FOOTNOTE:

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! ouvrez moi."

They were his last. The door was open and he had entered. Ah, who shall follow even in imagination, and trace his progress to the gates of day?

"Go wing thy flight from star to star,From world to luminous world, as farAs the universe spreads its flaming hall:Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,And multiply each through endless years,One moment of Heaven is worth them all."

"Go wing thy flight from star to star,

From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming hall:

Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,

And multiply each through endless years,

One moment of Heaven is worth them all."

But those left behind in the lazar-house—ah me! deprived of the only man who had gained an empire over their hearts, and could control them—what of them?

They lostallcontrol, and broke through all discipline; they overpowered their keepers, who indeed scarcely tried their best to restrain them, sharing the common fear; they broke the gates open; they poured forth and dispersed all through the country, carrying the infection wherever they went.

Still this was not a very wide scope; the woods, the forests, were their chief refuge. And soon the story was told everywhere. It was heard at the lordly towers of Warwick; it was told at the stately pile of Kenilworth; it was proclaimed at Banbury. It startled even those violent men who played with death, to be told that a hundred lepers were loose, carrying the double curse of plague and leprosy wherever they went.

"It must be stamped out," said the stern men of the day: "we must hunt them down and slay them."

So they held a council at Banbury, where all the neighbouring barons—who were generally of one party in that neighbourhood—took counsel.

They decided that proclamation should be everywhere made; that if the lepers returned to the lazar-house at Byfield within three days, all should be forgiven; but otherwise, that the barons should collect their savage hounds, and hunt them down in the forest.

And this was the very forest where we left poor Evroult dying—the forest of the hermitage which these poor lepers were tolerably sure to find out, and to seek shelter.

And here we will leave our poor friends for a while, and return to Wallingford Castle.

FOOTNOTE:[26]This is an extant form of those ages for the reconciliation of a penitent at the last gasp.

[26]This is an extant form of those ages for the reconciliation of a penitent at the last gasp.

Great was the surprise and anger of Brian Fitz-Count that his favourite page should dare to tarry, even to bury his grandfather, much less to fulfil an idle vow, when he had bidden him return at once.

He cared so little for sacred things, whether the true gold of the mint, or the false superstitions of the age, that he could not understand how they should influence other men.

Yet he knew they did exercise a strong power over both the imagination and the will, and sometimes had acknowledged that the world must have a religion, and this was as good as any other.

"Let Osric believe as much or as little as he likes," he said, "only he must remember that Brian Fitz-Count is the deity to be worshipped in Wallingford Castle, and that he allows no other worship to interfere with that due to him."

The next morning Osric reappeared, and at once sought the presence of his lord.

"Thou art more than a day behind?"

"I tarried to bury my grandfather, and to execute a vow in his behalf."

"That is well; but remember, Osric, I permit none here to disobey my orders, either for the sake of the living or the dead. Heisdead, then?"

"He died the night I arrived."

"May he rest in peace," said Brian carelessly, feelingglad in his heart that the old man was gone, and that there was no one left to dispute his dominion over the heart of Osric.

"But for my grandfather's vow I had returned last night after the funeral. I have discharged my debt to him, and beg pardon for my delay. I now belong to you."

It was strange, however, the wooden tone in which he spoke, like a schoolboy reciting a lesson.

"And thou shalt find in me a father, if thou always continuest to deserve it—as by obedience thou hast hitherto done—save this lapse, in place of him whom thou hast lost."

"Am I to go to Shirburne?"

"I have sent Malebouche. There are certain matters of business to talk over. I want thee to turn scribe for the rest of the day, and write letters for me. It is a thing I could never accomplish. All I can do is to sign my name, or better still, affix my seal. My pen has been the sword, my book the country around; wherein I write my black characters, as men say."

Yes, he did indeed, and the fame remains till this day.

So all the rest of the day Osric wrote at his lord's dictation. There was some especial correspondence with the leaders of the party, and that night messengers were speeding north, south, east, and west with the missives Osric had penned.

Late in the day, while Osric was walking on the ramparts, a page came after him and bade him hasten to the bower of the Lady Maude. The manner was urgent, and he went at once.

He found the lady in tears, surrounded by her handmaidens, who were standing on each side of her "curule" chair, endeavouring in vain to console her.

The Baron was striding up and down the spacious room, which, as we have said, overlooked the river.

"Read this, Osric," he said, and put a letter into his hands. "I can but half understand it."

Osric read. The letter came from the governor of the lazar-house, and contained a succinct account of the terrible visitation we have recorded in our last chapter.

"But our boys are at the hermitage, dame," said Brian; "they are safe; you need not weep."

Osric read on—how that the lepers had broken loose and taken to the woods. Then came the significant close: "So the neighbouring barons and knights of all degrees are gathering together their dogs, to hunt them in the woods; and I greatly fear lest harm happen to thy sons, who have been, with thy permission, left to the care of the hermit Meinhold, dwelling within the same forest."

It was a terrible thought to the poor mother: the affliction of her boys was the great burden of her life. Yet the customs of the age had required the sacrifice of her. She had been forbidden, perhaps it was kind, to visit them, lest the sight of their state should but increase her woe; but they were never long out of her thoughts.

"Husband! father! thou must go and protect them, or I will go myself."

"Enough, Maude, enough; I will start at once with a troop of a hundred men, and whatever they do in the rest of the forest, methinks I shall enforce respect for the hermit's cave—where we are told they are so happy. Osric, send Osborne to me for orders at once."

"Am I to go, my lord?"

"No; you must remain here, I have special reasons. You will be in attendance on the Lady Maude."

Osric's eyes glistened.

"You will see that certain orders I shall leave are carried out, in reference to the business in which you are employed. If any question your right to command, and refuse obedience, show them this ring. You see how I trust you, my son."

"Would he were our son," sobbed the Lady Maude; "but I have none to comfort me; my poor boys, torn from me—torn from me. Hasten, my lord; it is far to Byfield—very far; you may not be in time."

"I will bring thee the hands and feet of any who have dared to harm them."

That same hour the Baron departed with his troop, and Osric was busy for a while in executing his commission. He occupied his own little chamber in the keep; it was at a great height above the hill on which the lofty tower was raised, and the view of the country was most extensive.

When nightfall came, Osric was here alone, and he did a very singular thing.

He lit a lamp, and placed it in his window; then he took it away in a very undecided fashion; then he replaced it again; then he took it away, and finally replaced it.

"The die is cast," he said.

Two roads lay before him,—it was an awful crisis in his life,—two roads, utterly different, which could only lead to most opposite issues, and the strife waswhichto choose. The way was yet open.

But to enter either he must break his faith. Here lay the sting to his generous heart.

The one road led to honour, to riches, to power, to glory even; and had all which could delight a young warrior's mind, but coupled with the support of foul tyranny, the uprooting of the memory of his kindred and their woes, and the breaking of his newly-pledged faith to the outlaws.

The other road led to a life of obscurity and poverty, perhaps to a death of ignominy, and certainly began with an act of treachery towards one who, however cruel to others, had loved and trusted him, of which the ring he bore was a token and a pledge.

It was when he thought of this that he withdrew the light.

Then came the remembrance of the sufferers in the foul dens below.

"It is the cause of God, and truth, and freedom, and justice, and all that is holy;" and he replaced the light.

Then he knelt; he could pray now—

"Oh God, direct me—help me—show some token of Thine approval this night. Even now I believe in Thee as my grandfather did. Oh save me, and help Thy poor oppressed ones this night; deliver them from darkness and the shadow of death, and break their bonds asunder."

Then he went to attend at the supper of the Lady Maude, where he was received with marked attention. He had of course been trained in all the etiquette exacted from pages and squires, and was expected to make himself agreeable in a hundred ways, to carve the joints with elegance, and to wait upon the ladies.

This part of his duty he had often delighted to execute, but to-night he was "distrait." The poor lady was in so much grief herself at the danger of her sons, whom she had not seen for five years, that she did not notice his abstraction, as she otherwise certainly would have done.

Then it fell ordinarily to the province of the squires and pages to amuse the party,—to sing songs, recite romaunts, play the troubadour, or to join in such games as chess and draughts, lately imported from the East, with the fair ladies of the little court,—when they dined, or rather supped, in private as now. But no songs were sung this night—no tales of valour or chivalry recited; and the party broke up early. Compline was said by the chaplain who was present, for in the bower of so great a lady there must be respect for forms; and then the fair ones went to bed.

Osric was now at liberty.

"Art thou for a composing draught to-night, my squire?" said the chaplain. "I can compound a fair night-cap for an aching head, if thou wilt come to my cell."

"Nay, my calls are urgent now; I have been detained too long by my duties as a squire of dames. I have orders for our worthy gaoler Tustain and his sons."

"Not to put any prisoners on the rack to-night? it is late for that; let the poor things rest till to-morrow."

"It is not to that effect that my orders run."

"They say you did not like that kind of thing at first."

"Neither do I now, but I have perforce got used to it."

"Bon soir;" and the chaplain sauntered off to drink mulled sack. It was a shocking thing that the Church, in his person, should set her seal of approbation on such tyranny as that of a Norman hold in Stephen's days.

Osric descended to the foot of the tower, crossed the greensward, and entered the new dungeons of Brian's Close. On the ground-floor were the apartments of Tustain the gaoler, extending over the whole basement of the tower and full of the hateful implements of his office.

There were manacles, gyves, and fetters. There were racks and thumbscrews, scourges, pincers, and other instruments of mediæval cruelty. There were arms of various kinds—swords, axes, lances, bows and arrows, armour for all parts of the body, siege implements, and the like. There were lanterns and torches for the service of the dungeons. There were rows of iron basons, plates, and cups for the food of the prisoners. Lastly, there were many huge keys.

In the midst of all this medley stood a solid oak table, and thereat sat Tustain the gaoler-in-chief—now advanced in years and somewhat impotent on his feet, but with a heart as hard as the nether millstone—with his three sons, all gaolers, like himself, eating their supper. A fairly spread table was before them—very different from the fare they supplied to their prisoners, you may be sure.

"We have locked up for the night, and are taking our ease, Master Osric."

"I grieve to disturb thy ease, but my lord has sent me to thee, Tustain."

"He must be some leagues away at this moment."

"But he has left orders by me; see his ring."

Tustain recognised the token in a moment, and bowed before it.

"Wilt not take some food? Here is a noble haunch of venison, there some good trout, there some wood-pigeons in a pie—fish, flesh, and fowl."

"Nay, I have just supped with our lady."

"Thou art fortunate. I remember when thou wert brought in here with thy grandfather as a prisoner, and saw the torture-chamber for the first time."

"More startling changes have happened, and may yet; but my business—Art tired, my men?"

"We have had little to do to-day—no raid, no convoy of goods to pursue, no fighting, no hunting; it has been dull."

"But there is work afootnow, and stern work. You, Richard, must take horse and bear this letter to Shirburne, where you must give it to Malebouche, and wait his orders; you, Tristam, must carry this to Faringdon Castle, and bring back a reply; you, Aubrey, to the Castle of the Black Lady of Speen."

They looked astonished—as well they might—to be sent out for rides, of some fifteen miles each, at that hour.

But the ring—like the genii who were the slaves of the Lamp, so were they slaves of the Ring.

"And who will help me with the prisoners?" said Tustain.

"You are permitted to call in such of the men-at-arms as you please."

"Why did he not send men-at-arms? You are sure he said my sons were to go? Why, if we were suddenly called to put any of my lambs to the torture, these men-at-arms would hardly know how to do it."

"You could direct them," said Osric. Then to the sons, "Now, my men, haste speed."

In half an hour they were gone.

"A cup of sack for consolation—the best wine from our lord's own cellar. I have brought thee a flask."

"Wilt thou stay and help me discuss it?"

"For a few minutes only; I have much yet to do."

Osric produced the flask from the gypsire which hung from the belt of his tunic.

Then the old man took down two goblets, and Osric poured the wine.

The old man drank freely; Osric but sparingly. Soon the former began to talk incoherently, and at last he cried—

"What wine was that? Why, it was Old Nick's own brewing. I can't keep my eyes open."

Half suspecting something amiss, the old man rose, as if going to the door; but Osric threw his arms around him, and as he did so the old man gave way to the influence of the powerful narcotic which the youth had mingled with his drink, and fell like a log on the couch to which Osric had dragged him.

"I hope I have not killed him; but if I have it is only half his deserts. Now for my perilous task. How this ring has helped me!"

He went first and strongly barred the outer door, then traversed the upper corridor till he came to a room in the new buildings, which was a private den of the Baron. It was panelled with oak, and pressing a knob on the panel, a secret door opened, disclosing a flight of steps. These went down into the bowels of the earth; then a narrow passage opened at right angles to the corridor above, which Osric traversed. It was damp and slimy, and the air had a deathly odour; but it soon came to an end, and Osric ascended a similar flight of steps to the one by which he had descended; again he drew out the key and opened an iron door at the summit. He stood upon a terrace at the edge of the river, and just upon a level with the water.

