless and breathless, 
 listening to the wild crescendo of noises that came 
 from the distant refectory. The laughter and the 
 screams alike contained a note that brought a shudder 
 to the listeners. The cries more resembled those of 
 animals than men. Philip turned whiter than ever, 
 and cowered backward into the shadow of the fireplace. 
 Catching a glimpse of Anthony's expression he spoke 
 quickly. 
 
 " 'T is but some jest, Anthony! Oh, believe " 
 
 His words were again broken in upon, this time by 
 a new sound. It was the fearful shrieking of a shrill, 
 high, agonized voice. Franklin himself was startled 
 by it, and crept a little nearer to the doorway of the 
 day-room. Anthony stood rigid, still listening, his 
 face like ashes, his expression one of ominously grow 
 ing fury. The first scream was succeeded by another. 
 Philip took one step forward, with intent to lay 
 hold on Anthony. But before he could touch him 
 Anthony was gone, flying from the room, down the 
 
color mm Clarir 335 
 
 passage, across the vestibulum, and out into the night. 
 The young man followed him for ten steps, blindly. 
 Then he stopped. There had been a quick sound 
 behind him. He turned about, and found himself face 
 to face with David Franklin. 
 
 They eyed each other silently for a little. The 
 precentor's movement was rash. He had hoped to 
 escape the room and follow Anthony. Philip's unlucky 
 intervention infuriated him. The young monk's con 
 fusion was greater. With the slow dawning of sus 
 picion in his gentle face, a baleful smile rose to David's 
 lips. 
 
 " Yea, verily have I heard all that was said, master 
 hypocrite. Know, then, that I will take wondrous 
 good care that you see naught of your Mary in Bristol. 
 Indeed, Harold, methinks, will scarce tolerate " 
 
 Here Franklin ceased to speak, of his own accord. 
 Philip was no longer listening. At a sound from 
 across the corridor he had once more hurried to the 
 doorway, in excitement. Franklin, with his usual 
 curiosity, followed. He was in time to see Anthony's 
 tall, gaunt figure disappearing into the gloom of the 
 cloister; and, as he passed one of the lamps that 
 burned upon a pillar, he perceived what it was that 
 Anthony had gone to get. In his right hand he was 
 carrying a long, black whip. 
 
 Spellbound by their apprehensions the two monks 
 stood together, side by side, in the doorway, silent 
 and motionless. Neither was sure what Anthony was 
 going to do, but both had seen in his face that he was 
 to be feared, just now. Franklin's eyes were sparkling 
 with hatred; Philip's were dull with anxiety for his 
 friend's safety. Both listened. A sudden stillness 
 succeeded the riotous noise. Then, out of the heavy 
 silence, came the vague, reverberating echoes of a 
 single voice. The words that it spoke were being 
 thundered upon the air, but the phrases were too rapid 
 
to be intelligible at such a distance. A low, tumultu 
 ous murmur followed the speech. As it grew greater 
 it became gradually more and more thickly punctuated 
 by strange howls, as of living things in pain. Philip 
 could bear inaction no longer. Springing quickly for 
 ward, with an inarticulate cry he started at a run 
 down the hall, toward the refectory. In an instant 
 Franklin was at his side, then had outdistanced him 
 in speed. 
 
 In the western doorway to the refectory stood Fitz- 
 Hubert. His left arm was raised, and he pointed 
 to the stone stairway toward which his face was 
 turned, and which led upward to the dormitories. In 
 his right hand was the whip, held loosely now. Before 
 him moved a slow procession of cowed and terror- 
 stricken monks. One by one, as they passed him by, 
 they shrank, like dogs, from his proximity. All save 
 four Harold, William Vigor, Michael Canaen the 
 almoner, and Franklin the spy were there. Wil 
 liam Lorrimer, toothless and dribbling with wine, 
 slunk away to his lodge at the gate; Eustace Comyn 
 and John Cusyngton, both deacons of the chapter, 
 hurried along, never raising their eyes to look at each 
 other; Joseph Hanleighe and Peter de Rivere, sub- 
 almoners, ordinarily not ill-looking men, crept together 
 up the stairs, eyes swollen, limbs shaking, and lips 
 muttering maudlin phrases; Anselm the sacrist, called 
 "the Bitter," now silly and tearful in his drunken 
 ness, walked unsteadily in the line, twining and un 
 twining his long fingers ; John Waterleighe, the young 
 librarian, a handsome, fiery fellow, dragged himself 
 with difficulty up toward his cell; cellarer, butler, 
 refectioner, tailors, scribes, chamberlains, masters of 
 the fabric and novices, priests, friars, lay brethren and 
 farmers, conquered by the reaction of their own natures, 
 left the scene of their dishonor. And over them all, 
 till the last had gone, stood Anthony, with no tri- 
 
<(Oli*ol rtTrtlrtt* lAt'*rt /iM^vt't" 
 
 Color ini Clan'!" 337 
 
 umph in his face, no despotism in his air. Only the 
 pain in his arm and the broken lash of the whip in his 
 hand bore witness to what he had done. And finally, 
 when that melancholy throng had passed, and he must, 
 turn to those who still remained, cowering, within the 
 great room, the tears stood visible in his eyes, and in 
 his throat there was a sob of pity. 
 
 22 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE MEMORY OF SAVARIC 
 
 DURING the last two weeks of August, and through 
 the whole of the September of 12 1 1, Glastonbury, 
 from midnight to dark again, was one ceaseless 
 hum of prayer. The spirit of repentance burned at fever 
 heat within the souls of the monks. The penitential cells, 
 in the vault underneath the chapels, were never empty, 
 and a long line of further applicants for their occupancy 
 were able to endure waiting only by continued flagella 
 tions, and Pater Nosters repeated by the gross. Those 
 monks whose bodily strength did not forsake them were 
 accounted especially fortunate, since they were enabled 
 to begin matins at twelve, and remain praying in the 
 great church for two hours after compline ; thus permit 
 ting themselves something over one hour of rest in the 
 twenty-four. There were no longer any recreation periods. 
 The chapter sat three times a day, for the bestowing of 
 extra penances. The dinner-hour was kept under the 
 most rigid etiquette, and one might read only from the 
 "Lives of the Saints". The very philosophers were con 
 sidered frivolous. There was almost nothing to eat. All 
 fasted continuously, and for five weeks no meat was put 
 upon the table. The duties of Benedict Vintner were 
 practically at a standstill. Nothing but water was drunk 
 throughout the abbey. Harold, William Vigor, and the 
 almoner had returned to Glastonbury on the nineteenth 
 of August, in a state of religious fanaticism that betrayed 
 the extent of their relaxations at the abbot's country- 
 seat. Poor Harold prayed, fasted, and knelt o' nights 
 
of ^aftarfc 339 
 
 in his oratory, till his comfortable figure had all but 
 melted away, and his pallor and weakness were startling. 
 It was astounding for how long a time religious en 
 thusiasm lasted with the brethren. But, before the six 
 weeks were over, many a man had been obliged to relin 
 quish, temporarily, his efforts toward Heaven, and crawl 
 away to the infirmary, with a dozen diseases contracted 
 through overtaxed bodies, loss of nervous stability, and 
 lack of proper food. 
 
 Strange as it' seemed to them all, Anthony was the one 
 who pleaded most with the chapter for the forgiveness 
 of these weak and willing brethren. More curious still, 
 however, was the violent objection of the same men to 
 any hint of interference with their voluntary mortifications. 
 One morning, at a general meeting, Anthony spoke 
 in behalf of leniency, and more gradual overcoming of 
 weaknesses. He dealt gently with the sins that had 
 been committed, and urged as strongly as possible the 
 impossibility of continued restraint of flesh so human. 
 Waxing still more earnest, he forgot himself, in a way, 
 and grew anti-monastic ; though it is doubtful if any one 
 there quite understood that. But he was listened to 
 with astonishment and horror by all save one ; and that 
 one, though it was William Vigor himself, had nothing 
 to do but hold his peace. The only result of the matter, 
 so far as the speaker could see, was a decree of bread 
 and water for two days, with the repetition of fifty extra 
 Aves for himself. 
 
 To a soul that possessed either consistency or sincer 
 ity, it was the greatest relief when all this fanatical dis 
 play of remorse was over, and the abbey settled down 
 once more to the old routine. David Franklin, when he 
 had slept over the matter, concluded that sharp action 
 concerning the conversation overheard in the day-room 
 by him would not be wise. He perceived that nothing 
 conclusive enough to make a startling sensation in the 
 chapter could be repeated by him. Consequently he 
 
34 
 
 confided all that he had heard to his friends Cusyngton 
 and Antwilder, in private, and expatiated volubly upon 
 those few quickly hushed but suspicious phrases con 
 cerning Anthony's " work." These others, while they 
 talked a good deal with the precentor over the matter, 
 had very little faith in the thing ; but, ever ready to do 
 Anthony a mischief, watched him as much as they could, 
 and almost invariably followed him upon his journeys to 
 Bristol, -where, indeed, there seemed to be highly un 
 usual proceedings at a certain incomprehensible inn. 
 
 Anthony continued his journeys very regularly. But, 
 try persuasion or entreaty as he would, Philip could 
 never be induced to take his place. That was the 
 direct outcome of the spy's work. The young monk 
 never told Anthony what had occurred. He dared not 
 do this, being afraid of Anthony's passionate temper. 
 But he had been cut to the heart, and frightened as well, 
 by Franklin's words ; and, more still, by the unspoken 
 suspicion which he felt to have been behind them : a 
 suspicion of a wrong relationship between himself and 
 Mary. 
 
 So the long winter came, and then slowly crawled 
 away. From day's end to day's end, there was no 
 variety at Glastonbury. Things had fallen back into 
 their old, happy-go-lucky carelessness. There was 
 drunkenness on shaving-day; undue talking at dinner; 
 forbidden wine at refection ; whispering during sext ; 
 and a general tardiness for lauds. Latterly Anthony 
 had begun again to haunt, for some rest and relief 
 from the monotony, the chilly chapel on Tower Hill. 
 
 Abroad, in England and in Europe, the great politi 
 cal aspect was not much changed. King John was busy 
 in quieting his Welsh rebels, and listening to fearful 
 prophecies concerning a speedily approaching doom for 
 himself. Isabella idled and flirted as usual at Caris- 
 brooke, Winchester, or Hurstmonceaux. Innocent of 
 Rome, Philip of France, and Stephen, not yet of Canter- 
 
of ^atiaric 34 1 
 
 bury, sat in a row, with their heads knowingly cocked, 
 while the five English bishops gambled and prayed at 
 Rouen. All England was discontentedly quiet ; and for 
 many a long day the ancient abbey had heard and felt 
 nothing from its old tormentor, Jocelyn of Bath. 
 
 Taking heart at a freedom now long-continued, Glas- 
 tonbury, in the early summer of 1212, called for the 
 chapter a great assembly, which was to bring about 
 matters of moment to the history of the holy house. As 
 a prelude to this meeting, William Vigor, who took high 
 interest in Anthony Fitz-Hubert, because of a similarity 
 in taste and intellect, told him a long and rambling 
 tale about the intrigues, pleasaunces, and infidelity of 
 Church and State, which had brought the monastery 
 into that quarrel perhaps the most famous of any in the 
 annals of mediaeval asceticism. 
 
 In the year of grace 1190, one Henry de Soliac was 
 Lord Abbot of Glastonbury. For the aggrandizement 
 of this honored house he labored incessantly, and suc 
 cessfully, since he was a man of great ambition and a 
 lover of magnificence. At that time the lands and pos 
 sessions subject to the rule of the monastery were more 
 extensive than those of any other religious house in 
 England ; and when De Soliac had at last managed to 
 wrest the churches of Pilton and Dicket from the sees of 
 Bath and Wells, he brought the establishment which he 
 ruled, to the very summit of its power. 
 
 At this time the King of the Lion Heart, after months 
 of aimless wandering in the midst of Europe, on his way 
 back from a crusade, was a prisoner in the hands of a 
 half-civilized Austrian noble. Into the solitary captivity 
 of Richard's life there entered a petty priest, named Sav- 
 aric, a man of great talents, greater ambitions, and a 
 most persuasive manner of speech. The King found 
 him to be a fascinating fellow. Savaric discovered, 
 at last, the identity of the prisoner ; and then he instantly 
 perceived that the opportunity of his life was come. 
 
342 aincanonfieo 
 
 He lost no time in seizing it. There were smooth pro 
 positions and perfectly plausible arguments on the part 
 of the priest. These were followed by meditations, 
 questions and, finally, promises on the side of the King, 
 until, by means of stolen keys, filed bars, and, possibly, 
 to complete the romance, sleeping potions delivered to 
 the guards, the Lord of the Islands stood, one night, 
 free of his prison, a prancing horse beside him, and 
 behind, two mounted men : the one, Blondel, the bard ; 
 the other, Savaric, Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells. 
 
 The trio reached England safely, and received a wel 
 come worthy of royalty. Among all the rest, my lords 
 soi-supposant. Bishops of Bath and Wells, hastened to 
 the court of Windsor to renew fealty and faith with their 
 King. At the castle, embarrassing though it was, they 
 were formally presented, so to speak, to themselves ; that 
 is, to Savaric, now not only Bishop of a double see, but, 
 what he had also demanded on reaching England, 
 Abbot of Glastonbury, with all its lands. At least, so 
 said the King, so agreed the Pope, and so proclaimed, 
 willy-nilly, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 who had been loaded with commands from Windsor and 
 letters patent from Rome. The monks of Glastonbury, 
 who had hitherto rejoiced in widely extended homage, 
 and the income from thousands of acres of well-managed 
 land, saw themselves suddenly reduced to dependency 
 upon a rival hitherto despised. More bitter still, the 
 new master was not even a countryman of theirs ; one 
 who spoke their tongue with the greatest difficulty ; and 
 in whose veins, besides, flowed but the commonest of 
 thin red blood. Was it to be endured? Assuredly De 
 Soliac would have cried " no " for answer. But De Sol- 
 iac no longer ruled over the abbey. Ambition brings 
 consideration from high places. Savaric was afraid of 
 the abbot, and so he had been converted into Bishop of 
 Worcester. Within eight months after his ascent to the 
 Episcopal chair, he went up another step, into heaven. 
 
of ^abarfc 343 
 
 Meantime, the monastery had been seized in the name 
 of the law by Savaric's men. At this time Prior Harold 
 was in Bath, trying for an interview with the Austrian 
 prelate. When he returned homeward, he found the 
 abbey in dire confusion. From that time for thirteen 
 years, until 1205, there was one long-continued struggle 
 between the two, Glastonbury and Bath. And it 
 seems that, gallantly as the monks fought for their right, 
 their enemy, who had become a power in the world, 
 succeeded in getting the best of his opponents in every 
 single trial of strength, since the monks had barren 
 opportunities for the making of outside partisans. 
 
 First, two deacons of the chapter visited Richard at 
 Winchester, and were out-manoeuvred in their audiences 
 from first to last by Savaric's tool, the Bishop of Ely. 
 They returned to the cloister with nothing gained. 
 That year the tribute from the abbey exacted by Wells 
 was so extortionate that, amid tears, curses, and hope 
 less threats, the ancient shrine of Saint Benedict, which 
 was a mass of silver, together with half the gold in the 
 treasury, was despatched as payment to the neighboring 
 cathedral. Goaded to action by this injustice, two 
 monks departed, soon after the New Year, to Normandy, 
 where at last they saw the King alone. Richard was 
 courteous and kind. Possibly Savaric had been grow 
 ing overbearing, of late. At all events, the King ap 
 peared to have repented of his action, and lo ! when 
 the envoys got back again to Somerset they found 
 there great rejoicing and a noble welcome for them 
 selves. Savaric the arrogant had been deposed, Glas 
 tonbury was free, and William of St. Mary's, afterwards 
 Bishop of London, had been installed in the abbot's 
 chair. 
 
 But tampering with affairs of the Church, delightful 
 pastime as it had always been to the Norman race, was 
 as disastrous as it was interesting. Savaric speedily be 
 took himself and his polished manners to Rome, and 
 
344 <Hncanom?eD 
 
 won Pope Gregory, far more complacent and gullible 
 than his innocent successor, completely over to his 
 friendship and method of thinking. Savaric was very 
 promptly reinstated ; Richard, well reprimanded ; Hu 
 bert Walter, who was much annoyed and equally tired 
 of the whole affair, ordered to look to it more closely, 
 and preserve quiet among the refractory monks ; while 
 lastly, Glastonbury itself was once more, after three 
 little months of freedom, put back into bondage. The 
 brethren were forbidden the election of any of their own 
 officers, and commanded to pay obedience, with very 
 good grace, to their tormentor. 
 
 Then were the monks tired of quarrelling, and ready 
 to submit to the apparently inevitable? Oh, no ! They 
 were all Englishmen. Once again those two deacons, 
 who had been so successful with the King, John 
 Cusyngton and Eustace Comyn, were despatched to 
 Windsor ; while, at the same time, the sub-prior, Wil 
 liam Pike, hied him away to Rome and Gregory. These 
 three emissaries were all successful in their errands, 
 and, ere long, the world saw Glastonbury once more 
 nominally free, with Abbot William Pike at its head. 
 Toward the end of the same year 1198 Savaric 
 laid the monastery under excommunication, and this 
 revenge was confirmed by Pandulph, the legate of the 
 new Pope, Innocent Third. With poor, weak old Greg 
 ory dead, the hopes of the abbey were small indeed. 
 But, nothing daunted as yet, Comyn and the abbot, 
 momentarily relieved from prayer, set out to Normandy 
 and the King for advice. Thence William Pike went on 
 alone to Rome, where he might try skill at fence with 
 the new Holiness and his old enemy, the bishop, who 
 was also there. It was a play of wits, two strong men 
 against one monk. Was it a wonder that the solitary one 
 went down before them ? Eustace Comyn had been im 
 prisoned at Rouen, by the previous arrangement of Sava 
 ric. A month later the Abbot of Glastonbury died by 
 
of ^abaric 345 
 
 poison in the Eternal City. And the onlookers scored 
 two for the Bishop of Wells. 
 
 Now Hubert of Canterbury, under papal direction, 
 excommunicated Glastonbury all over again. The 
 monks, weary with the conflict, and in despair over the 
 sudden death of King Richard, their single remaining 
 hope, submitted to the yoke. On Easter Day the ban 
 was removed, and hell stared them in the face no longer. 
 Next morning all the monks rose again for matins, as of 
 yore, and the dream of a sure heaven kept them awake 
 and praying happily for a week. Meantime Savaric had 
 paid a visit to King John. That monarch, not yet versed 
 in ecclesiastical history, and caring not a penny about 
 the squabbles of a few paltry monks, good-naturedly re 
 created the bishop Abbot of Glastonbury, and went his 
 way to the hunt. ' 
 
 Savaric himself to come as ruler to Glastonbury? No ! 
 By all the pagan gods ! This, at least, was past endur 
 ance. The monks held a meeting while the bishop was 
 journeying from Windsor, and decided that the thought 
 of having him before them, presiding over meals, con 
 ducting mass daily, was too much for the memory of 
 William Pike. So, when their enemy reached his abbey, 
 he came against locked gates, barred doors, and win 
 dows that were stoutly defended by brethren who defi 
 antly bade him enter an he could. 
 
 The abbot-bishop was a valiant man, and the idea of 
 a bit of a conflict was, perhaps, not so distasteful as it 
 might have been. He brought up men-at-arms and 
 captains from Wells, near by, and himself directed the 
 \ siege of the newly erected church. Starvation at last 
 forced the garrison to submit ; but it was with bleed 
 ing hearts that they did so. Doors once opened, 
 the hungry little company within found itself in dire 
 straits. Savaric's wrath could be as dominant as his 
 complacency when he chose. Lands were ruthlessly 
 pillaged, the monastery despoiled of its most sacred and 
 
2Jncanoni?eH 
 
 treasured relics, which forthwith were conveyed to Wells ; 
 while within the abbey the monks were subjected to the 
 greatest indignities ; absolution was refused them, and 
 any murmur against the action of their tyrant was stilled 
 by the threat of rack and wheel ; which machines had 
 been set up in the dark vaults below the church. 
 
 Some months of this treatment once again roused the 
 monks to unanimous action. They secretly despatched 
 some pretty despairing documents to Rome, relying 
 desperately upon the pertinence of their language to 
 bring the tartar Pope to a realization of their state. 
 Innocent was keen to perceive where certain things 
 might go no further. He replied by recommending 
 Savaric, somewhat strongly, to clemency. Savaric did 
 not yet feel himself stable enough to defy Christendom, 
 neither did he care to part entirely with the revenues 
 from his abbey. Therefore he arranged a treaty, 
 whereby the revenues of Glastonbury should be divided 
 evenly between Wells and the monastery ; while he him 
 self would dwell, for a time, in his palace at Wells. No 
 choice was given the monks. They accepted the alter 
 native, mourning the indignity of their loss of lands, 
 while rejoicing at the prospect of being free from the 
 presence of their oppressor. The manors and estates of 
 Meere, Pucklechurch, Winscombe, Badbury, Ashbury, 
 Buckland, Lyme, Blackford, Cranmore, Kingston, and 
 Christian-Walford, the richest, if not quite half, the lands 
 in possession of the abbey, were made over for manage 
 ment and revenue to the See of Wells. This was in the 
 year 1204. 
 
 Now, for the space of a twelvemonth, the old and 
 wearisome quarrel was stilled. Savaric's life in his new 
 country had aged him prematurely, and he found his 
 strength to be failing him. When, by degrees, he per 
 ceived eternity to be growing clearer before his gaze, 
 his mind was not peaceful, and certain incidents in his 
 brilliant career came back to his memory disagreeably. 
 
of ^>abaric 347 
 
 Even his confessor ventured to shake his head over 
 them, and advised a very full and speedy reparation be 
 fore the rights of absolution should again be gone 
 through with. So it fell out that, in the spring of the 
 year 1205, when this old Austrian passed away, Glaston- 
 bury had been restored to something like its pristine 
 power, and, though a native abbot did not yet rule there, 
 strong hopes of many good things to come were enter 
 tained concerning the new rule that was to be put over 
 them. 
 
 An urgent appeal was sent on to Rome to ask of the 
 Pope that, ere he should place a new bishop over Bath 
 and Wells (which sees were now considered united for 
 good), he should restore the Glastonbury lands to 
 them, and give them permission to elect an abbot of 
 their own. No direct reply to this request did Inno 
 cent make. Direct replies to queries, or decisive action 
 at short notice, were things which went against every 
 fibre of this Pope's being. He glanced pleasantly at the 
 tonsured deputation, and coughed behind his hand. 
 Finally, as a left-handed answer, he anointed Priest 
 Jocelyn bishop of the double see ; and also, apparently, 
 left him his choice about ruling the lands of the abbey. 
 
 The envoys returned from Rome. Jocelyn put on 
 his mitre and shortly met the monks of his quasi- 
 doinain in conference. He was cheery, jocund, and 
 conversationally inclined. They, it must be confessed, 
 were sulky. Jocelyn was a conventional man, and one 
 with a profound respect for tradition. He had the 
 highest admiration for his predecessors in office, as men 
 who had well completed their earthly tasks, and haply 
 put them by for better things. He considered very 
 carefully, in leisure hours, the plans and the policies of 
 Bishop Savaric. The more lie thought upon them the 
 more entirely did they meet with his approbation. He 
 was a careful man, was Jocelyn, and he took time thor 
 oughly to consider. Indeed, for several years, his im- 
 
348 (3ncanom?et) 
 
 mediate actions were desultory and unspirited. During 
 this time the revenues from abbey lands continued to 
 pour into the coffers of Wells, and the abbotless monks 
 went their usual round, waiting, with apprehensive drear 
 iness. At last the bishop made up his mind to some 
 thing. It was after the time of Interdict, after the year 
 of the excommunication of the King, and Jocelyn had 
 taken to spending most of his days in France, with 
 Langton and some other very poor company. Despite 
 the opinions that were continually expressed in his pres 
 ence, the temperate bishop felt a profoundly dutiful and 
 loyal pity for the actions of his misguided sovereign. 
 To this sovereign he had already paid several visits ; and 
 he was more than likely to pay yet another, in fact, 
 he determined upon one which was to be most impor 
 tant. This was in the beginning of the year 1211, 
 and was the greatest of secrets among two or three. 
 
 King John had never been known to find much 
 pleasure in the calls of his clergy. But the advent of 
 the little bishop, curiously enough, was usually hailed 
 with good cheer, even though Jocelyn might bring with 
 him a dozen matters which must be laid before the 
 council ere the evening feast might begin. In this last 
 visit, however, he had become slightly importunate. 
 The King, in company with four of his comrades, 
 solemnly listened to Jocelyn's demand that he be 
 made, outright, abbot of that tiresome abbey in 
 Somerset. Such an act might appear to be rather 
 left-handed, done as it would be by an excommuni 
 cated king; but Jocelyn appeared earnestly to desire 
 it; and doubtless he had his plans. King and coun 
 cillor together listened to the excellent reasoning and 
 the multifarious propositions of the alluring little man. 
 John was alone when he was quietly presented with 
 four fat sacks of persuasive gold. But the councillors 
 sat in a row and laughed when the King later recounted 
 the affair to them. 
 
jttemor? of ^>at>aric 349 
 
 Meantime the bishop, meditating a quick coup, left 
 Windsor in a great hurry, and hied him rapidly to 
 Glastonbury. Here he was admitted diplomatically, 
 and conducted to the prior's rooms without any word 
 of his arrival being spread in the monastery. But, once 
 within the prior's apartment, Jocelyn found himself not 
 much better off. Most unfortunately, just at this time 
 Harold was in a condition highly unfit for serious con 
 ference, having enjoyed, for the day, the close com 
 panionship of Benedict Vintner, and some of the goods 
 that were in his keeping. In short, the prior was very 
 drunk ; and, to crown the calamity, William Vigor had 
 just ridden off to collect rents at Pucklechurch, and 
 would not be back until the morrow. In the prior's 
 apartment Jocelyn and William Lorrimer, his guide, 
 held an agitated conference, interrupted by philosophic 
 but scarcely pertinent remarks on the part of Harold. 
 In the end the old lodge-keeper set out in quest of some 
 discreet person who might receive my Lord Bishop and 
 hear his words with propriety. Peering in at the chapel 
 door, for nones were in progress, the first person to 
 catch the old fellow's eye was Anthony. Noting a 
 quick sign from the keeper, the monk rose quietly, 
 and left the room almost unnoticed, since he had been 
 kneeling in the last row. 
 
 So it was Anthony who heard and replied to Jocelyn's 
 wiles, and it was through Anthony that the entire mat 
 ter was reported to the King. It was also Anthony who 
 privately recounted the interview afterward to Harold, 
 and relieved that jovial official mightily by not permit 
 ting the secret of his impotence to become known in 
 the abbey. Perhaps on this account Fitz-Hubert was 
 present at the private assembly of the chapter, when 
 certain non-committal letters were drawn up by William 
 Vigor, approved by the rest, and despatched to John. 
 And Anthony, hearing later at Bristol from De Burgh 
 the tale of the bags of gold, was not so surprised as 
 
35 
 
 either the bishop or the chapter when month after 
 month went by, and no answer, one way or the other, 
 came back from the throne. 
 
 Jocelyn, to tell the truth, was furious and puzzled. 
 He never afterwards learned in what way his plan had 
 miscarried. But, returning again to Rouen, he found 
 some satisfaction in re-entering the plots and confer 
 ences held by Stephen Langton and his friends against 
 the English King. His next move toward Lackland 
 was long delayed ; but the hope of the abbacy of Glas- 
 tonbury was too tantalizing forever to be abandoned. 
 
 Months passed, a new year came round, and drew out 
 uneventfully, until we approach the early summer of 
 1212, when, on a certain morning, the Glastonbury 
 Chapter was called together, to take counsel with re 
 gard to a defiant step. Tierce was omitted, high 
 mass split in half, and it wanted but a quarter to ten 
 in the morning when every man of the abbey, even to 
 the cooks, crowded into the circular chapter-house, 
 and prepared to breathe with difficulty for the next two 
 hours. 
 
 Prior Harold made a formal, opening address, in 
 Latin. No doubt it was a very worthy effort, since 
 Comyn and Vigor had written it together, Harold had 
 introduced a little religion, and Cusyngton had spiced 
 it well with ecclesiastical quotations. For all tkat there 
 was a perceptible movement of relief when it was over, 
 and the sub-prior brought the immediate matter of de 
 bate up before his audience, and, speaking in the Saxon 
 tongue, tried to make it clearly comprehensible to all. 
 Having to a certain extent gone over the familiar his 
 tory of the long since lackadaisical dispute with Jocelyn, 
 William Vigor concluded his speech with a setting forth 
 of the proposed act which should bring the story to 
 another long-delayed climax. Hence his words : 
 
 "Jocelyn of Bath, having followed the example of 
 many of his fellow-prelates, who, because of the Inter- 
 
of ^>aiaric 351 
 
 diet and the excommunication of the King, live the 
 least of their lives in England, spendeth now most of 
 his time at Rouen. Us he hath, for many months, 
 troubled but little. In the matter of our late dispute 
 with him, the King, most wisely, hesitates to decide 
 for either party. From this, methinks, we need fear 
 no opposing action on the part of John, in reference 
 to that thing which it is our intent now to do. Thus, 
 an we can keep the affair long enow hid from Jocelyn 
 to gain once again a foothold within our own county, 
 success might be assured. Then, when Interdict be 
 finally removed, as needs it must in time, and Jocelyn 
 again returns to Somerset to dwell, we will unmask 
 boldly, and without fear proclaim him abbot whom 
 to-day we shall elect for ourselves, and anoint as holy 
 in the sight of the Trinity. For this, brethren, is what 
 we are herewith met to do." 
 
 Applause, excited and long, followed this climax of 
 the speech. But the sub-prior was still upon his feet. 
 Expectation once more threw silence over the assem 
 blage, and the last few words were added. 
 
 " This proposition have I set before you, in the name 
 of the chapter of this abbey. But now we do request 
 that, if there be any here who doubteth or feareth the 
 wisdom of this act, he will at once stand forth and tell 
 us the wherefore of his misgiving, that we may hear and 
 judge the merit of his reasoning." 
 
 Amid a profound stillness William Vigor sat down. 
 His eyes passed rapidly over the company, to see if 
 there were any one who showed signs of wishing to 
 speak. After an instant of wavering, and, even then, 
 not sure of the entire wisdom of his move, Anthony 
 rose to his feet, bowed respectfully to the abbot's empty 
 chair, saluted Harold and the deacons, then stood up 
 right, scanning, for a little, silently, the faces of those 
 about him. They were for the most part dominated by 
 surprise, but not a few were also dark with displeasure. 
 
35 2 
 
 It was a great pity that Anthony's unpopularity was 
 so fixed. Though he had been an inmate of the 
 monastery for several years, he was still looked upon 
 askance and curiously, as a stranger not friendly to the 
 monastic life. Just now, had he stood much longer with 
 out speaking, with that irritating gaze that was half iron 
 ical, half pitying, seemingly fixed upon the face of each 
 man there, it was highly probable that his speaking at 
 all might have been forbidden. William Vigor, however, 
 the most acute and the most tolerant man in the abbey, 
 had, though he scarcely appeared to raise his eyes, in 
 one short second seen enough to make him risk in 
 curring the displeasure of Harold by saying sharply : 
 
 " Speak on, then, Anthony, if thou hast aught to 
 say ! " 
 
 " Mayhap, brethren, ye are all aware that ofttimes in 
 the city of Bristol, upon my monthly visits there, I 
 hold converse on behalf of King John with my Lord 
 Hubert de Burgh, who hath been my life-long and 
 faithful friend." Again Anthony hesitated, for he real 
 ized what deep waters were about him. However, 
 having- taken the first step, he knew that he must go 
 on. " As ye all do also know, the King hath found 
 much trouble and many enemies in the Church. 
 Among these Jocelyn of Bath is, with him, as dan 
 gerous and as double-handed as he hath been to us. 
 John goeth never upon what he alone sees of that prel 
 ate, for his words, his smiles, and his gold are not twice 
 for the same thing. Therefore he hath been watched. 
 Now, I tell you openly as one of you, a friend, that when 
 I came hither from Canterbury Hubert de Burgh bade 
 me perceive all that I could of the bishop's dealings with 
 Glastonbury. Only once have I had speech with him 
 here, and that was but by chance. All that he said in 
 that conference reached the King through De Burgh, and 
 it was only for that reason that John refused outright to 
 create Jocelyn abbot of this monastery. For the nonce 
 
|ttemot^ of ^abanc 353 
 
 he lieth still. But, once having been defeated by us in 
 contest, he will, an he possesses the spirit of his prede 
 cessor Savaric, rise speedily once more to the struggle. 
 At any instant the bishop may return to England, visit 
 the King, and be upon us here with some intent that 
 we may not guess. Therefore, brethren, knowing what 
 I do, I have seen best to set it forth to you, to warn 
 you that all is less quiet than you think. Elect an abbot 
 now, an ye like. I will say no more." 
 
 This speech did Anthony no good, though it had 
 been attentively listened to. He himself, before he 
 had been upon his feet a moment, realized the fact 
 that all his tact could not save him from suspicion, on 
 account of the admission which he had been forced to 
 make. Consequently he had said nothing at all to the 
 point, and had left the matter in such a way that curi 
 osity was only the more rife. No sooner was he seated 
 than there began the expected round of stares and 
 whispers, some of which came to Fitz-Hubert's ears. 
 
 " Think you he might repeat our action?" 
 
 " Assuredly." 
 
 " Nay, nay. Be not hasty. I am none so sure." 
 
 " T would be rash, now." 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 And finally, with the last of these, Anthony was on 
 his feet again to make reply. " Nay, brethren, hark ye ! 
 'T is my duty to learn whate'er I may of the Bishop of 
 Bath. My Lord Abbot of Glastonbury being no con 
 cern of mine, I shall say naught of him to any. Be ye 
 there at rest. I have but warned you, lest ye be dis 
 covered. Perchance he, as well as the King, hath spies. 
 Who can know? Be careful. That is all that I would 
 say. Elect him abbot whom ye will." 
 
 The whispers stopped. However much Anthony 
 might be disliked among the monks, it was neverthe 
 less an unaccountable fact that any simple, unsup 
 ported statement of his was ordinarily accepted as true. 
 
 2 3 
 
354 2!ncanoni?ct) 
 
 Perhaps it was his perfectly self-possessed and ear 
 nest manner of speaking. Here the brethren certainly 
 showed some intuition, however; for never, to them or 
 any other, did Fitz-Hubert think of sinking to false 
 hood. That was a part of his character that had been 
 omitted. 
 
 At length, after some debate, this rash little body 
 elected William Vigor for their abbot. The choice, at 
 least, was good. But still Anthony slightly shook his 
 head, as the entire party, in high excitement, followed 
 their new lord into the great church for the final 
 ceremony. 
 
