Chapter14: May Day In Lewes.It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the calendar. The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had arrayed themselves in their brightest robe of green; the hedges were white and fragrant with may; the anemone, the primrose, the cowslip, and blue bell carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the oaks and poplars were already putting on their summer garb. The butterflies settled upon flower after flower; the bees were rejoicing in their labour; their work glowed, and the sweet honey was fragrant with thyme.Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as from village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex poured out from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and James; the children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred fantastic hues, the May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of May chosen by lot from amongst the village maidens.Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our tale betakes itself again—around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye, Alfristun, Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like—not, as now, accessible by rail and surrounded by arable lands; but settlements in the forest, with the mighty oaks and beeches which had perchance seen the coming of Ella and Cissa, long ere the Norman set foot in Angleland; and with solemn glades where the wind made music in the tree tops, and the graceful deer bounded athwart the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled brake and inaccessible morass.Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it might be never to return.“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.”The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.“Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell.”Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.“And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never leaves the convent’s boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.“If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a warrior.”He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer guest at the noontide meal, the “nuncheon” of Earl Warrenne of Lewes, the lord of the castle.It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely to endanger his life.A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael’s Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael’s shrine enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries:“Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!”And it is very probable that he would have been “done to death” had not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered the square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was immediate. The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which made way for them as if a superior being had commanded their reverence, and one of the two mounted on a cart, and took for his text, in a clear piercing voice which was heard everywhere, “Christ, and Him crucified.”The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” said he. “He is the prisoner of the Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and his light be extinguished in darkness.”All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but radiant with emotion, began to speak.And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of the day.“The object of the Crucifixion,” he said, “had yet to be attained amongst them.”A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one had desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a thousand desecrated forms before him who ought to be living crucifixes, for were they not told to crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts, to remain upon their voluntary crosses till Christ said, “Come down. Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord”? And were they doing this? Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as for instance the saints of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done; giving heart for heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread and ghastly idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to be companions of the angels—God’s holy ones? Or the slaves and sport of the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men of the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were scarce as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work which the public press does now, as well as its own, and the preacher was a power. But those medieval sermons were full of quaint illustrations.Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn and love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over one repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the Lord afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a ringing, when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the Lord—one repentant sinner.“They are waiting now,” he said. “Will you keep them waiting up there with their hands on the ropes?”Cries of “No! no!” broke from several.“And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their claws, hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire are the worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of men. Now, on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of God, where be many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to the rule of Saint Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the chapel, methought it was full of devils whispering all sorts of temptations, as they did to Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks from their prayers and meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and methought one devil only sat on the gate, and swayed the hearts of all the men in the town. He had little to do. The world and the flesh were helping him, and just now it was the devil of cruelty.”The men looked down.“‘A Jew! only a Jew!’ you say; ‘the wicked Jews crucified our Lord.’“And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians crucify our Lord afresh.”And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept aloud. In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted Martin to the priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries of joy.“Thou hast begun well, brother Martin,” said Ginepro, when they could first speak to each other in the hospitium.“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench exhausted and pale.“It is too much for thee.”“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.”“What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee, but couldn’t get near thee for the press,” cried an exultant voice.“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?”“Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to the Holy Land.“But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin.”“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your spurs.”Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are acquainted.Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting was made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the past brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which all, monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned through the vast pile.Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from the rule—where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him with those aged eyes.“God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be trials and difficulties.”“I am prepared for them.”“But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled; and my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy duty. Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek of the old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it thee freely when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name. But be sure thou dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the place is haunted. Then thou must take the nearest route to Jerusalem.”“But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen.”“Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they allow pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst a victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not allowed as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy Sepulchre, to deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou mayst return.”“But will there be no fighting?”“This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one campaign, not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and remember that but to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee to all the indulgences and privileges of a crusader—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary, Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by reason of the truce, although the infidels be very treacherous, and thou wilt need constant vigilance.”So they talked until the midnight hour.No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on the floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was absolute, and so they slept.On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the last farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished his grasp of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the purpose of many years had come at last. Martin and his brother and companion Ginepro were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to act as a guard of honour to the young knight in his passage through the forest to the castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel together as long as their different objects permitted.“My men will be a protection,” said Hubert.The young friars laughed.“We need no protection,” said Ginepro. “If we want arms, these bulrushes will serve for spears.”“Nay, do not jest,” said Martin.“We have other arms, my Hubert.”“What are they?”“Only faith and prayer, but they never fail.”Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek and carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till he had dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin told his plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to reclaim the outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to reunite the lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together in one common love.“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert.“It may fall to my lot to do so.”“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.”“He may have mended.”Hubert shook his head.A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis,” said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.”“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.”“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their songs of gladness, whereupon he said:“‘My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung your sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.’“And the birds were silent.”“I can quite believe it.”“His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was brought in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they were just going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and pitied it.“‘Little brother leveret,’ he said. ‘How didst thou let thyself be taken?’“The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took refuge in the robe of the father.“‘Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught again,’ he said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go.”Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged from the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children playing at seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.Instantly he cried, “Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and have a turn.”“Are we not too old for such sport?” said Martin.“Not a bit. I feel quite like a child,” and off he ran to join the children amidst the laughter of a few older people.But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless as he related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy Innocents, stories which came quite fresh to them in those days, when there were few books, and fewer readers. And these little Sussex children drank in the touching story with all their little ears and hearts. In all Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness. And that same evening, when the woodmen came home from work, Martin preached to the whole village from the steps of the churchyard cross.It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on those of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and without that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the parochial flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin at last stopped, exhausted:“Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night.”And they willingly consented.But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.
It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the calendar. The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had arrayed themselves in their brightest robe of green; the hedges were white and fragrant with may; the anemone, the primrose, the cowslip, and blue bell carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the oaks and poplars were already putting on their summer garb. The butterflies settled upon flower after flower; the bees were rejoicing in their labour; their work glowed, and the sweet honey was fragrant with thyme.
Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as from village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex poured out from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and James; the children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred fantastic hues, the May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of May chosen by lot from amongst the village maidens.
Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our tale betakes itself again—around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye, Alfristun, Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like—not, as now, accessible by rail and surrounded by arable lands; but settlements in the forest, with the mighty oaks and beeches which had perchance seen the coming of Ella and Cissa, long ere the Norman set foot in Angleland; and with solemn glades where the wind made music in the tree tops, and the graceful deer bounded athwart the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled brake and inaccessible morass.
Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it might be never to return.
“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.”
The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.
“Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell.”
Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.
“And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never leaves the convent’s boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.
“If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a warrior.”
He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer guest at the noontide meal, the “nuncheon” of Earl Warrenne of Lewes, the lord of the castle.
It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely to endanger his life.
A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael’s Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael’s shrine enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.
But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries:
“Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!”
And it is very probable that he would have been “done to death” had not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.
Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered the square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was immediate. The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which made way for them as if a superior being had commanded their reverence, and one of the two mounted on a cart, and took for his text, in a clear piercing voice which was heard everywhere, “Christ, and Him crucified.”
The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” said he. “He is the prisoner of the Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and his light be extinguished in darkness.”
All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but radiant with emotion, began to speak.
And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of the day.
“The object of the Crucifixion,” he said, “had yet to be attained amongst them.”
A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one had desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a thousand desecrated forms before him who ought to be living crucifixes, for were they not told to crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts, to remain upon their voluntary crosses till Christ said, “Come down. Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord”? And were they doing this? Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as for instance the saints of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done; giving heart for heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread and ghastly idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to be companions of the angels—God’s holy ones? Or the slaves and sport of the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?
The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men of the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were scarce as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work which the public press does now, as well as its own, and the preacher was a power. But those medieval sermons were full of quaint illustrations.
Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn and love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over one repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the Lord afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a ringing, when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the Lord—one repentant sinner.
“They are waiting now,” he said. “Will you keep them waiting up there with their hands on the ropes?”
Cries of “No! no!” broke from several.
“And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their claws, hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire are the worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of men. Now, on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of God, where be many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to the rule of Saint Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the chapel, methought it was full of devils whispering all sorts of temptations, as they did to Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks from their prayers and meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and methought one devil only sat on the gate, and swayed the hearts of all the men in the town. He had little to do. The world and the flesh were helping him, and just now it was the devil of cruelty.”
The men looked down.
“‘A Jew! only a Jew!’ you say; ‘the wicked Jews crucified our Lord.’
“And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians crucify our Lord afresh.”
And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept aloud. In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted Martin to the priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries of joy.
“Thou hast begun well, brother Martin,” said Ginepro, when they could first speak to each other in the hospitium.
“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench exhausted and pale.
“It is too much for thee.”
“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.”
“What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee, but couldn’t get near thee for the press,” cried an exultant voice.
“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?”
“Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to the Holy Land.
“But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin.”
“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your spurs.”
Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are acquainted.
Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.
They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting was made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the past brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which all, monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned through the vast pile.
Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from the rule—where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him with those aged eyes.
“God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be trials and difficulties.”
“I am prepared for them.”
“But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled; and my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy duty. Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek of the old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it thee freely when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name. But be sure thou dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the place is haunted. Then thou must take the nearest route to Jerusalem.”
“But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen.”
“Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they allow pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst a victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not allowed as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy Sepulchre, to deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou mayst return.”
“But will there be no fighting?”
“This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one campaign, not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and remember that but to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee to all the indulgences and privileges of a crusader—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary, Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by reason of the truce, although the infidels be very treacherous, and thou wilt need constant vigilance.”
So they talked until the midnight hour.
No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on the floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was absolute, and so they slept.
On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the last farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished his grasp of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the purpose of many years had come at last. Martin and his brother and companion Ginepro were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to act as a guard of honour to the young knight in his passage through the forest to the castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel together as long as their different objects permitted.
“My men will be a protection,” said Hubert.
The young friars laughed.
“We need no protection,” said Ginepro. “If we want arms, these bulrushes will serve for spears.”
“Nay, do not jest,” said Martin.
“We have other arms, my Hubert.”
“What are they?”
“Only faith and prayer, but they never fail.”
Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek and carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till he had dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin told his plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to reclaim the outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to reunite the lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together in one common love.
“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert.
“It may fall to my lot to do so.”
“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.”
“He may have mended.”
Hubert shook his head.
A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.
At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.
“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis,” said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.”
“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.”
“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their songs of gladness, whereupon he said:
“‘My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung your sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.’
“And the birds were silent.”
“I can quite believe it.”
“His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was brought in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they were just going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and pitied it.
“‘Little brother leveret,’ he said. ‘How didst thou let thyself be taken?’
“The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took refuge in the robe of the father.
“‘Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught again,’ he said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go.”
Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged from the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children playing at seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.
Instantly he cried, “Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and have a turn.”
“Are we not too old for such sport?” said Martin.
“Not a bit. I feel quite like a child,” and off he ran to join the children amidst the laughter of a few older people.
But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless as he related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy Innocents, stories which came quite fresh to them in those days, when there were few books, and fewer readers. And these little Sussex children drank in the touching story with all their little ears and hearts. In all Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness. And that same evening, when the woodmen came home from work, Martin preached to the whole village from the steps of the churchyard cross.
It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on those of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.
Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and without that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the parochial flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin at last stopped, exhausted:
“Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night.”
And they willingly consented.
But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.