ELAINE MAKETH AN VNEXPECTED REMARK
The Quarter-Bell rang for dinner, and both thewomen hastened to their rooms to make ready; Mistletoe still boo-hooing and snuffling, and declaring that she had always said some wretched, abominable villain would tell her child about that horrid, ridiculous legend, that was a perfect falsehood, as anybody could see, and very likely invented by the Dragon himself, because no human being with any feelings at all would think of such a cruel, absurd idea; and if they ever did, they deserved to be eaten themselves; and she would not have it.
She said a great deal more that Elaine, in the next room, could not hear (though the door was open between), because the Governess put her fat old face under the cold water in the basin, and, though she went on talking just the same, it only produced an angry sort of bubbling, which conveyed very little notion of what she meant.
So they descended the stairway, Miss Elaine walking first, very straight and solemn; and that was the way she marched into the banquet-hall, where Sir Godfrey waited.
“Papa,” said she, “I think I’ll meet the Dragon on Christmas Eve!”
roundthe sullen towers of Oyster-le-Main the snow was falling steadily. It was slowly banking up in the deep sills of the windows, and Hubert the Sacristan had given up sweeping the steps. Patches of it, that had collected on the top of the great bell as the slanting draughts blew it in through the belfry-window, slid down from time to time among the birds which had nestled for shelter in the beams below. From the heavy main outer-gates, the country spread in a white unbroken sheet to the woods. Twice, perhaps, through the morning had wayfarers toiled by along the nearly-obliterated high-road.“Good luck to the holy men!” each had said to himself as he looked at the chill and austere walls of the Monastery. “Good luck! and Ihope that within there they be warmer than I am.” Then I think it very likely that as he walked on, blowing the fingers of the hand that held his staff, he thought of his fireside and his wife, and blessed Providence for not making him pious enough to be a monk and a bachelor.This is what was doing in the world outside. Now inside the stone walls of Oyster-le-Main, whose grim solidity spoke of narrow cells and of pious knees continually bent in prayer, not a monk paced the corridors, and not a step could be heard above or below in the staircase that wound up through the round towers. Silence was everywhere, save that from a remote quarter of the Monastery came a faint sound of music. Upon such a time as Christmas Eve, it might well be that carols in plenty would be sung or studied by the saintly men. But this sounded like no carol. At times the humming murmur of the storm drowned the measure, whatever it was, and again it came along the dark, cold entries, clearer than before. Away in a long vaulted room, whose only approach was a passage in the thickness of the walls, safe from the intrusion ofthe curious, a company is sitting round a cavernous chimney, where roars and crackles a great blazing heap of logs. Surely, for a monkish song, their melody is most odd; yet monks they are, for all are clothed in gray, like Father Anselm, and a rope round the waist of each. But what can possibly be in that huge silver rundlet into which they plunge their goblets so often? The song grows louder than ever.
roundthe sullen towers of Oyster-le-Main the snow was falling steadily. It was slowly banking up in the deep sills of the windows, and Hubert the Sacristan had given up sweeping the steps. Patches of it, that had collected on the top of the great bell as the slanting draughts blew it in through the belfry-window, slid down from time to time among the birds which had nestled for shelter in the beams below. From the heavy main outer-gates, the country spread in a white unbroken sheet to the woods. Twice, perhaps, through the morning had wayfarers toiled by along the nearly-obliterated high-road.
“Good luck to the holy men!” each had said to himself as he looked at the chill and austere walls of the Monastery. “Good luck! and Ihope that within there they be warmer than I am.” Then I think it very likely that as he walked on, blowing the fingers of the hand that held his staff, he thought of his fireside and his wife, and blessed Providence for not making him pious enough to be a monk and a bachelor.
This is what was doing in the world outside. Now inside the stone walls of Oyster-le-Main, whose grim solidity spoke of narrow cells and of pious knees continually bent in prayer, not a monk paced the corridors, and not a step could be heard above or below in the staircase that wound up through the round towers. Silence was everywhere, save that from a remote quarter of the Monastery came a faint sound of music. Upon such a time as Christmas Eve, it might well be that carols in plenty would be sung or studied by the saintly men. But this sounded like no carol. At times the humming murmur of the storm drowned the measure, whatever it was, and again it came along the dark, cold entries, clearer than before. Away in a long vaulted room, whose only approach was a passage in the thickness of the walls, safe from the intrusion ofthe curious, a company is sitting round a cavernous chimney, where roars and crackles a great blazing heap of logs. Surely, for a monkish song, their melody is most odd; yet monks they are, for all are clothed in gray, like Father Anselm, and a rope round the waist of each. But what can possibly be in that huge silver rundlet into which they plunge their goblets so often? The song grows louder than ever.
We are the monks of Oyster-le-Main,Hooded and gowned as fools may see;Hooded and gowned though we monks be,Is that a reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie?Though our garments make it plainThat we are Monks of Oyster-le-Main,That is no reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie.
We are the monks of Oyster-le-Main,Hooded and gowned as fools may see;Hooded and gowned though we monks be,Is that a reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie?
Though our garments make it plainThat we are Monks of Oyster-le-Main,That is no reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie.
“I’m sweating hot,” says one. “How for disrobing, brothers? No danger on such a day as this, foul luck to the snow!”
Which you see was coarse and vulgar languagefor any one to be heard to use, and particularly so for a godly celibate. But the words were scarce said, when off fly those monks’ hoods, and the waist-ropes rattle as they fall on the floor, and the gray gowns drop down and are kicked away.Every man jack of them is in black armour, with a long sword buckled to his side.“Long cheer to the Guild of Go-as-you-Please!” they shouted, hoarsely, and dashed their drinking-horns on the board. Then filled them again.“Give us a song, Hubert,” said one. “The day’s a dull one out in the world.”“Wait a while,” replied Hubert, whose nose washidden in his cup; “this new Wantley tipple is a vastly comfortable brew. What d’ye call the stuff?”“Malvoisie, thou oaf?” said another; “and of a delicacy many degrees above thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thy refrain without more ado.”“Most unctuous sir,” replied Hubert, “in demanding me this favour, you seem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is sweeter than the milk of Human Kindness. I’ll not sing to give thee an opportunity to outnumber me in thy cups.”And he filled and instantly emptied another sound bumper of the Malvoisie, lurching slightly as he did so. “Health!” he added, preparing to swallow the next.
Which you see was coarse and vulgar languagefor any one to be heard to use, and particularly so for a godly celibate. But the words were scarce said, when off fly those monks’ hoods, and the waist-ropes rattle as they fall on the floor, and the gray gowns drop down and are kicked away.
Every man jack of them is in black armour, with a long sword buckled to his side.
“Long cheer to the Guild of Go-as-you-Please!” they shouted, hoarsely, and dashed their drinking-horns on the board. Then filled them again.
“Give us a song, Hubert,” said one. “The day’s a dull one out in the world.”
“Wait a while,” replied Hubert, whose nose washidden in his cup; “this new Wantley tipple is a vastly comfortable brew. What d’ye call the stuff?”
“Malvoisie, thou oaf?” said another; “and of a delicacy many degrees above thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thy refrain without more ado.”
“Most unctuous sir,” replied Hubert, “in demanding me this favour, you seem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is sweeter than the milk of Human Kindness. I’ll not sing to give thee an opportunity to outnumber me in thy cups.”
And he filled and instantly emptied another sound bumper of the Malvoisie, lurching slightly as he did so. “Health!” he added, preparing to swallow the next.
“A murrain on such pagan thirst!” exclaimed he who had been toasted, snatching the cup away. “Art thou altogether unslakable? Is thy belly a lime-kiln? Nay, shalt taste not a single drop more, Hubert, till we have a stave. Come, tune up, man!”
“Give me but leave to hold the empty vessel, then,” the singer pleaded, falling on one knee in mock supplication.
“Accorded, thou sot!” laughed the other. “Carol away, now!”
They fell into silence, each replenishing his drinking-horn. The snow beat soft against the window, and from outside, far above them, sounded the melancholy note of the bell ringing in the hour for meditation.
So Hubert began:
When the sable veil of nightOver hill and glen is spread,The yeoman bolts his door in fright,And he quakes within his bed.Far away on his earThere strikes a sound of dread:Something comes! it is here!It is passed with awful tread.There’s a flash of unholy flame;There is smoke hangs hot in the air:’Twas the Dragon of Wantley came:Beware of him, beware!But we beside the fireSit close to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.When the yeoman wakes at dawnTo begin his round of toil,His garner’s bare, his sheep are gone,And the Dragon holds the spoil.All day long through the earthThat yeoman makes his moan;All day long there is mirthBehind these walls of stone.For we are the Lords of Ease,The gaolers of carking Care,The Guild of Go-as-you-Please!Beware of us, beware!So we beside the fireSit down to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.
When the sable veil of nightOver hill and glen is spread,The yeoman bolts his door in fright,And he quakes within his bed.Far away on his earThere strikes a sound of dread:Something comes! it is here!It is passed with awful tread.There’s a flash of unholy flame;There is smoke hangs hot in the air:’Twas the Dragon of Wantley came:Beware of him, beware!
But we beside the fireSit close to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.
When the yeoman wakes at dawnTo begin his round of toil,His garner’s bare, his sheep are gone,And the Dragon holds the spoil.All day long through the earthThat yeoman makes his moan;All day long there is mirthBehind these walls of stone.For we are the Lords of Ease,The gaolers of carking Care,The Guild of Go-as-you-Please!Beware of us, beware!
So we beside the fireSit down to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.
The roar of twenty lusty throats and the clatter of cups banging on the table rendered the words of the chorus entirely inaudible.
“Here’s Malvoisie for thee, Hubert,” said one of the company, dipping into the rundlet. But his hand struck against the dry bottom. They had finished four gallons since breakfast, and it was scarcely eleven gone on the clock!
“Oh, I am betrayed!” Hubert sang out.Then he added, “But there is a plenty where that came from.” And with that he reached for his gown, and, fetching out a bunch of great brass keys, proceeded towards a tall door in the wall, and turned the lock. The door swung open, and Hubert plunged into the dark recess thus disclosed. An exclamation of chagrin followed, and the empty hide of a huge crocodile, with a pair of trailing wings to it, came bumping out from the closet into the hall, giving out many hollow cracks as it floundered along, fresh from a vigourous kick that the intemperate minstrel had administered in his rage at having put his hand into the open jaws of the monster instead of upon the neck of the demijohn that contained the Malvoisie.
