[#] The first fork on record.At Venice we embarked, and sailed to Messina, where most of the pilgrims for the Holy Land assemble, as it is the most convenient port. We did not go overland, as some pilgrims do, through the dominions of the Byzantine Cæsar;[#] but we sailed thence to Crete. I was rather sorry to miss Byzantium,[#] both on account of the beautiful stuffs which are sold there, and the holy relics: but since I have seen a spine of the crown of thorns, which the Lady de Montbeillard has—she gave seven hundred crowns for it to Monseigneur de Rheims[#]—I did not care so much about the relics as I might otherwise have done. Perhaps I shall meet with the same kind of stuffs in Palestine; and certainly there will be relics enough.[#] The Eastern Emperor; his dominions in Europe extended over Greece and Turkey.[#] Constantinople.[#] The Archbishop.From Crete we sailed to Rhodes, and thence to Cyprus. They all say that I am an excellent sailor, for I feel no illness nor inconvenience at all; but poor Bertrade has been dreadfully ill, and Marguerite and Perette say they both feel very uncomfortable on the water. At Cyprus is an abbey of monks, on the Hill of the Holy Cross; and here Amaury and his men were housed for the night, and I and my women at a convent of nuns not far off. At the Abbey they have a cross, which they say is the very cross on which our Lord suffered, but some say it is only the cross of Ditmas, the good thief. I was rather puzzled to know whether, there being a doubt whether it really is the holy cross, it ought to be worshipped. If it be only a piece of common wood, I suppose it would be idolatry. So I thought it more right and seemly to profess to have a bad headache, and decline to mount the hill. I asked Amaury what he had done."Oh! worshipped it, of course," said he."But how if it were not the true cross?" I asked."My sister, wouldst thou have a knight thus discourteous? The monks believe it true. It would have hurt their feelings to show any doubt.""But, Amaury, it would be idolatry!""Ha, bah!" he answered. "The angels will see it put to the right account—no doubt of that. Dear me!—if one is to be for ever considering little scruples like that, why, there would be no end to them—one would never do any thing."Then I asked Marguerite if she went up to worship the holy cross."No, Damoiselle," said she. "The Grey Friar said we worship not the cross, but the good God that died thereon. And I suppose He is as near to us at the bottom of the hill as at the top."Well, it does look reasonable, I must say. But it must be one of Marguerite's queer notions. There would be no good in relics and holy places if that were always true.This island of Cyprus is large and fair. It was of old time dedicated by the Paynims to Venus, their goddess of beauty: but when it fell into Christian hands, it was consecrated anew to Mary the holy Mother.From Cyprus we sailed again, a day and a half, to Tyre; but we did not land there, but coasted southwards to the great city of Acre, and there at last we took land in Palestine.Here we were lodged in the castle, which is very strong: and we found already here some friends of Amaury, the Baron de Montluc and his two sons, who had landed about three weeks before us. Hence we despatched a letter to Guy. I was the writer, of course, for Amaury can write nothing but his name; but he signed the letter with me. Messire Renaud de Montluc, who was setting out for the Holy City, undertook to see the letter safe. We were to follow more slowly.We remained at Acre about ten days. Then we set forth, Amaury and I, the Baron de Montluc and his son Messire Tristan, and several other knights who were waiting for a company, with our respective trains; and the Governor of Acre lent us an additional convoy of armed men, to see us safe to the Holy City.This was my first experience of tent life; and very strange it felt, and horribly insecure. I, accustomed to dwell within walls several feet thick, with portcullis and doors guarded by bolts and bars, in a chamber opening on an inner court, to have no more than one fold of goats' hair canvas between me and the outside world! True, the men-at-arms were camped outside; but that was no more than a castle garrison: and where was the castle?"Margot," said I, "dost thou not feel horribly frightened?"For of course, she, a villein, would be more accessible to fear than a noble."Oh no, my Damoiselle," she said very quietly. "Is it not in the holy Psalter that 'the Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them'? We are as safe as in the Castle of Lusignan."It is a very good thing for Marguerite and the maidens that I am here. Because, of course, the holy angels, who are of high rank, would never think of taking care of mere villeins. It must mean persons of noble blood.We journeyed on southwards slowly, pausing at the holy places—Capernaum, where Messeigneurs Saint Peter and Saint Andrew dwelt before they followed our Lord; and where Monseigneur Saint Peter left Madame his wife, and his daughter, Madame Saint Petronilla, when he became our Lord's disciple. Of course, he was obliged to leave them behind, for a holy apostle could not have a wife. (Marguerite says that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross at Lusignan, said that in the early ages of the Church, priests and even bishops used to be married men, and that it would have been better if they had continued to be so. I am afraid he must be a very wicked person, and one of those heretical Waldenses.) We also tarried a while at Cæsarea, where our Lord gave the keys to Monseigneur Saint Peter, and appointed him the first Bishop of Rome; and Nazareth, where our Lady was born and spent her early life. Not far from Neapolis,[#] anciently called Sychem, they show the ruins of a palace, where dwelt King Ahab, who was a very wicked Paynim, and had a Saracen to his wife. At Neapolis is the well of Monseigneur Saint Jacob, on which our Lord once sat when He was weary. This was the only holy place we passed which old Marguerite had the curiosity to go and see.[#] Nablous."Now, what made thee care more for that than any other?" I asked her. "Of course it was a holy place, but there was nothing to look at save a stone well in a valley. Our Lady's Fountain, at Nazareth, was much prettier.""Ah, my Damoiselle is young and blithe!" she said, and smiled. "It is long, long since I was a young mother like our Lady, and longer still since I was a little child. But the bare old well in the stony valley—that came home to me. He was weary! Yet He was God. He is rested now, on the throne of His glory: yet He cares for me, that am weary still. So I just knelt down at the old well, and I said to Him, in my ignorant way,—'Fair Father,[#] Jesu Christ, I thank Thee that Thou wert weary, and that by Thy weariness thou hast given me rest.' It felt to rest me,—a visit to the place where He sat, tired and hungry. But my Damoiselle cannot understand."[#] "Bel Père"—one of the invocations then usual."No, Margot, I don't at all," said I."Ah, no! It takes a tired man to know the sweetness of rest."Three days' journey through the Val de Luna, which used to be called the Vale of Ajalon, brought us to the city of Gran David, which was of old named Gibeon. The valley is styled De Luna because it was here that Monseigneur Saint Joshua commanded the sun and moon to stand still while he vanquished the Paynims. From Gran David it is only one day's journey to the Holy City."To-morrow, Margot!" said I, in great glee. "Only to-morrow, we shall see the Holy Sepulchre!""Ha! Thanks be to the good God. And we need not wait till to-morrow to see Him that rose from it.""Why, Marguerite, dost thou ever have visions?""Visions? Oh no! Those are for the holy saints; not for a poor ignorant villein woman like me.""Then what didst thou mean, just now?""Ah, my Damoiselle cannot understand.""Margot, I don't like that. Thou art always saying it. I want to understand.""Then she must ask the good God to show her."And that is all I can get out of her.Short of a league from the Holy City is the little hill called Mont Joie, because from it the palmers catch the first glimpse of the blessed Jerusalem. We were mounting, as it seemed to me, a low hillock, when Amaury rode up beside me, and parting the curtains, said—"Now, Elaine, look out, for we are on the Mont Joie. Wilt thou light down?""Certainly," I answered.So Amaury stopped the litter, and gave me his hand, and I jumped out. He took me to the place where the palmers kneel in thanksgiving for being brought thus far on their journey: and here I had my first sight of the Holy City.It is but a small city, yet strongly fortified, having three walls. No Paynim is permitted to enter it, nor of course any heathen Jew. I cannot imagine how it was that the good God ever suffered the Holy City, even for an hour, to be in the hands of those wicked people. Yet last night, in the tent, if Marguerite did not ask me whether Monseigneur Saint Paul was not a Jew! I was shocked."Oh dear, no!" said I."I heard somebody say so," she replied."I should think it was some Paynim," said I. "Why, of course none of the holy Apostles were Jews. That miscreant Judas Iscariot, and Pontius Pilatus, and all those wicked people, I suppose, were Jews: but not the holy Apostles and the saints. It is quite shocking to think of such a thing!""Then what were they, if my Damoiselle pleases?" said Marguerite."Oh, they were of some other nation," said I.For really, I do not know of what nation they were,—only that they could never have been Jews.Amaury said that we must first visit the Holy Sepulchre; so, though I was dying to have news of Guy, I comforted myself with the thought that I should hereby acquire so much more merit than if I had not cared about it.We entered the Holy City by the west gate, just as the dusk was beginning; and passing in single file along the streets, we descended the hill of Zion to the Holy Sepulchre.In this church are kept many holy relics. In the courtyard is the prison where our Lord was confined after His betrayal, and the pillar to which He was bound when scourged: and in the portico the lance which pierced His side. The stone which the Angel rolled away from the sepulchre is now broken in two. Here our Lady died, and was buried in the Church of Saint Mary, close by. In this church is kept the cup of our Lord, out of which He habitually drank: it is of silver, with a handle on each side, and holds about a quart. Here also is the sponge which was held to His mouth, and the crown of thorns. (By a miracle of the good God, one half of the crown is also at Byzantium.) The tomb of our Lord is seven feet long, and rises three palms from the floor; fifteen golden lamps burn before it, day and night. I told the whole Rosary at the holy tomb, or should have done, for I felt that the longer I waited to see Guy, the more merit I should heap up: but Amaury became impatient, and insisted on my coming when a Pater and eight Aves were still to say.Then we mounted the hill of Zion again, passing the church built in honour of the Prince of the Apostles, on the spot where he denied our Lord: and so we reached the King's Palace at last.Amaury sprang from his horse, and motioned my postilion to draw up in front of the chief gate. I heard him say to the porter—"Is Sir Guy de Lusignan here?""My gracious Lord, the Count of Joppa and Ascalon, is here, if it like you, noble Sir," replied the porter. "He is at this moment in audience of my Lady the Queen."I was so glad to hear it. Then Guy had really been created a Count! He must be in high favour. One half of his prophecy was fulfilled. But what about the other?"Pray you," said Amaury to the porter, "do my Lord Count to wit that his brother, Sir Amaury de Lusignan, and his sister, the Lady Elaine, are before the gate."I hardly know how I got through the next ten minutes. Then came quick steps, a sound of speech, a laugh, and then my curtains were pushed aside, and the voice I loved best in all the world said—"Lynette! Lynette, my darling!"Ay, it was my own Guy who came back to me. Changed?—no, not really changed at all. A little older; a little more bronzed; a little longer and fuller in the beard:—that was all. But it was my Guy, himself."Come! jump out," he said, holding his hand, "and let me present thee to the Lady Queen. I long to see my Lynette the fairest ornament of her Court. And how goes it with Monseigneur, our fair father?"So, talking all the way, I walked with Guy, hand in hand, up the stairs, and into the very bower of the imperial lady who bears the crown of all the world, since it is the flower of all the crowns."I can assure thee," said Guy, "the Lady Queen has often talked of thee, and is prepared to welcome thee."It was a beautiful room, though small, decorated with carved and fragrant cedar-work, and hung with blue and gold. Round the walls were blue and gold settles, and three curule chairs in the midst. There were only three ladies there,—but I must describe them.The Queen, who sat in one of the curule chairs, was rather short and stout, with a pleasant, motherly sort of look. She appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age. Her daughter, the Lady Isabel, who sat in another chair, busied with some embroidery, was apparently about eighteen; but Guy told me afterwards that she is only fifteen, for women ripen early in these Eastern lands, and grow old fast. She has luxuriant black hair and dark shining eyes. On the settle was a damsel a little older than the Princess, not quite so dark, nor so handsome. She, as I afterwards found, was the Damoiselle Melisende de Courtenay,[#] a distant relative of the King, who dwells with the Princesses. Guy led me up to the Queen.[#] A fictitious person. Millicent is the modern version of this old Gothic name. It comes from Amala-suinde, and signifiesheavenly-wisdom."Madam," said he, "your Highness has heard me often speak of my younger sister.""Ha! the little Damoiselle Helena?"[#] replied the Queen, smiling very kindly. "Be welcome, my child. I have indeed heard much of you; this brother of yours thinks nobody like you in the world,—not even one, eh, Sir Count?—Isabel! I desire thee to make much of the Damoiselle, and let her feel herself at home. And,—Melisende! I pray thee, give order for her lodging, and let her women be seen to. Ah!—here comes another who will be glad to be acquainted with you."[#] Helen is really quite distinct from Ellen, of which lost Elaine is the older form. The former is a Greek name signifyingattractive, captivating. The latter is the feminine of the Celtic name Alain,—more generally written Alan or Allan,—and meansbright-haired. Eleanor (it is a mistake as regards philology to write Elinor) is simply an amplification of Ellen by the addition of "or,"gold. It denotes, therefore,hair bright as gold. Annora is a corruption of Eleanor, and Nora or Norah a further contraction of Annora.I turned round to see at whom the Queen was looking. An inner door of the chamber had just opened, and two ladies were coming into the room. At the one I scarcely looked, save to see that she was old, and wore the garb of a nun. The other fixed my eyes in an instant.Shall I say she was beautiful? I do not know. She has a face about which one never thinks whether it is beautiful or not. She is so sweet, so sweet! Her hair is long, of a glossy golden hue: her eyes are dark grey, and all her soul shines out in them. Her age seemed about twenty. And Guy said behind me, in a whisper—"The Lady Sybil of Montferrat."Something in Guy's tone made me glance suddenly at his face. My heart felt for a moment as if it stopped beating. The thing that I feared was come upon me. The whole prophecy was fulfilled: the beautiful lady stood before me. I should be first with Guy no longer.But I did not feel so grieved as I expected. And when Lady Sybil put her arms round me, and kissed me, and told me I should be her dear little sister,—though I felt that matters must have gone very far indeed, yet somehow I was almost glad that Guy had found a heart to love him in this strange land.The old nun proved to be a cousin of the Queen, whom they call Lady Judith.[#] She is an eremitess, and dwells in her cell in the very Palace itself. I notice that Lady Sybil seems very fond of her.[#] A fictitious person.Damoiselle Melisende showed me a nice bed-chamber, where I and my three women were to lodge. I was very tired, and the Queen saw it, and in her motherly way insisted on my having some supper, and going to bed at once. So I did not even wait to see Amaury again, and Guy went to look for him and bring him up to the Queen. The King, being a mesel, dwells alone in his own rooms, and receives none. When Guy has to communicate with him, he tells me that he talks with him through a lattice, and a fire of aromatic woods burns between them. But I can see that Guy is a very great man here, and has the affairs of the State almost in his own hands.I said to Marguerite as I was undressing,—"Margot, I think Count Guy is going to marry somebody.""Why, if it please my Damoiselle?""From the way he looks at Lady Sybil, and—other things.""Your gracious pardon, but—is he less loving to my Damoiselle?""Oh no!—more loving and tender than ever, if that be possible.""Then it is all right," said Marguerite. "He loves her.""What dost thou mean, Margot?""When a man marries, my Damoiselle, one of three things happens. Either he weds from policy, and has no love for his lady; but Monseigneur Guy loves to look at her, so it is not that. Or, he loves himself, and she is merely a toy which ministers to his pleasure. Then he would be absorbed in himself and her, and not notice whether any other were happy or unhappy. But if he loves her, with that true, faithful, honourable love, which is one of God's best gifts, then he will be courteous and tender towards all women, because she is one. And especially to his own relatives, being women, who love him, he will be very loving indeed. That is why I asked.""O Margot, Margot!" I said, laughing. "Where on earth dost thou find all thy queer notions?""Not all on earth, my Damoiselle. But, for many of them, all that is wanted is just to keep one's eyes open.""Are my eyes open, Margot?""My Damoiselle had better shut them now," replied Marguerite, a little drily. "She can open them again to-morrow."So I went to sleep, and dreamed that Guy married Lady Judith, in her nun's attire, and that I was in great distress at the sacrilege, and could do nothing to avert it.CHAPTER V.CURIOUS NOTIONS."The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned."—ROBERT BROWNING.For the last few weeks, since we reached Jerusalem, I have been very busy going about with the Damoiselle Melisende, and sometimes the Lady Isabel, with Amaury as escort. We have now visited all the holy places within one day's journey. I commanded Marguerite to attend me, for it amuses me afterwards to hear what she has to say.We went to the Church of Saint Mary, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which is built in a round form; and in it is the empty tomb in which our Lady was buried. So some say, and that the angels carried her body away in the night: but other some say, that while the holy Apostles were carrying her to her burial, the angels came down and bore her away to Paradise. I asked Margot (as she always listens) if she had heard Father Eudes read about it from the holy Evangel: but she said he had never read the story of that, at least in French. In this church there is a stone in the wall, on which our Lord knelt to pray on the night of His betrayal; and on it is the impression of His knees, as if the stone were wax. There is no roof to the church, but by miraculous provision of the good God, the rain never falls on it. Here also, our Lord's body, when taken down from the cross, was wrapped and anointed.We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble table at which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and they received the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, with an altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here is kept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. All these are on Mount Zion.Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holy Apostles' feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had put it by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her. Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel."Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "It does not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet.""But that cannot be, Margot!" said I.Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm."Child," said she gently, "'if He wash thee not, thou hast no part with Him.'""And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,—if He wash us, we have part with Him.""Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.' Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enter into rest.'"I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars' purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all.Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else."Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go in peace' to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were.""O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?""Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intently through the roof of the church,—or where the roof should have been—into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in my heart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up, maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!""I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be just dreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock.""Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and see Monseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,—would she think it a dreadful shock?""Margot! How can the two be compared?""Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly."Marguerite! Dost thou—canst thou—love our Lord as much as I love Guy? It is not possible!""A thousand times more, my Damoiselle. Your Nobility, I know, loves Monseigneur very dearly; yet you have other interests apart from him. I have no interest apart from my Lord. All my griefs, all my joys, I take to Him; and until He has laid His hand on them and blessed them, I can neither endure the one nor enjoy the other."I wonder if Lady Judith feels like that! I should like to ask her, if I could take the liberty.Marguerite was looking up again into the sky."Only think what it will be!" she said. "To look up from the cradle of your dying child, with the anguish of helplessness pressing tight upon your heart—and see Him! To look up from your own sick bed, faint and weary beyond measure—and see Him! From the bitter sense of sin and failure—from cruel words and unkind looks—from loneliness and desolation—from hunger and cold and homelessness—to look up, and see Him! There will be some suffering all these things when He comes. Oh, why are His chariot-wheels so long in coming? Does not He long for it even more than we?"I was silent. She looked—this old villein woman—almost like one inspired."He knows!" she added softly. "He knows. He can wait. Then we can. Surely I come quickly. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!"'Amaury called me, and I left her there.He wanted to creep through the columns, and wished me to try first, as I am slimmer than he. I managed it pretty well,—so now all my sins are remitted, and I do feel so good and nice! Lady Isabel could hardly do it; and Amaury, who has been growing fatter of late, could not get through at all. He was much disappointed, and very cross in consequence. Damoiselle Melisende would not try. She said, laughing, that she was quite sure she could not push through, and she must get her sins forgiven some other way. But she mischievously ran and fetched old Marguerite, and putting on a grave face, proposed to her to try the feat. Now I am quite certain Marguerite could never have done it; for though she is not stout, she is a large-built woman. But she looked at the place for a moment, and then said to Melisende—"If the Damoiselle pleases, what will follow?""Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she."I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away. "Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven.""What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel."Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly.""Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess, eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression.I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She is only comical."Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble is kept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know His judgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. She said she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangel said that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on that marble?"Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased the good God that it should receive the impress.""The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But—well, I am an ignorant woman."Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Lady appeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to believe her assumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle is kept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain.That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be."Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am.""Pardon me—not at all!" he answered."And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende."By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist.""Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes.""I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist.""And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired."Undoubtedly, Lady," said he."But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness."Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady.""What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron."But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?""How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy."Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my Lady Queen,—lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter, quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What men call the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!""You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy."Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am no such fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, and there I begin and end. So does every wise man.""Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think all the wise men must believe as he does?""Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he. "I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before met one of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,—In your system, what becomes of the soul after death?""Nay, if there be no soul, what can become of it?" put in Damoiselle Melisende."Pure foy!" cried the Baron. "I concern myself about nothing of that sort. Holy Church teaches that the soul survives the body, and it were unseemly to gainsay her teaching. But—ha! what know I?""For me," said Messire Renaud, a little grandiloquently, "I believe that death is simply the dissolution of that which seems, and leaves only the pure essence of that which is. The modicum of spirit—of that essence—which I call my soul, will then be absorbed into the great soul of the Universe—the Unknowable, the Unknown.""We have a name for that, Messire," said Guy reverently. "We call it—God.""Precisely," answered Messire Renaud. "You—we—holy Church—personify this Unknowable Essence, which is the fountain of all essence. The parable—for a parable it is—is most beautiful. But It—He—name it as you will—is none the less the Unknown and the Unknowable.""The boy must have a fever, and the delirium is on him," said the Baron. "Get a leech, lad. Let out a little of that hot blood which mystifies thy foolish brains."There was silence for a minute, and it was broken by the low, quiet voice of Lady Judith, who sat next to the Lady Queen, with a spindle in her hand."'And this is life eternal, that they shouldknow Thee.'" She added no more."Beautiful words, truly," responded Messire Renaud. "But you will permit me to observe, Lady, that they are—like all similar phrases—symbolical. The soul that has risen the nearest to this ineffable Essence—that is most free from the shell of that which seems—may, in a certain typical sense, be said to 'know' this Essence. Now there never was a soul more free from the seeming than that of Him whom we call our Lord. Accordingly, He tells us that—employing one of the loveliest of all types—He 'knew the Father.' It is perfectly charming, to an enlightened mind, to recognise the force, the beauty, the hidden meaning, of these exquisite types.""Lad, what is the length of thine ears?" growled the Baron. "What crouched ass crammed all this nonsense into thee? 'Enlightened mind'—'exquisite types'—'charming symbolism'! I am not at all sure that I understand thee, thou exquisite gander! But if I do, what thou meanest, put in plain language, is simply that there is no God. Eh?""Fair Father, under your good leave, I would choose other words. God—what we call God—is the Unknowable Essence. Therefore, undoubtedly there is God, and in a symbolic sense, He is the Creator of all things, this Essence being the source out of which all other essences are evolved. Therefore, parabolically speaking"——"I'll lay my stick about thy back, thou parabolical mud-puddle!" cried the Baron. "Let me be served up for Saladin's supper if I understand a word of thy foolery! Art thou a true son of holy Church or not? That is what I want to know.""Undoubtedly, fair Sir!" said Messire Renaud. "God forbid that I should be a heretic! Our holy Mother the Church has never banned the Nominalists.""Then it is high time she did!" retorted the Baron. "I reckon she thinks they will do nobody much harm, because no mortal being can understand them. But where, in the name of all the Seven Wonders of the World, thou gattest such moonshine sticking in thy brains, shoot me if I know. It was not from my Lady, thy fair mother; and I am sure it was not from me."Messire Renaud made no answer beyond a laugh, and the Lady Queen quickly introduced a different subject. I fancy she saw that the Baron was losing his temper. But when Messire Renaud was about to take leave, Lady Judith arose, as quietly as she does everything, and glided to his side."Fair Sir," she said gently, "I pray you, pardon one word from an old woman. You know years should teach wisdom.""Trust me, Lady, to listen with all respect," said he courteously."Fair Sir," she said, "when you stand face to face with death, you will findItdoes not satisfy your need. You will wantHim. You are not a thing, but a person. How can the thing produced be greater than that which produces it?""Your pardon, fair Lady and holy Mother!" interposed Messire Renaud quickly. "I do not object to designate the Unknowable Essence as Him. Far from it! I do but say, as the highest minds have said,—We cannot know. It maybe Him, It, Them:—we cannot know. We can but bow in illimitable adoration, and strive to perfect, to purify and enlighten, our minds, so that they shall grow nearer and nearer to that ineffable Possibility."A very sad look passed over Lady Judith's face."My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died for thee."And without another word, she glided back to her seat."Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soul me?""To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," said she; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show you the other.""Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that my body does not exist at all,—it only seems to be.""Does he say the same of his own body?""Oh yes; of all.""Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he come into my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and a sword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them, whether his body be himself or not."[#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date."Oh, he says that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose to imagine that he had no pain, it would stop.""Very good," said Marguerite. "Then let him set his broken leg with his beautiful imagination. If he can cure his pain by imagining he has none, what must he be if he do not?""Well, I know what I should think him. But his father, the Baron de Montluc, will have it just the opposite—that there is no soul, nor anything but what we can see and hear.""Ah! they will both find out their mistakes when they come to die," said Margot. "Poor blind things! The good God grant that they may find them out a little sooner."I asked Guy if he did not think the Baron's notion a very dangerous one. But while he said "yes," he added that he thought Messire Renaud's much more so."It is so much more difficult to disprove," said he. "It may look more absurd on the surface, but it is more subtle to deal with, and much more profound.""They both look to me very silly," said I."I wish they were no worse," was Guy's answer.
[#] The first fork on record.
At Venice we embarked, and sailed to Messina, where most of the pilgrims for the Holy Land assemble, as it is the most convenient port. We did not go overland, as some pilgrims do, through the dominions of the Byzantine Cæsar;[#] but we sailed thence to Crete. I was rather sorry to miss Byzantium,[#] both on account of the beautiful stuffs which are sold there, and the holy relics: but since I have seen a spine of the crown of thorns, which the Lady de Montbeillard has—she gave seven hundred crowns for it to Monseigneur de Rheims[#]—I did not care so much about the relics as I might otherwise have done. Perhaps I shall meet with the same kind of stuffs in Palestine; and certainly there will be relics enough.
