Dame Redwood hastened home with light panniers and a lighter heart; and so eager was she to tell her tale, that she made poor pony trot at a rate to which his old legs were quite unaccustomed. When she entered the cottage door and presented herself to her husband and his guest, her cheeks were several shades rosier than usual with exercise and excitement. Nevertheless, she would not vouchsafe them a word till she had scolded the children all round, brushed up the hearth, and put the dinner on the fire; after which she began, but would always stop at the most interesting points in her story to stir the porridge, or drive the dogs from the door. The little woman felt her importance, and was determined to make the most of it."Was ever man so plagued by woman!" was poor Dick's exclamation when she went off to get some water just as she had begun to tell how the boys had broken through the old door in their dungeon."Now there is an ungrateful man!" said the dame on her return. "Better say, never was man better served by woman. What would ye have done, I'd like to know, if it had been left in your hands? Ye would have blurted it out at the gate, and had the whole convent at your heels. I warrant ye would never have come home with whole bones, let alone the knowledge ye were seeking.""A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband impatiently. "Where did you say was the door the lad broke through?"When she had told him he sat for a moment in deep thought, then brought his great fist down on the table with a blow which made every platter on the shelves rattle."How now, man!" said his wife with a start. "Wouldst thou bring the house down around our ears?""I mind not of the house now," he replied eagerly; "but this I know--if they are in the dungeon under the east tower, and have opened the door into the old cellarer's vault, by our Lady, there is not ten feet of solid earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am Dick Redwood!"Both of his auditors were much surprised at this sudden declaration, and the dame even forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity."Twenty-five years ago," continued the soldier, turning to his guest, "before ever I knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready for a light job that was well paid for, and knew how to hold my tongue about it when it was done. Often one would come to me and say: 'Dick, here is a bit of work and a noble for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at the end of the year thou shalt have another.' So I know many a thing about this country that few, if any, others do; but never did anything come to hand so well as this.""How is it? Tell us now, for mercy's sake," said Bertrand as the soldier paused."Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in the old time, before Mother Beatrice's day, they led a different life at the convent from what they do now. But though the prioress was easy herself, she was not enough so for some of the sisters. They wanted to come out sometimes and take a walk in the woods by moonlight; so they got me and two others--dead and gone long ago in the French wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by one end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault, under the east tower, and by the other under the bank at the spring, where the convent wall runs along the edge of the precipice. It is many years now since they made the beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp, and when the new prioress came, all the nuns' fine walks were stopped; so I warrant you there is not one in the convent now who knows aught of it. If the way be not too much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk, in half an hour, from here straight into the lads' prison--that is, if they know how to open the door, for the spring is on the other side.""We will see to that matter at once," cried Bertrand, rising and snatching his cap; and in a few moments they were striding along, as if on a race, down one of the forest paths. They went on for some time till they came almost directly under the grim-looking convent walls rising from the top of a steep bank. They could see plainly the spot where the entrance had been, but to their great chagrin, found it was impossible to try whether it were still there, for the drifting snow had been piled up in the little dell in such huge drifts that they had to abandon all hope of removing them.This was a great disappointment, but they both knew that the only thing to do was to wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand determined to send word to Sir John of the state of affairs, and make what preparations he could for conveying them to London as soon as they could escape.The next morning, there was an unwonted confusion in the ordinarily quiet convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. In spite of all the strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule, there was an audible hum of voices in the refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of delight, on every face. For what earthly power could keep still the tongues of fifty women, when such an excellent subject for gossip had arisen in their very midst? Some told the story one way, and some another, but one thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to several of the inmates of the convent the preceding night. Sister Hilda, who had fallen behind-hand with some aves and paters which had been given her by way of penance, had been in the chapel on her knees before the figure of the Virgin at midnight, and she declared that just as the last stroke of the bell died away, she lifted her head, and saw a very tall, white figure pass through the choir, and out at the door behind the altar. Sister Ann had been passing down the corridor leading to the infirmary, as it was her duty to watch Sister Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had brushed by her and passed up the tower stairway.Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all, though she did not dare to relate the horrible encountershehad had with the spectre, for reasons which will shortly appear. It was her duty to hand the great bunch of keys to the abbess every night, and on the preceding evening when she got into bed, she suddenly remembered that she had left the key of the garden-door hanging in its lock. In great terror lest her forgetfulness should draw upon her some severe punishment, she had stolen softly down-stairs to recover it before it should be found in the morning; but just as she came to the door and had taken the key out, a tall white figure approached, and laid a deathly cold hand on hers. She had shrieked with fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her life; and now the key could not be found anywhere. The prioress had not yet missed it--that was the only comfort; the weather was not pleasant enough to make the garden an agreeable resort, and it might be some days before she was disgraced, but it must come at last; so she did not care to give her experiences with the ghost.When dame Redwood appeared at the grate to ask for the plaster Lady Katharine had been so kind as to promise her, she noticed her daughter's pale face, but was too much occupied with her particular business to ask her many questions. It seemed so long to her before the lady came that she feared lest something should have happened to prevent their meeting altogether; but at last she appeared, walking as demurely as Mother Beatrice herself. As soon as she was sure of being free from observation, however, she raised her hood and showed to the dame a face so expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the good woman could not help catching the infection."Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate, imitating the nuns' tone, "how is that emaciated back of thine to-day?"Fortunately the dame never laughed very loud; she only screwed up her round face and shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and as soon as she had indulged in this irresistible fit of merriment, she answered:"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as about the bottle you'll be asking, and here it is, and a little meat in this package, if you can hide so much.""That can I," replied Kate, opening her cloak and showing some ingeniously arranged pockets. "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if for naught else. But here is another matter: do you think your good man could make another key like that? Phoebe told me he had replaced one once that had been lost, but that he needed a copy." Here she produced, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the identical key which had caused the poor under-porteress such trouble and fright. "It is the key of the garden-gate, and it is very necessary for my comfort that Mother Beatrice and I should each have a means of entrance there.""The saints preserve me, lady! but how got you hold of a key that not even my Phoebe herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's permission? She has told me as much herself.""Ah! I have a way," said Kate, her mouth twitching with fun; "and as to daring, I dare anything--for those I love," she added to herself; but the very thought sent a flush of color to her cheek, and moisture to her eye."As to the key," said the dame, turning it over and over in her hands, "it is as like as a twin to the one that opens the big oak chest at home. I know it well, for I have handled it now nigh upon forty years.""That is good news," replied the young schemer. "I am to go into the garden to-day, but with Mother Beatrice. When she turns her back I think I can throw a string with a stone at the end over the east side, close by the tower turret. Could not Bertrand fasten the key to it then, so that I could draw it up at the next turn? They would not notice such a little thing from the windows."This led to a full account of the hidden entrance, and when they parted, it was with the agreement that a note should be thrown over the wall by a string in case of any emergency, and, until Bertrand and Dick could clear out the passage, the prisoners should remain quiet, and be, above all, particular to excite no suspicion.Mother Beatrice being now pretty well assured that her prisoners were subdued by hunger and long confinement, thought it high time to begin the work of their conversion, and on this very day she had sent Father Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to have a conversation with them.When he entered the room it was afternoon, and some sunbeams which had lost their way among these grim walls and towers, shot through the grated window and rested on the face of a pale, thin boy, who was reclining on the straw in the corner, partly supported by the wall, while with his long, thin fingers he was braiding some straw into fancy shapes. Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin around him a tattered cloak in such a way as to keep off the cold air from the window. He sprang to his feet as the door opened, and placed himself as if for a shield in front of the sick child."Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk, softening his tones involuntarily at the sight of such suffering. He drew a wooden stool to the side of the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's high forehead with such a tender touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the moment disarmed."Thou art very ill, my son. Wouldst thou not like to leave this sad place and go out into the bright world? It is almost spring now--the flowers will soon be out in the woods."The boy did not answer for a moment; he only gave a long, deep sigh, but it was such a longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's brow waxed dark with indignation, and he walked away toward the window to conceal his feelings."Ah! Father, if you had been a prisoner all these weary months, you would not ask that question.""Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to kneel down here at my knee and confess thy sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the sunshine; for I think thou hast borne penance enough for all the wrong thou canst have committed, poor child!"Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on his lips, but Hubert's quiet voice was already replying:"I shrive me to God morning and evening, and Christ hath long since borne my penance. He only stands betwixt my God and me.""How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding such opposition at the very outset. "So young, and a heretic already! Dost thou set thyself against the holy mother church and all her teachings?""By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!" Geoffrey burst out, no longer able to restrain himself, "your holy mother church hath showed herself but a sorry jade of a step-mother to us. What obedience do we owe to one who has robbed us of our home and our friends, and who thirsts for our blood? You had better choose another place to preach the papistrie in than this foul dungeon!""Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to bring you a message of peace, but you will make me turn it to one of wrath and justice. If you are old enough thus to brave authority, you are old enough for the rack to force from you more seemly speech."Geoffrey was cooler now, but none the less determined. He stood before his visitor with such resolution in his hollow eyes, and stern contempt in the rigid lines about his mouth, that the monk involuntarily stepped back a space. He spoke in a low, deep tone:"Look you, sir priest, ye and your fellows have razed to the ground the home of my ancestors; ye have made my father a penniless exile; ye have slain with fire and sword our dearest friends; ye seized us when we were living quietly and peaceably, not even seeking to teach to others these doctrines which you call heresy; ye have shut us up here in this noisome place, having done no wrong, and having never even had a trial; ye have taken away from us the light and air of heaven, and I wot well ye think never to let us forth again. So be it. Hunger and thirst and weariness will soon open for us gates which ye cannot shut, and give to us a home which ye can neither destroy nor ever inhabit."The boy's highly-wrought feelings had proved too much for his feeble frame, for though his voice rang clear and high to the end, he sank down the moment he had finished and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. Hubert, excited by the interview, had become flushed with fever, and he seemed to have partly lost consciousness of the subject of discourse; but, catching the last words, he began in a weak and wandering way to talk:"Home? Oh! yes, I think it is time we went home, Geoffrey; they want us home, and it is warm and bright and beautiful there. Take hold of my hand, brother, and let us go home together!"The monk turned again to the bedside, and drawing from under his robe an illuminated missal, held up before the child's face one of the pictures."My son, seest thou this Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God?""God's lamb?" said the child dreamily. "I know he is the Good Shepherd; but tell me, doesn't a shepherd sometimes forget one poor little lamb, and leave it out on the mountains alone, with the wind roaring, and the snow falling, to die?"The monk only shook his head, and turned to a picture of the crucifixion."I know! I know!" cried Hubert, roused almost to eagerness. "He died for you and me, for us all, and so we are safe; his precious blood is on me, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted. I am his little lamb, as he is the Lamb of God; and he cannot forget one for whom he suffered so much. He will soon turn back on his way and take me up in his bosom, and I shall be so warm while he is carrying me home! But the rocks are so cold and hard! Do you think he will soon remember me, and come?"Father Paul's stern features were working with emotion; perhaps it was to hide this that he bent lower down over the child and felt again his forehead and hands."Are you a minister?" said Hubert, suddenly looking up into his face. "I wish you would tell me some of Jesus' words, you know so much better than I do. Tell me about the Bridegroom coming in the night, and being all ready."Poor Father Paul! In all his long life--for the hair left by the tonsure was already beginning to turn gray--he had never heard those sweet, solemn words in his mother tongue, and so hastily and carelessly had he repeated them in Latin when the service required it, that he could not recollect them now. Instead, he commenced a prayer in Latin but Hubert interrupted him:"Not now, please; my head is so bad I cannot say my Latin task now. Geoffrey, just say one verse before I go to sleep."Geoffrey rose in an instant, and pushing the monk away, knelt at his brother's side and repeated the whole passage."Ready, ready," murmured the boy; "yes, I think I am ready. I wish he would come to-night. I know it is only to trust in Jesus, and I think I do that. I am very glad, for that brings peace now, when everything else is so full of pain and weariness. Areyouready too?" He lifted his large, earnest eyes full in the face of the ecclesiastic.Father Paul turned abruptly and left the room. He drew each bolt and bar with energy as he fastened the door behind him, as though by closing that oaken portal he could shut out certain new and very painful thoughts which had arisen in his mind; but it had no such effect; and thinking perhaps that a little fresh air might blow away such dungeon damps, he procured the key which Phoebe had just found suspended in its usual place, and with his cowl drawn over his face paced for some time the little garden.The truth was, that a mighty problem had come up before his mind, and would allow him no rest till he had solved it. If that Master should come, whose advent might even then be nigh at hand--if he, as Judge, were suddenly to appear, was he ready for his coming? Paul Hyde had not entered the church merely as a matter of taste, as did many of his companions, but as the only means of escaping the consequences of a wild and wicked youth. He was the brother of Lady Eleanor; but so completely had he withdrawn himself from his family, especially after rumors of his sister's Lollardism began to float about, that though he knew somewhat of their movements, he was to them as one dead, and Mother Beatrice was entirely unaware that her favorite confessor was also the uncle of her troublesome charge.He was a man of rather a contemplative than active disposition, and not so inclined to cruelty as many of his brethren. He had studied thoroughly the business he had undertaken. His prayers were numerous, his penances and mortifications incessant, his fasts frequent and severe, and all this discipline he had been taught, and learned to believe, had atoned for all the evil of his former life, and made him not only pure, but worthy in the sight of God. But, strange to say, a few words from the lips of a sick child had shown him, as by a lightning-flash, that all this sin had only been covered, not driven out--concealed, but never canceled, and that all the sins of his youth were ready to spring up and confront him--ay, and confound him in the great day of account.In vain he considered, again and again, his austere and holy life; he could not see that one sin had been lessened in its enormity by it all. Father Paul had a clear, vigorous mind; it had been slumbering for many years under the influence of the sleeping-draught which Popery always administers so skillfully to its victims; but now that it was aroused, it grasped, systematically, the arguments, and rapidly drew its conclusions. Sin and its punishment, man's utter depravity and God's just wrath, were painted in glowing colors before his eyes. His natural sense of justice told him that we only perform our duty in living the holiest of lives, for we cannot be more perfect than his laws. How then can we lay up any righteousness in one part of our lives, to balance the wickedness of another portion?Lower and lower sank the monk's head on his bosom, wilder and fiercer rushed through his mind thoughts of remorse, horror, and despair. He gave one glance toward Heaven for aid, but the thick leaden clouds seemed placed there for a sign that Heaven was barred against his prayers, and the words of supplication to which he was accustomed, seemed as though they would pass from the lips of a wretch so utterly, so hopelessly vile!Just at that moment the convent bell tolled, but he had to pass his hand several times across his brow before he could remember that he must perform vespers in the chapel. He turned his steps toward the vestry door; there was no escape for him from that duty, though the thought seemed pressing him down to the earth that he, with such a fearful weight of unforgiven sin hanging over him, was to kneel at God's holy altar, and lead the devotions of yonder band of simple, dependent women. All noticed his haggard look and abstracted air, and the weak, almost tottering step with which he mounted the chancel steps; but it was Easter Eve--doubtless the holy Father had sunk under the austerities he had been inflicting on himself during the Lent just passing away, and they gazed on him almost with awe, as a being elevated above the world by his voluntary sufferings--so little do we know each other in this world!Easter Eve! a day full of deep and holy thoughts for thinking minds. Sad, as it brings over our minds the shadow of the garden tomb; joyful, as it points to the glories of the coming morrow.Father Paul never thought of seeking his couch that night. Back and forth he strode the length of his cell; rest seemed banished from him forever. Again and again he passed each argument in review--those which justified God grew more and more powerful; those which justified himself broke one by one like a flaxen band in the flame. More than once he flung himself at full length on the stone floor, and groaned aloud in his anguish.At length, almost unconsciously, he took up his missal which lay on the table beside him, and opened it. The faint gray streaks of the coming daylight revealed to him the very picture he had been showing the sick boy, and with the sight came back the child's words:"He died for you and me, and so we are safe. His precious blood is on my head, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted."He laid the book down softly, then seated himself and buried his face in his hands. That one thought, like the command of Christ, had driven out the demons who were tormenting and mocking his soul. Like Christian, he had come to the foot of the cross, and his burden had fallen into the open sepulchre. Self-righteousness he saw must be exchanged for Christ's righteousness, and, as in a vision, he beheld the Lamb of God submitting to the punishment due to his sins, and saw how beneath the cross God's justice might clasp hands with his mercy, how God might be justified, and yet the sinner be pardoned. The morning had dawned, the Easter sun was lifting itself from the horizon, and climbing by golden ropes toward the zenith; but far more gloriously was the risen Sun of Righteousness shining in the long benighted heart of the Benedictine monk!Again the convent bell sounded, but this time he joyfully obeyed its summons. If all had wondered at the priest's appearance the preceding evening, they wondered still more at his conduct in the morning. As he passed up the choir, through the crowd of country folk who had gathered to keep the holy day, his "Benedicite" had a depth and fervor of tone in it which none had ever heard before from the stern, cold man. His very face was changed. It was very, very pale, with deep lines and furrows around the compressed mouth, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets; but the expression of joy, peace, and thanksgiving that rested upon it was unmistakable. When the service was over, he mounted the pulpit and began his sermon.Never had such a discourse been delivered within the time-worn walls of Our Lady's church. He took no text--his theme was the story of the cross. Never had it seemed so wonderful, so simple, and yet so majestic before. He drew such a picture of divine love and compassion, the slain Lamb washing away sin with his own blood, God smiling at the sinner over Calvary, that there was scarcely a head in the whole assembly that was not bowed down to hide the falling tears. Then he bade them notice the snow which, under the bright beams of a returning sun, was melting away to be replaced by flowers and fruits, and he compared it to their dead faith and affections which Christ's resurrection should rouse to life and activity.Lower sank his voice, more solemn, more thrilling grew his tone as he spoke to them of the second coming of that Lord and Master who had risen from his tomb more than fourteen hundred years before, and he seemed so to realize in his own mind the fact that at any moment, even that very day, the angel's trumpet might call priest and people to the judgment, that his eloquence fell with irresistible force on even his most careless or ignorant hearers; and when at last he descended the pulpit-steps, his last words were ringing like a death-knell in many a trembling heart, for they were spoken for the first time in their own tongue:"Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh. What I say unto you, I say unto all,Watch!"Mother Beatrice met her confessor in the convent parlor soon after the sermon. She stood more in awe of him than of any one else with whom she came in contact. Perhaps it was because she could not understand him: we are generally afraid of characters whose depths we cannot fathom, unless we are exceedingly ignorant or conceited--then we despise them. But however this was, she feared and reverenced him, and these feelings were not likely to be lessened by the new expression of his countenance."Well, Father, how have you found our prisoners? I have strong hopes for the younger; he is but a child, and not yet hardened in iniquity, perhaps. Think you he is yet convinced of his folly? I heard such tales of Lollard wiles and witchcraft, that it behooved me to put them in safe keeping."Only yesterday had Father Paul talked with those children. Could it be possible that between one sunset and the succeeding one, so fearful a conflict could have been fought, so glorious a victory won?"Daughter," he replied, as soon as he could arrange his thoughts, "no bolts or bars can keep that younger child with us. There is a Deliverer approaching before whom we must all bow.""How, Father?" said the startled lady; "who is it will take them from my guardianship? Has the archbishop sent----""Nay, daughter," said the priest solemnly; "the deliverer I spoke of is greater than he, and will pass through yonder dungeon walls without asking our favor. The lad is dying.""Dying!" Mother Beatrice appeared really shocked. "I meant not that; I may have kept them over strictly; they are but children."It may have been the kindly influences of Eastertide, it may have been the result of thoughts stirred up by the sermon she had just heard--whatever it was, the abbess was strangely softened. Father Paul saw this, and took advantage of it."What shall I do, Father? They are heretics--enemies of our holy church.""Then, daughter," replied the monk very gravely, "think how Christ forgave his torturers, and let this be your Easter sacrifice, far more acceptable in his sight than the rushes with which you have strewn the chapel in memory of his resurrection. Let us forgive as we have been forgiven."CHAPTER XVII.A Midnight Supper.At midnight on the preceding night, when the convent was still, and even the inmates of the dungeon under the east tower were sleeping, Geoffrey was aroused by a tap at the door which led into the inner cell. He did not seem at all surprised, but arose and opened it. As he expected, Kate stood on the other side, a white sheet thrown around her, and a lamp in one hand. The brilliancy of the light seemed to dazzle him for a moment, but perhaps it was Kate's own bright face, looking in so suddenly on his loneliness."I come, you see, as I promised," she said, passing him into the room, and setting down her lamp on the shelf occupied by the crucifix, which she pushed aside without scruple to make room. Then, with nimble fingers, she pinned a dark cloth over the window, lest the light shining without should betray them, and continued, as she unburdened herself of several packages:"I have not been a very bad purveyor, I think. This bottle of wine our good friend dame Redwood brought, and the chicken, too; but see here, now, this is what I call fair spoil. This piece of venison is cut from the haunch prepared for the abbess' own dinner to-morrow, and this pastry was meant as a tid-bit for Sister Ursula's breakfast, to reward her for the privations of Lent."Even Geoffrey, who did not smile often now, was moved to laughter at this history of their feast, and Hubert tried to raise himself at the mention of such luxuries. They had no plates; but she, like a dainty housewife as she was, contrived to set it out quite tastily on the floor beside the bed, using the sheet for a table cloth. The pastry and the venison she put one at each end, the bottle of wine in the middle, the chicken and bread and cheese by way of side-dishes."We might as well do it in style," she said, laughing. "I am Lady Katharine Hyde of Estly Court, and you are the heir of Forest Tower."But her gayety was mostly put on to hide the tears which would come welling up in her eyes, as she saw the famished looks with which the two boys regarded the provision."Let us say grace first," said Hubert. And slowly, and reverently, the sick child thanked God for his great benefits to such unworthy children, and prayed that if it were his will, they might soon all go home. This over, they began their meal, and it was touching to mark how Geoffrey pressed each bit upon his brother, unwilling to taste any himself till he had seen him satisfied, and how Hubert watched each dish lest he should receive more than his share. It was but little, after all, that the younger could eat; the wine seemed most refreshing, and brought a little color to his cheeks; but to Geoffrey the food was life itself. He went on eating and eating, hardly looking up at Katharine till he was quite satisfied, while she watched him with smiles playing about her lips, but tears glistening in her eyes. At last the boy stopped, actually unable to eat another mouthful."There, now, you have left a little, after all. I began to think that the very cloth would not be left to take me back in safety. Now, do you not want to know how your supper got here?""That would I, indeed," replied Geoffrey with some compunction in his tone. "Forgive me; I think I have forgotten what courtly manners I ever had since I came here, and I was so hungry. But how could you enter the garden at this time, and how could you get at the abbess' own larder?""Ah!" said Lady Kate, roguishly, "you may thank the convent ghost for that, or, as it will be called by future generations of nuns, the walking lady of the convent.""What do you mean--a ghost?" said both boys, surprised."That is just it: a ghost, but with a substantial body attached. But I must begin at the beginning," and she settled herself comfortably, ready to begin her tale, for dearly Lady Katharine loved to talk, and she seldom had a chance in the convent."You see, it just came into my wise head, that though it would never do formeto walk about the house and pry into things a little, there was no law against aghostdoing it; so I wrapped myself up in this cloth. It was so funny to see Sister Hilda's look when I passed her in the chapel! I guess she forgot after that how many aves and paters she had to say. But I did not think of meeting any one there. I went in to practise gliding on the pavement, and she frightened me almost as much as I did her. But Phoebe was the best of all. I was in the garden refreshing myself, when she came stealing along, ready to jump at her own shadow. I meant to try to speak with you after I had secured the key; but when she screamed, I was afraid it might arouse the house, and hasted back to my room. The next night I had to try it again, in order to put back the key. That silly Phoebe thinks it must be one of the saints, to whom she prayed so earnestly, who brought it back and hung it on its own nail, and who kept Mother Beatrice from wanting to go in the garden that whole day. Now, I do it for the fun of the thing, and, as you see, I have made famous pockets in my robe, and go foraging, as the soldiers say, for truly I think we are in an enemy's country, and if they won't give us enough to eat, and won't let us go where we might have it gladly, I think we have a right to take it wherever we can find it. But now that I have brought you a supper, will you help me in a bit of work?""Ay, that I will gladly," replied Geoffrey, with a look of admiring wonder. "Kate, I always thought it was a man's place to provide for the ladies, but you are taking care of us.""Never mind that," replied the girl, blushing partly from confusion and a feeling as if she might have been too bold, and partly from pleasure. "The time will soon come, I hope, when you and I can take our proper places, and then I will be more ladylike and useless, and then"--she hesitated, then finished her sentence with a laugh--"then you may take care of me if you wish. But come, I think I can show you somewhat in your lodging that you never knew before."[image]Leaving the Convent.--Page277.With lamp in hand she led the way to the inner room, and began examining carefully the stones in the wall under where the steps had formerly led down from the closed doorway. Geoffrey meanwhile, his curiosity roused to its greatest height, watched her every movement. At last she found a little stone let into the wall, and slightly marked with a triangle at one corner. On this corner she pressed with all her strength, at first unsuccessfully, but at last it rolled back, and with it a part of the wall, disclosing a narrow doorway leading to some steps; beyond, all was darkness.In her delight she would have entered at once, but Geoffrey drew her back. He was far better acquainted with such places than she was, and conjectured that since it had evidently been closed so long, the steps might be in too dilapidated a condition to bear her weight. He therefore insisted on trying them by blows with a stick, and on being the first to descend; but, except for the dust, and a confined smell, they appeared as if they might have been in daily use. Down some twenty feet they descended, Geoffrey leading, and carrying the lamp, Kate breathless with excitement, yet talking as fast as possible, explaining the secret entrance and its former object. Soon they found themselves stopped; the passage was filled with rubbish; from this part they must depend on their friends outside. And hark! even now they could distinguish a dull, thumping noise. Dick was at his work in the midnight; at every blow deliverance was coming nearer.According to Kate's direction, he measured with some cord the distance from the foot of the steps to the obstruction, in order that Dick, who knew exactly the length of the passage when it was first made, might be able to judge whether it were possible to remove the rocks and earth. They then returned to tell the news to Hubert.He was suffering from great oppression and exhaustion, so that he did not appear either as surprised or as delighted as they supposed he would. His breath came in hard, short gasps, and Kate seated herself so that his head could rest on her shoulder, while Geoffrey bathed his face and moistened his parched lips."Sing to me, Kate--the song you sang the other night about Jesus.""I will," she replied. And her voice, though at first trembling and husky with emotion, soon rose, as she became roused with her theme, to that clear, calm tone which is so soothing to the sick. She sang a Latin hymn, written by a monk in a far southern land, but sounding none the less sweet to those three Lollard children in their cold and gloomy dungeon."Jesu dulcis memoriaDans vera cordi gaudia;Sed super mel et omniaEjus dulcis præsentia."Nil cantitur suavius,Nil auditur jocundius,Nil cogitatur dulcius,Quam Jesus, Dei Filius."Jesus, spes poenitentibus,Quam pius es petentibus,Quam bonus te quærentibus,Sed quis invenientibus!"Nec lingua videt dicere,Nec littera exprimere;Expertus potest credereQuid sit Jesum diligere!""Sweet memories of thee impartTrue joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;But far beyond all sweets will beThy holy presence, Lord, to me."No sweeter song can chanted be,More joyful news be brought to me,Or sweeter thoughts to think uponThan Jesus Christ, God's only Son."Thou hope of every contrite heart,Since them so very glorious art,To those who SEEK so good, so kind,What must thou be to those who FIND?"No language can the story hold,No words the mystery unfold;Experience alone can proveHow good it is our Christ to love."There was silence for several minutes after the hymn was finished, then the sick boy seemed quite revived."Thank you; how good that is! I feel stronger now, and I would like to talk with you both. Sit close to me, Geoffrey, and wrap my cloak around you; you are shivering."Geoffreywasshivering, but not with bodily cold--it was that chill that creeps over us when Death suddenly appears, and dropping all disguise, shows us his stern features. He had long felt that this great sorrow was approaching, but since he had had so strong a hope of restoration to liberty, he had imagined the fresh air and bright sunshine bringing back a healthy glow to those pale cheeks and vigor to that wasted frame. But now he saw, all at once, his mistake. Death would not thus be robbed of its victim. The bolts and bars through which he was to break were such as no man could fasten; the sunshine in which he was to bask would be the light of his much-loved Saviour's face."Do you remember, Geoffrey, that day before we left dear old Forest Tower, how Lord Cobham told me I might have to die for the truth's sake? I am very glad to go. I did not think it would be so easy; but I would have liked to be able to preach Christ before I went. I am sorry to leave you, brother, but perhaps when I am gone they will take pity on you, and let you go. When you are free, you will go away together, you and Kate--I have prayed God for that. And when you are happy together, you will think often, won't you, of the days we have passed together in our prison? See, I have made these for you; they are not much, but it is all I could do, and father will like to see them, and you will tell him about to-night, and how I loved you both." He drew out from under the straw two little bags, or flat cases, made of plaited straw, and placed them in Kate's and Geoffrey's hands."There are some texts written on parchment in each; I wrote them last summer because they are so beautiful. I wanted to tell you more, but I am very sleepy now. Good night!"The low, faint voice had grown fainter from exhaustion, and he sank down in a deep sleep on Kate's shoulder as he finished. She laid him carefully down, for the convent-bell was warning her that it was time to go. Wrapped in her sheet again, she passed, with Geoffrey's aid, through the narrow window, and as he stood and watched her by the white gleam of her drapery among the leafless trees, it seemed as though all the light that was left for him in this world had departed with the bright words and kindly smile of Lady Katharine Hyde.CHAPTER XVIII.Free Again.Very much surprised was dame Redwood when, the week after Easter, she received a message that the abbess of the convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows wished to see her on particular business, that very morning."I have been at no tricks, mother," said poor frightened Phoebe, who was the messenger, "unless it might be about the key, but that has been hanging on its nail ever since. Do you think she means about me, mother?""And why should she not be meaning you, you heedless thing?" replied her mother, though in her inmost heart she believed itwasfor her own tricks she was to be called before that high dignitary, and foresaw nothing but the loss of her farm, if not something worse. But she would not let her daughter see this; so she went on scolding her with all the breath she could spare while running round to get ready for her departure.It was a pair of very frightened women who presented themselves to Mother Beatrice as she sat erect and stately in the convent parlor. The good dame, however, was thinking less of her own safety than how she could manage to keep from criminating Lady Katharine in case her part of the plot had been discovered."You may go to your work, girl," said the abbess in an unusually gracious manner, when they had made their courtesies to her. "Dame Redwood, your daughter will make a good porteress if she is as prompt in her duty as you are."This took a load off both their hearts, and the dame could listen quietly to the long speech which the Mother Superior addressed to her as soon as Phoebe had closed the door. She told her how she had there with her for safe keeping, and, if possible, for restoring to the church, two young heretics, committed to her care by his grace Chichely, archbishop of Canterbury. She told how the younger was ill, and that she was about to show the extreme clemency of the church toward its wayward, by letting them go free on condition that they should leave the country, and never set foot on English soil again. Moreover, as the one was ill, and the other not strong, it might be necessary for them to rest and recover before their departure, for which she would allow them the space of one week, which time she wished them to pass under the roof of so faithful a tenant of the convent as dame Joan Redwood. Furthermore, she would hold her and her husband responsible if, during that time, they held communication with any other Lollards, and if at the end of that period they were allowed any further shelter.The dame had great difficulty in concealing her delight at this turn of affairs; but she managed to account for her smiles and agitation on the ground of the unexpected favor just bestowed."And now, think you," continued Mother Beatrice, "your good husband could bring some one with him and come this evening while we are at chapel? Phoebe shall have them ready to go."In her delight, happy Joan managed to get down on her knees and kiss the hem of the abbess' robe, which gratified her, and made her so condescending that it was with difficulty they could conclude their respective blessings and courtesies, and have the door fairly shut between them.Never had the road appeared so long between the convent and her home, though the good woman trudged along it almost on a run. When she imparted the news to her husband, his delight almost exceeded hers, for the demon of remorse had been tormenting him again since he had heard of Hubert's sufferings. Now, however, it seemed as if his sin had been expiated, and he was to be certified of this by having the boys placed in his hands to minister to their wants, and serve them in every possible way.It seemed also a most favorable coincidence that Bertrand had just arrived that morning, having appointed that the boys should meet their father, if it were possible for them to escape, at the house of Philip Naseby the trader, which had been their asylum soon after they left home. Bertrand and Redwood employed themselves in making a rude litter of boughs, cushioned with all the dame's skill, and furnished with many a soft wrap to shield the sick boy from contact with the cold air.They had hardly finished their preparations before the hour designated by the abbess; but as the bells were tolling for vespers they stood in the convent court-yard eagerly waiting for their expected guests. Bertrand and Dick waited without, while the dame and her daughter went with Sister Ursula to bring them out; but when they at last appeared, the men could hardly recognize in the gaunt, haggard-looking boy who came feebly along, with a bewildered look in the hollow eyes which he was trying to shield from the light with his hand, the young master whom they had seen so fresh, and ruddy, and vigorous six months before.But the thoughts of all were concentrated on the little form borne, as though lifeless, in dame Redwood's arms. He had fainted from sudden exposure to the air; but the good woman had been so horror-struck at the scene of misery which met her eyes when Sister Ursula opened the dungeon-door, that she would not now suffer them to wait to restore him, but for once speechless with indignation, hurried the whole party out of the gates. It was not until she had heard them clash behind her, and saw the grim old towers disappearing behind the hill, that she felt at all secure, but kept all the while looking back, as if in fear of pursuit.The little figure in the litter lay so still that more than once Bertrand bent down to catch the sound of the faint breathing which alone gave token of life. Geoffrey, mounted on the pony, was so bewildered that he could neither ask questions nor answer them. He seemed troubled if the narrowness of the way caused the dame to lead the horse either in front of or behind the litter; the only sign he gave of being conscious of his change of position being a dread of being separated from his brother. All felt relieved when they reached the cottage. Not that the bearers were weary; that little emaciated form would scarcely have been felt in Bertrand's strong arms; but his heart was bearing a load of grief such as it had never borne before. Until then, hope had buoyed him up, and supported him through all the toil and danger which he had undergone for his master and his sons: even hope seemed dead now.But it was worse still with poor Dick. The demons of remorse which he hoped had been driven out forever returned with renewed power. "We have thee again, Judas!" they seemed to say to the wretched man. "Didst thou think to escape us, poor fool?Hetoo threw down the money, and tried to save, but it wastoo late, TOO LATE! The blood was on his head, and on yours too. Come, why not do as that famous namesake of thine did? His work and thine can never be undone, and there is no repentance or forgiveness for either!"It was only because he held one end of the litter that he did not obey his tormentors' suggestions, and more than once he looked shudderingly, but almost wistfully, as they passed some gloomy-looking dells, where the newly-loosened brooks were rushing like mountain torrents or lying in deep, dark pools under the shadow of the oaks.Poor man! He sadly needed a comforter then, some one to tell him that now was the time to prove his belief in the creed that had been nominally his from childhood, to show him that the words, "I believe in the forgiveness of sins," were just as necessary to believe as the preceding, "I believe in God the Father." But, alas! for poor Dick. His creed was locked up, as well as his Bible, in an unknown tongue, and the God whom he had been taught to worship was one to be feared and dreaded, not reverenced and loved; a God whose vengeance must be turned aside by costly offerings and pilgrimages, whose highest favor could only be obtained by renouncing all pleasures and enduring all pains. "Cursed is every one that keepeth not all the words of the law to do them," taught the purest of the priesthood; they never declared: "God is merciful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."They could indeed gloss over the foulest crimes, and calling vices by the names of virtues, think they had changed their nature; but when an awakened spirit was aroused to a sense of its lost condition, and cried to the successors of the apostles for help, they could give the agonized soul no aid, no comfort, no hope. If penance and mortification and priestly absolution failed to satisfy the guilty spirit, it must perish, for Christ's atonement was utterly rejected.
Dame Redwood hastened home with light panniers and a lighter heart; and so eager was she to tell her tale, that she made poor pony trot at a rate to which his old legs were quite unaccustomed. When she entered the cottage door and presented herself to her husband and his guest, her cheeks were several shades rosier than usual with exercise and excitement. Nevertheless, she would not vouchsafe them a word till she had scolded the children all round, brushed up the hearth, and put the dinner on the fire; after which she began, but would always stop at the most interesting points in her story to stir the porridge, or drive the dogs from the door. The little woman felt her importance, and was determined to make the most of it.
"Was ever man so plagued by woman!" was poor Dick's exclamation when she went off to get some water just as she had begun to tell how the boys had broken through the old door in their dungeon.
"Now there is an ungrateful man!" said the dame on her return. "Better say, never was man better served by woman. What would ye have done, I'd like to know, if it had been left in your hands? Ye would have blurted it out at the gate, and had the whole convent at your heels. I warrant ye would never have come home with whole bones, let alone the knowledge ye were seeking."
"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her husband impatiently. "Where did you say was the door the lad broke through?"
When she had told him he sat for a moment in deep thought, then brought his great fist down on the table with a blow which made every platter on the shelves rattle.
"How now, man!" said his wife with a start. "Wouldst thou bring the house down around our ears?"
"I mind not of the house now," he replied eagerly; "but this I know--if they are in the dungeon under the east tower, and have opened the door into the old cellarer's vault, by our Lady, there is not ten feet of solid earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am Dick Redwood!"
Both of his auditors were much surprised at this sudden declaration, and the dame even forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity.
"Twenty-five years ago," continued the soldier, turning to his guest, "before ever I knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready for a light job that was well paid for, and knew how to hold my tongue about it when it was done. Often one would come to me and say: 'Dick, here is a bit of work and a noble for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at the end of the year thou shalt have another.' So I know many a thing about this country that few, if any, others do; but never did anything come to hand so well as this."
"How is it? Tell us now, for mercy's sake," said Bertrand as the soldier paused.
"Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in the old time, before Mother Beatrice's day, they led a different life at the convent from what they do now. But though the prioress was easy herself, she was not enough so for some of the sisters. They wanted to come out sometimes and take a walk in the woods by moonlight; so they got me and two others--dead and gone long ago in the French wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by one end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault, under the east tower, and by the other under the bank at the spring, where the convent wall runs along the edge of the precipice. It is many years now since they made the beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp, and when the new prioress came, all the nuns' fine walks were stopped; so I warrant you there is not one in the convent now who knows aught of it. If the way be not too much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk, in half an hour, from here straight into the lads' prison--that is, if they know how to open the door, for the spring is on the other side."
"We will see to that matter at once," cried Bertrand, rising and snatching his cap; and in a few moments they were striding along, as if on a race, down one of the forest paths. They went on for some time till they came almost directly under the grim-looking convent walls rising from the top of a steep bank. They could see plainly the spot where the entrance had been, but to their great chagrin, found it was impossible to try whether it were still there, for the drifting snow had been piled up in the little dell in such huge drifts that they had to abandon all hope of removing them.
This was a great disappointment, but they both knew that the only thing to do was to wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand determined to send word to Sir John of the state of affairs, and make what preparations he could for conveying them to London as soon as they could escape.
The next morning, there was an unwonted confusion in the ordinarily quiet convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. In spite of all the strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule, there was an audible hum of voices in the refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of delight, on every face. For what earthly power could keep still the tongues of fifty women, when such an excellent subject for gossip had arisen in their very midst? Some told the story one way, and some another, but one thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to several of the inmates of the convent the preceding night. Sister Hilda, who had fallen behind-hand with some aves and paters which had been given her by way of penance, had been in the chapel on her knees before the figure of the Virgin at midnight, and she declared that just as the last stroke of the bell died away, she lifted her head, and saw a very tall, white figure pass through the choir, and out at the door behind the altar. Sister Ann had been passing down the corridor leading to the infirmary, as it was her duty to watch Sister Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had brushed by her and passed up the tower stairway.
Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all, though she did not dare to relate the horrible encountershehad had with the spectre, for reasons which will shortly appear. It was her duty to hand the great bunch of keys to the abbess every night, and on the preceding evening when she got into bed, she suddenly remembered that she had left the key of the garden-door hanging in its lock. In great terror lest her forgetfulness should draw upon her some severe punishment, she had stolen softly down-stairs to recover it before it should be found in the morning; but just as she came to the door and had taken the key out, a tall white figure approached, and laid a deathly cold hand on hers. She had shrieked with fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her life; and now the key could not be found anywhere. The prioress had not yet missed it--that was the only comfort; the weather was not pleasant enough to make the garden an agreeable resort, and it might be some days before she was disgraced, but it must come at last; so she did not care to give her experiences with the ghost.
When dame Redwood appeared at the grate to ask for the plaster Lady Katharine had been so kind as to promise her, she noticed her daughter's pale face, but was too much occupied with her particular business to ask her many questions. It seemed so long to her before the lady came that she feared lest something should have happened to prevent their meeting altogether; but at last she appeared, walking as demurely as Mother Beatrice herself. As soon as she was sure of being free from observation, however, she raised her hood and showed to the dame a face so expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the good woman could not help catching the infection.
"Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate, imitating the nuns' tone, "how is that emaciated back of thine to-day?"
Fortunately the dame never laughed very loud; she only screwed up her round face and shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and as soon as she had indulged in this irresistible fit of merriment, she answered:
"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as about the bottle you'll be asking, and here it is, and a little meat in this package, if you can hide so much."
"That can I," replied Kate, opening her cloak and showing some ingeniously arranged pockets. "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if for naught else. But here is another matter: do you think your good man could make another key like that? Phoebe told me he had replaced one once that had been lost, but that he needed a copy." Here she produced, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the identical key which had caused the poor under-porteress such trouble and fright. "It is the key of the garden-gate, and it is very necessary for my comfort that Mother Beatrice and I should each have a means of entrance there."
"The saints preserve me, lady! but how got you hold of a key that not even my Phoebe herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's permission? She has told me as much herself."
"Ah! I have a way," said Kate, her mouth twitching with fun; "and as to daring, I dare anything--for those I love," she added to herself; but the very thought sent a flush of color to her cheek, and moisture to her eye.
"As to the key," said the dame, turning it over and over in her hands, "it is as like as a twin to the one that opens the big oak chest at home. I know it well, for I have handled it now nigh upon forty years."
"That is good news," replied the young schemer. "I am to go into the garden to-day, but with Mother Beatrice. When she turns her back I think I can throw a string with a stone at the end over the east side, close by the tower turret. Could not Bertrand fasten the key to it then, so that I could draw it up at the next turn? They would not notice such a little thing from the windows."
This led to a full account of the hidden entrance, and when they parted, it was with the agreement that a note should be thrown over the wall by a string in case of any emergency, and, until Bertrand and Dick could clear out the passage, the prisoners should remain quiet, and be, above all, particular to excite no suspicion.
Mother Beatrice being now pretty well assured that her prisoners were subdued by hunger and long confinement, thought it high time to begin the work of their conversion, and on this very day she had sent Father Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to have a conversation with them.
When he entered the room it was afternoon, and some sunbeams which had lost their way among these grim walls and towers, shot through the grated window and rested on the face of a pale, thin boy, who was reclining on the straw in the corner, partly supported by the wall, while with his long, thin fingers he was braiding some straw into fancy shapes. Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin around him a tattered cloak in such a way as to keep off the cold air from the window. He sprang to his feet as the door opened, and placed himself as if for a shield in front of the sick child.
"Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk, softening his tones involuntarily at the sight of such suffering. He drew a wooden stool to the side of the bed, and laid his hand on the boy's high forehead with such a tender touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the moment disarmed.
"Thou art very ill, my son. Wouldst thou not like to leave this sad place and go out into the bright world? It is almost spring now--the flowers will soon be out in the woods."
The boy did not answer for a moment; he only gave a long, deep sigh, but it was such a longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's brow waxed dark with indignation, and he walked away toward the window to conceal his feelings.
"Ah! Father, if you had been a prisoner all these weary months, you would not ask that question."
"Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to kneel down here at my knee and confess thy sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the sunshine; for I think thou hast borne penance enough for all the wrong thou canst have committed, poor child!"
Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on his lips, but Hubert's quiet voice was already replying:
"I shrive me to God morning and evening, and Christ hath long since borne my penance. He only stands betwixt my God and me."
"How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding such opposition at the very outset. "So young, and a heretic already! Dost thou set thyself against the holy mother church and all her teachings?"
"By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!" Geoffrey burst out, no longer able to restrain himself, "your holy mother church hath showed herself but a sorry jade of a step-mother to us. What obedience do we owe to one who has robbed us of our home and our friends, and who thirsts for our blood? You had better choose another place to preach the papistrie in than this foul dungeon!"
"Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to bring you a message of peace, but you will make me turn it to one of wrath and justice. If you are old enough thus to brave authority, you are old enough for the rack to force from you more seemly speech."
Geoffrey was cooler now, but none the less determined. He stood before his visitor with such resolution in his hollow eyes, and stern contempt in the rigid lines about his mouth, that the monk involuntarily stepped back a space. He spoke in a low, deep tone:
"Look you, sir priest, ye and your fellows have razed to the ground the home of my ancestors; ye have made my father a penniless exile; ye have slain with fire and sword our dearest friends; ye seized us when we were living quietly and peaceably, not even seeking to teach to others these doctrines which you call heresy; ye have shut us up here in this noisome place, having done no wrong, and having never even had a trial; ye have taken away from us the light and air of heaven, and I wot well ye think never to let us forth again. So be it. Hunger and thirst and weariness will soon open for us gates which ye cannot shut, and give to us a home which ye can neither destroy nor ever inhabit."
The boy's highly-wrought feelings had proved too much for his feeble frame, for though his voice rang clear and high to the end, he sank down the moment he had finished and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. Hubert, excited by the interview, had become flushed with fever, and he seemed to have partly lost consciousness of the subject of discourse; but, catching the last words, he began in a weak and wandering way to talk:
"Home? Oh! yes, I think it is time we went home, Geoffrey; they want us home, and it is warm and bright and beautiful there. Take hold of my hand, brother, and let us go home together!"
The monk turned again to the bedside, and drawing from under his robe an illuminated missal, held up before the child's face one of the pictures.
"My son, seest thou this Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God?"
"God's lamb?" said the child dreamily. "I know he is the Good Shepherd; but tell me, doesn't a shepherd sometimes forget one poor little lamb, and leave it out on the mountains alone, with the wind roaring, and the snow falling, to die?"
The monk only shook his head, and turned to a picture of the crucifixion.
"I know! I know!" cried Hubert, roused almost to eagerness. "He died for you and me, for us all, and so we are safe; his precious blood is on me, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted. I am his little lamb, as he is the Lamb of God; and he cannot forget one for whom he suffered so much. He will soon turn back on his way and take me up in his bosom, and I shall be so warm while he is carrying me home! But the rocks are so cold and hard! Do you think he will soon remember me, and come?"
Father Paul's stern features were working with emotion; perhaps it was to hide this that he bent lower down over the child and felt again his forehead and hands.
"Are you a minister?" said Hubert, suddenly looking up into his face. "I wish you would tell me some of Jesus' words, you know so much better than I do. Tell me about the Bridegroom coming in the night, and being all ready."
Poor Father Paul! In all his long life--for the hair left by the tonsure was already beginning to turn gray--he had never heard those sweet, solemn words in his mother tongue, and so hastily and carelessly had he repeated them in Latin when the service required it, that he could not recollect them now. Instead, he commenced a prayer in Latin but Hubert interrupted him:
"Not now, please; my head is so bad I cannot say my Latin task now. Geoffrey, just say one verse before I go to sleep."
Geoffrey rose in an instant, and pushing the monk away, knelt at his brother's side and repeated the whole passage.
"Ready, ready," murmured the boy; "yes, I think I am ready. I wish he would come to-night. I know it is only to trust in Jesus, and I think I do that. I am very glad, for that brings peace now, when everything else is so full of pain and weariness. Areyouready too?" He lifted his large, earnest eyes full in the face of the ecclesiastic.
Father Paul turned abruptly and left the room. He drew each bolt and bar with energy as he fastened the door behind him, as though by closing that oaken portal he could shut out certain new and very painful thoughts which had arisen in his mind; but it had no such effect; and thinking perhaps that a little fresh air might blow away such dungeon damps, he procured the key which Phoebe had just found suspended in its usual place, and with his cowl drawn over his face paced for some time the little garden.
The truth was, that a mighty problem had come up before his mind, and would allow him no rest till he had solved it. If that Master should come, whose advent might even then be nigh at hand--if he, as Judge, were suddenly to appear, was he ready for his coming? Paul Hyde had not entered the church merely as a matter of taste, as did many of his companions, but as the only means of escaping the consequences of a wild and wicked youth. He was the brother of Lady Eleanor; but so completely had he withdrawn himself from his family, especially after rumors of his sister's Lollardism began to float about, that though he knew somewhat of their movements, he was to them as one dead, and Mother Beatrice was entirely unaware that her favorite confessor was also the uncle of her troublesome charge.
He was a man of rather a contemplative than active disposition, and not so inclined to cruelty as many of his brethren. He had studied thoroughly the business he had undertaken. His prayers were numerous, his penances and mortifications incessant, his fasts frequent and severe, and all this discipline he had been taught, and learned to believe, had atoned for all the evil of his former life, and made him not only pure, but worthy in the sight of God. But, strange to say, a few words from the lips of a sick child had shown him, as by a lightning-flash, that all this sin had only been covered, not driven out--concealed, but never canceled, and that all the sins of his youth were ready to spring up and confront him--ay, and confound him in the great day of account.
In vain he considered, again and again, his austere and holy life; he could not see that one sin had been lessened in its enormity by it all. Father Paul had a clear, vigorous mind; it had been slumbering for many years under the influence of the sleeping-draught which Popery always administers so skillfully to its victims; but now that it was aroused, it grasped, systematically, the arguments, and rapidly drew its conclusions. Sin and its punishment, man's utter depravity and God's just wrath, were painted in glowing colors before his eyes. His natural sense of justice told him that we only perform our duty in living the holiest of lives, for we cannot be more perfect than his laws. How then can we lay up any righteousness in one part of our lives, to balance the wickedness of another portion?
Lower and lower sank the monk's head on his bosom, wilder and fiercer rushed through his mind thoughts of remorse, horror, and despair. He gave one glance toward Heaven for aid, but the thick leaden clouds seemed placed there for a sign that Heaven was barred against his prayers, and the words of supplication to which he was accustomed, seemed as though they would pass from the lips of a wretch so utterly, so hopelessly vile!
Just at that moment the convent bell tolled, but he had to pass his hand several times across his brow before he could remember that he must perform vespers in the chapel. He turned his steps toward the vestry door; there was no escape for him from that duty, though the thought seemed pressing him down to the earth that he, with such a fearful weight of unforgiven sin hanging over him, was to kneel at God's holy altar, and lead the devotions of yonder band of simple, dependent women. All noticed his haggard look and abstracted air, and the weak, almost tottering step with which he mounted the chancel steps; but it was Easter Eve--doubtless the holy Father had sunk under the austerities he had been inflicting on himself during the Lent just passing away, and they gazed on him almost with awe, as a being elevated above the world by his voluntary sufferings--so little do we know each other in this world!
Easter Eve! a day full of deep and holy thoughts for thinking minds. Sad, as it brings over our minds the shadow of the garden tomb; joyful, as it points to the glories of the coming morrow.
Father Paul never thought of seeking his couch that night. Back and forth he strode the length of his cell; rest seemed banished from him forever. Again and again he passed each argument in review--those which justified God grew more and more powerful; those which justified himself broke one by one like a flaxen band in the flame. More than once he flung himself at full length on the stone floor, and groaned aloud in his anguish.
At length, almost unconsciously, he took up his missal which lay on the table beside him, and opened it. The faint gray streaks of the coming daylight revealed to him the very picture he had been showing the sick boy, and with the sight came back the child's words:
"He died for you and me, and so we are safe. His precious blood is on my head, and all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is wanted."
He laid the book down softly, then seated himself and buried his face in his hands. That one thought, like the command of Christ, had driven out the demons who were tormenting and mocking his soul. Like Christian, he had come to the foot of the cross, and his burden had fallen into the open sepulchre. Self-righteousness he saw must be exchanged for Christ's righteousness, and, as in a vision, he beheld the Lamb of God submitting to the punishment due to his sins, and saw how beneath the cross God's justice might clasp hands with his mercy, how God might be justified, and yet the sinner be pardoned. The morning had dawned, the Easter sun was lifting itself from the horizon, and climbing by golden ropes toward the zenith; but far more gloriously was the risen Sun of Righteousness shining in the long benighted heart of the Benedictine monk!
Again the convent bell sounded, but this time he joyfully obeyed its summons. If all had wondered at the priest's appearance the preceding evening, they wondered still more at his conduct in the morning. As he passed up the choir, through the crowd of country folk who had gathered to keep the holy day, his "Benedicite" had a depth and fervor of tone in it which none had ever heard before from the stern, cold man. His very face was changed. It was very, very pale, with deep lines and furrows around the compressed mouth, and eyes sunken deep in their sockets; but the expression of joy, peace, and thanksgiving that rested upon it was unmistakable. When the service was over, he mounted the pulpit and began his sermon.
Never had such a discourse been delivered within the time-worn walls of Our Lady's church. He took no text--his theme was the story of the cross. Never had it seemed so wonderful, so simple, and yet so majestic before. He drew such a picture of divine love and compassion, the slain Lamb washing away sin with his own blood, God smiling at the sinner over Calvary, that there was scarcely a head in the whole assembly that was not bowed down to hide the falling tears. Then he bade them notice the snow which, under the bright beams of a returning sun, was melting away to be replaced by flowers and fruits, and he compared it to their dead faith and affections which Christ's resurrection should rouse to life and activity.
Lower sank his voice, more solemn, more thrilling grew his tone as he spoke to them of the second coming of that Lord and Master who had risen from his tomb more than fourteen hundred years before, and he seemed so to realize in his own mind the fact that at any moment, even that very day, the angel's trumpet might call priest and people to the judgment, that his eloquence fell with irresistible force on even his most careless or ignorant hearers; and when at last he descended the pulpit-steps, his last words were ringing like a death-knell in many a trembling heart, for they were spoken for the first time in their own tongue:
"Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh. What I say unto you, I say unto all,Watch!"
Mother Beatrice met her confessor in the convent parlor soon after the sermon. She stood more in awe of him than of any one else with whom she came in contact. Perhaps it was because she could not understand him: we are generally afraid of characters whose depths we cannot fathom, unless we are exceedingly ignorant or conceited--then we despise them. But however this was, she feared and reverenced him, and these feelings were not likely to be lessened by the new expression of his countenance.
"Well, Father, how have you found our prisoners? I have strong hopes for the younger; he is but a child, and not yet hardened in iniquity, perhaps. Think you he is yet convinced of his folly? I heard such tales of Lollard wiles and witchcraft, that it behooved me to put them in safe keeping."
Only yesterday had Father Paul talked with those children. Could it be possible that between one sunset and the succeeding one, so fearful a conflict could have been fought, so glorious a victory won?
"Daughter," he replied, as soon as he could arrange his thoughts, "no bolts or bars can keep that younger child with us. There is a Deliverer approaching before whom we must all bow."
"How, Father?" said the startled lady; "who is it will take them from my guardianship? Has the archbishop sent----"
"Nay, daughter," said the priest solemnly; "the deliverer I spoke of is greater than he, and will pass through yonder dungeon walls without asking our favor. The lad is dying."
"Dying!" Mother Beatrice appeared really shocked. "I meant not that; I may have kept them over strictly; they are but children."
It may have been the kindly influences of Eastertide, it may have been the result of thoughts stirred up by the sermon she had just heard--whatever it was, the abbess was strangely softened. Father Paul saw this, and took advantage of it.