“Beshrew thee, Hubert!” said the voice of a new-comer, who stood eyeing the proceedings from a distance, near where he had entered; “treat the carcase of our patron saint with a more befitting reverence, or I’ll have thee caged and put upon bread and water. Remember, that whosoever kicks that skin in some sort kicks me.”
“Long life to the Dragon of Wantley!” said Hubert, reappearing, very dusty, but clasping a plump demijohn.
“Hubert, my lad,” said the new-comer, “put back that vessel of inebriation; and, because I like thee well for thy youth and thy sweet voice, do not therefore presume too far with me.”
A somewhat uneasy pause followed upon this; and while Hubert edged back into the closet with his demijohn, Father Anselm frowned slightly as his eyes turned upon the scene of late hilarity.
But where is the Dragon in his den? you ask. Are we not coming to him soon? Ah, but we have come to him. You shall hear the truth. Never believe that sham story about More of More Hall, and how he slew the Dragon of Wantley. It is a gross fabrication of some unscrupulous and mediocre literary person, who, I make no doubt, was in the pay of More to blow his trumpet so loud that a credulous posterity might hear it. My account of the Dragon is the only true one.
nthose days of shifting fortunes, of turbulence and rapine, of knights-errant and minstrels seeking for adventure and love, and of solitary pilgrims and bodies of pious men wandering over Europe to proclaim that the duty of all was to arise and quell the pagan defilers of the Holy Shrine, good men and bad men, undoubted saints and unmistakable sinners, drifted forward and back through every country, came by night and by day to every household, and lived their lives in that unbounded and perilous freedom that put them at one moment upon the top limit of their ambition or their delight, and plunged them into violent and bloody death almost ere the moment was gone. It was a time when “fatten at thy neighbour’s expense” was the one commandment observedby many who outwardly maintained a profound respect for the original ten; and any man whose wit taught him how this commandment could be obeyed with the greatest profit and the least danger was in high standing among his fellows.Hence it was that Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach, cumbered with no domestic ties worthy of mention, a tall slim fellow who knew the appropriate hour to slit a throat or to wheedle a maid, came to be Grand Marshal of the Guild of Go-as-you-Please.This secret band, under its Grand Marshal, roved over Europe and thrived mightily. Each member was as stout hearted a villain as you could see. Sometimes their doings came to light, and they were forced to hasten across the borders of an outraged territory into new pastures. Yet they fared well in the main, for they could fight and drink and sing; and many a fair one smiled upon them, in spite of their perfectly outrageous morals.
nthose days of shifting fortunes, of turbulence and rapine, of knights-errant and minstrels seeking for adventure and love, and of solitary pilgrims and bodies of pious men wandering over Europe to proclaim that the duty of all was to arise and quell the pagan defilers of the Holy Shrine, good men and bad men, undoubted saints and unmistakable sinners, drifted forward and back through every country, came by night and by day to every household, and lived their lives in that unbounded and perilous freedom that put them at one moment upon the top limit of their ambition or their delight, and plunged them into violent and bloody death almost ere the moment was gone. It was a time when “fatten at thy neighbour’s expense” was the one commandment observedby many who outwardly maintained a profound respect for the original ten; and any man whose wit taught him how this commandment could be obeyed with the greatest profit and the least danger was in high standing among his fellows.
Hence it was that Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach, cumbered with no domestic ties worthy of mention, a tall slim fellow who knew the appropriate hour to slit a throat or to wheedle a maid, came to be Grand Marshal of the Guild of Go-as-you-Please.
This secret band, under its Grand Marshal, roved over Europe and thrived mightily. Each member was as stout hearted a villain as you could see. Sometimes their doings came to light, and they were forced to hasten across the borders of an outraged territory into new pastures. Yet they fared well in the main, for they could fight and drink and sing; and many a fair one smiled upon them, in spite of their perfectly outrageous morals.
So, one day, they came into the neighbourhood of Oyster-le-Main, where much confusion reigned among the good monks. Sir Godfrey Disseisinover at Wantley had let Richard Lion Heart depart for the Holy Wars without him. “Like father like son,” the people muttered in their discontent. “Sure, the Church will gravely punish this second offence.” To all these whisperings of rumour the Grand Marshal of the Guild paid fast attention; for he was a man who laid his plans deeply, and much in advance of the event. He saw the country was fat and the neighbours foolish. He took note of the handsome tithes that came in to Oyster-le-Main for the support of the monks. He saw all these things, and set himself to thinking.
Upon a stormy afternoon, when the light was nearly gone out of the sky, a band of venerable pilgrims stood at the great gates of the Monastery. Their garments were tattered, their shoes were in sad disrepair. They had walked (they said) all the way from Jerusalem. Might they find shelter for the night? The tale they told, and the mere sight of their trembling old beards, would have melted hearts far harder than those which beat in the breasts of the monks of Oyster-le-Main. But above all, these pilgrimsbrought with them as convincing proofs of their journey a collection of relics and talismans (such as are to be met with only in Eastern countries) of great wonder and virtue. With singular generosity, which they explained had been taught them by the Arabs, they presented many of these treasures to the delighted inmates of the Monastery, who hastened to their respective cells,—this one reverently cherishing a tuft of hair from the tail of one of Daniel’s lions; another handling with deep fervour a strip of the coat of many colours once worn by the excellent Joseph. But the most extraordinary relic among them all was the skin of a huge lizard beast, the like of which none in England had ever seen. This, the Pilgrims told their hosts, was no less a thing than a crocodile from the Nile, the renowned river of Moses. It had been pressed upon them, as they were departing from the City of Damascus, by a friend, a blameless chiropodist, whose name was Omar Khayyam. He it was who eked out a pious groat by tending the feet of all outward and inward bound pilgrims. Seated at the entrance of his humble booth, with the foot of some holy manin his lap, he would speak words of kindness and wisdom as he reduced the inflammation. One of his quaintest sayings was, “If the Pope has bid thee wear hair next thy bare skin, my son, why, clap a wig over thy shaven scalp.” So the monks in proper pity and kindness, when they had shut the great gates as night came down, made their pilgrim guests welcome to bide at Oyster-le-Main as long as they pleased. The solemn bell for retiring rolled forth in the darkness with a single deep clang, and the sound went far and wide over the neighbouring district. Those peasants who were still awake in their scattered cottages, crossed themselves as they thought, “The holy men at Oyster-le-Main are just now going to their rest.”
And thus the world outside grew still, and the thick walls of the Monastery loomed up against the stars.
Deep in the midnight, many a choking cry rang fearfully through the stony halls, but came not to the outer air; and the waning moon shone faintly down upon the enclosure of the garden, where worked a band of silent grave-diggers,clad in black armour, and with blood-red hands. The good country folk, who came at early morning with their presents of poultry and milk, little guessed what sheep’s clothing the gray cowls and gowns of Oyster-le-Main had become in a single night, nor what impious lips those were which now muttered blessings over their bent heads.
The following night, hideous sounds were heard in the fields, and those who dared to open their shutters to see what the matter was, beheld a huge lizard beast, with fiery breath and accompanied by rattling thunder, raging over the soil, which he hardly seemed to touch!
In this manner did the dreaded Dragon of Wantley make his appearance, and in this manner did Sir Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach, stand in the shoes of that Father Anselm whom he had put so comfortably out of the way under the flower-beds in the Monastery garden,—and never a soul in the world except his companions in orgy to know the difference. He even came to be welcome at Sir Godfrey’s table; for after the Dragon’sappearance, the Baron grew civil to all members of the Church. By day this versatile sinner, the Grand Marshal, would walk in the sight of the world with staid step, clothed in gray, his hood concealing his fierce, unchurchly eyes; by night, inside the crocodile skin, he visited what places he chose, unhindered by the terrified dwellers, and after him came his followers of the Guild to steal the plunder and bear it back inside the walls of Oyster-le-Main. Never in all their adventures had these superb miscreants been in better plight; but now the trouble had begun, as you are going to hear. We return to Hubert and the company.
“Hubert and all of you,” said Father Anselm, or rather Sir Francis, the Grand Marshal, as we know him to be, “they say that whom the gods desire to destroy, him do they first make drunk with wine.”
“The application! the application!” they shouted in hoarse and mirthful chorus, for they were certainly near that state favourable to destruction by the gods. One black fellow with a sliding gait ran into the closet and brought asheet of thin iron, and a strange torch-like tube, which he lighted at the fire and blew into from the other end. A plume of spitting flame immediately shot far into the air.
Hubert looketh out of ye Window
“Before thy sermon proceeds, old Dragon,” he said, puffing unsteady but solemn breaths between his words, “wrap up in lightning and thunder that we may be—may be—lieve what you say.” Then he shook the iron till it gave forth a frightful shattering sound. The GrandMarshal said not a word. With three long steps he stood towering in front of the man and dealt him a side blow under the ear with his steel fist. He fell instantly, folding together like something boneless, and lay along the floor for a moment quite still, except that some piece in his armour made a light rattling as though there were muscles that quivered beneath it. Then he raised himself slowly to a bench where his brothers sat waiting, soberly enough. Only young Hubert grinned aside to his neighbour, who, perceiving it, kept his eyes fixed as far from that youth as possible.
“Thy turn next, if art not careful, Hubert,” said Sir Francis very quietly, as he seated himself.
“Wonder of saints!” Hubert thought secretly, not moving at all, “how could he have seen that?”
“’Tis no small piece of good fortune,” continued the Grand Marshal, “that some one among us can put aside his slavish appetites, and keep a clear eye on the watch against misadventure. Here is my news. That hotch-pot oflies we set going among the people has fallen foul of us. The daughter of Sir Godfrey has heard our legend, and last week told her sire that to-night she would follow it out to the letter, and meet the Dragon of Wantley alone in single combat.”
“Has she never loved any man?” asked one.
“She fulfils every condition.”
“Who told her?”
“That most consummate of fools, the Mistletoe,” said the Grand Marshal.
“What did Sir Godfrey do upon that?” inquired Hubert.
“He locked up his girl and chained the Governess to a rock, where she has remained in deadly terror ever since, but kept fat for me to devour her. Me!” and Sir Francis permitted himself to smile, though not very broadly.
“How if Sir Dragon had found the maid chained instead of the ancient widow?” Hubert said, venturing to tread a little nearer to familiarity on the strength of the amusement which played across the Grand Master’s face.
“Ah, Hubert boy,” he replied, “I see it is notin the Spring only, but in Autumn and Summer and Winter as well, that thy fancy turns to thoughts of love. Did the calendar year but contain a fifth season, in that also wouldst thou be making honey-dew faces at somebody.”
But young Hubert only grinned, and closed his flashing eyes a little, in satisfaction at the character which had been given him.
“Time presses,” Sir Francis said. “By noon we shall receive an important visit. There has been a great sensation at Wantley. The country folk are aroused; the farmers have discovered that the secret of our legend has been revealed to Miss Elaine. Not one of the clowns would have dared reveal it himself, but all rejoice in the bottom of their hearts that she knows it, and chooses to risk battle with the Dragon. Their honest Saxon minds perceive the thrift of such an arrangement. Therefore there is general anxiety and disturbance to know if Sir Godfrey will permit the conflict. The loss of his Malvoisie tried him sorely,—but he remains a father.”
“That’s kind in him,” said Hubert.
Sir Francis turned a cold eye on Hubert.“As befits a clean-blooded man,” he proceeded, “I have risen at the dawn and left you wine-pots in your thick sleep. From the wood’s edge over by Wantley I’ve watched the Baron come eagerly to an upper window in his white night-shift. And when he looks out on Mistletoe and sees she is not devoured, he bursts into a rage that can be plainly seen from a distance. These six mornings I laughed so loud at this spectacle, that I almost feared discovery. Next, the Baron visits his daughter, only to find her food untasted and herself silent. I fear she is less of a fool than the rest. But now his paternal heart smites him, and he has let her out. Also the Governess is free.”
“Such a girl as that would not flinch from meeting our Dragon,” said Hubert; “aye, or from seeking him.”
“She must never meet the Dragon,” Sir Francis declared. “What could I do shut up in the crocodile, and she with a sword, of course?”
They were gloomily silent.
“I could not devour her properly as a dragon should. Nor could I carry her away,” pursued Sir Francis.
Here Hubert, who had gone to the window, returned hastily, exclaiming, “They are coming!”
“Who are coming?” asked several.
“The Baron, his daughter, the Governess, and all Wantley at their backs, to ask our pious advice,” said the Grand Marshal. “Quick, into your gowns, one and all! Be monks outside, though you stay men underneath.” For a while the hall was filled with jostling gray figures entangled in the thick folds of the gowns, into which the arms, legs, and heads had been thrust regardless of direction; the armour clashed invisible underneath as the hot and choked members of the Guild plunged about like wild animals sewed into sacks, in their struggles to reappear in decent monastic attire. The winged crocodile was kicked into the closet, after it were hurled the thunder machine and the lightning torch, and after them clattered the cups and the silver rundlet. Barely had Hubert turned the key, when knocking at the far-off gate was heard.
“Go down quickly, Hubert,” said the Grand Marshal, “and lead them all here.”
Presently the procession of laity, gravely escortedby Hubert, began to file into the now barren-looking room, while the monks stood with hands folded, and sang loudly what sounded to the uninstructed ears of each listener like a Latin hymn.
iththe respect that was due to holy men, Sir Godfrey removed his helmet, and stood waiting in a decent attitude of attention to the hymn, although he did not understand a single word of it. The long deliberate Latin words rolled out very grand to his ear, and, to tell you the truth, it is just as well his scholarship was faulty, for this is the English of those same words:“It is my intentionTo die in a tavern,With wine in the neighbourhood,Close by my thirsty mouth;That angels in chorusMay sing, when they reach me,—‘Let Bacchus be mercifulUnto this wine-bibber.’”But so devoutly did the monks dwell upon the syllables, so earnestly were the arms of each one folded against his breast, that you would never have suspected any unclerical sentiments were being expressed. The proximity of so many petticoats and kirtles caused considerable restlessness to Hubert; but he felt the burning eye of the Grand Marshal fixed upon him, and sang away with all his might.Sir Godfrey began to grow impatient.“Hem!” he said, moving his foot slightly.This proceeding, however, was without result. The pious chant continued to resound, and the monks paid not the least attention to their visitors, but stood up together in a double line, vociferating Latin with as much zest as ever.“Mort d’aieul!” growled Sir Godfrey, shifting his other foot, and not so gingerly this second time.
iththe respect that was due to holy men, Sir Godfrey removed his helmet, and stood waiting in a decent attitude of attention to the hymn, although he did not understand a single word of it. The long deliberate Latin words rolled out very grand to his ear, and, to tell you the truth, it is just as well his scholarship was faulty, for this is the English of those same words:
“It is my intentionTo die in a tavern,With wine in the neighbourhood,Close by my thirsty mouth;That angels in chorusMay sing, when they reach me,—‘Let Bacchus be mercifulUnto this wine-bibber.’”
“It is my intentionTo die in a tavern,With wine in the neighbourhood,Close by my thirsty mouth;That angels in chorusMay sing, when they reach me,—‘Let Bacchus be mercifulUnto this wine-bibber.’”
