XXVIII

The newcomer up in the oriole looked down upon the scene before him as if bewildered by the weird sight. Every now and then he buried his face in his hands as if to shut out the picture, and then suddenly raised it again to stare wildly, while his lips moved constantly as if in prayer. The vast height of the great groined roof left the whole upper portion of the Hall in darkness, with here and there a bit of carving thrown out into sudden relief by a flickering torch uplifted in the arms of one below. Here some fierce dragon flung itself from the gloom, and as suddenly retreated; there some monstrous carved face grinned for an instant and fell back; a griffin claw struck at the blackness and was itself overcome; the deep recesses in the mullioned windows were the home of grewsome mysteries. The great table on the raised dais was brilliantly illuminated in spots where the tall gold candelabra stood. The centrepiece stood out clearly, a swan in full plumage, its beak gilded, its body silvered,resting on a mass of brown pastry painted green to represent a field of grass. Eight banners of rose-colored silk surrounded thispièce de résistanceand a cloth of the same covered the mound upon which it was placed, so that it towered high above all the other dishes. Along the table shone great golden goblets with wide-open lids studded with gleaming jewels, silver and gold salt-cellars of strange designs, and the nef, a great ship of gold, enamelled with dragons, on four golden wheels, containing spices and sweetmeats. Also there were, rare sight indeed, forks of gilded silver with exquisitely wrought handles, a gift from the Countess looked upon with small favor by the conservative Baron.

Between the tiny spots of light, amid the glitter of gold and silver, gleamed the rich colors of the costumes, crimson and peacock and emerald, cendals of delicate blue and royal purple, and the sparkle of rare jewels. The light fell here and there on the face of some bearded noble or gentle lady, while immediately above these, from the tapestried wall, showed proud peacocks, clusters of flowers, or scenes from the chase. Over the head of de Leaufort hung the arms of his house, while it chanced that just above the Legate snarled the hideous fangs of a wolf standing at bay.

As the trembling Dante gazed awestruck down into the pit of Hell, so Annys—for the newcomer was he—thinking of the great Florentine, looked down from the oriole on the scene of revelry before him. A light song floated down from the minstrels, silencing the gay chatter, and turning upwards the faces of all. Among them flashed for an instant the one face that stood between Annys and the Grace of God—the most beautiful face in all England, and now the saddest as well.

"Sumer is icumen in,Thude sing cuccu;Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,And springeth the wod nu,Sing cuccu!"

"Sumer is icumen in,

Thude sing cuccu;

Groweth seed, and bloweth mead,

And springeth the wod nu,

Sing cuccu!"

Then followed the chorus:—

"Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu,Ne cease thu never nu.Sing cuccu, nu, sing, cuccu,Sing cuccu, sing cuccu nu!"

"Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu,

Ne cease thu never nu.

Sing cuccu, nu, sing, cuccu,

Sing cuccu, sing cuccu nu!"

Next came a quaint request from a sturdy throat which delighted especially those at the lower tables:—

"Brynge us home good ale, sir, brynge us home good ale.And for our der lady love, brynge us home good ale.Brynge us home no beff, sir, for that ys full of bonys,But brynge us home good ale inowgh, for I love wyle that.Brynge us home no mutton, sir, for that ys togh and lene,Brynge us home no veal, sir, for that will not due—But brynge us home good ale inogh to drynke by the fyr."

"Brynge us home good ale, sir, brynge us home good ale.

And for our der lady love, brynge us home good ale.

Brynge us home no beff, sir, for that ys full of bonys,

But brynge us home good ale inowgh, for I love wyle that.

Brynge us home no mutton, sir, for that ys togh and lene,Brynge us home no veal, sir, for that will not due—But brynge us home good ale inogh to drynke by the fyr."

Brynge us home no mutton, sir, for that ys togh and lene,

Brynge us home no veal, sir, for that will not due—

But brynge us home good ale inogh to drynke by the fyr."

These verses done with, a bold spirit from Oxford arose at one of the lower tables and launched forth the famous students' drinking song—a parody on the Latin hymn "Alleluia."

It came as a not unapt reply to the request of the thirsty soul:—

"You will seeThe ale will make us singAlleluia!All of usIf the ale is as it should be,A wonderful thingRes Miranda!Drink of it when you hold the jug;'Tis a most proper thingFor it is a good long way from sun to starSol de Stella!Drink well! Drink deep!It will flow for you from the tun ever clearSemper Clara!"

"You will seeThe ale will make us singAlleluia!

"You will see

The ale will make us sing

Alleluia!

All of usIf the ale is as it should be,A wonderful thingRes Miranda!

All of us

If the ale is as it should be,

A wonderful thing

Res Miranda!

Drink of it when you hold the jug;'Tis a most proper thingFor it is a good long way from sun to starSol de Stella!Drink well! Drink deep!It will flow for you from the tun ever clearSemper Clara!"

Drink of it when you hold the jug;

'Tis a most proper thing

For it is a good long way from sun to star

Sol de Stella!

Drink well! Drink deep!

It will flow for you from the tun ever clear

Semper Clara!"

"Beasts," thought Annys, "can they then make a jest of the most sacred hymns? Is there nosense of shame among them all that they laugh so immoderately?"

Small wonder that, looking down upon them, the thought of Hell came to him. Surely among them all was no thought of Heaven or Grace, or Pity or Fellowship. Here were all the appetites, Hunger and Lust, and Envy together with Frivolity, Extravagance and Luxury. No thought here for the outer world, for poor Piers diking and delving in the fields. A godless lot they were, covered with unnecessary clothing, filling themselves with unnecessary food—each sense fed to overflowing with rare odors, rare tastes, rare sights, rare sounds. Surely minions of the evil one, these, blithely clutching at their insolent joys at whatever shameful cost to those less fortunate.