 When it was all over and Abbot William had ordered 
 that dinner be served, while the monks hurried to the 
 lavatories, that they might chatter for a moment at their 
 ease, Vigor, seeing Anthony alone at the end of the 
 procession, grasped his arm in friendly fashion, and 
 drew him one side. 
 
 " Thou earnest near to hindering my election, this 
 morn, Anthony," he said, looking with searching kind 
 ness into the other's face. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord Abbot; so I tried to do." 
 
 William laughed, then, in a moment, turned grave 
 again. " But methinks that it was thou again who, at 
 the last, turned the scale away from Cusyngton in my 
 favor." 
 
 " That, also, I tried to do." 
 
 " Then what think you of the abbot? " 
 
 " That that man who was most fitted for the post of 
 any in the abbey hath been elected." 
 
 " Gratias. Still, you approve not the election ? " 
 
 " Gravely do I fear its consequences." 
 
 " Then, Anthony, should the crisis come, may I hold 
 thee as my friend ? For, more than that of any other 
 man i' the abbey do I respect thy intellect." 
 
 They stood face to face, before the entrance to the 
 great hall. Their eyes had met. Anthony's hand 
 
of ^abarfc 355 
 
 went quickly out, and was as instantly grasped in the 
 warm pressure of William's. So was their conversation 
 finished. 
 
 In another part of the abbey, three men stood 
 close together; and upon their lips was, also, the 
 name of Anthony. They were David Franklin, Joseph 
 Antwilder, and John Cusyngton, who was furious with 
 disappointed hope. The three were prepared for the 
 noon meal, and stood huddled in one corner of the 
 smaller lavatory. Antwilder was speaking. 
 
 " None the less, David, I apprehend that the watch 
 ing of Jocelyn and his talks with De Burgh are the 
 ' work ' of Anthony that thou hast so often prated of." 
 
 " And would my Lord de Burgh and Anthony Fitz- 
 Hubert need all the Falcon to themselves, on the 
 nights when they held converse together? Would the 
 entire inn be closed because of them? Nay, Joseph. 
 By the body of Christ I swear that 't is not so ! " 
 
 " Then," cried out Cusyngton, " if there indeed be 
 aught of sin that goeth on i' that hostel on those nights, 
 I also swear by thine oath, Franklin, that Master Fitz- 
 Hubert shall dearly pay for that which he is doing! 
 Mark me : I yet will be abbot of this abbey, an there 
 be none greater than William Vigor to contend with 
 me. And then and then we shall behold. We 
 shall behold ! " 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 JOCELYN OF BATH 
 
 ONCE again, after the lapse of twenty-one years, 
 an abbot ruled over Glastonbury Abbey. It 
 was a novelty now to be called on all occa 
 sions to the lordly chambers of the real ruler, instead 
 of the little suite belonging to the jovial, impotent old 
 prior ; to salute an actual person instead of a chair, 
 in the refectory and the chapter ; to be governed 
 again by the will of one whom all could respect. It 
 was as though a gust of purer air were continuously 
 blowing through the monastery. Duties that had 
 hitherto been dismally dragged through were now 
 zealously performed ; disobedience in any department 
 of work became rare ; there was but little drunken 
 ness at present in the abbey; and, newest thing of 
 all, William Vigor, their master, was constantly among 
 them. 
 
 This man, who was neither old nor young, neither 
 particularly homely nor strikingly handsome, neither 
 tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, who had gray eyes 
 and an honest mouth, having been all his life a monk of 
 Glastonbury, and for fifteen years its sub-prior, had 
 not, since the death of his dearest friend, William Pike, 
 spent three consecutive months within the abbey. He 
 had lived independently, and gone his own gait about 
 the county, over the abbey lands, dependencies and 
 Tittle monasteries, where he was received as a guest 
 of importance. Notwithstanding this, his life had been 
 one of strict asceticism, and his life-struggle one against 
 
3loceli?n of OBat^ 357 
 
 ambition, which, however, at the last seemed to have 
 overcome him after all. Savaric he had hated violently. 
 Jocelyn, whom he did not know, he despised. During 
 the whole month previous to his election to the abbacy, 
 he had been preparing the brethren for that thing. Up 
 to the morning of the election, when Anthony first 
 spoke against it, and then, at a point not foreseen by 
 Vigor, where Cusyngton had come so near to taking the 
 office from the sub-prior, quickly turned the scale back 
 again into his favor, William had never noticed particu 
 larly the silent, pallid-faced fellow who lived so alone 
 among them all. But, by a trait of contrariness in his 
 nature, before that first opposing speech was finished, 
 the prospective abbot had taken a sudden fancy to the 
 man whose life held so much more than he had guessed. 
 The conclusion of the matter, that short conversation 
 after the election, sealed a firm if unostentatious friend 
 ship between two whose natural tastes were much alike, 
 and whose developed natures were utterly dissimilar. 
 
 The summer of 1212 was employed in the rejuvenation 
 of Glastonbury. To the farthest acre of its dominion 
 the influence of the new abbot was felt. Every secular 
 laborer for miles around had been told the "secret " of 
 the new rule. Had this not been done purposely it 
 would still have happened. A woman can keep a secret 
 better than a monk. The farmerer, when he rode, 
 whispered it proudly abroad ; the almoners gave it 
 away like bread to the poor who still came to their 
 door ; and William Lorrimer had told it eagerly to each 
 uninterested stranger who drew rein at the gate. Oh, 
 a most carefully concealed thing, this election at Glas 
 tonbury ! The very birds throughout Somerset sang 
 of it ; and it was doubtless they who, when they went 
 south again, told the tale to the King, who was visiting at 
 Carisbrooke. For certain it was that, though Anthony 
 had said not a word on the subject to Hubert de Burgh, 
 John knew perfectly well all about the matter. To be 
 
35 8 (Hucanoni?eD 
 
 sure, the knowledge did no one harm ; for all he did 
 was to laugh over it most heartily, in thinking of the 
 expression upon Jocelyn's face, when, returning with 
 new bribes from Rome, he should learn that his coveted 
 post was filled. 
 
 To the King, haply, was given the eminent pleasure 
 of being the one to call that expression forth ; for, in 
 the pleasant month of September, while John was enjoy 
 ing himself greatly at the hunt, in the wilds of the little 
 island whither he had retreated for rest, Jocelyn, tired 
 again of the priestly broils in old Rouen, once more 
 came from over seas to interest that most un-Christian 
 lord concerning the affair that lay always next his 
 heart. 
 
 It was a fair and lovely morning when the prelate's 
 white-winged ship landed him once more at the little 
 village now called Cowes. Here horses belonging to 
 the royal party were forcibly borrowed from the peas 
 ants who held them in charge, and Jocelyn, with his 
 attendant priests, set off through the winding forest 
 road, and out over pastures and harvest-fields, toward 
 the castle whose history was yet all to come. Caris- 
 brooke itself belonged to the Norman family of Fitz- 
 Osborne, good partisans of the excommunicated King, 
 whom they were most proud to have as guest. And 
 dearly did John love to avail himself of their hospitable 
 invitation, for Wight was a dreamy, peaceful islet, 
 where one might remain for a year, untroubled by any 
 news of the doings of the outer world, if he would. 
 Indeed, though the King had now lived there a full 
 three months, Jocelyn was but the sixth or seventh 
 visitor who had, in all that time, come to disturb his 
 contentment. 
 
 At a little distance from Carisbrooke there was a small 
 priory of Cistercian monks. Here the worthy bishop, 
 being no guest of Henry Fitz-Osborne and not averse to 
 standing upon his dignity with the King, when that 
 
31ocel?n of I3atlj 359 
 
 dignity could be comfortably housed and reverently 
 tended the while, purposed lodging. Having landed 
 at about ten o'clock in the morning, Jocelyn reached 
 the priory at somewhere near noon. Here, when his 
 state and title were made known, the simple monks, 
 who had entertained none too many bishops in their 
 isolated abode, received him with great joy and much 
 ceremony and confusion. He was given the prior's own 
 rooms for habitation, since there was no guest-chamber 
 good enough for a visitor so lofty. The prior himself 
 turned, for the time being, into a common cell, amply 
 repaid for the discomfort by the bishop's conversation, 
 and his near presence at meals and services, which, 
 from lauds to sext, Jocelyn attended daily with great 
 propriety. 
 
 Immediately upon his arrival the bishop despatched 
 his two priests to the castle, to wait upon the King, and 
 request an audience with him. John, together with his 
 train and Lord Fitz-Osborne, was away at the hunt, and 
 would scarce be back ere dark, when the bishop might 
 send his messengers again. Such was the high-handed 
 answer returned to the bishop by the first gentleman of 
 the bedchamber, De Laci. Jocelyn inwardly simmered 
 with rage. However, he consented to conduct vespers 
 in person, that afternoon ; thereby eliciting great fer 
 vency in prayer from the white-robed, white-faced 
 brethren. At dusk the bishop's men once more wended 
 their way to Carisbrooke, whence, after a little delay, 
 they returned, with the word that John would see the 
 bishop at half-past eight on the following morning; 
 and, in repeating the intelligence, the messengers wisely 
 refrained from mentioning the extreme impatience with 
 which John had granted the audience. So Jocelyn, in 
 very good spirits, partook of the excellent refection 
 provided for him and, after entertaining his host and 
 the monks with one or two not altogether sacred stories, 
 retired to rest with hopes set high on the result of his 
 
360 
 
 intended plea, and the little present that he wished to 
 deliver to his liege upon the morrow v 
 
 Half-past eight in the morning was quite a customary 
 hour for a royal audience. The King ordinarily broke 
 fast at six, though on hunting days it was considerably 
 earlier, and, having finished the meal, had an hour for 
 the council-chamber or his private matters ere receiv 
 ing those who came with various intent to seek his 
 favor. Here at Carisbrooke there had ordinarily been 
 nothing for him to do but, conscience free, enjoy the 
 pleasure of the day. That the present arrival of Jocelyn 
 annoyed him greatly, because it lost him his morning's 
 ride, everybody about the castle knew. The King's 
 voice had not been lifted over the matter, but the 
 King's brow was something that might be profitably 
 studied. 
 
 Just as the shadow on the dial lay at half to IX., the 
 bugles at the portcullis sounded and the great draw 
 bridge thundered down over the moat. John, who had 
 been reading in his oratory, heard the noise. Laying 
 down his copy of the " De Consolatione," he betook him 
 self hastily to his temporary audience-chamber. As he 
 entered, six gentlemen, his advisers, rose solemnly and 
 bowed in a row. John stuck out his lips and lowered 
 his brows. 
 
 "Indeed, my lords! Did I, in some moment of 
 aberration, bid ye wait upon me here this morn?" 
 
 All the councillors shifted uneasily from one foot 
 to the other. Then William, the Earl Marshal, said : 
 " Pardon, sire, w-w-we had thought it your wish 
 that" 
 
 " T is my wish, gentlemen, that ye attend me and 
 this tiresome prelate not at all. I would take the 
 burden of his company most generously all upon my 
 own shoulders. Therefore get ye gone to your various 
 pastimes, and De Neville look to it that Bucephalus 
 be ready for me at noon." 
 
of "Bat^ 3 6t 
 
 Seeing that the royal humor was not unapproachable, 
 the courtiers made their obeisances successfully, ventured 
 to smile a little at John's words, and then, not ill-pleased 
 at the release, retired in a group from the apartment. 
 William of Salisbury, however, lingered a little with 
 his brother; an elusive smile playing over his fair 
 face. 
 
 " Give thee joy of this morning's sport, John ! " he 
 said. 
 
 " Methinks the treasury will lose somewhat upon it, 
 Will; but the sight of his face, when he heareth my 
 news, will be worth the price of all his well-stuffed 
 bags. Till dinner, cousin." 
 
 The Earl departed, still smiling, and his brother 
 strolled idly toward the extemporized but richly cano 
 pied throne. His back was toward the door, one foot 
 upon the chair of State, the other toe resting lightly on 
 the uncarpeted dais, and he was whistling with good 
 will, when the door was thrown open by two lackeys and 
 the chamberlain appeared, just as John seated himself 
 and once more took up his royal manner. 
 
 " My Lord Jocelyn, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Knight 
 of the Chalice, and of the Order of the Saint Esprit," 
 came the pompous announcement. There was a sweep 
 ing of silken skirts in the corridor and Jocelyn, in full 
 canonicals, was bowing voluminously on the threshold. 
 
 " Enter, enter, my lord. Henry, close the doors, 
 and see that none disturbs us during the audience," 
 commanded the King. Then, as the bishop came im 
 portantly down the room, John's eyes wandered over 
 his violet robes and travelled along the bars of sunlight 
 that mottled the floor up to the high, glassless windows, 
 out of which he could see nothing but turquoise sky. 
 The annoyance of a hunt postponed came back to his 
 mind, and did not leave it immediately; though he 
 turned a most complacent countenance toward the 
 bishop, while that personage poured out the customary 
 
362 
 
 gratitude for the honor of an audience, and then rose 
 from his knee, expecting to be asked to sit. This, how 
 ever, though he was ordinarily courteous and easy about 
 etiquette, the King did not do. To his embarrassment 
 and his disadvantage too, Jocelyn was obliged to face 
 the prospect of a long conversation to be conducted 
 with great bodily discomfort to himself, and perfect 
 ease on the part of his opponent. 
 
 " Now, my lord, we having greeted your advent with 
 good pleasure, tell us, we pray you, how you came to 
 return to our kingdom, and how your conscience rec 
 onciles so close an approach to one under the ban of 
 Heaven." 
 
 The King was apparently determined to be dis 
 agreeable to his visitor; for John, like the rest of the 
 world, knew that Jocelyn's talent at inventing a neatly 
 turned compliment was far less than his will in that 
 direction. 
 
 " Loyalty, my liege ; loyalty and love of country 
 must answer thy questions," responded the bishop, 
 warily. 
 
 " Truly, thy heart is tenderer than I had guessed," 
 returned John. "And this interview? Was it long 
 ing for the mere vision of me that led thee 
 hither?" 
 
 " Per perchance somewhat that," returned the 
 bishop, unsmilingly. " But even more an old affair 
 concerning which I am almost loath to trouble you 
 again." 
 
 "Ah! Our memory fails us, here," said the King, 
 politely. " We pray you to recall the case to us." 
 
 Jocelyn grew uneasy, and began devoutly to wish 
 that he was not undergoing the extreme honor of a 
 solitary interview with the royal master. He longed 
 for the sight of some more readable face than that 
 before him ; for with all his suave courtesy, it was not 
 difficult to see that the King was in his most peculiar 
 
of I3at^ 363 
 
 mood. But being where he was, the poor bishop knew 
 that he must go on. 
 
 " Mine errand concerns the Abbey of Glastonbury, 
 that which lieth in the east of Somersetshire, my Lord 
 King." 
 
 " Oh ! Glastonbury ! 'T is not long since we heard 
 the name, an we remember correctly." 
 
 Jocelyn looked closely into the bland vacancy of the 
 King's countenance. " I would speak with thee yet 
 once again concerning its abbacy," he said quickly. 
 
 " Proceed." 
 
 " Sith I have, ere this, spoke on the same matter 
 before your Grace, I would not weary you with over 
 much speech to-day." Here Jocelyn paused. John's 
 face said no more than his lips. His continued impas- 
 siveness was more disconcerting than anything else 
 would have been. Happily Jocelyn remembered that 
 elaborateness in pleading had failed once before; and, 
 possibly, despite his silence, brevity might please the 
 King. 
 
 " The favor which I have come hither to beg," con 
 tinued the bishop, " is that you, the lord of England, 
 should place me in the chair of the abbot of Glastonbury, 
 and thereby forever firmly unite the lands and revenues 
 of that monastery to those of the already joined sees 
 of Bath and Wells. The benefits that would assuredly 
 accrue from this action to the county, to England, and 
 to Glastonbury itself, I will readily set forth, with your 
 gracious permission." 
 
 " That were scarce necessary, my lord," deigned the 
 King, moving a little in his chair. " We thank thee for 
 having with such clearness stated thy wishes; for we 
 do, indeed, recollect this matter to be an old one. But 
 assuredly thou must perceive how much more difficult 
 the affair hath now become, considering thy new 
 opponent." 
 
 " New opponent? I understand thee not." 
 
364 
 
 The King smiled. " I meant thy rival, the present 
 abbot." 
 
 Jocelyn turned white to the lips. " Abbot ! Abbot ! 
 M mean you not Harold, the prior? " 
 
 " What ! Can it indeed be true that you have not 
 heard the latest act of those worthy brethren? Me- 
 thinks 't were well an you were rather more attentive to 
 England's concerns than you now are, if that were pos 
 sible," returned the royal auditor. 
 
 Prithee, my liege, inform me," whispered the 
 bishop hoarsely; for Jocelyn had a habit, uncomfort 
 able to himself, of taking his own affairs very seriously. 
 
 " Why, 't is merely this, good friend : rumor in 
 the right comely shape of De Briwere of Bridgewater, in 
 Somerset hath it that the good monks of Glastonbury 
 Abbey, being long since troubled at soul with the merry 
 government of their excellent prior, have at last taken 
 unto themselves an abbot to enforce their prayers. One 
 William Vigor, an I mistake me not, a worthy fellow 
 and right well named, is abbot now. And verily I 
 cannot in conscience say that I do greatly blame the 
 brethren. A country without a king, a see without a 
 bishop, an abbey without its abbot all of these are 
 bad. But, to carry the matter just a trifle further, and 
 dream of Christendom without a pope, what is thine 
 own idea of paradise, Jocelyn?" 
 
 On the bishop this last bit of royal melancholy was 
 lost. He stood quite still, staring at the King, his face 
 white, his hands shaking, mouthing with confusion and 
 anger, and caring not at all that the King watched him 
 with a covert smile. 
 
 " There be no lawful abbot of Glastonbury ! " he 
 bellowed at last, losing courtly control of himself. 
 " So hath Innocent of Rome decreed, and so shall those 
 damnable monks discover to their cost ! Impudent ! 
 Disgraceful ! Blasphemous ! " 
 
 " Enough, Jocelyn. Whet thy wrath on some other 
 
9!ocelttt of I3at^ 365 
 
 rock than that of the ancient abbey. In mine eyes those 
 monks have done right bravely and well." 
 
 Struck with a quick memory the bishop looked up, 
 and his manner changed. He was again become the 
 diplomat. " It grieves me that thine eyes should be 
 thus blinded, sire. An thy views should change 'twould 
 be to the advantage of England. Thou knowest well 
 how powerful were thine aid in this matter." These 
 words were accompanied by a glance which John 
 should by this time have known well enough to answer. 
 Instead, he continued to gaze in stolid calm upon the 
 dark little visage before him. 
 
 " It seems that thou dost forget our present impotence 
 in affairs of the spirit." 
 
 "Nay; there is no question of that, I do repeat. 
 The monks, if tho'u wilt remember, have long since given 
 their writ to trust to thee in all matters concerning their 
 ruling, and declared that thou, being nearer at hand 
 than the Pope, shouldst arbitrate 'twixt them and me." 
 
 u Ay; that was before mine excommunication. But, 
 even were it not so, wherefore should I now depose a 
 most excellent and popular abbot to give that chair to 
 you, who, that you might use it, would needs have it 
 transported to Rouen?" 
 
 " That reason might I make most plain to the master 
 of the privy purse," ventured Jocelyn, cocking his head 
 a little on one side. 
 
 " Behold him in us," rejoined the King, politely. 
 
 " I had, then, dared to hope that a gift of a 
 certain collection of golden disks carved with a quaint 
 and well-skilled design might not be unacceptable to the 
 King our master," hazarded the bishop, with great 
 delicacy. 
 
 The King stared straight before him for a moment, 
 with a change spreading over his features. The 
 memory that there had been a time when he had shown 
 himself not averse to such underhandedness did not 
 
366 aincanoni?et> 
 
 lessen his present disgust. Suddenly he rose to his 
 feet, and with that rising Jocelyn saw that his hope was 
 dead. 
 
 " My Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells, you have 
 come hither with intent to bribe me, your King, to do a 
 dishonorable deed ; to continue a persecution begun 
 long ago, unworthily, by my brother Richard Rex, and 
 your predecessor, Savaric of Austria, upon a company 
 of simple and harmless monks. You and I, together 
 with the valued assistance of his Holiness, have, hitherto, 
 carried on the business right gallantly. But now hark 
 you, Jocelyn, the matter hath to my thinking gone far 
 enow. 'T is for the last time that you will bribe me to 
 do them injury. No longer will I listen to your whisper 
 ings. Get hence how you will, and as soon as you may. 
 I wish well to those whom you do hate. To the Pope 
 of Rome, who stops not at the poisoning of envoys newly 
 sent to him in faith, you had best apply for aid in your 
 intent ; but with me, John of England and Normandy, 
 you will deal no more." 
 
 With the last word of this impetuous and unwise 
 speech John fell back again upon his chair, scarcely 
 looking at the confounded man before him. In the 
 customary manner Jocelyn retreated from the royal 
 presence; and it was well that his courtier's training 
 had become habitual, for he never knew how he left the 
 audience-room that morning. One short half-hour later 
 he was back again in the priory; and John the out 
 spoken, now a little pensive in memory of his sharp 
 words, was coursing down the shadowy forest aisles, 
 with Salisbury and Fitz-Osborne on either side of him, 
 and the pack in full cry before. 
 
 Another hour passed, and the Bishop of Bath was 
 no longer furious ; he was beside himself with rage, 
 first against the King, secondly against the monks who 
 had dared defy his personality. His fit of passion was 
 truly royal. Indeed, at this time, it was a curious fact 
 
of 'Bat^ 367 
 
 that because of the savage spasms of temper to which 
 all the Norman race, and John particularly, were occa 
 sionally subject, unrestrained rage had become quite 
 the fashion among people wealthy enough in furniture 
 to afford it. Therefore, to see my Lord Bishop flat 
 upon the stone floor of his cell, kicking crazily at tables 
 and stools, shrieking out oaths till his voice was gone, 
 and pounding the wall with his palms till they were 
 bruised and bloody, was a thing not quite so incompre 
 hensible as it would seem to-day. It was a more serious 
 matter, however, to calm down again. The Normans, 
 having an advantage in originality, possessed the power 
 to bring themselves up to sanity with a jerk, when 
 their wrath was expended. This being impossible to 
 temperaments of less sturdy nerves, quiet and mental 
 health could only be induced again by draughts, potions, 
 and artificially induced slumber. Thus it was almost 
 evening before Jocelyn was able dispassionately to re 
 gard the possible result of the news. By the time that 
 collation was prepared, however, he felt himself ready 
 to eat, and descended to the refectory with countenance 
 benign and a gentle laughter ready to come forth at 
 suitable moments. To the astonishment, and perhaps 
 not wholly to the pleasure of the self-sacrificing prior, 
 my lord had the graciousness to say that he would 
 deign to honor their humble abode by an unexpected 
 stay of three weeks or a month longer. For this conde 
 scension the prior, heroic in courtesy, returned suitable 
 thanks ; and afterwards, in calculating the extra expen 
 diture necessary for the maintenance of the visitors, he 
 discovered that the two priests who accompanied their 
 noble guest on his arrival, had mysteriously left the 
 priory. 
 
 Upon the very day of the audience, while at rest in 
 the forest at noon, the King told the story of the 
 bishop's discomfiture and his own amusement to the 
 little company of intimates who surrounded him. He 
 
368 
 
 had no knowledge of what Jocelyn would do first after 
 reaching solitude, but was so nearly certain that his im 
 mediate impulse would be to set off for Glastonbury, 
 that he added that probability as a sequel to the little 
 tale. To his astonishment, however, the bishop stayed 
 where he was, apparently doing nothing more unusual 
 than shriving his soul in quiet and resting upon his 
 already well-filled record of tilts with the old abbey, 
 by remaining in isolation at the tiny priory of Caris- 
 brooke, where no jot or tittle of news from the outer 
 world would be likely to reach his ears. 
 
 In point of fact, Jocelyn was waiting for documents 
 from Rome, whither he had despatched his priests. 
 There were not a few awkward and disagreeable things 
 about having no recognized Archbishop of Canterbury 
 in England ; and the worst of these was that every 
 matter of clerical dispute must now be settled by the 
 Pope himself. The position for his Holiness was by 
 no means the simplest in the world ; but so thoroughly 
 did Innocent love work this kind of work that he 
 certainly showed small sign of interest or haste in get 
 ting Stephen Langton into the place that a man of 
 force would long since have won for himself. For con 
 sider carefully the fact that, in all these years of their 
 dispute, Langton had never once attempted to see the 
 King of England for himself, or made any effort to 
 prove to the world that Innocent Third and Philip of 
 France were not his eyes, his ears, and his tongue. 
 Poor figure-head ! What aimless barks have sometimes 
 gone floating on for centuries down the stream of 
 history ! 
 
 But Jocelyn, though taught in the same school, was 
 not a Langton. He took pains enough, at least, over 
 his affairs. Just one month did he spend at Carisbrooke 
 priory, and a duller one he had never known. He kept 
 every Cistercian hour; he conducted mass; he fasted 
 o' Fridays ; and he was carefully absolved of the sin of 
 
3Ioceli?tt of OBat^ 369 
 
 having dared hold communication with one under the 
 ban of Heaven, King though that man was. Altogether 
 the month refreshed and fortified him for the approach 
 ing conflict. During that time he saw the King but 
 twice, and always at a distance. Each time had the 
 bishop frowned to think of the history of four fat bags 
 of yellow metal that had been destined for a royal 
 treasury, but now were gone to swell the magnificent 
 coffers of the Roman Vatican. 
 
 The priests returned from the long journey on the 
 eighth of October, bearing with them tattered gar 
 ments, certain parchments valuably sealed and signed, 
 and some excellent news. His Holiness had ceased 
 long enough from his plans for the betterment of the 
 universe to gaze with unprejudiced eyes upon the four 
 bags, and then to listen with pleasantly prejudiced ears 
 to the tale of the glaring fault of which the monks 
 of Glastonbury were guilty. When he learned of Joce- 
 lyn's cautiously expressed wishes, he had the goodness 
 to look very complacent. He spoke a great deal to the 
 two priests in Latin phrases so learnedly polished that 
 the poor fellows did not understand many of them. 
 Their gold had been accepted ; his Holiness had smiled, 
 as was his wont; and they had departed with those 
 papers which undoubtedly contained everything that 
 could be desired for the abasement of the monks and 
 the aggrandizement of Jocelyn's fortune. 
 
 Eagerly did the bishop open his precious parchments. 
 The first one satisfactorily reduced William Vigor once 
 more to common monkhood. The second rebuked the 
 brotherhood in words as stern as they could be made, 
 and forbade the election of any further abbot without 
 the previously obtained consent of the Pope. Here 
 Jocelyn laughed aloud, and quickly took up the third. 
 Doubtless here his power was unmistakably increased, 
 and set forth. The third paper greeted the Bishop of 
 Bath, extended to him thanks for his speedy action, 
 
 24 
 
37 
 
 and specified penances which should absolve the monks 
 from the consequences of their sin. That was all. Ye 
 saints ! No abbacy nor any hint of it for Jocelyn ! 
 It was utterly incredible. The returned priests were 
 called, questioned, and furiously upbraided. Notwith 
 standing this, they had nothing further to tell. As the 
 documents showed, they had put forth the pleas as 
 ordered; they had received the most courteous of 
 replies ; they had taken all the papers given them, left the 
 gold, and returned as speedily as ship could carry them 
 to their master. There was nothing more to be said. 
 Jocelyn spared himself another attack of temper, gave 
 the priory his blessing, and, in company with his priests, 
 turned his face to the north and set off, over land and 
 Channel, toward Glastonbury. In Jocelyn's pouch were 
 the papal letters, and in his heart was the fire of a firm 
 resolve. So, upon the third day, the three of them 
 entered the vale of Avalon. 
 
 This was upon the eleventh of October, a Friday, and 
 a fast-day at the abbey. William Vigor, having re 
 turned that morning from one of his country-seats, and 
 being somewhat weary, had hastily conducted sext, 
 hurried through dinner, and then retired to his apart 
 ments. Here, also, lamentable to relate, Prior Harold 
 and Joseph Antwilder, coming to discuss with the abbot 
 some necessary improvements for the Longland farm, 
 aided their eloquence with the contents of some finely 
 cobwebbed bottles, discreetly carried to them by Vint 
 ner himself. Before recreation was half over Harold 
 had become foolish and Antwilder was volubly quar 
 relsome. Though William Vigor's brain was stronger, 
 he, in another half-hour, was not himself. Himself 
 could realize that. His mind was misty ; and memories 
 of common things would start suddenly into it and 
 shock him by their wanton appearance out of space. 
 But he could still speak with something of his usually 
 clear accent, and, with a little care, his sentences were 
 
3!oceliw of I3at^ 371 
 
 parsible. Though he would not have tried to walk 
 overmuch, he could stand perfectly, and a few steps 
 did not annoy him. 
 
 There were some good stories told and a toast or 
 two drunk in the abbot's room. Two of the party 
 tried singing, but William quickly put a stop to that. 
 He did not choose that the brethren should have their 
 recreation hours disturbed, he said. But recreation 
 was somewhat more than half over now. The mon 
 astery was quieter than it should have been on an 
 October day, when blood runs like wine in the veins 
 and men's voices ring clear. It was still enough so that 
 hurried steps along the stone pavements came dis 
 tinctly to the abbot's ear and he was expectant, when 
 William Lorrimer, without even a knock of courtesy, 
 hurried into the room. 
 
 " My Lord Abbot ! My Lord Abbot ! " gasped the 
 old man, looking about the disordered place in utter 
 dismay. 
 
 " S speak, William ! What would you? This is a 
 right bold intrusion." 
 
 " Oh, pardon, pardon, Lord Abbot, but the Bishop of 
 Bath is at the gate ! He would see thee, he saith ; and, 
 sith he asked for my Lord Abbot, it would seem that he 
 must indeed know the secret of the election, and " 
 
 " Peace, William ; peace," came a clear voice from 
 behind the lodge-keeper. " Come, get the prior and 
 Master Antwilder away from the room at once, while I 
 Nay; it were better that my Lord Abbot should 
 receive the bishop in his bedchamber, perchance. This 
 place is too disorderly to be straightened in a moment." 
 So spake Anthony, who, either by a miracle of fortune, 
 or more likely by his own good sense, happened to be 
 upon the spot at the moment when he was most needed. 
 Under his direction, an interval of only three minutes 
 elapsed before Harold and Joseph had started on their 
 uncertain way back to the prior's rooms, William Vigor 
 
37 2 2Jncanoni?e& 
 
 was seated in his bedchamber, ready to receive the 
 guests, and Lorrimer was despatched to fetch them, with 
 all courtesy, into the abbot's presence. 
 
 Vigor knew very well that the impending interview 
 was to be a crisis in the history of the monastery ; and 
 he also realized dimly how totally unfit he was to con 
 duct his side of it unaided. He stared for a moment or 
 two at Anthony, who had started to leave him, then 
 said, as imperiously as he was able : 
 
 " Stay thou here with me, Fitz-Hubert. Let naught 
 drive thee from my side. I tell thee that thou art 
 Glast-t-onbury's hope to-day." 
 
 Anthony nodded, but did not speak. He knew the 
 abbot's exact condition, for there were few monks in the 
 abbey that did not, that afternoon ; and he was aware 
 that some one should be by his side for the next half- 
 hour. But he did not relish the idea of being himself 
 the one to bear the brunt of Jocelyn's wrath, and, at 
 the same time, have to conceal as best he could the im 
 potence of him whose place it was to conduct the 
 entire matter. However, for the honor of the abbey 
 which he despised, for the mission of the King to which 
 he was indifferent, and thirdly, and more than all, for 
 the sake of the friendship which William Vigor had 
 once offered him, he determined to stay; and stay 
 he did. 
 
 Presently voices and the sweeping of garments be 
 trayed the approach of the visitors. Anthony was 
 already standing. William Vigor rose, carefully, and 
 advanced toward the door, which he had not reached 
 when Jocelyn stood before them. Anthony searched the 
 bishop's face. It was as impassive as a strong will could 
 make it. Indeed, that very impassivity gave the monk 
 a clue as to the state of mind of William's opponent. 
 There was evidently to be a fierce fence of words be 
 tween them. Now solemn greetings took place, studied 
 courtesy on the part of Jocelyn, nervous stiffness on the 
 
9Ioceltn of isatlj 373 
 
 part of Vigor, who dreaded, even more than the loss of 
 his abbacy, the discovery of his condition by the bishop. 
 
 " In the name of the brethren of Glastonbury, my 
 lord, I bid you welcome here." 
 
 " In mine own name I thank you for that welcome." 
 
 " Dominus vobiscum." 
 
 " Gratias. Pax vobiscum." 
 
 " Be seated, my lord. Refreshment shall be brought 
 at your command." 
 
 " Nay; I eat not between dinner and collation. We 
 must needs converse now ; for, in truth, there are like to 
 be grave things said. My two attendants, however, will 
 await me in some part of the monastery. Perchance thy 
 lay-brother here will show them to the day-room." 
 
 " An it please you, some other, better qualified for 
 their entertainment, shall do that," returned William, 
 hastily touching a gong. Presently the two priests, 
 still standing awkwardly in the doorway, were ushered 
 away by young John Waterleighe, who was fortunate 
 enough to have been first to answer the gong, and 
 so obtain a coveted glimpse of the bete noire of the 
 abbey. 
 
 The priests gone, Anthony crossed quietly to the 
 door, and closed it. Then, returning, he passed to the 
 farther side of the room, and stood at the fireplace, where 
 his own figure was in shadow, while he could see every 
 change of expression on the face of the bishop, who sat 
 at a table, across from the abbot. Jocelyn laid aside his 
 hat and began slowly to draw off his embroidered 
 gauntlets. 
 
 " It were better, William Vigor," he said, " that we 
 discussed certain matters in private." 
 
 William hesitated for just the shade of an instant, and 
 then, with quite as much calmness and even more suave 
 courtesy than the other, he answered : " We are quite 
 alone, my Lord Bishop." 
 
 Anthony, in the corner, nodded to himself, not at 
 
374 2Jncattoni?et) 
 
 Vigor's words, but at his manner of saying them. He 
 became easier as to the possibilities of the interview. 
 
 Jocelyn waited a little longer than had his opponent, 
 then gave up this first point with a very good grace, 
 remarking quietly, as he flicked the table-leg with his 
 riding-whip : " So be it. And now, Brother William, 
 to our business." 
 
 What that business was each man was perfectly aware, 
 and aware also that the other was not ignorant. Thus 
 the mutual understanding was perfect. So far Jocelyn's 
 extreme mildness had been remarkable, and was, to 
 Vigor's thinking, rather a bad omen. The bishop, in 
 deed, had made within himself a firm resolve to get all' 
 the enjoyment possible out of the forthcoming blow 
 that he was to deal, and perform his coup de grdce 
 without any undue violence. Finally, when all mental 
 preparation for the conflict had been made, in a salute 
 of indifferent phrases, the match was opened warily : 
 Jocelyn and William face to face, with Anthony's eye 
 close upon his principal, ready to strike in his own 
 thought should the bishop's tongue for a moment baffle 
 William's guard. 
 