[#] The Eastern Emperor; his dominions in Europe extended over Greece and Turkey.
[#] Constantinople.
[#] The Archbishop.
From Crete we sailed to Rhodes, and thence to Cyprus. They all say that I am an excellent sailor, for I feel no illness nor inconvenience at all; but poor Bertrade has been dreadfully ill, and Marguerite and Perette say they both feel very uncomfortable on the water. At Cyprus is an abbey of monks, on the Hill of the Holy Cross; and here Amaury and his men were housed for the night, and I and my women at a convent of nuns not far off. At the Abbey they have a cross, which they say is the very cross on which our Lord suffered, but some say it is only the cross of Ditmas, the good thief. I was rather puzzled to know whether, there being a doubt whether it really is the holy cross, it ought to be worshipped. If it be only a piece of common wood, I suppose it would be idolatry. So I thought it more right and seemly to profess to have a bad headache, and decline to mount the hill. I asked Amaury what he had done.
"Oh! worshipped it, of course," said he.
"But how if it were not the true cross?" I asked.
"My sister, wouldst thou have a knight thus discourteous? The monks believe it true. It would have hurt their feelings to show any doubt."
"But, Amaury, it would be idolatry!"
"Ha, bah!" he answered. "The angels will see it put to the right account—no doubt of that. Dear me!—if one is to be for ever considering little scruples like that, why, there would be no end to them—one would never do any thing."
Then I asked Marguerite if she went up to worship the holy cross.
"No, Damoiselle," said she. "The Grey Friar said we worship not the cross, but the good God that died thereon. And I suppose He is as near to us at the bottom of the hill as at the top."
Well, it does look reasonable, I must say. But it must be one of Marguerite's queer notions. There would be no good in relics and holy places if that were always true.
This island of Cyprus is large and fair. It was of old time dedicated by the Paynims to Venus, their goddess of beauty: but when it fell into Christian hands, it was consecrated anew to Mary the holy Mother.
From Cyprus we sailed again, a day and a half, to Tyre; but we did not land there, but coasted southwards to the great city of Acre, and there at last we took land in Palestine.
Here we were lodged in the castle, which is very strong: and we found already here some friends of Amaury, the Baron de Montluc and his two sons, who had landed about three weeks before us. Hence we despatched a letter to Guy. I was the writer, of course, for Amaury can write nothing but his name; but he signed the letter with me. Messire Renaud de Montluc, who was setting out for the Holy City, undertook to see the letter safe. We were to follow more slowly.
We remained at Acre about ten days. Then we set forth, Amaury and I, the Baron de Montluc and his son Messire Tristan, and several other knights who were waiting for a company, with our respective trains; and the Governor of Acre lent us an additional convoy of armed men, to see us safe to the Holy City.
This was my first experience of tent life; and very strange it felt, and horribly insecure. I, accustomed to dwell within walls several feet thick, with portcullis and doors guarded by bolts and bars, in a chamber opening on an inner court, to have no more than one fold of goats' hair canvas between me and the outside world! True, the men-at-arms were camped outside; but that was no more than a castle garrison: and where was the castle?
"Margot," said I, "dost thou not feel horribly frightened?"
For of course, she, a villein, would be more accessible to fear than a noble.
"Oh no, my Damoiselle," she said very quietly. "Is it not in the holy Psalter that 'the Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them'? We are as safe as in the Castle of Lusignan."
It is a very good thing for Marguerite and the maidens that I am here. Because, of course, the holy angels, who are of high rank, would never think of taking care of mere villeins. It must mean persons of noble blood.
We journeyed on southwards slowly, pausing at the holy places—Capernaum, where Messeigneurs Saint Peter and Saint Andrew dwelt before they followed our Lord; and where Monseigneur Saint Peter left Madame his wife, and his daughter, Madame Saint Petronilla, when he became our Lord's disciple. Of course, he was obliged to leave them behind, for a holy apostle could not have a wife. (Marguerite says that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross at Lusignan, said that in the early ages of the Church, priests and even bishops used to be married men, and that it would have been better if they had continued to be so. I am afraid he must be a very wicked person, and one of those heretical Waldenses.) We also tarried a while at Cæsarea, where our Lord gave the keys to Monseigneur Saint Peter, and appointed him the first Bishop of Rome; and Nazareth, where our Lady was born and spent her early life. Not far from Neapolis,[#] anciently called Sychem, they show the ruins of a palace, where dwelt King Ahab, who was a very wicked Paynim, and had a Saracen to his wife. At Neapolis is the well of Monseigneur Saint Jacob, on which our Lord once sat when He was weary. This was the only holy place we passed which old Marguerite had the curiosity to go and see.
[#] Nablous.
"Now, what made thee care more for that than any other?" I asked her. "Of course it was a holy place, but there was nothing to look at save a stone well in a valley. Our Lady's Fountain, at Nazareth, was much prettier."
"Ah, my Damoiselle is young and blithe!" she said, and smiled. "It is long, long since I was a young mother like our Lady, and longer still since I was a little child. But the bare old well in the stony valley—that came home to me. He was weary! Yet He was God. He is rested now, on the throne of His glory: yet He cares for me, that am weary still. So I just knelt down at the old well, and I said to Him, in my ignorant way,—'Fair Father,[#] Jesu Christ, I thank Thee that Thou wert weary, and that by Thy weariness thou hast given me rest.' It felt to rest me,—a visit to the place where He sat, tired and hungry. But my Damoiselle cannot understand."
[#] "Bel Père"—one of the invocations then usual.
"No, Margot, I don't at all," said I.
"Ah, no! It takes a tired man to know the sweetness of rest."
Three days' journey through the Val de Luna, which used to be called the Vale of Ajalon, brought us to the city of Gran David, which was of old named Gibeon. The valley is styled De Luna because it was here that Monseigneur Saint Joshua commanded the sun and moon to stand still while he vanquished the Paynims. From Gran David it is only one day's journey to the Holy City.
"To-morrow, Margot!" said I, in great glee. "Only to-morrow, we shall see the Holy Sepulchre!"
"Ha! Thanks be to the good God. And we need not wait till to-morrow to see Him that rose from it."
"Why, Marguerite, dost thou ever have visions?"
"Visions? Oh no! Those are for the holy saints; not for a poor ignorant villein woman like me."
"Then what didst thou mean, just now?"
"Ah, my Damoiselle cannot understand."
"Margot, I don't like that. Thou art always saying it. I want to understand."
"Then she must ask the good God to show her."
And that is all I can get out of her.
