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. THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE RECALL LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS Book Slip-Series 458 N9 821470 PS3531 Potter, M.H. 07723 Uncanonized. U6 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS