XV

"Though your little nephew twine his arms around your neck; though your mother, with dishevelled hair and tearing her robe asunder, point to the breast with which she suckled you; though your father fall down on the threshold before you, pass over your father's body. Fly with tearless eyes to the banner of the cross.... Such chains as these, the love of God and fear of hell can easily break."

This drying up of the commonest sources of affection, how could it spread the love and fellowship which were the essence of Christliness? Even the indomitable believer in celibacy, the great Hildebrand himself, had said:—

"From love to God to show love to one's neighbor ... this I consider more than prayers, fastings, vigils, or other good works."

And what so readily and completely opens the heart to one's neighbor as to live that neighbor's life?

To watch the love-light of motherhood irradiate the features of your wife as her new-born babe is placed within her arms; to watch the shadow of death creep over the tiny form of the little one you adore; in short, to suffer, to know, to weep, to laugh, as others suffer and know, and weep and laugh—that, and that only, is to love.

It was a deep-seated satisfaction to him that love had come to him as he had always prayed for it,—a beautiful, spiritual, uplifting experience. Love, he had always contended, was a holy thing. Had not Jesus used the simile of the bride and the bridegroom to express the love of the religious for her God, of the priest for his Church? Nevertheless, over all the writings of the Fathers and the Saints a false and unhealthful asceticism had spread a morbid view of sexual love. Their pages were soiled by a horror of passion which in itself was a surrender to it. The very violence of their dread, the very vehemence of their agonies, spoke not only of a lack of self-control, but of a pruriencyof imagination which would not have been present in a normal man. Gone utterly was the frank cleanness of the Scriptures:—

"For he created all things that they might have being, and the generative powers of the world are healthsome, and there is no poison of destruction in them."

And in its place came a distorted self-consciousness that was carried to absurd extremes. It caused one saint to cover his hands with rags before he would consent to carry his own mother across a bridge—a highly edifying incident which was related with much spiritual gusto by the saint's biographer.

The tortures of St. Anthony, the revelations of St. Augustine, the temptations of St. Benedict, were all to Robert Annys incomprehensible. He had never known his pulse to bound one beat the quicker at the sight of a woman. Women there had been who, stirred by his great beauty, had striven with such poor art as they possessed to awaken desire within him, but he had always put them aside calmly and passed on in the work of the Lord.

On his return he lost no time in seeking out Matilda. This time he needed no one to interpret the joy that surged up into her face as shelooked on him. He smiled tenderly on her as she told him of her doings during his absence, how she had nursed a girl through a terrible fever, how she had read the Gospel to many eager souls, how she had taught an old man his letters, how she had progressed with her grandmother's lessons. Then when she paused, and asked shyly, "Did thy pupil well?" he came close to her and took her hand.

"Well? Why, I could not have done half so well myself. Ah, I need thee, I need thee always. What sayst thou? Canst take me, a poor priest with no better lot to offer thee than that which my master hath enjoined upon me?"

"I shall love thee the better for it," she whispered.

"It will be no easy life. I will cherish thee dearly, yet never can I set thy desires above the call of duty," he said with a certain austereness, as if, even then, he was replying to the charges of the Hierarchy.

"I wish to help thee, not to hinder thee," was her instant reply. And in her face were a faith and an enthusiasm that would never waver.

"Ah, of a truth!" he said, "had Paul known thee, never would he have said a married man is careful only for the things of this world. Surelynow I shall belong more truly than ever to the Lord."

He bent over her and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. Her head, with its smooth, orderly golden braids, drooped shyly on to his shoulder, and her heart beat against his. His kiss was such as a brother bestows on a beloved sister, but her lips were too pure to know their loss.

He held her to him in sweet content at having found the wife he had dreamed of. He knew nothing of the love that burns and scorches, instead of soothing, and as he felt the deep peace of being in her presence and feeling her love like a benediction rest upon him, he marvelled yet again, as so often he had done in the past, how the Fathers of the Church could so have maligned the love of man for woman.

His vision stretched far along the future, seeing only peace in his life, and the crowning joy of a woman's touch which blunders not.

"The Lord hath been very gracious unto me," he said simply, looking down on her.

Then, at the sound of a light laugh, he turned and met the eyes of Rose Westel.

She made a beautiful picture as she stood there with an inward tumult chasing the rich blood in and out her cheeks, and in her eyes a world of passion and rebellion. Always beautiful, there was a subtle tremulous excitement about her now which, as she gazed boldly at the young poor priest, leapt into his veins as flames leap into fagots. She was trembling from a revelation of her own self, and she had flown home in a wild mood, in which fear and recklessness and a certain exhilaration from which she could not escape, all had their part.

She possessed a figure that would have graced the more flowing robes of the gentles had they been permitted her, yet her skirt of bright green was hardly as scant as befitted her station in life. Her tight-fitting, sleeveless kirtle was of a dull brown, for she scorned the gown of one color which was commanded by law. Above the kirtle shone her bare, white neck. She wore about her waist a girdle of gold which some great ladyhad once bestowed upon her, refusing to give it up even in the face of Parliament, which of late had protested vigorously against the extravagance of those who could not afford it, forbidding to any but a lady of high degree a girdle other than of plain linen.

From her quick run, the long red cap which should have covered her ears and neck had become disarranged, revealing a bit of her hair which was caught up in a net of wide meshes and in the sunlight shone like burnished mahogany. Her large hazel eyes had glints of brilliant gold at times, her lips were as the scarlet of frost-touched maples. There was about her a wonderful glow of vitality. Looking on her, a rush of life swept over one as a rush of salt-laden air sweeps over one who stands by the sea. Her coloring was not like that of any other woman. Merely to describe it as blonde or brunette would be like dipping one's brush into a palette of dull browns to paint the sunset. There was an indescribable brilliancy about her that made one think of an October day. She was the incarnation of the Autumn—a living, warm, radiant Autumn; not at all the Autumn of death and decay, of sobbing winds and whirling leaves, but a vivid, glowing Autumn, with all its own gloryof color, and yet with the freshness and looking-future-ward of the Spring.

She had been fleeing from a forester who had been sent in quest of her by the Baron de Leaufort. He, inflamed by her beauty, set out on a bit of love-making on his own account. Not a bad-looking fellow he was in his way, his great figure set off splendidly by his livery of bright green, with the baudrick of cardinal tied about his shoulders and holding his horn. His sword and buckler hung to one side, and his mighty bow he bore in his hand, the brilliant peacock feathers of his arrows peeping from his full quiver. She had had no eye, however, for his charms, for her mind was full of the consciousness that the Baron had sent after her. But he at her side thought that not even the Lady Augusta, the Baron's beautiful sister, could compare with this rustic beauty, not my lady with her wimple of delicate sheer white stuff and her flowing robes of royal crimson embroidered with gold and outlined in ermine. Surely his Lordship had women in plenty to console himself with, and besides, he could say he had not been able to find her.

"By our Lady," he cried, "the Baron should know enough not to send another hunting forhim and the game so worth the having. Nay, 'tis not in human nature to expect me to bag you for him and not have a wee taste for myself."

Rose shrank from his touch. "Nay, be not too proud, little one. Big Harry hath met many a fine lady who hath not shrunk from his advances. A strapping fellow like myself, not so bad-looking, oft hath his uses not indented in the bond to his overlord. 'Tis easily accomplished if thou wilt come with me as my sweetheart; 'tis easy to tell the Baron that in some way thou hast slipped through his fingers and cannot be found. By to-morrow he'll have a dozen making him forget all about thee."

She suddenly was awake to his meaning. "Have a care, have a care, fellow," she cried. "This impudence shall not go unreported, I promise thee, and thine ears shall ring for it."

In a rage nothing could exceed the girl's beauty. Quite carried away by it, the fellow seized her about the waist and kissed her so fiercely and breathlessly that she could not scream. She felt herself drawn closer and closer to him, and his eyes burned into her; she noticed that they swam wildly in his head and showed their whites like a man who had lost his reason. As one hand loosened for an instant, she made a frantic effortof her strength, and slipping from his clasp, she bounded away like a hare through the woods before he had recovered from his astonishment. She rushed on in a wild tumult. It had been quite different when the Baron had kissed her; now she felt degraded; tears of indignation and rage ran down her cheeks. She was furious to think that a forester of the Baron would dare so insult her. A forester indeed! That were to fall lower than her mother. And yet he was a likely-looking fellow and there was no denying it, there was something within her that responded to his wild love-making. As she first became aware of it she ran harder and harder, as if she could run away from herself. She wanted to escape something within her that made her afraid, but it was of no use, she might as well face it. She missed the strong pressure of the fellow's brawny arms; there was a somewhat deep down within her that wanted to see, just for an instant again, that peculiar expression in his face,—a somewhat that longed for that rain of hot kisses. There it was out! She had a horror of herself; on and on she sped, panting, panting. What was it that had come over her? She had fled from the fellow, her maidenhood had revolted, and she had escaped from him, but she could notescape from the tumult he had stirred within her. So, then, she was a woman who could not remain unresponsive to a man's love-making, no matter who he be? Oh, shame! shame! was she to burn at the touch of every clodhopper, she who had thought herself so immeasurably above them all? There was no one to tell her that hers was merely a high-strung, overwrought temperament which responds when played upon as a delicate instrument responds to the slightest touch. It was no more within her power to be indifferent to the contact with passion than it was within the power of mercury to refuse to mark the changes in the temperature.

In this wild mood she had fled to her home, and come upon the young poor priest with his arm about her cousin. "Always love-making, love-making," she thought, "no end to it all." And yet this was no wild paroxysm before her, but a picture of calm joy and peace. Dimly she realized even then that to waken such love was not in her power, and for the first time in her life she caught herself actually envying her cousin Matilda.

"This is my cousin Rose," said Matilda. And then flinging both arms about Rose, she whispered in her ear, "Just think! We are going to be married. I must tell thee."