Short of a league from the Holy City is the little hill called Mont Joie, because from it the palmers catch the first glimpse of the blessed Jerusalem. We were mounting, as it seemed to me, a low hillock, when Amaury rode up beside me, and parting the curtains, said—
"Now, Elaine, look out, for we are on the Mont Joie. Wilt thou light down?"
"Certainly," I answered.
So Amaury stopped the litter, and gave me his hand, and I jumped out. He took me to the place where the palmers kneel in thanksgiving for being brought thus far on their journey: and here I had my first sight of the Holy City.
It is but a small city, yet strongly fortified, having three walls. No Paynim is permitted to enter it, nor of course any heathen Jew. I cannot imagine how it was that the good God ever suffered the Holy City, even for an hour, to be in the hands of those wicked people. Yet last night, in the tent, if Marguerite did not ask me whether Monseigneur Saint Paul was not a Jew! I was shocked.
"Oh dear, no!" said I.
"I heard somebody say so," she replied.
"I should think it was some Paynim," said I. "Why, of course none of the holy Apostles were Jews. That miscreant Judas Iscariot, and Pontius Pilatus, and all those wicked people, I suppose, were Jews: but not the holy Apostles and the saints. It is quite shocking to think of such a thing!"
"Then what were they, if my Damoiselle pleases?" said Marguerite.
"Oh, they were of some other nation," said I.
For really, I do not know of what nation they were,—only that they could never have been Jews.
Amaury said that we must first visit the Holy Sepulchre; so, though I was dying to have news of Guy, I comforted myself with the thought that I should hereby acquire so much more merit than if I had not cared about it.
We entered the Holy City by the west gate, just as the dusk was beginning; and passing in single file along the streets, we descended the hill of Zion to the Holy Sepulchre.
In this church are kept many holy relics. In the courtyard is the prison where our Lord was confined after His betrayal, and the pillar to which He was bound when scourged: and in the portico the lance which pierced His side. The stone which the Angel rolled away from the sepulchre is now broken in two. Here our Lady died, and was buried in the Church of Saint Mary, close by. In this church is kept the cup of our Lord, out of which He habitually drank: it is of silver, with a handle on each side, and holds about a quart. Here also is the sponge which was held to His mouth, and the crown of thorns. (By a miracle of the good God, one half of the crown is also at Byzantium.) The tomb of our Lord is seven feet long, and rises three palms from the floor; fifteen golden lamps burn before it, day and night. I told the whole Rosary at the holy tomb, or should have done, for I felt that the longer I waited to see Guy, the more merit I should heap up: but Amaury became impatient, and insisted on my coming when a Pater and eight Aves were still to say.
Then we mounted the hill of Zion again, passing the church built in honour of the Prince of the Apostles, on the spot where he denied our Lord: and so we reached the King's Palace at last.
Amaury sprang from his horse, and motioned my postilion to draw up in front of the chief gate. I heard him say to the porter—
"Is Sir Guy de Lusignan here?"
"My gracious Lord, the Count of Joppa and Ascalon, is here, if it like you, noble Sir," replied the porter. "He is at this moment in audience of my Lady the Queen."
I was so glad to hear it. Then Guy had really been created a Count! He must be in high favour. One half of his prophecy was fulfilled. But what about the other?
"Pray you," said Amaury to the porter, "do my Lord Count to wit that his brother, Sir Amaury de Lusignan, and his sister, the Lady Elaine, are before the gate."
I hardly know how I got through the next ten minutes. Then came quick steps, a sound of speech, a laugh, and then my curtains were pushed aside, and the voice I loved best in all the world said—
"Lynette! Lynette, my darling!"
Ay, it was my own Guy who came back to me. Changed?—no, not really changed at all. A little older; a little more bronzed; a little longer and fuller in the beard:—that was all. But it was my Guy, himself.
"Come! jump out," he said, holding his hand, "and let me present thee to the Lady Queen. I long to see my Lynette the fairest ornament of her Court. And how goes it with Monseigneur, our fair father?"
So, talking all the way, I walked with Guy, hand in hand, up the stairs, and into the very bower of the imperial lady who bears the crown of all the world, since it is the flower of all the crowns.
"I can assure thee," said Guy, "the Lady Queen has often talked of thee, and is prepared to welcome thee."
It was a beautiful room, though small, decorated with carved and fragrant cedar-work, and hung with blue and gold. Round the walls were blue and gold settles, and three curule chairs in the midst. There were only three ladies there,—but I must describe them.
The Queen, who sat in one of the curule chairs, was rather short and stout, with a pleasant, motherly sort of look. She appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age. Her daughter, the Lady Isabel, who sat in another chair, busied with some embroidery, was apparently about eighteen; but Guy told me afterwards that she is only fifteen, for women ripen early in these Eastern lands, and grow old fast. She has luxuriant black hair and dark shining eyes. On the settle was a damsel a little older than the Princess, not quite so dark, nor so handsome. She, as I afterwards found, was the Damoiselle Melisende de Courtenay,[#] a distant relative of the King, who dwells with the Princesses. Guy led me up to the Queen.
[#] A fictitious person. Millicent is the modern version of this old Gothic name. It comes from Amala-suinde, and signifiesheavenly-wisdom.
"Madam," said he, "your Highness has heard me often speak of my younger sister."
"Ha! the little Damoiselle Helena?"[#] replied the Queen, smiling very kindly. "Be welcome, my child. I have indeed heard much of you; this brother of yours thinks nobody like you in the world,—not even one, eh, Sir Count?—Isabel! I desire thee to make much of the Damoiselle, and let her feel herself at home. And,—Melisende! I pray thee, give order for her lodging, and let her women be seen to. Ah!—here comes another who will be glad to be acquainted with you."
[#] Helen is really quite distinct from Ellen, of which lost Elaine is the older form. The former is a Greek name signifyingattractive, captivating. The latter is the feminine of the Celtic name Alain,—more generally written Alan or Allan,—and meansbright-haired. Eleanor (it is a mistake as regards philology to write Elinor) is simply an amplification of Ellen by the addition of "or,"gold. It denotes, therefore,hair bright as gold. Annora is a corruption of Eleanor, and Nora or Norah a further contraction of Annora.
I turned round to see at whom the Queen was looking. An inner door of the chamber had just opened, and two ladies were coming into the room. At the one I scarcely looked, save to see that she was old, and wore the garb of a nun. The other fixed my eyes in an instant.
Shall I say she was beautiful? I do not know. She has a face about which one never thinks whether it is beautiful or not. She is so sweet, so sweet! Her hair is long, of a glossy golden hue: her eyes are dark grey, and all her soul shines out in them. Her age seemed about twenty. And Guy said behind me, in a whisper—
"The Lady Sybil of Montferrat."