High up in the centre of the vast roof opened the louvre through which the smoke curled when the great logs on the andirons in the centre of the floor were lighted. Through it Annys looked up and saw the quiet stars shining down. High Heaven looked on, nor sent a bolt crashing down upon them all!

Suddenly a face struck at him from a dark corner, which was momentarily illuminated by a passing torch. It was the haggard face of the priest who had sneered as the procession passedby. Now the fellow was engaged in cramming his food down his throat most voraciously, taking his wine in great gulps, and smacking his lips over it in a most disgustful manner. His hands trembled with eagerness, and when the lackey bore away his horn cup to replenish it, his burning eyes followed the fellow and never let him out of their sight until his fingers closed again about the cup. Annys could not help giving forth a slight sound like a groan, for the shock was a great one, since this eager glutton beneath him, this churl, who had apparently no thought above his plate and his stomach, was—would to God there were room for doubt!—none other than Will Langland, his revered poet; Will Langland, the passionate pleader for the rights of the workers in the fields; Will Langland, hater of hypocrites, reviler of lying priests, lover of justice and truth, worshipper of Honest Toil, sitting here at the Baron's feast a worthless sycophant.

Oh, something had gone awry with the world. There was no more faith or honor in the land. Independence, sturdiness of character, honesty—all an idle dream! His heart within him seemed of a sudden to burst. A black pall came over his sight, a great fury and rage seized upon him; he was scarcely longer master of himself; helonged to shout some ringing, defiant refrain, some song of the people.

But he controlled himself with a great effort. He had come there because his people needed him. He must not jeopardize the Cause by revealing his identity. So he made his way from the oriole, down the winding stairs, out into the night, a stifled sob on his lips.

When Annys approached the Castle the following morning, he learned that the Baron had gone to one of his manors lying on the highroad to Sudbury, which was the direct way to the Mile End. Hearing of the growing boldness of the insurgents, and having some of his costliest purchases from the Stourbridge Fair yet stored within the Manor House, he thought it well to bring them to the well-protected Castle.

On the terrace Annys hid himself behind an abutment of a tower, and peered out cautiously every now and then to see if any one came by who could get word for him to Rose. As he waited there came along Will Langland, no longer the glutton of the night before, but of a sad and dejected mien, as if his conscience lay none too easy within his breast.

"Ah, Robert Annys!" he exclaimed, as he recognized the poor priest whom he had encountered several times in the past. "How comes it I find you not with our new masters of England? What brings a poor priest within theBaron's domains? 'Tis enough to make thy head cease acquaintance with thy neck."

"Better die of an honest twist of the neck, and have done with it, than from a heart that breaks within and slowly wastes the blood drop by drop," cried Annys, bitterly, turning away his face. He could not bear it that this man should be his long-idolized Will Langland.

The poet looked at him long and silently out of his deep-seated, piercing eyes. The lines about his mouth deepened; it was evident that the man's soul wept within him. At last he spoke.

"Ay! if one did but die of a broken heart. Ah, you would not see Will Langland alive were it so. If it only were vouchsafed one to die. But alas, when only the heart is dead, we live on and on, and play the fool to our clod of clay."

Annys regarded him impatiently. "Little looked you yestere'en as one whose heart was broken. You seemed not unjoyful sitting a beggar at my Lord Baron's table."

A queer look came into Langland's face. "Nay, not as a beggar," he interposed softly, "not as a beggar. I keep my Lord's chantry in London which he did erect for the soul of his mother. I came but for the feast. I return to London to-morrow."

"Then worse than beggar, thou," broke out Annys, indignantly. "Thou, Will Langland, a chantry priest, chanting and mumbling some Latin words for thy belly's hunger! For do you aught else for the good of the land? Do you feed the poor, or clothe them? Are you serving Christ if you but mouth some words over the empty pates of the gentry so that they have leave to go and lie as they will ever after? Can this be he who wrote:—

"'Faith without deeds is as dead as a door-tree'?"

Langland quivered as if he had received a blow. "Ah, wot I well what kind of a man that Will Langland, singer of Piers, should be. Stay! If it tortures you to see in the gluttonous, servile chantry priest of yestere'en the poet whom you honored, doth it not hurt more, ay! a thousand-fold more, that very Will Langland? Think you there is one word that these hands have writ that does not rise up and mock at me? Think you it is a light thing to be thus crucified, as it were, by one's own flesh and blood?"

"Surely," he went on, after an instant's pause, during which he looked sadly away, far into the distant horizon, as if his own words had stirred many recollections within him, "surely I canbe no more hateful in thy sight than in mine own. Do I not daily curse this weak, lust-loving clod of flesh that holdeth prisoner a mind that at least once dreamed noble dreams? Ah, Robert Annys, thou wouldst weep water fast enough with both eyes didst know one tenth part of the unruth of him who walks the earth as Will Langland."

And he was about to go, when Annys cried: "Hold! who am I, indeed, that I should judge thee? Well wot I how oft the deed fits ill with the creed. But stay, canst get a word to one Rose Westel in the Castle? But a hint of my presence, and she will come, as she awaits me." Langland readily promised to return to the Castle and give her the message, and Annys again sought his hiding-place.

He did not have long to wait before Rose approached. Before he came forward to meet her, he observed the Legate walking swiftly after her, so he remained hidden. When Rose saw that she was being followed, she gave a little gasp of surprise. "I thought you had gone with my Lord," she said to the Cardinal Legate.

His eyes gloated over her beauty as he replied. "Thou knowest, little one, I could not find it in my heart to leave thee."

"Oh, can you never let me be?" she moaned.

"So ho, my fine lady! So ho, still scornful even after thy lover has tired of thee and left his beautiful Rose with her petals falling about her on the ground, for him who chooses to pick them up and enjoy their fragrance?" He folded his arms and looked down upon her, smiling maliciously.

"Then not for you, not for you, Pierre Barsini, shall they lie there," she answered angrily, stamping her foot; "why do you follow me about and torture me so? What have I done to you that you should so gloat over my misery? Can you not let me be since I am unhappy enough to suit even you?"

A sardonic smile shot across the Cardinal's face. "Done to me," he repeated, "what have you done to me? Oh, nothing,—nothing,—only awakened within me the fires of Hell, robbed me of my sleep and all desire for food, made my waking moments a torture, and my nights a tantalus of entrancing visions, changed me one instant into a drivelling idiot,—and the next into a cruel demon with no mercy whatever in my heart. Why seek to make me hate thee? Be mine, and I shall provide for thee a state which you, in England, know naught of. In Rome you will be a very princess. Basta! I could almost laugh to thinkof the Cardinal Barsini begging for a woman's favors."

The girl smiled to think that there was a time, not so very long ago, when such talk might have had weight with her.

He misinterpreted the smile. "Be not so cruel," he said, reaching forth his arms. But she sprang back with horror in her face.

"Sooner than give myself to thee," she cried vehemently, "I would cheerfully seek out the lowliest churl who slinks on his foul litter."

The haughty Legate paled with rage; for an instant he regarded in stony silence the beautiful girl who dared to defy him so insolently, then, drawing himself up to his full height, with one arm raised high above his head, as a last resort to compel her to his will, he launched forth the awful words of excommunication from the Church.

But now Annys could stand it no longer. Dashing from his hiding-place, and facing the Legate, trembling with fierce indignation, he cried:—

"'Cast out from the body of the Church, doomed to everlasting hell-fire, torture without end.' It is you, you foul fiend in holy garb, and not this woman, that should be cast out."

The Legate smiled, a cold, hard smile, fullymaster of himself again. "Pardon me, Sir Knight," he remarked with studied politeness, "had I known that the lady had decided already to comfort herself with another gallant, I should not have presumed to press my suit."

"You liar, you craven-hearted liar," exclaimed Annys, hotly.

"Well, then, if I mistake, for your language is not of the choicest,—and so I marvel at the lady's favor shown you,—what is it that brings the most holy monk from his monastery masquerading in minstrels garb?"

Then Annys became aware of his minstrel's badge still clinging to his shoulder. Hastily tearing it off, he retorted scornfully:—

"Masquerade indeed! By Mary in Heaven, I know not why the words do not choke thee in thy throat.Imasquerade forsooth! And does he not masquerade rather who dares to wear the holy garb of a priest of God and uses the most solemn offices of Holy Church to serve his own base purposes? It is thou who art masquerading and in a priest's frock. Go, get thee a suit of flaming scarlet, and let thy cloven foot and thy long tail show honestly, and then, and then only, shall I not accuse thee of masquerading."

The Legate's eyes blazed with fury. "Thinknot that I do not know you, Robert Annys, for well do I now remember that lying, sedition-loving tongue. I shall have the hue and cry set after you. I shall accuse you of coming here and seeking to set the insurgents against the Baron. You shall yet be quartered and strung for this day's work." And he swept by.

"Quick, quick," cried Rose, "he is a dangerous enemy. Meet me down by the river and tie a bit of white about the willow bush that hides thee. Await me there. Lose not an instant."

Some hours elapsed before Rose Westel could escape unnoticed to the hiding-place by the river. As Annys stepped forth, Rose's heart sank within her, for his face was set and hard. Could she accomplish her purpose? Was this unbending monk the passionate lover she had once known?

"I was sent for," he began coldly, "in the name of my people, or I should not have come. Delay me not, there is much work to be done."

"I will be brief," she said guardedly. "They are about to attack the Manor House where the Baron has gone. I tried to keep him here, I told him his life was in danger, but he only laughed at me for my pains."

A swift gleam of indignation shot over his drawn face.

"Hast sent then for me to save thy lover,for me?" he demanded.

"Nay, I have sent for thee to save my soul," she said, with a pitiful ghost of her old smile, her old spirit.

"It is not given a priest of God to shrive an unrepentant harlot," was his impetuous answer.

"You are even as other priests, who speak ever by rote," flashed from her angrily. "An unrepentant harlot, if you will, but a better woman than that haughty, self-willed girl the world called 'good.' I fled from the sight of suffering in others, I cared only for my own pleasures, for no one save myself. Now go about the Castle and ask of Rose Westel, discover what kind of name she bears, count the friends who love her and whom she serves, fit the deeds she does with the selfish aloofness of that girl I was, and tell me which was the better woman. Ay, look at me, look at me," she ended passionately, "is it not written on my face?"

He looked gravely down upon her. Ah, not lightly had she loved, either! Love indeed had given her a soul.

"Yes, the heart is a great teacher," he said softly.

"It is not possible that the good Father can cast one to hell whose sole sin was in overmuch loving," she said.

"Whose sole sin was in overmuch loving." How often had he prayed that might be so.

"No," she repeated, with a certain sad dignity,"I have not sent for you because I sinned through love, but because I sinned through hate."

"Through hate? How?"

She pressed two trembling fingers on her burning eyelids for an instant, and then kneeled before him and looked up piteously into his hardened face.

"I never knew that one could suffer as I suffered when that woman came—that woman to lie where I have lain, to kiss where I have kissed—that woman—ah!—I was wild—out of my senses when I sought John Kyrkeby and whispered to him that I was forced by the Baron."

He was about to speak, but she silenced him with a gesture. "It was a lie, a base lie," she said, reddening with shame; "but heed not that. John Kyrkeby left me hot with anger to stir up his fellows against the Baron."

"Ah, girl," he said sadly, "think not your words will be answerable for what follows. The people have more—far more against the Baron de Leaufort than the undoing of one maid. He has been a hard taskmaster, and has ever refused the quit-rent."

"The very words John Kyrkeby spake when I went again to him wild at my own deed. He said to me then that no one could prevent themen from marching on the Manor save that Robert Annys would come before them again as their leader. He alone could keep their eyes fixed on Blackheath.