The night was dark and stormy—not a star could be seen. The stream rippled by as Osric stood and listened. The clock struck twelve, or rather the man on duty with an iron hammer struck the bell in the tower of St. Peter's Church twelve times with his hammer to tell the midnight hour. A few minutes of feverish suspense—the night air fanned his heated brow—when he heard muffled oars close by, heard rather the splash of the water as it fell from the upraised blades. A large boat was at hand.

"Who comes?" said Osric in a low voice.

"Englishmen, good and true."

The outlaws stood on the terrace.

"Follow me," said Osric.

In a few minutes they were all assembled in the heart of the stronghold in the gaoler's room, where the gaoler himself lay snoring like a hog.

"Shall we slay him?" said they, naturally looking on the brute with abhorrence.

"No," said Osric; "remember our compact—no bloodshed save in self-defence. He will sleep till this time to-morrow night, when I fear Brian will do for him what he has done for thousands."

"What is that?"

"Hang him."

"He deserves it. Let the gaoler and the hangman hang."

"Amen."

"Now for the keys," said Thorold.

Osric knew them all, and taking them, led the liberators down below, into the gloomy corridor from which the dungeons opened on either side. The men shuddered as they stood between these dens of cruelty, from which moans, faint and low, from time to time issued like the sighing of the plaintive wind.

One by one they opened these dens, and took the prisoners out. Many were too weak, from torture and privation, to stand, and had to be supported. They hardly understood at first what it all meant; but when they knew their deliverers, were delirious with joy.

At last they came to the cell where the "crucet-box" was placed, and there they found Herwald. Osric opened the chest, of which the lid was only a framework of iron bars. He was alive, and that was all; his hair was white as snow, his mind almost gone.

"Are the angels come to take me out of Purgatory?" he said.

"Herwald, do you not know me?" said Thorold.

It was vain; they could evoke no memory.

Then they went to the torture-chamber, where a plaintive, whimpering cry struck their ears. In the corner stood a boy on tiptoes; a thin cord attached to a thumbscrew, imprisoning both his poor thumbs, was passed over a pulley in the ceiling, and then tied to a peg in the wall, so that the poor lad could only find firm footing at the expense of the most exquisite pain; and so he had been left for the night, the accursed iron eating into the flesh of his thumbs all the time.

"My boy! my boy!" said Thorold, and recognised his own son Ulric, whom he had only lost that week, and traced to the castle—hence his anxiety for Osric's immediate aid—and the poor father wept.

Happily Osric had the key of the thumbscrew, and the lad was soon set free.

"Break up all the instruments of torture," said Thorold.

Axes were at their girdles: they smashed all the hateful paraphernalia. No sound could possibly be heard above; the depth of the dungeons and the thickness of the walls gave security.

"Lock up all the cells, all the outer doors, and bring the keys; we will throw them into the river."

It took a long time to get the poor disabled victims through the passages—many had to be carried all the way; but they were safely brought to the large boat, and placed on beds of straw or the like; not one sentinel taking the alarm, owing to the darkness and the storm.

"Now for Dorchester Abbey," said Osric. "We must take sanctuary, before daybreak, for all these poor captives, they are incapable of any other mode of escape."

"And we will attend as an escort," said the outlaws. "Then for the forest."

So Osric atoned for his residence in Wallingford Castle.

The heavily-laden boat ascended the stream with its load of rescued captives, redeemed from their living death in the dungeons of Brian's stronghold.

The night continued intensely dark, a drizzling rain fell; but all this was in favour of the escape. Upon a moonlight night this large boat must have been seen by the sentinels, and followed.

There was of course no "lock" at Bensington in those days, consequently the stream was much swifter than now; and it was soon found that the load they bore in their barge was beyond the strength of the rowers. But this was easily remedied: a towing rope was produced, and half a dozen of Thorold's band drew the bark up stream, while another half-dozen remained on board, steered or rowed, or attended to the rope at the head of the boat, as needed.

Osric was with them: he intended to go to Dorchester and see his father, and obtain his approbation of the course he was pursuing and direction for the future.

All that night the boat glided up stream; their progress was, of necessity, slow. The groans of the poor sufferers, most of whom had endured recent torture, broke the silence of the night, otherwise undisturbed, save by the rippling of the water against the prow of the boat.