Something in Guy's tone made me glance suddenly at his face. My heart felt for a moment as if it stopped beating. The thing that I feared was come upon me. The whole prophecy was fulfilled: the beautiful lady stood before me. I should be first with Guy no longer.
But I did not feel so grieved as I expected. And when Lady Sybil put her arms round me, and kissed me, and told me I should be her dear little sister,—though I felt that matters must have gone very far indeed, yet somehow I was almost glad that Guy had found a heart to love him in this strange land.
The old nun proved to be a cousin of the Queen, whom they call Lady Judith.[#] She is an eremitess, and dwells in her cell in the very Palace itself. I notice that Lady Sybil seems very fond of her.
[#] A fictitious person.
Damoiselle Melisende showed me a nice bed-chamber, where I and my three women were to lodge. I was very tired, and the Queen saw it, and in her motherly way insisted on my having some supper, and going to bed at once. So I did not even wait to see Amaury again, and Guy went to look for him and bring him up to the Queen. The King, being a mesel, dwells alone in his own rooms, and receives none. When Guy has to communicate with him, he tells me that he talks with him through a lattice, and a fire of aromatic woods burns between them. But I can see that Guy is a very great man here, and has the affairs of the State almost in his own hands.
I said to Marguerite as I was undressing,—"Margot, I think Count Guy is going to marry somebody."
"Why, if it please my Damoiselle?"
"From the way he looks at Lady Sybil, and—other things."
"Your gracious pardon, but—is he less loving to my Damoiselle?"
"Oh no!—more loving and tender than ever, if that be possible."
"Then it is all right," said Marguerite. "He loves her."
"What dost thou mean, Margot?"
"When a man marries, my Damoiselle, one of three things happens. Either he weds from policy, and has no love for his lady; but Monseigneur Guy loves to look at her, so it is not that. Or, he loves himself, and she is merely a toy which ministers to his pleasure. Then he would be absorbed in himself and her, and not notice whether any other were happy or unhappy. But if he loves her, with that true, faithful, honourable love, which is one of God's best gifts, then he will be courteous and tender towards all women, because she is one. And especially to his own relatives, being women, who love him, he will be very loving indeed. That is why I asked."
"O Margot, Margot!" I said, laughing. "Where on earth dost thou find all thy queer notions?"
"Not all on earth, my Damoiselle. But, for many of them, all that is wanted is just to keep one's eyes open."
"Are my eyes open, Margot?"
"My Damoiselle had better shut them now," replied Marguerite, a little drily. "She can open them again to-morrow."
So I went to sleep, and dreamed that Guy married Lady Judith, in her nun's attire, and that I was in great distress at the sacrilege, and could do nothing to avert it.
CHAPTER V.
CURIOUS NOTIONS.
—ROBERT BROWNING.
For the last few weeks, since we reached Jerusalem, I have been very busy going about with the Damoiselle Melisende, and sometimes the Lady Isabel, with Amaury as escort. We have now visited all the holy places within one day's journey. I commanded Marguerite to attend me, for it amuses me afterwards to hear what she has to say.
We went to the Church of Saint Mary, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which is built in a round form; and in it is the empty tomb in which our Lady was buried. So some say, and that the angels carried her body away in the night: but other some say, that while the holy Apostles were carrying her to her burial, the angels came down and bore her away to Paradise. I asked Margot (as she always listens) if she had heard Father Eudes read about it from the holy Evangel: but she said he had never read the story of that, at least in French. In this church there is a stone in the wall, on which our Lord knelt to pray on the night of His betrayal; and on it is the impression of His knees, as if the stone were wax. There is no roof to the church, but by miraculous provision of the good God, the rain never falls on it. Here also, our Lord's body, when taken down from the cross, was wrapped and anointed.
We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble table at which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and they received the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, with an altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here is kept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. All these are on Mount Zion.
Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holy Apostles' feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had put it by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her. Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel.
"Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "It does not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet."
"But that cannot be, Margot!" said I.
Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm.
"Child," said she gently, "'if He wash thee not, thou hast no part with Him.'"
"And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,—if He wash us, we have part with Him."
"Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.' Thou knowest it, my sister?—thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enter into rest.'"
I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith—of the Cæsars' purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and old Marguerite,—a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,—marvel to relate! they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendly ever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must be some mystery. I do not understand it at all.
Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on the summit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lord ascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and though palmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yet the impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that I told Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. But she did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of something else.
"Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church, and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He will come again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'—the same that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of the cross,—the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go in peace' to the woman that was a sinner—the very same, Himself, and none other. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and die here, if it were."
"O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thou art alive?"
"Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intently through the roof of the church,—or where the roof should have been—into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in my heart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up, maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!"
"I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be just dreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock."
"Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and see Monseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,—would she think it a dreadful shock?"
"Margot! How can the two be compared?"
"Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly.
"Marguerite! Dost thou—canst thou—love our Lord as much as I love Guy? It is not possible!"
"A thousand times more, my Damoiselle. Your Nobility, I know, loves Monseigneur very dearly; yet you have other interests apart from him. I have no interest apart from my Lord. All my griefs, all my joys, I take to Him; and until He has laid His hand on them and blessed them, I can neither endure the one nor enjoy the other."
I wonder if Lady Judith feels like that! I should like to ask her, if I could take the liberty.
Marguerite was looking up again into the sky.
"Only think what it will be!" she said. "To look up from the cradle of your dying child, with the anguish of helplessness pressing tight upon your heart—and see Him! To look up from your own sick bed, faint and weary beyond measure—and see Him! From the bitter sense of sin and failure—from cruel words and unkind looks—from loneliness and desolation—from hunger and cold and homelessness—to look up, and see Him! There will be some suffering all these things when He comes. Oh, why are His chariot-wheels so long in coming? Does not He long for it even more than we?"
I was silent. She looked—this old villein woman—almost like one inspired.
"He knows!" she added softly. "He knows. He can wait. Then we can. Surely I come quickly. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!"'
Amaury called me, and I left her there.
He wanted to creep through the columns, and wished me to try first, as I am slimmer than he. I managed it pretty well,—so now all my sins are remitted, and I do feel so good and nice! Lady Isabel could hardly do it; and Amaury, who has been growing fatter of late, could not get through at all. He was much disappointed, and very cross in consequence. Damoiselle Melisende would not try. She said, laughing, that she was quite sure she could not push through, and she must get her sins forgiven some other way. But she mischievously ran and fetched old Marguerite, and putting on a grave face, proposed to her to try the feat. Now I am quite certain Marguerite could never have done it; for though she is not stout, she is a large-built woman. But she looked at the place for a moment, and then said to Melisende—
"If the Damoiselle pleases, what will follow?"
"Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she.
"I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away. "Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven."
"What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel.
"Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly."
"Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess, eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression.
I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She is only comical."
Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble is kept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know His judgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. She said she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangel said that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on that marble?
"Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased the good God that it should receive the impress."
"The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But—well, I am an ignorant woman."
Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Lady appeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to believe her assumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle is kept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain.
That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, were Messire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk—I remember not how—upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would have it that nothing is, but all things only seem to be.
"Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am."
"Pardon me—not at all!" he answered.
"And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende.
"By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy. There is no such thing as matter—only mind. My imagination sees a fire there: your imagination sees a fire:—but there is no fire,—such a thing does not exist."
"Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please, Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you will come to a different conclusion within five minutes."
"I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. It does not really exist."
"And the pain of the burn—would that be imagination also?" she inquired.
"Undoubtedly, Lady," said he.
"But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursued Her Highness.
"Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none. There is no such thing as matter. Mind—Soul—is the only existence, Lady."
"What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron.
"But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how does the idea that I do exist get into my head?"
"How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.
"Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my Lady Queen,—lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter, quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What men call the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!"
"You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy.
"Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am no such fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, and there I begin and end. So does every wise man."
"Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think all the wise men must believe as he does?"
"Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"
Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he. "I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before met one of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,—In your system, what becomes of the soul after death?"
"Nay, if there be no soul, what can become of it?" put in Damoiselle Melisende.
"Pure foy!" cried the Baron. "I concern myself about nothing of that sort. Holy Church teaches that the soul survives the body, and it were unseemly to gainsay her teaching. But—ha! what know I?"
"For me," said Messire Renaud, a little grandiloquently, "I believe that death is simply the dissolution of that which seems, and leaves only the pure essence of that which is. The modicum of spirit—of that essence—which I call my soul, will then be absorbed into the great soul of the Universe—the Unknowable, the Unknown."
"We have a name for that, Messire," said Guy reverently. "We call it—God."
"Precisely," answered Messire Renaud. "You—we—holy Church—personify this Unknowable Essence, which is the fountain of all essence. The parable—for a parable it is—is most beautiful. But It—He—name it as you will—is none the less the Unknown and the Unknowable."
"The boy must have a fever, and the delirium is on him," said the Baron. "Get a leech, lad. Let out a little of that hot blood which mystifies thy foolish brains."
There was silence for a minute, and it was broken by the low, quiet voice of Lady Judith, who sat next to the Lady Queen, with a spindle in her hand.
"'And this is life eternal, that they shouldknow Thee.'" She added no more.
"Beautiful words, truly," responded Messire Renaud. "But you will permit me to observe, Lady, that they are—like all similar phrases—symbolical. The soul that has risen the nearest to this ineffable Essence—that is most free from the shell of that which seems—may, in a certain typical sense, be said to 'know' this Essence. Now there never was a soul more free from the seeming than that of Him whom we call our Lord. Accordingly, He tells us that—employing one of the loveliest of all types—He 'knew the Father.' It is perfectly charming, to an enlightened mind, to recognise the force, the beauty, the hidden meaning, of these exquisite types."
"Lad, what is the length of thine ears?" growled the Baron. "What crouched ass crammed all this nonsense into thee? 'Enlightened mind'—'exquisite types'—'charming symbolism'! I am not at all sure that I understand thee, thou exquisite gander! But if I do, what thou meanest, put in plain language, is simply that there is no God. Eh?"
"Fair Father, under your good leave, I would choose other words. God—what we call God—is the Unknowable Essence. Therefore, undoubtedly there is God, and in a symbolic sense, He is the Creator of all things, this Essence being the source out of which all other essences are evolved. Therefore, parabolically speaking"——
"I'll lay my stick about thy back, thou parabolical mud-puddle!" cried the Baron. "Let me be served up for Saladin's supper if I understand a word of thy foolery! Art thou a true son of holy Church or not? That is what I want to know."
"Undoubtedly, fair Sir!" said Messire Renaud. "God forbid that I should be a heretic! Our holy Mother the Church has never banned the Nominalists."
"Then it is high time she did!" retorted the Baron. "I reckon she thinks they will do nobody much harm, because no mortal being can understand them. But where, in the name of all the Seven Wonders of the World, thou gattest such moonshine sticking in thy brains, shoot me if I know. It was not from my Lady, thy fair mother; and I am sure it was not from me."
Messire Renaud made no answer beyond a laugh, and the Lady Queen quickly introduced a different subject. I fancy she saw that the Baron was losing his temper. But when Messire Renaud was about to take leave, Lady Judith arose, as quietly as she does everything, and glided to his side.
"Fair Sir," she said gently, "I pray you, pardon one word from an old woman. You know years should teach wisdom."
"Trust me, Lady, to listen with all respect," said he courteously.
"Fair Sir," she said, "when you stand face to face with death, you will findItdoes not satisfy your need. You will wantHim. You are not a thing, but a person. How can the thing produced be greater than that which produces it?"
"Your pardon, fair Lady and holy Mother!" interposed Messire Renaud quickly. "I do not object to designate the Unknowable Essence as Him. Far from it! I do but say, as the highest minds have said,—We cannot know. It maybe Him, It, Them:—we cannot know. We can but bow in illimitable adoration, and strive to perfect, to purify and enlighten, our minds, so that they shall grow nearer and nearer to that ineffable Possibility."
A very sad look passed over Lady Judith's face.
"My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died for thee."
And without another word, she glided back to her seat.
"Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soul me?"
"To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," said she; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show you the other."
"Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that my body does not exist at all,—it only seems to be."
"Does he say the same of his own body?"
"Oh yes; of all."
"Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he come into my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and a sword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them, whether his body be himself or not."
[#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date.
"Oh, he says that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose to imagine that he had no pain, it would stop."
"Very good," said Marguerite. "Then let him set his broken leg with his beautiful imagination. If he can cure his pain by imagining he has none, what must he be if he do not?"
"Well, I know what I should think him. But his father, the Baron de Montluc, will have it just the opposite—that there is no soul, nor anything but what we can see and hear."
"Ah! they will both find out their mistakes when they come to die," said Margot. "Poor blind things! The good God grant that they may find them out a little sooner."
I asked Guy if he did not think the Baron's notion a very dangerous one. But while he said "yes," he added that he thought Messire Renaud's much more so.
"It is so much more difficult to disprove," said he. "It may look more absurd on the surface, but it is more subtle to deal with, and much more profound."
"They both look to me very silly," said I.
"I wish they were no worse," was Guy's answer.