 Chapter 33 Part 2 of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed. At the next town they came to, suddenly an arbalestrier ran out of a tavern after them, and in a moment his beard and denise were like two brushes stuck together. It was a comrade. He insisted on their coming into the tavern with him, and breaking a bottle of wine. In the course of conversation he told Denis there was an insurrection in the Duke's Flemish provinces, and soldiers were ordered thither from all parts of Burgundy. Indeed, I marveled to see thy face turned this way. I go to embrace my folk that I have not seen these three years, you can quell a bit of a rising without me, I throw. Suddenly Denis gave a start. Dost here, Gerard? This comrade is bound for Holland. What then? Ah! A letter! A letter to Margaret! But will he be so good, so kind? The soldier, with a torrent of blasphemy, informed him that he would not only take it, but go a league or two out of his way to do it. In an instant out came inkhorn and paper from Gerard's wallet, and he wrote a long letter to Margaret, and told her briefly what I fear I have spun too tediously, dwelt most on the bear, and the plunge in the rine, and the character of Denis whom he painted to the life. And with many endearing expressions bade her be of good cheer, some trouble and peril there had been, but that was all over now, and his only grief left was that he could not hope to have a word from her hand till he should reach Rome. He ended with comforting her again as hard as he could, and so absorbed was he in his love and his work, that he did not see all the people in the room was standing peeping, to watch the nimble and true finger execute such rare penmanship. Denis, proud of his friend's skill, let him alone, till presently the writer's face worked, and soon the scalding tears began to run down his young cheeks, one after another on the paper where he was then writing Comfort, Comfort. Then Denis rudely repulsed the curious, and asked his comrade with a faltering voice whether he had the heart to let so sweet a love letter miscarry. The other swore by the face of St. Luc he would lose the forefinger of his right hand sooner. Seeing him so ready, Gerard charged him also with a short, cold letter to his parents, and in it he drew hastily with his pen two hands grasping each other to signify farewell. By the by one drop of bitterness found its way into his letter to Margaret. And of that anon. Gerard now offered money to the soldier. He hesitated, but declined it. No, no, art comrade of my comrade, and may, etc., but thy love for the wench touches me. I'll break another bottle at thy charge, and thou wilt, and so cry quits. Well said comrade, cried Denis, hadst taken money I had invited thee to walk in the courtyard and cross swords with me. Whereupon I had cut thy comb for thee, retorted the other, hadst done thy endeavour, droll, I doubt not. They drank the new bottle, shook hands, adhered to custom, and parted on opposite routes. This delay, however, somewhat put out to Denis's calculations, and evening surprised them ere they reached a little town he was making for, where was a famous hotel. However, they fell in with a roadside auberge, and Denis, seeing a buxom girl at the door, said, This seems a decent inn, and led the way into the kitchen. They ordered supper. To which no objection was raised, only the landlord requested them to pay for it beforehand. It was not an uncommon proposal in any part of the world. Still, it was not universal, and Denis was nettle'd, and dashed his hands somewhat ostentatiously into his purse, and pulled out a gold angel. Count me the change, and speedily, said he, You tavern-keepers are more likely to rob me than are you! While the supper was preparing, Denis disappeared, and was eventually found by Gérard in the yard, helping Manon, his plump but not bright decoy duck, to draw water, and pouring extravagant compliments into her dullish ear. Gérard grunted and returned to table, but Denis did not come in for a good quarter of an hour. A pill-work at the end of a march, said he, shrugging his shoulders. What matters that to you? said Gérard dryly. The mad dog bites all the world. Exaggerator! You know I bite but the fair are half. Well, here comes supper. That is better worth biting. During supper the girl kept constantly coming in and out, and looking point-blank at them, especially at Denis, and at last in leaning over him to remove a dish, dropped a word in his ear, and he replied with a nod. As soon as supper was cleared away, Denis rose and strolled to the door, telling Gérard the sullen fair had relented, and given him a little rondevue in the stable yard. Gérard suggested that the calf-pen would have been a more appropriate locality. I shall go to bed, then, said he a little crossly, whereas the landlord outed this time of night. No matter. I know our room. Shall he be long, pray? Not I. I grudge leaving the fire and thee. But what can I do? There are two sorts of invitations a Burgundian never declines. Denis found a figure seated by the well. It was Manon, but instead of receiving him, as he thought he had a right to expect coming by invitation, all she did was to sob. He asked her what ailed her. She sobbed. Could he do anything for her? She sobbed. The good-natured Denis, driven to his wit's end, which was no great distance, proffered the custom of the country by way of consolation. She repulsed him roughly. Is it a time for fooling? said she, and sobbed. You seem to think so, said Denis, waxing rough. But the next moment he added tenderly, and I, who could never bear to see beauty in distress. It is not for myself. Who, then, your sweet-ot? Oh, King Denis! My sweet-ot is not on earth now, and I to think I have not in ecu to buy masses for his soul. And in this shallow nature, the grief seemed now to be all turned in another direction. Come, come, said Denis, shalt have money to buy masses for thy dead lad, I swear it. Meantime, tell me why you weep. For you? For me? Ought mad? No, I am not mad. Tis you that were mad to open your purse before him. The mystery seemed to thicken, and Denis, weary of stirring up the mud by questions, held his peace to see if it would not clear of itself. Then the girl, finding herself no longer questioned, seemed to go through some internal combat. At last she said, doggedly and aloud, I will, the virgin give me courage. What matters it if they kill me, since he is dead? Soldier, the landlord is out. Oh, is he? What? Do landlords leave their taverns at this time of night? Also, see what a tempest! We are sheltered here, but to the side it blows a hurricane. Denis said nothing. He is gone to fetch the band. The band? What band? Those who will cut your throat and take your gold, wretched man, to go and shake gold in an innkeeper's face? The blow came so unexpectedly, it staggered even Denis, accustomed, as he was, to sudden perils. He muttered a single word, but in it a volume. Gerard! Gerard, what is that? Oat is like Comrade's name, poor lad. Get him out quick ere they come and fly to the next town. And thou? They will kill me. That shall they not fly with us. Twill avail me naught. One of the band will be sent to kill me. They are sworn to slay all who betray them. I'll take thee to my native place, full thirty leagues from thence, and put thee under my own mother's wing ere they shall hurt a hair of thy head. But first, Gerard, stay thou here whilst I fetch him. As he was darting off, the girl seized him convulsively, and with all the iron strength, excitement lends to women. Stay me not for pity's sake, he cried, to his life or death. Whispered the girl, shutting his mouth hard with her hand, and putting her pale lips close to him, and her eyes that seemed to turn backwards, straining towards some indistinct sound. He listened. He heard footsteps, many footsteps, and no voices. She whispered in his ear, they are come, and trembled like a leaf. Denis felt it was so. Travelers in that number would never have come in dead silence. The feet were now at the very door. How many, said he in a hollow whisper, hush! And she put her mouth to his very ear. And who, that had seen this manned woman in that attitude, would have guessed what freezing hearts were theirs, and what terrible whispers passed between them? How armed! Sordent dagger, and the giant with its axe, they call him the Abbot. And my comrade? Nothing could save him. Better lose one life than two, fly! Denis's blood froze at this cynical advice. Poor creature, you know not a soldier's heart. He put his head in his hands a moment, and a hundred thoughts of dangerous baffled whirled through his brain. Listen, girl, there is one chance for our lives if thou wilt but be true to us. Run to the town, to the nearest tavern, and tell the first soldier there that a soldier here is sore beset but armed, and his life to be saved if they will but run. Then to the bailiff, but first to the soldier's. Nay, not a word, but bust me, good lass, and