That night ever remained fixed in the memory of Osric,—the slow ascent of the stream; the dark banks gliding by; the occasional cry of the men on the shore, or the man at the prow, as the rope encountered difficulties in itscourse; the joy of the rescued, tempered with apprehension lest they should be pursued and recaptured, for they were, most of them, quite unable to walk, for every one was more or less crippled; the splash of the rain; the moan of the wind; the occasional dash of a fish,—all these details seemed to fix themselves, trifles as they were, on the retina of the mind.

Osric meditated much upon his change of life, but he did not now wish to recall the step he had taken. His better feelings were aroused by the misery of those dungeons, and by the approbation of his better self, in the contemplation of the deliverance he had wrought.

While he thus pondered a soft hand touched his; it was that of the boy, the son of Thorold, who had been chained to the wall by means of the thumbscrew locked upon his poor thumbs.[27]

"Do your thumbs pain you now?" asked Osric.

"Not so much; but the place where the bar crossed them yet burns—the pain was maddening."

"Dip this linen in the stream, and bind it round them; they will soon be well. Meanwhile you have the satisfaction that your brave endurance has proved your faithfulness: not many lads had borne as much."

"I knew it was life or death to my father; how then could I give way to the accursed Norman?"

"Pain is sometimes a powerful reasoner. How did they catch you?"

"I was sent on an errand by my father, and a hunting party saw and chased me; they questioned me about the outlaws, till they convinced themselves I was one, and brought me to the castle, where they put on the thumbscrew, and told me there it should remain till I told them all the secrets of the band—especially their hiding-places. I moaned with the pain, but did not utter a word; andthey left me, saying I should soon confess or go mad; then God sent you."

"Yes, God had sent him." Osric longed no more for the fleshpots of Egypt.

Just as the autumnal dawn was breaking they arrived at the junction of Tame and Isis, and the Synodune Hills rose above them. They ascended the former stream, and followed its winding course with some difficulty, as the willows on the bank interfered with the proper management of the boat, until they came to the abbey-wharf. They landed; entered the precincts, bearing those who could neither walk nor limp, and supporting those who limped, to the hospitium.

They were in sanctuary.

In the city of refuge, and safe while they remained there. Whatever people may think of monasteries now, they thanked God for them then. It is quite true that in those dreadful days even sanctuary was violated from time to time, but it was not likely to be so in this instance. Brian Fitz-Count respected the forms and opinions of the Church, outwardly at least; although he hated them in his inward heart, especially when they came between him and his prey.

The good monks of Dorchester were just emerging from the service of Lauds, and great was their surprise to see the arrival of this multitude of impotent folk. However, they enacted their customary part of good Samaritans at once, under the direction of the infirmarer—Father Alphege himself—who displayed unwonted sympathy and activity when he learned that they were refugees from Wallingford dungeons; and promised that all due care should be taken of the poor sufferers.

There had been one or two Jews amongst the captives, but they had not entered the precincts, seeking refuge with a rabbi in the town.

When they had seen their convoy safe, the outlaws returned to their haunts in the forest, taking Ulric, sonof Thorold, with them, but leaving poor Herwald in the hands of Father Alphege, secure of his receiving the very best attention. Poor wretch! his sufferings had been so great and so prolonged in that accursed den, or rather chest, that his reason was shaken, his hair prematurely gray, his whole gait and bearing that of a broken-down old man, trembling at the least thing that could startle him, anon with piteous cries beseeching to be let out, as if still in his "crucet-box."

"Thou art out, my poor brother, never to return," said Alphege. "Surely, my Herwald, thou knowest me! thou hast ridden by my side in war and slept beside me in peace many and many a time."

Herwald listened to the tones of his voice as if some chord were struck, but shook his head.

"He will be better anon," said the Father; "rest and good food will do much."

While thus engaged the great bell rang for the Chapter Mass, which was always solemnly sung, being the choral Mass of the day; and the brethren and such guests as were able entered the hallowed pile. Osric was amongst them. He had not gone with the outlaws; he had done his duty by them; he now claimed to be at his father's disposal.

For the first time in a long period he felt all the old associations of his childhood revive—all the influences of religion, never really abjured, kindle again. He could hardly attend to the service. He did not consciously listen to the music or observe the rites, but he felt it all in his inmost soul; and as he knelt all the blackness of his sinful participation in deeds of cruelty and murder—for it was little else—all the baseness of his ingratitude in allowing, nay, nurturing, unbelief in his soul, in trying, happily very successfully,notto believe in God, came upon him.

He had come to consult his natural father, as he thought, and to offer himself to his direction as an obedient son: he now rather sought the priest, and reconciliation as aprodigal to his Heavenly Father as the first step necessary, for in those days penitence always found vent in such confession.