Rose smiled. She thought few would be surprised. She took Robert's hand in hers and clasped it warmly.

"She is a dear good girl," she said. "You will be very happy."

He found no answer on his tongue, and although he was fully conscious of the absurdity of it, he immediately proposed that Matilda bring the Bible and that they see how much progress she had made during his absence. He politely invited Rose to listen and to Matilda's surprise she readily acquiesced, she who had always scoffed at their Bible reading. Only she begged that the poor priest read instead of Matilda.

So in his exquisitely modulated voice he began:

"For the sovereign Lord of all will not refrain himself for any man's person, neither will he reverence greatness, because it is he that made both small and great."

But while his lips uttered those words his heart sang:—

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,And thy mouth is comely:Thou art all fair, my love;And there is no spot in thee."

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,

And thy mouth is comely:

Thou art all fair, my love;

And there is no spot in thee."

When Matilda started up, suddenly saying she had heard the voice of her grandmother calling, the heavy folio slipped unheeded from his knee, and he gazed steadily at Rose with eyes that borea look as if a thick veil had suddenly fallen from them. There was a world of pathos in his face, for he realized, even as he gazed on her, that nothing again could ever look to him as it had looked before this moment had come. Rose had watched him furtively while he read, surprised to find him so handsome. She had never seen him other than at a distance, for his coarse russet gown had repelled her. But now she observed with astonishment how beautiful were his deep-set, blue eyes, how noble his high forehead, how exquisitely moulded his lips and chin, how proud the carriage of his head. Everything about him, even his slender, delicate hands, spoke of a refinement far beyond even that of the Baron, for all his silks and embroideries. Prim little Matilda was not so foolish, then, after all!

As he looked on her, he saw with bewilderment all his well-laid plans come crashing to the ground. He had been so sure of himself (but self-pride had ever been his besetting sin). Here was a lesson in humility, indeed! He understand the love of a woman! He, forsooth, an ignorant youngster! He, who but a half-hour ago (when he had been ages younger) had been willing to lay down the law to saints and martyrs! Ignoramus! Had he not held a woman's form to his andpraised God that his heart had not beat one stroke the quicker? Had not he pressed a kiss on a woman's brow and been thankful that there had been no unchaste thrill? Well did he know now with a sudden revelation that he could not so much as touch this woman's hand but the blood would mount like strong wine to his head. There was a touch of solemnity in his eyes as they rested on the face that was teaching him so much. When at last she stirred uneasily under his persistent gaze, it seemed to him as if hours, months,—years, had passed.

"Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride;Thou has ravished my heartWith one look from thine eyes.With one chain of thy neck."

"Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride;

Thou has ravished my heart

With one look from thine eyes.

With one chain of thy neck."

She started at the low words which seemed to escape him involuntarily. Annys continued to gaze gravely on her, and came near to her.

"Why didst thou come into my life?" he asked quietly.

Then after an instant's pause for the reply which did not come, he added hopelessly, with a weary sigh, "I had thought myself so happy."

And then without one word more he was gone.

The following morning, as Matilda accompanied Annys on an errand of mercy, she noticed his haggard face.

"I have passed the night in prayer," was all he vouchsafed to her anxious inquiries. He did not tell her what his prayer had been. Indeed, now that the morning had come, and Matilda was by his side, the long, sleepless night seemed as an evil dream.

They were on their way to an old man who was lying on the point of death, kept alive only by his strong yearning to be shrived by Robert Annys. Matilda had paid daily visits to the old man during the poor priest's absence. As Annys looked down on the good, strong woman by his side, he felt himself possessed by a new strength. He believed he would be able to shake off the spell that had come over him. He must keep near Matilda, he must not let her go from him. There was medicine in her perfect companionship.

As they paused before a dilapidated house on the edge of the woods, Rose came by.

"Ever going about comforting others," she hailed them in her light way; "in truth, wings will yet grow on the pair of you."

Matilda laughed, but Annys kept his eyes gravely on the door which stood ajar before him. A horrid, gasping sound came from within. Rose shuddered. "Ugh!" she cried, "how canst thou, Matilda, poke about in those filthy places? See, it is a perfect day. Come with me into the woods and go nutting."

Then as Matilda shook her head, she added in a sanctimonious tone, "Hast no pity for the poor nuts a-rotting on the cold hard ground?"

The words were addressed to Matilda, yet the man by her side read the invitation in them, his senses all astir.

"Oh, Rose, Rose," expostulated Matilda, "thou dost love to make thyself out far worse than thou art. Cease these gibes and enter with us; a sight of thy pretty face will gladden the poor soul."

But a look of disgust passed over Rose's face. "Go in there? I? B'r'r! Go near that horrid old man who fastens one rheumy eye on you while his slobbery chin shakes like a huge jelly? B'r'r!"

Annys's face was tense and hard. He neverturned his eyes from the door, yet the golden brown of her dancing eyes quivered before him, the scarlet of her full lips scorched into him. He was aware of every inch of her disdainful, impish presence as she stood there watching him from a corner of one eye. But without turning he bade Matilda follow him, and the two were swallowed up in the dim interior of the hovel. The girl outside shook with suppressed laughter, yet she bit her lip in some impatience and puffed out her cheeks in an odd little grimace.