But so devoutly did the monks dwell upon the syllables, so earnestly were the arms of each one folded against his breast, that you would never have suspected any unclerical sentiments were being expressed. The proximity of so many petticoats and kirtles caused considerable restlessness to Hubert; but he felt the burning eye of the Grand Marshal fixed upon him, and sang away with all his might.
Sir Godfrey began to grow impatient.
“Hem!” he said, moving his foot slightly.
This proceeding, however, was without result. The pious chant continued to resound, and the monks paid not the least attention to their visitors, but stood up together in a double line, vociferating Latin with as much zest as ever.
“Mort d’aieul!” growled Sir Godfrey, shifting his other foot, and not so gingerly this second time.
By chance the singing stopped upon the same instant, so that the Baron’s remark and the noise his foot had made sounded all over the room. This disconcerted him; for he felt his standing with the Church to be weak, and he rolled hiseyes from one side to the other, watching for any effect his disturbance might have made. But, with the breeding of a true man of the world, the Grand Marshal merely observed, “Benedicite, my son!”
“Good-morning, Father,” returned Sir Godfrey.
“And what would you with me?” pursued the so-called Father Anselm. “Speak, my son.”
“Well, the fact is——” the Baron began, marching forward; but he encountered the eye of the Abbot, where shone a cold surprise at this over-familiar fashion of speech; so he checked himself, and, in as restrained a voice as he could command, told his story. How his daughter had determined to meet the Dragon, and so save Wantley; how nothing that a parent could say had influenced her intentions in the least; and now he placed the entire matter in the hands of the Church.
“Which would have been more becoming if you had done it at the first,” said Father Anselm, reprovingly. Then he turned to Miss Elaine, who all this while had been looking out of the window with the utmost indifference.
“How is this, my daughter?” he said gravely, in his deep voice.
“Oh, the dear blessed man!” whispered Mistletoe, admiringly, to herself.
“It is as you hear, Father,” said Miss Elaine, keeping her eyes away.
“And why do you think that such a peril upon your part would do away with this Dragon?”
“Says not the legend so?” she replied.
“And what may the legend be, my daughter?”
With some surprise that so well informed a person as Father Anselm should be ignorant of this prominent topic of the day, Sir Godfrey here broke in and narrated the legend to him with many vigourous comments.
“Ah, yes,” said the Father, smiling gently when the story was done; “I do now remember that some such child’s tale was in the mouths of the common folk once; but methought the nonsense was dead long since.”
“The nonsense, Father!” exclaimed Elaine.
“Of a surety, my child. Dost suppose that Holy Church were so unjust as to visit the sins of thy knightly relatives upon the head of anyweak woman, who is not in the order of creation designed for personal conflict with men, let alone dragons?”
“Bravo, Dragon!” thought Hubert, as he listened to this wily talk of his chief.
But the words “weak woman” had touched the pride of Miss Elaine. “I know nothing of weak women,” she said, very stately; “but I do know that I am strong enough to meet this Dragon, and, moreover, firmly intend to do so this very night.”
“Peace, my daughter,” said the monk; “and listen to the voice of thy mother the Church speaking through the humblest of her servants. This legend of thine holds not a single grain of truth. ’Tis a conceit of the common herd, set afoot by some ingenious fellow who may have thought he was doing a great thing in devising such fantastic mixture. True it is that the Monster is a visitation to punish the impiety of certain members of thy family. True it is that he will not depart till a member of that family perform a certain act. But it is to be a male descendant.”
Now Sir Godfrey’s boy Roland was being instructedin knightly arts and conduct away from home.
“Who told you that?” inquired the Baron, as the thought of his precious wine-cellar came into his head.
“On last Christmas Eve I had a vision,” replied Father Anselm. “Thy grandfather, the brave youth who by journeying to the Holy War averted this curse until thine own conduct caused it to descend upon us, appeared to me in shining armour. ‘Anselm,’ he said, and raised his right arm, ‘the Dragon is a grievous burden on the people. I can see that from where I am. Now, Anselm, when the fitting hour shall come, and my great-grandson’s years be mature enough to have made a man of him, let him go to the next Holy War that is proclaimed, and on the very night of his departure the curse will be removed and our family forgiven. More than this, Anselm, if any male descendant from me direct shall at any time attend a Crusade when it is declared, the country will be free forever.’ So saying, he dissolved out of my sight in a silver gleaming mist.” Here Father Anselm paused,and from under his hood watched with a trifle of anxiety the effect of his speech.
There was a short silence, and then Sir Godfrey said, “Am I to understand this thing hangs on the event of another Crusade?”
The Abbot bowed.
“Meanwhile, till that event happen, the Dragon can rage unchecked?”
The Abbot bowed again.
“Will there be another Crusade along pretty soon?” Sir Godfrey pursued.
“These things lie not in human knowledge,” replied Father Anselm. He little dreamed what news the morrow’s sun would see.
“Oh, my sheep!” groaned many a poor farmer.
“Oh, my Burgundy!” groaned Sir Godfrey.
“In that case,” exclaimed Elaine, her cheeks pink with excitement, “I shall try the virtue of the legend, at any rate.”