But both father and priest were united in Alphege; and after the Chapter Mass he sought the good infirmarer, and craved of his charity to make his confession.

Will it be believed? his father did not know him. It was indeed years since they had met, and it was perhaps difficult to recognise the child in this young warrior, now come to man's estate—at least to man's height and stature.

Alphege marked the tear-bedewed cheek, the choking voice; he knew the signs of penitence; he hesitated not for a moment.

"My son, I am not thepænitentiariuswho ordinarily receives strangers to Confession."

"But I wish to come to thee. Oh, father, I have fought against it, and almost did Satan conquer in me: refuse me not."

"Nay, my son; I cannot refuse thee."

And they entered the church.

Father Alphege had composed himself in the usual way for the monotonous recitation of human sin—all too familiar to his ears—but as he heard he became agitated in himself. The revelation was clear, none could doubt it: he recognised the penitent.

"My son," he said at the close, "thy sin has been great, very great. Thou hast joined in ill-treating men made in the image of God; thou art stained with blood; thy sin needs a heavy penance."

"Name it, let it be ever so heavy."

"Go thou to the Holy Land, take the Cross, and employ thy talents for war in the cause of the Lord."

"I could desire nothing better, father."

"On that condition I absolve thee;" and the customary formula was pronounced.

A hard "condition" indeed! a meet penance! Osric might still gratify his taste for fighting, without sin.

They left the church—Osric as happy as he could be.A great weight was lifted off his mind. It was only in such an age that a youth, loving war, might still enjoy his propensity as a religious penance.Similia similibus curantur, says the old proverb.

The two walked in the cloisters.

"My father—for thou knowest thy son now—I am wholly in thy hands. Hadst thou bidden me, I had joined the outlaws, and fought for my country. Now thou must direct me."

"Were there even achanceof successful resistance, my son, I would bid thee stay and fight the Lord's battle here; but it is hopeless. What can such desultory warfare do? No, our true hope lies now in the son of the Empress—the descendant of our old English kings, for such he is by his mother's side—Henry Plantagenet. He will bridle these robbers, and destroy their dens of tyranny."

"But Brian is fighting on that side."

"And when the victory is gained, as it will be, it will cut short such license as the Lord of Wallingford now exercises,—destroy these robber castles, the main of them, put those that remain under proper control, drive these 'free lances' out of England, and restore the reign of peace."

"May I not then assist the coming of that day?"

"How couldst thou? Thou canst never return to Wallingford, or take part in the horrible warfare, which, nevertheless, is slowly working out God's Will. No; go abroad, as thou art nowboundto do, and never return to England until thou canst do so with honour."

"Thou biddest me go at once?"

"Without wasting a day."

"What steps must I take?"

"Dost thou know a moated grange called Lollingdune, in the parish of Chelseye?"

"Well."

"It is an infirmary for Reading Abbey, and the Abbot is expected to-morrow; thou must go, furnished with credentials from our Abbot Alured. The Abbot ofReading is a mitred abbot, and has power to accept thy vows and make thee a knight of the Cross. I doubt if even Brian would dare touch thee then; but keep out of his way till that time; go not by way of Wallingford."

"That were madness. I will make across country."

"And now, dear son, come to noon-meat; I hear the refectory bell."

To the south-west of the village of Cholsey (Chelseye) the Berkshire downs sink into the level plain of the valley of the Thames. Here, therefore, there was that broken ground which always accompanies the transition from a higher to a lower level, and several spurs of the higher ranges stretch out into the plain like peninsulas; while in other places solitary hills, like islands, which indeed they once were, stand apart from the mainland of hills.

One of these hill islands was thickly clothed with wood in those days, as indeed it is now. And to the north-west there lay a "moated grange."

A deep moat, fed by streams which arose hard by, enclosed half an acre or less of ground. This had been laid out as a "pleasaunce," and in the centre was placed a substantial house of stone, of ecclesiastical design. It was a country residence of the monks of Reading Abbey, where they sent sick brethren who needed change of air, to breathe the refreshing breezes which blow off the downs.

Such a general sense of insecurity, however, was felt all over the country by clericals and laics alike, that they dug this deep moat, and every night drew up their drawbridge, leaving the enclosure under the protection of huge and faithful mastiffs, who had been taught to reverence a monk's cassock at night, but to distrust all parties wearing lay attire, whether of mail or otherwise.

A level plain, between outlying spurs of the downs, lay to the west, partly grazing land, partly filled with the primeval forest, and boggy and dangerous in places. Here the cows of the abbey grazed, which supplied theconvalescents with the milk so necessary in their cases; but every night each member of the "milky herd" was carefully housed inside the moat.

There was great preparation going on at the grange of Lollingdune, so called from its peculiar position at the foot of the hill. The Abbot of Reading, as we have elsewhere learned, was expected on the morrow. He was a mighty potentate; thrice honoured; had a seat in the great council of the kingdom; wore a mitre; was as great and grand as a bishop, and so was reverenced by all the lesser fry.

So the cooks were busy. The fatted calf was slain, several fowls had to pay the debt of nature, carp were in stew; various wines were broached—Malmsey, Osey, Sack, and such like; devices in pastry executed, notably a pigeon-pie, with a superincumbent mitre in pie-crust; and many kinds of sweets were curiously and wonderfully made.

At the close of the day sweet tinkling bells announced the approach of the cavalcade over the ridge of the hill to the eastward; and soon a dozen portly monks, mounted on sleek mules, with silver bells on their trappings, for they did not affect the warlike horse, and accompanied meetly by lay attendants, laden with furniture and provisions for the Abbot's comfort, approached by the "under-down" road, which led from the gorge of the Thames at Streatley. The whole community turned out to meet them, and there was such an assembly of dark robes that the bailiff of the farm jocosely called it "Rook-Fair."

"Pax vobiscum fratres omnes, clerici atque laici.I have come to repose my weary limbs amongst you, but by St. Martin the air of these downs is fresh, and will make us relish the venison pasty, or other humble fare we may receive for the sustenance of our flesh. How are all the invalids?"

"They be doing well," said Father Hieronymus, the senior of the monks at Lollingdune; "and say that the sight of their Abbot will be a most salutary medicament."

The Abbot smiled; he liked to think himself loved.

"But who is this youth in lay attire?" and he smiled sweetly, for he liked to see a handsome youth.

"It is one Osric, who has brought letters commendatory from the Abbot of Dorchester."

"Our brother Alured—is he well?"

"He is well, my lord," replied Osric, as he bent the knee.

"And what dost thou seek, sweet son? dost wish to become a novice of our poor house of St. Benedict?"

"Nay, my good lord, it is in another vocation I wish to serve God."

"And that,—ah, I guess thou wishest to take the Cross and go to the Holy Land."

"I do with all my heart."

"And this letter assures me that thou art a fitting person, and skilled in the use of carnal weapons."

"I trust I am."

"Then thou shalt share our humble fare this night, and then thou shalt on the morrow take the vow and receive the Cross from my own hands, after the Mass which follows Terce."

Osric bowed in joyful assent. And that night he dined at the monastic table of Lollingdune Grange. The humble fare was the most sumptuous he had ever known; for at Wallingford Castle they paid small attention to the culinary art—quantity, not quality, was their motto; they ate of meat half raw, thinking it increased their ferocity; and "drank the red wine through the helmet barred."

But it was not so here; the weakness of the monastic orders, if it was a weakness, was good cooking.

"Why should we waste or spoil the good things God has given us?" they asked.

We wish our space permitted us to relate the conversation which had place at that table. The Abbot of Reading was devoted more or less to King Stephen, for Maude, in one of her progresses, had spoiled the abbey and irritated the brethren by exacting heavy tribute. So they told many stories of the misdeeds of the party of the Empress,and many more of the cruelties of Brian Fitz-Count, whose lordly towers were visible in the distance.

Osric sat at table next to the lord Abbot, which was meant for a great distinction.

"In what school, my son, hast thou studied the warlike art and the science of chivalry?" asked the Abbot.

"In the Castle of Wallingford, my lord."

"I could have wished thee a better school, but doubtless thou art leaving them in disgust with their evil deeds of which we hear daily; in fact, we are told that the townspeople cannot sleep for the shrieks of the captives in the towers."

"It is in order to atone for ever having shared in their deeds that I have left them, and the very penance laid on me is to fight for the Cross of Christ in atonement for my error."

"And what will Brian think of it?"

"I must not let him get hold of me."

"Then tarry here till I return to Reading, and assuming the palmer's dress, travel in our train out of his country; he will not dare to assail us."

It was wise counsel.