"I was mad, mad," she continued, now walking up and down in agony, "mad, mad. I thought only that she would not have him. I forgot that he—Edmond—must suffer. They will kill him, they will burn the Manor House over his head."

"I cannot find it in my heart to blame thee for bringing me in hopes to save thy lover," he said gently, "yet I should not have come had the message read, 'My lover needs thee,'—remember it was, 'Thy people need thee!'"

She clung to his gown.

"Nay, then, thy people do need thee. Think, will it help the people's Cause that they come to the King with hands reddened in the blood of his nobles? Remember, de Leaufort is a kinsman of the King."

"True, true," he said, "I will go, not to save thy lover. I go, but to save the people—if I can—from themselves. I cannot promise thee I shall be in time, but if word of mine can serve, there shall be no further violence."

Holding his cross high up over his head, hegazed at it an instant outlined against the flaming sun, and took a quick step forward.

"In Thy name! In Thy name! I go! I go!"

But she detained him yet an instant. Throwing herself once more before him, she bent her head low to his sandals.

"Pray for me, pray for me. To-morrow my mother's death-bed shall be mine. Remember in thy prayers poor Rose Westel."

At first he looked down upon her wildly, as if in his eagerness to go he had forgot her very existence. He heard only her prayer for remembrance. A fierce reproach swept into his eyes.

"Remember thee in my prayers?Woman, the one prayer I have known since first I set eyes on thee has been that I might forget thee!"

And with his face into the sunset he was gone.

For a while he swept on oblivious of fatigue and faintness from lack of food. The one definite thought in his mind was that he was needed, there was work for him to do. The success of the great Uprising was endangered, and he was on his way to turn failure into victory. He would bring the men back to reason, he would show them how much depended upon it that they come before the King with clean hands.

For the first time in many months the old elixir of leadership ran through his veins. He was a man, a worker, once more. The dreamer, the monk, the scholar were gone—swallowed up in a wave of disgust for the life of the past few months. Of what use had he been to the world? With infinite toil he had copied a few words from the Past. What had he done for the unborn Future? Always with eyes and ears turned backward, he had been like those unfortunates on whom Dante had looked with such horror, who had their faces turned toward their reins. Itseemed a strange whim that he could have delighted in the calm shelter of the Abbey; he now regarded it with detestation—it was the false peace against which his master, John Wyclif, had warned him. He was again breasting the stormy currents of life. The call of his people had come to him, and he was on his way to them. His long sleep was over. He was awake now. They needed him. He would save them.

"I am coming," he tried to shout, but he was voiceless, and suddenly his knees sank under him and he fell heavily to the ground.

For a long time he lay on the ground unconscious. As consciousness slowly and painfully came back to him, he looked about him wildly, and tried to recall what had happened. He was lying among the fens before the Cathedral. He was chilled through with the ooze of the swamp soaking up through the long grasses which were crushed beneath him where he had fallen. He found it impossible to rise. The land lay wrapped in the silence of evening. He could hear only the voices of frogs unceasingly ringing like sleigh bells, an occasional sobbing sigh of the wind as it touched the line of rushes, and the sucking of the water into the grasses as he stirred.

A terrible sense of some task to be done oppressed him. What was it? For a long time he gazed dumbly up at the sullen steely clouds that were driving across the heavens with a powerful rush and swirl. A damp sea fog was coming in from the ocean, and only now and then could he see the outlines of the Cathedral, looming up grimly against the horizon, cold and dark and forbidding, as some great monster looking down in triumph on his helplessness.

Of a sudden there were lights moving in the distance where lay the highroad to Sudbury. They moved about restlessly as if borne on the shoulders of moving men. Sometimes they halted, and sometimes they grouped themselves in twos and threes, and again they moved on rhythmically in regular unison. Hoarse cries and orders came to him in muffled tones, and at last he could make out that some people were singing, and by listening intently, he could just make out the words:—

"With right and with mightWith skill and with will;Let might help right,And skill go before willAnd right before mightSo goeth our mill aright."

"With right and with might

With skill and with will;

Let might help right,

And skill go before will

And right before might

So goeth our mill aright."

God! he understood.

The refrain carried him back, oh, so long ago, when he had kneeled before the altar of yonder Minster, and the stirring words had come to him as a message from God. How full of strength and vigor was he then!

Those flashing lights in the distance meant that the men were already forming, and on their way to the Manor. They would set fire to it, doubtless, and they would deal roughly with the Baron; it was all too likely that they would kill him. And what would the King have to say to the murderers of the great Baron de Leaufort? Oh, they must be saved from committing this terrible folly. Of course they would be saved. Was he not on his way now to save them? He would hold them in control; he would make them con well their own song, that right must go before might. He would march with them and not leave them again until they stood before the King, and he as spokesman would approach and say:—

"O King Richard, we are leal men and not traitors, as we have been falsely called. These men but seek to be free men, and to have the love of life and the life of love which should be all men's, be he king or caitiff."

He would do this.

He made another attempt to rise, but sank back again among the grasses.

"Oh, my God, my God, wherefore hast Thou forsaken me?"

The full bitterness of his helplessness rushed over him. A clod of clay!—forsooth, he was less than a clod of clay. He was of less use to the world than the smallest blade of grass, or the tiniest drop of dew. He could do nothing. He had to lie there and watch those lights disappear, and though his heart and his mind and his soul went with them, his body must remain there, prone among the bogs. What a failure he had made of his life. The one crucial call had come for him, and he could not answer "Adsum."

"By their fruits ye shall know them."

What fruit had he to show? He was as a tree that had fallen by the wayside, uprooted, worthless. It was because of late he had been swallowed up in the thought of personal salvation—the monastic idea, which, after all, was but a sublimated selfishness. And how came it that he, of all others, should have fallen into the fatal error of killing his body instead of preserving it for noble ends? His life at the Abbey had not conquered his body, it had permitted his body toconquer him. The weaker the body, the stronger its sway. He looked back on his days of youthful strength, when he had contemplated with disgust the unkempt, wild-eyed hermits with their locks matted thick about their temples, when they appeared in their dirty rags along the highway, begging alms to keep body and soul together. How he had scorned the false ideals of those hermits who dared to call themselves the truest Christians. And how much better had he done with his own life? Wrecked it, wrecked it high and dry on the barren rocks of monasticism.

"My beloved Master hath called, and I have failed Him," he cried out again and again in his despair.

Ely Minster had withdrawn itself entirely into the night, but to one so familiar with its contour as Annys, it was easy to carve it out from the surrounding darkness; to him it still dominated the landscape as at high noon. He recalled the defiance which he had launched at it as he had stood before it in the November gloaming.

"Be not over triumphant, even now," he murmured; "thou art doomed to bow thy haughty head in this land of stalwart men."

Perhaps it was not yet too late to redeem himself. Surely that great God who had put thebreath of life into his nostrils could at will fill his loins with strength. Perhaps he had succumbed too readily. He would have faith.

"I would seek unto God," Job's prayer rose to his lips, "and unto God would I commit my cause, which doeth great things and unsearchable; marvellous things without number."

The wind that had stirred lazily through the reeds now suddenly freshened. Gathering strength, at last it whipped the fog before it, scurrying across the land. As it parted the white veil before the cathedral, the moon was just peeping above the roof. As it sailed over the octagon it left Ely Minster below, carven out of the impenetrable night—etched against the brightening sky, it stood out grimmer, gloomier, than ever.

As the moon climbed the heavens, the beams rested on the rugged pile. Little by little its frown was smoothed out, a tremor swept over it, and it smiled. No longer fearsome, no longer wrapped in gloom, it appeared in the soft radiance, a celestial vision. The arcades of pointed arches, the exquisite stone parapet, the pinnacled turrets of the divine octagon, the noble towers, all stood forth in their fairylike delicacy of detail, and yet in all the simple majesty of the complete creation.

His heart beat tumultuously. The spectacle seemed to him too beautiful for the eyes of man to behold. To him there was a desecration—a sacrilegiousness—in his presence there as this glorious being bared her full loveliness to her lover night.

Then there came a voice into the wind—the voice that had appeared unto Isaiah of old:—

"Thou art my servant, I have chosen thee and not cast thee away; fear not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."

The men pressed on through the night wearilessly. In the hearts of all was the joy of living a moment which had lit up the horizon for two-score years and more. Of a large body of men some there were whose throats craved the rare wines that were stored in my lord's cellars, whose stomachs hungered for the grain of the well-filled garner-houses, whose fingers longed for the contents of the great oaken chests, bursting with precious stuffs. Yet the large majority of them scorned such base motives. These were idealists, throwing away the small advantage of the moment for the greater advantage of the morrow. Many, strong in the faith of their leaders, had flung hand from the plough which at least had kept starvation from their bodies. Surely the moon looking down that night witnessed a strange sight—a deeply significant, portentous sight—the laborers, ill clad, with the marks of their toil yet upon them, armed only with cracked bows, broken swords, rusty staves, axes, scythes, whips, and evenstout sticks, going forth fearlessly to meet trained armies. And the moon, looking down that night, found not only the highroad between Ely and Sudbury alive with marching men, but also the highroad that lay between Canterbury and Mile End, and that between Peterborough and St. Alban's, and that which led from Lincoln to Huntington, and the one from Southampton to Maidstone. From the north, from the east, and from the south, wherever the moon turned its face, the roads were black with the men, for the signal had been given, and the great Uprising had begun.

On the way, small wonder that some bodies of men, grown sullen by the long wait, broke the bounds their leaders would have put upon them, and satisfied their private enmities. Some set fire to all the homes of lawyers that they came upon, for too long had the lawyers lived off the slavery of the people; others cut off the heads of all the clerks they encountered, because the land was lumbered with them; others attacked monasteries and burned the records, that their bondage could not be proven to the future, doing their work so thoroughly as to toss on the flaming pile every book and bit of writing they could lay their hands on; still more waylaid teachers ofgrammar, and made them take great oaths that they would henceforth cease teaching youngsters to read and write,—for what was the good of clerkliness save to gain a mysterious and unjust power over the workers of the fields?

The great god Demos, after centuries of dreamless sleep, throwing off his sluggishness with effort, only partially articulate as yet, staggering on awkwardly, aimlessly, blindly,—drunk with the sudden revelation of his own huge strength, a tragic picture enough with his great heart reaching out toward some Ideal, but not quite knowing what it was, nor how to get it. When at last this great monster, in the shape of ten thousand laborers on the banks of the Thames, was to appear before the King—what was the welcome that would be tendered? Demos was politely informed by a noble earl that he was not costumed fitly to meet the King. The giant, tamed by the very insolence and unexpectedness of the weapon used, the one weapon perchance before which he would have quailed—acknowledged a temporary defeat. Not dressed to appear before the King! And who, forsooth, had made the laws that poor men may not go abroad save in russet cloth? Why had they not made that answer?

When the men of Cambridgeshire reached theManor of the Baron de Leaufort, he awoke and sent his bailiff down to them. The bailiff was a man who trusted in the stability of the feudal structure of society as few trust in the permanence of heaven.

"What would ye," he cried; "wot ye no better than to disturb his Lordship at this time o' night? Disperse instanter, and if it be that ye have aught to say on the morrow when ye are sober, my Lord bids me say he will hold a love-day, and listen to your complaints."

"We want no love-day," sang out one, surlily.

"Who are we?" cried another, "we are those who want no bailiff to tell us what to do. We want to see the Baron. Order him to come straightway."

The bailiff gasped. "Orderthe Baron!" The heavens could tremble, after all! "Varlets! Idle churls! How dare ye talk so insolently? By my two ears some of ye will hang for this night's work."

"Now thou hast but one ear to swear by," cried a great fellow, approaching the bailiff and slicing off one ear with a stroke of his knife.

The bailiff screamed and clapped his hand to his bleeding head. "The land is full enough of bailiffs," shouted some.

"Seize him, seize him," cried others.

The heavens had fallen. His fat cheeks were chalky and hung flabbily under his eyes. He saw his mistake. He should have been more conciliatory. "Hold, fellows, what would ye, drink?"

But his trembling voice was lost in the babble that arose as two or three took hold of him and bore him along, shrieking pitifully. As those that carried him seemed not to know what to do with their burden, a man solved the problem by reaching forth a rusty sword and severing the head from the body. In a trice half a dozen fellows were after the rolling head, and had raised it, dripping, upon a lance. The lance they stuck into the ground with the head lifted on high, that all might see. Several others busied themselves with picking up twigs and branches, and in a few minutes they had a roaring bonfire in a wide circle about the lance, so that the curling flames lit up its hideous, ghastly burden.

The men danced about the fire in glee.

"Ha, ha, Sir Bailiff," they mocked, "who are we, indeed? Do you know us now, Master Bailiff?"

While others said:—

"We are thy master, now, Sir Bailiff, and the masters of all England from this night on."

"Serfs and villeins ye be, and serfs and villeinsye remain," called a strong, contemptuous voice from the doorway.

They paused, and saw de Leaufort standing coolly before them. His arms were folded on his breast. He had not taken the trouble to arm himself. Surely a noble of the realm need not quail before his own villeins. He also held feudalism a law of the universe.

"Begone, madmen," he commanded. "Disperse to your homes! Ye must be all out of your senses; the scourge and the whip shall bring them back to you, I promise you. Not many shall see his feet for many days to come."

Then, as he caught sight of the bailiff's head stuck on the lance, he started back in amazement at their daring. Before he could speak again, a dozen fellows pushed him roughly from the door and made their way into the house. "Stay," he cried hoarsely; but no one paid the slightest attention to him, save that one or two, in passing, plucked at his beard, and one clapped his hand familiarly on his shoulders, and called him "Brother." "For," he said, "from to-night we all shall be brothers throughout the land, and not masters and slaves."

The Baron passed one hand across his brow as if he, too, were taking leave of his senses. Wasit some terrible nightmare? He had been warned that the people were rising, he had expected some setting forth of grievances, and perhaps some slight show of force; but insolence like this was past all belief.

As he stood hesitating, there approached John Kyrkeby to him, who stuck a huge clenched fist into his face and said surlily: "Look you, Baron de Leaufort, the time for such as you has come. The land has groaned long enough under the sway of barons and earls. Mark me, there are some here who will not rest till your blood soak this ground. I think myself they have gone far enough, yet keep a civil tongue within your head, or it will roll on the earth as that other did. Have a care, or I cannot protect you."

"Thou protect me, indeed!" cried de Leaufort, drawing himself up proudly. "I am well used to hold my back up to thee to be measured for the cloth, but I shall never demean myself by holding it to thee for protection. Indeed! wilt protect me with thy shears?"

The man gave a hoarse laugh. "Ay! it tastes strangely on the tongue, does it not? Yet, mark me, the signs of my trade will be remembered and thought somewhat of long after yours will be forgotten; for, of a truth, the time is comewhen men must earn their bread, as Holy Writ saith, by the sweat of their brow, or go breadless."

The Baron made an impatient gesture and turned to enter the house.

"Here," cried the tailor, "bind him! it will do no harm to keep him from mischief."

Twenty men rushed upon de Leaufort to do their leader's bidding. His eyes darted fire. "Touch me not," he cried, "caitiffs! I suffer no such indignity at your hands. Kill me, and ye will find that I can die as a brave soldier, but I cannot owe my life to dogs."

An arrow let fly grazed his cheek and drew blood.

"Bring me the man that shot that," shouted Kyrkeby; "another arrow, and it will stick from his own hulk."

While they were securing the Baron, who was obliged to submit, dozens of fellows came rushing from the house as if shot out of a catapult, tumbling over one another, carrying jewelled goblets and precious vases, casks of wine, suits of mail, and oaken chests.

Some set upon the chests and ripped them open with axes, and allowed the contents to scatter on the ground; others burst open casks ofwine, and what was not soaked into the earth speedily went to make the mob the wilder.

"To the fire, to the fire, in with them," they shouted.

Some obeyed. Others first decked themselves out in the fineries and strutted up and down and cut queer capers, curious as children to know how it would feel to have a long tail dragging behind them as they walked. One fellow was seen to slip a jewelled goblet into his tunic. He was instantly jerked from his feet, and at a nod from their leader was thrown bodily on to the flames, the jewelled goblet aimed after him. The fellow screamed in agony, and some seemed taken aback, but the multitude approved, and cried out:—

"Thus do we serve all thieves."

"We are honest men, not thieves; we shall cast the jewels and the gewgaws on the flames, but it must not be said that we burn down manors only to rob their contents," cried Simon the smith.

The Baron stood on one side, his arms bound to his side, one moment cursing under his breath, and the next assuming a stolid indifference as he watched one after another of his possessions thrown on the bonfire, and disappear in a pillar of flame. Suddenly some fellows created a new diversion by making a cross-piece of two lances,and rigging it up with a huge pile of fineries which had been dragged from one of the chests. This they dressed in a surcoat of tyretain furred with the skins of many martens, throwing over it a long mantle of velvet, lined with ermine, and surmounting the whole with a magnificent scarlet hat with a large white plume nodding from it, and a great clasp of gold in the very front. Then, standing at a distance from this effigy, the men gleefully riddled it with arrows. Tiring of this sport, some one snatched a burning brand from the fire and flung it, showering sparks in every direction, upon the roof of the Manor House. Instantly more brands were thrown on by other willing hands, and the house was soon roaring so fiercely that the men had to give way before it.

"Fellows, this is the man who has undone by force our lovely Rose Westel, the handsomest maid in Cambridgeshire."

A strange light came into de Leaufort's eyes. Could this be, after all, but a woman's revenge?

A hoarse shout arose from a hundred throats.

"Throw him back into his own house."

"It will give him a warm enough welcome."

"Off with his head."

"We will bear it with us to Blackheath andset it up there that all may know who are the masters of England."

The Baron closed his eyes and calmly awaited the fatal stroke which he knew could not be long delayed.

It came; but notwithstanding its perfect aim, it did not strike de Leaufort, but sent a jet of hot blood from the white kerchief of a woman who had rushed from the darkness to fling her arms about him.

He bent over her with a hoarse cry, tugging at his bonds until one from pity severed them with a stroke of his knife.

"Rose, Rose, you here?"

She opened her eyes and smiled. Death bore a radiant visage, seeing that her lover's arms were about her, his breath was on her cheeks, her life was for his. A tall, slender figure sprang to her side, pressed a crucifix against her stiffening lips, and all was over.

Murmuring the prayer for the dead, the figure kneeled in solemn contemplation of the lovely face, and then suddenly drew itself up and turned its burning eyes upon the throng. A shiver ran through them all. It was their old leader, Robert Annys.

For an instant he looked on them in silence.In his face, grief and pity, and anger and indignation, all struggled for mastery. As his gaze wandered to the rich stuffs, trampled and soiled on the ground, the shattered, gaping chests, the twisted pieces of silver and gilt, and finally the lance with the grewsome head surveying the smoking and blackened ruins of the Manor House, at last the indignation—passionate, intense—conquered.

"How came ye so to shame our Cause?" The words burst from him at white heat.

"What is this before me?" he asked; "a gathering of thieves and robbers and murderers, or of true men—workers who are throwing down their tools that their brethren may also have bread between their teeth? Are we men in whose bosoms burns the desire to sweep off the face of the earth all unruth and injustice and wrong? or are we, as some men say of us, but varlets whose envy and greed make us lust for the ease of the gentles? Are we seeking to build up or to destroy? Answer me that! I tell you, fellow-men, we dare not come before the King with our hands dripping with blood and the land laid waste by our torches. And how dare we come before God with a prayer for justice on our lips, but only envy and murder in our hearts?"

The men stood in awed silence, looking up at Annys, who seemed to tower above them in his righteous indignation—Robert Annys, beloved of all, who had put himself again at their head as by a miracle.

The beautifully modulated voice swept on, the voice with the old familiar ring in it, the voice that once had wielded such power over them. Impassioned it continued, and yet with the overtone of a great pity and tenderness now vibrating through it.

"O my fellows, I would have died to spare you this. Right gladly would I now lay down this poor life if thereby I could know that ye shall live henceforth as free men. But to be free men, we must first deserve to be free. Is this the kind of men we seek to prove ourselves? Is this the best we wish the others to think of us? O my brothers, no enemy could have so completely undone you, as ye yourselves have done. Know you not that men may call you the scum of the earth and all vile names, but there is no power on earth that can make you so, save just yourselves? O my brothers, remember this. Cease, cease trailing our sacred Cause in the dust. Arise and follow me to the King, and come before him with head erect and look him in the eyes asman to man. Let him see that we be no hang-dog murderers, but that the Great Uprising had its birth in Truth and Righteousness. It lies in our hands whether it go down to unborn generations as a God-given Uprising of the people against unjust tyrants, or a hellish insurrection of rapine and incendiarism and bloodshed. If this is true,—and who can gainsay it?—who are your worst enemies, unless it be yourselves? See to it, lest, in thinking to conquer others, ye but fall before your baser selves."

Not one spoke. Had one so much as shrugged a shoulder, it must have been heard.

The speaker watched the upturned faces, and slowly it came over him that no longer did he look upon the faces of murderers. As he had spoken, the hot passions of greed and envy and hatred and revenge passed from out their hearts, and now he knew that in their place he had planted faith and hope and patience.

If he could have but faced all those souls who were marching on to Blackheath that night! Surely, some pages of English history had read differently!

But his strength, miraculously kept up to this point, now failed him. As he sank back into the arms of a sturdy fellow who had waited by hisside, seeing that he swayed from weakness, he closed his eyes wearily and sighed gently as if at peace. For he was supremely happy, since in the end he had come back to those that loved him, and had been suffered to do them service.

One year later, the sun that flashed from Ely's towers flashed from the points of a thousand spears, from as many burnished helmets and glittering coats of mail, from the polished wood of hundreds of crossbows, from the resplendent surfaces of emblazoned shields, and from shining battle-axes, swinging against the glossy haunches of war-horses. It lit up splendid sword belts of rose, azure, and vermilion, tabards superb with armorial bearings, tunics and surcoats gamboised and interlaced with silks of yellow, blue, and flame color; it illumined waving pennons and guidons, and the more stately banners with their oft-repeated device of St. George and the dragon, or the golden keys of St. Peter.

There at the head of his troops rode the proud figure of the fighting Bishop, Spencer of Norwich, his closely wrought suit of mail and helmet of finest blue steel rings, his surcoat of blue velvet, his gorget of the same, draped from the helmet. Blue flashed against blue, the clever handiwork of man and the illimitable cerulean of the sky.

Every reason had Spencer of Norwich to be proud, for the Pope had appointed him special commissioner to raise and conduct a crusade in succor of brave Ghent against the minions of Antichrist at Avignon. Even now he was on his way to join the rest of his army to set sail later from Dover. For once the Pope's war was the people's war. For once the interests of the nation and the Papacy were one, and the wealth of England need not be squandered in the support of two opposing armies. Not only was England asked to fight its hereditary enemy, France, but it was asked to succor a brave people who had thrown off the sway of a ducal ruler and had gathered about a simple Flandrish burgher. No wonder that the plain people responded enthusiastically to this call. The very severity that Bishop Spencer had displayed in putting down the Uprising of the summer before now redounded to his credit—served to strengthen their confidence in him as a military leader.

