Then the abbot ran off into a long, winding discourse as to how the barons of St. Julien had ever been the protectors and "advocates" of the abbey, and how of late "that man of Belial, Raoul de Valmont," had oppressed the monks in many ways. "And even now God has mysteriously deigned," continued the prelate, "that he should commit a sin, the like whereof have been few since the days of Judas called Iscariot."
"And what may this be?" asked Richard, soberly.
"When ourrefectarius," solemnly went on the abbot, "passed over the Valmont lands, driving three black pigs, and with twelve fair round Auvergne cheeses amongst other gifts of the pious in his cart, this man of blood cruelly possessed himself of the pigs and cheeses, saying, 'The holy brethren will find prayers rise strongest when they have pulse in their bellies'—blasphemous sinner!"
"Accursed robber!" cried the prior.
"Friend of the fiends!" echoed the sub-prior.
"And therefore," wound up the abbot, "we do warn you, on the peril of your soul, to cut off this child of perdition root and branch; to call forth to arms thebanand thearrière-ban; to make his castle a dunghill and his name a byword and a hissing!"
Richard was smiling. When the abbot finished, he gave the holy fathers a merry laugh that made them half feel their weighty mission a failure. But Musa, as he looked upon his friend, trembled, for he did not like that kind of smile or laugh. Richard flashed forth Trenchefer, and laid his hand on the knob that contained such holy relics.
"See you, holy fathers, gentlemen and vassals all. I, Richard Longsword, setting my hand on the holy relics of the blessed Matthias and the blessed Gereon, do swear before God Most High, that I will have the life of Raoul de Valmont, and of every man or lad of his sinful race; and God and these holy saints do so to me, if I show mercy!"
And all the men-at-arms, and Bertrand and De Carnac, saw that they had to do with a born leader of warriors, and cried out "Amen!" with a mighty shout, so that the solid rafters quaked and reëchoed. But Sebastian as well as Musa shuddered when he beheld Longsword; for the Norman's words rang hard and sharp as whetted steel, and the good churchman's heart was heavy with new foreboding.
"This is a cruel vow, my son," he broke in. "Raoul de Valmont must suffer for his sin; but Louis,—he whom you spared when at your feet,—will you seek his life also, and that of the lad Gilbert, the younger brother?"
But Richard flung out hotly:—
"Silence, Sebastian; cursed am I for sparing Louis de Valmont. Cursed for sparing an accursed race! I will have the lives of all—all; and will right my grandsire and myself also. So help me God!"
Sebastian had one last appeal.
"For the sake of Mary Kurkuas, do not rush into this blood-feud. God will not bless you if you go beyond Raoul!"
Longsword threw back his head.
"I were unworthy of Mary Kurkuas if I yielded a hair! No power shall shake me! Let Christ pity them; I will not!"
Sebastian turned away.
"Dear Lord," he prayed, "Thou seest how my sweet son is torn by the fiends who seek his soul; first he forgets Jerusalem, now will dip his hands wantonly in Christian blood. Spare him; pity him; restore him to himself."
That night Richard sat at chess with Musa; played skilfully, laughed loud. His talk was merry, but his face was very hard.
Night was falling. There was a gray mist creeping over the mountain; the ash trees and beeches loomed to spectral size; the sky was thick with dun cloud-banks. But De Carnac, as he looked upward, muttered to Longsword in a bated whisper, "The clouds are less heavy; wait two hours—they will break and give us the moon."
"Hist, men!" Richard cautioned the band about him; "not yet; we must wait for darkness."
Long had they already waited,—those score of Saracens and fifty or more St. Julien men, lying in ambush behind the trees, north of the crag whereon perched the Valmont castle, the only side where an easy road led up to the outer rampart, within which still lowered the great keep. They had seen men go in and out, but none molested them in the safe shadow of the trees. Their hearts had leaped at the chirp of each cricket, the call of each wood-bird. The sounds died away; naught followed; each man listened to the beating in his own breast.
It grew darker. Now the last light shimmered between the leaf-laden branches; a murky haze overspread tree and shrub and moss-covered ground until all objects were lost in the black night. The castle was a good three hundred paces away, but it was so still that they heard the rattle of the porter's keys when he made fast the great outer gate. The chains of the drawbridge rattled; they could see a lantern flash on a steel cap as its owner made the parapet rounds; a few glints of light from the narrow windows in the keep faded one by one; then—silence.
Richard felt for his sheath and loosened Trenchefer; then whispered to a shock-pated "villain," whose wrists were bound, and the cord in Herbert's keeping:—
"Now, Giles of the Mill, serve us true in this; for as I hope in heaven, your hands shall be stricken off, and the stumps plunged in hot sulphur, if you play false!"
"Never fear, lord," answered the fellow. "Raoul hung my eldest son for fishing in his stream after mid-Lent; never fear his brother will fail to let down the ladder."
Richard rose to his feet very slowly. It was so dark under the trees that the keenest eye saw only blackness. On the western hill-crest, where the clouds gave way, the last bars of pale light still hung, but dimming each moment.
"Nox ruit interea, et montes umbrantur," repeated Sebastian, softly, at Longsword's elbow.
"Ai, father," muttered the Norman, turning, "why did you not remain in the glen by the horses? We will call you, if any need shriving."
"And shall not the shepherd go with the sheep?" said Sebastian, solemnly. "Ah! dear son, if God bless you this night, slay the guilty, but spare the innocent!"
"Time enough," protested Richard, "to consider, when we see the inside of that keep. By St. Michael, it will be no jaunty hawking!"
Sebastian laid his great, iron-capped mace upon his shoulder. "This weapon I bear," said he, "that I may not live by the sword, and so by the sword perish."
"Now, my men!" commanded Richard, his voice still very low; and silently the long line of dark figures rose from the fern brake. As they rose, a distant bell pealed out many miles away, the notes stealing in among the trees like echoes from an untrodden world.
"They toll some one who has died in Bredon," whispered Bertrand, the squire. "Let us pray," said Richard. And all the Christians knelt. The Saracens stood dumbly, but perhaps said their word to "Allah,"—for who among them was fated to see another morning?
So Richard prayed—a wild, unholy prayer, as became his unholy frame of mind; and he ended, "Thus I confide myself to the stout heart Thou hast given me, and to my good sword, and my good right arm; but last of all to Thee!" And one may hope the Most High rejoiced that He was not utterly forgotten.
"Come!" commanded Longsword, rising. "Keep your shields from banging, all the crossbows ready, and the swords loose. De Carnac, you have torches; we shall need them; and you, Herbert—the great axe."
Softly as birds upon the wing, those seventy mad spirits stole across the band of open ground betwixt forest and castle. Then they halted before the looming outworks. They heard the sentinel above tramp along the platform. A stray gleam of light touched his lance-head. He might have tossed a pebble down upon Longsword's helm. Herbert laid down his great axe, set his crossbow, laid a quarrel and levelled into the dark.
"Not as you love me!" growled Richard, clapping a hand on the reckless veteran; "will you blast all now?"
Tramp, tramp; the sentry was gone round behind the other side of the keep. Richard crept up to the wall, and at his side Musa. It was so dark here, they only knew the barrier by their hands.
"Now, Giles, your signal!" Longsword passed the word. And then sounded a low bird-call, a second, a third; then silence again. More steps on the parapet above; and a voice very far away, and mysterious in the dark.
"Below there?"
"Yes," answered Richard.
"Here; the ladder; I have fastened it." And something whirred down into the gloom, and struck the ground lightly. It was the end of a rope ladder. Richard groped for it, caught, and gave command.
"Stand by, men; I will go first; who second?"
"Who but I, brother?" protested Musa, in his ear.
"Good; let us gain the parapet, if we may, in silence; then storm the drawbridge and the keep-gate before the alarm. And now"—and he gripped Trenchefer in his teeth and began to climb.
Two rounds he had mounted, when there was a second step above; then a shout, cry, scuffle:—
"Devil! Traitor! Help!" and in an eye-twinkle there was a torch flaming on the parapet. Richard paused a moment. Right at the crown of the battlement stood a figure in armor, and behind the bulwark was the noise of struggle. Louder the shout:—
"Treachery! attack! to arms!"
Twenty voices had it now. A mighty horn was blaring; a great bell was tossing up its brazen throat in ringing clangor.
"Down, lord, down!" it was Herbert who called.
"Follow me, all who love God!" flung back Richard; and he sped up the ladder, and Musa after him. Twenty rounds there were to clear; and at the top, one who was swinging his sword to cut the cords. But in the torchlight Herbert again levelled, and whing!—his quarrel had sped clean through the man-at-arms. A second was there, a third, but a flight of Saracen arrows smote them. Richard never knew how he climbed those rounds. He was grasping the battlement—a long leap cleared it. He had won the platform; beside him was Musa; and beside Musa stood Herbert. The parapet was theirs—and what a sight!
Upon the summit of the great keep a huge bonfire had sprung up, and the tall flames leaped toward the inky heavens. Down the long bridge from the keep-door were running men in armor,—ten, twenty, twoscore,—and their swords were flashing. And two mighty shouts came swelling from within and without:—
"God and De Valmont!"
"Our Lady of St. Julien!"
Richard saw a man in a silvered casque running down the drawbridge—a dwarfish man with the shoulders of a bull; over his head danced the spiked ball of an armed whip.
"Ah! St. Julien dogs!" was his shout. "To the fiends with them all!"
"Up, men!" roared Richard, his voice swelling above battle-shout, bell, and fire. But a great curse came from Herbert. "God spare our souls! One rope of the ladder is snapped!"
"Make it fast," flew back the answer. "Musa and I will cover you. Ha, my brother?"
And while Herbert tugged at the cords, the Spaniard's cimeter swung side by side with Trenchefer. A great rush: the Valmont men, tall mountain giants, were at the two and about them in a twinkling. One sweep should have flung the twain to the court below; fools!—they knew not that all the South Country had no better swordsmen. Richard struck right, Musa left; and their blades grew red. The attackers recoiled as from live fire. A second rush—a second repulse; once more—the parapet was narrow; the Valmont men reeled back, and some cried out in terror.
"Out of the way, dogs!" Raoul was bawling. "I will beat them down!"
But as he rushed, Herbert rose from his task. The great axe was swinging over his head; and as it poised, first De Carnac, then Nasr, then the rest by tens cleared the wall.
"God is with us!" burst from Richard, and he leaped from the parapet into the court below. Right amongst the swarming Valmonters he plunged, and Trenchefer cleared the path. At his right pressed Musa, at his left Herbert, and with such guardian saints all hell might rage in vain against him.
Man to man they fought and right valiantly; but our Lady of St. Julien smiled on her votaries that sinful night. They flung wide the door to the court; the Saracens swarmed in, biting like cats with their crooked cimeters.
"Devils! Paynim devils!" howled the Valmonters, as they still more gave way. "Christ save! We are lost!"
"Back to the keep!" thundered Raoul, who had laid more than one foeman low. "Back, and I will guard the bridge!"
The Valmonters surged back. They swarmed upon the drawbridge. The wood creaked with their rush, the stout chains tightened. Raoul, whose flail had made even De Carnac give way, turned to follow, but Richard was on him.
"Now, torturer of old men!" the Norman hissed it through his teeth while he felt Trenchefer leaping on high, as though it were a breathing thing.
"Now, St. Julien hound!" and Raoul ran down the bridge to meet him. They were above the moat—a misstep, death. Richard knew it all, yet in strange way knew nothing. Fear—what was it? He saw Raoul's great spike dash down upon him; his head rang, strange lights glared in his eyes; but all his strength sped into the hilt of Trenchefer. The good sword caught the tough oak of the flail, cleft it as a reed, and Raoul de Valmont gave one great cry, and showed a face all gnarled with deathly hate as he reeled into the darkling moat.
"God is with us!" again Richard cried, and he leaped upon the drawbridge. The great door slammed fast in his face; he could hear the bolts rattle; feverish hands strained on the levers to the bridge-ropes. But just as the planking sprang up, the axe of Herbert drove through the ropes like pack thread, and Richard rushed onward to the door.
"Quarter, kind lord, quarter!" voices were crying from within. "Mercy! our lives! as you love Christ!"
"Down with the door!" raged Longsword, whose head seemed one ball of fire.
Herbert poised the great axe, and the solid wood sprang in with the blow, but the bolts were strong.
"Give it me!" and Richard snatched the axe like a toy. Three times the door gave back under the shattering shock; and with the fourth it reeled inward. From the battlement above, beams and stones snowed down upon him. What recked Longsword? He knew they would not hurt, and cared not if they should. Where in his mind was Mary Kurkuas when he felt the hot blood streaming on his torn forehead, and the fury of demons in his heart!
"God is with us!" a third time he called it. Before, opened the dark, narrow, vaulted way to the great hall. There were flashing eyes and tossing blades in the passage. What were these at such an hour! The Valmonters had lived as devils, as devils they fought; but what could they do, save die? Three minutes of hard cutting hand to hand, and the way was cleared. Longsword and his men—that were left—stood in the great hall. The cups still lay on the long tables, scraps of food on the trenchers; for the evening's carousal had not been cleared away. For a moment there was darkness, then a cresset on the wall flashed up, another and another, and all was light.
"Fire! Death! Sack!" the St. Julien men were shouting, and who should say them nay?
There were women and little children cowering on the settles, young girls ran screaming up the swaying ladders to the lofts above, and after them the raging victors. Richard's voice was a trumpet calling above the stormy chaos.
"Up to the parapet, Nasr! Let not a man escape! Search the dungeons, Herbert, lest any hide!"
"Kill! kill!" threescore throats were echoing.
But Richard had caught an old woman by the arm, and dragged her from her knees.
"They say Raoul had a young brother. Where is he? Speak, if you wish to live." His sword was swinging, very red.
"Pity, lord," moaned the shivering creature. "Spare Gilbert. He is harmless as a dove!"
"Where is the boy, woman?" belched the Norman, and struck at her with his knotted fists.
"Oh, mercy!" screamed she; "his mother, Lady Ide, took him to the chapel."
"After me, men!" blazed Richard; and he ran towards a rude stairway leading to a chamber below.
Musa caught his arm. "My brother!" he cried in his ear, "you are beside yourself! This is no work for a cavalier. Your grandfather is avenged. Call off the men!"
"By the Splendor of God!" flashed forth Longsword, "not evenyoushall stop me now!" He thrust back Musa with one sweep of his arm, and flew down the stairway, twenty blades at his heels.
Above, raged the roar of conflict: the moans, cries, agony, battle-shouts, all blending in one hideous, echoing storm. For a moment after the red glare of the hall, Richard blinked in the dark; then in the lower chamber he saw an altar, and four tall candles burning upon it; and around the altar clung white-clad figures, moaning and praying in one breath.
Straight across the little chapel sped Richard; and as he did so he saw amongst the women two men, one tall and in armor, with a sword at his side; the other a youth, with a fair girl's face and curling golden hair. As he strode, one of the women rose and stood before him; very queenly she was in her flowing gray hair, and her brave sweet face; for she was Ide of the Swan's Neck, once the fairest lady in all Auvergne.
"As you hope in God—" began she. But as she spoke the man in armor sprang from the altar, sword in hand.
"Ha! John of the Iron Arm!" laughed De Carnac at Richard's side.
"By the Cross!" cried the Valmonter, "you shall not take me here like a cornered rat!"
And before he could raise to parry, Richard saw the other's blade swing straight upon him. One flash—one thought of Mary Kurkuas—crash! The great mace of Sebastian had dashed the sword aside, and De Carnac smote the man-at-arms so that he toppled with a dull cry. Richard saw John of the Iron Arm at his feet.
"Seize! Bind!" he shouted; "let him be as Baron Gaston said." And he strode straight on toward the altar. Lady Ide caught at his hands.
"As you hope in God," she pleaded, "do not harm my son! Revere the altar!"
And Richard, with all the fiends in his heart, smote her so that she fell without a moan. He saw the boy clinging to a box on the altar—sacred relics doubtless. In one hand the lad held up a brazen crucifix, and stretched it forth—defence against the slayer.
"Pity, pity, for the love of Christ!" he was pleading. He was only a young lad.
Sebastian tore at Richard's arm.
"As you love Our Lord!" cried the churchman, "spare him!" Richard glared round the room.
"Some of you strike down this boy!" was his command to all about. De Carnac, mad sinner, started forward, gave a glance at the relic box and crucifix, recoiled, crossing himself. "Deliver us from evil!" he was muttering.
"You, Abul Kadir," cried Richard to a grinning Saracen. "Pluck the boy away! Hew him down!"
But the Moslem, though his fingers twitched round his hilt, did not stir. "Away, away!" pleaded Sebastian, dragging at the Norman's arm. "Our Lady spare this wickedness!"
"Pity, sweet lord!" moaned the lad, his fair head bowed beneath the crucifix. Richard shook himself from Sebastian's hand. Trenchefer had sprung on high; at his shout the vaulting rang.
"I have sworn it! Christ died not for the spawn of Valmont!" The great sword dashed down the crucifix, shattered the sacred box; the lad lay with his bright locks in a crimson pool.
Then silence more horrible than any noise. In the rooms above they were still chasing, plundering, slaughtering; it sounded very far away. All the tapers save one had been dashed out by the stroke; in the pale flicker Richard could see strong men with their heads bowed, and their lips moving in prayer. Musa leaned against a stone pillar, his cimeter dropped, his face buried in his hands. Only Sebastian was raising his hand in adjuration.
"Come out of him, thou unclean demon," he was saying slowly and solemnly.
Richard looked left, looked right. Why did men stare at him, and shrink away from his glance? Why did his head throb as if the veins were bursting? He held up Trenchefer—how red the blade was! What had he been doing? Lady Ide on the hard flags was beginning to quiver and moan—how came she there? The other women had fled the chapel. The gray shadowy walls seemed turning round and round; Richard caught the altar-rail to stand steady.
"THE LAD LAY WITH HIS BRIGHT LOCKS IN A CRIMSON POOL""THE LAD LAY WITH HIS BRIGHT LOCKS IN A CRIMSON POOL"
Now a mightier shout in the halls above.
"Out! Out! The castle burns!" And with the shout a rising roar and crackle, and the sniff of creeping smoke.
Still Richard stood; almost he felt as a man waking from a dream. Would it not all flee away and leave him at Cefalu in his mother's bower? or at Palermo in the genii palace with Mary Kurkuas beside the plashing fountain?
Musa had stepped to him and touched his arm gently. "Dear brother, the castle burns quickly. We must haste, if all would get out!"
Richard shook himself; his head steadied.
"Come, my men!" He led them up from the chapel. Already the flames were mastering the upper lofts. The parapet was a pyramid of glowing fire. The victors rushed down the drawbridge with their spoil; a great copper dresser, plate, gold cups, tapestry—the plunder of Raoul de Valmont for many a long year. Only Musa stayed long enough in the chapel to bear the Lady Ide outside the bailey, where some of the castle women were not too terrified to care for her, and take her to the cottage of a peasant not far away.
Richard stood outside the gate. The fire was climbing downward and mounting upward. Now from every loophole spouted a blazing jet. The sky had cleared, but the eddying smoke veiled stars and moon. The great keep was a flaming beacon against the dark; ten leagues away lord and vassal would see it, and say that Raoul the Bull of Valmont had met his deserts at last. The St. Julien men crowded around their chief, gave him cheer on cheer, and cried out that with him to lead no emperor might withstand them. Richard stretched up his hands toward the glowing fire-mount.
"Let God Himself undo my deed this night!" he cried. Then they walked to the glen, took horse and were away, and saw St. Julien before dawn. All the ride Richard was laughing and boasting, and saying that he wished a Raoul every month that he might have such rare sport; but Sebastian and Musa said little, and their thoughts were none the most gay.
There was mirth and dancing in the St. Julien castle when Longsword and his band returned. Seventy and more had they gone away, scarce fifty came back, some of the women howled long for the husband or brother whom they brought home on the shields; but save for these, who was there but had a laugh and a cheer for Richard, who had borne himself a very paladin in the fight? When the knight dismounted at the castle gate, forth came the gray-haired steward with the great horn goblet of the urus-ox,—a mighty cup centuries old, ornamented with strangely wrought silver bands, and brimming with home-brewed mead.
"Drink, fair lord," he commanded, "for you have proved a right noble seigneur of St. Julien. None but a cavalier of wondrous valor is suffered to drink from this."
So Richard drained the great horn. "To the perdition of every Valmonter, and to the bright eyes of Mary Kurkuas!"
Then he went to the chamber of his grandfather, who had sat all that night, gnawing his nails, crying to the varlets to run to the parapet to see if the sky was aglow toward Valmont. As Richard came in the old man staggered up to him, caught him by the arm, and sniffled piteously when Richard told how they won the outwork and the bridge and the keep.
"By the Cross!" swore the Baron, half laughing, half moaning, "I would have given half my life to be there,—there and strike one good blow, and feel the steel eat through Raoul de Valmont."
"Raoul de Valmont will never feel another sword," said Richard, softly; "he is gone to his account."
"Aye," cried the Baron; "gone, so the varlets who ran here told me; gone, and a long time St. Peter will have of it reading off the list of his sins. By Our Lady, they were not a few; and perhaps mine are as many, ha! Well, even the devil will not frighten me much, after what I have lived through!"
"You must live and undo your misdeeds if you can, dear grandfather," said Richard, whose own conscience was as yet very easy.
"Yes, I must have a talk with the abbot. Live like a demon, then square at the end with the priests! Two or three fields added to the glebe, a fewsolsready money, and the saints forget all about you, and let you crawl under the gate of heaven—that is the way a man of spirit should live and die! But the Valmonters—the boy Gilbert?"
"I killed him," said Richard, deliberately.
"Good; he had never done any harm; neither have wolf whelps; but we kill them just the same. And John of the Iron Arm?"
"He is here. De Carnac struck him down, but he is alive; they have him in the dungeon now."
"Good again; I can hear him whistle his tune before we let him die.Ai, lad, you will be a right good seigneur for this old castle. I shall sleep in the ground more snugly because I know you possess all. I have fought, scraped, and lied to make the barony larger. No man shall ever say Gaston forgave a foe, or failed to square off a grudge, and now Raoul has been paid—ha!"
So Richard left the old man to chuckle in his darkness. The next day the abbot came over with congratulations, blessings, and a request for the great altar cross of Valmont,—which was due, because the "aggraveandreaggrave," double and triple anathema, he had thundered against the Valmonters, doubtless went far to blast their prowess; and Longsword all piously gave the cross. The monks chantedTe Deumsand enough masses to lift every fallen St. Juliener promptly out of purgatory. Richard went about with merry face and loud laugh. "After the feast comes the dance!" he would cry, when all marvelled at his nimbleness after so hard amêlée.
At the great feast in honor of the victory, Richard sat at the head of the long horseshoe table, drank with the deepest, and never blushed when Theroulde likened him in valor to Huon of Bordeaux or even to Roland.
"You seem very joyous to-night, dear son," said Sebastian, who appeared gloomier than ever.
"And why should I not?" quoth Richard, stretching forth for more wine. "Have I not blotted out my grandfather's enemy; have I not a noble barony; have I not the love of the best of friends," with a glance at Musa, "and of the fairest woman in the world?"
"Ah! sweet son," replied Sebastian, sighing, "all these shall pass away! The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; there will come a time when you will cry, 'Would God I had been mindful of my vow and gone to Jerusalem.' Even now it is not too late; let us go and hear the holy Peter of Amiens, called Peter the Hermit."
Richard cut him short with a direful oath. "Speak not again of Jerusalem. I care more for Mary Kurkuas and for Musa than for ten thousand Jerusalems! Let others who have more sin on their souls, and are more frighted by priests' patter, go if they list. For me I give you the good Arab saying:—
"'Begone all eating cares this night!Who recks to see the morning light?'"
Then, to a serving-varlet: "Here, fellow, another horn." And Richard stood up with all eyes upon him. "To Mary Kurkuas," he drank, "and long may she be the liege lady of St. Julien."
Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints.
Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and scapulary, the sub-prior pronounced over him some words of consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows. Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around his bed night and day sat his petty nobles and neighbors watching in solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle—sure sign of the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water, lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all the lesser nobles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his, and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne, with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving God and Mary Kurkuas." And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser nobles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner, with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays; second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village maids. "Peccatum venale!" cried the abbot to the last charge, and defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel, should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the "villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat at chess with Musa.
"Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the chapel."
"From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder lest the hand of God be laid on him."
"He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his."
Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye: Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry. Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend.
"The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained hairs."
Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"—for so he fondly called his mighty nursling—"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly, "who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!"
"No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his hands."
Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "God will never wink twice, caring for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to take vengeance. Pretty fighting—no music sweeter than that of sword-blades."
"I would that the princess were here," said Musa, "to lift Richard from his black mood." But when the news came that Louis was trying to induce the Counts of Aquitaine and Toulouse to make peace and march against St. Julien, Richard only laughed loudly as Herbert.
"By St. Maurice, let all come; and bring the king of France and Duke of Lorraine. Valmont was too easy a task; let me match my strength against great lords now!"
Musa only shook his head.
"Allah grant," was his prayer, "that naught befall unhappily, until we go back to La Haye for the wedding. Mary Kurkuas's bright eyes will scatter all this darkness."
But day after day went on, and no bolt fell. Richard continued to ride hard, hunt hard, drink hard. Musa began to feel, however, that the shadow was beginning to lift. Louis had been unable to induce Toulouse and Aquitaine to compose their feud; there was little to fear from his quarter. Then one afternoon came the stroke from heaven.
A fair sunny afternoon it was, in the late summer. Richard had been up with the dawn, following a great boar over the mountains. The dogs had brought the beast to bay, and his white tusks had killed three hounds, before Longsword had ended all with a stroke of his Danish hunting-axe. The boar was a giant of his kind. They brought him on a packhorse, that staggered beneath the weight. The carcass was laid out before the huge fireplace of the hall, and all the castle girls and women stood round pinching his shaggy sides, feeling of his white teeth, laughing, chattering, and screaming. Richard, having put off his hunting-boots, was calling to a serving-boy for water, when the bronze slab at the gate began to clang, proclaiming a stranger.
"Héh, porter, open to me!" was the cry without, and there was a scurry of many feet on stairways, for few visitors made their way to St. Julien.
Presently they led into the hall a wandering pedler. He had a weighty pack of Paris pins, of ribbons, of Eastern silks, and fifty kinds of petty gewgaws that set the women oh-ing and ah-ing. But when he undid his bundles, he dragged forth a letter, a roll of parchment, carefully sealed.
"This, fair lord," said he to Richard, "I was bidden to bring you from Marseilles, where a shipmaster put it in my hands."
"From Sicily—from Cefalu, then." Richard had not expected a letter so early, but so much the merrier. Only he was puzzled when he saw that the superscription was not in the hand of his brother Stephen, the usual scribe for his father. Richard broke the seal, which he did not recognize, unrolled, and read; while the girls swarmed round the pedler, ransacked his wares, and pleaded with the men to be generous with the spoils of Valmont, and buy.
But Musa, as he looked at Richard reading, saw sudden sweat-beads standing on his forehead. The letter ran thus:
"Robert of Evroult, Bishop of Messina, to his very dear spiritual son, the valiant and most Christian knight, Sir Richard Longsword, sends his greeting and episcopal blessing."May the grace of our Lord, the pity of our Blessed Lady, ever Virgin, the sweet savor of the Holy Ghost, be upon you. May Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, the great and all-adorable archangels, spread their shields about you, to deliver you. May all the company of the saints on high intercede for you at the throne of the Father of all mercies, and bless you; and may God Himself grant unto you strength and peace."Fair son, it has pleased the Most High to lay upon me a burden which makes my bones to cry out, and my nights to be spent in tears and in roarings. Yet who better than I may write you? Bow to the will of God, and listen. Ten days since it befell that Moslem corsairs landed by night at Cefalu, and stormed your father's castle. The tales we have heard are scanty, for few who saw what befell are here to tell. From a man-at-arms who escaped, it would seem that the castle was surprised about midnight. The garrison was small; for my lord, your father, had sent many of his men into the mountains to chastise some robbers. They say your father laid about him as became a Christian and a cavalier, and slew many; yet at the end, seeing there was no hope, stabbed your mother with his own hands to spare her captivity amongst the infidels. They say, too, that your brother Stephen died fighting with a valor worthy of his father and brother. As for your sister Eleanor, I hear nothing. Therefore, we dare hope, if indeed it is a thing to hope, that she is not dead, but carried away captive by the unbelievers. Soon as the alarm was spread, Prince Tancred, who was near Cefalu, took ships and followed after the pirate's two vessels. One outsailed him; he captured the other after much struggle. The prisoners confessed their chief was the Emir Iftikhar, one time in Count Roger's service. The emir was on the vessel which escaped with your sister, so said the captives. The prince put to death his prisoners in a manner meet to remind them of the greater torments waiting their unbelieving souls. Rumor has it, Iftikhar has sent a creature of his, one Zeyneb, to France to seek your hurt. This is incredible, yet be guarded. I have had masses said for the souls of your kinsfolk; and consider, sweet son, even in your grief, how now they are removed far from this evil world, and have their dwelling with the saints in light. May the tender pity of Christ comfort you, and give you peace. Farewell."
"Robert of Evroult, Bishop of Messina, to his very dear spiritual son, the valiant and most Christian knight, Sir Richard Longsword, sends his greeting and episcopal blessing.
"May the grace of our Lord, the pity of our Blessed Lady, ever Virgin, the sweet savor of the Holy Ghost, be upon you. May Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, the great and all-adorable archangels, spread their shields about you, to deliver you. May all the company of the saints on high intercede for you at the throne of the Father of all mercies, and bless you; and may God Himself grant unto you strength and peace.
"Fair son, it has pleased the Most High to lay upon me a burden which makes my bones to cry out, and my nights to be spent in tears and in roarings. Yet who better than I may write you? Bow to the will of God, and listen. Ten days since it befell that Moslem corsairs landed by night at Cefalu, and stormed your father's castle. The tales we have heard are scanty, for few who saw what befell are here to tell. From a man-at-arms who escaped, it would seem that the castle was surprised about midnight. The garrison was small; for my lord, your father, had sent many of his men into the mountains to chastise some robbers. They say your father laid about him as became a Christian and a cavalier, and slew many; yet at the end, seeing there was no hope, stabbed your mother with his own hands to spare her captivity amongst the infidels. They say, too, that your brother Stephen died fighting with a valor worthy of his father and brother. As for your sister Eleanor, I hear nothing. Therefore, we dare hope, if indeed it is a thing to hope, that she is not dead, but carried away captive by the unbelievers. Soon as the alarm was spread, Prince Tancred, who was near Cefalu, took ships and followed after the pirate's two vessels. One outsailed him; he captured the other after much struggle. The prisoners confessed their chief was the Emir Iftikhar, one time in Count Roger's service. The emir was on the vessel which escaped with your sister, so said the captives. The prince put to death his prisoners in a manner meet to remind them of the greater torments waiting their unbelieving souls. Rumor has it, Iftikhar has sent a creature of his, one Zeyneb, to France to seek your hurt. This is incredible, yet be guarded. I have had masses said for the souls of your kinsfolk; and consider, sweet son, even in your grief, how now they are removed far from this evil world, and have their dwelling with the saints in light. May the tender pity of Christ comfort you, and give you peace. Farewell."
A great cry, inarticulate, terrible, burst from Richard's lips. He staggered as he stood. Herbert grasped him round, to steady. The parchment fell heavily from his hand. Musa caught it, read a few lines.
"My brother! Allah have compassion—" he sobbed, his own heart melting fast.
"Where is Sebastian?" came the choking whisper from Longsword.
"Gone to the village, lord," hesitated Bertrand, "to confess two thieves. He is staying to the feast for the executioner and priest after the hanging!"
"My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?" Richard was moaning. His face was ashen. They looked on him, some about to stop their ears at his blasphemy; but one glance told it was no blasphemy, but bitter truth. He was putting by Herbert lightly as a child, and springing toward the door that led down to the drawbridge. At the sight of his face the women began to weep.
"My brother! my brother! stay!" Musa was calling. He might better have cried to the whirlwind.
"Halt him, men!" shouted Herbert, leaping after. "He is mad; he will slay himself!"
Two or three men-at-arms leaped out, as if to stop him. At one flash from his eyes they fell back, crossing themselves. Richard ran out upon the drawbridge. They could see his feet totter; all held breath—the moat was very deep; he recovered, ran on.
Herbert made a trumpet of his hands and shouted to the porter at the outwork:—
"Stop him! Close the gate!"
But Richard ran right past the gazing fellow, and reached the open. Musa had sped after him.
"Richard, you are mad! Where are you going?" was his despairing call. Longsword only ran the faster. They saw him leave the beaten road, and fly along over garden walls, ditches, hedges, with great bounds worthy of a courser.
Musa pressed behind, but soon found himself completely outdistanced. Richard was heading straight for the lowering mountain. The Arab turned back, panting for breath. Already the Norman was out of sight, lost in the forest. Musa hastened to the castle.
"Call out all the men, send word to the village," was his command to De Carnac; "beat up the mountain with dogs, or you will never see your baron again!"
As Richard Longsword ran across field and fallow that bright afternoon, had the warm sun turned to ink, he would scarce have known it. Sight he had not, nor hearing. He did not feel the bushes that whipped smartly in his face as he dashed through them; he did not see the wide ravine of the brook brawling at his feet. Only by some mad instinct he leaped and cleared it, and ran on and on; fleeing—from what? His head was throbbing, though he had touched no wine; there was a great weight in his breast, numbing, crushing. He even tried to stop himself, to look about, to call back sense and reason. Useless; the passion mastered him, and still he ran on.
As he ran, he prayed; prayed aloud, and knew not what he prayed. "Holy Mary, pray for me! Holy Mother of God, pray for me! Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me! Mother of divine grace, pray for me!"
And still on! Would the fire in his brain never quench? He stumbled over a fallen tree, and knew he was in the forest. He rose, glanced back; he could see at last,—the tower of St. Julien was still in sight. And in the tower were men and maids who could laugh, and chatter, and love the sunshine. Away from them! Richard broke in among the crowding trees, and ran yet faster. Presently, though his pain grew not the less, it ceased to be one aching blur of feelings. Forms, faces, were darting before his eyes; now among the trees; now peering from the thickets; now flitting along some grassy mead on the mountain side. They were not real. He knew it well. When he fastened his gaze on them, they were nowhere. But still he ran. His feet flew like those of the hunted roe. And was he not hunted? Was he not fleeing? From what?
Richard had known his Latin, cavalier that he was. The words of the service were ringing in his ears—who uttered them? "Whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, behold Thou art there." The words sounded and sounded again. Richard clapped his fingers to his ears. Still he heard them. And he must run, run as never before, if he would escape from his pursuer.
Presently he stumbled over a second log; fell headlong beneath a pine tree upon a slipping carpet of dead needles. The fall was heavy; he felt his head thrill with a new pain. For a moment he lay still; and a cool fern pressed comfortingly against his cheek. It was good to rest quietly and look upward into the dark tracery far overhead. He could just see a little patch of the blue shimmering through the pine boughs, a very blue bit of sky. If heaven lay beyond that azure, how fair a land it must be! Richard pressed his hands to his brow, and held them there for long. The throbbing had a little abated. He sat up; looked around. Not a sound except the drone of a mountain honey-bee hanging over some blossom. Trees, trees, before, behind. His eye lost itself in the ranges and mazes of gray-black trunks. There was no path; he had no recollection of the way. He called aloud—only echoes from far-off glens.
Richard rose and sat upon the log; and his fingers tore at the wood's soft mould. Would God his mind had been in His hands! The Cefalu folk—they were all before him—father, mother, sister, brother. He should never see them more in this world—and in the next? Oh, horror! what part could his sainted mother have with her unholy, murderous son! His father had sinned after his kind, yet to him little had been given of holy teaching, and little would be required. But he, Richard Longsword, had he not been brought up gently by his mother, as became a high-born Christian cavalier? Were not her prayers still in his ears? Had there not been at his side for guide and counsellor Sebastian, who was one of the elect of God? Had he not given his mother a pious and holy kiss when he fared away to Auvergne? and did she not send him forth with his virgin knightly honor, to do great deeds for the love of Christ? and how had he kept that honor? He had slain Raoul, and there was never a stain upon his conscience; but Gilbert the lad, the innocent boy who had poured out his blood at the very altar—was it for the love of Christ that he had slainhim? And that vaunt he had flung to heaven when the keep of Valmont burned: "Let God Himself undo the deed!" Lo, it was made good—not even God, were Gilbert de Valmont to stand forth with breath, could take back that sinful stroke of Trenchefer!
Richard cried aloud in his agony; and the black woods rang, and birds flew screaming from their haunts, as though the hawk were on them; echo and reëcho, then the woods were still. Richard roused himself by a painful effort. The tree trunks were darkening; the patch of blue above waxed dim; night was approaching.
"St. Michael!" he muttered, "I must get away quickly, or sleep under the trees."
But a native of the region might well have wandered in that dusky maze, and where were Richard's wits for woodcraft? He plunged heedlessly onward, forcing aside saplings by brute strength, his mind on anything but his path. One thing alone he knew and cared for,—never on earth, never in heaven, would he see his mother again, or his father, or Stephen, the brother at whose learning he had mocked, but in secret revered. And his sister? Well for Iftikhar Eddauleh five hundred leagues lay betwixt him and Richard Longsword, or the emir might have found his proof-panoply become his shroud!
Still Richard wandered. It darkened fast. He began to find himself peering askance into every shadow. He lengthened his stride, for the forest was proving too dense for running. His speed led nowhere—trees, and ever trees, and still the light was failing. Richard raised his voice for a great halloo. Echoes again, but out of the gloom came more,—a low, deep growl; and the Norman knew its meaning well. There was a little break in the forest; the gloaming was a trifle stronger. Richard saw before him two eyes, bright in the twilight as coals of fire, and the vague outlines of a huge, dark form. All the battle instinct of the Norman leaped into life.
"Good," cried he to the woods, "a bear!"
He snatched at his side, no sword—unbuckled at the castle, just before he read the letter. But he laughed in very delight at what might master his chief enemy—conscience. "Good!" cried he again, and he plucked up a great stone. At the moment he felt as if he could grapple the brute in bare hands and come off victor; and if otherwise—what matter?
With all his might he dashed the stone between those gleaming eyes. A mighty snarl. Richard tore the bough from a tree with giant grip, and sprang to the battle. Another snarl and growl, and behold! the brute instead of rearing and showing teeth, shambled away, and was lost in the shadows of the forest. Doubtless it had just been feeding, and would not fight unless at bay. But Richard cried out, cut by his pain:—
"Dear God, even the beasts turn from me, I am so accursed!"
He sat again upon a log; it was very dark. He could just see the tall columns of the trees. The patches of sky were a violet-black now. He stared and stared; he could go no farther; to wander on were madness. There were deep ravines on the mountain side. Richard remained still a long time. As the darkness grew, his sight of things past increased. His boyhood; his life in South Italy and Sicily; his first meeting with Mary; his duel with Louis; his parting with Mary; the storming of Valmont; his mother, ever his mother. She had nursed him herself—rare mark of devotion for a seigneur's lady. She had been proudest of the proud, when he had won his honors. She had whispered to him an hundred sweet admonitions that dear, bright night he was last at Cefalu. Did he love her more than Mary? Praises be to God, there are loves that never war; and such were these! Oh, had he but been at Cefalu, with his good right arm, and Musa, and Herbert, and Nasr—how different, how much better! And now all were dead save Eleanor, his bright-haired sister, and she—the captive of Iftikhar. Why, if God had been so wroth with him, had He not stricken him, and let the innocent go free? He was strong; his will was adamant as the blade of Trenchefer; to save those dear ones a single pang—what would he not suffer! Were they not—all save his sister—happy now? Surely the saints had taken joy to welcome his mother and brother; and within, his father's soul was white, if some little seared without.
"Ah!" cried Richard, "if my own heart were clean, I would not grieve. I would pray for their souls, and love Mary Kurkuas, and know that pure angels intercede for me at God's throne; but now—what with the blood of Gilbert de Valmont, the shattering of the altar—what is mine but torment eternal!"
And Richard saw, he was quite sure, as he strained his eyes in the dark, a fair green country strewn with flowers, and in the midst a battlemented city, and within that a glittering throne with myriad bright angels, playing lute and harp unceasing. Upon the throne sat an old man, with a white beard falling to his girdle, crowned with gold, and holding an orb and sceptre; and Richard knew this was God the Father. Then he saw angels bringing up men before the throne: Raoul de Valmont, John of the Iron Arm, and all their sinful crew. And God said to them: "Why have you come here, your sins unrepented, unshriven, all unprepared to die?" And they answered: "Richard Longsword has sent us; he was wiser than Thou, Lord, and could not bear with us as Thou hadst done so long." Then God said: "Your sins are very great. Depart to the lake of fire!" Then they brought a fair-haired, girlish boy, and God said: "Why hast thou come, dear child, when thou hadst not done on earth that which I designed for thee?" And the boy answered: "Richard Longsword is wiser than Thou; he did not wish me to be on earth." So the angels gave the lad white wings like their own, and a great viol like ajongleur's. But God said: "Concerning Richard Longsword it is written, 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.'" Then some angels, very terrible, approached Richard as he gazed, to lead him to the throne; and lo! he was stripped naked as an infant at the font, and all the strength had sped out of him!...
A mighty peal of thunder! the jagged lightnings springing above the trees; now all the woods were lit by the white bolts, now all was black; and on high, giants were dragging down pinnacles of a mighty fortress. Richard cowered on his seat. The raindrops smote him, but could not cool his glowing temples. The tale of the great storm that presaged Roland's death came to him—how from Mount St. Michael to Cologne there was pitch darkness at noonday. Would God this were omen of his death only—not of his perdition! Betwixt the lightnings could he not see children running about with two heads, and all the boughs swelling out with heads of serpents—sure sign of the presence of the devil? And, in the darkness, what was that flickering will-o'-the-wisp form, unless it was Herodias's daughter dancing, dancing with glee, as they said she ever did when she saw a soul devoted, like herself, to Satan? Would the night ever pass? Richard cowered on his seat. At last—and who might say how long it was in coming?—there was a faint tinge among the tree tops, a low flutter of wings on the branches. One shy bird commenced his morning call; another, another. The blank maze of tree trunks began to unravel into moss-strewn avenues. The dawning was at hand, and the sky fast coming blue. The only traces of the rain were the diamond drops hanging on twig and flower. A warm, moist odor was rising in the wood; the day would be very hot. Richard roused himself. His clothes were wet; he flung away his fur-lined "pelisson"; the heat of the heavy coat was intolerable. His head swam, as he stood up; but he summoned his strong will. His brain steadied. He looked about.
"I am lost," reasoned he; "there is only one way to find the path to St. Julien; I must go above the trees. From the mountain crest I can see which side to go down." So he climbed, though now his steps were no longer strong, and his feet ached wearily. At last—the saints above knew after how long—he saw the pines thinning, then the rocks shone black and bare in the sun. One last effort—and he was out of the forest; the jagged summit still towered above him, but he could look forth—on what a view! Far and wide stretched the pleasant Auvergne country; corn-land and orchard, green but browning with the dying summer. The mountains pressed in on every side, north and west the great volcanicpuystossed their bleak crests far into the blue, as if piers to upbear the heavens. Away to the east were more hills—the Cevennes; and beyond, very near the sky line, what was that whiteness through the scattering haze—the Alps? As he looked up, an eagle rose with hoarse scream from a crag above, and flew into the sky straight in the face of the sun, until his broad pinions were only a speck against the glowing blue. Richard looked downward. To his right and far away lay a village, monastery buildings, a tall bare tower—St. Julien—very small; he must have travelled far. But below him, at his feet, so that he felt he could cast a stone upon it, was another tower—black, smoke-stained; its bare parapet open to heaven, a great charred mass around—Valmont! Richard gazed and shuddered. "Dear God," he cried softly, "why hast Thou led me here, to show me the place of my sin? Am I not enough punished?"
The scream of the eagle had died away. Higher and higher climbed the sun. All the valleys were springing out of the receding shadow. There was a soft, kind wind upon the mountain. Its kiss was sweet and comforting; but Richard needed more than the wind. It was not all pain of the heart that tore him now. His head was very heavy; he felt his knees beating together; at times his sight grew dim.
"I am ill, in fever," he muttered to himself; "I must hasten to some house, or I shall die, and then—" But he never completed. He could see peasants' cottages beyond the Valmont tower; perhaps the dwellers had been wronged by his men the night of the sack, and would make him scantly welcome; but it was better to risk that, than lie down on the naked crest of thepuy. He staggered downward, ever downward. Thrice he fell; thrice rose by a mighty effort. At last he dimly realized that the ground before him no longer sloped; he was clear of rock and trees, and before him, seared and bare, was the keep of Valmont. Richard fell again, this time on soft grass, and lay long. His head had ceased to pain him, but he felt weak as a little child. "I shall die! Christ pity me!" was all his thought. But again he rose, rose and staggered onward. The ruin drew him towards it, as by an enchanter's spell. He found his way past the outer wall, through the open gate where the weeds were already twining. One side of the tower had fallen, filling the moat; within, the other three walls rose, bare, fire-scarped, cavernous. Still Richard dragged forward. He was upon the cinders now; charred beams, benches. Here was a shivered target, there a shattered lance. As he advanced, three crows flew, coming from some carrion spoil they had found within. He was inside the enclosure of the keep; the sun no longer beat on him. It was cool and still. His strength was at an end. On a pile of dust and ashes were little green weeds springing. It was soft. He lay down, and tried to close his eyes and call back some prayers. "Here it is I shall die!" his wan lips muttered. But as he rested, something hard pressed his head. He took it, dragged it from the dust. Behold! a brass crucifix, and right across the body of Our Lord a deep, rude dint! "The crucifix held by the boy when I slew him!" moaned Richard. Then he looked on the face of the Christ. The lips moved not, the eyes gave no sign; but as Richard kept gazing, he felt the brass turning to fire in his hands,—pain, but pain infused with a wondrous gladness. "Christ died not for the spawn of Valmont!" had been his blasphemy; had Christ died forhim? "Ah! Sweet Son of God," cried Richard from his soul, "Thou didst not come to earth and suffer for the pure and righteous, but Thou didst come for such as I. Thou didst pardon the thief on the cross; canst Thou pardon even me? I have committed foul murder, and insulted holy relics, and made the heavens ring with my blasphemies. I have no merit; I were justly sent to perdition for my sins; I lie here, perhaps dying. Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!" Did a voice speak from the blue above? Was it only some forest bird that croaked in Richard's disordered ear? "Lord," cried Richard, half rising, "if Thou canst forgive, do not let me die; let me live, and, by Thy holy agony, I swear I will remember the vow of my youth; I will remember the sorrows of Thy Holy City; and I will rest not day nor night, I will spare not wealth nor love nor blood, till I see the Cross triumphant upon the walls of Jerusalem, or until I die—if so God wills it!" And he knew nothing more until some one was dashing water in his face, and above him he saw the villain, "Giles of the Mill," who had been the betrayer of Valmont.
"Ah, lord," he was saying, "well it was that Americ, the leper, wandering here in search for red adders, found you and told me!"
"Americ, the leper?" asked Richard, his wits wandering.
"Yes, lord; we keep him shut in a little hut outside the hamlet. But early in the mornings we let him go out hunting for red adders with white bellies; for if he eats enough of them with leeks, he is cured. But you, fair sir, are grievously ill. I must take you to my cottage."
Then Richard lapsed again into a stupor; and when next he saw the world, he was in the miller's house. The good-wife was making a great fire with vine branches, and hanging a huge iron pot to heat water. They had laid Richard on the bed, the only one in the whole house, broad enough for both parents and the half-dozen dirty, shock-headed brats, that were squalling round the single room, and chasing the little pigs who belonged there as much as themselves. The children would steal up to the bed softly on tiptoe, and make curious glances at the "great seigneur," who had avenged their elder brother by slaying the terrible Bull of Valmont. Then their mother would cry out to them to keep their distance: "Who were they to set eyes on the mighty lord, who could send them all to the gallows if he listed?" But Richard, as he gazed on the unkempt, freckled faces, said in his heart, "Ah, if I could give all the St. Julien lands for the one white conscience of that little girl!"
Giles of the Mill presently had out his plodding horse, and pounded away on the road to St. Julien, while his wife called in two wrinkled old crones, who looked at Richard, and shook their heads, then whispered almost loud enough to let him understand. The women put strange things into the pot: the feet of a toad, many weeds and flowers, the tail of a kitten, and a great spider. Then when the water was very hot, they brought some to him in a huge wooden spoon. Richard, though he knew what Arabian physicians could do, was too weak to resist them. Presently there was a clatter of hoofs without, and Herbert, Musa, and Sebastian were coming into the cottage. The face of Musa was very grave when he touched Richard's wrist; his next act was to empty the kettle on the earthen floor. The Norman's last strength was gone: he had tried to rise to greet his friends, sank back; his words were but whispers. Sebastian bent over him.
"Dear father," the priest barely heard, "pray for me, pray for me; I have sworn to go to Jerusalem."
But Richard's eyes were too dim to see the light breaking on Sebastian's face. Herbert and Musa devised a litter, and they bore the knight back to St. Julien.
Richard Longsword lay betwixt death and life for many a long day. Sebastian hardly left him for an hour, nor did Herbert; but it was Musa that saved him. Sebastian had a plainly expressed dislike for the Spaniard's ministrations.
"It is suffering Satan to cast out Satan," said he, to the Andalusian's face, "to suffer an infidel, such as you, to try to heal Richard."
"Verily, learned sheik," answered Musa, with one of his grave smiles, "if it is better that Richard should die and dwell with your saints, I will not use my art."
"No," sighed Sebastian, who had not lived in Sicily with eyes quite closed, "the lad is reserved for great things, for God and Holy Church. He must not die; use your arts, and I will pray Our Lady that she will defeat the evil in your science, and retain the good."
So Richard was medicined according to the teachings of the world-famed Abul Kasim, and Sebastian went so far as to side with Musa, when the Arab forbade the officious sub-prior—who boasted himself a leech—to speak again of poulticing the Baron's head with sheep's lungs. A wandering Jewish doctor from the school of Montpellier gave more efficient aid. The abbot brought over a finger bone of St. Matthew to put under Richard's pillow,—sure talisman against madness. And it was sorely needed. Many a time those about the bed would shiver when they heard Longsword scream aloud that Gilbert was standing beside him, his face red with blood.
"Remember Mary's tale," Richard would cry, "of the evil Emperor Constans, who slew his brother, and how the dead man stood before him in sleep, holding forth a cup of blood, saying, 'Drink, my brother, drink!' So with me, Gilbert de Valmont holds the cup, I cannot drink it! Holy Saints, I cannot! Away, away with him!"
And in half-lucid moments, Richard would hear Sebastian pray, "Dear Lord, if by penance and sacrifice of mine I gain merit in Thy sight, lay it not up for me, but for Richard, my dear son. For I love him, Lord, more than any other, saving Thee; and he has sinned grievously, and Thy hand is heavy upon him. But pity him; he repents, he will go to deliver Thy tomb and Holy City."
After this, when Richard lapsed again into his mad spells, he would howl that he was being cast into the burning abyss of Baratron with the devils Berzebu and Nero. But at last the fever left him wan and weak, with a face grown ten years older in two months. The castle folk rejoiced. The abbot came with congratulations and a tale how Brother Matthias, admittedly a little near-sighted, had seen in broad day St. Julien himself, accompanied by his stag, who had signified that the Baron should recover, and give five hundred "white deniers" to the abbey as thank-offering. Sebastian firmly forbade any generosity.
"Do you doubt the vision?" asked Richard.
Sebastian smiled grimly. "I do not doubt. But St. Julien asked for money for himself; and your all is dedicated to a higher than St. Julien—Christ. Our Lord did not bid us bestow riches on the rich. Need there will be of all money and good swords and strong right arms, before our sinful eyes see the deliverance of the Holy City. Let not even pious gratitude turn your thoughts aside." So the monks growled helplessly, for Sebastian had the Baron's ear now, and all the people venerated him as being one who seldom touched fish or flesh, slept little, prayed long, and always cast down his eyes when he passed a pretty maid.
Then came another letter, from La Haye, in Mary Kurkuas's neat Greek hand.
"Mary Kurkuas to her dearest heart, Richard Longsword, sends tears and many kisses. Life of my life, I have heard the news from Sicily, and my heart is torn. It was for my sake that you earned the wrath of Iftikhar, because I said 'I love you' to you, not to him. Each morning and sunset I kneel before my picture of the Blessed 'God-bearer,' praying her to have pity on you, to make you strong, to stanch your heart. From my wise Plato and Plutarch, I draw no healing; but when I look on the face of the Mother of God I know all is well, though human eye may not see. There has come a travellingjongleurfrom Auvergne, who tells a wonderful tale of your deed at Valmont. In the midst of my sorrow I yet rejoice and thank the saints, that my own true cavalier was spared, and was suffered to slay that horrible Raoul. Yet I am glad it was all hid from me till safely over. I know you have a great work to do in Auvergne, and would not call you hence. Yet remember now that the summer is just sped, that I am waiting for you at La Haye. Then when you come, I can touch your face, and smooth away all the pain, and we will look no longer back but forward. And so with a thousand kisses more, farewell."
"Mary Kurkuas to her dearest heart, Richard Longsword, sends tears and many kisses. Life of my life, I have heard the news from Sicily, and my heart is torn. It was for my sake that you earned the wrath of Iftikhar, because I said 'I love you' to you, not to him. Each morning and sunset I kneel before my picture of the Blessed 'God-bearer,' praying her to have pity on you, to make you strong, to stanch your heart. From my wise Plato and Plutarch, I draw no healing; but when I look on the face of the Mother of God I know all is well, though human eye may not see. There has come a travellingjongleurfrom Auvergne, who tells a wonderful tale of your deed at Valmont. In the midst of my sorrow I yet rejoice and thank the saints, that my own true cavalier was spared, and was suffered to slay that horrible Raoul. Yet I am glad it was all hid from me till safely over. I know you have a great work to do in Auvergne, and would not call you hence. Yet remember now that the summer is just sped, that I am waiting for you at La Haye. Then when you come, I can touch your face, and smooth away all the pain, and we will look no longer back but forward. And so with a thousand kisses more, farewell."
This letter made the gloom on Richard Longsword's brow settle more darkly than ever. She knew of his sorrow, of his storming of Valmont—of the death of Gilbert, not a word! Here was fresh sorrow; to his own mortal pain must be added that of giving anguish to one dearer than self. Who was he, with innocent blood almost reddening his hands, with blasphemies nigh upon his lips, to take in his arms a beautiful woman, pure as an angel of light? Richard ground his teeth in his pain.
"Dear Sebastian," cried he once, despairing, "can even the great pilgrimage wipe out my sin? Did not Foulques of Anjou go thrice to Jerusalem before earning peace for his soul?"
"My son," was the answer, "fear not; your sin is great, yet not as Foulques's, for he tortured his brother to death in a dungeon. No other pilgrimage—to St. James of Compostella, to St. Martin of Tours—is like to that to Jerusalem. And now you are to go, not with staff and scrip, but with a good sword, and to win great battles for God and His Christ!"
So for a moment Richard brightened; then, lapsing in gloom, he groaned: "Unworthy, all unworthy am I so much as to look upon the City of God! Let me turn monk, and seek peace in toil and fast and vigil."
But Sebastian shook his head: "Well I know that too often the very seat of Satan is within the cloister—spiritual arrogance, worldly lust, even in the great abbey of Clugny itself. And did God give you a grip of steel and an arm of iron to let them grow weak in some monkish cell? You have a great work before you, sweet son. Fear not, be patient. God will bring it to pass!"
There was a strength, a simple majesty, about Sebastian, when he spoke, that made all doubts for the moment flee away. So Richard continued to possess himself in such peace as he might. Day by day he grew stronger; and at last, just as October began with its cool evenings and crystal mornings, he was again riding about upon Rollo. All the St. Julien vassals fell on their knees when their dread lord passed their hamlets, and they put up a prayer of thanksgiving; for they said, "The seigneur is a kind and just man, with the love of God in his heart, despite his fury at Valmont."
But now came messengers out of the south. Louis de Valmont had raised a great force; all the roving bandits of the woods had gathered around him; the war between Aquitaine and Toulouse lagged, and many landless cavaliers had come under his banner. When Herbert heard the news he began to talk of victualling St. Julien for a long siege, and sending to Burgundy and Languedoc for help. But Richard would hear none of it.
"The saints know there has been enough Christian blood spilled, since I came to Auvergne. There shall be no more in my quarrel," declared he; and he sent back a messenger to Louis, saying that he prayed him to enter on no new feud, but to grant a meeting where they might compose their quarrels without arms. Three days sped, and back came the envoy with a letter, which three months earlier would have made Richard swear great oaths and draw out Trenchefer. "Louis de Valmont," ran the reply, "will come to St. Julien and there meet Richard Longsword, and five hundred lances will come with him. As for composition, let Richard make what terms he could with the saints, for on earth he need beg for no quarter."
"By the Glory of Allah!" declared Musa, when the letter was read, "we will make them cry 'Hold!' before many arrows fly!" And Herbert began to call to arms the vassals of the barony, and chuckled when he thought of the brave times ahead. But Richard, when he had slept on the letter, called for Sebastian, and was with him long alone. Then he unbuckled Trenchefer, put on a soiled, brown bleaunt, and bade them bring a common palfrey for himself and a mule for Sebastian. He commanded Herbert to keep strict guard of the castle, to yield to none, to attack none. Even to Musa he would not tell the object of his journey. With the priest at his side he rode out of the village, and turned his face toward the south, where the road climbed over the mountains.
They journeyed on till the sun lacked a bare hour of setting. Then before them, on a smooth meadow where ran a little river, they saw many rude tents, horses picketed to lances thrust in the ground, the smoke of camp-fires; and heard the hum of a hundred voices. Presently into the road sprang half a dozen surly, hard-visaged men with tossing pole-axes and spiked clubs. They demanded of knight and priest their business, in no gentle tone.
"Tell your master, Louis de Valmont," said Sebastian, mildly, "that a cavalier and a servant of Holy Church would speak with him."
"A servant of Holy Church, ho!" cried one of the men-at-arms, with a covetous glance at the mule; but Sebastian fastened his firelike eyes upon the fellow, who dropped his gaze and began to mutter something about the evil eye.
They led the two into the midst of the camp, where a great press of disorderly varlets and petty nobles swarmed around, pointing, laughing, whispering loudly. Only the largest tent was carefully closed, and about it stood sentries in armor. A man-at-arms went to this, thrust in his head, and was back with the message:—
"Sir Louis de Valmont and his mother, the noble Lady Ide, have no time to waste words with every wandering knight and priest that come this way. They bid you state your errand to me and begone, or we strip you of steeds and purses."
"Tell Louis de Valmont," said Richard, in a voice that many might hear, "that the Baron of St. Julien and his chaplain desire speech with him, and that speedily!"