Part 11

Then began a fierce struggle, in which the soldier's strength and military knowledge were well matched by the supple limbs and clear, cool eye of the forester. It was truly a conflict for life or death on which the calm moonbeams looked down that lovely spring night. Hither and thither went the combatants over the fallen trees and stones, and through the brushwood, the object of Bertrand being to get as far as possible from the brink of the fatal precipice. Sometimes one party gained a slight advantage, sometimes the other; but both were evidently becoming exhausted. It seemed an even chance whether the Lollard would succeed in his benevolent object of saving his comrade's life from his own violent hands, or would be obliged to yield, in order to preserve his own. The struggle was carried on, however, in the utmost silence, neither caring to waste strength in outcries, so that the only sounds to be heard during the combat were the crackling of the branches, the trampling of feet, and the panting breath of the wrestlers.

Just at the moment when Bertrand had the other in a position to give him a heavy fling on the grass, his foot slipped, and they rolled together to the ground; the forester's head struck heavily, and he lay for a moment stunned.

In that moment the soldier disengaged himself from Bertrand's relaxed grasp, and, with a yell of triumph, sprang toward the pool. A few strides, and he was at the brink, parting the bushes with a trembling hand.

The moon cast a shimmer of light on some inky-black water--a rush of a heavy body, a shriek, a plunge--and the smooth surface, broken into a thousand points of light, was settling itself once more into tranquillity.

Just then there appeared another figure on the scene: a man was flinging himself from point to point down the steep descent Bertrand, who arrived at the spot only to find himself too late, watched him; but his head was so confused by his fall, that he could not have told whether it took hours or minutes for this unexpected actor in the scene to throw off his outer garment, plunge in the pool, and drag the drowning man to land. By that time he became roused enough to go to his aid, and the two bore the soldier up the bank, and seated him with his back against the trunk of a tree, the water dripping from his garments, and the scared, bewildered expression changing to the old look of dogged, sullen defiance, as his senses returned.

When the forester found that the soldier was not injured by his cold bath, he turned to look at the man who had stepped in so opportunely to the rescue, and the sight did not at all delight him, for the tonsured head, the cowl, and the knotted-rope girdle all proclaimed him an individual whom a Lollard disliked especially to meet, namely, a Benedictine monk.

Dick recognized him further, and springing up, flung himself at the stranger's feet, his teeth chattering with cold and terror as he tried to speak.

"Father Paul! Father Paul! drive them out, drive them away, for heaven's sake, for the blessed saints' sake drive them away! You are holy, and they will fear you. Bring the book and candle, and say a prayer! Oh! they dragged me down"--and the man shuddered through all his frame--"they clutched me so under the water! Good Father! holy Father! save me from the devils!"

"My son," replied the monk kindly, "I wish to help thee in thy distress, but I am neither holy nor good--only a weak sinner like thyself. If thou hast committed sin, there is One that can pardon and absolve. What is it that lies so heavy on thy conscience?"

"Absolve a _Judas_!" shrieked the wretched man. "Ay, Father, I will tell you all, that you may know what a devil you have saved to curse the world."

He began and told the whole story, still crouching down at the Benedictine's feet, while Bertrand gave all up for lost, for he could not stop him, and could only look for one result from the disclosure of the tale to one whom he had every reason to suppose their deadliest foe. But, to his utter astonishment, when the confession was finished and he expected to hear the monk comfort his penitent by pronouncing the deed to be commendable rather than sinful, he began in a way directly opposite to the teachings of the order to which he seemed to belong.

"My son, thou hast indeed greatly sinned; but since thou hast so well remembered the story of the betrayer, hast thou pondered as well on the history of the Betrayed? Hast thou heard of him who forgave his murderers even while they were nailing him on his cross? I make no doubt but that he had a pardon ready even for Judas, had he asked it. Remember this, my son, the betrayal was not the crime which destroyed Judas utterly, but his despair of Christ's mercy. He was never forgiven, because he never asked for forgiveness. When that blessed Saviour said, 'Whoso cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,' he did not add, 'except Dick Redwood.' When the apostle says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he did not finish, 'except the sin of ingratitude.' Dick, there _is_ pardon there--free, full, absolute pardon for thee and for me; all that is required is that we ask for it, that we believe in it, that we trust in nothing else, and that we have a steadfast purpose to live hereafter a better and holier life. Art thou willing so to do? Is it thy purpose henceforth to give up thy wicked desires and do that heavenly Master's will, loving thy brother man and forgiving him, even as he hath loved and forgiven thee?"

The penitent was sobbing like a child as he crouched at the monk's feet and clung to his robe. "O Father! if I could but show you! I would do any penance."

"There is none required," said Father Paul, "none at all. Christ hath borne our penance in his sufferings on the tree; nothing that we can do would be of any avail; it is free grace that saves, remember that--never, never forget it; that is the good tidings, the glorious Easter gospel!"

The monk paused, as if overcome by emotion; then laying his hand on the head of the kneeling man, he added very solemnly:

"Not as though _I_ had any power, not in my own name, but in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose servant I am, I pronounce that thou, being penitent, art released from thy sins and made a partaker of his kingdom. Go in peace, and sin no more."