 " Since last I sojourned here, Master Vigor, I perceive 
 that many changes have come upon your house." 
 
 "Even so, Lord Bishop. We all deem Glastonbury 
 much improved." 
 
 " Erstwhile, good brother, I was the guest of your chief 
 officer here, Harold, the prior. Is't then no more the 
 fashion for him to receive visitors of rank?" Jocelyn 
 thought here to bring the interview to a short climax by 
 forcing Vigor to proclaim himself abbot at once. 
 
 It was either remarkable dulness or else unusual wit 
 that made the former sub-prior answer, with mild sim 
 plicity: "Well surmised, indeed. It is no longer our 
 fashion that Harold should entertain the guests." 
 
 " It seemeth also somewhat new, William Vigor, that 
 thou, who wast ever formerly absent from Glastonbury, 
 
3Ioceli?n of iBat^ 375 
 
 shouldst be here to-day; and shouldst, moreover, re 
 ceive me in the abbot's rooms." 
 
 " Chance, indeed, brought us together here, since I 
 returned from Venningwood but this morning. As 
 suredly ye know that ofttimes I must be here, if for 
 naught more than confession. As to the rooms " 
 here Vigor stumbled dangerously, and Anthony, while 
 Jocelyn glared at him, moved quickly and quietly 
 toward the table, "a as as for these rooms, an 
 ye like them not, I will order the chamberlain to prepare 
 others for you. We had thought to honor you with 
 these." 
 
 Anthony here sat down at a little distance from the 
 table, upon a stool that stood just behind the abbot. 
 
 In reference to the rooms Jocelyn saw an excellent 
 opening, and he seized it accordingly. " Nay, these 
 suit me well. I was but wondering how you chanced to 
 select them for me, sith you could scarce know the news 
 I bring, unless, perchance, his Holiness might have 
 written you what I did, by great ill-luck, mislay in 
 Rome." 
 
 Anthony's head turned a little, and his eyes rested on 
 the bishop's face. Seeing its expression, he started. 
 Here, indeed, was much to read, and there was presently 
 to be much to hear. 
 
 "Concerning what might his Holiness have written 
 us?" inquired William, in a troubled tone. 
 
 " T was but a thought of mine that perchance he 
 might have chosen already to inform the brethren of 
 the new favor that he hath deigned to grant me." 
 
 " We plead ignorance i' the matter." It seemed all 
 that one could say, here. 
 
 "Indeed? Then must I myself inform you that 
 Innocent Tertius, in order to contradict a strange rumor 
 concerning an already elected abbot of this abbey, 
 hath been so good as to appoint me, Jocelyn of Bath, 
 head of Glastonbury." 
 
<Kncanoni?et> 
 
 This was Jocelyn's daring stroke. 
 
 William Vigor rose quickly to his feet. His face 
 was bloodless. Twice he paced the room, fairly stead 
 ily, trying to force his mind to action. The bishop 
 would have given much to have relaxed a little himself, 
 here, and let his emotions come out upon his face for 
 one brief moment of rest. But there sat Anthony, ap 
 parently undisturbed, his black eyes still travelling the 
 bishop's face, his thoughts flying. And Jocelyn had 
 too much pride to show any sign of discomfort in such 
 a presence. After a moment or two William, having 
 struggled vainly to regain coolness, came back and 
 reseated himself. But that he was unable to cope 
 efficiently with the situation was apparent at a glance. 
 It was with a gesture of despair that the abbot turned 
 to Anthony. 
 
 The look that he gave him, though he said never a 
 word, was enough. Anthony saw at once that he was 
 sobering rapidly, and that with the passing of the 
 temporary stimulus of alcohol, his brain was far more 
 feeble in its action than it would have been had he 
 taken no wine at all that day. 
 
 It was the bishop himself, who, guessing the situation, 
 and thinking to be superciliously magnanimous in his 
 power, helped the abbot out of trouble. Looking 
 Anthony in the eye, he said compassionately : 
 
 " Thou 'rt not well to-day, Master Vigor. It were 
 better, methinks, that thou shouldst rest on the bed 
 yonder while I finish the conversation with this some 
 what froward monk." 
 
 For a moment William was half inclined to act upon 
 the suggestion, for his head was reeling. But, with 
 a strong effort of the will he straightened up, and moved 
 his stool so that Anthony might be beside him. Then 
 silence ensued. Fitz-Hubert was evidently expected to 
 speak. 
 
 " A moment agone, my Lord Bishop, thou didst 
 
3loceli?n of I3at^ 377 
 
 mention that a certain rumor, reaching the ears of the 
 Pope, caused him to appoint thee Abbot of Glaston- 
 bury. Might we know the rumor in full?" 
 
 " Certes, certes, Sir Monk. I had but feared to 
 weary your ears with prosing over what ye already 
 knew. The rumor said that these good monks of 
 Glastonbury, left to themselves too long, had been un 
 wise enow to elect for themselves, unlawfully, an abbot ; 
 though having long ago, by papal Bull, expressly been 
 forbid so to do." 
 
 " Ah ! Strange as doth it seem, rumor for once did 
 speak not more nor less than truth." 
 
 William Vigor shifted restlessly on his stool. 
 
 Anthony continued : " Now, Lord Abbot, thou wilt 
 doubtless be gracious enough to show us those docu 
 ments pertaining to our reproof and thy promotion, 
 that we may, in faith, proclaim thee as our worthy 
 head?" Anthony's tones were so musically gentle as 
 to send William Vigor's heart falling in his breast. 
 Anthony was conspiring against him ! He had been 
 trapped ! And, at the same moment, Jocelyn was 
 thrown from his guard, and prepossessed in favor of this 
 black-browed fellow who was probably trying now to 
 get into his favor. Favor, at the present moment, was 
 well enough. 
 
 " Some papers of his Holiness have I here," he 
 answered pleasantly, pulling the papal writs from his 
 pouch and handing them over to Anthony. 
 
 The monk glanced first at their signatures, which 
 certainly were unmistakable ; for every churchman in 
 Christendom knew that hand. Then, quickly read 
 ing the three letters, he handed them over to William 
 Vigor, who perused them more slowly, and when he 
 had finished, leaned quietly over the table, burying 
 his aching head in his hands. Triumph gleamed from 
 Jocelyn's eyes. He smiled at Anthony, over the 
 lowered figure. 
 
2Jttcanonf?e& 
 
 " Art satisfied? " he asked. 
 
 Only a murmur, but that unmistakably one of assent, 
 came from William, abbot no more. The bishop seemed 
 about to rise, when suddenly Anthony said, with sharp 
 directness : 
 
 " Nay, my Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells, I am 
 not satisfied." Vigor raised his head and listened in 
 credulously. " That these documents be right, and 
 what they say incontrovertible, I grant you. We must 
 needs forswear our abbot, take oath to elect none other 
 over ourselves, and do the penances for disobedience 
 herein proscribed. But thou, my Lord Jocelyn, art 
 not thereby abbot of this abbey. Rather, hear this : 
 until thou shalt bring from Rome the Pope's written 
 command to such effect, no man in this monastery will 
 hail thee as his ruler. Pronounce thine anathema an 
 thou wilt. Such things have been endured before. 
 But I make prophecy that, as thy predecessor, Savaric, 
 never won this place, so thou wilt also never gain it. 
 These abbot's rooms are not for thee ; and to-night they 
 shall be locked again." 
 
 Ceasing to speak, Anthony answered Jocelyn's glance 
 of fury with one of calm supremacy. William Vigor, 
 who had listened in growing amazement at his friend's 
 daring, was satisfied now. In large measure the dis 
 comfiture of the bishop atoned for his own loss. There 
 came to his mind Anthony's warning on the day of his 
 election ; and he marvelled anew at the monk's astute 
 ness. But the five months of his rule were not to be 
 regretted ; for they had been a time of unwonted pros 
 perity and contentment for the abbey and its remaining 
 lands. 
 
 By his long and troubled silence, Jocelyn admitted 
 his defeat. When he spoke again it was in a different 
 voice, one softer than that of his expected victory. 
 
 " Go thou, fellow, and assemble the brethren in the 
 great church. There, at once, will I read to them the 
 
3loceli?n of I3at^ 379 
 
 words of the Pope. I charge you to see that these 
 penances be duly performed. I I ride on again to 
 Wells this evening." 
 
 And so, once more, for the time being, the matter 
 ended. Victory could be claimed by neither side. 
 Prior Harold rejoiced a little, perhaps, at his renewed 
 power, and the rest of the monks groaned within 
 when they thought of the hours to be spent over extra 
 prayers before the next confessional. His lordship of 
 Bath, greatly reduced in apparent stature, left Glaston- 
 bury, in company with his two priests, three hours after he 
 had entered it, with his hopes of life-long abode therein 
 trampled beneath his feet. The scornful prophecy of 
 Fitz-Hubert came true. Jocelyn, like Savaric, his pattern, 
 never ruled at the abbey which he so long persecuted. 
 
 Somehow, however, this story spread abroad. It was 
 carried to Windsor, two weeks after its occurrence. 
 There the King, just returned from his hunting at 
 Carisbrooke, smiled broadly when he heard it, and 
 turned to his fair-haired brother: 
 
 " Will, whiles mine own mortification hath seemed 
 to me great past bearing. But to-day, to-day I am 
 glad that I am not a bishop." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A FULFILLED DESIRE 
 
 FOR a fortnight after the visit of the bishop, the 
 abbey was a hot-bed of rebellious excitement. 
 There were speeches and discussions innumer 
 able ; but arguments were never heard. No two people 
 of the same mind can indulge in controversy ; and for 
 once in its long existence, all the monks in Glastonbury 
 were unanimous on a subject. The deposition of William 
 Vigor, the most universally respected and most heartily 
 liked of any abbot who had ruled there in fifty years, 
 was taken hardly by the brethren ; Harold himself feel 
 ing some regret at the thought that a cheery corner 
 and an open bottle in the abbot's living-room awaited 
 him no longer. William Vigor, while he ruled at all, 
 had ruled well. Moreover, he was by no means free 
 from those lovable faults of geniality for which a man 
 has ever been loved among men. He could drink as 
 deep as any warrior, tell a good story without hesita 
 tion, and join without a qualm in a rousing secular 
 chorus. He was open-handed and tactful; a good 
 friend ; an enemy somewhat quick in action ; but under 
 him mass and chapter were strictly conducted; and, 
 with his watchful eye upon him, neither farmerer nor any 
 lay-brother dared go beyond a reasonable limit of free 
 dom. Moreover, he was by no means ignorant. Though 
 never given to display, he was well versed in the scho 
 lasticism of his time ; neither conceit of Nominalism 
 nor heresy of Neoplatonism being unknown to him, 
 when a conversation turned upon such matters. And 
 
a ifwiftUetj tytstivt 381 
 
 now this unusual abbot of Glastonbury had suddenly 
 become but a common monk. To him not even the 
 privileges of a scribe were granted ; and from him friar's 
 orders had been removed until such time as his full 
 penance for the sin he had dared commit should be 
 made, and his absolution performed. For a time, on 
 this account, Vigor became so moody and quick of 
 temper that none in the whole abbey, except, perhaps, 
 Fitz-Hubert the silent, dared to address him on any 
 common topic. 
 
 Time passed, and the month of November entered into 
 the present. On the seventh day of the month Anthony 
 came back from Bristol, and left his saddle for a bed in 
 the infirmary. All the monks knew of his sickness, and 
 mentioned it, possibly, in the lavatories. But no one 
 except the doctor saw him, and none but Philip asked 
 to see him. To his surprise the gentle scribe was 
 forbidden to enter the sick man's cell. He was told, 
 however, that it was nothing more serious than fever ; 
 accepted the fact without much worry, and continued 
 to labor in the scriptorium. Week followed after week, 
 and still Anthony was not fit to rise. There was, it 
 seemed, nothing at all dangerous in his illness. Never 
 was his fever critically high; never did it perceptibly 
 decrease. He was bled freely and with great frequency, 
 and was fed solely upon broth. Once or twice, for no 
 weighty reason, he was given emetics, and was blistered 
 upon the back. Here the monastic physician, Henry 
 Fitz-Lucy, rested upon his labors, and marvelled at the 
 stubbornness of the case. He was, nevertheless, not 
 at all unkind to his patient; and, after informing the 
 confessor that the sick man was really unable to attend 
 any service held in the infirmary, also took pains to 
 contradict the rumor that Anthony was possessed of a 
 devil. 
 
 Fitz-Hubert himself was not unhappy under the 
 novelty of illness. He was too weak to chafe at inac- 
 
382 
 
 tivity ; and the fever sent him sometimes just sufficiently 
 out of his head to allow the most exquisite of visions 
 that of his Princess to visit him as a reality. Occasion 
 ally he would crave food or water when none was within 
 reach, and nobody at hand to bring it; but at those 
 periods he was patient. Long years of abstinence and 
 privation, while they had sorely weakened his constitu 
 tion, had greatly fortified his natural power of endur 
 ance. Besides, it was never difficult for him to fall asleep. 
 To sleep soundly was something that he could not 
 do ; but his life as an invalid gradually became so full of 
 dull visions and oft-recurring dreams that the little cell 
 became at last a heart-home that he dearly loved. Daily 
 he counted the great gray blocks arched above his 
 head, and receding into shadow up on high. Minutely 
 did he study the grain of the stone, and note the innu 
 merable sparkles of mica that responded bravely when 
 ever the white winter sunshine deigned to enter his 
 little window. And he learned every stage of shadow 
 cast upon the floor, from dawn till dusk, by the prie- 
 dieu in the corner. There was much companionship to 
 be found in this solitude. There were the voices of con 
 valescing monks, who chattered in the day-room beside 
 the chapel (for the infirmary was a very complete little 
 establishment in itself) ; and there was the crackling of 
 the open fire, whose shadow he could see in the corridor 
 outside his room ; there was the low chant of prayers, 
 which, for three hours a day, reached his ears ; the rus 
 tling of the bare tree branches outside his window ; and 
 the soughing of the wind about the little building; lastly, 
 at various intervals of the day, but most beautifully of 
 all in the dusky twilight of winter afternoons, came the 
 melodious message of the monastery bell from the great 
 church tower. 
 
 Many days went by, slowly at first, and then more 
 rapidly, as he fell into the ways of sickness. Just at the 
 beginning he had confused time, and often jumbled day 
 
with night. But as the weeks passed he grew to learn, 
 almost in delirium, the significance of each special hour. 
 The date for his monthly visit to Bristol came round 
 again. Over this he worried incessantly, but said never 
 a word of his trial to the doctor. Restlessness preyed 
 upon his brain, till the questioning face of Eleanor 
 seemed continually to beat through every pulse. He 
 was quite helpless. For the first time he had failed her. 
 Would she miss him? 
 
 At last, despite the incredible foolishness of its treat 
 ment, the fever began, by degrees, to leave his body, 
 and now and again he would feel that the spark of vital 
 ity was glowing brighter within him. He became irri 
 table ; and the doctor had had at least experience enough 
 to know that this was a favorable sign. One morning, 
 therefore, he informed his patient that that day, if so he 
 chose, he might see his friend, the monk Philip. An 
 thony did choose, with alacrity; and, as soon as the 
 recreation period came round again, Philip made all 
 haste to the infirmary. 
 
 Anthony, knowing of course the hour when he would 
 come, had made what preparation he might to receive 
 his guest. Owing to the neglect with which he had 
 been treated, the blisters upon his shoulders were not 
 properly healed, and now his whole back tortured him 
 at times with stiffening pains ; his limbs, from long dis 
 use and want of rubbing, were as useless as sticks, and 
 there was a fire in their every joint. With the greatest 
 difficulty, then, after his noon meal, Fitz-Hubert rose, 
 washed, made what toilet he could, and smoothed over 
 the coverings of his hard bed ere he again crept into it, 
 exhausted. Presently, pulling himself to a sitting posi 
 tion, he thrust a pillow awkwardly at his back, and 
 essayed to sit up, supporting himself largely by his 
 hands. In consideration of his illness he had been 
 allowed sheets and tunic of linen, which, despite their 
 many weeks' usage, were still of a grayish yellow a 
 
384 2Jncanom?eti 
 
 color rather ghastly when closely considered. These 
 he drew high up about his neck and shoulders, until his 
 head only was apparent to any one in the room. So he 
 waited for his friend, minute after minute, in his weary 
 ing position, till time seemed to have ceased and eternity 
 begun. 
 
 Philip, more than ever anxious to see his friend again, 
 and consult him about an idea that had suddenly entered 
 his head, walked almost slowly over the frosty path that 
 led from the door of Joseph's chapel over to the infirm 
 ary. Being admitted there, he was at once directed to 
 the door of Anthony's cell. Upon the threshold he 
 stopped, with a start. He had caught sight of that 
 livid face that rose, with closed eyes, above the 
 sheets. 
 
 " God ! Thou art dead ! " he cried. 
 
 The head was lifted slightly; there came a gleam 
 from two eyes that had not lost their fire ; and he was 
 answered by a smile. 
 
 "Thou art not? Ah! but thy face is terrible, 
 Anthony ! " 
 
 " Um. Thank thee, Philip. Tis a pleasant greet 
 ing, truly." Anthony's tone, however quizzical his 
 words, was not joyful. 
 
 Philip, with the ready tact which was not the least of 
 his qualities, instantly perceived Anthony's frame of 
 mind, and read in his face some of that craving for a 
 little kindness whic'h the sick man would certainly rather 
 have died than asked for. Quickly crossing the cell, 
 the visitor lifted a stool to the bedside, seated himself 
 thereon, and laid one hand gently on Anthony's shoul 
 der, struggling with himself, meantime, to overcome 
 the shock of his friend's appearance. At the first touch 
 Philip felt the straining of Fitz-Hubert's arm, and per 
 ceived that he was using what little strength he had to 
 support himself. Therefore, gently, he took the invalid 
 about the shoulders, laid him down upon the bed, placed 
 
a tfulfilleti &t&iu 385 
 
 the straw-stuffed pillow comfortably beneath his head, 
 and arranged the coverings well about him. Anthony 
 smiled again, and kept one of the girlish hands in his. 
 
 " Truly, Philip, thou 'rt as gentle as any maid." 
 
 "Ah, Anthony ! They told me not how ill thou wast. 
 Would that I might have been here with thee ! Thou 
 hast suffered deeply, hast not? But indeed I need not 
 ask ! " 
 
 " Thou 'It soon have learned for thyself," was the 
 answer; for Philip seemed unable to turn his eyes from 
 the gray, emaciated countenance of the man whom he 
 had last seen six weeks ago in the full vigor of health 
 and eagerness. " But verily, Philip, I have not greatly 
 suffered. Lately, indeed, the time hath passed full 
 slowly. Yet I tell thee truly, unhappy I have not 
 been. Am I so greatly changed ? " 
 
 " A mirror will show thee," was the reply. 
 
 Then, for a little time, they sat silent, hand in hand, 
 while the thoughts of each, though they did not guess 
 it, strayed to the selfsame subject. Philip, however, 
 dared not speak directly. He could only hope gradually 
 to bring the conversation round to the matter before 
 his departure. 
 
 "Thou hast indeed lain here for a long time. 
 Christmas-tide once more approaches." 
 
 " Ay, I know it. Looking back upon it, Philip, time 
 hath sped since first I entered Glastonbury. 'Tis now 
 five years agone that I came hither from Canterbury. 
 Dost remember?" 
 
 " Remember ! Canst ask? Time hath gone well with 
 me, too, yet not quite as for thee, Anthony;" and 
 here Philip sighed, not ostentatiously, nor with deep 
 sadness. Nevertheless Anthony read his thought. 
 
 " I have brought thee sorrow, Philip, and thou think- 
 est sadly over it. Believe me, I am not unfeeling. I 
 have grieved for thee. But had she stayed here, 
 brother, we know not but there might have been for 
 
 2 5 
 
386 2lncancmi?e6 
 
 thee a greater sorrow than that of parting, and for her, 
 a life-long " 
 
 " Anthony ! " interrupted the other, flushing with 
 anger. 
 
 " Take it not so. I speak not of thee, but of others. 
 I spoke of them to you long ago. Forget not her 
 danger." 
 
 Again a pause ; and then Philip burst forth impetu 
 ously : " Anthony, dost remember, now more than a 
 year ago, the night of thy return from Winchester, 
 our talk then, and thy promise to me that some day I 
 should see her for a last time? " 
 
 "I remember ?" 
 
 " Wilt keep that promise, Anthony, now? " 
 
 "Thou hast not forgot those words which David 
 Franklin, thou sayest, spoke to thee, that night?" 
 
 " I have not forgot," was the low-voiced answer. 
 
 " Yet thou art willing to endure the thought that a 
 vile tale may be spread, perchance?" Anthony's tone 
 was not deprecating, but anxious. 
 
 " I am willing, willing to run the chance. But I 
 hope, Anthony, that this time it would not be regarded 
 so. Thou art ill ; 't is now six weeks 
 
 " Six weeks since the Princess was confessed ; and 
 they know that my custom is strict. I have thought of 
 that and more, ere this. My fear was that thou, still 
 sensitive, mayhap, at the memory of the precentor's 
 vice, might shrink from taking my place to Bristol, 
 since I am unable to go." 
 
 "Thou wilt then permit it ! " cried Philip, joyfully. 
 
 " Assuredly," returned Anthony, making an effort at 
 cordiality. He had not guessed that, much as he wished 
 some one to explain his absence for him, it would be 
 hard, most hard, for him to behold Philip, or any other, 
 even for this single time, taking his place in that beloved 
 journey. He was becoming selfish. 
 
 But o"f this feeling Philip, a little blind with anticipa- 
 
a tfuifiiua 2Degire 387 
 
 tion, saw nothing. The hand of the elder monk he still 
 clasped tightly. " When had I best go, think you ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " As soon as thou canst get permission. In another 
 month I shall myself be strong again. Art absolved?" 
 
 "But four days since. Harold, methinks, will not 
 prevent me, though William Vigor might so have 
 done." 
 
 " Didst take friar's orders ever?" inquired Anthony, 
 with an effort. 
 
 " Nay. But the law is no longer very strict. I fear 
 not that." 
 
 " Truly, thou 'rt right. The law is " Anthony's 
 voice dropped away in a murmur, and Philip turned to 
 look at him. At once he sprang to his feet. Anthony 
 had fainted. 
 
 For five minutes the scribe worked over his friend, 
 frightened at the ghastly, death-like hue of his face. 
 Then, with a long, fluttering breath, the sick man came 
 to himself again. He smiled at the anxiety in Philip's 
 face. " 'Twas naught but that I had to sink again into 
 a dream. 'T is many a week since I have been so long 
 awake at one time. But thou, perchance, hadst better 
 leave me now, while I rest. Come to-morrow, to tell 
 me when thou dost depart." 
 
 A pressure of the hand, a look, and Philip turned 
 reluctantly about and was gone. Anthony lay quiet and 
 alone through the afternoon, his brain disturbed with 
 chaotic thoughts, doubts and fears. He failed to bring 
 his mind to any one subject, for weakness had tempo 
 rarily taken from him the power of concentration. The 
 night was long. At intervals he slept heavily, while 
 the remainder of the time was filled with hazy visions in 
 which the forms of Eleanor and Philip, Hugh de la 
 Marche and Isabella of Angouleme, were mingled to 
 gether, and melted rapidly from one into the other. 
 
 It was noon the next day when Philip returned to the 
 
388 
 
 infirmary, bringing with him a doleful face. Anthony 
 saw it with an unaccountable little throb of relief at his 
 heart. 
 
 "They have forbidden thee to go?" he said at once, 
 
 Philip hesitated in replying, but fell, at length, from 
 his purpose, and told the truth. " They will let me go, 
 but not till the day before Christmas, sith that is a holi 
 day, and I shall be back ere the beginning of the long 
 mass. But it is still eight days hence, and by that time 
 thou mayest be able to go thyself." 
 
 The generosity fell to Anthony, now. " Nay, Philip, 
 I shall scarce be strong enough in eight days to go, 
 methinks. Thou shalt still take my place and I will 
 wait yet a little while." 
 
 " Thou art very good to me, Anthony. I have 
 guessed that Harold was not ill-pleased at the thought 
 of having me absent from the usual feast on Christmas 
 eve, knowing that I like not such revels, and therefore 
 easily granted me permission to go then, despite the 
 fact that I am a cloistered Benedictine." 
 
 " Yes ; doubtless the feasting will be high. Now for 
 thy journey, Philip. Thou must take my horse ; a good 
 beast, one who knows the way, and will go when thou 
 willst it so. Starting before lauds thou mayest reach 
 Bristol easily by noontide. 'T is a pity that thou must 
 return on the same day. But rest well at the castle ere 
 the homeward ride. Perchance thou wilt be called to 
 confess the prisoners of the keep. I know not as to 
 that At least, thou mayest bear the Princess news of my 
 sickness and say that ere another month be gone I will 
 come to her. Then thou wilt see Mary and hold thy 
 converse with her. Oh, be happy, Philip ! Thou hast 
 a very holiday in store- But there is somewhat else 
 thou mightest do ' Here Anthony's voice dropped, 
 but it was evident that his thought was going on. He 
 lay with his brows knit together, and his eyes nearly 
 closed. He was debating with himself upon a subject 
 
a fulfilled ^ejsite 389 
 
 which was burned into his life even more indelibly than 
 the little household of the castle. Could he trust Philip 
 to carry a secret message on the matter? That message, 
 if it could be sent, must be, and quickly. 
 
 " What wouldst have me do further? 'T is something 
 pertaining to those at the Falcon Inn? " 
 
 " Yes, Philip, and yet I fear to have thee seen there. 
 There might be such dangers as have ofttimes followed 
 me ; and I have no right to throw them in thy 
 path." 
 
 "Dangers? What ones? 'Twill be in daylight. 
 Surely the hostel is of good repute, harbors no 
 thieves?" 
 
 "Assuredly not. Wilt carry a strange message and 
 neither ask a question of him to whom it is delivered 
 nor yet brood over the matter in thine own mind ? Wilt 
 mention the matter to none in Glastonbury, and wilt 
 trust entirely to me, my friend?" 
 
 " Thou knowest best if ever I have betrayed thee, 
 Anthony," was the reproachful answer. " I know naught 
 of thy business at the Falcon Inn, but never have I 
 questioned thee or any other concerning it. An thou 
 darest not trust me now, I will say no more." 
 
 " Forgive, Philip ! Forgive ! Indeed, thou canst 
 know nothing of the great gravity of this matter, 
 which doth, in truth, warrant my care. An thou wilt, 
 then, take this message to the inn, any one in Bristol 
 will direct thee to it. See the landlord, hight Master 
 Martin Plagensext, none else, and say to him that 
 Anthony hath been ill, and therefore came not upon 
 the seventh, as was his wont. But let him summon the 
 people for the evening of the twelfth day in the new 
 year. Dost understand?" 
 
 "To say to Martin, landlord of the Falcon Inn, 
 ' Anthony hath been ill, and therefore came not on 
 the seventh. But let him summon the people for the 
 evening of the twelfth day of the new year/ " repeated 
 
39 
 
 Philip. Then, as Anthony nodded, he finished by say 
 ing slowly, " I will remember." 
 
 " Then go and finish thy recreation in some happier 
 place than by the bedside of a fever-stricken monk. 
 Thou 'It come once again, perchance, ere thou goest? " 
 
 " Not once, but eight times, daily, until I depart. 
 And bless thee for thy kindness, Anthony." 
 
 To this Fitz-Hubert made no answer, but wearily 
 closed his eyes. Thereupon Philip rose, and went his 
 way. 
 
 During the week which passed between this conversa 
 tion and Philip's leaving for Bristol, Anthony gained 
 wonderfully in strength. On the twenty-first of Decem 
 ber he was allowed to leave the infirmary, the air of 
 which was now becoming hateful to him ; and he once 
 more entered his own cell at the abbey. Here he 
 found fresh rushes strewn over the usually bare floor, 
 and his mattress and pillow were newly stuffed with 
 straw. This was Philip's work. The sight of other 
 rooms and the freshness of other air acted also as a 
 tonic. He found no difficulty in being excused from 
 regularity at any service, however, and was allowed to 
 sleep all night without regard for matins, yet awhile; 
 since Philip was not the only one shocked at his appear 
 ance when first he came among the brethren again. 
 Anthony himself, indeed, having borrowed a mirror 
 from some cell of vanity, was astounded when first he 
 gazed into its steely brightness. He had not been a 
 strong-looking man since the days of his first fasting 
 and privation in the monastery of Augustine at Canter 
 bury. His face was always pale, his body thin, and his 
 eyes deep-set and large. But now the ravages of the 
 long fever had made him look far more like a corpse 
 than one alive. His color was not white, but gray; the 
 blue veins on his temples were plainly traceable in all 
 their intricate enmeshment ; his eyes were like blazing 
 coals set in caverns within his head ; and dark streaks 
 
391 
 
 circled the great hollows; there was not an ounce of 
 flesh upon his body ; his lips were bloodless ; his hands 
 made of bones and skin; his hair, grown out in all 
 its fulness, and entirely concealing the tonsure, was of 
 purplish black, here and there streaked with gray. An 
 uncanny spectacle, the spirit of 'a departed monk, was 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert at this time. But at sight of 
 himself he laughed heartily, proving that there still was 
 in him more of life than of vanity. So, at last, the eve 
 of Christmas stood again upon the threshold of Time, 
 and Philip, high-hearted, left the old abbey on his frosty 
 way to Bristol town. 
 
 Imagine that ride. It was the first time in seventeen 
 years that Philip of Glastonbury had sat a horse ; and, 
 since the departure of Mary, he had scarcely set foot out 
 side the abbey walls. His heart was burning with the 
 anticipation of a happiness so long dreamed of that he 
 had never hoped truly to call it his. He was to see 
 Mary again, and for twelve hours he was his own master. 
 Freedom and love! Asks any man more than this? 
 Men have so died for the one, and lived for the other, 
 that they must, I ween, be called the elements of happi 
 ness in this world, and possibly in others. 
 
 The morning was gray and wintry; and the monk, 
 for all his scapular and cowl, none two warmly clad. 
 Besides this, he had eaten nothing since the evening 
 before, and had risen as usual, two hours after mid 
 night, for matins. Now, neither cold nor hunger did 
 he notice. Arrived in Bristol at a little before noon, 
 for he had ridden slowly, being strange to a saddle, he 
 thought first to deliver his message at the Falcon,- 
 which, after some blundering, he discovered. Those 
 words were faithfully repeated ; and yet it was impossible 
 to human nature that the monk should not have pro 
 nounced them thoughtfully, and noted with care their 
 effect upon the worthy landlord. For Philip, gentle 
 and true-hearted as he was, was still human ; and it was 
 
not wonderful that he took somewhat to heart Anthony's 
 persistent want of confidence in this matter. Whether 
 he had any definite idea of the strange meetings which 
 he guessed that Anthony led here, is a more serious 
 question. -It involves the nature of a pure man's con 
 science. If Philip had any suspicion of heresy or sin 
 connected with the affair, it was then his obvious duty 
 to confess that suspicion, and so be absolved from all 
 taint of worldliness. But confession of anything in 
 regard to these meetings would mean disloyalty to a 
 man whom he venerated and loved. Thus the conflict 
 between doctrine and friendship was too powerful to be 
 coped with. In behalf of the one his bright face clouded ; 
 in behalf of the other the message was delivered. 
 Then, once more, the joy and fear of anticipation came 
 back to him, as he rode over the drawbridge of Bristol 
 Castle and into its snowy courtyard. 
 
 To John Norman, who was all curiosity, he at once 
 explained the nature of his visit, and was led, without 
 delay, straight into the western wing, and up a little 
 flight of corkscrew stairs to the suite of the Princess 
 Eleanor. At the door of the living-room Norman 
 rapped stoutly; then, having a bottle and a friend 
 awaiting him in his lodge, he once more went his 
 way, leaving Philip alone for his farewell. 
 
 With realization shoulder to shoulder with him, Philip 
 began to shrink, unaccountably, from the prospect of 
 actually meeting, once again, that woman who had 
 now for years lived a very distinct life in his own 
 imagination. It was not Mary who opened the door. 
 When, at length, it swung open before him, he was 
 looking upon a tiny, shrivelled creature, lithe and 
 dark, whom Anthony had never described. Seeing the 
 strange face, she uttered a guttural exclamation, at 
 sound of which a man, who had been sitting at the far 
 end of the room, rose quickly, and, stepping forward 
 a little, looked questioningly at the new-comer. Then, 
 
a funnies ^esire 393 
 
 also out of distant shadow, another woman came forth ; 
 a slight, delicate, girlish woman, with her white face 
 framed in slightly dishevelled masses of black, silken 
 hair. She was the first to address the monk. 
 
 " What is thine errand? Who art thou? " 
 
 " I come from Glastonbury, madam, on behalf of 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert." 
 
 " Anthony hath not now been here in many weeks," 
 answered the Princess ; seeming, to Philip's searching 
 eyes, to show little enough concern. 
 
 " For more than forty days he hath lain ill of a fever, 
 and finally bade me journey hither in his place, lest 
 you should wonder over his not coming." 
 
 " Truly I am much grieved to hear it," she responded 
 gently. " Hath he been in danger, and is he yet 
 recovering? " 
 
 " He hath, madam, been in the gravest danger, and 
 is not yet recovered," returned the monk, a little aston 
 ished at himself. He was incapable of analyzing that 
 instinct which made him wish to rouse in Eleanor 
 some more stirring sign of emotion than she had yet 
 displayed. 
 
 "Alack! Why hath he not sent to us before? I 
 would gladly have helped him an I could. Thou 
 hearest, Louis? Anthony, he who did so much for us, 
 is dangerously ill." 
 
 The gentleman who, up to this moment, had stood 
 motionless, listening, now came farther forward. Philip 
 could not but like the strong beauty of his face and 
 form. " Is there aught that we now may do? Helpless 
 as we are here, it were di " 
 
 " Nay, my lord. He is well tended at the abbey. 
 I but came hither to tell you why he did not come ; 
 and and to take his place at confessional, did you 
 wish it." 
 
 Eleanor smiled faintly. " Thank you, good brother," 
 she said. " I deem my soul still white enow to go 
 
394 
 
 another month, till he be back again. Think you he 
 will be here by then ? " 
 
 " Perchance, lady," returned Philip, with growing un 
 easiness. He was beginning to wonder if it were possi 
 ble that he should be sent away without seeing her for 
 whom he had come. 
 
 As though she read his thought, Eleanor, at this 
 moment, spoke her name. " Thou shouldst now have 
 refreshment after so long riding. Mary shall get thee 
 some, and serve thee in mine own dining apartment. 
 Mary ! Hither ! " 
 
 Some one came quickly into the room through an 
 other door. Suddenly the world grew misty about the 
 monk. 
 
 " Philip ! Thou ! " he heard her cry, and then he 
 looke'd. It was the same fair, fresh face, but a little 
 older, a little more thoughtful than when last he had 
 beheld it. There were the same great blue eyes, swept 
 by the long, delicate lashes ; the same straight brows ; 
 the same free poise of the head upon its shoulders ; he 
 heard her voice, the same rich contralto that had rung 
 in his ears for so many years. She was here, before 
 him, now ; and yet his Mary, the old Mary, was gone. 
 Looking at her he could not find the change ; but, as 
 she regarded him, he saw the ivory of her cheeks grow 
 suddenly pure white, and the rose of her lips fade into 
 pallor. Then she spoke again, tremulously. 
 
 " Anthony ! Somewhat hath befallen him ! What 
 may it be? " 
 
 " He is sick of a fever at the abbey, and I, for once, 
 am come hither in his place." 
 
 " Sick of a fever ! Holy Mary ! But he will 
 recover, Philip ? " 
 
 "Doubtless," was the answer, given in a tone so 
 hoarse that the Princess looked at him curiously, and 
 Mary came to herself a little. 
 
 " And thou, mine old friend, I am glad to see 
 
a tfuifiuea a^ejStre 395 
 
 thee again," she said, holding out one hand, which the 
 monk just touched and then dropped. 
 
 " This good messenger is in need of refreshment, 
 Mary. I would have thee prepare some for him, ere 
 he returns again to the abbey. Thou mayest serve 
 him in mine own dining-room." 
 
 " Yes, madam," returned the handmaid, with a glance 
 toward De la Bordelaye, who had gone over toward the 
 casement, and stood idly looking out over the gray, 
 frozen yards. 
 
 Philip's eyes did not follow hers. Upon his outer 
 vision had come a sudden cloudiness ; but his inner 
 eyes at last were open wide. He saw what he should 
 have seen years agone ; and at the sight his heart was 
 breaking. 
 
 " Trouble not thy maiden, Princess," he said. '" It is 
 a fast-day, and I should not eat again till even-song. 
 After compline to-night the Christmas feast will begin 
 for us. I will make my departure now." 
 
 " Prithee, Philip, stay and eat a mouthful. Most 
 assuredly 't will be forgiven thee," said Mary, pleadingly. 
 
 With renewed hope Philip looked into her face. It 
 was still pale with unspoken anxiety. 
 
 " Thank you ; I must not eat," he repeated dully. 
 Then with an obeisance to Eleanor he turned toward 
 the door. 
 
 Mary followed him. In her heart there was a great 
 longing, which she must satisfy. "Philip! Philip, 
 tell me truly if Anthony will get well again." 
 
 " How should I tell you that, being not God," he 
 returned. 
 
 Mary paid heed to nothing but the words. " Hath 
 he not gained in health? Is he no better than erstwhile? 
 He grows worse?" she demanded. 
 
 Philip drew a long, gasping breath, and returned to 
 himself again. With a look in his eyes that would have 
 pierced the heart of one who loved him, he answered 
 
slowly: "He is better; he is now nearly recovered, 
 Mary. Tell the Princess that upon the twelfth day of 
 the new year he will be here again." 
 
 Then, with Mary's first cry of heedless delight pound 
 ing in his ears, he flung open the door, ran down the 
 passage and stairs, and, before Mary knew what she 
 had done, was away from the castle, spurring Anthony's 
 horse, like one demented, up Somerset Hill. 
 
 Never afterwards could Philip recall any incident of 
 that homeward ride. There was in his heart such a 
 pitiful tumult of broken passion, hopelessness and grief 
 that the acute, unendurable pain all came later. As yet 
 half of him still refused to accept the revelation. He 
 had been so devoted in every thought, every hope, 
 every dream, to Mary that the idea that a living love 
 was, to her, dearer than a memory of him, crushed him. 
 Why had he never thought of this, never guessed what 
 might come? And yet, could one be jealous of 
 Anthony? Ah! Anthony himself had known many a 
 heartache as bitter as this. The Princess had shown 
 even less feeling for Anthony than had Mary for himself. 
 Philip could not find it in his heart to feel differently 
 toward his friend. Throughout his utter disappoint 
 ment it was against Mary and for her that his woe was 
 felt. She, his idol, had shattered his idol. He could 
 not yet define his position. He only knew that his 
 world had fallen from him, and that he was desolate 
 in space. 
 
 It was still early in the afternoon when Glastonbury, 
 but nine little hours older than when he had left it, came 
 once more in sight. Arrived at the great gate, Philip's 
 steed, well-trained, would have paused. The monk, 
 however, pulled at the reins, stuck his heel into its 
 flank, and set off again at a quick canter, not along the 
 road, but over the barren fields toward the spot where 
 memory was bitterest. It was nearly four years since 
 Mary and Philip had stood together at the historic 
 
a fulfilled ?^e0fte 397 
 
 tree; and now in December, as then in May, its gnarled 
 branches were soft with blossoms. 
 
 No one at the abbey had seen Philip pass by, though 
 the usual hour for recreation was just over, and nones 
 should presently have begun. To-day, being the day 
 before Christmas, the ordinary routine of afternoon 
 was changed. From dinner to compline no service was 
 held. This was so that preparation might be made for 
 a night entirely without rest. After an early compline, 
 the fast-day being over, it was customary to fill in the 
 hours up to midnight with an authorized feast. At 
 midnight the first of the extra masses began, and from 
 that time until the evening of Christmas day it was 
 not usual to give any one permission to leave the 
 church. 
 
 All through the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, then, 
 the abbey was very silent. The monks knew well, by 
 repeated experience, that their endurance was to be 
 taxed to the uttermost, and almost all had retired to 
 their cells to sleep. The day was very cold, though it 
 did not snow, and occasionally there was in the air a 
 gleam of weak, white sunshine. In the day-room a great 
 fire blazed, and about it hovered two or three thinly 
 clad brethren, who dared not face the temperature of 
 the unwarmed dormitories. The scriptorium was empty, 
 and in the library was but a single man. This was 
 Anthony, who, well enough now to leave his bed for 
 several hours daily, and yet not strong enough to take 
 part in the vigils of Christmas day, had sought to forget 
 Bristol, and Philip's happy journey, in the " Consolation 
 of Philosophy." He sat in a far corner of the library, 
 far from the unglazed windows, with a ponderous tome 
 on his knees. For two hours or more he read with 
 earnest application. Then, by degrees, as the early 
 twilight fell, and the letters blurred a little, he sank into 
 a revery that would be held at bay no longer. A little 
 warmth from the day- room fire reached him. His 
 
fever was quite gone now, though there was as yet no 
 strength in his emaciated body. Perhaps with the dim 
 light and the comfort of peopled solitude he grew 
 drowsy at last. At all events his mental images became 
 more and more shadowy; and finally the transparent 
 lids, with their black fringes, fell over his eyes, and his 
 breath came deep. 
 
 He was awakened by a light that shone upon his 
 face, and by the consciousness of some near presence. 
 Sitting suddenly straight, he was, for a moment, over 
 come by the sensation of deathly faintness sometimes 
 resulting from an unfinished nap. The other monk, 
 having heard nothing, did not stir. He sat with his 
 back to Anthony, at one of the reading tables in the 
 centre of the room, with a little pile of illuminated 
 manuscript before him, which he was earnestly perus 
 ing. Night had fallen by this time. The windows 
 were black ; and the only bit of light in the room came 
 from the lantern which stood on the table beside the 
 new-comer, making him the most distinctive object 
 present. Anthony knew him at once from the painful 
 unevenness of his shoulders. It was David Franklin. 
 
 Rising at last from his stool, Fitz-Hubert started noise 
 lessly toward the door. Before reaching it, however, he 
 remembered that the book which he had himself been 
 reading must be returned to its place if he did not 
 wish to say an extra Pater Noster for carelessness. 
 The volume had slipped from his lap and lay on the 
 floor beside the spot where he had been sitting. Turn 
 ing about again, he chanced to look across to where the 
 precentor sat. His eyes passed over the gnarled face, 
 which was fixed in an ugly little grin, then dropped to 
 the sheets of vejlum on the table before him. Instantly 
 he grew rigid. 
 
 " David Franklin ! " 
 
 The precentor sprang to his feet, for the first time 
 aware of Anthony's presence. Quickly bethinking him- 
 
a iffulftileD ^ejsire 399 
 
 self, he edged about, so that his figure hid from view 
 that matter with which he had been occupied. 
 
 " What do you here? " he snarled. 
 
 " It is some hours since I came hither," retorted 
 Anthony, watching the face of his enemy. Franklin's 
 brows contracted still more, and he half glanced over 
 his shoulder. " T is a lie," he said. 
 
 " Canst see yonder stool in the corner? It is where 
 I slept till you came in." 
 
 As he wished, Franklin at once turned fully about to 
 see the spot to which he was pointing, and, the moment 
 that he moved, Anthony darted to the table and had 
 lifted the first manuscript that lay there on top of two 
 dozen others, similar to it in delicacy. In another 
 instant Franklin was beside him, speechless with fury. 
 
 Anthony had grown very white, and the vellum leaf 
 in his hand was shaking. For a moment that seemed 
 an hour, the two men stood a foot apart, glaring into 
 each other's eyes, the one in defiance, the other in 
 steady contempt. Then one of them said, in a voice 
 that was low but none the less striking : 
 
 " Thou coward, thou cur, how didst obtain these 
 things?" 
 
 " I had not heard that you were confessor to me," 
 was the return. 
 
 " You have stolen, for some foul intent, the dearest 
 possession of a fellow-monk. I, that monk's friend, 
 demand of you that you explain the act; and by 
 right of force shall I maintain my ground." 
 
 At these last words Franklin looked slowly and sneer- 
 ingly up and down the skeleton-like form, the wasted 
 arms, the livid face of the man who confronted him; 
 either forgetting or not knowing the fact that there are 
 times when the will can put brute force into a dying 
 creature. 
 
 " That is most excellently good, 'i faith ! Explana 
 tion ! And if I give it not? " 
 
400 2Jncanom?et> 
 
 " I will to-night proclaim thee thief before the whole 
 assembled monastery." 
 
 " And I Master Arrogance spy I will show to 
 all these disgraceful writings of your saintly Philip; ask 
 then if I have not right to obtain them how I may ; 
 and further tell to all how 'twas you who sent him off 
 to Bristol to his paramour ' 
 
 " Liar ! " 
 
 " you yourself being too enfeebled, for the time, to 
 visit the so-called Princess, Eleanor, yo " 
 
 One clenched fist shot suddenly out, straight and 
 strong, from Fitz-Hubert's shoulder. The blow struck 
 the precentor fairly between the eyes and, under its 
 force, Franklin fell heavily upon the floor of stone. 
 
 Anthony stepped slowly back, gave a great gasp, and 
 felt his knees shake under him. Reeling a little, he 
 turned to the table for support, at the same moment 
 turning his face toward the doorway. Within it, side 
 by side, both pale, both motionless, stood Philip and 
 William Vigor. 
 
 The monk gazed at them without flinching, a mute 
 inquiry in his eyes. Vigor knew the look, glanced 
 down at Franklin's figure, and bit his lip. 
 
 " I saw more than the blow. Thou hast not done 
 badly, Sir Firebrand," he said. 
 
 " Oh, Anthony ! " cried Philip, " I would not have 
 had thee take my part." 
 
 "No part of thine, mine own honor I defended," 
 returned the culprit, faintly. 
 
 Vigor strode into the room. ' " Man, thou 'rt all but 
 fainting," he said, putting an arm for support about 
 Anthony. " Was David so much fiercer an opponent 
 than a bishop? " 
 
 Anthony smiled. " 'T is but the accursed fever that 
 hath lain so long in my bones," he answered, with 
 an effort. 
 
 Philip quickly brought a stool to him, and his de- 
 
a tfulftllcD ^egire 4 01 
 
 fender, having relaxed for a moment or two, sat up 
 again more easily. 
 
 " What's to be done with him? Verily, I shall spend 
 the next month in a dungeon," he remarked, pointing 
 to Franklin, who was still unconscious. 
 
 Vigor knelt beside the prostrate monk, lifted first an 
 eyelid, and then touched his pulse. "Twas a good 
 blow, but he could not so easily be killed, Anthony. 
 Thou shouldst have chosen one more tender. In five 
 more minutes he will be blaspheming again. Methinks 
 I can carry him to the dormitory, and bid him lie in his 
 cell for an hour or two ; and, I '11 warrant me, he '11 be 
 down in time for the comfits at the feast. Worry not 
 thy mind over the encounter. I '11 stand for thee i' 
 the chapter, an he brings complaint, which indeed I 
 doubt much. These things are not so uncommon either 
 in the world or in an abbey. Wait here." 
 
 With these kindly words, Vigor, a muscular fellow, 
 picked up his burden, which was, even now, beginning 
 to breathe audibly, and, not stopping for Anthony's 
 earnest thanks, departed from the room. 
 
 Fitz-Hubert drew a long sigh, and sat gazing into 
 the black scriptorium long after his friend had passed 
 through it out of sight. " It was a miracle that brought 
 him to the door," he said, contemplatively. 
 
 There came no answer. Presently a different sound 
 came to Anthony's ears. He turned sharply about. 
 Philip had sunk down on Franklin's seat at the other 
 side of the table. His head lay upon the sheets of 
 vellum whereon was written the first story of his heart ; 
 his fair hands were clenched tightly over the gorgeous 
 rainbows of blue and red and gold ; utter abandon was 
 expressed in every line of his figure ; and his slight 
 shoulders heaved, now and again, with a racking, 
 desperate sob. 
 
 Such was the evening of his day. 
 
 26 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ROYAL VISITORS AT BRISTOL 
 
 IT was during the months of January and February of 
 the year 1213 that the most important scene of 
 the reign of John of England, Magna Charta not 
 withstanding, was enacted. It is the events in these two 
 months which give the strongest clue to the true charac 
 ter of that misunderstood government. They expose 
 the monomaniacal ambition of Pope Innocent, the utter 
 servility of his instrument, Langton, and the helpless 
 egotism of the King of France. Upon the twentieth of 
 January there was held in Paris a council, the nominal 
 heads of which were Philip and Stephen, and they had, 
 as passive and acquiescent abettors, those five English 
 bishops dogs, let us say who had now been waiting 
 for five years for one papal bone to be thrown to them. 
 But the bulldog who lived in a Roman kennel had a 
 large appetite, and not often anything left over that he 
 did not want. Thus the weak-witted dachshunds up 
 north had been, of late, much threatened with starva 
 tion. At last it appeared that a meal was to be given 
 them. Innocent had promised their good friend Philip 
 a very large bone, which he might, if he liked, divide 
 among his friends. This bone happened to be of such 
 masterful proportions, and was, withal, of such unusual 
 shape, that Innocent had spent five years now in trying 
 to get it into his own mouth, and at last was about to 
 relinquish the attempt. There were some who called 
 this bone such names as John, and England, which, 
 after all, meant the selfsame thing. And now the bull- 
 
Bigftorg at TBrigtot 43 
 
 dog, his teeth aching disagreeably, turned over his im 
 possible meal to his dear and good friend the mastiff, 
 who really, about the middle of February, having strug 
 gled with it for some weeks, bade fair to swallow it 
 whole ; which act would doubtless have caused him the 
 severest indigestion. Providence, however, now mir 
 aculously animating the bone, prevented its sudden dis 
 appearance by causing it to flop once more over to its 
 former retainer, Innocent, who was pleased to have it 
 back, because he had thought of a new scheme for get 
 ting all the good out of it. In the manner of men 
 would he boil it down, extract its richness for a 
 soup, and leave the worthless substance itself untouched. 
 And this plan he did, at last, almost carry out; suc 
 ceeding so far as to have had every dog and every bone 
 of after generations take the original helpless plaything 
 to task for permitting itself to be so weakened in the 
 end. 
 
 Shortly, at that January council, the Pope authorized 
 Philip of France to take England's crown for himself. 
 Philip was delighted, and proceeded to collect an army. 
 With this he started, in the middle of February, to the 
 Norman coast, to meet further reinforcements, whence 
 he hoped to strike a quick and unexpected blow on 
 England. To his vast astonishment and chagrin, he 
 found, on reaching the coast, that he was facing another 
 army, that of England, which was encamped upon the 
 shore across the channel, fully advised of all his move 
 ments. It was not yet a large force, but, daily, addi 
 tional troops were arriving, and the English King was 
 moving heaven and earth and men say that he 
 descended to Hades too to add to his numbers. 
 Philip paused and wondered who the carry-tale had 
 been. 
 
 The carry-tale was Jocelyn of Bath, still bent on play 
 ing a double game ; for some men, and all women, are 
 made that way. This time he had, indeed, heaped coals 
 
404 
 
 of fire on King John's head. And his coals bade fair 
 for once to light a fire for himself. John almost re 
 pented of his harshness to the little man when he found 
 him still a kind of friend in the midst of his overwhelming 
 difficulties. The thought of Glastonbury, veiled with 
 impossible possibilities, came to him; and he let it 
 remain a while, and even uncovered and held it to the 
 light for Hubert de Burgh to look upon. De Burgh 
 examined it; considered carefully, and advised a third 
 pair of mental eyes. 
 
 It was on the night of the twelfth of March, I2I3, 1 that 
 the King, travelling southward, arrived at Bristol, and 
 stopped for two nights in the castle where his niece was 
 imprisoned. Somewhat to his surprise Isabella of An- 
 gouleme took occasion to join him there, having trav 
 elled from Winchester with a small train. She was very 
 affectionate indeed. John wondered a good deal in 
 silence, then opened his eyes and jerked his head sud 
 denly. The shadow of the keep had fallen on him. 
 He thought that he understood ; and understanding 
 made him frown. 
 
 The King was wasting very little time in sleep, nowa 
 days. It was on the same night of his arrival at Bristol 
 that he laid the case of the Bishop of Bath before my 
 Lord de Burgh, who had hurried on from Dunster to 
 meet his liege. 
 
 " If you would know the feeling rife concerning him 
 i' the abbey," advised Hubert, " you could do no better 
 than summon from Glastonbury the monk Anthony." 
 
 " Aha ! Walter's son. I remember." 
 
 " Yes, your Grace." 
 
 " T is a good thought. Summon me a messenger." 
 
 A few words were written out upon a bit of parch 
 ment and addressed to Harold, prior of the abbey. A 
 few words were spoken to an obsequious serving man 
 by De Burgh ; and, two minutes later, a horseman clat- 
 
 1 According to the Tower Rolls John was in Bristol at this date. 
 
at OBrigtol 405 
 
 tered over the drawbridge and cantered away into the 
 night, after the fallen sun. 
 
 There were myriad matters beside that of Jocelyn to 
 be discussed by King and friend ; and after the messen 
 ger had gone they still sat together in the lowering 
 torch light with no thought of bed in their brains, 
 though both had driven hard all day. The political 
 situation was carefully gone over ; plans were drawn ; 
 numbers of troops were calculated, and possibilities 
 reckoned, even as by two commanding generals in a 
 campaign of to-day. It was close on midnight before 
 they were interrupted. 
 
 John's surmise that it was for no love of him that his 
 Queen had come to Bristol was correct. His guesses 
 as to what she had come for were a little unjust, al 
 though the main point was right enough. Ever since 
 Anthony's visit to her the summer before, on behalf of 
 Eleanor of Brittany and her lover, the subject had been 
 one of maddening irritation to the passionate, southern- 
 born woman. Whatever she could do to prevent the 
 meeting of De la Marche and the Princess she had done ; 
 but, while they two were within the same enclosure, all 
 effort seemed as nothing. Therefore, hoping to have an 
 opportunity of speech with -the King after her own way, 
 she had come to Bristol. She counted much upon her 
 power of persuasion over him, and especially at night. 
 It is far easier to act well at night. But madam waited 
 long that evening for her spouse to visit her apartments. 
 Midnight came. It was an unheard of hour for staying 
 up at that age. Perhaps he had already retired, not 
 wishing to see her at all. At the thought her impatience 
 culminated. She resolved to go to him. Doffing her 
 daydress, she flung about her a loose gown of white 
 wool, heavy with embroidery. Her hair, uncoiffed, fell 
 in tangled waves half over her figure. Her eyes were 
 brilliant with sleep. Her appearance was singularly soft 
 ened by this carelessness of attire, and never, perhaps, 
 
406 
 
 even in the days of her girlhood, had she seemed more 
 beautiful. So she sought her lord, who was, at that 
 moment, dictating to De Burgh figures relative to his 
 promised army. The tapestry hangings were slowly 
 pushed aside, and Isabella halted on the threshold. 
 Here she held her ground, albeit somewhat put out at 
 the presence of De Burgh, who, as she was well aware, 
 did not like her. 
 
 Hearing the little rustle, John looked up. Her ap 
 pearance took him totally by surprise, and for some 
 seconds he sat gazing at her silently. De Burgh, per 
 ceiving her presence, rose at once to depart. 
 
 " Sit you down, Hubert," commanded the King, 
 apparently unmoved by the vision. 
 
 " I pray you, my lord, let me have a word with you 
 to-night." She took one step forward, then stopped 
 again, her hands clasped before her, her whole expres 
 sion peculiarly pleading. She was a wonderfully good 
 actress. 
 
 The King looked down and bit his lip. He knew 
 that the prospect of further peace was not great. " Go 
 then, Hubert, and return in half a candle's length of 
 time," he said at last. 
 
 Hubert rose again, bowed profoundly, first to the 
 King, then to the Queen, and backed from the room. 
 John smiled. De Burgh was generally accustomed to 
 retire normally when he was alone. But as her hus 
 band turned toward Isabella once more, he was not 
 smiling. 
 
 "Now then, madam, your petition at once. Twill 
 be granted more readily an you omit your graces. 
 Truly England needs me more than you to-night." 
 
 She had come quite close, now, and was standing 
 over him, a lock of her hair finding resting place upon 
 his knee. This he lifted sententiously, and dropped 
 away. The action annoyed her, but at the same time 
 showed her her course. 
 
at isrfjstol 47 
 
 " Then indeed I will be brief," she said. " My plea 
 is that you transfer the prisoners in the keep here to 
 another prison ; whether in England or in France I 
 care not, so they be removed hence." 
 
 The King glared at her in high astonishment. " Rest 
 assured, madam, that they will be as safely housed in 
 any other place as here. The Count de la Marche will 
 not be accessible to you while I live." 
 
 Isabella winced. Possibly a part of her hope had 
 been that her former betrothed might be lodged in 
 some fortress less secure than the impenetrable keep of 
 Bristol. However, she quickly recovered herself. " I 
 said naught of myself, Lord King." 
 
 " Then thy reasons, madam ; thy reasons for this 
 folly." 
 
 " My reasons are mine o " she stopped. Why not 
 tell the King her reason? She began again, more 
 gently : " The reason is as much on thy behalf as on 
 mine own. Thou knowest that in this castle is housed 
 thy niece, Eleanor, sister of Arthur of Brittany. Well, 
 my lord, wouldst have two enemies to thy crown 
 united, Eleanor, and De la Marche?" 
 
 "Ah! They have met?" 
 
 " Too often. They love." 
 
 The King eyed her closely. She did not flinch. 
 " Speakest thou truth, woman?" he asked. 
 
 " I swear it." 
 
 "Then, by God's blood, I grant your wish! They 
 shall depart, De la Marche and his men, for Corfe, on 
 the fourteenth." 
 
 "Why not on the morrow?" 
 
 John frowned and searched her face again. " So 
 eager? No. A messenger must first reach the castle 
 to have it prepared ; and a guard must be ready to 
 travel with them. They shall leave the day after." 
 
 " It is well, my lord. I thank you." 
 
 " Thank me not, Isabelle. I misdoubt me 't is a 
 
aJncanonf?eti 
 
 sorry deed. Poor Eleanor! If 'tis true, I dare not 
 look upon her face. It would inspire pity." 
 
 " Pity ! For Geoffrey's daughter ? " 
 
 " Ay, pity. Ah, madam, if they but knew how 
 heavy is England's crown, there would be little strife 
 for it, I ween." 
 
 " Yet you fight well to retain it." 
 
 " To the death, with Innocent and Philip as foes ! " 
 He had spoken fiercely, but in a moment broke into a 
 short laugh. " Well, my Queen, go you to rest. You 
 win your plea, though I much misdoubt me that the 
 charge is founded on but slight suspicion. Depart 
 now. I have work to do." 
 
 Isabella obeyed him with a very good grace. She 
 had gained her point, and, moreover, she had not made 
 John as angry as she had feared to do. So, when at 
 last she had found a quiet pillow, sleep courted her, and 
 she accepted the suit. 
 
 As for John, he rested not at all that night; for, 
 when the will was with him, no man in England could 
 work like England's King. Hubert de Burgh remained 
 till dawn, and then was dismissed for an hour's slumber. 
 
 " I would have thee at hand when the monk comes ; 
 therefore to thy couch now. When he is announced I 
 will have thee called." 
 
 De Burgh, stupid for want of sleep, stumbled away, 
 while the King, still clear in mind and vigorous in 
 body, received his Earl Marshal and William Plantag- 
 enet, the lord high admiral. These two men were 
 to depart later in the morning for Dover, to relieve 
 Martin Algais, who just at present was in command 
 of both army and navy, since ships and men were 
 stationed side by side, the one on the waters of the 
 channel, the other on the downs beside the royal port. 
 At nine the two lords were dismissed with a plan of 
 action clearly mapped out for them, and writs and papers 
 of various authorities in their possession. Then at last 
 
Bigitottf at TBtigtol 409 
 
 the King rose from his place at the great table, called 
 for refreshment, and strolled wearily over to the window 
 of his room, which looked down upon the court. Just 
 below him two horsemen, evidently newly arrived, were 
 dismounting. One of them wore the cowl and dress of 
 a Benedictine monk. 
 
 For the first time in his life at Glastonbury, Anthony 
 had had some little difficulty in obtaining leave for 
 departure to-day. His unpopularity was becoming 
 more marked than ever before, and his slightest move 
 was now vigorously censured by the majority of his 
 fellow-brethren. Besides this, however, the laws gov 
 erning all papal institutions were very strict regarding 
 intercourse with excommunicated persons. John had 
 been for three years excommunicated, and was known 
 to be unrepentant and generally sinful. Accordingly, 
 it were a sin for Anthony to look upon him as a man. 
 But John was not entirely man. He was something 
 considerably more than that, a person with all Eng 
 land's crown jewels lawfully in his possession. Sup 
 pose Anthony, visiting him according to command, 
 should look upon him simply as a King, and then, to 
 be quite safe, suppose that he should previously do 
 penance for contamination, and, on returning, were 
 especially confessed and absolved ? To this very pretty 
 conclusion of a matter somewhat grave (for John was still 
 hot-blooded enough to be capable of having a discourte 
 ous abbey burned), Harold arrived by himself. Being 
 quite sober that day, he had the sense to call in no 
 monk to debate the point with him ; and so Anthony, 
 being told the prior's resolve, when first he came down 
 to lauds, smiled a little, saddled his good companion, 
 and was off down the familiar road, at the end of which 
 waited his King. 
 
 When John saw the monk in the courtyard just 
 underneath his window, with the morning sunshine 
 streaming down on him, and noted the extreme pallor, 
 
410 ^ 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 now habitual, of his face, the King called a lackey, 
 bidding him at once rouse De Burgh, and, furthermore, 
 do something at which the servant's eyes opened wide. 
 As he departed John seated himself again before his 
 work-table, whither presently was brought his morning 
 meal. He had not yet raised food to his lips, when the 
 first groom of the chambers appeared, announcing : 
 
 " My Lord de Burgh," then instantly afterwards, 
 " Anthony Fitz-Hubert." 
 
 The two men entered together ; the chamberlain dis 
 appeared and the King rose. To Anthony he extended 
 his hand. The monk took it upon the back of his, 
 bent the knee, and touched his lips to the gracious 
 fingers with as much ease and as little awkwardness, 
 in his coarse robes, as he had displayed long before, 
 when he was regarded as the most graceful youth at 
 court. 
 
 Hubert and Anthony had evidently met outside ; for 
 they only smiled at each other as John bade them 
 both be seated. 
 
 " We will delay our serious speech, gentlemen, till we 
 have all three broken fast. I have commanded refresh 
 ment for both to be brought hither, and after we have 
 eaten we shall hold converse together." 
 
 Anthony was surprised at the King's manner. Only 
 one who had not seen him in many years could realize 
 how much the royal ways of speech and address were 
 softened, and how near all those trials through which 
 John had passed had come to breaking the iron harsh 
 ness of his spirit. Fitz-Hubert had never dreamed of 
 obtaining anything to eat before the interview should 
 be at an end, and John's thoughtfulness touched him. 
 To tell the truth, he was faint for food, after his long 
 ride that had been begun before the dawn. All three 
 were, however, rapid eaters; and the King, who cer 
 tainly showed need of rest, was plainly anxious to have 
 the conference ended. 
 
at iBrijstol 4" 
 
 When at last all had finished, and the last draught of 
 ale was drunk, the King pushed the dishes down to the 
 other end of the table, wiped his hands upon the com 
 mon napkin, and, after passing it to De Burgh, plunged 
 at once to the heart of the subject in hand. 
 
 " I would have thee tell me, Anthony, and, as thou 
 thinkest, truly, how Glastonbury would be like to' receive 
 Jocelyn as abbot?" 
 
 For the shade of an instant the monk hesitated. It 
 was a question so old that he had not expected it. 
 " Most truly, then, sire, methinks that one and all 
 would sooner break their vows than receive the bishop 
 as their head." 
 
 The King laughed, but not very pleasantly, while De 
 Burgh bent his brows together and frowned upon the 
 monk. Anthony was no whit disturbed. 
 
 " 'T was at least an answer to the point, a most 
 straightforward answer, Sir Monk," growled the King; 
 and Anthony smiled a little, inwardly, at human nature. 
 " Prithee, now, tell us why thou didst make it. What 
 crime hath Jocelyn of late committed?" 
 
 " Just this crime, sire, the one which may be least in 
 the calendar and greatest in a man's heart: he hath 
 lowered their pride. Jocelyn has continued Savaric's 
 -work of reducing the power, the influence, and the reve 
 nues of the abbey. Half the tithes that were wont to pour 
 into the coffers of the treasury from the richest lands 
 in Somerset find their way to-day to the strong-boxes 
 of Wells Cathedral and the bishop's palace there. For 
 this is Jocelyn hated at Glastonbury, and hate is a strange 
 passion, which mounteth higher day by day." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then De Burgh, see 
 ing that the King was not likely to speak again for 
 some time, tactfully introduced a variation of the 
 theme. " T is said that thou, Anthony, didst once de 
 feat the bishop's purpose of becoming abbot on his own 
 pretence." 
 
412 
 
 Anthony flushed, but, chancing to glance at John, 
 was mightily relieved to behold that monarch grinning 
 broadly. Indeed, at last he burst into a hearty laugh, 
 which afterwards he explained. 
 
 " I can see him now, as he stood 'fore thee, all sleek 
 and fat with too much fasting, clad in violet, with his 
 orders about his neck, his little face crimson and like to 
 burst with very fury at thy over-sure knowledge, An 
 thony ! A pretty picture ! Would I might have been 
 there, though 't was but a month before that I myself 
 did see him so at Carisbrooke. Verily I would fain aid 
 the man, for he hath done me good service lately. But 
 the thought thy father's spirit was upon thee then, 
 Anthony ! But now_ again, speak truly," here John's 
 face became serious, " tell me what would hap in 
 Glastonbury were Jocelyn, a rightful abbot, with all 
 his papers duly signed and sealed by King and Pope, 
 suddenly to appear before your gates, demanding 
 recognition." 
 
 " What would happen? " Anthony sat thoughtfully, 
 with his right elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, 
 and his dark eyes resting upon a face in the tapestry 
 over his head. "What would happen, sire? This, 
 methinks. Even as once in Savaric's day they acted, 
 all doors and gates would instantly be barred before 
 the intruder. While food lasted would the monks de 
 fend themselves ; and this time, when it should be gone, 
 I ween they would all starve themselves into purgatory 
 rather than admit the bishop over them again. An I 
 may say it, my Lord King, the quarrel is too bitter and 
 too old a one to stir up in this new way. Hate begets 
 monstrous progeny. Beware lest it fall upon the body 
 of the Bishop of Bath. An it should happen so, he 
 would be a thing unclean." 
 
 The King stood up. Instantly the others imitated 
 him. John's face was not difficult to read. It was all 
 annoyance. " We thank you for your counsel, Master 
 
at 'Btfjstot 413 
 
 Anthony, and we bid you adieu. Give our greeting to 
 Harold of Glastonbury, and thank him for delivering 
 you up to us for speech. Recommend him also not to 
 make your penance too severe. You are at liberty 
 to go." 
 
 Anthony bowed low and backed away. When the 
 tapestry finally fell before the sackcloth, the King turned 
 to De Burgh, whose eyes had followed the retreating 
 figure, and who was now, to tell the truth, a trifle 
 nervous. 
 
 " So, Hubert. What think you of the advice of this 
 most honest monk?" 
 
 " As honestly, good my liege, I believe he spoke 
 truth." 
 
 " Did ever a king get so much honesty of a morning ! 
 And still you counsel me to hold to him? " 
 
 De Burgh bowed. 
 
 " Then, my lord," said John, sighing deeply, " I per 
 ceive that it will befall that I shall return to Jocelyn, as 
 favor for the work of his tongue, some several of those 
 fat and useful bags which erstwhile he did delight in 
 sending me." 
 
 And De Burgh, just then looking discreetly at the 
 King's eyes, ventured, successfully, to laugh. 
 
 On this morning of March thirteenth, Isabella woke 
 at an hour unusually late. Her toilet was accomplished 
 with much difficulty by her ladies, for the Queen was 
 strangely preoccupied, and deported herself like a doll 
 in their hands. Her morning meal, for which she did 
 not often descend to the great room, was carried to her 
 apartments in the south wing of the castle, opposite to 
 those occupied by her niece. Her bread, pasty, and 
 tumbler of sweetened, spiced milk consumed, the royal 
 lady called one of her demoiselles to her side, and gave 
 an unexpected command. 
 
 " Go thou, in company with a lackey, and greet from 
 
4H 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 me Princess Eleanor of Brittany, who is lodged in the 
 castle here, and request her attendance on me in mine 
 own rooms at once, if it please her to come." 
 
 It was a courteous message for Isabella of Angouleme. 
 She was not prone to gentleness as a means of obtain 
 ing a wish. But perhaps it was as well for once that 
 she should remember Eleanor's birth, and the humiliat 
 ing fact that it was far better than her own. At all 
 events, curiosity and jealousy combined to make her 
 take every means within her power to bring the im 
 prisoned Princess, whom she had never seen, to her 
 side. Isabella's purpose in the interview was as cruel 
 and imprudent a one as could be devised. Her man 
 ner, as minutes passed, grew more and more gentle, 
 cat-like, and bland ; and her ladies, when they saw her 
 face, thanked the fates that she was dismissing them 
 from her presence. They knew her expression of old. 
 
 Eleanor of Brittany had long felt toward her uncle's 
 bride a warmth of gratitude for having given her the 
 privilege which of late years was all that had made her 
 prison endurable. She had never understood the real 
 motive that gave her Louis de la Bordelaye for a compan 
 ion. To her it meant only the kindness and sympathy 
 of her aunt; and Anthony had never been willing to 
 undeceive her on this point. Therefore it was with joy 
 that she received the courteous message of the Queen, 
 and without hesitation obeyed her command. 
 
 Eleanor, followed her obsequious guides through the 
 long halls and antechambers with a sudden, pitiful 
 sense of what freedom would mean. Poor girl ! Never 
 before had she been beyond that isolated portion of the 
 castle where her own meagre apartments were situated, 
 except to descend the little flight of stairs that led to 
 the chapel which she used. It was a moment that 
 she never forgot when, her name and title being an 
 nounced, the last door before her was opened, and she 
 stood face to face with John's wife and Queen. 
 
at isrigtol 415 
 
 Isabella was seated upon a low couch, toying with 
 a peacock's feather. As Eleanor came in she did 
 not rise. This little act of haughtiness annoyed the 
 Princess, and her salutation came very near to being 
 that which she would have given to an inferior. Isa 
 bella noted this at once and flushed. Certainly the 
 visit was not opened auspiciously; and the first un 
 pleasantness was increased when Eleanor, after her cour 
 tesy, stood perfectly still, studying the royal face, and 
 waiting for what was to come, with the kindness in her 
 heart neutralized by her aunt's present behavior. The 
 steady gaze from those large grey eyes was certainly 
 disconcerting. 
 
 " Be seated," said the Queen at last. 
 
 Eleanor sank down upon a stool, her dress falling 
 in perfect lines about her feet. Presently, with calm 
 deliberation, the Princess crossed her knees, rested an 
 elbow on the uppermost, and let her hand support her 
 chin. Her eyes were cast down, and she appeared to 
 be studying the rushes on the floor. Her long black 
 lashes swept her delicately flushed cheeks, and, if one 
 could forget the negligence of the attitude, her grace 
 was perfect. A man would have forgiven the pose 
 for the beauty. Isabella, being a woman, offended by 
 Eleanor's manner, felt her hate grow strong. 
 
 " Madam, I have summoned you hither that I might 
 inform you of a matter too trivial for the King to waste 
 his time upon. He intrusted the message to me. 
 Doubtless you would hear it straightway, that you may 
 return again to the side of your lover, whatever you 
 did call him." 
 
 The sneer in this last sentence was so palpable that 
 Eleanor, out of sheer surprise, straightened into a more 
 royal attitude. Seeing the Queen's face, her wonder 
 grew. 
 
 " What is mine uncle's message to me, madam?" she 
 asked. 
 
4*6 
 
 " This. Dost remember sending to me, more than a 
 twelvemonth since, a wandering monk, your so-called 
 confessor, to plead with me on behalf of the Count de 
 la Marche?" 
 
 " Not De la Marche, the Sieur de la Bordelaye," 
 responded the little Princess, quickly. 
 
 The Queen's shoulders went up. " As you will. 
 Keep up the lie if it please you. I say, De la Marche ; 
 for deceit and tricks of names like me not. Well, my 
 news is this. Upon the morrow, the Count de la 
 Marche, or the Sieur de la Bordelaye, or whatever you 
 would call him, departs hence, by royal order, to 
 Corfe Castle." 
 
 " Corfe ! T is well known to me. For two years, 
 at the royal pleasure, did I lodge there." 
 
 At last the Queen rose, dropping her feather, and 
 gazing anxiously into the girlish face. " Didst thou 
 not hear? Thy lover, De la Marche, leaves thee 
 to-morrow ! " 
 
 Eleanor rose also, and answered the Queen's look, 
 eye for eye, with one of contempt such as only royal 
 children can give. " I hear you, madam. Is that all 
 your news? " 
 
 During a long moment there was complete silence. 
 Neither moved. The Queen, wretchedly baffled by 
 her opponent's stupidity, was showing her nature. 
 She searched for words. When they came at last, her 
 voice shook. 
 
 " That was all my message. Truly the King will 
 rejoice to hear that it has not hurt you. Adieu." 
 
 Eleanor gave a vague, meaningless smile, courtesied 
 slightly, turned her back on Isabella, and left the room. 
 She began the long walk to her own apartments rapidly, 
 and perhaps it was the stimulus of motion that brought 
 the first quiver of fear into her heart. What if this 
 strange Queen had spoken truth? What if not only 
 the Count, but also his gentlemen, were to depart to 
 
IKoyal J&ijSftotsi at iBrfsitol 417 
 
 that northern fortress? What if she were to be left, 
 alone? And this was as far as her mind went. She 
 strove to keep out the terror by increasing her speed, 
 and it was at a swift run that she finally reached the well- 
 known door. Flinging it open, she entered, panting. 
 
 Once upon the threshold, she started to call a name, 
 when her eyes met those of a man who stood confront 
 ing her at the far end of the room. He remained 
 there, motionless, letting her read his face. From her 
 parted lips came a sudden, agonized scream. It was 
 not fear, but certainty, which had pierced now into 
 her breast. 
 
 " Louis ! " 
 
 " Eleanor ! " He spoke the word faintly, but it was 
 none the less pitiful. Hearing it, she began to move 
 toward him. Her life, all the remaining, endless years 
 of it, and she did not die young, were crowded into 
 the twelve steps that carried her to him. He waited for 
 her, still, breathless, till one of her outstretched hands 
 touched his. Then he caught her convulsively in his 
 arms, and his head sank over hers. 
 
 " Louis, Louis, it is true ! It is true ! They will 
 take thee away. Oh ! How shall I live ! How shall 
 I live ! " 
 
 She spoke in French. In their common tongue he 
 answered her, two words, spoken so low that none but 
 her could ever have heard them. They came from the 
 depths of his soul. 
 
 " My wife." 
 
 She trembled a little in his arms, then lay quite silent 
 on the settle whither he had drawn her. Like one in a 
 dream she echoed him. 
 
 " Thy wife. Let it be so, Louis ! Let us be wedded 
 in the chapel, to-night, ere thou go." 
 
 He made no answer, and she knew that the wish was 
 also his ; but he would not ask a princess to become 
 
 his wife. 
 
 27 
 
4 J 8 2Jncanoni?et> 
 
 " Mary ! " called Eleanor. 
 
 Simultaneously with this cry there was a light knock 
 at the door, which was not heeded. Mary came 
 swiftly into the room. " Mary, John Norman shall ride 
 to-day to Glastonbury and bring hither Anthony the 
 monk, though King or Pope or God himself should 
 bar his path ! " 
 
 The knock at the door was repeated. Mechanically 
 Mary crossed and opened it. Anthony entered the 
 room. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 FOR WOE 
 
 THE shadows of darkness crept at last about the 
 turrets of the old-time castle, on the afternoon 
 of the thirteenth day of that long-past March. 
 Gently the night-wind crooned about its now fallen 
 towers. In half the fortress there was feasting, sing 
 ing, brawling and laughter ; and none there thought 
 of all the ages that should come upon the world when 
 they had gone. At the keep, within the rough prison 
 rooms of the Count of Poictou, was sorrowful prepara 
 tion. There was none of his comrades whose heart 
 was not heavy for him who was leaving his life all 
 behind him here, and whose years beyond were black. 
 For these gentlemen, comrades in misfortune for so 
 long a time, had come to love each other fast and firmly. 
 Though not a word of the matter was spoken in 
 the morning, when the King's command came upon 
 them, and they had seen De la Bordelaye leave the 
 keep, and knew whither he went, yet when he returned 
 again, with a face older than it had ever been before, 
 each man went up to him and held out a silent hand. 
 Louis' palms were like ice, and the grasp that he gave 
 their friendly fingers caused them vividly to remember 
 the moment for some time after. He did not have 
 to turn away his eyes. When the deathblow to their 
 happiness comes, men do not weep. But through 
 the day De la Bordelaye acted in a manner which 
 they could not understand. All day long he stood 
 at a loophole that looked off to the west ; and all day 
 
420 
 
 he dully prayed for the sun to sink below the horizon 
 line. 
 
 How shall any one describe the spirit that breathed 
 through the little suite of prison rooms in the west end 
 of the northern wing of the great castle ? There Mary 
 and Eleanor spent the long hours alone. Anthony had 
 departed, and would return only with the night. The 
 two little French women were dismissed to their rooms. 
 The Princess could neither explain to them her secret, 
 for dread of their excitement, nor yet could she endure 
 their innocent presence. Mary was different. Her 
 heart was not shrivelled and dry, and prematurely old. 
 She had seen everything at one glance. Nothing had 
 been told her in words. While Eleanor sat silent at 
 the window in her living-room, looking out upon the 
 desolate earth, her gray eyes lost in space, and her 
 heart unreadable, Mary was all burning with pain and 
 unutterable sorrow for the sake of Anthony, the monk. 
 
 A mad idea, this marriage ! A troubadour's plan ! A 
 child's wish ! A headlong action that must fling two 
 people into life-long unhappiness for the sakepf a single 
 hour ! True, a prison hour is far longer than an ordi 
 nary one ; but then is a lifetime under key the only 
 human conception of eternity. In that little group who 
 knew the secret, only one there was endowed with fore 
 sight; and that gift would benefit none concerned, in 
 any way. How should Anthony forbid the marriage, 
 he, the monk who had dared to lift his love to her? 
 The thought of pleading with her to consider her act he 
 did not for one instant permit himself to hold. Those 
 two had loved, truly. They had voiced their wish. 
 His was the power to fulfil it ; for, both of them being 
 of French birth, .English Interdict had no effect upon 
 them. In his power he was permitted only to rejoice. 
 
 Eleanor Fitz-Geoffrey, although now in her twenty- 
 fourth year, looked not a day older than she had done 
 when Anthony first saw her. She was older in mind, 
 
for tzaoe 421 
 
 true. Love and the fulness thereof had changed her 
 childhood into something far more ; but the real woman 
 hood of her character did not appear till sorrow and 
 repining had come with it, as her only heritage. All 
 through this long day her mood was quiescent The 
 hours were short. To the evening she looked forward 
 with tremulous eagerness, for who loves not such ro 
 mance as this? But she never dared to let her thoughts 
 go beyond the night. If they strayed to the future, 
 her prisoner's eyes would grow piteous, and one delicate 
 hand would pick at her dress in an abandonment of 
 dread. Continually she was forcing her mind back, 
 back to the present, to happiness, to him. Her Sieur 
 could not come to her that day ; for he dared not run 
 the risk of an encounter with the royal guards about the 
 castle. But at dark Anthony was to wait at the little 
 postern beside the chapel, at the foot of the stairs, and 
 admit him there. How he should go was not yet 
 thought of. 
 
 Lingeringly and softly the twilight fell, and then at 
 last there was something to occupy the immediate 
 thoughts of Eleanor and her maiden. For a prisoner, 
 Eleanor's wardrobe was very large; but the garments 
 in it were old and much worn. In her possession there 
 was but one dress which had not been drawn from its 
 coffers since she had, years before, left the shores of 
 Brittany. This one was a memory of the days at Falaise, 
 where the widow of Henry of England held her court. 
 The last time that she had worn it, a child of sixteen, 
 knights and courtiers had raved over her beauty; and 
 her grandmother, fearful of her vanity, had forbidden her 
 to appear in it again. The robe was all of cloth of silver. 
 From the hem of the skirt up to the knees were wrought 
 long-stemmed flowers of solid silver, fastened by a worker 
 in precious metals to the material itself. The waist was 
 filmy with rare old lace, and there was a collar of bril 
 liants to go with it. With this royal costume Eleanor 
 
422 
 
 would wear no coronet, though, as was lawful, she pos 
 sessed one, even in her captivity. But she would go 
 to her husband not as a princess; as a woman only. 
 Therefore her hair was simply coifed and pinned with 
 jewelled combs. When Mary's deft fingers had put 
 the last touches to the toilet, the wedding toilet, 
 Eleanor stood before her steel mirror, in the candle 
 light, and looked long and earnestly at the reflection. 
 Then she drew a long sigh. He should find her lovely, 
 now. But her heart beat to suffocation, and her fore 
 head grew damp when she perceived Mary approaching 
 her again with a long, black cloak in her arms. 
 " It is the hour. Wilt be gone, now, madam? " 
 Eleanor shivered. " Mary ! Mary ! I am afraid ! " 
 For an instant she faltered, .and the tears came into 
 Mary's eyes. Then with a quick cry the Princess sur 
 rendered herself, and was held tenderly in the peasant's 
 arms; for, after all, women are very close sometimes. 
 And whether her tears were for Anthony's heart-sorrow, 
 or for the hapless love of this ill-starred lady, the Ma 
 donna of the Fields at that moment could not have told. 
 Not a word was spoken by either, and the embrace 
 lasted only for an instant. Then the Princess once 
 more struggled to her feet. The time was indeed come. 
 Fate, unseen, was pointing her on through the madness 
 of joy toward gray lovelessness that stretched beyond ; 
 and now thither, on winged feet, went the two whose 
 lives, joined for an instant in the whirling of eternity, 
 were after it to be wrenched apart again forevermore. 
 
 How Anthony endured through that day he did not 
 know. Afterwards, had he chosen, he might have 
 recollected the passing of noontide hours in the lodge 
 with John Norman, over a bottle of Rhenish, a 
 manchet, and a plump chicken, listening dreamily, 
 the while, to the old man's endless chatter. Then 
 in the afternoon, he went to the stables and saw his 
 horse groomed and fed. Left alone with the animal, 
 
for auoe 423 
 
 a little later, was it possible that Anthony the cold 
 blooded, Anthony of Glastonbury, who feared no living 
 authority, let his shorn head fall against Nero's black 
 mane, and left it there, for an hour, as it seemed to 
 him? Love, Anthony? Love is the penalty of pre 
 sumption ; the penalty of life ! No blessing could it 
 ever bring to thee. Why didst not in youth steel thy 
 heart, and forbear to look upon its face? 'Tis such 
 a little thing when a man knows Latin, and approaches 
 Greek, and can dispute with Abelard and Rosselinus 
 and John of Salisbury; when he approves of Erigena, 
 and the Areopagite, and respects all Platonists ! Love 
 is such a little thing compared to learning ! And yet 
 and yet is not all learning learned for love? 
 
 When the March sun had left its zenith, and was 
 already a long way down the slippery sky, Anthony 
 returned into the castle. His mind now came to a 
 standstill before the chapel candles. Like Eleanor and 
 De la Bordelaye, he would not let it go. With a cloth 
 from the vestry he set to work upon the silver branches, 
 and polished them well. He then filled them with gra 
 dated candles; arranged the altar and its cloth; dusted 
 the confessional ; placed the kneeling-cushion, with its 
 tarnished fringes, before the altar; and finally, going 
 again into the vestry, he brought back with him, into 
 the waning light, a magnificent stole, cassock, and cap. 
 The cassock was of lace, rarely old ; the stole and the 
 cap of red, heavily worked in golden leaves and stars ; 
 much tarnished, but still yellow enough to reveal their 
 richness. These things Eleanor had asked the monk to 
 wear, in memory of the ceremonies she had been wont 
 to see. He looked well at all the things, and afterward 
 down at himself, his old robe of rusty black, his rope- 
 bound waist, his bare, sandalled feet. His face grew 
 stern, and he shook his head thoughtfully. Then he 
 carried the garments back again to the vestry and put 
 them away. He was a monk ; nothing more. A puppet 
 
424 
 
 he would not be, even for the sake of Eleanor, his 
 Princess, whom he was to make the bride of Louis de 
 la Bordelaye. 
 
 It had grown now quite dark in the chapel. Moving 
 a little unsteadily, he lighted a taper at the lamp that 
 hung before the shrine of the Madonna, and which 
 Eleanor kept always burning. With his taper he began 
 to illumine the candles before the altar. Vividly did it 
 recall the night, now so long past, when he and Alex 
 ander had prepared Canterbury Cathedral for the con 
 secration of Reginald, the Archbishop of a day. That 
 this marriage was to be as ill-fated as that election had 
 been, Anthony could not doubt. His lighting of can 
 dles in this lonely place seemed, in some vague way, to 
 presage evil to those about him and to himself. 
 
 The monk was intent upon his work and his thoughts. 
 He Jieard not a sound at the chapel door. He did not 
 feel the presence of the man who had stopped before it, 
 and was looking in on him, curiously ; and who suddenly, 
 actuated by some unknown impulse, tiptoed carefully 
 through this little room and into the vestry, where, from 
 the convenient darkness, he could see all that was to 
 happen in the supposedly deserted chapel. The man 
 was the King. Leaving De Burgh to take his place, he 
 had, some time before, slipped away from the banquet, 
 which was growing noisy ; and dreaming of many things, 
 but least of love, had finally wandered here into the 
 north wing of the castle. Seeing light issue from a 
 small doorway afar down the corridor from where he 
 stood, John had gone toward it to find what inhabitant 
 dwelt in this portion of his building. Curiosity and 
 love of novelty being two very strong characteristics of 
 the royal nature, he was destined for once to gratify 
 them both. To the excommunicated King, chapels 
 were strange things ; and he was surprised at the busi 
 ness of the occupant of this one. Anthony's face he 
 recognized at once ; but Anthony's position as confessor 
 
for aaioe 425 
 
 to his captive niece he had utterly forgotten. How the 
 monk, therefore, came to be in this place, at this hour, 
 and engaged in such occupation, were mysteries only 
 equalled by a second apparition. A woman, slight of 
 form and very pale of face, closely wrapped in black, 
 glided swiftly into the little room. The King could 
 see her panting, and guessed her agitation. She went 
 straight to Anthony, who turned to her with such a 
 look in his eyes as angels would not soon forget. 
 Before him she dropped upon her knees, and his bless 
 ing, which she could not see, was like a caress. Then, 
 nervously taking his arm, she led him to the door and 
 pointed out. 
 
 " Go quickly. He may even now be waiting," she 
 whispered tremulously. 
 
 The monk disappeared into the darkness, and the 
 woman turned about and knelt upon the stones before 
 the shrine of the Madonna. John had not yet seen her 
 face distinctly. He knew only that she was not his wife ; 
 but her identity he half guessed. .Three minutes passed. 
 She grew impatient. Another three and she had risen 
 from her knees. One more, longer than any which yet 
 had been, and she unbound her veil. John started. 
 He recognized his niece. Then, slowly, she unfastened 
 her cloak at the neck. There were distant footsteps 
 coming down the hall. Her heart beat once, with great 
 violence, and then was calm again. Almost uncon 
 scious of the action, she flung her wrap away from her, 
 and then stood quite still, swayed far forward, listening 
 breathlessly to the increasing sound. In the candle 
 light her silver robes shimmered about her like mist in 
 the sunshine. The look in her face was empyreal. 
 This was the great climax of her lonely life. He was 
 coming to her, he, the one who had brought life into 
 her death. He was to be all hers, hers alone, for a few 
 remaining hours. Then 
 
 The two men reached the chapel door, and Anthony 
 
4.26 
 
 had stepped slightly back of his companion. Louis de 
 la Bordelaye stood on the threshold. There was a low, 
 long cry from a woman's throat, and those two who 
 were so nearly one were fast in each other's arms; 
 while down the forehead of Anthony of Glastonbury 
 ran two or three great drops of cold, salt sweat. 
 
 There was but a single moment of the passionate 
 embrace ; and De la Bordelaye held Eleanor off at arm's 
 length, gazing at her with his soul in his eyes. " Thou 
 art more beautiful than the angels," he whispered to 
 her; and at the tone Anthony's temper rose. While 
 her lips answered him the monk stood away, fighting 
 with himself on the side of destiny. 
 
 Meantime the King, in the darkness, gravely regarded 
 the scene. It was well, perhaps, that he had chanced 
 upon it, yet he stood in great doubt as to what his 
 course should be. Isabella had certainly lied to him. 
 Here was no De la Marche. And Eleanor was so ex 
 quisite in her happiness that sympathy for her could 
 not but enter into his heart, even while he realized that 
 according to all the laws that govern policy he must 
 not leave these two together though they were in cap 
 tivity. He had fallen into a revery of other days, those 
 before his accession to the throne, the girl before him 
 only a baby in the arms of her mother, Geoffrey's 
 wife, when he was startled by the sound of the first 
 words of the marriage ceremony. 
 
 The two young people faced the altar, and Anthony, 
 his face nearly in shadow, confronted them. The pol 
 ished Latin cadences fell rhythmically from his lips; 
 but there was in his voice to-night neither expression 
 nor music. How should he love the syllables that his 
 dry lips were forming? The attitude of the monk 
 betrayed no feeling. He stood rigid, his gaze fixed 
 in space, making no pause in the thing that he was 
 doing. But in his heart, which was read only by the 
 great Father, lay such a deathcry as no man has ever 
 
for OHoe m 4 2 7 
 
 uttered. His whole existence seemed to have gone out 
 behind him. Dust and ashes were his dreams. And 
 still his hard, dry voice went on and on, until the end. 
 The end came mercifully at length. They two, she 
 and the other, the man whom he hated and loved, were 
 married. They rose from their knees, and then he 
 would have turned away. But Eleanor, blushing, smil 
 ing, shrinking, like any bride of the noon, came forward 
 to him, her confessor, her friend of old, and held out 
 both her hands. 
 
 " God bless thee, dearest father. Thou hast given 
 me all my life's happiness to-night." 
 
 He did not touch her, but drew back swiftly. " Thank 
 me not, madam, until a month be gone," was the reply 
 that flew from his lips. 
 
 De la Bordelaye gave him a look of astonishment and 
 anger. Eleanor's face had once more turned ashen. 
 A low, faltering groan escaped her, and her hands crept 
 slowly to her heart. In an instant she might have fallen, 
 had not her husband, at that moment, lifted her from 
 the floor in his arms. Her head fell back, inert, upon 
 his shoulder. So, striding lightly with his slender 
 burden, he bore her from their wedding. 
 
 Like a wounded dog Anthony crept after them to 
 the door. Blindly, through the darkness, he followed 
 the progress of mon Sieur's steps, down the passage and 
 upward, on the stairs, till the echoes reached his ears 
 no longer. Yet still he stood, wearily, unfeeling, un 
 thinking, upon the threshold of eternity. After a little 
 he turned about and stumbled across the chapel. He 
 did not know that a sound had passed his lips. Care 
 fully, slowly, he laid himself, face downward, upon the 
 floor, before Mary's shrine. He pressed his mouth and 
 his forehead gratefully upon the cold stones, and at last, 
 scarce conscious of what he did, began to pray; to pray 
 for Eleanor, his Princess, and for her husband, and her 
 happiness, a struggling, half-voiced, passionate prayer. 
 
428 
 
 Though for the saying of it he was perhaps hardly 
 responsible, yet, because it was conceived of great 
 instinctive purity, it did ascend, like all such, to the 
 heaven of Mary and of God. 
 
 After it was ended he still lay there, drowsily now, 
 though the chapel was very cold. One or two of his 
 candles had already flared up and gone out into nothing 
 ness. In the semi-darkness he was roused from his 
 growing coma by a step which seemed close to his ear. 
 Looking slowly up, he saw that a man was standing over 
 him. 
 
 " Rise thou, Fitz-Hubert," cried a voice which he 
 knew to be the King's. 
 
 Slowly Anthony stood up, and, nervously exhausted 
 as he was, prepared for still another scene. 
 
 "All that has passed here to-night I have beheld," 
 continued John, narrowly examining the other's face for 
 some sign of fear. Sign was there none. " Know that 
 thou hast merited my grave displeasure." 
 
 " Doubtless, sire," was the laconic answer. 
 
 "Then why, Sir Monk, didst do the deed?" 
 
 " Because I so wished to do." 
 
 The King was slightly nonplussed. He changed 
 the immediate topic. "This man, he is one of De 
 la Marche's suite?" 
 
 " Yes, sire." 
 
 " And knowest thou that on the morrow he departs 
 for Corfe? That on the first day of their wedded life 
 these two people must forever be parted?" 
 
 " It still lies in your power, Lord King, to undo the 
 unhappiness that confronts them. As King, as man, I 
 ask of you that you countermand the order which will 
 separate them." 
 
 "What sayest thou, man! Wouldst have me sanc 
 tion the union?" 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 For a moment John examined him closely. The 
 
JKHoe 429 
 
 monk steadily answered the look, giving no sign of 
 feeling. "Now, look you, Anthony, that you speak 
 truth to me. De Burgh did surmise, sometime since, 
 that you, the son of mine old friend Hubert Walter, 
 though a monk professed, did dare in your own heart 
 to love my niece. Is this sooth? " 
 
 " No ! " cried Anthony. Then, startled by the ring 
 ing of his voice, he added in a lower tone : " Save as a 
 priest may reverently love the purity of the woman 
 whose life and thoughts he has heard in confession for 
 many years." 
 
 "So. Well, it would indeed have been most marvel 
 lous had you consented to marry away her whom 
 you loved. But, Master Anthony, despite your words, 
 these two must be parted. Eleanor, daughter and 
 sister of the greatest enemies of my crown, must not 
 carry on a line of hate by marriage with another enemy, 
 a Poictevin, who owes his vassalage to Hugo de la 
 Marche. Remember that I had not guessed this plan 
 of yours ; and remember also that it was carried out in 
 the full knowledge of the parting that shall come. To 
 morrow, even as I have commanded, he shall go." 
 
 So spake the King, not angrily, but in the tone which 
 his councillors and his friends had long since learned to 
 know as final. But Anthony, not used to John's way, 
 was not aware of this. In his own heart he believed 
 that another plea for her might perhaps have softened 
 the royal heart. The plea he did not make, but 
 remained in acquiescent silence while John, taking a 
 lighted candle from the altar to guide him on his way 
 back to his own rooms, departed out of his presence 
 without another word. 
 
 So that night of March thirteenth passed slowly 
 through the portals of time, back to the eternity whence 
 it came. By midnight, castle, keep, and lodge were all 
 asleep. The night-wind swirled about the towers. In 
 the chilly vestry off the marriage chapel lay one whose 
 
43 (Uncanom'?eti 
 
 eyes closed not, but who tossed in a double agony of 
 mind and flesh backward and forth in his maddening 
 garment of penitence, upon the straw pallet, covered 
 from the frosty night by a vestment of red and of 
 gold. 
 
 The morning dawned ; the morning when Bristol's 
 prisoners were to end an old and begin a new captivity. 
 How had the sun courage to shine upon such a day? 
 It did shine, with cruel brilliancy, all the long hours 
 through, until it departed from the English race and 
 left therein two hearts to that kindly shelter of tears, 
 the night. Eleanor's windows looked toward the west 
 and south upon the courtyard. Therefore no sudden 
 gleam startled the pretty twilight of early morning, 
 when first the sun peered over the horizon's edge. But 
 the shadow of dawn found De la Bordelaye with still 
 open eyes. His burden had been too heavy for rest. 
 Rising quietly, he hastened to prepare himself for the 
 day, turning, when he could bear to do so, to gaze 
 upon the delicate, faintly smiling face of his wife, who had 
 fallen, with the coming of morning, into a light sleep. 
 Her dreams were happy ones ; and, wishing to leave 
 her to them while they stayed, he took care to move so 
 softly that he should not waken her. It was not yet 
 five by the dial when, fully accoutred, he wrapped him 
 self once more in the sombre cloak with which he had 
 left the keep. Stealthily he moved toward the bed 
 side, thinking to look upon her there for the last time, 
 and so spare her a fresh agony of parting. She was very 
 near to waking, though he did not know it. Her cheeks 
 were flushed a little, and she moved uneasily in slumber. 
 One long coil of her silken black hair had fallen over 
 the edge of the bed, and dragged upon the floor below. 
 La Bordelaye caught this up in his hands and pressed 
 it again and again to his lips, striving fiercely to keep 
 back the moan that had risen from his breast. He rose 
 
iffor moe 43 1 
 
 at last from his knees, the tears raining' down his face, 
 the breath struggling with difficulty through his strained 
 throat. Perhaps until this pitiful moment Louis had 
 never known the full extent of his great love for Eleanor. 
 Her presence concentrated his life. Without her he 
 could not dream of existence. All this swept over him 
 as he hurried to the door of that little room. If he 
 could, he must spare her the last pain of the actual 
 farewell, even though he longed more than he could 
 have told for one word, one look from her, his wife, 
 his love, his princess. His hand was upon the tap 
 estry curtain. There was a wild cry behind him. In 
 an instant of weakness he turned. She was in his 
 arms. 
 
 That cry was their only utterance. In their vale of 
 sorrow there was not a sound. They were blind, deaf, 
 dumb, incapable of but one thought, that this moment 
 was their last together ; that presently one spirit should 
 be torn in two. Time being as nothing, then, they 
 might have stood for an hour thus, fiercely clasped. 
 De la Bordelaye was roused by a slight sound. Mary 
 had entered through a little door in the opposite wall 
 and stood transfixed, gazing upon them, tearless, but with 
 her hands clasped tightly before her. Recovering mem 
 ory and reason with the sight of her, the man made 
 a slight sign with his head. She understood, came 
 forward and took Eleanor, now scarcely conscious, 
 from him who still clung to her. The Princess made 
 no resistance. She had fallen back upon Mary. Her 
 arms dropped to her sides. She gave a choking cough, 
 and Louis saw blood upon her lips, that had come, deep 
 and brilliant, from her lungs. The man whispered two 
 words, hoarsely, to Mary. They expressed the single 
 straw of thought that now remained to him in the 
 torrent of his feeling. 
 
 " Comfort her." 
 
 Then he was gone. 
 
Corfe Castle*was a long distance from Bristol, lying 
 far to the north, somewhere near the border of Wales. 
 The messenger of the King having now been allowed 
 a full day's start for preparation, the little group of 
 Poictevin prisoners was ordered to leave the keep at six 
 in the morning. Thus De la Bordelaye, whose romance 
 was known to all the members of the old, friendly 
 guard, had barely time enough to regain his place 
 before the summons came from the new men. The 
 call was prompt, for the sun had just begun to touch 
 the dial mark; and at once the five prisoners, led by 
 the captain of their road-guard, issued for the last time 
 from that old and dearly loved prison. They were to 
 be very strictly watched upon the journey, and, even 
 now, their hands had been tied a foot apart, with stout 
 rope. Then for formality's sake they were searched. A 
 little packet, taken from the breast of De la Bordelaye's 
 doublet, was glanced through and returned to him with 
 a sympathetic smile. Louis feared no rallying on the 
 part of his friends. Knowing that the matter was truly 
 serious, they were too considerate of him to speak. 
 
 When finally they stepped from the guardroom into 
 the courtyard, the scene was enlivening. The March 
 air was frosty, despite the sun. A high wind swirled 
 down from the northwest, blowing out the pennants 
 on the lances of the horsemen who were riding their 
 chargers up and down the stonepaved court. The sun 
 light glanced from their polished armor and trappings, 
 and shone full into the pallid faces of the prisoners as 
 they were lifted to the saddles and had their feet tied 
 together beneath the bodies of their steeds. 
 
 The Princess Eleanor, with Mary, totally unheeded, 
 behind her, stood at her window looking down at it all. 
 She was quite tearless, and no sign of emotion escaped 
 her, except that presently her left hand crept up to her 
 throat and grasped it as if to ease the tightening strain. 
 She was still in her long, loose, white gown, over which 
 
for asaoe 433 
 
 Mary had thrown a mantle. Her feet were bare, among 
 the rushes of the floor ; and her hair, dishevelled, fell 
 back from the thin, white face, in which her great eyes 
 looked forth pitifully upon the sight below. So she 
 was to behold, for the last time in life, the form of her 
 husband. She thought that she saw his hands tremble 
 as he took the reins of his horse from a soldier beside 
 him. She watched him under the ignominy of being 
 bound to his saddle. She perceived that his dark hair 
 was stirred by the breeze. She noted the waving of the 
 draggled plume in his cap. The line was being formed 
 for the departure. A little group of the soldiers of 
 their old guard came crowding about to say farewell to 
 the men whom they had come to know so well. It was 
 in love and sorrow that turnkey and prisoner clasped 
 hands and said good-bye. One thing only Eleanor 
 could not note. That was another face that looked 
 down from a window in the opposite wing of the castle 
 upon this very scene. This, too, was a woman's face, 
 framed, like the other, in black hair. But, oh ! the 
 difference of the two ! It was Isabella, a wretched 
 woman, an unhappy Queen, who, in doing Eleanor 
 great wrong, had likewise wronged herself. Her eyes 
 were fixed in passionate intensity upon the unconscious 
 figure of Hugo de la Marche, who sat his horse at the 
 head of the line with the dignity of an old-time warrior. 
 No sign for her, for his former ward, for the lady of 
 England, had the Count to-day. 
 
 A bugle sounded. The little group of horses straight 
 ened out and began to move. He was going Louis 
 de la Bordelaye, the husband of the most hapless and 
 the most beautiful Princess in all Europe, the Pearl of 
 Brittany! He was going he was going forever. A 
 scream of agony was in Eleanor's heart, but it never 
 reached her lips. He had turned in his saddle. His 
 eyes were lifted to her at the window. He could make 
 no move; but a smile, heart-broken, infinitely tender, 
 
434 
 
 lighted his face, and flew to her. She answered it 
 bravely, with a long love-look. The drawbridge fell. 
 There was a sharp turn in the road beyond it. The 
 last horseman passed away. They were gone. Eleanor 
 turned slowly from the window, her face transfigured 
 with the holiness of sorrow. She sank gently to her 
 knees; and then, as she swayed, unconscious, Mary 
 caught her in her arms. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 GUESTS AT GLASTONBURY 
 
 ANEW season had come round again. It was that 
 month of months, the fifth in the year, when the 
 great thorn -tree was wont to find itself in a new 
 coat of white and delicate green ; when the reservoir at 
 the abbey was replenished with young trout, and com 
 pline was said in twilight. Anthony, also, was beginning 
 to make new visits to Saint Michael's Torr, no longer out 
 of lonely unhappiness, but to watch the advance of the 
 season. And when Philip sometimes ascended thither, 
 during recreation, to bear him company, it was he who 
 must speak cheerfully, and point out contentment to the 
 melancholy scribe. 
 