fly! Men's lives hang on thy heels. She kilted up her gown to run. He came round to the road with her, saw her cross the road, cringing with fear, then glide away, then turn into an erect shadow, then melt away in the storm. And now he must get to Gerard. But how? He had to run the gauntlet of the whole band. He asked himself what was the worst thing they could do. For he had learned in war that an enemy does not what you hope he will do, but what you hope he will not do. Attack me as I enter the kitchen, then I must not give them time. Just as he drew near to the latch, a terrible thought crossed him. Suppose they had already dealt with Gerard. Why, then, thought he, naught is left but to kill and be killed. And he strung his bow, and walked rapidly into the kitchen. There were seven hideous faces seated round the fire, and the landlord pouring them out, neat brandy, blood's forerunner in every age. What company! cried Denis Gaeli. One minute, my lads, and I'll be with you. And he snatched up a lighted candle off the table, opened the door that led to the staircase, and went up it, hallowing, What! Gerard, wither hast thou sculpted, too? There was no answer. He hallowed louder. Gerard, where art thou? After a moment, in which Denis lived an hour of agony, a pee-fish, half inarticulate noise issued from the room at the head of the little stairs. Denis burst in, and there was Gerard asleep. Thank God, he said in a choking voice, then began to sing loud, un-tuneful ditties. Gerard put his fingers into his ears, but presently he saw, in Denis's face, a horror that contrasted strangely with this sudden merriment. What ails thee? said he, sitting up and staring. Hush! said Denis, and his hand spoke even more plainly than his lips. Listen to me! Denis, then pointing significantly to the door, to show Gerard's sharp ears were listening hard by, continued his song aloud, but under cover of it, through in short, muttered syllables. Our lives are in peril. Thieves, thy doublet, thy sword, aid, coming, put off time, then aloud, Well thou wilt have to the bottle, say nay. No, not I. But I tell thee, there are half a dozen jolly fellows, tired. I, but I am too weary, said Gerard, go, thou, nay, nay. Then he went to the door and called out cheerfully, Landlord, the young milk-sob will not rise. Give those honest fellows to the bottle, I will pay for it in the morning. He heard a brutal and fierce chuckle. Having thus, by observation, made sure the kitchen door was shut, and the miscreants were not actually listening, he examined the chamber door closely, then quietly shut it, but did not bolt it. And went and inspected the window. It was too small to get out of, and yet a thick bar of iron had been let in the stone to make it smaller, and just as he made this chilling discovery, the outer door of the house was bolted with a loud clang. Denis groaned, the beasts are in the shambles. But would the thieves attack them while they were awake? Probably not. Not to throw away this their best chance, the poor souls now made a series of desperate efforts to converse, as if discussing ordinary matters, and by this means Gerard learned all that had passed, and that the girl was gone for aid. "'Pray heaven, she may not lose heart by the way,' said Denis sorrowfully. And Denis begged Gerard's forgiveness for bringing him out of his way for this. Gerard forgave him. I would fear them less, Gerard, but for one they called the abbot. I picked him out at once, taller than you, bigger than us both put together. Fights with an axe. Gerard, a man to lead a herd of deer to battle. I shall kill that man to-night, or he will kill me. I think somehow, tis he will kill me. Saints forbid shoot him at the door. What avails his strength against your weapon? I shall pick him out, but if it comes to hand-fighting, run swiftly under his guard, or you are a dead man. I tell thee, neither of us may stand a blow of that axe. You never saw such a body of a man.' Gerard was for-bolting the door, but Denis with a sign showed him that half the door-post turned outward on a hinge, and the great bolt was little more than a blind. I have for-borned a bolt, it said he, that they may think us the less suspicious. Near an hour rolled away thus. It seemed an age, yet it was but a little hour, and the town was a league distant, and some of the voices in the kitchen became angry and impatient. They will not wait much longer, said Denis, and we have no chance at all unless we surprise them. I will do what ere you bid, said Gerard Meekly. There was a cupboard on the same side as the door, but between it and the window. It reached nearly to the ground, but not quite. Denis opened the cupboard door and placed Gerard on a chair behind it. If they run for the bed, strike at the nape of their necks. A sword cut there always kills or disables. He then arranged the bolsters and their shoes in the bed, so as to deceive a person peeping from a distance, and drew the short curtains at the head. Meantime Gerard was on his knees. Denis looked round and saw him. Ah! said Denis. Above all, pray them to forgive me for bringing you into this get-up-on. And now they grasped hands and looked in one another's eyes, and oh! such a look! Denis's hand was cold and Gerard's warm. They took their posts. Denis blew out the candle. We must keep silence now. But in the terrible tension of their nerves and very souls, they found they could hear a whisper fainter than any man could catch at all outside that door. They could hear each other's heart thump at times. Good news, breathed Denis, listening at the door. They are casting lots. Pray that it may be the Abbott. Yes, why? If he comes alone, I can make sure of him. Denis! Ah! I fear I shall go mad if they do not come soon. Shall I faint sleep? Shall I snore? Will that? Perhaps. Do then, and God have mercy on us. Denis snored at intervals. There was a scuffling of feet heard in the kitchen, and then all was still. Denis snored again, then took up his position behind the door. But he, or they who had drawn the lot, seemed determined to run no foolish risks. Nothing was attempted in a hurry. When they were almost starved with cold and waiting for the attack, the door on the stairs opened softly and closed again. Nothing more. There was another harrowing silence. Then a single light footstep on the stair, and nothing more. Then a light crept under the door, and nothing more. Presently there was a gentle scratching, not half so loud as a mouser's, and the false door-post opened by degrees and left a perpendicular space through which the light streamed in. The door had it been bolted, would now have hung by the bare tip of the bolt, which went into the real door-post, but as it was, it swung gently open of itself. It opened inwards, so Denis did not raise his crossbow from the ground, but merely grasped his dagger. The candle was held up and shaded from behind by a man's hand. He was inspecting the beds from the threshold, satisfying that his victims were both in bed. The man glided into the apartment, but at the first step, something in the position of the cupboard and chair made him uneasy. He ventured no further but put the candle on the floor and stopped to peer under the chair, but as he stooped an iron hand grasped his shoulder, and a dagger was driven so fiercely through his neck that the point came out at his gullet. There was a terrible hiccup, but no cry, and half a dozen silent strokes followed in swift succession, each a death blow, and the assassin was laid noiselessly on the floor. Denis closed the door, bolted it gently, drew the post to, and even while he was going, whispered Gerard to bring a chair. It was done. Help me set him up. Dead? What for? Frighten up, gain time. Even while saying this, Denis had whipped a piece of string round the dead man's neck and tied him to the chair, and there the ghastly figure sat fronting the door. Denis, I can do better, saints forgive me. What? Be quick, then. We have not many moments. And Denis got his crossbow ready, and tearing off his straw mattress reared it before him, and prepared to shoot the moment the door should open. For he had no hope any more would come singly when they found the first did not return. While thus employed, Gerard was busy about the seated corpse, and to his amazement, Denis saw a luminous glow spreading rapidly over the white face. Gerard blew out the candle, and on this the corpse's face has shone still more like a glowworm's head. Denis shook in his shoes, and his teeth chattered. What in heaven's name is this? he whispered. Hush! Tis but phosphorus, but twill-serve. Away! they will surprise thee. In fact, uneasy mutterings were heard below, and at last a deep voice said, What makes him so long? is the droll rifling them? It was their comrade they suspected then, not the enemy. Soon a step came softly but rapidly up the stairs. The door was gently tried. When this resisted, which was clearly not expected, the sham-post was very cautiously moved, and an eye no doubt