Urban, thoroughly in earnest in striking a telling blow against Avignon, now outdid himself in his concessions to those who poured their wealth and treasure at his feet. Not alone was absolution granted them, but during this great emergency it became possible to obtain it for dead friendsand relatives. Here was a masterly stroke indeed; for who could hesitate to sacrifice a paltry string of jewels, or a golden goblet or two, to put out the flames that encompassed a beloved one? It would seem that, did the treasure cease pouring from castle and manor for a single day, a few well-directed sermons dwelling somewhat fondly on the tortures of hell-fire were sufficient to make the streams gush forth again!

Yet, notwithstanding the enthusiasm with which this army was raised and equipped, there rose through the land some bold voices protesting that, when the Lords and Knights and Bishops assembled at Westminster, it would have been better had they redressed the wrongs of the peasants, and restored quiet and order to the realm by wise internal regulations, instead of turning their eyes across the seas and voting moneys for a war that would neither raise up ruined manor houses nor restore wasted lands. Indeed, Wyclif and his fast-growing band of Lollards cried out in no uncertain tones that the whole quarrel between the contending Popes had to do only with worldly power and mastery, which was entirely unbefitting a Pope and wholly contrary to the example of Christ. "Neither the slaying of men nor the impoverishment of whole countries can be the outcomeof love to the Lord Jesus Christ," solemnly enjoined the great master, who, even with the hand of Death upon him, remained undaunted, suffering only his body to be conquered.

While the people of Ely had shouted themselves hoarse, and swung banners, and waved kerchiefs, two quiet figures had looked sadly, silently on, a man and a woman. They had watched the triumphant army pass, setting the dull fenland ablaze with color as it moved. When the last thread of scarlet was caught up in the blue haze where the sluggish river made its last bend, the couple turned their faces to the Cathedral. As they looked, the swamp at their feet suddenly burst into flame and then as suddenly darkened as the red sun sank. The low sparse trees, rising from the water, blackened against the horizon; the orange and the rose slowly faded from the sky, the violet-gray pallor of the night creeping over it. The rapture of day's meeting with night was over, and all the passion burned out. A few scattered groups of villagers passed them by, chatting eagerly, and then all was still. The man sighed heavily. The woman turned to him a quiet face, full of resolute courage. If there was anything to mar her perfect happiness, it was that the people had apparently been oblivious oftheir dissenting presence. Not a jeer had sounded, not a stone had been thrown. Sweeter far to her than an ardent meeting of their own Lollard followers was any opportunity—however small—to suffer martyrdom for the sacred Cause. She marvelled greatly when news came to her from time to time of comrades recanting in the face of torture. She would have counted it a blessed privilege to die for the Truth, smiling into the eyes of her tormentors.

And this was Ely! Ah, the wonderful old church! even in the gathering darkness it still crowned the wide landscape. She divined the poignant memories that were stirring in her husband's breast. Twice before had he faced Ely Minster,—once proudly defiant on the threshold of life, once stricken in the bitter consciousness of defeat. This time in his heart was neither defiance nor despair. He could not defy, for he looked no longer on the Cathedral as an enemy to be crushed, but as a force to be yoked into service. If there was some condemnation in his heart, yet there was reverence as well. Reverence, for he was passionately responsive to the Mystery and Power before him. Impotent indeed he believed the new religion would be if it reckoned not with this Power, if it tossed it aside as worthless.Rather should it forge to itself with imperishable links the mighty forces that dwelt in that stirring Presence.

Neither could he despair, for while at one time he had worked with feverish energy in the stirring sight of a fixed goal, now he had learned the difficult lesson of working on in perfect courage and perfect steadfastness for an end which he could never hope to see, which he knew could be accomplished only by God in the fulness of His time.

How much had taken place in the twelvemonth that had passed since he had faced Ely Minster! He had not died on that awful night, although he had thought it the end and had welcomed it. But he had gone through a long and serious illness. Tenderly nursed by Matilda, and safely hidden from those who were going about the land slaying all the poor priests they could lay hands on, little by little he had regained his strength until he could endure the telling of the terrible end of the Uprising. As soon as he could, he made a pilgrimage to Lutterworth, and there had a last solemn talk with John Wyclif. Once more he took up the threads of life, once more under orders from his old master. And with his bodily ills he cast off those of his moralnature. At last wholly hers, he could ask Matilda to be his wife—no warring, clamorous instincts now, his whole being in perfect harmony resolving itself into love for her.

The Uprising was a thing of the past. It had taken more than forty years to come, a few swift days had seen its end. For one brief moment England had lain at the feet of Piers Ploughman, poor Piers never less truly conqueror than then! The gaol at Maidstone had been broken into, and John Ball placed again at the head of his people; the palace of the most powerful Duke of the realm had been sacked and reduced to ashes; the head of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England, had grinned from the top of London bridge in grim companionship with the murdered Treasurer of the nation. On the top of the pillory in the Bury market-place, the lifeless lips of the Chief Justice of England pressed those of the Prior of the Monastery in ghastly jest on the league between Church and Law against poor Piers. Yea, all England at the feet of its rustics—and to what end? To disperse to their homes, drunk with joy over the roseate promises of their King. The true value of a King's promise was to be learned later. Never again would a King be to them quite so kingly, since one hadturned the faith and loyalty of his people against them as the weapon of their destruction. The scores of clerks, busily writing articles of manumission while there was a rioter to be seen, were soon as busily engaged in writing new articles of bondage more galling than ever. The free pardon of all who had taken part in the Uprising, which the King so readily promised, meant the death of some seven thousands of rebels, among them beloved John Ball, quartered and hung swaying on the gates of St. Alban's as an example to all.

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