 To tell the truth, Philip, filius Benedicti, was far too 
 unworldly a person to have borne with any equanimity 
 his single glimpse of the outer life. Beside his own 
 heart-wound, which was so deep that he could not 
 bear to let his thoughts rest upon it, Philip had been 
 incredibly distressed by the other incidents of his 
 journey. The idea that some lives, even of the very 
 loneliest in the secular world, were so well filled with 
 change of scene and happening, that such an incident 
 as the arrival of a petty monk caused no interest to 
 them, had struck his innate sense of loneliness more 
 cruelly than he could acknowledge to any but Anthony. 
 And he did not tell Anthony his heavy concern at 
 the fact that the Princess had learned the news of her 
 confessor's illness with neither tears in her eyes nor 
 particular anxiety in her manner. Anthony had drawn 
 
43 6 2Jncanoni?eti 
 
 enough of a tale of woe from his comrade to enable him 
 to surmise other things ; and poor Philip was again 
 taken aback at the way in which his friend regarded the 
 whole matter. 
 
 " So, Philip," he had remarked, without a trace of 
 feeling, " thou didst think that women were things as 
 foolish as we, eh? Well, look you, brother, 'tis not so. 
 There be three orders of natures i' the world : the first, 
 hardy and stout of temper man, the soldier ; the 
 second, strong of spirit weak of heart, with some 
 thing of pride woman; the third, over-sensitive in 
 thought, maudlin of sentiment, a fool in love, what men 
 spurn, and women laugh at the monk. So harden 
 thy emotion and regard man, Philip, and try and ape 
 him a little, though it be never so hard." 
 
 While Anthony platitudinized, and Glastonbury drank, 
 the great secular heart of the island was throbbing with 
 excitement over the political outlook. Nearly a third 
 of its male population lay encamped about Dover, upon 
 Barnham downs ; while a great part of the other two 
 thirds, by various routes, and with varied rapidity, were 
 wending their way thither as fast as horses or their own 
 feet could carry them. Mighty were to be the happen 
 ings at the old seaport now. The Pope had got his 
 big bone back, and England and France alike lay look 
 ing on helplessly, trying to fathom the extent of his 
 jaws. 
 
 Glastonbury heard small tidings of secular deeds, for 
 such history, nowadays, came not often in its way. But 
 on the evening of May fourth, there arrived a courier, 
 who had travelled in haste from Bridgewater, with 
 the word that certain highly distinguished guests would 
 arrive next evening and stop overnight at the monastery, 
 provided there were room, convenience, and welcome 
 to be had. There was abundance of room ; and as for 
 convenience and welcome, the whole abbey rejoiced 
 and rendered thanks for the honor conferred upon it. 
 
at tiffiagtotUwp? 437 
 
 In consequence, with the sunset of the succeeding day 
 came the five lords and a noble company of their 
 retainers and henchmen. First was the sheriff of 
 Somerset, William Briwere, gentleman of the King's 
 chamber, from his new castle at Bridgewater, bringing 
 with him his friend Randulph Blandeville, a lusty baron, 
 manager of the King's hunting seat at Cranbourne Chase. 
 And ever a fierce partisan of the King was he. Three 
 minutes' distance behind these two rode William Gifford, 
 Lord of Taunton, half-brother of Peter de Rupibus, 
 who had travelled from his castle alone to Dunster, 
 where he was joined by Hubert de Burgh and the 
 young Baron of Dunster, Reginald de Mohun, a dark- 
 eyed, slender youth of fifteen, who was being taken 
 to his first council and thereafter hoped to win his 
 spurs. These constituted Glastonbury's guests; a dis 
 tinguished company, of the very flower of England's 
 peerage ; and by them all, even the youth whom he 
 saw for the first time, Anthony Fitz-Hubert was greeted 
 as a friend and an equal. 
 
 The five, together with their trains, attended the 
 second vespers, held with high ceremony in the great 
 church, during the hour commonly devoted to read 
 ing. Confession had been said in the recreation hour; 
 so from now to midnight, at least, the monks were 
 free to keep revelry and feasting for the entertain 
 ment of the guests. As a matter of course, the noble 
 men occupied the first table, in company with Harold, 
 Comyn, Cusyngton, and Michael Canaen. De Burgh, 
 when he saw that all the stools were thus occupied, 
 glanced at Anthony, who faced him at the second table, 
 with open regret in his face; and Anthony answered 
 with a smile, for, at the look, his heart had warmed. 
 There was no reader at the desk that night. The 
 guests themselves were to be " entertainers ". A few 
 eager questions from Harold and the deacons brought 
 out facts and comments that were of high interest 
 
43 8 
 
 to these isolated monks, who, at heart, were very good 
 Englishmen. 
 
 " Pray you tell us," requested Comyn of Blandeville, 
 " the import of your journey to Dover. In the abbey 
 here we have no news of royal matters." 
 
 " The royal affairs are like enow to concern ye 
 churchmen heavily, at last," returned the baron, in a 
 voice like a trumpet. 
 
 " Ay. The Interdict is to be removed ere long," 
 added Briwere, sententiously, while he eyed young 
 Reginald, who looked sleepy and bored. 
 
 " Is that sooth ! " cried Harold, with an interest that 
 roused the boy's scorn. " Tell us the twist of it, my 
 lords, we pray." 
 
 11 T is a coil," admitted Blandeville. " I was at Dover 
 on the twenty-fourth, and, meseemeth, know as much as 
 any man save Pandulph l himself of the way they finally 
 outwitted John. I left the coast on April thirtieth, and 
 have, since then, been half over England to gather 
 more men for the King. Now the National Council 
 
 " Nay, man, nay. The outwitting of the King ! Tell 
 it. All of us needs must know whatever is possible of 
 the matter ; while thine own affairs are of lesser import 
 to the world," put in De Briwere, with a softening smile. 
 
 Blandeville was by no means disturbed at this banter ; 
 but, changing the period of his discourse, began a story 
 that most of the world still knows little enough about. 2 
 He was as much interested in the 'telling of the tale as 
 were the rest in listening ; for, though not all of them 
 were such kingsmen as he, still the persecution which 
 had been so heaped on John, and which seemed now at 
 its culminating point, enlisted a certain amount of uni 
 versal sympathy. Randulph was very earnest and very 
 loud-voiced. At intervals he emphasized his statements 
 by thumping heavily upon the table with his fist, until, 
 
 1 Pandulph was Innocent's legate to England throughout John's reign. 
 
 2 The essential points in the following narrative are historical. 
 
at dffiagtonlmr? 439 
 
 before he had fairly got into his tale, he had all the 
 roomful forgetting to eat and craning their necks 
 toward him, that they might lose not a single word of 
 the adventure which would have done credit to the 
 invention of a troubadour. 
 
 " Doubtless ye all do know how, from February till 
 now, two armies, ours and the French, have been ogling 
 each other across the Channel, their fleets lying just 
 below them, waiting the Pope's word to rush together. 
 At a certain meeting in Paris, last January, Innocent 
 promised England to Philip, an he could get it. 
 France was doubtless rilled with delight; for he made 
 ready for the conquest speedily enow, and came to the 
 coast with a great body of troops. There was a certain 
 little man who brought the tale of all this to the King 
 and to us, his servants. Men call him J " 
 
 A heavily booted foot came cracking down on Blande- 
 ville's at this point. Randulph bit his lip in pain, and 
 De Burgh's face grew red with the effort. Anthony, 
 who was looking on from his table, was, however, the 
 only monk who noted the incident, for the story 
 teller slid gracefully over the break and brilliantly 
 continued : 
 
 " Men call him John Lackland, and indeed methinks 
 the nickname hurt; for, assuredly, he hath not de 
 served the gibe since first 'twas heard. The little spy 
 who brought the word was rewarded richly, and then we 
 set about raising men enough to confront those of the 
 Pope's puppet. Twas not hard. A hundred thousand 
 lay encamped on Barnham downs within the month. 
 All the barons, too, friendly or unfriendly to the King, 
 loyal to a man to England, were there. 
 
 "Now I have not guessed whether 'twas that our 
 brave array frightened the Pope, or whether Innocent 
 still wanted both sides of us, France and the others, for 
 his slaves. All that is told as true is, that on the thir 
 teenth of April a Roman ship put off from the Tiber's 
 
440 
 
 mouth and set sail west and north, till in ten days, by 
 most fair winds, it reached the English coast where 
 stands Dover Castle. Pandulph was master of the 
 vessel, and on the twenty-third, under cover of a most 
 blithesome rainstorm, Innocent's legate crept ashore 
 and appeared in the tent of Roger, Earl Bigod, who 
 thou knowest is fonder of Isabella's kisses than ever he 
 was of John. By a chance most strange, a round dozen 
 of us, who held command over most of the army, were, 
 despite the weather, assembled at meat Now I do be 
 think me that the Earl most specially invited me to sup 
 with him on some rare sea-fish sole it was caught 
 that day, and right good eating too, taken for the pur 
 pose out o' the Channel by his captain-at-arms. A 
 round dozen of us there were, and all but Pembroke 
 and me notedly ill-favored toward the King. We two 
 they were never sure of; but, sith we held nigh to forty 
 thousand men between us, they were forced to risk the 
 chance of winning us to their plot. 
 
 " I shall not soon forget mine astonishment when 
 Pandulph came among us. I had fancied him leagues 
 away in Rome, still pandering to his holy master. 
 Only Pembroke and I were uninformed as to his pres^ 
 ence in England ; for the others but glanced at Bigod, 
 smiling stealthily, as they gat them up to greet the 
 man. Oh ! I did note full many a thing that night ! 
 Pandulph is in noway ill-looking; and "'twere useless 
 to deny that he speaks our tongue with a pretty twist. 
 Withal, his manners are convincing and his smile is 
 rarely sweet." 
 
 Here Randulph paused a little for breath and stole a 
 side-glance at De Burgh, who was scowling abstractedly 
 into his trencher. A smile passed between GifTord and 
 Briwere ; for it was an open secret that Hubert and the 
 Pope's legate hated each other like bear and cat ; and 
 that any praise, even as meagre as this, of John's 
 enemy, was enough to set the courtier into a rage. 
 
at (0laj3tonburi? 44 1 
 
 So adroit was the pause, however, that Hubert did not 
 understand it. 
 
 "The King's Earl and I received Pandulph with 
 more joy and eagerness than all the others put together; 
 thereby highly astounding the Archbishop's partisans, 
 and amusing ourselves not a little. Thinking his way 
 quite clear before him, then, Innocent's man put his pro 
 posals straight unto us, without pause to feel a way 
 how Innocent, repenting his bargain with Philip, and 
 fearing for the safety of his well-loved England, would 
 once more take her part and drive France back again 
 from her doors, if only John would repent his long 
 stubbornness in the matter of Stephen. 
 
 " ' And think you that he would so dishonor himself 
 and all of us?' quoth Pembroke at this point; and 
 most heartily did I approve his words. 
 
 " ' And what say my lords here? Is the King still 
 to keep on 'gainst us and your rights?' inquired Pan 
 dulph, quickly, frightened a little by his mistake and 
 looking around at the rest. 
 
 " Then up rose the other ten of them : Saher of Win 
 chester, and Robert of Clare, and Henry of Herford, 
 and John Constable of Chester, and William de Mow- 
 bray, and Robert de Vere, and Eustace de Vesci, and 
 William Mallet, and Geoffrey Mandeville, and Bigod our 
 host, and swore by all the Saints that this time the 
 King should be brought to the terms of the Pope. 
 Then Pembroke and I were threatened with murder at 
 once, did we not agree to their decisions. Had the fu 
 ture safety of John been assured by our death, ye will 
 guess, good friends, that our lives would cheerfully have 
 been forfeited. But when we heard their plot, how all 
 the soldiers under those ten earls and barons (full 
 sixty thousand, horse and foot, did they command 
 amongst them) were to desert the royal standard on the 
 morrow in obedience to the bidding of their lords, 
 then truly we saw that our death would but lose the 
 
442 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 King two faithful subjects. Therefore, sith we would 
 not at any price consent to the ordering of our own men 
 to so dastardly a deed, we were made to take an oath 
 of secrecy for a sennight, till their matter should be 
 arranged, and John have capitulated. So we were 
 bound in the tent, hand and foot, and lay there without 
 hope of escape, listening to the damnable treachery of 
 those men, it were a shame to call them nobles. 
 The result of their conference all England knows. In 
 the morning more than half the army refused to answer 
 the summons for the King's review. What, think you, 
 could John do? I dared not see him after the adven 
 ture, for fear I should break mine oath and honor and 
 tell what I knew. Pembroke and I departed together 
 from the camp, and journeyed thence to London. 
 Both of us, I ween, are in some danger of life, since, the 
 sennight and our oath being passed together, those ten 
 men assuredly must know that their foul treason will be 
 published abroad throughout England. And hence 
 forth, in very sooth, shall I spare no opportunity of tell 
 ing the tale, deeming it but rightful that the true cause 
 of John's surrender should be known." 
 
 "And the King hath surrendered, then?" asked 
 Comyn, breathlessly. 
 
 " Ay, more 's the pity. Our present journey is to a 
 national council of barons to be held at Dover, where, 
 't is said, the King will at last give amicable audience to 
 Stephen Langton." 
 
 " Base villains ! " muttered Gifford, who had been 
 much moved by the tale; and young Reginald, wide 
 enough awake by now, echoed his words in loyal 
 anger. 
 
 " Then indeed the Interdict will shortly be removed," 
 remarked Canaen. 
 
 De Burgh glanced up at him. " Yes," he answered. 
 14 And 't is time." 
 
 There was a little murmur of assent to this, which 
 
d5uej8tjs at dBiaistonburr 443 
 
 stopped when Cusyngton said suddenly: "And so 
 Jocelyn will return in peace to Bath." 
 
 Here De Burgh glanced over at Anthony, this time 
 with a concealed smile in his eyes. Anthony answered 
 the look with appreciation; while Comyn, jealous of 
 Anthony's favor, also caught the passage of eyes and 
 made mental note of it. 
 
 " Lastly, Randulph, tell us if there was any talk of 
 bribes between the ten barons and the legate," said De 
 Briwere, after the pause. 
 
 "No talk was there of such," returned Blandeville, 
 honestly. " The word ' money ' was never spoken among 
 them; but such a reading and signing of parchments 
 bearing Innocent's seal was there that we could not but 
 guess, Pembroke and I, that there was something of 
 that sort thought on." 
 
 " Ay. They would have been too wary to have 
 trusted tales of moneys to your ears," put in De Burgh, 
 helping himself bountifully to pasty, and then adding, 
 as if he would close the conversation : " Come, friends 
 all, a bumper to the King, and confusion, in the end, to 
 all his enemies ! " 
 
 The nobles, regarding Hubert a little curiously, raised 
 their horns high, but none was surprised when Harold, 
 egged on to the occasion by his scowling deacons, said 
 hastily: "Nay, gentlemen. It were better that ye 
 drank no ill-will to the Pope of Christendom. In any 
 case we are forbidden so to do." 
 
 The long meal was finally ended. Many a monk left 
 the refectory upon unsteady feet; but none remained 
 behind to slumber on the rushes underneath the table. 
 As for the noble guests, they were, to all appearances, 
 unconscious of the fact that each was carrying away 
 with him something like half a gallon of mingled wines, 
 ale, mead, and stronger liquor. To-night the recessional 
 order was not observed; but each left the room with 
 the group best suited to his mind. The henchmen and 
 
444 encanoni?et> 
 
 servitors of the noblemen had been scattered among 
 the ordinary brethren at the meal; and returned the 
 hospitality shown them by regaling their hosts with his 
 tories of doubtful propriety concerning various secular 
 matters, which made up in vividness of detail whatever 
 they might lack in truth. All having finally adjourned 
 to the great hall, none, either monk or noble, seemed 
 particularly desirous of retiring for the night. The 
 young Lord of Mohun was the only one who betrayed 
 signs of weariness ; but he was upon the very verge of 
 sleep as he sat upon a stool beside De Briwere. De 
 Burgh, noting his state, presently gave him permission 
 to retire, adding, after a slight hesitation, a word to 
 Anthony who stood near by. 
 
 " Wilt show him to his chamber, Fitz-Hubert, and 
 perchance wait there till he sleeps? " 
 
 Anthony at once acquiesced, perceiving that De 
 Burgh had some object in view. The monks around, 
 pleased at the thought that Anthony was being pressed 
 into a menial service, failed to note any significance in 
 the fact that, twenty minutes after the boy had departed, 
 the King's favorite rose unostentatiously, and followed 
 him. 
 
 My lord found Anthony in his own apartment, which 
 adjoined that of the already sleeping youth. The monk 
 rose expectantly as Hubert entered ; and the nobleman 
 smiled at him, seeing that his desire had been under 
 stood. 
 
 " Sit you down again, Anthony. Though the hour is 
 late I would hold some converse with you." 
 
 "You have something to tell me," said the monk, 
 uneasily, as he stood with his back to the bedstead. 
 
 " What makes you think so? " 
 
 " I know not. T is somehow a foreboding that 
 promises little happiness for me." 
 
 As these words were spoken Hubert, who was in the 
 act of sitting down, straightened up again, and looked 
 

 at dPlajstonlnir? 445 
 
 sharply at his companion. There was a long and 
 thoughtful silence. When De Burgh spoke, it was with 
 a note of helpless sympathy in his voice. " My news, 
 brother, concerns the Princess Eleanor." 
 
 The monk sat suddenly down, his eyes kindling. 
 "What of her?" 
 
 " Hast seen her of late? " 
 
 " Three weeks agone." 
 
 " When you were there thought you she appeared 
 well?" 
 
 " Nay." There was now a pitiful question in An 
 thony's voice. 
 
 " A week since, passing through the city, I did visit her. 
 Her appearance shocked me, in very truth. Among 
 many things she asked after her brother." 
 
 "You told her ?" 
 
 " That he was well and in France, may God forgive 
 me! " 
 
 " Rather, God bless thee ! " was the quick re 
 joinder. 
 
 " She gave me a plea to carry to the King. Wouldst 
 hear it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She bade me ask her uncle that he would give her 
 the freedom of some cloister. She wishes to become a 
 nun." 
 
 Anthony started up. The blood within him all rushed 
 suddenly to his heart, seeming to drain his body dry. 
 He sank down again upon the stool, then once more, 
 blindly, rose up to his feet. De Burgh watched him 
 with compassion. For all the monk's vehement denial 
 to the King, De Burgh had long since guessed the truth 
 of his hidden feeling for Eleanor. Yet when, at last, 
 Anthony's voice became audible, it was startlingly well 
 controlled. The courtier's words had sunk in his spirit 
 to a place too deep for further outward demonstration. 
 His brain was quite clear. 
 
446 (HncanontfcD 
 
 " Think you that John will grant her wish? " 
 
 " Look you, Anthony, an you would have it so, I 
 could, methinks, get the King's refusal to it. But be 
 not hasty in your decision. Think of the happiness of 
 Eleanor. She would be made, doubtless, abbess of 
 some small nunnery. That would not be as if she did 
 become a common nun. And so might she be kept 
 forever in ignorance of Arthur's death." 
 
 " But but there is somewhat more, Hubert." An 
 thony stopped, hesitated, and looked down at the floor. 
 He was sitting awkwardly upon his stool, his body all 
 drawn up, till he seemed like some tall skeleton, over 
 which a long gown had carelessly been thrown. 
 
 " The ' somewhat more,' " proceeded De Burgh, 
 "meaneth, doubtless, De la Bordelaye. For the last, 
 then, news cometh from Corfe that he cannot live." 
 
 Anthony closed his eyes. During two minutes not a 
 sound stirred the silence that reigned over the two. Yet 
 the way was clear now before the monk. There was 
 no longer a question. He was waiting only to gather 
 sufficient breath to frame his answer ; for it seemed to 
 him that he should suffocate. 
 
 "Carry thy plea to the King, Hubert; and and 
 make thy words as eloquent as may be. I wish 
 it." 
 
 " God be with thee, Anthony ! Ah, friend ! how truly 
 hard hath life gone with thee ! " De Burgh, his seri 
 ous face alight with sympathy, leaned over and grasped 
 one of the passive hands. 
 
 " Pity me not, Hubert. I need no pity. My life hath 
 been well enough," came the expressionless tones. 
 With an effort he added: "And how long how 
 long, Hubert, thinkest thou 'twill be ere she be 
 gone?" 
 
 " That no man may tell. He who would prophesy 
 must read the King's mind. It may be weeks; it may 
 be days." 
 
at (KlajStontiurt 447 
 
 " I would bid her farewell when 't is time." 
 
 " That shalt thou do. I will find a way to let thee 
 know." 
 
 Anthony made a little response with his head. Then 
 he rose up and held out his right hand to the courtier. 
 De Burgh grasped it. With no further word the monk 
 turned about and left the chamber. His light steps made 
 not a sound in the corridor. The great room of the 
 abbey was dark, for De Burgh's departure had broken 
 the assembly. Silence, black-winged, brooded there. 
 The guests and the dwellers in Glastonbury had sought 
 their rest. Anthony mounted to the dormitory, and 
 passed down between the long lines of doors to his dis 
 tant cell. Peter Turner, next to him, was snoring lustily. 
 Throwing off his hot garments he donned the tunic of 
 the night, and laid him down upon his bed. For a long 
 time his eyes stared out into the blackness. So she 
 was going from him the half of his life; and with 
 her, what De Burgh did not remember, must go the 
 other half, .his brainwork, his people, his life at the 
 Falcon Inn. 
 
 The sweet night air, the breath of May, stole softly 
 into his cell through the open window. Finally, in the 
 midst of it all, he slept. Into his short oblivion there 
 came a dream so vivid that during all the next day 
 it seemed to him that it had been real. He stood be 
 neath the Dome of God, before an infinite altar, upon 
 which were countless waxen candles. He, the pygmy 
 man, paused before the gigantic structure, a little taper 
 lighted in his hand. Then, out of the deep, there came 
 to his ears a voice that was like the rushing wind : " Be 
 hold, these are thy sorrows ! When they be lighted 
 and burned away, then shall thy heart's peace come at 
 length to thee ! " So in mad haste the figure that 
 was himself sprang forward to light the candles of 
 sorrow on the altar. And, as he hastened, the lighted 
 taper in his hand flickered high in the newly risen 
 
stormwind, and went out; and great darkness was 
 around him. 
 
 He started from his sleep. The bell for matins was 
 sending its deep clang a-quivering down the air. Then 
 came to him his neighbor's voice, crying out to know if 
 he might borrow a flame for his cresset. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY 
 
 THE national council held at Dover on the thir 
 teenth of May, in the year 1213, was the virtual 
 end of the reign of King John of England. 
 Henceforth he was the avowed vassal of the Pope, to 
 whom, for England, he paid yearly tribute ; he was the 
 sport of the caprices of his Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 the pedant Langton ; and the very plaything of his 
 barons, no two of whom were ever, for one week, of the 
 same mind. Let historians note this : for five weary 
 years John had fought his battle alone, against the 
 united forces of Christendom. Every tongue had re 
 viled him ; every hand was against him. Treachery had 
 worked its way at last; and he bent the knee. He 
 yielded to the man whom his people had clamored to 
 him to heed. The Interdict was removed; the ban of 
 excommunication was taken from the person of the 
 King; the French Langton was installed in his see. 
 All that John had been reviled for leaving undone was 
 done. And were they satisfied the people? Why, 
 bless you ! the " infamy " of John's action there at 
 Dover, that thing which was called the " gift of England 
 to the Pope," has gone thundering down the ages as 
 the most atrocious act in the history of the English 
 nation ; has been represented only as the wanton hand 
 ing over of a people to the hands of a monster against 
 whom that people had long and vainly cried out. 
 
 May passed, and then June, and the Princess Eleanor, 
 a widow, though she knew it not, still awaited, in her 
 
 29 
 
45 
 
 prison, the King's answer to her plea. In June and 
 July Anthony went to her as usual, confessed, cheered, 
 and left her, without one word between them of her 
 desired destiny. After the first weeks she spoke some 
 times of her husband ; but always with a great, calm 
 sorrow, as of one who could not come again into her 
 life. Sometimes Anthony wondered if she might not 
 have guessed the end ; but put the thought away when 
 Mary told him of the paroxysms of wild grief and 
 longing that oftentimes overcame the lonely woman at 
 evening. So the weeks went by until, finally, on the 
 twenty-sixth of July, King John and his suite appeared 
 once more at Bristol. There John, leaving for an hour 
 all the empty honors that were being heaped upon him, 
 went, in company with De Burgh, to the apartments of 
 Arthur's sister. When the two men came out again the 
 royal eyes saw less clearly than they should have done, 
 and he whispered to his comrade, his hand lying on 
 the shoulder of the courtier, " Think, Hubert, how 
 happy she is going to be ! " And Hubert, only bowing, 
 because he knew rather more of happiness than did the 
 King, left the royal presence as soon as he might, and 
 hurried off to the stables. A few minutes later, a single 
 horseman, mounted on my lord's own charger, dashed 
 over the drawbridge and out under the blazing noonday 
 sun, westward, toward Avalon. 
 
 Harold refused no request of De Burgh's, nowadays. 
 Anthony was called, given the message that the Princess 
 needed him, and bidden to depart. So monk and mes 
 senger sped away together, their horses neck and neck, 
 though the royal steed had done twenty miles before ; 
 and a little after the time that the sun had slipped below 
 the horizon, the portcullis of Bristol dropped behind 
 them, and they were dismounting in that place that 
 Anthony was so soon to know no more. He went at 
 once to her rooms, and the door was opened by little 
 Clothilde, red-eyed, garbed in black. The living-room 
 
last 3!out:ner 45 1 
 
 was empty and he missed the small details of a 
 careless habitation that had made of the prison a 
 home. His heart was like lead within him, and his 
 eyes burned. He went slowly over to that window 
 beside which she had sat the first time that he ever 
 saw her. It was open now as then, but this time the 
 hot breath of a midsummer evening stole in upon him. 
 That had been March ; this was July, and between the 
 two months lay five years. Five years! How they 
 seemed now to have flown for him-! The next five 
 years he dared not look upon. A bird fluttered past 
 the casement. It was a fat gray pigeon, which dwelt 
 in the eaves above, and which Eleanor had trained 
 to visit her and eat. Then came the little swish of 
 trailing garments behind him. He turned. She was 
 there before him once again, her flower-like head droop 
 ing a little above her dress of unrelieved black. Her 
 transparent eyelids were just tinged with red. She came 
 quietly to his side ; and then, all at once, he fell upon 
 his knees before her, bending so that his face was 
 hidden. She forbore to speak for a moment; but 
 finally, seeing that his voice would not come, whispered 
 gently : 
 
 " Let us go to the chapel. There, once again, for 
 the last time, I would pray with thee, dear Anthony." 
 
 In silence he arose and followed her; and they 
 descended the stairs. Kneeling, side by side, in the 
 twilight of the dusky chapel, while Eleanor prayed, 
 Anthony gazed absently out of the little window high 
 in the wall, at the feathery pink clouds that caught the 
 , after-glow of the sunset, and were borne across the 
 great sea of rapidly darkening blue. Night had come 
 when she arose; and they returned together to the 
 rooms where her maidens, Clothilde and Marie, were 
 packing away the clothes she had been wont to wear. 
 They, poor timid things, were to go back to the France 
 that they had not known for so long. The prison had 
 
45 2 ; 
 
 grown to be so much their home that the thought of 
 the world was fearful. Yet they shrank from becoming 
 English nuns ; and there was no other course open to 
 them. Eleanor told their little story to the monk with 
 a pitiful smile. 
 
 "And Mary?" asked Anthony, suddenly, thinking 
 of her for the first time. 
 
 " Already hath Mary departed from me. At noon 
 to-day, in the first hour after mine uncle granted my 
 request, saying that I should depart on the morrow, I 
 returned her to her father's house. I could not have 
 borne the parting with her at the very last. Ah, An 
 thony ! My grief is bitter, now that the time of my 
 going hath come ! Lonely as I have been since Louis 
 went away, full of the death of my happiness as this 
 place is, yet, Anthony, all my memories are here, 
 all my thought of him and of thy friendship, cluster 
 about this castle, which hath been home as well as 
 prison ; and here, when I am sad, many shadows come 
 to bear me company." 
 
 " God be with you, Eleanor, forever and ever," he 
 murmured, so faintly that she scarce caught the words. 
 
 " Go thou now to thy rest," she said, with more ten 
 derness in her voice than she had ever used to him 
 before. " Surely thou wilt not return to Glastonbury 
 ere to-morrow?" 
 
 "Nay. I return not till thou art gone. When 
 didst say it was?" he asked, dreamily. 
 
 " T is at dawn I go, in company with my Lord de 
 Burgh and his guard. They are to convey me to Can- 
 yngton, where I am to be prioress." 
 
 " Canyngton ! Ah ! " 
 
 It was a groan, that last exclamation. She appeared 
 to notice nothing, and Anthony said no more. It had 
 suddenly come home to him again that he must see 
 her go down in silence to that life which he had lived 
 so long. The thought was agony that he dared not 
 
JLajst 3lowntei? 453 
 
 voice. And all night he tossed upon his pallet in the 
 same misery, going over and over again the details of 
 that wedding, which had brought in its train such help 
 less woe. De la Bordelaye was in heaven; Eleanor 
 dead to the world ; and he, Anthony, was to suffer still, 
 in the same endless, awful way. 
 
 Long as the night had been, it was with a start of 
 new terror that the monk beheld the first shadow of 
 dawn creep into the vestry where he lay. When at last 
 he could see.his way across the room, he rose, passed 
 through the chapel, and once again ascended to her 
 rooms. Three desolate heads were raised to greet him. 
 With a face as joyless as theirs he once more bent the 
 knee before her, his Princess. 
 
 Oh! the pain of parting a life-parting is not 
 sweet ! Who but those that have known one, and its 
 deadening sorrow, can understand what it means? 
 With a quick, gasping breath that came from the very 
 centre of his breaking heart, he took the hand she 
 gave, and carried it to his lips. The kiss was in 
 finite. It burned her. She looked down upon the 
 tonsured head and the strained shoulders, which were 
 quivering with intense effort at control, and a great sob 
 broke from her lips. Anthony was her last friend ; 
 the strongest tie that bound her now to the old life. 
 Perhaps at last she realized all that he had been to her, 
 how utterly devoted, how self-sacrificing, through all 
 these years. But tears were no longer behind her eyes ; 
 she had wept too long. There comes a limit to acute 
 suffering, and only a dull, unfathomed pain is mercifully 
 left in its stead. Under this there is no struggle to be 
 made for calm. 
 
 Anthony rose up at length, and gently put away her 
 hand. " Is there now aught to do for thee? " he asked. 
 
 " Nothing. When he is ready my lord will summon 
 me. My two maidens here are to go into the house 
 hold of the Queen till some seaport be reached. I 
 
454 2Jncanonf?eD 
 
 deem it is best for thee to go now. It makes the fare 
 well harder and longer when thou stayest." 
 
 "God keep thee ," he said; the words strug 
 gling through his lips. 
 
 " Is there a God ? Ah ! forgive me ; I knew not 
 what I said ! " 
 
 " There is a God, Princess," he whispered. 
 
 There was one more long, deep-eyed glance. Elea 
 nor's head sank slowly, slowly, downward toward the 
 table before her. Anthony saw her face disappear ; 
 then, with a last great cry, he made blindly for the 
 door, flung it open before him, and so departed from 
 that room. 
 
 Now upon the morning of July twenty-sixth, the day 
 that Anthony left Glastonbury, Joseph Antwilder, the 
 farmerer, departed directly after tierce to visit certain 
 distant lands of the abbey, which were being cultivated 
 by some new tenants. It was late afternoon before 
 he rode homeward again, by way of the Longland 
 farm; where he intended stopping for a tankard of 
 home-brewed, and a chat with his ancient, William, the 
 farmer. As he approached the low, wooden house, he 
 beheld an unwonted sight. A woman was standing 
 quite still in the doorway, looking toward the east. 
 Antwilder whistled softly at the thought that came into 
 his mind. At the sound the woman turned about. In 
 stantly Joseph started back, with an exclamation, not 
 noticing the look of distaste that crossed her face at 
 sight of him. 
 
 " Mary ! " he cried ; and dismounting from his horse, 
 hurried to her side. " Welcome, Mary, welcome again ! 
 T is many a year, truly, since the sight of thee hath 
 gladdened mine eyes. Since when art returned, and 
 why?" he said; for Antwilder was a lay-brother and 
 might address her without dread of penance. 
 
 "An it please you, Master Antwilder, I would fain 
 
Laist 3Ioutmei? 455 
 
 have my hands in mine own keeping," was the only 
 response she deigned, drawing away from him, and let 
 ting her eyes rest upon his face in scornful displeasure. 
 It was a little trick she had^ caught from Eleanor, who 
 used it when one of her attendants annoyed her. 
 
 Joseph found himself slightly at a loss for words, 
 Mary being far more difficult to address than formerly. 
 However, he had one motive besides gallantry in wish 
 ing to prolong the conversation. Curiosity strength 
 ened him in the awkward moment. " Thou 'st ridden 
 lately from Bristol ? " he queried. 
 
 " This morning," was her unwilling response. 
 
 " Thou lookest not well. I fear me the prison air 
 hath been too much," he said, with sympathetic tone 
 and subtle intent. 
 
 " Oh ! T is not illness, but grief," she responded, 
 unguardedly; forgetting, in the novelty of speaking to 
 a comparative stranger, her wiser rdle of reticence. 
 
 He pressed the turning-point. "Assuredly naught 
 hath happed to thy mistress, Madam Eleanor? She 
 is not dead? " 
 
 " Nay," was the mournful answer. " But she hath 
 gone." 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 " She is retired to a nunnery." 
 
 Joseph widely opened his eyes. " She hath already 
 departed ? " 
 
 " Yea. She left the castle at noon to-day," and Mary 
 turned quickly about, the tears starting from her eyes. 
 What she said to Antwilder she believed to be true ; for 
 Eleanor had let her go with the impression that she her 
 self was to follow immediately in departure. 
 
 Mary's return to her father's house had been a mel 
 ancholy one, for she was used to different and gentler 
 manners of living now. At first mention of the life she 
 had left, the flow of tears passed her control ; and so, 
 without looking again at the monk, regretting already 
 
aincanoni?eti 
 
 that she had spoken to him at all, she left him where he 
 stood, and hastily entered the hut. 
 
 Antwilder stared after her angrily. Then, with a 
 shrug of the shoulders, he turned about, mounted his 
 animal, and rode on again, having now forgotten the 
 home-brew in a large dish of food for his mind. When 
 he reached the abbey, afternoon work was in progress. 
 The farmerer himself, however, had finished his labor 
 for the day, and found himself now decidedly thirsty in 
 body. It was a thirst by no means ill-timed, since it 
 might be gratified at this hour with the best liquor 
 that Glastonbury afforded, seeing that Joseph was on 
 intimate terms with the refectioner'. Having, then, 
 delivered up his horse to a lay brother at the gate, 
 he entered the abbey unostentatiously, and hurried 
 round to the stairs which led to the vaults. Here were 
 assembled a little party of congenial spirits: Bene 
 dict Vintner, Richard Friendleighe, Henry Fitz-William, 
 and David Franklin. They were seated around a con 
 venient tun, each with a mug of good ale in his hand, 
 and traces of froth about the lips. 
 