“Most impious, my daughter, most impious will such conduct be in the sight of Mother Church,” said Father Anselm.
“Hear me, all people!” shouted Sir Godfrey,foreseeing that before the next Crusade came every drop of wine in his cellar would be swallowed by the Dragon; “hear me proclaim and solemnly promise: legend true or legend false, my daughter shall not face this risk. But if her heart go with it, her hand shall be given to that man who by night or light brings me this Dragon, alive or dead!”
“A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!” said Father Anselm, shrugging his shoulders. “We dare not discredit the word of thy respected grandsire.”“My respected grandsire be——”“What?” said the Abbot.“Became a credit to his family,” said the Baron, quite mildly; “and I slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the vision, I think.”“No, he did not, papa,” Miss Elaine put in.“He only mentioned another way of getting rid of this horrible Dragon. Now, papa, whatever you may say about—about my heart and hand,” she continued firmly, “I am going to meet the Monster alone myself, to-night.”“That you shall not,” said Sir Godfrey.“A hundred times no!” said a new voice from the crowd. “I will meet him myself!”All turned and saw a knight pushing his way through the people.“Who are you?” inquired the Baron.The stranger bowed haughtily; and Elaine watched him remove his helmet, and reveal underneath it the countenance of a young man who turned to her, and——
“A useless promise, Sir Godfrey!” said Father Anselm, shrugging his shoulders. “We dare not discredit the word of thy respected grandsire.”
“My respected grandsire be——”
“What?” said the Abbot.
“Became a credit to his family,” said the Baron, quite mildly; “and I slight no word of his. But he did not contradict this legend in the vision, I think.”
“No, he did not, papa,” Miss Elaine put in.“He only mentioned another way of getting rid of this horrible Dragon. Now, papa, whatever you may say about—about my heart and hand,” she continued firmly, “I am going to meet the Monster alone myself, to-night.”
“That you shall not,” said Sir Godfrey.
“A hundred times no!” said a new voice from the crowd. “I will meet him myself!”
All turned and saw a knight pushing his way through the people.
“Who are you?” inquired the Baron.
The stranger bowed haughtily; and Elaine watched him remove his helmet, and reveal underneath it the countenance of a young man who turned to her, and——
Why, what’s this, Elaine? Why does everything seem to swim and grow misty as his eye meets yours? And why does he look at you so, and deeply flush to the very rim of his curly hair? And as his glance grows steadier and more intent upon your eyes that keep stealing over at him, can you imagine why his hand trembles on the hilt of his sword? Don’t you remember what the legend said?
“Who are you?” the Baron repeated, impatiently.
“I am Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers,” answered the young man.
“And what,” asked Father Anselm, with a certain irony in his voice, “does Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers, so far away from his papa in this inclement weather?”
The knight surveyed the monk for a moment, and then said, “As thou art not my particular Father Confessor, stick to those matters which concern thee.”
This reply did not please any man present, for it seemed to savour of disrespect. But Elaine lost no chance of watching the youth, who now stood alone in the middle of the hall. Sir Francis detected this, and smiled with a sly smile.
“Will some person inquire of this polite young man,” he said, “what he wishes with us?”
“Show me where this Dragon of Wantley comes,” said Geoffrey, “for I intend to slay him to-night.”
“Indeed, sir,” fluttered Elaine, stepping towards him a little, “I hope—that is, I beg you’lldo no such dangerous thing as that for my sake.”
“For your sake?” Father Anselm broke in. “For your sake? And why so? What should Elaine, daughter of Sir Godfrey Disseisin, care for the carcase of Geoffrey, son of Bertram of Poictiers?”
But Elaine, finding nothing to answer, turned rosy pink instead.
“That rules you out!” exclaimed the Father, in triumph. “Your legend demands a maid who never has cared for any man.”
“Pooh!” said Geoffrey, “leave it to me.”
“Seize him!” shouted Sir Godfrey in a rage. “He had ruled out my daughter.” Consistency had never been one of the Baron’s strong points.
“Seize him!” said Father Anselm. “He outrages Mother Church.”
The vassals closed up behind young Geoffrey, who was pinioned in a second. He struggled with them till the veins stood out in his forehead in blue knots; but, after all, one young man of twenty is not much among a band of stout yeomen; and they all fell in a heap on the floor,pulling and tugging at Geoffrey, who had blacked several eyes, and done in a general way as much damage as he possibly could under the circumstances.
But Elaine noticed one singular occurrence. Not a monk had moved to seize the young man, except one, who rushed forward, and was stopped, as though struck to stone, by Father Anselm’s saying to him in a terrible undertone, “Hubert!”
Simply that word, spoken quickly; but not before this Hubert had brushed against her so that she was aware that there was something very hard and metallic underneath his gray gown. She betrayed no sign of knowledge or surprise on her face, however, but affected to be absorbed wholly in the fortunes of young Geoffrey, whom she saw collared and summarily put into a cage-like prison whose front was thick iron bars, and whose depth was in the vast outer wall of the Monastery, with a little window at the rear, covered with snow. The spring-lock of the gate shut upon him.
“And now,” said Father Anselm, as the Monasterybell sounded once more, “if our guests will follow us, the mid-day meal awaits us below. We will deal with this hot-head later,” he added, pointing to the prisoner.
So they slowly went out, leaving Geoffrey alone with his thoughts.
Elaine
ownstairs the Grace was said, and the company was soon seated and ready for their mid-day meal.“Our fare,” said Father Anselm pleasantly to Sir Godfrey, who sat on his right, “is plain, but substantial.”“Oh—ah, very likely,” replied the Baron, as he received a wooden basin of black-bean broth.“Our drink is——”The Baron lifted his eye hopefully.“——remarkably pure water,” Father Anselm continued. “Clement!” he called to the monk whose turn it was that day to hand the dishes, “Clement, a goblet of our well-water for Sir Godfrey Disseisin. One of the large goblets, Clement. We are indeed favoured, Baron, in having such a pure spring in the midst of our home.”“Oh—ah!” observed the Baron again, and politely nerved himself for a swallow. But his thoughts were far away in his own cellar over at Wantley, contemplating the casks whose precious gallons the Dragon had consumed. Could it be the strength of his imagination, or else why was it that through the chilling, unwelcome liquid he was now drinking he seemed to detect a lurking flavour of the very wine those casks had contained, his favourite Malvoisie?
ownstairs the Grace was said, and the company was soon seated and ready for their mid-day meal.
“Our fare,” said Father Anselm pleasantly to Sir Godfrey, who sat on his right, “is plain, but substantial.”
“Oh—ah, very likely,” replied the Baron, as he received a wooden basin of black-bean broth.
“Our drink is——”
The Baron lifted his eye hopefully.
“——remarkably pure water,” Father Anselm continued. “Clement!” he called to the monk whose turn it was that day to hand the dishes, “Clement, a goblet of our well-water for Sir Godfrey Disseisin. One of the large goblets, Clement. We are indeed favoured, Baron, in having such a pure spring in the midst of our home.”
“Oh—ah!” observed the Baron again, and politely nerved himself for a swallow. But his thoughts were far away in his own cellar over at Wantley, contemplating the casks whose precious gallons the Dragon had consumed. Could it be the strength of his imagination, or else why was it that through the chilling, unwelcome liquid he was now drinking he seemed to detect a lurking flavour of the very wine those casks had contained, his favourite Malvoisie?
Father Anselm noticed the same taste in his own cup, and did not set it down to imagination, but afterwards sentenced Brother Clement to bread and water during three days, for carelessness in not washing the Monastery table-service more thoroughly.
“This simple food keeps you in beautiful health, Father,” said Mistletoe, ogling the swarthy face of the Abbot with an affection that he duly noted.
“My daughter,” he replied, gravely, “bodily infirmity is the reward of the glutton. I am well, thank you.”
Meanwhile, Elaine did not eat much. Her thoughts were busy, and hurrying over recentevents. Perhaps you think she lost her heart in the last Chapter, and cannot lose it in this one unless it is given back to her. But I do not agree with you; and I am certain that, if you suggested such a notion to her, she would become quite angry, and tell you not to talk such foolish nonsense. People are so absurd about hearts, and all that sort of thing! No: I do not really think she has lost her heart yet; but as she sits at table these are the things she is feeling:
1. Not at all hungry.
2. Not at all thirsty.
3. What a hateful person that Father Anselm is!
4. Poor, poor young man!
5. Not that she thinks of him inthatway, of course. The idea! Horrid Father Anselm!
6. Any girl at all—no, not girl,anybodyat all—who had human justice would feel exactly as she did about the whole matter.
7. He was very good-looking, too.
8. Did he have—yes, they were blue. Very, very dark blue.
9. And a moustache? Well, yes.
Here she laughed, but no one noticed her idling with her spoon. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she pretended to be absorbed with the black-bean broth, though, as a matter of fact, she did not see it in the least.
10. Why had he come there at all?
11. It was a perfect shame, treating him so.
12. Perhaps they were not blue, after all. But, oh! what a beautiful sparkle was in them!
After this, she hated Father Anselm worse than ever. And the more she hated him, the more some very restless delicious something made her draw long breaths. She positively must go up-stairs and see what He was doing and what He really looked like. This curiosity seized hold of her and set her thinking of some way to slip away unseen. The chance came through all present becoming deeply absorbed in what Sir Godfrey was saying to Father Anselm.
“Such a low, coarse, untaught brute as a dragon,” he explained, “cannot possibly distinguish good wine from bad.”
“Of a surety, no!” responded the monk.
“You agree with me upon that point?” said the Baron.
“Most certainly. Proceed.”
“Well, I’m going to see that he gets nothing but the cider and small beer after this.”
“But how will you prevent him, if he visit your cellar again?” Father Anselm inquired.
“I shall change all the labels, in the first place,” the Baron answered.
“Ha! vastly well conceived,” said Father Anselm. “You will label your Burgundy as if it were beer.”
“And next,” continued Sir Godfrey, “I shall shift the present positions of the hogsheads. That I shall do to-day, after relabelling. In the northern corner of the first wine vault I shall——”
Just as he reached this point, it was quite wonderful how strict an attention every monk paid to his words. They leaned forward, forgetting their dinner, and listened with all their might.
One of them, who had evidently received an education, took notes underneath the table.Thus it was that Elaine escaped observation when she left the refectory.