Within, the old man lavishly poured blessings upon them both; upon Matilda for keeping her promise to bring the poor priest, upon him for coming.

"Never would I have seen this day," he declared, "but for her. She did come every day, cheering me and helping me wait."

Annys smiled tenderly on Matilda who stood blushing by his side. But even as he smiled, he was conscious of a strange red glow dancing before his eyes. Suddenly the old man sat up, and seizing Matilda's hand in his bony fingers, placed it within the poor priest's hand.

"That is right," he whispered as he did so. "Bless you both—a pair of saints!"

Annys started violently and snatched his handaway before he was aware of it. He was maddened by that glow which was everywhere, on the walls, on Matilda, on the straw where the old man lay, on the ghastly, emaciated face. He tried to recover his composure and sought to take Matilda's hand and press it, but she was visibly offended and withdrew from the bedside.

The invalid's sudden spark of vitality died down, leaving him barely conscious. Matilda left sadly, and Annys sank on his knees by the pallet, praying for the departing soul. When, half an hour later, he left the hut, it was to walk to the other end of the village where another sufferer awaited him. He walked on, his head bowed. He tried to fix his thoughts on the patient young girl whose last hours he was about to soothe, but the face that hovered before him had none of the pallor of death. Suddenly he was roused by a slight stirring before him, and he looked up startled to find himself in the thick of the woods, under a great chestnut tree, while before him was the bent form of Rose, gathering the nuts into a little basket. So, then, his feet had carried him there to her against his will! His face was even a shade paler than its wont, and his hands were clenched fiercely, as he turned about and walked rapidly in the opposite direction.

He had not been quick enough, however, to escape being seen, for as he left, the girl straightened herself and gazed after him. For a few seconds her shoulders shook with laughter, then suddenly her face sobered, and she bit her lips in vexation.

All that day and night Matilda brooded over Robert's strange behavior. Nevertheless, she greeted him calmly when, the next day, he approached while she was busily spinning before her door. Seeing Rose lying full length upon the grass, idly plucking handfuls of it and flinging them at Matilda, he hesitated. "Why do the feet of a lover lag?" Rose asked, impudently looking up at Annys. Matilda colored. She talked with Annys, while Rose looked on with an amused air. "Ah, Matilda, dear," she began after an instant, "after all, didst thou well to plight thy troth to a poor priest?"

"Wilt ever be serious?" asked her cousin, annoyed.

"I am as serious as a Bishop," she replied. "Indeed I have not seen him kiss thee once. Of a truth I have not."

Matilda vowed she would leave if another word were said of such nonsense. Rose smiled maliciously and watched the poor priest's set face,while all sorts of pert sayings hovered on the end of her tongue.

"Old Silas died," announced Annys, gravely, "I have just come from there."

"And how is dear Betty?"

"I did not get to her last night," he said in some confusion. Rose laughed to herself. Matilda looked grieved. "Ah, the poor girl!" she said, "she longed for you so."

"Oh, these lovers will be the death of me!" broke out Rose, no longer able to contain herself. "Were I blessed with a lover, now, I vow it would not be of corpses and dying girls we would talk!"

"Be quiet, Rose!" exclaimed Matilda, sternly for her, "we talk of serious things."

"That's what I complain of!" pouted the irrepressible girl.

Matilda and Annys spoke together a few minutes in whispers.

At last flinging a handful of grass straight at him:—

"When will be the happy day?" she drawled.

He started nervously. "I have a journey to take," he said in a strained voice. "I leave to-morrow. I do not know just when I can return."

Rose's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Matilda regarded him anxiously.

"Yea, I have received an urgent call. I had come to tell thee."

But there had been no call, and Rose's mocking eyes seemed to read his subterfuge.

"Wilt return for the Fair?" she asked.

"Surely," he answered, "I have promised to be there. Men will gather there from every county."

"I will be there," she announced quickly, and then laughed to see the dismay in his face.

"And Matilda, too, surely?" he hastened to ask. But Matilda shook her head.

"I may not be spared," she said gently.

"Oh, yes, Matilda is the saint. I am the selfish, wilful one," laughed Rose, who seemed determined to make Annys uncomfortable.

"I must go to Betty now," Annys said. "Good-by, Matilda, I shall see thee soon again—immediately after the Fair." He kissed her on the forehead, and for the first time he felt her shrink from his touch.

"Besureto return in time from thatimportantmission!" Rose called after him. And Matilda looked at her, wondering.

He walked rapidly on, his mind in a whirl, taking no note of where he was going. Thatsudden, unpremeditated lie agonized him. And yet, perhaps, after all, this lie would be his salvation. Perhaps once away from that girl with her maddening beauty he could cast off the spell she had wrought upon him. It was a daily torture to meet Matilda with a lie on his heart, to meet Rose was but a torture of another kind. Yes, he would go away for a brief spell.

Suddenly he found himself before the walls of the Monastery of the Bury St. Edmonds. For the first time he longed for the peace that was there. There, before him, was but the thickness of a few stones, and yet the men behind it, how immeasurably separated were they from the rest of the world! All the forces of nature—chains of mountains and the turbulent streams of the forests—had not in them the powers of isolation that rested in that wall erected by the hand of man. He stood without, in the midst of the strenuousness, the revolt, the passion, and sorrow of the world: they within were taken up and cared for as little children in the lap of some great-hearted Mother. The world and its ways and all worldliness went on far from them, and no sound of the battle of the forces, good and evil, ever was heard. An orderly and unbroken succession of tasks was laid out for them. They hadno difficult problems to weigh, no decisions to make. Ah, how he envied them for that! There was no fretting over the duty of the morrow or the day after the morrow, the mind was kept fixed on the duty of the moment; from this one passed imperceptibly to the duty of the hour, to the duty of the day. From Matin to Prime and from Prime to Tierce, from Tierce to Sexte, and Sexte to None, and again to Vespers and on to Compline, certain tasks that in no case may be missed or deferred: prayers to be chanted during the day; one hundred and fifty psalms of David divided so that the whole psalter should be chanted every week; the taking one's turn to be cook, or to wait upon the table in the refectory, or to read from some pious book while the others ate in silence. So, calmly, unresisting, one slipped down the gentle slope to death.

Ah, no wonder Alcuin had passionately lamented his cloister when he was called to the court of Charlemagne:—

"Oh, my sweet cell! and well-beloved home. Adieu forever!Dear cell! I shall weep thee and regret thee always."

"Oh, my sweet cell! and well-beloved home. Adieu forever!

Dear cell! I shall weep thee and regret thee always."

But the solace of even a short sojourn within a Monastery was denied him—the excommunicated one. It had been easy for him to fling defiance to the Church when upheld by his senseof righteousness, but now, no longer sinless, he yearned to kneel before the altar and be shrived.

In the course of his life it had come to him to determine what was the right thing to do—there had never been a question of knowing the right and not doing it. Now the right path lay clearly defined, without the slightest doubt, yet it was to be a life and death struggle to follow it. During the past few days he had pored for hours at a time over the "Lives of the Saints," reading again and again their denunciations of women, hoping to strengthen his purpose to prove that the love of woman could be pure. It was his most deeply cherished hope that his example in taking a wife like Matilda would lead to the establishment of a married clergy. Up to this moment, knowing the purity and nobility of his motives, he had not shrunk from the indignation of the Churchmen that was sure to break forth on his taking a woman openly in wedlock. And now he was obliged to admit to himself that he loved a woman whom it would be impossible to marry. Impossible because of his plighted troth to Matilda, but also—and that hurt deeper—because she was surely no ideal priest's wife. His high and mighty theories on the marriage of the clergy must vanish into thin air if he held up Rose asa proper spouse for a priest of God. Rose to kneel before the leper and wash his feet! Rose to enter the homes of the afflicted and hunger-stricken and bring them comfort! No, there was nothing gained by trying to shut his eyes to the truth. He loved a woman who could not further one strong hope of his soul, who could not answer to one noble impulse.

"Give not thy soul unto a woman, that she should set her foot upon thy strength."

But that was precisely what he had done. Every argument proved conclusively that he never ought to see Rose Westel again. But one might as well seek by argument to stop a raging flood from bearing down upon one as to attempt to argue away an emotion. There was no need to convince him that he ought to hate the woman who had so suddenly wrought ruin upon his most cherished hopes. A part of him did hate her—the rest of him adored.

There was prayer left to him. He had tried prayer with all the fervor of his tortured soul. The night before, following the advice of one of the Fathers, he had passed upon his knees reiterating only the one phrase,—

"Deus meus et Omnia.""My God and my All, My God and my All."

"Deus meus et Omnia."

"My God and my All, My God and my All."

His heart was overshadowed by the thought that God had surely withdrawn His love from him or He could not permit him to suffer so. Again and again he had flung himself on his knees and sobbed out the prayer uttered by St. Augustine when he was endeavoring to overcome the ways of his youth:—

"Thou, my Lord, how long yet? O Lord, how long yet wilt thou be angry? How long? How long? Why not in this hour put an end to my shame?"

It was easy when alone to ponder over such words as those of St. Jerome:—

"Love the knowledge of the Scriptures and thou wilt not love the lusts of the flesh."

It was easy to feel the truth of St. Dominic's admonition:—

"A man who governs his passions is master of the world. We must either command them or be enslaved to them. It is better to be the hammer than the anvil."

All very admirable, yet they were but words, words, words. Excellent counsellings, wise reasonings, they were, but could they master one wild throb of his veins leaping in her presence? Could they make the vision of her one whit lessradiant and compelling? Had he created the world? Was it his fault or the fault of the Creator of all things that this great longing for her held him in subjection, and that until that was satisfied there was no peace for him in all the wide, wide world? The wildest thoughts ran through his mind at times. It was not too late, he would recant, and go back and enter the Church, and become a great and powerful prelate. He could yet live in a palace and offer her a fitting setting for her glorious beauty. If he closed his eyes he never failed to see himself in magnificent robes seated at the centre of the great table with her at his side. He could see the gleam of jewels as they rose and fell on her white bosom; he could see the light in her eyes as she turned toward him; he could feel the thrill from the touch of her soft white hands.

Yes, it was best to go and strive with all his might to forget Rose Westel, and return to the Bury with his honor unstained, return to keep his troth with Matilda.

He had promised to return immediately after the Fair. This great Fair of Stourbridge had for over a year been looked to as an important meeting place before the final rendezvous at Blackheath. It lacked now but a few days before its opening, for over a fortnight past it had beenofficially proclaimed by officers going about the country forbidding any merchant to sell or exhibit for sale any goods in any place for a distance of seven leagues about, except inside the gates of the Fair.

Inside these gates there would be gathered people from leagues away on every side. It would be a precious opportunity, for in no wise else might the people gather together in great numbers without exciting suspicion. Here at the Fair, under the pretence of buying and trading, the most important conferences could take place, final arrangements for the great gathering be talked over, and the march on to the Maidstone gaol with ten thousand of men as Ball had foretold could be planned. Here minstrels could go about singing the songs that set the blood of the rustics a-tingling, so that they might be heartened for the long hard winter that yet lay before them.

The morning of the opening of the Fair found Annys, together with hundreds of others, tramping along the road to Stourbridge. From the very earliest sign of dawn the highway had bustled with life. The people poured in from all sides,—from as far north as Norwich and Kings Lynn and Marham, and from Colchester and Mile End in the east, and Oxford in the west, and Maidstone and Tunbridge and Guildford in the south, and even from the great city of London they came. For weeks the whole southeast corner of England had been in a turmoil of preparation. The harbors of the seaport towns, Blakeney and Colchester and Lynn and Norwich, had been filled with foreign vessels, swarming with swarthy-faced sailors from the Mediterranean and tow-haired sailors from the North Sea. All these were doubly welcome, for not only they brought trade to the towns, but news, news of far-off lands and far-off peoples. The relation of man to man had a freshness, a piquancy in those days, for one toldthe other of what was happening in the world, and so each man was then a bearer of news, and not a mere commentator on news already known.

Walking along the highway and jostling one another, there were to be found belated merchants, with heavy hearts hurrying to plead for a place in the Fair; bailiffs bent on their masters' business, securing more canvas or the best millstones from the south of France, or horses for the field, or any of the thousand things that it was their duty to see were on hand; nobles themselves travelling in great state to select a fine war-horse from Spain, or from the same land some rich, rare wine with the sun taken prisoner in it; some knight to try curiously wrought armor from Milan; ladies on palfreys with their hearts set on some jewels or fine robes; monks telling their beads; nuns with eyes modestly cast down; smiths seeking for iron; pardoners and pedlers seeking for profit, acrobats and showmen all after the careless penny of the loiterer; beggars in plenty; scholars from the Universities;—as the poet sang,—

"All manner of men, the mean and the rich, working and wandering as the world asketh."

Once within the gates, Annys found himself surrounded by a most bewildering Babel,—merchantscrying their wares, jugglers proclaiming their feats, drug-sellers holding forth on the peculiar virtues of their medicines and ointments, pardoners praising their charms, swine grunting disapproval, horses neighing with impatience, girls exclaiming in delight and wonder, boys tooting tin horns, deep voices, shrill voices, laughs, sneers, jests, oaths, upbraidings, crowing, gobbling, stamping, halloes,—Italian, Norwegian, Russian, Dutch, German, French, Spanish, and English all jumbled together. It was enough to madden a man, unless he plunged into the immediate work of making as much noise as his neighbor. Yet the vast majority seemed in good spirits, and many articles changed hands, and all went merrily enough; and if some dispute did wax too high for comfort, the brawlers were led in a trice to the court of the dusty feet, where either the dignified Mayor of Cambridge or his deputy sat all day and all night, and woe to the man that thought there was appeal from his decision.

Annys looked about him with great interest. A great cornfield half a mile square had been dug up and laid out into streets. The owner of the corn had hurried in his harvest before the last week in August, for had he been caught with his corn still on the stalk, the builder of the boothsthen had the right to destroy the corn. On the other hand, when the Fair was over it was the turn of the builder to hasten, for if the booths were not removed before Michaelmas day, the owner of the soil had the right to destroy them. Turn about is fair play. The only compensation which the owner of the land received for the use of his land was its additional fertility after so large a concourse of persons had thronged there.

Each important trade had its own street or double row of booths, with a sign swinging high with the name of the street painted conspicuously upon it. As the name was in each case borrowed for the occasion from some town street where the trade was permanently concentrated, there was brought to the little English village a quaint flavor of cosmopolitanism. Memories of London and Bruges and Paris and Venice stirred in the breeze. For a time Annys walked up and down, so much interested in what he saw that he neglected to look for the signal with which the members of the secret society always greeted one another. There was something marvellously exhilarating to him in this contact with men from all parts of the world. Here was a man who, but a few months ago, might have kneeled before the throne of the Pope, and here was another whomight have come straight from the luxurious palace at Avignon, where the Anti-pope held his court. Here was one whose ancestors surely saw the red cross of the Crusaders waving at the gates of Palestine, and here one who had within him the blood of those hardy Norsemen who descended upon the English coast with all the fury and compelling force of the fierce storms that drove along their boats.

He walked through one street after another, never tiring of the wonderful sights. He stopped before the booths and stood gaping like a little child, receiving, however, scant enough encouragement from the merchants, who would have preferred to give ground space to a customer more profitable than a poor priest. There were streets where merchants with precious stocks of Eastern produce vied with one another, Venetians and Genoese, to attract the eye of the connoisseur; others where Italian silks and velvets tempted the rich; and others yet where delicate glassware dazzled the eye with glints of exquisite color. And still more merchants from Italy showed spices as their bait,—spices without which no meal were palatable,—pepper and cinnamon, mace and ginger, cloves, and canel, collected in the far East, and reaching the Mediterraneanonly after a long and tedious journey. Then there were men from the south of France, and Greeks as well, with raisins, figs, currants, galingale, almonds, rice, and licorice. And there were dates from Egypt and sugars from Sicily and Cyprus and Alexandria.

Gascons there were who needed not their celebrated wines to make them expansive and good-humored; big-boned men from the Hanseatic towns with furs and amber beads and precious stones from the East, reaching them from Moscow and Novgorod; and Flemish weavers with the coveted linens of Liège and Ghent; and hardy Norwegians with tar and pitch from their unending forests of pine.

All this had been brought to England's shores in many vessels, reaching Stourbridge in smaller boats by way of the rivers Ouse and Cam; but from England itself there had come, first in importance, the great wool packs that were the envy of other nations, and tin from the mines of Cornwall, lead from the mines of Derbyshire, iron from the forges of Sussex, and, most important, salt from the springs of Worcestershire; for woe to the bailiff who fell short of salt for his stock!

How Annys revelled in all this tumult and bustle of trade! The struggle which he hadwaged with himself had drawn his thoughts away from their usual current, but now his heart within him panted for action. The longing for the peace of the monastery faded away utterly, and in its place arose the strong joy of living, of fighting, of sharing one's life with a brother, and of living for that brother—which was the very essence of his creed. He had passed through an evil nightmare. He was awake now, and he drew deep breaths to know that he was a free man again; and now he looked eagerly about him for a sign of a familiar face, for he could scarce wait until he should begin planning and discussing again the details of the great rendezvous at Blackheath.

Suddenly he found that it was impossible to make further headway, for the crowd pressed too thickly about him. He allowed himself to be pushed along until, by craning his neck, he could see what was the cause of the excitement.

A man standing upon a carpeted platform was vehemently holding forth upon the virtues of his wares. The crowd could not catch all that he was saying.

"Hush! hush!"

"Let us hear what he has to say!"

"Quiet! quiet!"

"Here it is, here it is, my good fellows," theman was saying, in a loud, singsong voice. "Do not lose this precious opportunity of protecting yourselves at a trifling cost against all sickness and pestilence. Look! you see it is still red and flowing, after all these years, which proves it is as I say. It can never congeal." And he held high above their heads, so that all might see, a small vial with some red fluid shaking in it. "This is some of the precious blood of Christ, caught while it was dripping away from Him on the cross. Remember, no one can be taken with the black vomit while in the possession of this vial."

A man stepped forward and purchased the precious vial, not, however, without some sharp haggling over its price.

"And now," continued the pardoner, seeing that he had attracted a sufficient crowd about him, "and now do I not see some youth who has loved more hotly than wisely, and who would like a charm to spare the maid all pain? Here is an Agnus Dei," he cried, holding up a small wax medal. "Remember, it will be six years more before his most Holy Reverence, the Pope, blesses a new stock; remember, the possession of this wipes away sin; it protects one from the fury of winds and tempests, and one cannot be hurt even by fire."

"Sell it not, then, O monk, I beg," cried a voice from the crowd, "for it may come of great use to you in the future life."

The monk grinned in appreciation of the joke. "But I could not find it in my heart to keep it from yonder young man who needs it so sorely for his sweetheart."

All eyes turned curiously towards a stalwart young fellow who was trying to escape with a buxom young woman clinging to his arm. It was evident that the monk's shrewd eyes had read the situation rightly, and as no joke was too coarse for a mediæval crowd, the merriment was quite open and unconcealed. The fellow looked sheepish, the girl's face was aflame and the tears stood in her eyes, yet the crowd guffawed heartily. "Remember," cried the monk in one more desperate attempt, "in accouchement, mother and infant both are saved," but the couple had succeeded in making their escape.

"Hold!" exclaimed a stout and prosperous-looking merchant, "must all the world give way before lovers? I, too, have my needs, for I brave many a tempest in the course of my wanderings."

"Ay," replied the monk, "take it for safe travel, and it is well to remember that it will take a certain temptation of the flesh away from thee,and the Lord knows there is evil enough in the world."

Then he singled out a big bailiff who looked as if he lived off the fat of his master's land, and endeavored to sell him a scapular which if worn over the back and stomach insured perfect continency, incidentally at the same time protecting the wearer from all the torments of Hell, powers of the Evil One, etc., etc. The crowd roared with delight over the discomfiture of the bailiff, whose puffy cheeks became purple with anger.

"Ho, ho!" they cried, "take it, Sir Bailiff, and mend thy ways. 'Tis known thy knees are already worn with praying for what the scapular will accomplish without further effort on thy part."

"Here," cried the bailiff, throwing the monk a coin, "enough! I'll pay for it, but it suits not the temper of my blood. Throw it, instead, and welcome, over the shoulders of yonder poor priest who looks as if it would not trouble him any to go without certain good things of life."

The crowd turned about and craned their necks to have a good look at Annys, who merely smiled and suggested that it be not wasted on one who did not need it. Then the monk caught sight of him for the first time.

"Oh, good morrow, 'tis my famous pontiff, goodmorrow," he cried. Annys nodded shortly in return to Stott, whom he had long before recognized, and tried to pass on. He had witnessed enough of the superstition and folly of the people, and his heart was heavy within him. But Stott would not have it so. "Ah, Sir Russet-priest," he called after him, "I wot well you do not approve of all this, yet have you it in your heart to turn away as I am about to offer my very choicest treasure of all?"

The crowd squeezed closer to the carpeted platform, and Annys could not have made his way through now had he wished to. A thin, anxious-looking merchant, in his stall opposite, who had come from afar and saw that his wares were not going as were the wares of this pardon-seller, looked on sadly and murmured impatiently in his beard against all pardon-sellers and humbugs.

"Now give heed, dear people," began Stott in an unctuous tone, and from the manner in which the words rolled easily from his tongue it was evident that he had often recited the story before.

"Ye have all heard of the Blessed Virgin sister Jeanne of the Cross of the third order of St. Francis, and of her great piousness, and in what great reverence she was held, and how all the birds flocked tohear her preach, and when she prayed the flowers in the vases bowed at the Gloria Patri."

How the simple people delighted in those tales! Indeed, the highly diverting tales of the saints and the miracles that they performed were to them novels, dramas, and exhortations all in one. Their imaginative curiosity was captivated at the same time that their faith was strengthened.

"Well, one day the nuns came to her, who was their Mother Superior, and begged her to obtain the blessing of Jesus Christ Himself for their rosaries. So she placed all that they gave to her in a great casket which she locked securely, retaining the key of it herself. The next day all the rosaries were gone and the casket perfectly empty. Then, while the Virgin remained on her knees praying, the chapel was suddenly filled with the most delicious and wonderful odor, and on going to the casket they found the rosaries again there."

A shiver of interest ran through the audience. They listened as children listen to some delightful fairy tale, the more familiar, the more delightful.

"Now it is well known," continued the monk, "that a very special grace is attached to these rosaries, not only to all the rosaries blessed by Christ Himself, but to each individual bead of each rosary."

Annys wondered if the fellow would have theeffrontery to pretend that he had with him one of those rosaries, which were so precious as to be guarded night and day in the chapel, as, indeed, if they were stolen the principal source of the monastery's income would go with them. Stott's beady little eyes twinkled as if he read the thought of his critic. They seemed to say, "Not so fast, Sir Russet-priest, wait a bit!"

"Now follow me carefully," he went on; "recollect that by the peculiar virtues of these beads the same virtue passes out to every bead that touches one of them. These rosaries which I have here have lain for one whole night in the casket with the original beads."

Annys could not but laugh at the ingenuity of the fellow, and he now passed slowly on, while behind him he could for some time hear the harsh, monotonous voice reciting:—

"It quiets storms, cures pestilence, prevents temptations against the Faith, puts out flames."

"Ha!" exclaimed a stalwart smith, recognizing Annys and bringing one great hand down on his slender shoulder so that the young man winced. "Ha, does it so? Puts out flames? Then these bailiffs here, if they know their business, will not lose a minute in securing them for their masters, and it might be well for everyBaron and Abbott in the land to get one, for, by Heaven, if—"

The rest was lost in Annys's hand, which he closed tightly over the smith's mouth.

"Hist!" he cried at the same time, with a warning gesture.

"Oh, I am heartily sick of caution," cried the smith, "my hand itches for the torch. It cannot be laid on too soon for me."

"Nay," Annys exclaimed, "the torch would be but a poor friend indeed. But come where we can talk more privily. A little patience, my friend."

"Oh, patience, patience," cried the fellow, bitterly, but striding after the poor priest.

"A pardon, a pardon," begged a poor woman, approaching Annys with outstretched palm.

Annys smiled and handed her one which she took eagerly.

Later on, it caused much discussion, for when its Latin was translated it proved to be no pardon at all. He had given her a piece of paper on which was written:—

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