 By these revellers Antwilder was hailed with enthu 
 siasm. Room was made for him between precentor and 
 refectioner, and he was presented with that liquor for 
 which his soul was longing. 
 
 " What news, Joseph, didst hear on thy ride? " queried 
 Fitz-William, when the farmerer had emptied his first 
 bumper. 
 
 "News? Ha! Enow and to spare. It twinkleth in 
 thine eyes by light o' lantern," cried Vintner, who was 
 somewhat burdened with spirits of two sorts. 
 
 Antwilder smiled slowly. " Thou 'rt not far from 
 wrong, brother Benedict. Wouldst hear the news? 
 Drink it, then, in toasts to mistress Mary o' the fields, 
 who hath returned, perchance not like the prodigal, 
 unto her father's house from Bristol ; where Anthony 
 shall seek his Princess no more. And drink also to the 
 
Lasst giournei? 457 
 
 confusion of Anthony, the conceited, when he shall 
 learn that Madam Eleanor, wearying of him at length, 
 hath retired to a nunnery?" 
 
 There was a short pause. Antwilder looked in si 
 lence round at the little circle who were not quaffing his 
 proposal. 
 
 " What means this? " he said at last,, impatiently. 
 
 " Since how .long hath the Princess become a nun?" 
 asked Fitz-William. 
 
 "Oh! Tis some time since she left Bristol, a 
 week, at least, methinks," replied Antwilder, lying 
 wantonly, as men sometimes will. 
 
 Hearing Joseph's words, Franklin leaped to his feet. 
 " Liar ! Heretic ! Beast ! " he cried. 
 
 Joseph sprang forward. " Unsay the words ! " he 
 shouted. For a moment it seemed that they would 
 fight then and there ; but Franklin was a stocky man 
 and held the lean farmerer off for a moment. 
 
 " I spoke not of you, but of Anthony, man ! " 
 
 "What of Anthony, then?" returned the other, but 
 half appeased. 
 
 " He rode this afternoon to Bristol." 
 
 " What ! " screamed Joseph. 
 
 " Let us to Harold at once, and talk of this," put in 
 Friendleighe. 
 
 The rest were nothing loath. Giving Antwilder no 
 time to collect his thoughts, they flung away their 
 bumpers, rose to their feet, and hurried, in a somewhat 
 disorderly body, up the stairs and into the prior's 
 apartment. 
 
 When Anthony left Bristol Castle on the morning of 
 the twenty-seventh, he sat passively upon the back 
 of his good animal, which walked, of its own will, 
 down through the city streets unto the door of the 
 Falcon, not yet open for the day. A hostler or two 
 being in the yard, however, the monk gave his horse 
 
2Jncanom?eD 
 
 into the keeping of one of them, saying that he would 
 return to the inn a little later. Then he went out alone 
 into the city, seeing nothing of what surrounded him, 
 never feeling the breath of the morning as it swept his 
 lips, golden with light from the newly risen sun. He 
 was fighting with grief and with pain ; what pain, only 
 those who have known the death of the heart's nearest 
 can dimly feel. Yet even they know not all ; since, for 
 them, there are others to love. For Anthony, there was 
 none. And they that rejoice in the thought that the 
 departed has gone to a happier life, also know not 
 Anthony's hopelessness. For he knew that she who 
 had left him was but gone to a living death, a mockery 
 of rest, an abode to which pain of mind and of body 
 were in no wise strange. 
 
 He had wandered about, unconsciously, for an hour, 
 before he found himself again before the hostel. Its 
 doors were wide open now; and the middle of the 
 large room was filled with breakfasters. The city was 
 awake. 
 
 Martin evidently expected the monk ; for he received 
 him in kindly fashion ; and despatched him at once to 
 his own room in the rear of the house, where presently 
 Plagensext's son brought him food and drink. While 
 he ate, the good-natured boy sat by and questioned 
 him. 
 
 " Thou 'It stay through for evening? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And wilt be wanting me to run about to all the folk, 
 and apprise them of thy coming?" 
 
 " Doth it hurt thy stout limbs to run about, John? " 
 
 " Nay, for a surety ! I like it. It takes me through the 
 town, where there be somewhat doing ; and, besides, it 
 gives chance to chat with neighbor Buckletoe's Jenny." 
 
 " And Jenny is thy lass? " 
 
 " I say not that; though she be winsome." 
 
 " So. Well, get thee gone now, good lad. I have 
 
ilast iotinuf 459 
 
 eaten what I would. Tell thy father I shall stay till 
 nightfall ; and that, if the people will come, we will hold 
 meeting below." 
 
 So saying, Anthony rose, while John, picking up the 
 tray, departed in good spirits, to begin his task of noti 
 fying the congregation of the arrival of their leader. 
 The morning was endless to Anthony. He was unable 
 to force his mind to any but two subjects, and an internal 
 conflict between them went continually on. Should he 
 to-night bid his friends farewell, and leave them to the 
 fate of choosing between the Church or heresy, alone? 
 Or should he say nothing of the changes at Bristol 
 Castle to the brethren at Glastonbury, and come to the 
 city, regularly, for the sake of his teaching? Should 
 he resign himself for life to the monastery, or decide to 
 risk the dangers of the other course, the probability 
 of discovery? The pros and cons of. the question 
 were equal, the struggle of self with self seemingly 
 interminable. 
 
 At noon Martin himself brought up his dinner, to 
 gether with the word that the people would be assem 
 bled by nine o'clock that night. Anthony ate little. 
 Drowsiness was creeping over him now; and no sooner 
 had he finished his meal than he stumbled over to a 
 straw pallet in the corner of his room, and, three 
 minutes later, slept. 
 
 During the hours of his needed rest there were certain 
 unwonted happenings below, in the court and great 
 room of the Falcon Inn. At three o'clock in the after 
 noon three tired horses entered the stable-yard ; and 
 from their backs dismounted three still more weary 
 riders. Had Anthony been awake he might have seen 
 all this ; for his window looked down upon the stables. 
 But the fates were not with Fitz-Hubert to-day. Comyn 
 took the initiative in action by going, as soon as he 
 had slid from his animal, into the stable. Here, letting 
 a groom take his steed, he peered for one instant sharply 
 
460 
 
 down the row of stalls. A moment later he re-entered 
 the yard, a smile of triumph on his face. 
 
 "All is well!" he called. Then, going closer, he 
 added in an undertone, " His . horse is there." 
 
 Antwilder narrowed his eyes with satisfaction, and 
 Harold himself gave a grunt of relief at the prospect 
 of rest and refreshment, by all means, refreshment. 
 Arrived at the door of the inn proper they proceeded 
 with some little caution. However, their proposed 
 victim was nowhere about, and the landlord was. He 
 frequently housed monks at his hostel, and never con 
 nected them in thought with the heretic. 
 
 " God ye good den, holy brethren," he said, cheer 
 fully, albeit without overmuch reverence. 
 
 " Dominus tecum, goodman," returned Harold, add 
 ing, in a business-like manner : " Hast a room fronting 
 upon the street, such as might contain the three of us 
 for the night? " 
 
 Martin nodded. " There is such a one. John shall 
 guide you to it straight," he said, beckoning to his 
 son, who sat in a corner, playing with a pair of great 
 hounds. 
 
 The three monks filed slowly up the narrow stairs, 
 after the boy ; and were shown into a room of small 
 dimensions, situated, however, directly over the front 
 doorway, so that from its window every person who 
 entered the inn from the street below might easily be 
 seen. The monks perceived this with great satisfaction. 
 
 "The apartment is pleasing. Now thou mayest 
 bring collation here to us," said Harold, eagerly. 
 
 John bowed blandly. "What would please you, 
 masters?" 
 
 " Meat, bread, nettle-root, whatever thou hast." 
 
 "And to drink?" 
 
 "Wine ! Burgundy and see that it be of the best. 
 We have the wherewithal to pay." 
 
 As Comyn and Antwilder agreed most willingly to 
 
last Sloutnev 461 
 
 this comfortable proposition, John disappeared. On 
 his way downstairs he heard footsteps descending be 
 hind him. Looking back he saw Anthony, just roused 
 from sleep, refreshed in body but not in mind, coming 
 down to the great room ; whence presently he de 
 parted for a sunset walk. Three pairs of eyes watched 
 anxiously after him from a window as he disappeared 
 down the street. 
 
 " He hath not his horse," said Comyn. 
 
 " Nay. Fear not. He will return," answered Ant- 
 wilder. 
 
 Harold the prior said nothing at all. He was await 
 ing the advent of the meal. 
 
 Anthony's evening walk was not as purposeless as 
 had been his morning's one. He had waked from his 
 heavy slumber with a vision of Bristol Castle before his 
 eyes. He felt that once again, once only, he must look 
 upon it, and know that she was there no more. It was 
 not a wise thing to go and torture himself with the sight 
 of the building; but Anthony was no longer wise. 
 The distance from the inn to the castle was short. 
 The monk passed slowly up a twisting street, alive 
 with foot-passengers, litters, and carts with horses, all 
 jumbled together in the common thoroughfare. After 
 ten minutes' walking, and dodging of men and animals, 
 he reached St. Peter's square, in the midst of which 
 stood the cathedral. This place he must cross, for the 
 castle was opposite him now. A flood of mellow light 
 from the setting sun poured down upon his bent head, 
 and burned the cobble-stones at his feet. He took no 
 notice of a group of priests who, standing together in 
 the doorway of the cathedral, their eyes fixed steadily 
 upon him., were talking together earnestly. 
 
 Anthony came to the edge of the moat. The draw 
 bridge was raised. The King had departed. Behind 
 the high, baffling wall rose the great, square keep, a 
 number of roofs of the little out-buildings clustering 
 
2lncanoni?e& 
 
 about it, half-way up. Then, somewhat to the north, 
 might be seen half of the central tower, and the two 
 wings of the historic building itself. Just visible, over 
 the top of the wall, were those windows from which had 
 so often shone the delicate face of the royal maiden of 
 Brittany, the fairest prisoner that castle ever knew. 
 Upon these windows Anthony's eyes were fastened, 
 hungrily. The blood in his body burned him. His 
 heart throbbed, and his eyes dilated. She was gone. 
 She was gone. Eleanor should he see no more 
 forever. The castle towered above him in gigantic 
 silence. The drawbridge was still. No sign of life was 
 anywhere visible. Gradually the light diminished. The 
 sun was below the horizon. Anthony closed his eyes. 
 Without her the castle was a terrible thing. He turned 
 away. He had parted from her now. Slowly he re 
 traced his steps across the square ; and still he did not 
 notice the priests, who, as he passed near the portal of 
 the cathedral, came out from the doorway, and began 
 to follow him at distance enough for him to hear 
 nothing that they said. There were three of them, 
 clad all in black. 
 
 "My lord is certain that he knows the monk?" 
 inquired one, whose face was moulded in stupidity. 
 
 " I tell you yes, Wenzel. T is the very one who, by 
 his insolence, lost us the Abbey of Glastonbury." 
 
 " But how connect him with that heretic who is luring 
 our people from the creed of the Holy Church?" 
 
 " I connect him in no way with that," replied Jocelyn, 
 who, for the evening, had doffed his violet " I would 
 see only what it is this fellow doeth in Bristol. None 
 told me that he had ta'en friar's orders. Where sayest 
 thou these meetings are purported to be held? " 
 
 "At a hostel named the Falcon, 'tis said. They 
 come none too often, 'twould seem. I have watched 
 now for a week." 
 
 "After seeing this fellow to his abiding-place, and 
 
last Sfournet 463 
 
 learning what we may of his business, we will go with 
 you for the night. Is not this monk taking a road 
 toward that inn? " 
 
 " Even so. We will see this to its end." 
 Anthony took his evening meal in company with the 
 landlord and his son. As darkness crept over the sky, 
 he ascended to his room. Two hours passed ; and 
 then, while candles and torches were lighted for the 
 great room, the doors of the hostel were closed. It was 
 approaching nine o'clock. The sound of the fastening 
 of the great bars roused the three monks in the room 
 upstairs. Harold and Antwilder seated themselves at 
 the window; while Comyn extinguished the light in 
 the room, that the street might be seen more clearly. 
 People, men and women, alone or in groups, were 
 already coming to the inn. The watchers saw them 
 stop and knock upon the door. Then a voice would 
 murmur something from within. Thereupon, up through 
 the evening air, clearly intelligible to the ears of 
 the listeners, sounded the name of him or her who 
 wished to enter. Another question was asked; and 
 there came the second reply, which was always the 
 same : " Fitz-Hubert" Then the door would open a 
 little way, the person enter, and the bolt be once 
 more drawn. In silence sat Harold and Joseph ; only, 
 once every few minutes, turning to glance at each other 
 with sharp significance. Presently, however, came one 
 voice at whose tones the prior started. He leaned far 
 out of the casement and looked down. Below stood 
 three men, garbed in civilian's dress, each with a 
 close-fitting, black cap upon his head. Again came 
 that harsh, nasal tone in the second answer : " Fitz- 
 Hubert! " The door swung back. The three entered. 
 Harold drew himself into the room again, panting. 
 His eyes were dilated with excitement. 
 
 " What ails thee ? " cried Antwilder, confounded at 
 his face. 
 
464 
 
 " By the bones of St. Dunstan ! " gasped the prior, 
 " 't was Jocelyn of Bath, and none other, that did enter 
 this house an instant agone ! " 
 
 " Jocelyn of Bath ! In his robes ? " 
 
 " Nay, burgher-dressed ; in company with two 
 strangers." 
 
 "Is he heretic, then?" 
 
 " Surely not. More like 't is on our own errand he 
 is come, though 
 
 "A pretty sight, friends! " shouted Eustace Comyn, 
 here bursting into the room from the hall outside, 
 where he had been for some moments. " But one 
 moment agone did I see the vile deceiver, Anthony, 
 garbed in a green hunting-suit, such as De Burgh's 
 men might wear, trunks, jerkin, hosen, cap and belt, 
 ancient of cut, but of excellent cloth, descending the 
 stairs from a small room i' the inn. By my faith! I 
 scarce knew the fellow ! " 
 
 " Come ! " cried Antwilder, eagerly, " let us also go 
 down, where, perchance, we likewise may have a view 
 of those happenings which Master Anthony and Jocelyn 
 of Bath attend in citizen's garb." 
 
 Comyn failed to comprehend this observation, but 
 was too intent on seeing for himself to question the 
 remark. He led the way rapidly along the hall, the 
 other two close at his heels, and the three of them went 
 carefully down the stairs, which, six steps from the 
 bottom, turned at a sharp angle into the great room. 
 At this angle one end of the step was full two feet 
 broad, and from it a view of the whole place was safely 
 to be obtained. Here, in the sheltering darkness, for 
 getful of discomfort, crouched the three monks, watch 
 ing such a scene as they, even in their malice, had never 
 dreamed could actually take place. 
 
 Across the room were placed rows of wooden settles, 
 almost all of which were filled with people evidently of 
 the best class of burghers. Men and women alike were 
 
Last Sfournet 465 
 
 soberly well-dressed ; their faces were earnest ; and their 
 eyes were fixed in rapt attention on the man whose 
 word had become their beloved law. Far back, in the 
 shadow of an angle in the wall, sat the Bishop of Bath 
 and his attendant priests. Anthony's eye could not 
 readily discover them there ; and, even should it do so, 
 the change in dress had so altered the appearance of 
 the Bishop that only unusual perspicacity would pierce 
 his identity. 
 
 Before his audience, simply poised, without even a 
 chair to lean upon, stood Anthony ; and, just as Harold 
 and his companions took their places on the stairs, he 
 had begun to speak. Save for the rising and falling 
 of the melodious voice, there was perfect silence, con 
 centrated silence, in the room. The inn-keeper stood 
 near the door, listening intently, but ready also to admit 
 any late-comer who might arrive ; for such were never 
 barred away. Back in their corner Jocelyn's two com 
 panions were undergoing a mental task. Again and 
 again their eyes travelled over the figures of those who 
 sat in the room, until they had made note of every 
 heretic there, for future necessity. Jocelyn himself sat 
 comfortably back, revelling in the knowledge that the 
 man before him was completely in his power. Through 
 all this, that low, even, melancholy voice went on, speak 
 ing so gently that from the tone alone one could not 
 have believed that damnable phrases were falling from 
 his lips. 
 
 " Dearly-loved friends, my friends, all ye who have, 
 for five long years now, been faithful to me and to my 
 words to you, who have had thought enough of your 
 own to follow me in my teaching, I am come to you 
 to-night to say you all farewell. My heart, my hope, 
 my wishes, my life go out from me at our parting;* but 
 that parting must be. My duty in Bristol is gone. I 
 may come here no more. Ye know that mine abode is 
 one of sorrow and of woe; for I am an unfaithful monk. 
 
 3 
 
466 (3ncanoni?e& 
 
 Henceforth I must endure all that my unfaithfulness to 
 those vows has brought upon me; I must live alone 
 until it pleaseth God that I shall die. 
 
 " That which I ask of you in my going I dare to ask 
 because of the unwavering fidelity that ye have ever 
 shown me, in trial and in happiness, through these 
 years. I plead with you that you shall not forget that 
 credo which ye have professed to me, which I have 
 expounded to you even as I myself know it to be ever 
 lasting truth. Now, for the last time, let me tell to you 
 that faith in which you and I do devoutly and rever 
 ently worship. 
 
 " God is spirit, almighty, omnipresent, all-pervading. 
 Him we worship. There be also matter, or substance, 
 which men call evil. There is no hell. Satan is a name 
 given erstwhile to that combination of accident which 
 the soul, in its passage through matter, must undergo, 
 because such was the law which, in the beginning, 
 God ordained for himself. This law, in spirit and in 
 truth, we must obey. Punishment do we never fear; 
 for all things, all souls, in their end, return unto them 
 selves, which is God, freed from matter. Know that 
 inasmuch as we strive eternally to overcome the desires 
 of the flesh, in so much do we aid in that final oblitera 
 tion of matter which is the aim of spirit, the essence, 
 the unsubstantial, God. Therefore see that in all things 
 ye conform to law, order, and mildness. Forswear the 
 prompting lusts of matter. Despise no creed of man 
 which you know to be sincere. But know, brethren, 
 that I should commend you sooner to the Valley of the 
 Shadow than again to the care of the universal Church. 
 That Church I know ! Like those great snakes that 
 travellers do tell of, it caught my youth within its 
 sinewy folds, and slowly, pitilessly, wrung my youth 
 away from me, and left me as you see me here. Had 
 I not at last found another life that none could reach, 
 not the Church itself, I should by this time be no more. 
 
JLagt 31ourne? 467 
 
 To-night, of mine own will, I relinquish that second 
 life, and all that ye have given me, and when I leave 
 you presently, 't will be to return for the last time 
 unto a tomb. Now ye have heard. Know also that 
 my love will be forever with you, though my body 
 perhaps will have dropped back into earth ere you 
 depart. 
 
 " Those books out of which I have oft read to you l 
 I here bequeath to all ; and I ask that at times you 
 meet together in some house to read again from them, 
 and talk of your faith, even as we together have done 
 now for so many years. Ye know that those manu 
 scripts are of value, and also that the Church of Rome 
 hath condemned them as heretical. Guard ye them, 
 then, as ye do my memory. 
 
 " There is now little more to say. Ye have my heart 
 amongst you. In your faces I read yours. So God 
 keep you, henceforth and for evermore in peace and 
 happiness. Now let us speak with Him together for 
 the last time." 
 
 The little audience, touched by the calm sorrow of 
 his words, slowly rustled to its knees, without, however, 
 ceasing to look upon his face. They were all abstracted 
 and grief-stricken, for they had had no hint that this 
 was to be Anthony's last evening among them. Even 
 yet they had not grasped the truth as a reality. Many 
 of them were thinking of the sadness of his own life ; 
 for never before had he said so much of himself as 
 to-night. 
 
 Fitz-Hubert stood facing them all, looking not like a 
 monk, in his dark-green suit ; but they suddenly noticed 
 how emaciated was his form, how pallid his lips. Then 
 those who were watching him, for the beginning of the 
 prayer, of a sudden saw his expression change. From 
 
 1 The essential points in the above creed are founded on the scholastic 
 writings of Almarich of Bena and David of Dinant, which were con 
 demned at the synod of Paris, in the year 1209, to be burned as heretical. 
 
468 2Jncanoni?e& 
 
 perfect whiteness his cheeks flushed for a moment to 
 a dark crimson, which suddenly fled as it had come, 
 leaving his face ghastly. At the same moment some 
 one in the room moved, not to his knees, but to his feet. 
 Still no one spoke. The sense of a hostile presence, an 
 ominous feeling of danger, had begun to creep over the 
 assemblage. Some few turned their heads about to 
 look. There came one cry from a woman, and the peo 
 ple had sprung madly to their feet; and then they 
 were still again, for Anthony had raised his hand. 
 Three men started to make their way forward to the 
 front of the room. As they moved the people fell away 
 from them as though they were stricken with plague. 
 When the two priests of Saint Peter's were recognized a 
 visible terror crept over all. Presently they saw that 
 Anthony Fitz-Hubert was faced with an accuser, Bishop 
 Jocelyn of Bath. 
 
 They stood eye to eye, and the silence was long. 
 Words to fit the occasion were slow in coming. It was 
 Jocelyn who spoke first, a single word, hurled upon the 
 monk like a stone from a catapult : 
 
 " Heretic ! " 
 
 " I acknowledge the charge." The answer was almost 
 simultaneous with the accusation. 
 
 "You know the penalty of your crime?" 
 
 " I know." 
 
 "And that of these people here, your school?" 
 
 Anthony put out his hand. A look of agony came 
 over his drawn face. " Mercy for them, Lord Bishop ! 
 Mercy for them ! Mine is the fault." 
 
 Among the men of the congregation arose a deep 
 murmur : " Nay, nay ! give us our blame ! " Nobility 
 begets nobility. 
 
 "Thou hearest? They ask no mercy." 
 
 "They know not what it means. I ask it for them, 
 Jocelyn, with my prayers." 
 
 " Thou knowest not to pray," was the stern answer. 
 
JLajSt gfoutmei? 4 6 9 
 
 Here one of the priests whispered a word in the 
 bishop's ear. He nodded with satisfaction. 
 
 " Look you, Anthony Fitz-Hubert, do you bid your 
 people recant their heresy? An they repent, and 
 renew their ancient faith, Mother Church, knowing their 
 weakness, will, doubtless, in her mercy, receive them 
 again to herself." 
 
 And this time the people did not help their leader, 
 but stood silent, in the attitude of sheep who, between 
 two wolves, know not which way to run. 
 
 Anthony was baffled by Jocelyn's words, though he 
 had expected them to be spoken. For a long time 
 he stood motionless, his head sunk upon his breast, 
 accusers and accused alike watching him closely. At 
 last, raising his head, he said faintly : " I cannot, my 
 Lord Bishop, bid them recant that which, as I believe 
 on God, I believe to be true. But I give them their full 
 choice. Good people, to continue in my faith means 
 torture. To go back to the Church will mean living in 
 the fears of a degrading faith. Choose ye between 
 them. I will say no more." 
 
 At the word " torture " a shudder had run through 
 the room. The priests of Saint Peter's noted it and 
 smiled upon each other grimly. The victory was won 
 for the Church. They knew that. What man would 
 endure the rack for the sake of a fanatical apostate? 
 The father who had whispered to Jocelyn drew forward 
 a little. 
 
 " Good people, ye have heard your leader. He hath 
 given the choice. Go hence to your homes, sith there 
 is naught that can be done here now. Think carefully 
 upon this matter. In a week's time a priest shall visit 
 each of you. Then shall ye decide. But I warn you 
 that, if any one here should dare attempt to leave the 
 city ere then there will be no trial for him, but a 
 righteous death. Go." 
 
 He had spoken well. Still, for a moment, the people 
 
47 
 
 wavered ; till one man, bolder in his cowardice than the 
 rest, walked sturdily over to the door, opened it, and 
 disappeared in the darkness. One by one the others 
 followed ; many reluctantly ; more than one casting an 
 underlid glance at Anthony as he went. Perhaps a 
 sign from their leader might have kept some few at his 
 side. But he stood like a statue, whiter than marble, 
 his arms folded, his eyes gazing into vacancy over 
 Jocelyn's head. 
 
 The last had departed. The landlord and his son 
 once more closed the doors. Poor souls ! Their doom 
 at least had been written in a priest's eyes; and that, 
 pitifully, was the only writing that they could read. 
 Silently watching the scene which followed, they stood 
 close together, arm against arm, in a corner of their 
 room. 
 
 The sound of the closing doors seemed to rouse the 
 monk. He returned to himself. His arms dropped to 
 his sides. His eyes rested on the face of the bishop. 
 It was Jocelyn now who was looking over his opponent 
 at something behind. 
 
 "Your will, my lord?" queried the monk, quietly. 
 
 "That shall be shown later. For the present I leave 
 you in the charge of those who can care for you better 
 than I." Somewhat scornfully he pointed to something 
 beyond. 
 
 Anthony wheeled about. An unspoken exclamation 
 rose to his lips. Harold of Glastonbury, Eustace Comyn, 
 and Joseph Antwilder had come forth from their hiding 
 upon the stairway. 
 
 Nothing further was said. Jocelyn, accompanied by 
 his triumphant priests, turned deliberately upon his 
 heel, and walked out of the Falcon Hostelrie, into the 
 July night. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE STORM AT THE ABBEY 
 
 IT was the afternoon of July twenty-eighth. After 
 the hours of midday heat, the Glastonbury thorn 
 stood parched and dry amid a waste of shrivelled 
 field-grass. Its branches were flecked with scarlet 
 berries, and these were also thickly sprinkled over the 
 ground below. Scarcely a breath of air stirred the 
 ripening fruits in the orchards of Avalon, though 
 the afternoon was cooler than had been the morning. 
 Within the shadow of the gnarled thorn, come there 
 in memory of olden times, yet dreaming now of differ 
 ent things, sat Mary. Her prison pallor was already 
 nearly gone. She was dressed as of old, to the float 
 ing hair and wooden-shod feet; her face, however, 
 bore trace of the years and the emotions that had been 
 added to her life. Her expression was sad. She was, 
 indeed, homesick for the other life, for the castle's 
 vast monotony, to which she had grown so attached. 
 The free air about her was no longer sweet. She 
 wandered aimlessly over the old fields, seeking relief 
 from the restlessness that she could not understand. 
 Once at the old tree, she fell into a revery, and, like 
 one in a dream, gazed down the long valley to the 
 south, while the setting sun illumined her with its 
 translucent light, and set her away from common 
 things. When, unexpectedly, her name was spoken 
 by a voice that came close beside her, it accorded so 
 well with her thoughts that, till she actually beheld a 
 form embodied, she did not move. 
 
47 2 <Hncanoni?e& 
 
 " Mary ! " Slowly her head turned, and her eyes 
 looked upward. Then she sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Philip!" she answered, smiling; and added, un 
 steadily, "Thou'st surely been weeping?" 
 
 The surmise was quite warranted. More than that. 
 While Philip's eyelids were red, and his face dis 
 torted, the expression upon it was an unknown reason 
 for that unmanliness, if unmanliness it were. It was 
 the expression of one who has seen something long- 
 dreaded come to pass. Mary regarded him with grow 
 ing anxiety. 
 
 "What is it, what aileth thee?" she said, as he 
 failed to reply to her other remark. 
 
 Philip's lips trembled rather pitifully. " Anthony ! " 
 was all he said. 
 
 " Anthony ! " she echoed, in quick fright. " What 
 of him ? " 
 
 "They came back with him at dawn this morning," 
 he continued, speaking like one in a dream. 
 
 Mary took a slow step forward. ' " He is not- 
 dead?" she whispered. 
 
 "It were far better he had died," was the laconic 
 answer. 
 
 "In Christ's name, Philip, tell me what thou mean 
 est ! I fear everything." 
 
 With a strong effort, Philip straightened up, and 
 spoke with more of his usual voice: "All in the ab 
 bey do not yet understand. But I myself have had 
 speech with Anthony. He hath been found a heretic 
 a mortal heretic. To-morrow they hold a meeting 
 in the chapter, to decide on his torture. They car 
 ried him back from Bristol, tied hand and foot to his 
 horse; though for that there were no need, I '11 swear." 
 
 "Torture!" repeated Mary, slowly; the full meaning 
 of that word sinking for the first time into her con 
 sciousness. Presently she sank once more upon the 
 ground. 
 
^totm at t^e abbe? 473 
 
 "Torture!" said Philip again, wearily. Having 
 been for so long dwelt upon, the thought refused to 
 bring any feeling to his heart greater than a dull ache. 
 He was almost surprised to see that Mary had become 
 quite colorless, that she had clasped her hands tightly 
 together, and was rocking her body to and fro in an 
 agony. She shed no tears, but the monk, seeing her 
 eyes, wished that they might have been veiled. 
 
 "Tell me," she said appealingly. 
 
 " I myself know not all the matter, but it has to do 
 with certain teachings that Anthony has given in 
 Bristol, at the Falcon Inn, every time that he was 
 called, by the wish of the Princess, to that city." 
 
 " Those times when he did come to us so grave 
 so faithful so kind so heart-broken ? Oh ! surely 
 not ! surely not ! " 
 
 Philip looked at her curiously. "Harold, Eustace 
 Comyn, and Antwilder rode yesterday to Bristol. They 
 brought Anthony back with them, a prisoner." 
 
 Suddenly Mary started to her feet again, seizing the 
 young monk fiercely by the arms. "Philip! Philip! 
 Let us save him from them ! Let us take him from 
 the abbey, and fly to some other land, where they may 
 touch him not ! You and I and he ! " 
 
 The last was more a sob than a word. Philip 
 timidly came closer to her, and, with a woman's touch, 
 smoothed back the hair which had fallen about her 
 face. Then, taking her right hand in his, he stroked 
 it, gently. The action soothed her. 
 
 " Save Anthony, Mary? 'T were as easy, I ween, to 
 steal the Pope from his palace as to get Anthony 
 from the abbey without the knowledge of the monks. 
 He is locked in his cell. The key is in the prior's 
 own room ; and at the tailory Peter Turner continually 
 watches his door. But, indeed, an that were not so, 
 and Anthony were free to go and come, I doubt me 
 much if he would consent to escape; so tender a point 
 
474 2Jncanonf?e& 
 
 with him is his honor of courage. Let us speak of it 
 no more. " 
 
 Mary heard him through, and, when he had fin 
 ished, turned from him with a twist that showed her 
 impatience at his words. Perhaps she would have left 
 him then, had he not quickly gone to her, and laid a 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " 'T is true, then, thou lovest Anthony better than 
 me?" 
 
 Quickly she faced him, and he drooped beneath her 
 look: "Neither thee nor any living thing, nay, God 
 himself, do I love as I love Anthony Fitz-Hubert ! " 
 
 His hand fell heavily to his side; and she left him, 
 running like a deer across the fields, passing from his 
 sight in the neighboring woodland. The monk stood 
 like a stone till she was gone. His shock at her 
 blasphemy was drowned when the full realization of 
 her words swept over him. He had been right. For 
 him, with his mildness, and his little learning, and 
 his too apparent devotion, she had never cared. Now 
 he knew, and acknowledged to himself, that from the 
 first day when the three of them had met, in this 
 same spot beside the thorn, nearly six years ago, she 
 had voluntarily surrendered her heart to the grave, 
 silent, apostate monk. How Anthony had kept the 
 trust, Philip only guessed. So, in the great bitter 
 ness of his double grief, he retraced his steps over the 
 brown fields, around the south wall of the abbey, and 
 into its grounds by the hidden opening. Here, once 
 again, he was in the midst of all the turbulence that 
 he so shrank from. 
 
 The long and exciting day came to an end at last, 
 and, for a few hours, the great abbey lay silent and 
 slumbrous, save for the little space that echoed to 
 the sound of Peter Turner's snores. At matins next 
 morning, few were late, for all in the abbey were 
 eager for the day that was to follow. It was one that 
 
at t^e $I)be? 475 
 
 should go down in the annals of Glastonbury as his 
 toric. On the morning of July twenty-ninth, in the year 
 1213, at noon, in the chapter-house, was to take place 
 the trial for heresy of the son of an Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. 
 
 Mass concluded at half-past ten. The moment that 
 the last benediction fell, the monks in a body sprang 
 to their feet and crowded into the narrow passage 
 way; the last of them reaching the chapter several 
 minutes earlier than usual. Here they stood about, 
 talking in disorder, till the prior, who had doffed 
 his pontifical robes, entered among them, in company 
 with Comyn, Cusyngton, Michael Canaen, and Ant- 
 wilder. As the officers took their seats in the usual 
 order, and the common ranks fell into place upon the 
 rows of settles, a hush, unusual as it was perfect, fell 
 over them all. After an impressive pause, Harold 
 rose. His expression was placidly grave, his voice 
 and manner admirably adapted to the occasion; for, 
 curiously enough, this foolish man had a strong sense 
 of the harmony of all things. 
 
 " Brethren, we are here to-day gathered together in 
 the name of the Holy Catholic Church of Rome, by its 
 merciful creed to judge one of our number who hath 
 violated its most sacred law. Anthony Fitz-Hubert, 
 a vowed Benedictine monk, shall hereby be accused 
 and tried, and thereafter sentenced, before you all. He 
 hath been taken, in a certain hostelrie of the town of 
 Bristol, in the act of expounding, before divers per 
 sons, certain condemned heretical creeds, composed by 
 the scholastics Almarich of Bena, and David of Dinant. 
 In full knowledge of its sinfulness is Anthony Fitz- 
 Hubert charged with committing this act. Now ye 
 who are here present will, each and every man, as his 
 brethren, have voice in the meting of his punishment ; 
 and ye are charged, one and all, as ye do fear God 
 and hope for salvation, to judge him justly, and with 
 
47 6 
 
 what mercy ye may. May the Lord of our worship be 
 with us forever, and incline our hearts to keep his 
 law." 
 
 Amid a little murmur of not wholly satisfied curios 
 ity, the stout prior sank back to his chair and looked 
 about on the assembly. Down in the midst of the 
 common ranks were two empty seats ; and two men, 
 out of all in the abbey, were missing from this throng. 
 Peter Turner and Philip the scribe, at the beginning 
 of Harold's address, had risen quietly and hurried 
 away together. Presently, to the ears of the waiting 
 throng, trained as all were to note the slightest sound 
 that should break the stillness of their lives, came 
 the tap of steps approaching the chapter-house. In 
 stantly every face was turned toward the door, and 
 the silence was breathless. So into their midst, 
 quite alone, his two jailers walking behind him, came 
 the heretic. Philip and Peter glided to their seats. 
 Anthony, having reached the space in front of the 
 prior's chair, bowed to the abbot's place, folded his 
 arms across his breast, and stood straight, looking 
 squarely at Harold, his back to the great number of 
 monks. Those behind him saw a ring of iron-gray 
 hair, that encircled his white tonsure. Those in front 
 looked upon an immovable white face, set like stone, 
 with less expression in it than statues show, his 
 eyes, usually so brilliant, now dull and lifeless, raised 
 to the gargoyle over Harold's head. No one in the 
 room made comment on his appearance, for he defied 
 comprehension. 
 