"What shall I do, Father? They are heretics--enemies of our holy church."
"Then, daughter," replied the monk very gravely, "think how Christ forgave his torturers, and let this be your Easter sacrifice, far more acceptable in his sight than the rushes with which you have strewn the chapel in memory of his resurrection. Let us forgive as we have been forgiven."
CHAPTER XVII.
A Midnight Supper.
At midnight on the preceding night, when the convent was still, and even the inmates of the dungeon under the east tower were sleeping, Geoffrey was aroused by a tap at the door which led into the inner cell. He did not seem at all surprised, but arose and opened it. As he expected, Kate stood on the other side, a white sheet thrown around her, and a lamp in one hand. The brilliancy of the light seemed to dazzle him for a moment, but perhaps it was Kate's own bright face, looking in so suddenly on his loneliness.
"I come, you see, as I promised," she said, passing him into the room, and setting down her lamp on the shelf occupied by the crucifix, which she pushed aside without scruple to make room. Then, with nimble fingers, she pinned a dark cloth over the window, lest the light shining without should betray them, and continued, as she unburdened herself of several packages:
"I have not been a very bad purveyor, I think. This bottle of wine our good friend dame Redwood brought, and the chicken, too; but see here, now, this is what I call fair spoil. This piece of venison is cut from the haunch prepared for the abbess' own dinner to-morrow, and this pastry was meant as a tid-bit for Sister Ursula's breakfast, to reward her for the privations of Lent."
Even Geoffrey, who did not smile often now, was moved to laughter at this history of their feast, and Hubert tried to raise himself at the mention of such luxuries. They had no plates; but she, like a dainty housewife as she was, contrived to set it out quite tastily on the floor beside the bed, using the sheet for a table cloth. The pastry and the venison she put one at each end, the bottle of wine in the middle, the chicken and bread and cheese by way of side-dishes.
"We might as well do it in style," she said, laughing. "I am Lady Katharine Hyde of Estly Court, and you are the heir of Forest Tower."
But her gayety was mostly put on to hide the tears which would come welling up in her eyes, as she saw the famished looks with which the two boys regarded the provision.
"Let us say grace first," said Hubert. And slowly, and reverently, the sick child thanked God for his great benefits to such unworthy children, and prayed that if it were his will, they might soon all go home. This over, they began their meal, and it was touching to mark how Geoffrey pressed each bit upon his brother, unwilling to taste any himself till he had seen him satisfied, and how Hubert watched each dish lest he should receive more than his share. It was but little, after all, that the younger could eat; the wine seemed most refreshing, and brought a little color to his cheeks; but to Geoffrey the food was life itself. He went on eating and eating, hardly looking up at Katharine till he was quite satisfied, while she watched him with smiles playing about her lips, but tears glistening in her eyes. At last the boy stopped, actually unable to eat another mouthful.
"There, now, you have left a little, after all. I began to think that the very cloth would not be left to take me back in safety. Now, do you not want to know how your supper got here?"
"That would I, indeed," replied Geoffrey with some compunction in his tone. "Forgive me; I think I have forgotten what courtly manners I ever had since I came here, and I was so hungry. But how could you enter the garden at this time, and how could you get at the abbess' own larder?"
"Ah!" said Lady Kate, roguishly, "you may thank the convent ghost for that, or, as it will be called by future generations of nuns, the walking lady of the convent."
"What do you mean--a ghost?" said both boys, surprised.
"That is just it: a ghost, but with a substantial body attached. But I must begin at the beginning," and she settled herself comfortably, ready to begin her tale, for dearly Lady Katharine loved to talk, and she seldom had a chance in the convent.
"You see, it just came into my wise head, that though it would never do formeto walk about the house and pry into things a little, there was no law against aghostdoing it; so I wrapped myself up in this cloth. It was so funny to see Sister Hilda's look when I passed her in the chapel! I guess she forgot after that how many aves and paters she had to say. But I did not think of meeting any one there. I went in to practise gliding on the pavement, and she frightened me almost as much as I did her. But Phoebe was the best of all. I was in the garden refreshing myself, when she came stealing along, ready to jump at her own shadow. I meant to try to speak with you after I had secured the key; but when she screamed, I was afraid it might arouse the house, and hasted back to my room. The next night I had to try it again, in order to put back the key. That silly Phoebe thinks it must be one of the saints, to whom she prayed so earnestly, who brought it back and hung it on its own nail, and who kept Mother Beatrice from wanting to go in the garden that whole day. Now, I do it for the fun of the thing, and, as you see, I have made famous pockets in my robe, and go foraging, as the soldiers say, for truly I think we are in an enemy's country, and if they won't give us enough to eat, and won't let us go where we might have it gladly, I think we have a right to take it wherever we can find it. But now that I have brought you a supper, will you help me in a bit of work?"
"Ay, that I will gladly," replied Geoffrey, with a look of admiring wonder. "Kate, I always thought it was a man's place to provide for the ladies, but you are taking care of us."
"Never mind that," replied the girl, blushing partly from confusion and a feeling as if she might have been too bold, and partly from pleasure. "The time will soon come, I hope, when you and I can take our proper places, and then I will be more ladylike and useless, and then"--she hesitated, then finished her sentence with a laugh--"then you may take care of me if you wish. But come, I think I can show you somewhat in your lodging that you never knew before."
[image]Leaving the Convent.--Page277.
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Leaving the Convent.--Page277.
With lamp in hand she led the way to the inner room, and began examining carefully the stones in the wall under where the steps had formerly led down from the closed doorway. Geoffrey meanwhile, his curiosity roused to its greatest height, watched her every movement. At last she found a little stone let into the wall, and slightly marked with a triangle at one corner. On this corner she pressed with all her strength, at first unsuccessfully, but at last it rolled back, and with it a part of the wall, disclosing a narrow doorway leading to some steps; beyond, all was darkness.
In her delight she would have entered at once, but Geoffrey drew her back. He was far better acquainted with such places than she was, and conjectured that since it had evidently been closed so long, the steps might be in too dilapidated a condition to bear her weight. He therefore insisted on trying them by blows with a stick, and on being the first to descend; but, except for the dust, and a confined smell, they appeared as if they might have been in daily use. Down some twenty feet they descended, Geoffrey leading, and carrying the lamp, Kate breathless with excitement, yet talking as fast as possible, explaining the secret entrance and its former object. Soon they found themselves stopped; the passage was filled with rubbish; from this part they must depend on their friends outside. And hark! even now they could distinguish a dull, thumping noise. Dick was at his work in the midnight; at every blow deliverance was coming nearer.
According to Kate's direction, he measured with some cord the distance from the foot of the steps to the obstruction, in order that Dick, who knew exactly the length of the passage when it was first made, might be able to judge whether it were possible to remove the rocks and earth. They then returned to tell the news to Hubert.
He was suffering from great oppression and exhaustion, so that he did not appear either as surprised or as delighted as they supposed he would. His breath came in hard, short gasps, and Kate seated herself so that his head could rest on her shoulder, while Geoffrey bathed his face and moistened his parched lips.
"Sing to me, Kate--the song you sang the other night about Jesus."
"I will," she replied. And her voice, though at first trembling and husky with emotion, soon rose, as she became roused with her theme, to that clear, calm tone which is so soothing to the sick. She sang a Latin hymn, written by a monk in a far southern land, but sounding none the less sweet to those three Lollard children in their cold and gloomy dungeon.
"Jesu dulcis memoriaDans vera cordi gaudia;Sed super mel et omniaEjus dulcis præsentia."Nil cantitur suavius,Nil auditur jocundius,Nil cogitatur dulcius,Quam Jesus, Dei Filius."Jesus, spes poenitentibus,Quam pius es petentibus,Quam bonus te quærentibus,Sed quis invenientibus!"Nec lingua videt dicere,Nec littera exprimere;Expertus potest credereQuid sit Jesum diligere!"
"Jesu dulcis memoriaDans vera cordi gaudia;Sed super mel et omniaEjus dulcis præsentia.
"Jesu dulcis memoria
Dans vera cordi gaudia;
Sed super mel et omnia
Ejus dulcis præsentia.
"Nil cantitur suavius,Nil auditur jocundius,Nil cogitatur dulcius,Quam Jesus, Dei Filius.
"Nil cantitur suavius,
Nil auditur jocundius,
Nil cogitatur dulcius,
Quam Jesus, Dei Filius.
"Jesus, spes poenitentibus,Quam pius es petentibus,Quam bonus te quærentibus,Sed quis invenientibus!
"Jesus, spes poenitentibus,
Quam pius es petentibus,
Quam bonus te quærentibus,
Sed quis invenientibus!
"Nec lingua videt dicere,Nec littera exprimere;Expertus potest credereQuid sit Jesum diligere!"
"Nec lingua videt dicere,
Nec littera exprimere;
Expertus potest credere
Quid sit Jesum diligere!"
"Sweet memories of thee impartTrue joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;But far beyond all sweets will beThy holy presence, Lord, to me."No sweeter song can chanted be,More joyful news be brought to me,Or sweeter thoughts to think uponThan Jesus Christ, God's only Son."Thou hope of every contrite heart,Since them so very glorious art,To those who SEEK so good, so kind,What must thou be to those who FIND?"No language can the story hold,No words the mystery unfold;Experience alone can proveHow good it is our Christ to love."
"Sweet memories of thee impartTrue joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;But far beyond all sweets will beThy holy presence, Lord, to me.