peeped through the aperture, for there was a howl of dismay, and the man was heard to stumble back and burst into the kitchen. Here a babel of voices rose directly on his return. Gerard ran to the dead thief, and began to work on him again. Back madman! whispered the knee. Nay, nay! I know these ignorant brutes. They will not venture here awhile. I can make him ten times more fearful. At least close that opening. Let them not see you at your devilish work. Gerard closed the sham-post, and in half a minute his brush gave the dead head a sight to strike any man with dismay. He put his art to a strange use, and one unparalleled, perhaps, in the history of mankind. He illuminated his dead enemy's face to frighten his living foe. The staring eyeballs he made globes of fire. The teeth he left white, for so they were more terrible by the contrast. But the palatant tongue he tipped with fire, and made one lurid cavern of the red depths the chap-fallen jaw revealed. And on the brow he wrote in burning letters, La More! And while he was doing it, the stout denny was quaking, and fearing the vengeance of heaven, for one man's courage is not another's, and the band of miscreants below were quarrelling and disputing loudly, and now without disguise. The steps that led down to the kitchen were fifteen, but they were nearly perpendicular. There was therefore in point of fact no distance between the besiegers and besieged, and the latter now caught almost every word. At last one was heard to cry out, I tell you the devil has got him and branded him with hell-fire, I am more like to leave this cursed house than go again into a room that is full of fiends. Art drunk, or mad, or a coward, said another, call me a coward, I'll give you my dagger's-point, and send him where pierce sits o'er fire forever. Come, no quarrelling when work is afoot, wrought a tremendous dire pason, or I'll brain you both with my fist, and send you where we shall all go soon or late. The abbot whispered denny gravely. He felt the voice he had just heard could belong to no man, but the colossus he had seen in passing through the kitchen. It made the place vibrate. The quarrelling continued some time, and then there was a dead silence. Look out, Gerard. Aye, what will they do next? We shall soon know. Shall I wait for you, or cut down the first that opens the door? Wait for me, lest we strike the same and waste a blow. Alas, we cannot afford that. Dead silence. Sudden came into the room a thing that made them start, and their hearts quiver. And what was it? A moon-beam. Even so can this machine, the body by the soul's action, be strung up to start and quiver. The sudden ray shot keen and pure into that shamble. It's calm, cold, silvery soul traversed the apartment in a stream of no great volume, for the window was narrow. After the first tremor Gerard whispered, Courage denny, God's eye is on us even here. And he fell upon his knees with his face turned towards the window. Aye, it was like a holy eye opening suddenly on human crime. And human passions. Many a scene of blood and crime that pure cold eye had rested on. But on few more ghastly than this, where two men with a lighted corpse between them waited panting to kill and be killed. Nor did the moonlight deaden that horrible corpse light. If anything, it added to its ghastliness, for the body sat at the edge of the moon-beam, which cut sharp across the shoulder and the ear, and seemed blue and ghastly and unnatural by the side of that lurid glow in which the face and eyes and teeth shone horribly. But denny dared not look that way. The moon drew a broad stripe of light across the door, and on that his eyes were glued. Presently he whispered, Gerard. Gerard looked and raised his sword. Acutely as they had listened, they had heard of late no sound on the stair, yet therein the door-post, at the edge of the stream of moonlight, were the tips of the fingers of a hand. The nails glistened. Presently they began to crawl and crawl down towards the bolt, but with infinite slowness and caution. In so doing they crept into the moonlight. The actual motion was imperceptible, but slowly, slowly, the fingers came out whiter and whiter, but the hand between the main knuckles and the wrist remained dark. Denny slowly raised his crossbow. He levelled it. He took a long, steady aim. Gerard palpitated. At last the crossbow twanged. The hand was instantly nailed with a stern jar to the quivering door-post. There was a scream of anguish. Cut! whispered Denny eagerly, and Gerard's uplifted sword descended and severed the wrist with two swift blows. A body sank down moaning outside. The hand remained inside, immovable, with blood trickling from it down the wall. The fierce bolt, slightly barbed, had gone through it and deep into the real door-post. Two! said Denny, with terrible cynicism. He strung his crossbow and kneeled behind his cover again. The next will be the abbot. The wounded man moved and presently crawled down to his companions on the stairs, and the kitchen door was shut. There nothing was heard now but low muttering. The last incident had revealed the mortal character of the weapons used by the besieged. I begin to think the abbot's stomach is not so great as his body, said Denny. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the following events happened all in a couple of seconds. The kitchen door was opened roughly, a heavy but active man darted up the stairs without any manner of disguise, and a single ponderous blow sent the door not only off its hinges but right across the room onto Denny's fortification, which had struck so rudely as nearly to lay him flat, and in the doorway stood a colossus with a glittering axe. He saw the dead man with the moon's blue light on half his face and the red light on the other half and inside his chap-fallen jaws. He stared, his arms fell, his knees knocked together, and he crouched with terror. L'amour! he cried in tones of terror and turned and fled. In which act Denny started up and shot him through both jaws. He sprang with one bound into the kitchen and there leaned on his axe, spitting blood and teeth and curses. Denny strung his bow and put his hand into his breast. He drew it out and dismayed. My last bolt is gone, he groaned, but we have our swords and you have slain the giant. No, Gerard, said Denny gravely, I have not, and the worst is I have wounded him, fool to shoot at a retreating lion. He had never faced thy handiwork again but for my meddling. Ha! to your guard! I hear them open the door. Then Denny, depressed by the one error he had committed in all this fearful night, felt convinced his last hour had come. He drew his sword but like one doomed. But what is this? A red light flickers on the ceiling. Gerard flew to the window and looked out. There were men with torches and breast-plates gleaming red. We are saved, armed men! And he dashed his sword through the window shouting, Quick! Quick! We are so pressed! Back, yelled Denny, they come, strike none but him. That very moment the abbot and two men with naked weapons rushed into the room. Even as they came the outer door was hammered fiercely, and the abbot's comrades hearing it and seeing the torchlight turned and fled. Not so the terrible abbot. Wild with rage and pain he spurned his dead comrades chair and all across the room. Then as the men faced him on each side with kindling eyeballs, he waved his tremendous arcs like a feather right and left and cleared a space, then lifted it to hue them both in pieces. His antagonists were inferior in strength but not in swiftness and daring. And above all they had settled how to attack him. The moment he reared his arcs they flew at him like cats and both together. If he struck a full blow with his weapon he would most likely kill one, but the other would certainly kill him. He saw this and intelligent as well as powerful, he thrust the handle fiercely in Denny's face and turning jobbed with the steel at Gerard. Denny went staggering back covered with blood. Gerard had rushed in like lightning and just as the axe turned to descend on him, drove his sword so fiercely through the giant's body that the very hilt sounded on his ribs like the blow of a pugilist. And Denny, staggering back to help his friend, saw a steel point come out of the abbot behind. The stricken giant bellowed like a bull, dropped his axe and clutching Gerard's throat tremendously shook him like a child. Then Denny, with a fierce snarl, drove his sword into the giant's back. Stand firm now and he pushed the cold steel through and through the giant and out at his breast. Thus horribly spitted on both sides, the abbot gave a violent shudder and his heels hammered the ground convulsively. His lips, fast turning blue, opened wide and deep and he cried, La mort, la mort, la mort. The first time in a row of despair and then twice in a horror-stricken whisper, never to be forgotten. Just then the street-door was forced. Suddenly the abbot's arms, world-like windmills and his huge body