 After a long and puzzled hesitation, Harold rose up 
 again, with all his personality directed to the prisoner. 
 As soon as he began to speak, Anthony's eyes came 
 down and fixed themselves on his face, apparently 
 deeming that as satisfactory as the one above. But 
 the prior found the look more difficult to endure than 
 the stone had done. They were strange eyes, fearful 
 
Clje a>torm at tlje abbey 477 
 
 eyes, eyes that made one desire wildly to pluck them 
 from their owner's head, and cast them away, where 
 they might never reach one again. So while Harold 
 spoke the words of his formula, he could not force his 
 voice to harmonize with their supremacy. 
 
 "Anthony Fitz-Hubert, erstwhile brother of the 
 Chapter of Augustine at Canterbury, now Benedictine 
 of this Abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset, you stand 
 here before us this day, to answer to a charge of heresy. 
 You are hereby accused of having preached and taught 
 to certain burghers of Bristol sundry and various 
 heretical doctrines contained in the forbidden and per 
 nicious works of one Almarich of Bena, and also 
 David of Dinant. Have you any answer for the 
 charge? " 
 
 "The charge is admitted. But while I did teach 
 certain of the works of those two men, many of my 
 dogmas were wholly of myself, coming from mine own 
 heart, and constituting my belief." 
 
 Canaen and Cusyngton looked at Antwilder and 
 Comyn. A hardened sinner, this ! Harold sat down 
 and continued from the chair: 
 
 "Anthony Fitz-Hubert, you admit the charge of 
 your crime? Dost know its usual punishment?" 
 
 Anthony bowed slightly. His audience looked in 
 amazement at his coolness, and Philip shuddered with 
 terror. 
 
 " Now, according to the merciful laws of the Catho 
 lic Church, you are hereby offered a chance for a new 
 salvation. With due penance, repentance and purifi 
 cation, after a certain time you shall be once more 
 cleansed from sin, and received into the favor and 
 grace of the true religion. Thus new hope of life is 
 in clemency offered you. Come, make your answer 
 to this." 
 
 Harold spoke these necessary words with what was 
 almost a friendly persuasion. A black scowl rose to 
 
<3ncanoni?et> 
 
 Antwilder's brow, and there was a perceptible wave 
 of displeasure rolling over the assembly. It was 
 almost certain that the miscreant would accept this 
 too lenient offer. 
 
 In very truth, Anthony was hesitating. When his 
 sin had been paid for, this much was afterwards said 
 of him. A look of the living had come into his face; 
 but it was not so much one of relief as questioning 
 agony. His lips moved, though none heard his voice. 
 He seemed to be addressing some invisible thing. 
 Then suddenly he cried aloud, in a clear, hard tone : 
 
 " Father, you know, now ! My God is mine own ! 
 The creed of the Church I renounce forever. Do with 
 me as ye will." 
 
 Though the first two sentences that he had spoken 
 were unintelligible to the multitude, the last were 
 plain enough. To the general satisfaction, Harold 
 seemed roused at last to wrath. 
 
 "Brethren, ye must perceive that it is our duty, 
 here and now, to provide some equitable punishment 
 for this conscienceless offender. Such a corrupter of 
 principle may not stay longer in our midst. Ye who 
 know an ending which ye deem suitable for such a one, 
 have your way. Let him who would speak rise up, 
 and say what he will in earnest faith." 
 
 There was not a sound in the room. Anthony turned 
 around and looked at them, smiling, with unfathom 
 able scorn in his eyes. A low murmur rose among 
 some in the ranks. 
 
 "Torture!" cried out one who x dared not stand. 
 The cry was echoed through the room: "Ay! torture! 
 torture ! " 
 
 " What torture, brethren ? " queried the prior, seeing 
 that nothing more definite was likely to be said. 
 
 "The boot! " ventured one, uncertainly. 
 
 " The wheel ! " cried another. 
 
 " The rack ! " shouted a third. 
 
^>tonn at t^e abbe? 479 
 
 After this there were other suggestions in confused 
 chorus, but none were well heeded. Still Anthony 
 stood there with that maddening smile; and the trial 
 seemed likely to end in a farce. Then Eustace 
 Comyn, reading the fury in his neighbors' faces, sprang 
 to his feet with determination. 
 
 " Brethren, ye speak as children. The boot the 
 wheel the rack these things are for every villain 
 who shoots a stag, or kills a slave. Those tortures 
 maim, but they do not kill. Think you that we shall 
 use such toys as those for the death of this man? 
 Meseemeth that we here in Glastonbury are scarce 
 fitted for such a judgment. This I do propose as well 
 to be done. In August, on the fourth day, at the 
 Abbey of St. Albans, there is to be held a great coun 
 cil, led by the new Archbishop, Stephen Langton. To 
 this are to go all bishops, abbots, priors, and priests of 
 England, who have need of the settlement of any mat 
 ter neglected during the years of Interdict. Harold 
 here hath received notice of that meeting; but erst 
 while had no thought to go, sith Glastonbury was all 
 in order then. Now I do propose that on the morrow 
 he set out sith 'tis five days to St. Albans to lay 
 this case before the judges there. Depend upon it 
 their punishment will be such as we could not devise. 
 What say ye to the plan?" 
 
 When Comyn sat down there was a mighty breath 
 of relief. His idea was hailed with positive delight 
 by all but one of the assembly. When he finished his 
 little speech, the deacon glanced instantly at Ant- 
 wilder, and saw dissatisfaction written there. It took 
 but little wit to read the cause. Before any had had 
 time to speak, he hastily crossed the room and, with 
 out any attempt at subterfuge, whispered in the ear 
 of the farmerer: 
 
 " Listen, Joseph, Jocelyn of Bath will be at Albans. 
 Thou rememberest his words at the Falcon? Well, I 
 
480 (3ncanom?e& 
 
 swear to thee that he bears good grudge 'gainst thy 
 monk here. Be not afraid to trust his ill-will." 
 
 All who were present saw that Antwilder's face 
 brightened at the words. David Franklin, who had 
 been watching anxiously, saw that Comyn had satisfied 
 the farmerer; and accordingly his own countenance, 
 which had been more gnarled than usual, cleared away 
 the last opposition to the deacon's wish. When Comyn 
 started to return to his place, he let his eyes steal for 
 a moment to Anthony's face. Anthony was looking 
 at him steadily, still with that unfathomable smile. 
 Eustace's eyes dropped, and his face flushed. Anthony's 
 very glances hurt now. 
 
 It was left to Harold to conclude the audience. 
 Poor prior ! It is an unhappy man who is not master of 
 his own household. "Ye have heard Master Comyn, 
 brethren. Do ye agree to what he hath said ? " 
 
 "Ay!" came in a chorus from them all, even from 
 Philip himself. 
 
 "Then, brethren, according to your wish, will I 
 depart on the morrow. The chapter is thus ended; 
 and the hour for reading nearly past. Peter Turner, 
 and thou, Philip Scribus, remove the prisoner to his 
 cell. While I am departed I charge ye that he be 
 properly fed and kindly treated. Doubt not that in 
 the end his penance will be heavy enow to atone for 
 all." 
 
 So saying, the prior left the room by the door that 
 led to his own apartments. The throng of monks pro 
 ceeded slowly toward the library, where they might at 
 leisure discuss the decision in the chapter; while the 
 prisoner, with his jailers on either side of him, re 
 turned through the network of passages to his own 
 cell. Once within it, the human broke through all 
 his heroic self-possession, and, for a moment, showed 
 how the spirit was weakened by what he had under 
 gone. In a sudden turn of dizzy faintness Anthony 
 
^>torm at t^e abbe? 481 
 
 sank down nervelessly on the stool beside his table. 
 Upon this, at its farther side, there lay a little 
 steel dagger, of strangely fine workmanship, its hilt 
 wrought in gold and, if Peter was not mistaken, set 
 with precious jewels. It was Fitz-Hubert's one relic 
 of his other life, the meat-dagger that he had taken 
 with him from Windsor to Canterbury, and then on 
 to Glastonbury. Only that morning he had drawn it 
 from its hiding-place, to rejoice in the memories that 
 it bore. Now, seeing it again, he reached over and 
 picked it up, balancing it thoughtfully upon one of 
 his long fingers. Suddenly, feeling eyes upon him, 
 he glanced up. His look fell full upon Peter Turner, 
 who was watching him phlegmatically. Philip saw 
 nothino- of it all. He was in the other corner of the 
 
 & 
 
 cell, at Anthony's praying-desk, thinking to offer up 
 one petition for his friend before he should go. Mean 
 time the other two stared into each other's faces. 
 Finally Anthony whispered : 
 
 "Peter Turner, wilt let me know Harold's return, 
 and the sentence? " It was a risk, but the risk held 
 good. 
 
 Peter Turner nodded once, solemnly, and then re 
 plied in two words, "At night." 
 
 Anthony smiled; and Philip rose from his knees 
 to find both the others watching him. Going to his 
 friend, he looked at him mournfully with his large 
 blue eyes, then murmured with gentle fervor: "Mise- 
 reatur tui omnipotens Deus; et Jesus Christus ti custo- 
 diat animam in vitam aeternam." 
 
 The door to Anthony's cell swung shut. The key 
 turned in its hole. The two bolts were pushed fast 
 and the jailers together descended the stairs. Philip 
 at once carried the key to the prior's apartment. He 
 found that good man with an attendant lay brother, 
 busily rolling up various necessaries, and placing them 
 in a small coffer, which was to be conveyed in his 
 
 31 
 
482 
 
 coach to its destination; the prior having wisely deter 
 mined to do no journeying on horseback. His breath 
 was too short, nowadays, for that sort of thing. 
 
 Harold arrived at St. Albans on the morning of the 
 second day of the assemblage of the council. He was 
 received with pompous patronage by the abbot him 
 self; and, after refreshment, was led directly out into 
 the great cloister and presented to Stephen Langton. 
 These were truly curious days, when an abbot of 
 Albans could lord it over a prior of Glastonbury, while 
 the spoiler of the latter abbey looked on, smiling and 
 violet-robed. Jocelyn of Bath greeted Harold with 
 warmth. He knew very well the purpose of his com 
 ing, and was undisguisedly interested in the affair. 
 In memory of old scores to be hereby settled, Jocelyn 
 took his whilom colleague's business straight to the 
 lord of Canterbury. The judging of the seemingly 
 endless cases, which was conducted alphabetically 
 according to the name of the complainant, was still 
 among the D's; and high was the curiosity concerning 
 the state of him who could arrest matters where they 
 stood, to bring the affair of an H into judgment upon 
 its immediate arrival. This Langton permitted; and 
 the quick and awful decision of the severest of law 
 givers may, possibly, have been not a little influenced 
 by a certain rotund prelate who was not unconnected, 
 in the mind of the Frenchman, with some ancient 
 Rouen memories. 
 
 In consequence of these things, on the morning of 
 August sixth, having rested but a single night at 
 the rival abbey, Harold turned his face south again, 
 and drove, in his lumbering coach, back toward the 
 fair county of Somerset. On the road the traveller 
 brooded unhealthily over that thing which must hap 
 pen at his journey's end. Again and again he drew 
 from his pouch the parchment of destiny, signed by 
 one whom God Almighty should one day judge; and 
 
at t^e abbe? 483 
 
 ever, as the prior read that document, he shuddered, 
 and rendered thanks to Heaven that the blood was not 
 all upon his soul. Men of the thirteenth century were 
 not as they are to-day. But, even for those times, 
 Harold was a gentle brute; and truly, long before his 
 destination was reached, he wished that he had rather 
 faced his turbulent monastery full of monks single- 
 handed, than have gone his way to receive such a judg 
 ment on him who, heretic as he was, was still a man. 
 
 However, dread stays not wheels ; the journey ended 
 at last. On the afternoon of August twelfth, Glaston- 
 bury lay again before the eyes of its prior. Quietly 
 Harold entered into the building and proceeded at 
 once to his own apartments, without making his pres 
 ence known to the brethren, who did not expect him 
 for two days yet. Having washed the pricking dust 
 from his face and neck, and summoned a surprised 
 novice to bring him a tankard from the brewery, he 
 prepared himself for his immediate duty. From their 
 place in the travelling coffer, he drew forth Langton's 
 official documents; and, with these in his hand, re 
 turned into the great church, where vespers were 
 being held. 
 
 His appearance was theatrical from its unexpected 
 ness. Solemnly, ay, sadly, he passed among the ranks 
 of brethren, up the steps of the altar. Here, from 
 beneath the very shadow of the cross, he read, with 
 neither prelude nor comment, to his assembled audi 
 ence, the contents of the parchment. It was written 
 in Latin. Perhaps not all the monks comprehended 
 the first part of it; but there were three in the nave 
 who stood close together and missed not one syllable 
 from the beginning unto the end. Eustace Comyn 
 and Joseph Antwilder, shoulder to shoulder, listened 
 with a gaze fixed upon the floor till the denouement 
 was reached. Then, with a quick common impulse, 
 they turned their eyes to the spot where stood Philip 
 
484 
 
 the scribe. Anthony's friend had dropped to his 
 knees, and his slight hands were clasped in an agony 
 of horror upon his breast. His face was gray and old, 
 and his eyes were strained into a far-away look. A 
 feeling, first of pity, then of something more, crept 
 into the two guilty hearts. Philip was seeing now 
 what all the multitude saw, what had been brought 
 home to them at last, the crime which was on every 
 head. Before their eyes lay the long, smooth stretch 
 of ground where, only on the morrow, a sight so 
 sickening was to take place. No strong imagination 
 was needed to paint the picture ; to behold, against the 
 background of a darkening sunset sky, that helpless 
 figure chained to the stake; to hear the thud of the 
 first stone against the meagre flesh ; to see the black 
 blood oozing slowly from his breast, and dribbling 
 down the snowy skin ; to dream the note of unendura 
 ble agony that should ring out at last from the bruised 
 lips; to imagine the night that would fall upon that 
 lonely, quivering heap, after all should be done. 
 What wonder, with this before them, that the brethren 
 spoke never a word among themselves when Harold 
 had left them alone again with the knowledge of the 
 coming death, the death of their heretic, Anthony? 
 Was it a wonder that refection was a dreary meal ; 
 that compline seemed endless; that confession was 
 easy that evening? And many a one would have been 
 relieved to know himself as guiltless in the matter 
 as was he who lay during the whole night prostrate on 
 the worn stones before the shrine of Mary Magdalen 
 in Joseph's Chapel, wetting them with the tears that 
 would give his eyes no rest Philip, the scribe. Yet, 
 bitterness can linger forever in no heart; and for 
 seven hundred years they have all been dead. A few 
 tears a trembling of the lip a smile a little 
 calm at the end these are our life. Do we ask less? 
 No tears at all ? 
 
Cfce ^>to]mt at tbe abbe? 485 
 
 By ten o'clock that night the old monastery lay 
 still. Even the one familiar sound that was accus 
 tomed to rise upon the end of the west corner was 
 missing. Peter Turner slept not yet. For the first 
 time in many a week, his lusty snore was failing to 
 rouse the echoes round about his cell. However, only 
 one man in the dormitory was little enough wearied to 
 keep the tailor company in sleeplessness. This man 
 was his next-door neighbor, the prisoner, who was 
 further breaking monastic rules by having his cresset 
 still alight at such an hour. Matins were no longer to 
 be dreaded by him, should his eyes be heavy at two. 
 At thirty minutes after ten, Peter arose from his bed. 
 Stealthily he made his way over the stones that paved 
 his cell, knowing its furniture too thoroughly to stum 
 ble over it, and haply never having heard of floors 
 that creak. The master of the fabric glided into the 
 corridor, and peered down into the darkness care 
 fully. There was not a sound. Then he turned to the 
 barred door next his own to the west. All was well. 
 Through the filamentous crack beneath that door 
 glowed a line of light. Anthony was awake. 
 
 Peter got down upon his knees before the heretic's 
 cell. Seeing that this was not enough, however, he 
 laid himself prone, and put his mouth to the crack. 
 With dry lips he formed a word; but, in his endeavor 
 to make the whisper light enough, no sound came. 
 Again he tried. This time the sweat started out from 
 every pore in his face at his sonority of tone, as he 
 uttered the damning word: 
 
 " Anthony ! " 
 
 There was a little sound in the room ; then again 
 complete silence. Presently the well-known music 
 answered delicately : 
 
 "Who is it that speaks?" 
 
 " I, Peter Turner," repeated the raucous whisper. 
 
 The prisoner crossed his cell, and knelt also by the 
 
486 <3ncanoni?e& 
 
 door. Like Pyramus and Thisbe the two were lip to 
 lip. "What wouldst thou, Peter?" 
 
 "I come to fulfil my promise." 
 
 "Harold is returned?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The sentence?" 
 
 " Ask it not. Do thy worst rather than incur it. " 
 
 "The sentence, Peter! I can endure the hearing. 
 'Tis curiosity!" 
 
 "After vespers, on the morrow, thou art, by order 
 of Langton, to be stoned to death." 
 
 Silence for a moment, but Peter did not rise. 
 
 "And my body?" asked Anthony, thoughtfully. 
 
 "To be burned and the ashes scattered." 
 
 "I would they had kept me together, at least! 
 However 
 
 "Alas!" 
 
 "Thank thee most mightily, Peter; and fare thee 
 well." 
 
 " Farewell ! Oh, Anthony ! Forgive us all ! " 
 
 "Forgive? Well, Peter, I do not greatly envy them. 
 But, for the speedy end my brethren are about to give 
 me, I bless them right fervently. Forgiveness is for 
 God." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ANGELUS 
 
 THE fourteen days during which Anthony had 
 been shut in his monastic cell formed a fitting 
 finish to his inner life. The outer, active 
 life ended with the scene at the Falcon Inn ; but 
 the existence a man leads within himself, is not often 
 strongly influenced by outside happenings. The law 
 of compensation is mighty. The death of his hopes, 
 the wreck of his career, had given Anthony what 
 only those who suffer can obtain, that kind of 
 companionship with self which is the second and the 
 greatest life. After the first despair had abated a 
 little, the monk, hand in hand with the man that he 
 otherwise was, walked frequently together, in by no 
 means unpleasant ways. There had been times when 
 an ecstasy had come into his solitude, placing him on 
 pinnacles of thought which lesser men dreamed of as 
 heaven. That they were all the heaven his soul should 
 know for many lives to come, Anthony was well aware; 
 and accordingly he rejoiced in his immeasurable supe 
 riority. His solitude had been always unapproach 
 able. He had permitted no man, no woman, to probe 
 the depths of his spirit's prison-house. The intermin 
 gling of souls weakens; it does not make strong. But, 
 nourished upon the God within him, alone, he had 
 grown ever greater in spirit, more self-contained in 
 power. Himself came almost never to the surface; 
 for there was none to draw it forth. Upon the Prin 
 cess Eleanor he would not, out of pride, expend what 
 
488 
 
 she did not ask. Philip had been too gently weak to 
 need the real greatness of his secret personality. To 
 all the rest about him, monks, not men, he refused 
 in scorn the very smallest atom of himself. At the 
 Falcon Inn alone, to his people there as a body, not 
 as individuals, had he given both of heart and head, 
 freely, to find it unacceptable in the end. He had 
 done small good. His work had been shown him 
 useless; and himself, rejected, entered into himself 
 again. Though what he had seen of their courage at 
 the inn was all the means he had by which to judge 
 his pupils, it was enough. He knew the end, their 
 unanimous resolve to return to the faith, as well as the 
 priest who had stood at Jocelyn's side and calculated 
 his power that night. 
 
 Yes. Anthony's work had been useless. Though 
 he was giving his life for it, and, while he knew very 
 well the small value at which it was placed, he did 
 not mourn. Guessing the nature of Langton, and the 
 probable presence of Jocelyn at his trial at Albans, he 
 had realized that his heresy could only meet with death. 
 Still, during his two weeks of imprisonment, Anthony 
 thought no more upon the end than each morning to 
 calculate the number of days that he had probably left 
 him to live. The one hard thing to endure would be 
 that all his life would be laid bare before the low- 
 minded men who were to judge him. Already he 
 had shrunk with pain from the contact with them in 
 the chapter. The pacific endurance of the man Ant- 
 wilder's eyes on him had torn every nerve in his body. 
 He had been alone, superior, for so long ! He felt 
 now that they thought him so no longer. Hate he 
 could have borne well it being the passion next 
 noblest to love. But scorn? Ah, no. His vanity 
 rebelled at that. He had scorned those about him for 
 too long. He was entirely unaware of the fact that 
 secretly, even against their wills, many of the monks 
 
489 
 
 admired, nay, envied him. His moral courage and 
 his strength in conviction forced their admiration. 
 His supremacy of calm over death itself made them 
 envious. For how they feared death, miserable as 
 their poor lives were, Anthony never dreamed. Had 
 he guessed his real position among them, he might, 
 perhaps, have been less content with the long monot 
 ony of his imprisonment. As it was, his days, 
 unbroken as they were from dawn to sunset, were 
 singularly happy. 
 
 At first the prisoner was at something of a loss to 
 guess wherefore he had not been placed in one of the 
 penitent's cells, and to learn the reason why his food 
 was more fitted for the consumption of an abbot than that 
 of a degraded friar. Then, with an over-high opinion 
 of their ingenuity, he finally determined that they 
 wished to obtain a glaring contrast between this and 
 the end; between silent sunlight and the rack; between 
 peaceful philosophy and the crown of thorns; between 
 daydreams of Eleanor, and of heaven with her, and 
 the stake. In reality, the beauty of his last days was 
 due to an unwarrantable qualm that had seized upon 
 Harold before he left for St. Albans, and had made 
 his commands in regard to humane treatment of the 
 prisoner so severe that no monk had deemed it advisa 
 ble to disobey the order. 
 
 Anthony's cell was distinguished from the rest in 
 the abbey by its possession of two windows, if such 
 little things might so be called, looking, one to the 
 west, the other to the south. In summer this was 
 well enough; in winter it was a serious disadvantage; 
 for both openings were unglazed. Being set very high 
 in the wall, nothing could be seen through them save 
 blue sky in daylight, and blackness studded with stars 
 at night. Like that of every other in the abbey, 
 Anthony's cell was furnished with straw pallet, blanket, 
 prie-dieu, crucifix, desk, table, stool, and lantern; 
 
490 2Jncanoni?e& 
 
 surely a goodly provision for any man in those days. 
 Besides these things Anthony had a scribe's outfit, 
 brought by him, together with certain philosophical 
 works, from Canterbury. Thus with reading, writing, 
 meditation, small fear at his heart, peace in his mind, 
 and the glad knowledge that he need never again 
 know the monotony of Hours, Anthony the monk was 
 happy. 
 
 The days were long and hot, and intervalled with 
 the ringing of the chime in the tower of the great 
 church. The nights were warm, sweet-breathed, and 
 silent. Each morning, when the prisoner awoke, he 
 counted one day less that he should have in which to 
 read, to write, to wait. The fact that he had no regret 
 in the end, and no fear of its means, was strong proof 
 of the indescribable suffering that had passed be 
 hind him as life. He did not sleep over well; for, 
 in the night, again and again, would come to him the 
 thought of his father, and the wonder of how, after all, 
 it had been with him since he went away. Thoughts 
 of the other life, which he was ta enter presently, had 
 never been strange or repellent to Anthony. Now, in 
 fancy, he went further than any of us do until the 
 very hour when we look death in the face. Each man 
 dies, as he is born, alone, uniquely, with true knowl 
 edge only of himself at heart; aware that what he 
 knows is incomprehensible to any other. Can any 
 dream of what it might be to regard such a fate as that 
 which hung over the head of the monk? Death in the 
 presence of a hundred men; at the hands of those 
 hundred men? 
 
 The days moved on until there came that twelfth of 
 August upon which Harold entered again into the 
 gates of his abbey. Anthony knew nothing of his 
 arrival, and did not note the unusual quiet of the 
 brethren who ordinarily laughed and talked about the 
 grounds during the work hours of the late afternoon. 
 
 \ 
 
491 
 
 The prisoner had calculated the number of days which 
 the prior's journey would be likely to last, and, like 
 the monks, had counted upon a greater length of time 
 than was consumed. He burned his cresset unseason 
 ably late that evening, for he was sleepless and wished 
 to read. The sound of Peter Turner at his door, how 
 ever, startled him. The first noise sent a knife-thrust 
 to his heart, for he guessed the identity and the pur 
 pose of his nocturnal visitor. After that single instant 
 of normal realization, his mind was again under con 
 trol. The conversation finished, he returned to his 
 book, read through Plato's "Timseus," lingered on a 
 short passage from the " Apology," blew out his candle, 
 and laid him down for the last rest on his straw. To 
 morrow night at this time where? After all, that 
 thought was still strange to him. About fifteen hours 
 remained. His mind was clear; but sleep was far 
 away, perchance the gentle god courts not the dying. 
 He was unagitated, but tranquillity was gone. Stoned 
 to death! Worthy of Langton, that. They stood in 
 danger of having him canonized as a martyred saint a 
 century later, should Tritheism go slightly out of 
 vogue. Stoned to death ! what if it should be done ? 
 For one moment he let his imagination go; and then, 
 even as he lay, grew sick with the sight in his con 
 sciousness. Yet it was but deepening twilight, 
 hanging over the monastery grounds; silence, vast, 
 unbreakable; and, in the midst of all, a heap of dark, 
 quivering stones that hid what? A misshapen mass 
 of earth called flesh, saturated with a thick red liquid, 
 all warm with the friction of departed soul. Still, 
 with this picture in the darkness, Anthony, who had 
 smiled at death, lay shuddering at death's form. 
 
 Out of the stillness over the abbey, rose a sudden 
 clang. It was the bell for matins. Fitz-Hubert heard 
 his neighbor rise from his sleepless couch in the next 
 room; knew that he knelt at his desk; caught, as much 
 
49 2 2Jncanoni?eU 
 
 with his consciousness as with his ears, the low, mur 
 muring sound of myriad prayers that pervaded the 
 monastery ; then, seized with a quick impulse, he also 
 rose to his knees. There, bowing before no crucifix, 
 lifting straight to heaven itself the eyes from which 
 the veil was. so soon to be removed, poured from 
 his soul a mighty, unlearned prayer; the only prayer 
 spoken in the abbey that night; for mercy, for for 
 giveness, for comfort, that comfort of which he had 
 known so little in the last years. And his prayer was 
 granted. For when the words had fled his lips he 
 laid him down again in weary peace upon the straw 
 and slept. 
 
 Day, his last day, dawned. Lauds were nearly fin 
 ished in the church. The kitchens were busy with 
 preparations for the breaking of fast. Already the 
 coolness of early morning was nearly gone ; for there 
 was not so much as a feather of cloud in the tropical 
 sky. At last, with the bell for the donning of day 
 clothes, the laggard monk opened his dark eyes on the 
 world again. With the awakening, returned the knowl 
 edge which had for a little while been banished in 
 dreamless sleep. He arose with the thought of death 
 in his heart, and the look of death in his face. Upon 
 his table there stood an earthen jar half full of water. 
 Seizing this suddenly, he drank of the tepid stuff like 
 one possessed. He was alone none was watching 
 him ; it was a relief that he might act as he chose. 
 Nauseated, he returned the empty vessel to its place. 
 Then, a little ashamed of his childishness, Anthony 
 went over to his southern window, and stood at it for 
 a long, long time, looking up at the blue, and wonder 
 ing. For those who are born, and those who die, must 
 wonder. 
 
 Anthony was roused from his musing by the arrival 
 of a guest. A pigeon, a young thing, heavy for its 
 wings, came suddenly within his range of vision, 
 
493 
 
 veered with awkward difficulty, then darted swiftly 
 down into the cell, hitting its tail-feathers against the 
 stone as it entered. Once inside, it took up a posi 
 tion on a corner of the desk, bobbing its head con 
 tentedly, and regarding the occupant of the little room 
 with jolly, unwinking eyes. It brought back to 
 Anthony the memory of the birds which Eleanor had 
 been wont to feed. Smiling, he advanced with uncer 
 tain steps and eyes that were dim, with a hand out 
 stretched to greet his visitor. The little creature 
 ducked gaily, tipped its head on one side, preened 
 itself, and, fairly laughing in the face of the monk, 
 raised its young wings and soared away again into 
 freedom. 
 
 " So may I depart ! " murmured Fitz-Hubert to him 
 self, as he sank down again upon his stool, and bowed 
 his head in thought. 
 
 His meditation and self-struggle were interrupted 
 by the arrival of his noon meal. Anthony was sup 
 posed to be entirely ignorant of the fact that this was 
 his last day. But had he actually been until now un 
 aware of the approaching finale, the expression on the 
 face of Richard Friendleighe, when the refectioner 
 brought up his dinner, would have enabled him to 
 surmise all. Friendleighe looked at him long and 
 earnestly; for the first time without malice in his 
 thin face. Then, after gathering up the dishes of the 
 day before, to be removed, he turned once again, with 
 a kind of gesture that made Anthony think him about 
 to speak. This, however, he did not do, but passed 
 reluctantly away from the cell of the condemned. Such 
 was Fitz-Hubert's farewell to man. 
 
 The last meal was a meagre one. Upon the tray 
 was a bowl of soup, a piece of black bread, and a jar 
 of water. The monk sat him down to table grimly. 
 The soup was not difficult to swallow. One spoonful 
 he forced himself to take; then he put his teeth 
 
494 2Jncanoni?eD 
 
 through a morsel of the bread. It was finished 
 with an effort. Afterwards he sat motionless, looking 
 down before him at that which he should need no 
 more. 
 
 Minutes passed; and it was minutes that he counted 
 now. Recreation had begun. "After vespers," Peter 
 Turner said. The sun was coming, in long, bril 
 liant beams, through his western window. With a 
 sentence half spoken, he rose from the table and, 
 from a pile of books and parchments thereon drew 
 forth his dagger. Its blade caught the sunlight, and 
 cast a swift gleam over his sombre face. He drew, his 
 thumb over the sharp edge so that the skin was 
 slightly slit. What did it matter? He lifted the 
 table back beside his bed, leaving the floor clear. 
 Then, with one blind step, he took his stand in 
 the centre of the sunshine which now almost covered 
 the stones. Deliberately he rolled the left sleeve of 
 his tunic up to the shoulder. There was a deep-drawn 
 breath, a murmured word, a swift movement of his 
 right hand upon the flesh of his other arm. Then he 
 looked full into the light, that he might not behold 
 what was flowing, warm, and silently, down upon the 
 floor. But the weight had gone from Anthony's heart. 
 It was done; he had nothing more to dread. There 
 was scarcely a pain ; only his left hand was numb and 
 cold, and there was a wild giddiness in his head. 
 Presently he sank gently to his knees, and the sun 
 beams about him grew misty. He had a vague, dream 
 like consciousness that all the candles upon his great 
 altar had been lit and were burning low very low. 
 Being as he was, he might well pray, he thought. A 
 few phrases came from his lips. After that he was 
 silent, in the surrounding cold. With a strong effort 
 he laid him down, straight and decently, beside the 
 liquid, scarlet pool. A radiant smile came to kiss his 
 lips. It was all over the weariness, the monotony, 
 
495 
 
 the ceaseless struggle with Fate. This present mo 
 ment paid for all. It was his empyrean. With the 
 mighty relief came oblivion. The light faded to dark 
 ness before his open eyes; and at last a dim shadow, 
 that defied the yellow rays, passed, like the bird, out 
 at the western window, into the heart of God. 
 
 So they found him lying, an hour later, with heaven 
 in his face, the thirty and two years of his living 
 banished from his brow. Not a monk there regretted 
 that his end was such; and none afterwards remem 
 bered the sight of his body with aught but a kind 
 of wonder, and a hope that his own death might be 
 as beautiful. Philip was the first to touch him in 
 his sanctification. Kneeling by his side, as at a 
 shrine, he took from the stiffened fingers the jewelled 
 instrument of freedom; and, holding the little weapon 
 over his own unselfish heart, permitted himself, for 
 the passing of his friend, not a single sob. 
 
HISTORICAL MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 EMPEROR 
 ALEXANDER I. 
 
 AND THE COURT OF RUSSIA 
 
 By Mme. La Comtesse de Choiseul=Gouffier. 
 
 Translated from the original French by MARY BERENICE PATTERSON. 
 I2mo, gilt top, deckle edges. Illustrated, $1.50. 
 
 The author of this volume was an intimate friend of Alexander and an ardent surv 
 porter of his foreign and domestic policy. When Napoleon entered Russia she was pre 
 sented to him, and her pages contain a lifelike and characteristic picture of the " Little 
 Corporal." The book is full of bright, witty sayings, and presents a remarkably true 
 portrait of Alexander, who occupied during the first quarter of the nineteenth century as 
 pre-eminent a position in the world of diplomacy as did Napoleon in military affairs. 
 Only two copies of the original of this work are known to exist from one of which the 
 present translation has been made. 
 
 Chicago Chronicle. 
 
 The author's admiration for Alexander is boundless, but this very enthusiasm 
 gives a more vivid picture of the man than less impassioned words could convey. 
 
 Outlook, New York. 
 
 The work was written many years ago, but it was written by one who knew 
 from the inside, both in Russia and in France, the history which she narrated. 
 Her book has long been a mine of wealth to all historians dealing with the period 
 of Alexander's reign, and, indeed, with European history in the early part of this 
 century, especially to Lamartine, who drew liberally from it in his " Histoire de 
 Russie." Novelists have also found the book useful; Dumas, for instance, in 
 his " Maitre d'Armes," owned his indebtedness to it. 
 
 Literary Era, Philadelphia. 
 
 Time has not materially dulled the interest or staled the variety of Madame 
 Choiseul-Gouffier's picturesque and substantial book ; and we are glad to see it 
 thus revived in a form which should give it a fresh lease of life with a new public. 
 The portrait it paints of Alexander I., while not strictly in accord with the wider 
 verdict of history, has its special features of truth and grace ; while the charm 
 and animation of the author's pictures of the events she saw and the circles she 
 moved in are undeniable. 
 
 New York Times Saturday Review. 
 
 The chief charm of the book will be found to lie in the intimate personal pic 
 tures in which it abounds . . . The book naturally touches with much detail upon 
 the political events of the time, the terrible sufferings endured by the French 
 during their retreat, and all the happenings of those stirring days, but the book is 
 most interesting as giving a vivid picture of one to whom all the world seemed 
 devoted. The memoir is so picturesquely and intimately written as to leave a 
 strong impression on the reader's mind. 
 
 FOR SALE BY BOOKSELLERS GENERALLY, OR SENT POST-PAID 
 ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS, 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO. 
 
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 RECALL 
 
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 Uncanonized. U6 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 DAVIS