On the morrow Mass was said in the chapel, which occupied the upper story of the house, over the dormitories, under a high arched roof, which was the general arrangement in such country houses of the monks;[28]and at the offertory Osric offered himself to God as a Crusader, took the vow, and the Abbot bound the red cross on his arm.

FOOTNOTES:[27]This cruelly ingenious contrivance of thumbscrew, lock, and steel chain may be seen at the house of John Knox, at Edinburgh, amongst other similar curiosities.[28]The author has twice seen the remains of such chapels in the upper stories of farmhouses—once monastic granges.

[27]This cruelly ingenious contrivance of thumbscrew, lock, and steel chain may be seen at the house of John Knox, at Edinburgh, amongst other similar curiosities.

[28]The author has twice seen the remains of such chapels in the upper stories of farmhouses—once monastic granges.

The reader may feel quite sure that such a nature as Evroult's was not easily conquered by the gentle influences of Christianity; indeed, humanly speaking, it might never have yielded had not the weapon used against it beenLove.

One day, as he sat rapt in thought on the sunny bank outside the hermitage, the hermit and Richard talking quietly at a short distance, he seemed to receive a sudden inspiration,—he walked up to Meinhold.

"Father, tell me, do you think you can recover of the leprosy you have caught from us?"

"I do not expect to do so."

"And do you not wish we had never come here?"

"By no means; God sent you."

"And you give your life perhaps for us?"

"The Good Shepherd gave His life for me."

"Father, I have tried not to listen to you, but I can fight against it no longer. You are right in all you say, and always have been, only—only——"

A pause. The hermit waited in silent joy.

"Only it was so hard to flesh and blood."

"And can you yield yourself to His Will now?"

"I am trying—very hard; I do not even yet know whether I quite can."

"He will help you, dear boy; He knows how hard it is for us weak mortals to overcome self."

"I knew if I had kept well I should have grown up violent, wicked, and cruel, and no doubt have lost my soul. Do you not think so, father?"

"Very likely, indeed."

"And yet I have repined and murmured against Him Who brought me here to save me."

"But He will forgive all that, now you truly turn to Him and submit to His Will."

"I try to give myself to Him to do as He pleases."

"And you believe He has done all things well?"

"Yes."

"Even the leprosy?"

"Yes, even that."

"You are right, my dear son; we must all be purified through suffering, for what son is he whom the Father chasteneth not? and if we are not partakers thereof, then are we bastards and not sons. All true children of God have their Purgatory here or hereafter—far better here. He suffered more for us."

A few days passed away after this conversation, and a rapid change for the worse took place in poor Evroult's physical condition. The fell disease, which had already disfigured him beyond recognition, attacked the brain. His brother and the hermit could not desire his life to be prolonged in such affliction, and they silently prayed for his release, grievous although the pang of separation would be to them both—one out of their little number of three.

One day he had been delirious since the morning, and at eventide they stood still watching him. It had been a dark cloudy day, but now at sunset a broad vivid glory appeared in the west, which was lighted up with glorious crimson, azure, and gold, beneath the edge of the curtain of cloud.

"'At eventide it shall be light,'" quoted Meinhold.

"See, he revives," said Richard.

He looked on their faces.

"Oh brother, oh dear father, I have seen Him; I haveheard with the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye hath seen Him."

They thought he spake of a vision, but it may have been, probablywas, but a revelation to the inward soul.

"And now, dear father, give me the Viaticum; I am going, and want my provision for the way."

He spoke of the Holy Communion, to which this name was given when administered to the dying.

Then followed the Last Anointing, and ere it was over they saw the great change pass upon him. They saw Death, sometimes called the grim King of Terrors, all despoiled of his sting; they saw the feeble hand strive to make the Holy Sign, then fall back; while over his face a mysterious light played as if the door of Paradise had been left ajar when the redeemed soul passed in.

"Beati qui in Domino morinutur," said Meinhold; "his Purgatory was here. Do not cry, Richard; the happy day will soon come when we shall rejoin him."

They laid him out before the altar in their rude chapel, and prepared for the last funeral rite.

Meanwhile disfigured forms were stealing through the woods, and finding a shelter in various dens and caves, or sleeping round fires kindled in the open or in woodcutters' huts, deserted through fear of them; as yet they had not found the hermit's cave or entered the Happy Valley.

On the morrow Meinhold celebrated the Holy Eucharist, and afterwards performed the burial service with simplest rites; they then committed the body to the earth, and afterwards wandered together, discoursing sweetly on the better life, into the forest, where the twilight was

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