wrenched wildly and carried them to the doorway, twisting their wrists and nearly throwing them off their legs. He'll win clear yet, cried Denny, out-steal and in again. They tore out their smoking-swords, but ere they could stab again, the abbot leapt full five feet high and fell with a tremendous crush against the door below, carrying it away with him like a sheet of paper and threw the aperture, the glare of torches burst on the awestruck faces above, half blinding them. The thieves at the first alarm had made for the back door, but driven thence by a strong guard round back to the kitchen, just in time to see the lock forced out of the socket and half a dozen mailed arches burst in upon them. On these, in pure despair, they drew their swords. But ere a blow was struck on either side, the staircase door behind them was battered into their midst with one ponderous blow, and with it the abbot's body came flying, hurled as they thought by no mortal hand, and rolled on the floor, spouting blood from back and bosom in two furious jets, and quivered, but breathed no more. The thieves, smitten with dismay, fell on their knees directly, and the archers bound them while above the rescued ones still stood like statues rooted to the spot, their dripping swords extended in the red torchlight, expecting their indomitable enemy to leap back on them as wonderfully as he had gone. End of chapter 33 part 2 Reading by Tom Denham Chapter 34 Of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham Where be the true men? Here we be! God bless you all! God bless you! There was a rush to the stairs, and half a dozen hard but friendly hands were held out and grasped them warmly. You have saved our lives, lads! cried Denis. You have saved our lives this night! A wild sight met the eyes of the rescued pair. The room, flaring with torches, the glittering breast-plates of the archers, their bronzed faces, the white cheeks of the bound thieves, and the bleeding giant whose dead body these hard men left lying there in its own gore. Gerard went round the archers and took them each by the hand with glistening eyes, and on this they all kissed him, and this time he kissed them in return. Then he said to one handsome archer of his own age, Pretty good soldier, have an eye to me! A strange drowsiness overcomes me. Let no one cut my throat while I sleep for pity's sake. The archer promised with a laugh, for he thought Gerard was gesting and the latter went off into a deep sleep almost immediately. Denis was surprised at this, but did not interfere, for it suited his immediate purpose. A couple of archers were inspecting the abbot's body, turning it half over with their feet and inquiring. Which of the two had flung this enormous rogue down from an upper story like that? They would feign have the trick of his arm. Denis at first pissed and chored, but dared not play the braggart, for he said to himself, That young vagabond will break in and say, Twas the finger of heaven, and no mortal arm or some such stuff, and make me look like a fool. But now seeing Gerard unconscious, he suddenly gave this required information. Well, then, you see, comrades, I had run my sword through this one up to the hilt, and one or two more of them came buzzing about me, so it behoved me have my sword or die. So I just put my foot against his stomach, gave a tug with my hand, and a spring with my foot, and sent him flying to kingdom come. He died in the air, and his carrion rolled in amongst you without ceremony, made you jump, I warrant me. But pike-staves and pillage, what avails prattling of these trifles, once they are gone by? Buvant, camarade, buvant! The archers remarked that it was easy to say buvant where no liquor was, but not so easy to do it. Nay, I'll soon find you liquor. My nose hath a natural alacrity at sending out the wine. You follow me, and my nose. Bring a torch, and they left the room, and finding a short flight of stone steps, descended them, and entered a large, low, damp cellar. It smelt close and dank, and the walls were encrusted here and there with what seemed cobwebs, but proved to be saltpeter that had oozed out of the damp stones, and crystallized. Oh, the fine, mouldy smell, said to me, in such places still lurks the good wine. Advance thy torch! Diablo, what is that in the corner? A pile of rags? No! Tis a man! They gathered round with the torch, and low, a figure crouched on a heap in the corner, pale as ashes, and shivering. Why, it is the landlord! Get up, thou craven heart! shouted one of the archers. Why, man, the thieves are bound, and we are dry that bound them up. Up and show us thy wine for no bottle see here. What would be the rascals bound? stammered the pale landlord. Good news! Woe, woe, wine! That will I, honest sirs! And he rose with unsure joints, and offered to lead the way to the wine cellar. But didn he interposed? You're all in the dark, comrades. He is in league with the thieves. A dark good soldier, me in league with the accursed robbers, is not reasonable. The girl said so, anyway. The girl? What girl? Ah, curse her, traitorous! Well, interposed the other archer, the girl is not here, but gone on to the bailiff. So let the burgers settle, whether this craven be guilty or no, for we caught him not in the act, and let him draw us our wine. One moment, said the niche rudely. Why cursed he the girl? If he be a true man, he should bless her as we do. Alas, said the landlord, I have but my good name to live by, and I cursed her to you, because you said she had belied me. Huh! I throw thou out a thief, and where is the thief that cannot lie with a smooth face? Therefore hold him, comrades. A prisoner can draw wine, and if his hands be not bound, the landlord offered no objection, but on the contrary said he would with pleasure show them where his little stock of wine was, but hoped they would pay for what they should drink, for his rent was due this two months. The archers smiled grimly at his simplicity, as they thought it. One of them laid a hand quietly, but firmly on his shoulder, the other led on with the torch. They had reached the threshold when the knee cried, Halt! What is it? Here be bottles in this corner, advance thy light. The torch-bearer went towards him. He had just taken off his scabbard, and was probing the heap the landlord had just been crouched upon. Nay, nay, cried the landlord. The wine is in the next cellar. There's nothing here. Nothing is mighty hard, then, said Denis, and drew out something with his hand from the heap. It proved to be only a bone. Denis threw it on the floor. It rattled. There is not there but the bones of the house, said the landlord. Just now was nothing. Now that we found something, it is nothing but bones. Here's another. Look at this one, comrade. You come to and look at it, and bring you smooth nave along. The archer with the torch, whose name was Philippe, held the bone to the light, and turned it round and round. Well, said Denis. Well, if this was a field of battle, I should say it was the shank bone of a man. No more, no less. But it isn't a battlefield, nor a churchyard. It isn't in. True, mate, but your nave's ashy face is as good a light to me as a field of battle. I read the bone by it. Bring you on face nearer, I say. When the chine is amissing, and the house dog can't look at you without his tail creeping between his legs, who was the thief? Good brother's mine, my mind it doth misgive me. The deeper I thrust, the more there be. May hap, if these bones could tell their tale, they would make true men's flesh creep that heard it. Alas, young man, what hideous fancies are these, the bones are bones of beaves, and sheep, and kids, and not, as you think, of men and women. Holy Saints preservers! Hold, ey, peace, thy words are air. Thou hast not got burgers by the ear, that know not a veal knuckle from their grand sire's ribs. But soldiers, men that have gone to look for their dear comrades, and found their bones picked as clean by the crows as these, I doubt, have been by thee and thy mates. Men and women, sets thou, and pretty, when spake eye a word of women's bones, wouldst make a child suspect thee. Field of battle, comrade, was not this house a field of battle half an hour ago? Drag him close to me, let me read his face. Now then, what is this, thou knave? And he thrust a small object suddenly in his face. Alas, I know not! Well, I would not swear neither, but it is too like the thumb bone of a man's hand. Mates, my flesh, it creeps. Churchyard, how know I this is not one? And he now drew his sword out of the scabbard, and began to rake the heap of earth and broken crockery and bones out on the floor. The landlord assured him, but he wasted his time. We poor innkeepers are sinners, said he. We give short measure and baptize the wine. We are feigned to do these things. The laws are so unjust to us. But we are not assassins. How could we afford to kill our customers? May heaven's lightning strike me dead if there be any bones there, but such as have been