So the daylight came, and the dreams were past, and the wild harpsang no more,And Terence looked at the cold black hearth and the silent open door,And he cried, “I have sold my life this night, ye have my heart inpawn,—Take wife and gold, but come ye back, ye little Leprechaun!”
No one could say just how it came to be whispered that the Templars of Temple Assheton dealt in black magic. Travelers told strange tales of France, where the Order was stronger than it was in England—tales of unhallowed processionals and midnight incantations learned from the infidels of Syria. A Preceptor, Gregory of Hildesheim, was said to possess writings of a wizard who had suffered death some years before, and to have used them for the profit of the Order.
Swart the drover, who had sold many good horses to the Templars and expected to sell more, laughed at these uncanny rumors. Wealthy the Order was, to be sure, but that was no miracle. Its vaults, being protected not only by the consecration of the building but by its trained body of military monks, often held the treasure of princes. Moreover, this powerful military Order attracted many men of high birth. Their estates became part of the common fund, since no individual Templar could own anything.
Unfortunately, Swart's facts were so much less romantic than the tales of enchantment that they made very little impression. The grasping arrogance of the Templars caused them to be hated and feared, and if they were really wizards it was just as well not to investigate them too closely. And if they had in truth learned the art of making gold, it was only another proof of that old and well-tried rule, “He who has, gets.”
Gregory had not, however, discovered that secret as yet. He had had great hopes of certain formulae bought at a large price of a clerk named Simon, who stole them from the reputed wizard; but when he tried them, there was always some little thing which would not work. At last he bethought him of one Tomaso of Padua, who had been a friend of the dead man and might possibly have some some valuable knowledge. The physician was at the time in a market-town about twelve miles off, resting for a few days before proceeding to London. He was an old man and journeys were fatiguing to him. Gregory sent a company of men-at-arms to invite him to come to Temple Assheton. The request was made on a lonely path in a forest, along which Tomaso was riding to visit a sick child on a remote farm. It would have been impossible for him to refuse it.
Rain was dripping from the drenched bare boughs of half-fledged trees, clouds hung purple-gray over the bleak moors; the river had overflowed the meadows, and the horses floundered flank-deep over the paved ford. Few travelers were abroad. Those who saw the black and white livery of the Temple, and the old man in the long dark cloak who rode beside the leader, looked at one another, and wondered.
When the cavalcade rode in at the great gate, where the round Temple crouched half-hidden among its grim and stately halls, the physician was taken at once to Gregory's private chamber. The Preceptor greeted him urbanely. “Master Tomaso,” he said, “men say that you have learned to make gold.”
“They say many things impossible to prove, as you are doubtless aware,” Tomaso answered.
“Do you then deny that it is possible?” persisted Gregory.
“He is foolish,” Tomaso returned, “who denies that a thing may happen, because he finds it extraordinary.”
“Under certain conditions, you would say, it can be done?”
“When the donkey climbs the ladder he may find carrots on the tiles,” was the Paduan's reply. The weasel-like face of the Templar contorted in a wry grin.
“You bandy words like an Aristotelian, sir alchemist,” he said sharply, “therefore we will be plain with you. You shall be lodged here with suitable means for your experiments until such time as your pretensions are justified—if they are. Should you prove yourself a wizard, a dabbler in the black art and a deceiver of the people, you shall be so punished that all men may know we share not in your guilt. Reflection hereupon may perchance quicken your understanding. Until you have news of importance for our hearing, farewell.”
With what he could summon of dignity, the Preceptor turned from the calm gaze of the physician and left the guards to conduct him to his lodging. There was really nothing else to do. It was a risk, of course. Tomaso was well known. He had the confidence of the King himself. But the situation was difficult. Prince John, who was usually in straits despite his father's generosity, had hinted to Gregory lately that he meant to inquire in person about the reported making of gold in the Temple. Could he have guessed somehow that two chests of ingots from a Cadiz galley had come to Temple Assheton instead of to the King's treasury? Or did he believe the story of the making of gold?
Gregory was but too certain that if John found any treasure of doubtful title he would seize it, and he was acutely unhappy. However, if Tomaso possessed the secret—or some other secret of value—there was yet a chance to save the Cadiz ingots. If this plan failed the scapegoat would not be a Templar.