"Sweet memories of thee impart
True joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;
But far beyond all sweets will be
Thy holy presence, Lord, to me.
"No sweeter song can chanted be,More joyful news be brought to me,Or sweeter thoughts to think uponThan Jesus Christ, God's only Son.
"No sweeter song can chanted be,
More joyful news be brought to me,
Or sweeter thoughts to think upon
Than Jesus Christ, God's only Son.
"Thou hope of every contrite heart,Since them so very glorious art,To those who SEEK so good, so kind,What must thou be to those who FIND?
"Thou hope of every contrite heart,
Since them so very glorious art,
To those who SEEK so good, so kind,
What must thou be to those who FIND?
"No language can the story hold,No words the mystery unfold;Experience alone can proveHow good it is our Christ to love."
"No language can the story hold,
No words the mystery unfold;
Experience alone can prove
How good it is our Christ to love."
There was silence for several minutes after the hymn was finished, then the sick boy seemed quite revived.
"Thank you; how good that is! I feel stronger now, and I would like to talk with you both. Sit close to me, Geoffrey, and wrap my cloak around you; you are shivering."
Geoffreywasshivering, but not with bodily cold--it was that chill that creeps over us when Death suddenly appears, and dropping all disguise, shows us his stern features. He had long felt that this great sorrow was approaching, but since he had had so strong a hope of restoration to liberty, he had imagined the fresh air and bright sunshine bringing back a healthy glow to those pale cheeks and vigor to that wasted frame. But now he saw, all at once, his mistake. Death would not thus be robbed of its victim. The bolts and bars through which he was to break were such as no man could fasten; the sunshine in which he was to bask would be the light of his much-loved Saviour's face.
"Do you remember, Geoffrey, that day before we left dear old Forest Tower, how Lord Cobham told me I might have to die for the truth's sake? I am very glad to go. I did not think it would be so easy; but I would have liked to be able to preach Christ before I went. I am sorry to leave you, brother, but perhaps when I am gone they will take pity on you, and let you go. When you are free, you will go away together, you and Kate--I have prayed God for that. And when you are happy together, you will think often, won't you, of the days we have passed together in our prison? See, I have made these for you; they are not much, but it is all I could do, and father will like to see them, and you will tell him about to-night, and how I loved you both." He drew out from under the straw two little bags, or flat cases, made of plaited straw, and placed them in Kate's and Geoffrey's hands.
"There are some texts written on parchment in each; I wrote them last summer because they are so beautiful. I wanted to tell you more, but I am very sleepy now. Good night!"
The low, faint voice had grown fainter from exhaustion, and he sank down in a deep sleep on Kate's shoulder as he finished. She laid him carefully down, for the convent-bell was warning her that it was time to go. Wrapped in her sheet again, she passed, with Geoffrey's aid, through the narrow window, and as he stood and watched her by the white gleam of her drapery among the leafless trees, it seemed as though all the light that was left for him in this world had departed with the bright words and kindly smile of Lady Katharine Hyde.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Free Again.
Very much surprised was dame Redwood when, the week after Easter, she received a message that the abbess of the convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows wished to see her on particular business, that very morning.
"I have been at no tricks, mother," said poor frightened Phoebe, who was the messenger, "unless it might be about the key, but that has been hanging on its nail ever since. Do you think she means about me, mother?"
"And why should she not be meaning you, you heedless thing?" replied her mother, though in her inmost heart she believed itwasfor her own tricks she was to be called before that high dignitary, and foresaw nothing but the loss of her farm, if not something worse. But she would not let her daughter see this; so she went on scolding her with all the breath she could spare while running round to get ready for her departure.
It was a pair of very frightened women who presented themselves to Mother Beatrice as she sat erect and stately in the convent parlor. The good dame, however, was thinking less of her own safety than how she could manage to keep from criminating Lady Katharine in case her part of the plot had been discovered.
"You may go to your work, girl," said the abbess in an unusually gracious manner, when they had made their courtesies to her. "Dame Redwood, your daughter will make a good porteress if she is as prompt in her duty as you are."
This took a load off both their hearts, and the dame could listen quietly to the long speech which the Mother Superior addressed to her as soon as Phoebe had closed the door. She told her how she had there with her for safe keeping, and, if possible, for restoring to the church, two young heretics, committed to her care by his grace Chichely, archbishop of Canterbury. She told how the younger was ill, and that she was about to show the extreme clemency of the church toward its wayward, by letting them go free on condition that they should leave the country, and never set foot on English soil again. Moreover, as the one was ill, and the other not strong, it might be necessary for them to rest and recover before their departure, for which she would allow them the space of one week, which time she wished them to pass under the roof of so faithful a tenant of the convent as dame Joan Redwood. Furthermore, she would hold her and her husband responsible if, during that time, they held communication with any other Lollards, and if at the end of that period they were allowed any further shelter.
The dame had great difficulty in concealing her delight at this turn of affairs; but she managed to account for her smiles and agitation on the ground of the unexpected favor just bestowed.
"And now, think you," continued Mother Beatrice, "your good husband could bring some one with him and come this evening while we are at chapel? Phoebe shall have them ready to go."
In her delight, happy Joan managed to get down on her knees and kiss the hem of the abbess' robe, which gratified her, and made her so condescending that it was with difficulty they could conclude their respective blessings and courtesies, and have the door fairly shut between them.
Never had the road appeared so long between the convent and her home, though the good woman trudged along it almost on a run. When she imparted the news to her husband, his delight almost exceeded hers, for the demon of remorse had been tormenting him again since he had heard of Hubert's sufferings. Now, however, it seemed as if his sin had been expiated, and he was to be certified of this by having the boys placed in his hands to minister to their wants, and serve them in every possible way.
It seemed also a most favorable coincidence that Bertrand had just arrived that morning, having appointed that the boys should meet their father, if it were possible for them to escape, at the house of Philip Naseby the trader, which had been their asylum soon after they left home. Bertrand and Redwood employed themselves in making a rude litter of boughs, cushioned with all the dame's skill, and furnished with many a soft wrap to shield the sick boy from contact with the cold air.
They had hardly finished their preparations before the hour designated by the abbess; but as the bells were tolling for vespers they stood in the convent court-yard eagerly waiting for their expected guests. Bertrand and Dick waited without, while the dame and her daughter went with Sister Ursula to bring them out; but when they at last appeared, the men could hardly recognize in the gaunt, haggard-looking boy who came feebly along, with a bewildered look in the hollow eyes which he was trying to shield from the light with his hand, the young master whom they had seen so fresh, and ruddy, and vigorous six months before.
But the thoughts of all were concentrated on the little form borne, as though lifeless, in dame Redwood's arms. He had fainted from sudden exposure to the air; but the good woman had been so horror-struck at the scene of misery which met her eyes when Sister Ursula opened the dungeon-door, that she would not now suffer them to wait to restore him, but for once speechless with indignation, hurried the whole party out of the gates. It was not until she had heard them clash behind her, and saw the grim old towers disappearing behind the hill, that she felt at all secure, but kept all the while looking back, as if in fear of pursuit.
The little figure in the litter lay so still that more than once Bertrand bent down to catch the sound of the faint breathing which alone gave token of life. Geoffrey, mounted on the pony, was so bewildered that he could neither ask questions nor answer them. He seemed troubled if the narrowness of the way caused the dame to lead the horse either in front of or behind the litter; the only sign he gave of being conscious of his change of position being a dread of being separated from his brother. All felt relieved when they reached the cottage. Not that the bearers were weary; that little emaciated form would scarcely have been felt in Bertrand's strong arms; but his heart was bearing a load of grief such as it had never borne before. Until then, hope had buoyed him up, and supported him through all the toil and danger which he had undergone for his master and his sons: even hope seemed dead now.
But it was worse still with poor Dick. The demons of remorse which he hoped had been driven out forever returned with renewed power. "We have thee again, Judas!" they seemed to say to the wretched man. "Didst thou think to escape us, poor fool?Hetoo threw down the money, and tried to save, but it wastoo late, TOO LATE! The blood was on his head, and on yours too. Come, why not do as that famous namesake of thine did? His work and thine can never be undone, and there is no repentance or forgiveness for either!"
It was only because he held one end of the litter that he did not obey his tormentors' suggestions, and more than once he looked shudderingly, but almost wistfully, as they passed some gloomy-looking dells, where the newly-loosened brooks were rushing like mountain torrents or lying in deep, dark pools under the shadow of the oaks.
Poor man! He sadly needed a comforter then, some one to tell him that now was the time to prove his belief in the creed that had been nominally his from childhood, to show him that the words, "I believe in the forgiveness of sins," were just as necessary to believe as the preceding, "I believe in God the Father." But, alas! for poor Dick. His creed was locked up, as well as his Bible, in an unknown tongue, and the God whom he had been taught to worship was one to be feared and dreaded, not reverenced and loved; a God whose vengeance must be turned aside by costly offerings and pilgrimages, whose highest favor could only be obtained by renouncing all pleasures and enduring all pains. "Cursed is every one that keepeth not all the words of the law to do them," taught the purest of the priesthood; they never declared: "God is merciful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
They could indeed gloss over the foulest crimes, and calling vices by the names of virtues, think they had changed their nature; but when an awakened spirit was aroused to a sense of its lost condition, and cried to the successors of the apostles for help, they could give the agonized soul no aid, no comfort, no hope. If penance and mortification and priestly absolution failed to satisfy the guilty spirit, it must perish, for Christ's atonement was utterly rejected.