used for meat. Tis the kitchen wench flings them there here? I swear by God's holy mother, by holy Paul, by holy Dominic, and deny my patron saint, ah! Deny hell out a bone under his eye in dead silence. It was a bone no man, however ignorant, however lying, could confound with those of sheep or oxen. The sight of it shut the lying lips, and palsied the heartless heart. The landlord's hair rose visibly on his head like spikes, and his knees gave way as if his limbs had been struck from under him. But the archers dragged him fiercely up, and kept him erect under the torch, staring fascinated at the dead skull, which white as the living cheek opposed, but no whiter, glared back again at its murderer, whose pale lip now opened and opened, but could utter no sound. Ah! said Deny solemnly, and trembling now with rage, look on the sockets out of which thou hast picked the eyes, and let them blast thine eyes that crow shall pick out air this week shall end. Now hold thou that while I search on, hold it I say, or here I rob the gallows, and he threatened the quaking wretch with his naked sword, till with a groan he took the skull and held it, almost fainting. Oh! that every murderer and contriver of murder could see him sick and staggering with terror, and with his hair on end holding the cold skull and feeling that his own head would soon be like it. And soon the heap was scattered, and alas, not one or two, but many skulls were brought to light, and the culprit moaning at each discovery. Suddenly Deny uttered a strange cry of distress to come from so bold and hard a man, and held up to the torch a mass of human hair. It was long, glossy, and golden, a woman's beautiful hair. At the sight of it the archers instinctively shook the craven wretch in their hands, and he whined. I have a little sister with hair just so fair and shining as this, gulped Deny. Jesus, if it should be hers, there quick take my sword and dagger and keep them from my hand, lest I strike him dead and wrong the gibbet. And thou poor innocent victim on whose head this most lovely hair did grow. Hear me swear this on bended knee, never to leave this man till I see him broken to pieces on the wheel, even for thy sake. He rose from his knee. I had he as many lives as here be hairs, I'd have them all by God. And he put the hair into his bosom. Then, in a sudden fury, seized the landlord fiercely by the neck, and forced him to his knees, and foot on head ground his face savagely among the bones of his victims, where they lay thickest, and the assassin first yelled, then whined and whimpered, just as a dog first yells, then whines, when his nose is so forced into some leveret or other innocent he has killed. Now lend me thy boasting, Philippe. He passed it through the eyes of a skull alternately, and hung the ghastly relic of mortality and crime round the man's neck, then pulled him up, and kicked him industriously into the kitchen, where one of the aldermen of the borough had arrived with constables, and was even now taking an arch as deposition. The grave-burger was much startled at sight of the landlord driven in, bleeding from a dozen scratches inflicted by the bones of his own victims, and carrying his horrible collar. But the knee came panting after, and in a few fiery words soon made all clear. Bind him like the rest, said the aldermen sternly, I count him the blackest of them all. While his hands were being bound, the poor wretch begged piteously that the skull might be taken from him. Ha! said the aldermen. 30's I had not ordered such a thing to be put on mortal man, yet being there I will not lift voice nor finger to doff it. Me thinks it fits thee truly, thou bloody dog. Tis thy end sign, and hangs well above a heart so foul as thine. He then inquired of Denis, if he thought they had secured the whole gang, or but a part. Your worship, said Denis, there are but seven of them and this landlord. One we slew upstairs, one we trundled down dead, the rest are bound before you. Good! Go fetch the dead one from upstairs, and lay him beside him I caused to be removed. Here a voice like a guinea fowls broke peevishly in. No, no, no, where is the hand? That is what I want to see. The speaker was a little petty-fogging clark. You will find it above, nailed to the doorpost by a crossbow bolt. Good! said the clark. He whispered to his master. What a goodly show will the pièce de conviction make? And with this he wrote them down, enumerating them in separate squeaks as he penned them. Skulls, bones, a woman's hair, a thief's hands, one axe, two carcasses, one crossbow bolt. This done he itched to search the cellar himself. There might be other invaluable morsels of evidence, an ear, or even an earring. The alderman dissenting, he caught up a torch and was hurrying thither, when an accident stopped him and indeed carried him a step or two in the opposite direction. The constables had gone up the stair in single file. But the head constable no sooner saw the phosphorescent corpse seated by the bedside than he stood stupefied, and next he began to shake like one in an ague, and terror gaining on him more and more, he uttered a sort of howl and recoiled swiftly. Forgetting the steps in his recoil, he tumbled over backward on his nearest companion, but he, shaken by the shout of dismay, and catching a glimpse of something horrid, was already staggering back, and in no condition to sustain the head constable, who, like most head constables, was a ponderous man. The two carried away the third, and the three the fourth, and they streamed into the kitchen and settled on the floor, overlapping each other like a sequence laid out on a cart table. The clerk, coming hastily with his torch, ran an involuntary tilt against the fourth man, who, sharing the momentum of the mass, knocked him instantly on his back, the ace of that fair quint. And there he lay, kicking and waving his torch, apparently in triumph, but really in convulsion, sense and wind being driven out together by the concussion. What is it to do now, in heaven's name? cried the alderman, starting up with considerable alarm. But Denis explained and offered to accompany his worship. So be it, said the latter. His men picked themselves ruefully up, and the alderman put himself at their head and examined the premises above and below. As for the prisoners, their interrogatory was postponed till they could be confronted with the servant. Before dawn, the thieves, alive and dead, and all the relics and evidences of crime and retribution, were swept away into the law's net, and the inn was silent and almost deserted. They remained but one constable. And Denis and Gerard, the latter still sleeping heavily. End of chapter 34. Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 35 of The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham Gerard awoke and found Denis watching him with some anxiety. It is you for sleeping. Why, it is high noon. It was a blessed sleep, said Gerard. Me thinks heaven sent it me. It has put, as it were, a veil between me and that awful night to think that you and I sit here alive and well, how terrible a dream I seem to have had. Eyelad, that is the wise way to look at these things when once they are past. Why, they are dreams, shadows. Break thy fast, and then thou wilt think no more on't. Moreover, I promise to bring thee onto the town by noon and take thee to his worship. Gerard then sopped some rye bread in red wine, and ate it to break his fast. Then went with Denis over the scene of combat, and came back shuddering, and finally took the road with his friend, and kept peering through the hedges, and expecting sudden attacks unreasonably till they reached the little town. Denis took him to the white heart. No fear of cut-throats here, said he. I know the landlord this many a year. He is a burgess, and looks to be bailiff. This year I was making for Yestrine, but we lost time, and Nightor took us, and you saw a woman at the door, and would be wiser than a Geneton. She told us they were nought. Why, what saved our lives, if not a woman? I had risked our own to do it. That is true, Denis, and though women are nothing to me, I long to thank this poor girl and reward her. I though I share every doight in my purse with her. Do not you? Par bleu! Where shall we find her? May Hap the Alderman will tell us we must go to him first. The Alderman received them with a most singular and inexplicable expression of countenance. However, after a moment's reflection, he wore a grim smile, and finally proceeded to put interrogatories to Gerard, and took down the answers. This done he told them that they must stay in the town till the thieves were tried, and be at hand to give evidence on peril of fine and imprisonment. They looked very blank at this. However, said he, it will not be long, the culprits having been taken red-handed, he added, and you know in any case you could not leave the place this week. Denis stared at this remark, and Gerard smiled at what he thought the simplicity of the old gentleman in dreaming that a provincial town of Burgundy had attraction to detain him from Rome and Margaret. He now went to that which was nearest to both their hearts. Your worship, said he, we cannot find our benefactress in the town. No, but who is your benefactress? Who? Why the good girl that came to you by night and saved our lives at peril of her own? Oh, sir, our hearts burn within us to thank and bless her. Where is she? Oh, she is in prison! End of Chapter 35 Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 36 Of the Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham In prison, sir, good luck for what misdeed! Well, she is a witness, and may be a necessary one. Why, Mr. Baleif put into me, you lay not on your witnesses by the heels, I trow. The old man, pleased at being called Baleif, became communicative. In a case of blood we detain all testimony that is like to give us leg bale, and so defeat justice, and that is why we still keep the women folk. For a man at odd times hides a week in one mind. But a woman, if she do her duty to the realm of Friday, she shall undo it of all Sunday or try. Could you see on Wench now, you should find her a blubbering at having betrayed five males to the gallows. Had they been females, we might have trusted to a subpoena, for they despise one another. And there they show some sense. But now I think on't, there were other reasons for laying this one by the heels, hand me those depositions, young sir. And he put on his glasses. Aye, she was implicated, she was one of the band. A loud disclaimer burst from Denis and Gerard at once. No need to div me, said the alderman. Here it is in black and white. Jean Hardy, that is one of the thieves, being questioned, confessed that Aye, here it is, and that the girl Manon was the decoy, and her sweetheart was Georges Vipan, one of the band, and hanged last month. And that she had been deject ever since, and had openly blamed the band for his death, saying, if they had not been rank cowards, he had never been taken. And it is his opinion. She did but betray them out of very spite, and his opinion, cried Gerard indignantly. What signifies the opinion of a cut throat, burning to be revenged on her who has delivered him to justice, and, and you go to that, what avails his testimony? Is a thief never a liar? Is he not I a liar, and here a motive to lie? Revenge, white is the strongest of all the passions. And oh, sir, what madness to question a detected felon, and listen to him lying away an honest life, as if he were a true man swearing in open day with his true hand on the gospel-lade. Young man, said the alderman, restrain thy heat in presence of authority. I find by your tone you are a stranger. Know then that in this land we question all the world. We are not so weak as to hope to get at the truth by shutting either our left ear or our right. And so you would listen to Satan belying the saints? Sutter! The law meddles but with men and women, and these cannot utter a story all lies. Let them try ever so. Wherefore we shut not the barn door, as the saying is, against any man's grain. Only having taken it in, we do winnow and sift it. And who told you I had swallowed the thief's story whole like fair water? Not so. I did but credit so much on as was borne out by better proof. Better proof! And Gerard looked blank. Why, who but the thieves would breathe a word against her? Marie, herself. Herself, sir. What, did you question her too? I tell you we question all the world. Here is her deposition. Can you read? Read it yourself, then. Gerard looked at Denis and read him Manon's deposition. I am a native of Epinal. I left my native place two years ago because I was unfortunate. I could not like the man they bade me, so my father beat me. I ran away from my father. I went to service. I left service because the mistress was jealous of me. The reason that she gave for turning me off was because I was saucy. Last year I stood in the market place to be hired with other girls. The landlord of the fair star hired me. I was eleven months with him. A young man courted me. I loved him. I found out that travellers came and never went away again. I told my lover. He bade me hold my peace. He threatened me. I found my lover was one of a band of thieves. When travellers were to be robbed, the landlord went out and told the band to come. Then I wept and prayed for the traveller's souls. I never told. A month ago my lover died. The soldier put me in mind of my lover. He was bearded like him I had lost. I cannot tell whether I should have interfered if he had had no beard. I am sorry, I told now. The paper almost dropped from Gerard's hands. Now for the first time he saw that Manor's life was in mortal danger. He knew the dogged law and the dogged men that executed him. He threw himself suddenly on his knees at the aldermen's feet. Oh, sir, think of the difference between those cruel men and this poor weak woman. Could you have the heart to send her to the same death with them? Could you have the heart to condemn us, to look on and see her slaughtered? Who but that she risked her life for hours had not now been in jeopardy? Alas, sir, that is not the case. Alas, sir, show me and my comrades some pity, if you'd have none for her, poor soul. Denis and I be true men, and you will rend our hearts if you kill that poor simple girl. What can we do? What is left for us to do then, but cut our throats at her gallows foot? The aldermen was tough, but mortal. The prayers and agitation of Gerard first astounded, then touched him. He showed it in a curious way. He became peevish and fretful. There, get up, do, said he. I doubt whether anybody would say as many words for me. What ho, Daniel, go fetch the town clerk. And on that functionary entering from an adjoining room, here is a foolish lad fretting about young girl. Can we stretch a point, say we admit her to bear witness and question her favourably? The town clerk was one of your impossibility men. Nay, sir, we cannot do that. She was not concerned in this business. Had she been accessory, we might have offered her a pardon to bear witness. Gerard burst in, but she did better. Instead of being accessory, she stayed the crime, and she profit herself as witness by running hither with the tale. Tosh, young man, is a matter of law. The aldermen and the clerk then had a long discussion. The one maintaining, the other denying, that she stood as fair in law as if she had been accessory to the attempt on our traveller's lives. And this was lucky for Manon, for the aldermen irritated by the clerk reiterating that he could not do this, and could not that, and could not do t'other, said he would show him he could do anything he chose. And he had Manon out, and upon the landlord of the White Heart being her bondsman, and Denis depositing five gold pieces with him, and the girl promising, not without some coaxing from Denis, to attend as a witness, he liberated her, but eased his conscience by telling her in his own terms his reason for this leniency. The town had to buy a new rope for everybody hanged, and presented to the boule, or compound with him in money. And she was not in his opinion worth this municipal expense, whereas decided characters like her late confederates were. And so Denis and Gerard carried her off, Gerard dancing round her for joy, Denis keeping up her heart by assuring her of the demise of a troublesome personage, and she weeping inauspiciously. However, on the road to the White Heart, the public found her out, and having heard this whole story from the archers, who naturally told it warmly in her favour, followed her, harrying and encouraging her, till finding herself backed by numbers, she plucked up heart. The landlord too saw at a glance that her presence in the inn would draw custom, and received her politely, and assigned her to an upper chamber. Here she buried herself, and being alone, reigned tears again. Poor little mind, it was like a ripple up and down, down and up, up and down, bidding the landlord be very kind to her, and keeping a prisoner without letting her feel it. The friends went out, and lo, as they stepped into the street, they saw two processions coming towards them from opposite sides. One was a large one, attended with noise and howls, and those indescribable cries by which rude nature's reveal at odd times that relationship to the beasts of the field and the forest which at other times we succeed in hiding. The other, very thinly attended by a few nuns and friars, came slow and silent. The prisoners going to exposure in the marketplace, the gathered bones of the victims coming to the church yard, and the two met in the narrow street, nearly at the inn door, and could not pass each other for a long time, and the beer that bore the relics of mortality got wedged against the cart that carried the men who had made those bones what they were, and in a few hours must die for it themselves. The mob had not the quick intelligence to be at once struck with his stern meaning, but at last a woman cried, Look at your work ye dogs! And the crowd took it like wildfire, and there was a horrible yell, and the culprits groaned and tried to hide their heads upon their bosoms, but could not, their hands being tied. And there they stood, images of pale hollow-eyed despair, and oh how they looked on the beer and envied those whom they had sent before them on the dark road they were going upon themselves. And the two men who were the cause of both processions stood and looked gravely on, and even Manor, hearing the disturbance, crept to the window and hiding her face, peeped trembling through her fingers as women will. This strange meeting parted Denis and Gerard. The former yielded to curiosity and revenge. The latter doffed his bonnet, and piously followed the poor remains of those whose fate had so nearly been his own. For some time he was the one lay mourner, but when they had reached the suburbs, a long way from the greater attraction that was filling the market-place, more than one artisan threw down his tools, and more than one shopman left his shop, and touched with pity or a sense of our common humanity, and perhaps decided somewhat by the example of Gerard, followed the bones bare-headed, and saw them deposited with the prayers of the church in hallowed ground. After the funeral rites, Gerard stepped respectfully up to the cuiré, and offered to buy a mass for their souls. Gerard, son of Catherine, always looked at two sides of a penny, and he tried to purchase this mass a trifle under the usual terms, on account of the pitiable circumstances. But the good cuiré gently but adroitly parried his ingenuity, and blandly screwed him up to the market price. In the course of the business they discovered a similarity of sentiments. Piety and worldly prudence are not very rare companions. Still it is unusual to carry both so far as these two men did. Their collision in the prayer market led to mutual esteem, as when night encountered night worthy of his steel. Moreover, the good cuiré loved a bit of gossip, and finding his customer was one of those who had fought that he said d'en franc would have him into his parlour and hear the whole from his own lips. At his heart warmed to Gerard, and he said, God was good to thee. I thank him for it with all my soul. Thou art a good lad. He added, dryly, shouldst have told me this tale in the churchyard. I doubt I had given thee the mass for love. However, said he, the thermometer suddenly falling, tis ill luck to go back upon a bargain. But I'll broach a bottle of my old midock for thee, and few be the guests I would do that for. The cuiré went to his cupboard, and while he groped for the choice bottle, he muttered to himself, at thy old tricks again. Plétil, said Gerard, I said not. I, here it is. Nay, your reverence, you surely spoke, you said, at thy old tricks again. Said I so insuth, and his reverence smiled. He then proceeded to broach the wine and fill the cup for each. Then he put a log of wood on the fire, for stoves were none in burgundy. And so I said, at thy old tricks did I. Come, sip the good wine, and whilst it lasts, story for story, I care not if I tell you a little tale. Gerard's eyes sparkled. Thou lovest a story, as my life. Nay, but raise not thine expectations too high, neither. Tis but a foolish trifle compared with thine adventures. The cuiré's tale. Once upon a time then, in the Kingdom of France, and in the Duchy of Burgundy, and not a day's journey from the town where we now sit, a sipping of the old Medoc, there lived a cuiré. I say he lived, but barely. The parish was small, the parishioners greedy, and never gave their cuiré a doit more than he could compel. The nearer they brought him to a disembodied spirit by meager diet, the holier should be his prayers on their behalf. I know not if this was their creed, but their practice gave it colour. At last he pickled a rod for them. One day the richest farmer in the place had twins to baptise. The cuiré was had to the christening dinner as usual, but ere he would baptise the children, he demanded, not the christening fees only, but the burial fees. Saint Defendus Parsons cried the mother, talk not of burying, I did never see children like her to live. Nor I, said the cuiré, the praise be to God. Nevertheless they are sure to die, being sons of Adam, as well as of the Edam. But die when they will, to will cost them nothing, the burial fees being paid and entered in this book. For all that will cost them something, quoth the miller, the greatest wag in the place, and as big a nave as any. For which was the biggest God-north, but no mortal man, not even the hangman. Miller, I tell thee nay, quoth the cuiré. Parsons, I tell you I, quoth the miller, to will cost them their lives. At which millstone conceit was a great laugh. And in the general mirth the fees were paid and the Christians made. But when the next parishioners' child, and the next after, and all had to pay each his burial fee, or lose his place in heaven, discontent did secretly rankle in the parish. Well, one fine day they met in secret and sent a church warden with a complaint to the bishop, and the thunderbolt fell on the poor cuiré. Came to him at dinnertime as summons to the Episcopal palace to bring the parish books and answer certain charges. Then the cuiré guessed where the shoe pinched. He left his food on the board, for his small appetite now, and took the parish books and went quaking. The bishop entertained him with a frown, and exposed the plaint. Monseigneur, said the cuiré right humbly, doth the parish allege many things against me, or this one only. In sooth, but this one, said the bishop, and softened a little. First, Monseigneur, I acknowledge the fact. Tis well, quoth the bishop, that saves time and trouble. Now to your excuse, if excuse there be. Monseigneur, I have been cuiré of that parish seven years, and fifty children have I baptised, and buried not five. At first, I used to say, heaven be praised, the air of this village is main healthy. But on searching the register-book, I found, to us always so, and on probing the matter, it came out, that of those born at Domfran, all, but here and there one, did go and get hanged at ex. But this was to defraud not de cuiré only, but the entire church of her dues, since pandars, pay no funeral fees, being buried in air. Thereupon, knowing by sad experience their greed, and how they grudge the church every soo, I laid a trap to keep them from hanging. For greed against greed, there be of them that will die in their beds like true men air the church shall gain those funeral fees for nought. Then the bishop laughed till the tears ran down, and questioned the church warden, and he was feign to confess that too many of the parish did come to that unlucky end at ex. Then said the bishop, I do approve the act, for myself and my successors, and so be it ever till their men, their manners, and die in their beds. And the next day came the ring-leaders, crestfallen to de cuiré, and said, parson, you were even good to us barring this untoward matter. Prithee, let there be no ill blood and end so trivial a thing. The cuiré said, My children, I were unworthy to be your pastor, could I not forgive her wrong? Go in peace, and get me as many children as may be, that by the double fees the cuiré you love may miss starvation. And the bishop often told the story, and it kept his memory of the cuiré alive, and at last he shifted him to a decent parish, where he can offer a glass of old medoc to such as are worthy of it. Their name it is not legion. A light broke in upon Gerard, his countenance showed it. I said his host, I am that cuiré, so now that can guess why I said, at their old tricks, my life aunt, they have weedled my successor into remitting those funeral fees. You are well out of that parish, and so am I. The cuiré's little niece burst in. Uncle, the weighing, thou a stranger, and burst out. The cuiré rose directly, but would not part with Gerard. Wet thy beard once more, and come with me. In the church porch they found the sexton, with a huge pair of scales, and weights of all sizes. Several humble persons were standing by, and soon a woman stepped forward with a sickly child, and said, Be it heavy, be it light, I vow in rye meal of the best what ere this child shall weigh, and the same will duly pay to the holy church, and if he shall cast his trouble, pray good people for this child, and for me his mother hither come in dole and care. The child was weighed, and yelled as if the scale had been the font. Courage, damn! cried Gerard. This is a good sign. There is plenty of life here to battle its trouble. Now, blessed be the tongue that tells me so, said the poor woman. She hushed her pondling against her bosom, and stood aloof watching whilst another woman brought her child to scale. But presently, aloud, dictatorial voice was heard. Way there! Make way for the senior! The small folk parted on both sides, like waves ploughed by a lordly galley, and in marched in gorgeous attire, his capidorned by a feather with a topaz at its root, his jerkin richly furred, sat in doublet, red hose, shoes like skates, diamond-hilted sword in velvet scabbard, and hawk on his wrist, the lord of the manor. He flung himself into the scales as if he was lord of the zodiac as well as the manor, whereup the hawk balanced and flapped, but stuck, then winked. While the sexton heaved in the great weights, the cuiré told Gérard, my lord had been sick unto death, and vowed his weight in bread and cheese to the poor, the church taking her tenth. Permit me, my lord, if your lordship continues to press your lordship's staff on the other scale, you will disturb the balance. His lordship grinned and removed his staff, and leaned on it. The cuiré politely but firmly objected to that, too. Mille diable, what am I to do with it, then? cried the other. Dane to hold it out so, my lord, wide of both scales. When my lord did this, and so fell into the trap he had dug, and so fell into the trap he had laid for holy church, the good cuiré whispered to Gérard, cretensis incidit incretensum, which I take to mean diamond cut diamond. He then said with an obsequious air, if that your lordship grudges heaven full weight, you might set the hawk on your lackey, and so save a pound. Gramerci for thy reed, cuiré, cried the great man reproachfully. Shall I for one sorry pound grudge my poor fowl the benefit of holy church? I just leave the devil should have me and all my house as her any day of the year. Sweet is affection, whispered the cuiré. Between a bird and a brute, whispered Gérard, TUSH! and the cuiré looked terrified. The senor's weight was booked, and heaven I trust and believe did not weigh his gratitude in the balance of the sanctuary. For my unlearned reader is not to suppose there was anything the least eccentric in the man, or his gratitude to the giver of health and all good gifts. Men look forward to death, and back upon past sickness with different eyes. Item! When men drive a bargain, they strive to get the sunny side of it. It matters not one straw whether it is with man or heaven they are bargaining. In this respect we are the same now at bottom as we were four hundred years ago. Only in those days we did it aggray nor too more naively, and that naivety shone out more palpably, because in that rude age, body prevailing over mind, all sentiments took material forms. Men repented with scourges, prayed by bead, bribed the saints with wax tapers, put fish into the body to sanctify the soul, sojourned in cold water for empire over the emotions, and thanked God for returning health in one hundred weight, two stone, seven pound, three ounces, one penny weight of bread and cheese. Whilst I have been preaching, who preach so rarely and so ill, the good Curay has been soliciting the Lord of the Manor to step into the church and give order what shall be done with his great great-grandfather. Odds-Bodicans, what, have you dug him up? Nay, my Lord, he was never buried. What, the old dict was true after all? So true that the workmen this very day found a skeleton erect in the pillar they are repairing. I had sent to my Lord at once, but I knew he would be here. It is he, tis he, said his descendant, quickening his pace. Let us go see the old boy. This youth is a stranger, I think. Gerard bowed. No, then, that my great-great-grandfather held his head high, and being on the point of death, revolted against lying under the aisle with his forebears for mean folk to pass over. So as the tradition goes, he swore his son, my great-grandfather, to bury him erect in one of the pillars of the church. Here they entered the porch. For, quoth he, no baseman shall pass over my stomach. Pest! And even while speaking, his lordship parried adroitly with his stick, a skull that came hopping at him, bowed by a boy in the middle of the aisle, who took to his heels, yelling with fear the moment he saw what he had done. His lordship hurled the skull furiously after him, as he ran, at which the curé gave a shout of dismay, and put forth his arm to hinder him. But it was too late. The curé groaned aloud, and as if this had evoked spirits of mischief, upstarted a whole pack of children from some ambush gate, and unseen but heard loud enough, clattered out of the church like a covey rising in a thick wood. All these pernicious brats, cried the curé, the workmen cannot go to their nonimete, but the church is rife with them. Pray, heaven, they have not found his late lordship. Nay, I mind I hid his lordship under a workman's jerken, and since defend us, the jerken has been moved! The poor curé's worst misgivings were realised. The rising generation of the plebeians had played the mischief with the haughty old noble. The little ones had jockied for the bones, oh, and pocketed such of them as seemed adapted for certain primitive games then in vogue amongst them. I'll excommunicate them, roared the curé, and all their race. Never heed, said the scapegraced lord, and stroked his hawk, there is enough of him to swear by. Put him back, put him back. Surely, my lord, tis your will his bones be laid in hallowed earth, and masses said for his poor prideful soul. The noble stroked his hawk. Are you there, master curé? said he. Nay, the business is too old. He is out of purgatory by this time, up or down. I shall not draw my purse-strings for him, every dog his day. Adieu, monsieur, adieu, ancestor! And he sauntered off whistling to his hawk, and caressing it. His reverence looked ruefully after him. Cretensis inquidit in Cretensim, he said sorrowfully. I thought I had him safe for a dozen masses. Yet I blame him not. But that young ne'er do well which did trundle his ancestor's scholars, for who would venerate his great-great-grandsire and play football with his head? Well, it behoves us to be better Christians than he is. So they gathered the bones reverently, and the curé locked them up, and forbade the workmen, who now entered the church, to close up the pillar, till he should recover by threats of the church's wrath every atom of my lord. And he showed Gerard a famous shrine in the church. Before it were the usual gifts of tapers, et cetera, there was also a wax image of a falcon most curiously moulded and coloured to the life, eyes and all. Gerard's eye fell at once on this, and he expressed the liveliest admiration. The curé assented. Then Gerard asked, could the saint have loved hawking? The curé laughed at his simplicity. Nay, it is but a statuary hawk. When they have a bird of gentle breed they cannot train, they make his image, and send it to this shrine with a present, and pray the saint to work upon the stubborn mind of the original, and make it duck-tile as wax. That is the notion, and me thinks a reasonable one too. Gerard assented. But a lack reverence, sir. Were I a saint, me thinks, I should side with the innocent dove, rather than with the cruel hawk that rends her. By send any you are right, said the curé. But K'voulivu, the saints are debonair, and have been flesh themselves, and no man's frailty and absurdity. Tis the bishop of Avignon sent this one. What, do bishops hawk in this country? One and all, every noble person hawks, and lives with hawk on wrist. Why, my Lord Abbott hard-buy, and his lordship that has just parted from us, had a two-years feud as to where they should put their hawks down on that very altar there, each claimed the right hand of the altar for his bird. What desecration! Nay, nay! Thou knowest, we make them doff both glove and hawk to take the blessed Eucharist. Their jewelled gloves they will give to a servant or simple Christian to hold, but their beloved hawks they will put down on no place less than the altar. Gerard inquired how the battle of the hawks ended. Why the Abbott he yielded, as the church yields to laymen. He searched ancient books, and found that the left hand was the more honourable being in truth the right hand, since the altar is east, but looks westward. So he gave my lord the swaddy son right hand, and contented himself with the real right hand, and even so may the church still outwit the lay nobles and their arrogance, saving your presence. Nay, sir, I honour the church. I am convent bread, and owe all I have, and I am to holy church. Ah, that accounts for my sudden liking to the otter-gracious youth. Come and see me whenever thou wilt. Gerard took this as a hint, that he might go now. It jumped with his own wish, for he was curious to hear what Denis had seen and done all this time. He made his reverence, and walked out of the church, but was no sooner clear of it than he set off to run with all his might, and tearing round a corner, run into a large stomach whose owner clutched him to keep himself steady under the shock, but did not release his hold on regaining his equilibrium. Let go, man, said Gerard. Not so. You are my prisoner. Prisoner? Aye. For what in heaven's name? What for? Why sorcery. Sorcery? Sorcery. End of chapter 36. Recording by Tom Denham