Chapter 12

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows:

"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way."

"Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother; on the contrary, all has been so delightful that I can scarcely venture to tell you."

A look of smiling, expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued: "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about myself. But, to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt whether I ought to tell you all."

Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied:

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you can be indifferent to me."

"Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequenting school appears to me to have been singularly blessed. First, I was crowned as the successful competitor in a declamation, which our good master Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready to die for the truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Christian' escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth,' At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a whisper, 'Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.'"

"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Cassianus a Christian? I chose his school because it was in the highest repute for learning and morality; and now indeed I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land. Certainly, had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?"

"I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows vehemently applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"

"He is the strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had a grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot understand."

"Did he say aught to you, or do?"

"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet _here_; but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon. Before you leave us, I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables. Wrestle with me, or try the cestus against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.'"

The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"

"I told him gently that he was quite mistaken; for never had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him or any of my school-fellows; nor did I ever dream of claiming superiority over them. 'And as to what you propose,' I added, 'you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for revenge. How much less could I think of entering on them now, when you avow that you are anxious to begin them with those evil feelings which are usually their bad end?' Our school-mates had now formed a circle round us; and I clearly saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy some of the delights of their cruel games; I therefore cheerfully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all happiness attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in peace,' 'Not so,' replied Corvinus, now purple in the face with fury; 'but--'"

The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, his body trembled, and, half-choked, he sobbed out, "I cannot go on; I dare not tell the rest!"

"I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear your father's memory," said the mother, placing her hand upon her son's head, "conceal nothing from me. I shall never again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or did Corvinus?"

The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent prayer, and then proceeded:

"'Not so!' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do you depart! You have concealed your abode from us, but I will find you out; till then bear this token of my determined purpose to be revenged!' So saying, he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke forth from the boys around us."

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on:

"Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment; how my heart seemed bursting within me; and a voice appeared to whisper in my ear the name of 'coward!' It surely was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest struggle of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within me. O God! may they never be again so tremendously powerful."

"And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped forth the trembling matron.

He replied, "My good angel conquered the demon at my side. I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and said, 'May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do; and may He bless you abundantly.' Cassianus came up at that moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's bosom, "do you think I may call this a happy day?"

_"Fabiola"--Cardinal Wiseman._

* * * * *

SPHEROID (sf[=e]'), a body or figure in shape like a sphere.

VELLUM, a fine kind of parchment, made of the skin of a lamb, goat, sheep or young calf, for writing on.

THEME, a subject or topic on which a person writes or speaks.

SCORE, bill, account, reckoning.

SUPERCIL'IOUS, proud, haughty.

STYLES AND TABLES, writing implements for schools. The tables or tablets were covered with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point of the style, and erased by its flat top.

CESTUS, a covering for the hands of boxers, made of leather bands, and often loaded with lead or iron.

"IF YOU ARE WORTHY OF YOUR NAME." Reference is here made by Corvinus to the _pancratium_, an athletic exercise among the Romans, which combined all personal contests, such as boxing, wrestling, etc.

CASSIANUS, St. Cassian, who, though a Bishop, opened a school for Roman youths. Having confessed Christ, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the gods, the pagan judge commanded that his own pupils should stab him to death with their iron writing pencils, called styles.

AY or AYE, meaning _yes_, is pronounced _[=i]_ or _[:a][)i]_; meaning _ever_, and used only in poetry, it is pronounced _[=a]_.

Read carefully two or three times the opening paragraph of the selection, so that the picture conveyed by the words may be clearly impressed on the mind. Then with book closed write out in your own words a description of "The Martyr's Boy."

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_79_

THE ANGEL'S STORY.

Through the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright; Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night.

* * * * *

Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all.

Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning,-- For a child lay dying there.

Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying All unheeded by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread.

The skill of all that mighty City To save one little life was vain,-- One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother's pain And the mighty love within her Could not give him health again.

* * * * *

Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision With a startled, sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed; White his raiment; from his shoulders Snowy dove-like pinions spread, And a starlike light was shining In a glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel, Leaning o'er the little nest, In his arms the sick child folding, Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising, Spread his wings, and through the air Bore the child; and, while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, thus clinging, floated Towards the mansions of the Blest, Gazing from his shining guardian To the flowers upon his breast, Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest:

"Know, dear little one, that Heaven Does no earthly thing disdain; Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain; Love, on earth so feebly striving, Lives divine in Heaven again.

"Once, in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street, Dwelt a little sickly orphan; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet.

"All the striving, anxious fore-thought That should only come with age Weighed upon his baby spirit, Showed him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage."

* * * * *

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl Through the crowded city's pathways, Till he reached a garden-wall, Where 'mid princely halls and mansions Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide; There were sparkling fountains glancing, Flowers, which in luxuriant pride Even wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place; Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a House's Hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan, Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; In his hand he took the flowers, In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret; Poor no more, but rich and bright; For the holy dreams of childhood-- Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light-- Floated round the orphan's pillow Through the starry summer night.

"Day dawned, yet the visions lasted; All too weak to rise he lay; Did he dream that none spake harshly,-- All were strangely kind that day? Surely then his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish, They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one, our Father Will no gentle deed disdain; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in Heaven again; While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burden leant; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him. Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered, And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you,-- I was once that little child!"

* * * * *

In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare, Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, With her buds and blossoms fair,-- And a humble grave beside it,-- No one knew who rested there.

_Adelaide A. Procter_.

* * * * *

Enlarge the following brief summary of the Angel's Story into a composition the length of which to be determined by your teacher. Use many of the words and forms of expression you find in the poem.

THE ANGEL'S STORY

A poor little boy, to whom a child of wealth had in pity given a bunch of "reddest roses," died with the fading flowers. Afterwards he came as a "radiant angel" to visit his dying friend, and in a spirit of gratitude bore him to heaven.

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_80_

al' ti tude as tound' ing ve loc' i ty vag' a bond mus tach' es hes i ta' ting ly par' a lyzed tre men' dous ex tra or' di na ry

GLUCK'S VISITOR.

It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day Gluck's two older brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown.

"What a pity," thought Gluck, "that my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure, when they have such a nice piece of mutton as this, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door."

No; it wasn't the wind. There it came again very hard, and what was particularly astounding the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck put his head out the window to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red; his eyes twinkled merrily through long, silky eyelashes; his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. He wore an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length.

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the appearance of his visitor that he remained fixed, without uttering a word, until the old gentleman turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.

"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door. I'm wet; let me in." To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the end of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.

"I'm very sorry" said Gluck, "but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.

"I can't let you in, sir. My brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman. "I want fire and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold. When he turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing.

"He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour."

As the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimney totter.

"That's a good boy. Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me."

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?"

"Only till the mutton is done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap up the chimney, for it was much too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there; sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, so that the fire fizzed and sputtered and began to look very black and uncomfortable. Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor; "mayn't I take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly, "but--really--sir--you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then."

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman. "Can't you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart.

"They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but no more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

"I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought Gluck.

Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped; Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Aye; what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning fiercely to Gluck.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother, he was so _very_ wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at that instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.

"Who are you sir?" demanded Schwartz.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began, very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour."