"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."
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!"
CHAPTER XV
HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX
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 slain him? 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 a jongleur'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 volcanic puys tossed 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 the puy. 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 for him? "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.