Tomaso knew what was passing in his enemy's mind, not through any supernatural means, but by his knowledge of human nature. He was aware, as he lay on his narrow straw bed, that his life was in imminent danger. No one knew where he was; no message could reach his friends. A discredited wizard could count on no popular sympathy. The record of his studies for many years would vanish like the wind-blown candle-flame. Yet after some hours of wakefulness he slept, as tranquilly as a child.
A red-headed youth in the dress of a clerk, who was to have met Tomaso on the morrow, waited for him in vain. On the second day he started in search of his old friend, and weary and mud-bespattered, came at last to Temple Assheton. On the road he fell in with Swart the drover, who told him of the reported alchemy. “Gold would be common as fodder if any man could make it,” Swart growled, “and when a man's wise beyond others in the art of healing, 'tis wicked folly to burn him alive for't.”
Padraig's face lost every trace of color. “W-who says that?”
“The crows and herons, I suppose,” said the drover coolly. “Anyhow none of the folk in the village know where the story started, and nobody but a bird on the wing could see over those walls. 'Tis said that ten days hence, if the old doctor don't make gold for them, they'll burn him for a wizard. Now that's no sense, for if he could make gold he'd be a wizard no bounds, and they'd not burn him then, I reckon.”
Padraig looked down the valley at the tender gold-green grass and the snowdrift apple-boughs of spring, It seemed impossible that those grim gray walls held within them this cruel and implacable spirit. “Can I get a trustworthy messenger?” he asked. “I would send a letter to the Master's friends.”
With the ready understanding of men who see and judge strange faces constantly, Swart and Padraig had taken each other's measure and been satisfied. “My nephew Hod will go,” Swart answered. Hod was the son of the farmer whose house Tomaso had visited.
Padraig was busy with tablets and inkhorn. He folded and sealed his note, written in the clear stubbed hand of the monasteries. “I am Padraig,” he said, “a scribe of the Irish Benedictines. If the Master comes to harm there will be a heavy reckoning, but that will come too late. I will rescue him or die with him—are you with me?”
Swart pulled at his huge beard. “The Swarts of Aschenrugge,” he said, “have dwelt too long in these parts to bow neck to a Templar. Hod shall ride with the letter, and if it be thy choice to risk thine own life for thy master's I've no call to betray thee.”
A dark-browed yokel came to the door with the bridle of Swart's best horse over his arm. “Take this,” Padraig directed, “to Robert Edrupt, the wool merchant at Long Lea near Stratton. If he be from home give it to his wife Barbara and tell her to open and read it. She is wise and will do what is right. Here is money—all I have—but you shall be paid well when the errand is done; I have asked Edrupt to see to that.”
Hod stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Put up thy money,” he muttered. “The old doctor he cured our Cicely, he did.”
The messenger gone, Padraig went straight to the Temple and asked to see the Preceptor. Gregory listened at first with suspicion, then with wonder, to what the stranger told. It seemed that, hearing that a famous alchemist was at work in the Temple, he had come to crave the privilege of acting as his servant. It was, he said, absolutely necessary that such a master should have a disciple at hand for the actual work, and be left undisturbed in meditation meanwhile.
“Is this necessary to the making of gold?” asked Gregory.
“Surely,” Padraig assured him. “The pupil cannot do the work of the master, the master must not be compelled to labor as the pupil. It is written in our books—Feliciter is sapit, qui periculo alieno sapit—Those are fortunate who learn at the risk of another,—and again, He is wise who profits by others' folly.”
Gregory eyed the stranger warily, but in Padraig's blue eyes he saw only childlike innocence and fanatical zeal. If a madman, he was a useful one. By his help the experiments could be carried on without imperiling any Templar. He directed a page to show Padraig the way to Tomaso's chamber.
“My son!” said the physician as he lifted his eyes from his writing and saw who was in the doorway, “how came you here?”
“I came to be with you, Master,” Padraig answered with a glance behind him to make sure the page was gone, “to rescue you if I can. What else could I have done?”
Then he related his conversation with Gregory. “Through a drover of this place who is our friend,” he ended, “I have sent word to Robert Edrupt asking him to get word of this to the King or to the Bishop. But if help does not come in time—”
“Che sara sara (What will be, will be),” said Tomaso coolly. “I have made a fair copy of these writings in the hope that I might send them to Brother Basil.”
Padraig knelt at the physician's feet, his beseeching eyes raised to the kindly, serene old face. “Master Tomaso,” he stammered, “they shall not do this thing—I cannot b-bear it! We have—we have the formula for the Apples of Sodom, and—and other things. They would give more than gold for that knowledge.”
Tomaso laid a gentle hand upon the young shoulder. “My dear son,” he said, “when we learned the secrets of Archiater—those secrets which mean death—we promised one another, all of us, never to use them save to the glory of God and the honor of our land. Which of these, think you, would be served by lending them to the evil plots of a traitor?”
Padraig caught the hand of his master in both his own. “It is beyond endurance!” he cried piteously.
“I have knowledge,” Tomaso went on, “that this Gregory is partly pledged to the faction of Prince John. The Templars have no country, but they think, with some reason, that they can bend John to their purposes. What would they do, with the power these fires of Tophet would give them? Padraig, there is no safety in the breaking of a pledge.”
A thought came into the boy's mind, and a wild hope with it. “Master Tomaso,” he cried, “if I can find a way to use our knowledge without breaking the pledge, will you give me my way?”
The Paduan looked long into the uplifted eager face. “It is good to be so loved,” he said. “I will trust you. Yet grieve not, whatever comes,—the stars are my fortress, God is my lamp. The bridge to eternal life is very short.”
Padraig's cell was the one just below, and the window looked out across the moors. Chin on his crossed arms, he pondered long under the stars. The next day he informed the Preceptor that the alchemist was ready to begin the making of Spanish gold, and must on no account be disturbed.
He showed Gregory the formula. It was not very easy to understand, but it was impressive. Cockatrice eggs were to be placed carefully in a nest in a stone walled underground chamber, which must be sealed from the outer air when all was ready. Snakes and toads brooding thereon would in time hatch out baby monsters—creatures with cocks' heads and the tails and wings of dragons. Their look was sure death, but they could be poisoned by a draught compounded of agrimony, dill and vervain. This must be prepared beforehand and left in a bason where the cockatrice when hatched would find and drink of it. When all were dead they were to be brayed in a mortar with other necessary ingredients. When the stars indicated that the fortunate hour was at hand, the compound was to be heated in a crucible over a large brazier, covered with a layer of chaff to absorb the poisonous gases that arose. That which remained in the crucible would be pure gold.
“'Tis a fearsome business,” said Padraig naively, “for men hate wizards.”
“Let them hate, if they fear us as well,” muttered Gregory poring over the mysterious phrases. Visions arose in his mind of a Grand Master whose power should have no limit, whom Kings must serve and Sultans fear. Nay, not only should the Holy Temple be recovered, but it should be built anew, overlaid with gold as in Solomon's day. He called a steward and ordered him to fit up a cellar, formerly a passage into the vaults of the oldest part of the building, with all needful utensils. Braziers, crucibles, retorts and all the usual materials in the way of metals and powders were there, but of course, no cockatrice eggs.
“He brought these from Andalusia,” said Padraig, showing seven small eggs mottled with crimson and black in a medicine box. Gregory touched one very gingerly. They were in fact waxen shells filled with volatile liquids, and Padraig had spent most of the night preparing them. He explained that they were no larger than frogs' eggs when he first had them,—which was perfectly true, the wax having been carried in the form of balls.
Sulphurous odors came from the cellar where the eggs were supposed to be hatching in their nest. An unwary hound sniffing about the door got a throatful of the stinging smoke and fled yowling. Hydrochloric acid, vitriol and nitre-glycerine are kittle things to meddle with, and the place was religiously avoided.
From the too free tongue of a cellarer one night Padraig learned that this chamber adjoined the treasure-vaults of the Temple, but the communicating door had been walled up. When the gold should be ready it could be conveyed into the treasury direct, by reopening this doorway.
One evening Prince John rode up to the gate with a company of Norman men-at-arms and a few courtiers. It was understood that he had come to investigate the reputed sorceries. On the same day three strangers came into the village and tarried at Swart's house on Aschenrugge. He often lodged travelers for a night, being near the highway. Padraig, spying a white signal on the giant ash which gave the ridge its name, told the impatient Preceptor that the hour was at hand.
Among the villagers it was said that the physician and his disciple were guarded closely night and day, and that the Paduan certainly would be burned at the stake if he did not succeed in making gold. Country folk had seen the stake set up and the faggots piled. In case the wizard proved a false prophet Gregory meant to make the execution as public as possible.
Padraig explained that the final trial must take place inter canis et lupus—between dog and wolf—in that hour which is neither daylight nor dark. As dusk fell the knights and esquires of the Temple ranged themselves in orderly ranks along the walls, at some distance from the door of the underground chamber. The low archway was now open; the glow of a brazier showed red against the rear wall. Torches lighted the stone-paved yard, and beyond the open gate the white faces of peasants crowded, awe-stricken and expectant. When the physician was brought out by the guards to a seat near the stake, the sobs of a woman were heard in the outer darkness. Padraig, following, cast a swift glance through the gate and saw the dim shapes of horsemen outlined against the sky.
Last of all appeared the Preceptor and Prince John with their immediate followers, and took their seats midway in the ranks of onlookers, directly opposite the door, where they could see every stage of the proceedings. Gregory, furtively scanning the face of the physician, saw therein not a sign of fear. Padraig advanced into the open space before the cellar, and bowed to Prince John and the Preceptor. Then from a niche within the door of the chamber he lifted a large crucible, and a siffle of indrawn breath was heard in the crowd as he carried it toward the fire. Gathering pitchy twigs and chaff from a heap of fuel he packed them deftly into the open top, and set the jar on the brazier, returning then to the side of Tomaso.
The minutes passed but slowly. The nerves of all the spectators were strung to the snapping-point. Gregory finally began to explain to Prince John, who looked half curious and half skeptical,—
“This crucible, your Grace, is now throwing off the vapors generated by fervent heat. When these have been absorbed by the chaff above, the gold will be found beneath. The possibilities of this priceless formula are not as yet altogether known. We do not know what may come to light. You may be astounded—”
The chaff in the crucible caught fire from a wisp that thrust up into it from the brazier, flared up of a sudden and lighted every corner of the old cellar. It revealed the craning neck and slack jaw of Gregory, the covetous glittering eyes and incredulous smile of Prince John, the scared faces of the huddling peasants. Then there was a crash that shook the earth. Battlements rocked, pavements cracked, blocks of stone leaped into the air like a fountain of masonry. When fire encounters high explosives in a tunnel the results are remarkable. Torches dropped or were blown out, and stumbling, cursing men ran right and left—anywhere to escape the pelting stones. Padraig, holding to his master's arm, guided him out of the gate and toward the sound of trampling hoofs upon a little hillock. There they found Edrupt, Guy and Alan struggling with their frantic horses. Swart came up with two more horses, and soon the party was beyond all danger of pursuit.
When the stunned and bewildered Templars recovered their breath, they saw nothing of the alchemist or of his disciple. It was felt to be just and right if they had been carried off bodily by the foul fiend. No one else was missing, though broken heads and bruises were everywhere. Only when dawn paled the heavens did the boldest of John's mercenaries venture back to the place of terror.
There was a great hole in the rear wall of the cellar, and among the ruins lay shining heaps of gold—not bezants or zecchins, but wedges and bars of a strange reddish hue. They touched it warily; it was not red-hot. They filled their pouches, and others came and did likewise. The hard-riding veterans had had no opportunity to plunder for more than a year, and John had little money for himself and none for them. When Gregory came on the scene, white and shaking with rage, and somewhat damaged about the face from flying stones, it was too late to hide his ingots. Gold of Spain or of Beelzebub, it was all one to John Sansterre. What little the troopers had left went into the gaping leather bags of their master, while Gregory looked on, grinding his teeth.
It was not in the nature of Prince John to believe much in miracles, but it suited him to accept this one, whole. With a jesting compliment upon the success of the formula and an intimation that he would like more such entertainment, John departed next day well pleased with his perquisition.
All this came duly to the ears of Swart the drover, and was told by him when he came by Edrupt's house a few days later.
“How did it happen so suitably, Padraig of my heart?” asked Tomaso, his deep eyes twinkling.
Padraig chuckled in pure delight. “I guessed that if our Apples of Sodom were properly ripe they'd blow a hole in the treasury wall. Those Norman thieves are not the men to balk at a little brimstone, and I figured that Master Gregory would be too busy to think of us for awhile. He took that formula for himself. Much good may he get of it. In place o' the copper and sulphur and nitre and the like I set down our cipher—snakes and toads and scorpions, Maltese cocks, unicorn's blood and so on. The cellarer said there was a lot o' foreign gold locked up in there, and that must ha' been what was heaved out. I warrant there'll be no more Black Magic in Temple Assheton.”
THE EBBING TIDE
The sun has gone from the heights of heaven,The knights a-tilting no longer ride,The sails are vanished, the beaches empty—There is nothing left but the ebbing tide.At dawn we sounded our heady challenge,At noon our blood beat high i' the sun,At eve we rode where the wolf-pack follow—The night is falling, our course is run.But the tide runs out through the gates of sunset,And the living fires of Atlantis glowBetween the clouds and the long sea-level,Beyond the waters we used to know.Hy-Brasail gleams with its towers of beryl,Tourmaline, hyacinth, topaz and pearl,Free to the King if he have but the pass-word,Free to the veriest low-born churl.For Earth levels all who have known her and loved her,And the soul fares forth where the great stars guideOn the viewless path of the calling waters—Out to Hy-Brasail upon the tide!
Eleanor and Roger sat together in their own especial loop-hole window. When that window was new and they were little, the great stone hall with its massive arches was unfamiliar and lonely to them, and they liked to sit apart in this nook that seemed made for them. Four steps led up to it, a stone seat was within it, and it was at a comfortable distance from the warmth of the fire. Sitting there, they could look out upon the changeful beautiful landscape, or down upon the doings in the hall.
Now all the land was blanketed with heavy snow. The tree-trunks were charcoal-black under the stars; lights twinkled in the huts at the foot of the hill; the frozen river made no sound beneath the castle wall. Cattle and sheep were snug and safe in the byres, guarded by the wise watch-dogs. Very far away in the woods an owl hooted.
It was the beginning of Yule, in that breathing-time before the holiday begins, when one gets the fine aroma of its pleasure. The festivities this year would be greater than ever before, for a new banquet-hall was to be opened with the Christmas feast. This hall was the realized dream of years. Thus far the only place for entertainments had been the hall of the keep, which was also the living-room of the household. The new hall was a separate one-story building, not unlike a barn in shape, spacious enough for thirty or forty guests with their retainers and servants. Its red tiled roof, raised upon seasoned beams two or three feet thick, made an imposing show. The doorway took in almost half of one end and was lofty enough for a standard-bearer to come in without dipping his banner. There was a fireplace near the middle of one side, with a hooded stone arch to draw the smoke upward and outward. Opposite was a musicians' gallery of paneled oak, supported by corbels of stone placed about eight feet above the floor. A dais was built at the other end of the building from the entrance, for the master's table, and from this a smaller door opened into a stone passageway leading to the castle, while near it another door, leading to the kitchens, was placed. The stone walls were wainscoted about halfway up, and plastered above, the plaster being first painted a golden brown and then decorated with a pattern of stiff small flowers and leaves in green, red, bright blue and a little gilding. The floor was of stone blocks laid in a pattern of black and gray, and two steps led from the dais to the lower part of the hall. At intervals along the upper part of the walls were cressets of wrought iron in which to set torches, and above the dais were silver sconces for large wax candles. At intervals also were hooks of ornamental iron-work, from which to hang tapestries by their metal rings.
Eleanor had spent the greater part of the afternoon helping her mother get out the sets of tapestries reserved for holiday occasions, among them some which had been kept for this very hall. Not all were the work of the lady herself. Some were woven and embroidered by her maids under her direction, others were gifts from friends, and the superb piece which hung above the dais and represented the marriage of Ulysses and Penelope had been woven in Saumur and was the gift of the King. The chairs of state with their ebony or ivory footstools were placed, the candles in the sconces, the rushes and sweet herbs had been strewn upon the floor. Even the holiday meats and pastries were cooked or made ready for cooking. Until after Twelfth Night the only work done would be the necessary duties of each day.
There was shouting and laughter in the courtyard. In came most of the boys and young men of the place, bearing the great Yule log into the hall. Collet the maid, who had just come in with her mistress, bearing the Yule candle, was sent to get the charred remnant of last year's log. Both log and candle would burn through the twelve holidays without being quite consumed, and the bit that was left would be saved to light next year's fires. These familiar homely ceremonies were not for the stately untouched newness of the banquet-room.
Supper was but just over, and the roasted crab-apples were spluttering in the bowls of brown ale, when the mummers came, capering in their very best fashion and habited in antic robes whose pattern—if not the costume itself—had come down from past generations. These actors were village clowns who had seen such pageants in their boyhood, and they played their rude drama as they had seen it then, with perhaps a new song or two and a few speeches to tickle the ears of the new audience. All the household and many of the villagers crowded in after them to look and laugh and make remarks more or less humorous about the performance. The lord of the castle and his family disposed themselves to give their countenance to the merrymaking, and Sir Walter ordered the steward to see that the players had a good supper. He himself would distribute some money among them when the time came. Then they would go on to give the play wherever else they could hope for an audience.
The drama was supposed to be founded on the life of Saint George, but no one could say with truth that it was very much like the legend. First came a herald tooting on a cow-horn, to proclaim the entrance of the champion, who was Clement the carpenter mounted on a hobby-horse and armed with wooden sword and painted buckler. There was much giggling and whispering among the maids, directed at the demure black-eyed Madelon, of the still-room. This may have been a reason why Saint George stumbled so desperately over his rather long speech. His challenge was at last finished, and then was heard a discordant clashing of tambourines and horse-bells, supposed to indicate Saracen music. In cantered a turbaned Turk on another hobby,—black this time—and in another long speech very smoothly delivered defied the saint to mortal combat. There was more tittering, for Tom the blacksmith was also an admirer of that minx Madelon. The fight was a very lively one, and Saint George had some trouble in holding his own.
When the Saracen lay gasping for breath (very naturally, the victor having placed his foot upon his breast) the saint somewhat awkwardly expressed sorrow for his deed and sighed for a doctor. There was a burst of laughter and applause as Ralph the bowyer, the comedian of the company, came limping in, got up in the character of an old quack who had physicked half the spectators. He bled and bandaged and salved and dosed the fallen warrior, keeping up a running fire of remarks the while, until the wounded man arose and went prancing off as good as new. There was no dragon, but Giles the miller appeared as Beelzebub to avenge the defeat of the paynim, and was routed in fine style. At the end a company of waits sang carols while the performers got their breath and repaired damages. The cream of the comedy, to the friends of the wicked Madelon, lay in the fact that she had the day before given her promise to Ralph, binding him to say naught to his rivals until the mumming was safely over.
While the players were drinking the health of their lord in his own good brew, the horn sounded at the gate, and the old porter, who had been watching the mummery, elbowed his way out with some grumbling to see who could be there. In a few minutes a tall man entered the hall, wearing the garb of a Palmer or pilgrim from the Holy Land—a long cloak with a cape and a hood that shadowed the face, a staff, a scrip and sandals. At sight of him a surprised hush fell upon the company. The common folk drew apart to let him pass, not quite sure but this was a new figure in the play. But Sir Walter Giffard rose to his feet after one swift glance at the newcomer, and as the latter threw back his cowl, the host quickly advanced to embrace him, crying, “Stephen! We feared that you were dead!”
Lady Philippa came forward also, with shining eyes and parted lips, beckoning to the children to join in the welcome of the stranger. Eleanor scarcely remembered this uncle of hers, whom she had not seen since leaving Normandy. His eyes were so sad that she felt very sorry for him, but his smile was so kind that no one could help loving him. He reminded her of Saint Christopher, who had always been a favorite of hers because he kept away bad dreams.
Stephen Giffard had been ransomed by John de Matha, the Provencal monk who had given himself to the work of rescuing and befriending prisoners. Hearing from his rescuers that Lady Adelicia, his wife, had gone with rich gifts to the Holy Land in the hope that her prayers might bring him home, he took ship to Jaffa and there learned that she had died in Jerusalem. Now he had settled his affairs and come in the guise of a pilgrim to spend the Christmas season with his kinfolk in England.
The two brothers sat and talked by the smoldering fire until late that night, speaking of divers things. It was no wish of Sir Stephen's that his unexpected coming should interrupt or change the holiday plans. Indeed, many of the guests were his friends as well as his brother's. Eleanor wondered a little next day, why this recovered kinsman made in one way so little difference in the life of the household, and yet made so deep an impression. He was not himself merry, and still he seemed to enter into the joy of others and make it more satisfying. She tried to express this thought to her mother. The lady smiled, and sighed.
“He is a very good man,” she said. “He was always good, and although he has had great troubles they have not made him hard or bitter—which is not a common thing. We must do all that we can for him while he is here, for that will not be long. He is going back among the paynim.”
“But why, mother?” asked Eleanor, bewildered.
Lady Philippa shook her head. “I think because he is almost—or quite—a saint. Perhaps he will tell you by-and-by.”
It seemed passing strange that Sir Stephen should wish to return to the Moslems after suffering as he had suffered among them, but there was no time for further discussion then.
Later in the day, when Sir Walter was talking with his steward and Lady Philippa was giving final directions to maids and cooks and dapifers, Eleanor and Roger found Sir Stephen seated alone by the flickering, purring Yule-log. Before they quite knew it they were telling him of all their favorite occupations and plays. He seemed as much interested as if they had been his own children.
“This Yule,” he said musingly after a little, “might be in another world from the last. And once I spent the day in Bethlehem of Judea.”
It sounded almost as if he had said he had been to heaven. They had never seen any one who had actually been in Bethlehem.
“There was a company of us,” he went on, “some twenty in all, who landed after a rough voyage, very sea-weary and thankful to the saints. Glad were we to find the Knights Templars ready to guard us through the desert. Since our people have built churches and shrines in the Holy Land, and pilgrims who visit these places bring with them gold and gems for the decking thereof, there be many bands of robbers who infest the desert in the hope of plunder. Often finding no spoil, they maltreat or murder their victims. For this cause were the Templars and the Hospitallers established. The Templars may have grown proud and arrogant as some say, but I must give them this credit, that their black and white banner is mightily respected by the heathen.
“Having come safely through the wilderness, we entered Bethlehem as it chanced upon Christmas Eve, and the town was full of pilgrims and travelers, so that we had to find shelter where we could. The inns there are builded in a very old fashion. I think they have not changed since the time of our Lord. A large open space is walled in with mud or brick or stone, and hath a well in the middle. Around the inside of the walls are shelters for horses and pack animals, and sometimes—not always—there is a house where rooms are let to those who can pay. The one at our inn was already crowded, so that we had to make shift with fresh straw in the stalls with our beasts. They gave us flat unleavened cakes of bread, dried dates, and something like frumenty, with kebobs of mutton roasted, and water to drink. When we had supped we sat about on our baggage and watched the people still coming in.
“You have never seen a camel? No? They be marvelous beasts. They stand taller than the tallest charger, and travel like the wind on four feet. I saw three humps like mountains against the sky, coming in at the gate, and the beasts kneeled down at the word of command and were unloaded. Their masters came from the East, somewhere beyond Arabia, and were wise in the lore of the stars. How know I that? Wait and I will tell.
“Shepherds came also with their sheep, softly bleating and huddling in their cramped quarters. Last of all came a poor man and his wife with a very small babe, and they and their donkey took the last bit of space in our corner.
“I tell you it is surprising what men will do for a tiny child and its tender mother. There was a grumpy old Flanders merchant in our company, who thought only of his own comfort, but now he sent his servant to take a mantle to the mother because she looked like his daughter at home, who had named her boy for him. And there was a peevish clerk who had paid for the last bowl of pottage they had, who gave it to the little family and supped on bread.
“Weary as we were, and much as our bones ached, we found solace in looking at the child as it slept and thinking of the children we had known at home. I think,” the knight added with a half smile, “that if it had wakened and cried out, the spell might have broken. But it was a sweet small thing, and it slumbered as if it had been cradled in down.
“Through the still air we heard the bells calling the monks to prayer. And then the baby woke, and looked about with wondering innocent eyes, and stretched out its little hands and laughed. I would you could have seen that grave company then. Every man of them sought a share in that sweet sudden laughter. The merchant dangled his gold chain, the clerk made clownish gestures, the merchant put a golden zecchin into the tiny fingers for a toy. And when it slept again we slept also, or watched the stars and thought of that star which long ago stood over Bethlehem.
“There was a learned doctor in our company who understood Eastern languages and could converse in Arabic with the wise men from the East. They told him that in their country there is a tradition that their astrologers, reading the heavens as is their wont, saw Saturn, Jupiter and Mercury foregather in the House of the Fishes that rules Judea, and knew by this that at such a time and in such a place a prophet should be born. Therefore came they to visit the child with rich gifts, and gained from the parents a promise that when he was of an age to learn, he should be brought to their country to learn of their wisdom, even as Moses was skilled in all the wisdom of the Egyptians. I know not whether there can be any truth in the legend, but that is their belief. And yet they are not Christians, but heathen.”
Sir Stephen smiled at the two puzzled young faces.
“Nay, more,” he went on, “even the followers of Mahound revere Christ as a prophet. Their name for Him is Ruh' Allah. I have seen a Moslem beat his Christian slave for using an oath that dishonored the name of Christ. In truth, I have come to think that there are very few unbelievers in the world. Much wickedness there is—but not unbelief.”
“Mother says,” Eleanor ventured shyly, “that you are going away to live among the paynim.”
“Aye.” The knight smiled his fleeting, tender smile. “It is a grief to her, sweet lady, that I cannot dwell in comfort among you and think no more of voyages. But there is a work laid upon me, which I must do.”
“A Crusade?” The word was just inside Roger's lips, and it slipped out before he thought. Sir Stephen smiled again.
“Nay. My fighting days are over. But I believe that even a broken man may serve if he be honestly so minded. I must tell you that for many years I had been troubled, and found no peace, because even among churchmen there was sloth and selfish greed, and the desire to rule, and the pilgrims whom I met seemed often moved rather by vanity and love of change than from any true fear of God. But as you know, I had but begun my homeward journey when our ship was taken by pirates and the few who were left alive were sold as slaves.
“It is not needful to tell all that befell me as a bondman among the Moors of Barbary. My master was a renegade knight who had forsworn the Cross and risen to some preferment among the Almohades. His hate was upon me day and night, and I knew that my lady and my kindred must believe me dead. And in that black horror of loneliness and despair I found my faith.
“God speaks to us not always in books, nor in words, nor in one place more than another. His ways are as the wind that blows where it will. It is not what men do to us that kills—it is what they make of us. They cannot make a soul cruel or foul or treacherous, that hath not lost God. What is the power of a multitude? Christ died. And His life is the light of men.
“Knighthood is a fair and noble thing, but its vows have no magic—no more than the oaths of the guilds, or the monastic orders, or the allegiance of the vassal to his lord. It is the living spirit that keeps the vows—and when that is gone their power is less than nothing. Once I could not see how it was possible for a man to renounce his knighthood and his Lord. I have lived with such a man, and I know that it came of his losing faith. He lost the power to believe in good. I think that he hated me because I reminded him of his own land and all that he no longer wished to remember.
“Now having known the scourge and the fetters, I may speak to the bondman as a brother. I am alone, with none to need me. Therefore I go hence to join the brethren who are giving their lives to this ministry.”
The Palmer rose to his feet as if in haste to be gone. “I weary you perchance with talk too serious for holiday-time,” he said with that quick smile of his, “but when you come to your own work you will know how close to the heart that lies. Now be glad and make others glad—it was never God's will, I am right sure, that this world should be a doleful place for the young.”
The piercing silvery notes of the trumpets in the chill air, the trampling of horses in the bailey, gave notice of the arrival of guests. There was no more leisure that day.
In the glitter and glow and splendor of the banquet hall, with its music and gayety, the tall gray figure of the Palmer moved like a spirit. As the guests came one after another to speak with him of his experiences and his plans, their kindling faces proved his rare power of making them see what he saw. To Stephen Giffard the presence of God was as real as the sunrise. In the light of his utter self-sacrifice the loyalty, sweetness and courage of other lives seemed to shine out more brightly. It was all one with the immortal world of Christendom—ruled by the living spirit of the child cradled in Bethlehem centuries ago.
THE CRUSADERS
Daily we waited word or sign—They were our children, theseWho held the unsleeping battle-lineBeyond the haunted seas,Who gave their golden unlived yearsAnd that clear pathway trodLifting through sunset gates of fireTo the far tents of God.Through trackless realms of unknown spaceThey wander, unafraid,For nothing do they fear to faceIn worlds that God has made.Freed from the shattered bonds of earthThey meet their comrades free,To share the service of the LordIn truth and loyalty.Elizabeth's wise admirals guardTheir dear-loved England's coast.From Somme and Meuse no cannon barredThe Maid's undaunted host.And still the Foreign Legion hearsIn every desperate chanceHer children's crashing battle-cry—“For France! For France! For France!”The captains of the hosts of GodKnow every man by name,When from the torn and bleeding sodTheir spirits pass like flame.The maid must wait her lover still,The mother wait her son,—For very love they may not leaveThe task they have begun.If secret plot of greed or fearShall bid the trumpets cease,And bind the lands they held so dearTo base dishonored peace,How shall their white battalions restOr sheathe the sword of light,—The unbroken armies of our dead,Who have not ceased to fight!