Dick sprang to his feet when the gentle touch was removed. The dull, sullen look had vanished from his face, the frightened, staring eyes were calm; but his voice, when he tried to speak, was husky and choked, and he turned aside a moment into the bushes. They had no need to follow him now, for with his tormentors had departed all thoughts of self-murder.

The Benedictine advanced toward Bertrand and held out his hand.

"I think I can recognize you from our friend's story," he said kindly; "but do not be afraid; it is not often, I know, that a garb like mine covers a heart friendly to your faith; but I too have a story to tell."

He then explained in a few words to the still astounded Bertrand the marvelous effect of the few words uttered by Hubert.

"Thus you see," he concluded, "that where I expected to teach, I was taught; and where I went to convert, I was myself converted. But what are you doing here at this hour with these tools?"

Bertrand's fear was quite gone by this time, and he related how nearly they had liberated the captives, and were now on their way to meet the remaining one, and bring her also away.

But Father Paul strongly urged upon them the danger of withdrawing Lady Katharine from the convent until they had made preparations for her escape from the neighborhood, as a search would be made for her as soon as she was missed which would endanger the safety of all parties; but he said there might be no danger in her coming by night to visit the dying boy, and offered himself to assist in arranging a plan for her removal to her home. This he could the more easily do, as it was not yet known that he had changed his faith.

*CHAPTER XX.*

_*One more Lamb safe in the Fold.*_

The sun had risen and set again upon the cottage in the wood and its quiet household. It had been a lovely spring day, such a day as makes the violets and anemones lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot in the forest; but the evening had closed in much colder. Heavy clouds were gliding across the moon, throwing weird shadows upon sea and land, and the wind was rising almost to a tempest.

Within, the scene was different. The fire in the great chimney was blazing merrily, for Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their duty to keep it as large as though it were Christmas-time; and little Dick was continually running in with his apron full of dried sticks and leaves to add to the flame.

Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the dame had converted into a bed, and drawn up close to the hearth. There had been a change that day, that mysterious, indescribable change which all know so well, but which no one can define--the shadow of the dark mountains falling on the pilgrim's face as he enters the valley of death. Not a painful change. The lines of suffering were passing away, the dark blue eyes were beaming with a holy light, the high white forehead looked more like chiseled marble, and about the lips was playing a smile, not gay or mirthful, but full of contentment and peace. The stupor had passed away, and his mind seemed perfectly clear. He recognized those about him, and was very grateful for every little service rendered him; but he spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise or bustle in the room. Perhaps it was because he had been so long accustomed to the stillness of his prison; it may have been that sounds were breaking on his ear with which earth's noises formed jarring discord.

Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little bench, handing him anything he wanted, and holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp. Another who rarely took his eyes from the dying boy was the soldier. He had received from them both freely the pardon which was alone needed to make his heart lighter, notwithstanding the present grief, than it had ever been before in his life. An atmosphere of love filled the little dwelling; pardon and peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing coals on the hearth lightened the rough walls of the cottage.

There was a little stir at the door--a whispered question and answer; then Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:

"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"

He raised himself a little, and as Kate approached, put both his arms around her neck and drew her down close to him.

"I am so glad you have come," he said; "now Geoffrey will not be alone. You will never leave each other any more, will you? You will take her to father, and tell him I loved you both so much! You will all have happy days together in some far-off land, and then when you are so happy, you will sometimes think and talk about to-night."

Here the elder boy's stout heart broke down. To look forward to a future which was not to be shared by Hubert, his second self--the only one with whom he had taken sweet counsel through all his childhood--dearer still for the sufferings they had borne side by side!

"O Hubert! you will not be there!"

"I would rather not be, I am so tired, so very, very weary; I am not strong to battle for the truth, as you are, Geoffrey. It is so nice to lie here and think that all the work and toil is over, and I am only waiting for him to come. He is coming fast now; when it is quiet, I can hear his footsteps and his voice. He will take me right up in his arms, and I will put my head on his breast while he is carrying me home. Isn't he come yet? Don't you hear him calling? Don't you see him coming? He is very, very near now."

They _did_ perceive his coming; they saw his approaches in the fast glazing eye, in the death-damp on the forehead; they heard him in the gasping breath.

Father Paul stepped forward and bent over him.

"Yes, my child, he _is_ coming; he is almost here. Hast thou no fear?"

A look of surprise passed over the child's face.

"Why, it is Jesus! I cannot fear Jesus! I love him so, and I have waited for him so long! I am so glad that you love him too! Now we will all meet in the Beautiful Land--kind Dick and all, all, every one!" And his eye glanced at each in turn, resting lovingly, but searchingly, on every face, as if he would read there the secret of the heart, and know if that soul were at peace with its Maker.

Coming, coming, faster and faster, nearer and nearer, the footsteps were at the door; they had entered; the unbidden guest was in their midst. He would not depart alone. All felt his presence, and there was silence, only broken by the gasping breath, each moment growing shorter. The very wind had lulled, and listened with them.

Then they came--those last words which echo so long in desolate hearts, which we remember so much longer than any other utterances of our beloved. Low, but clear and distinct, they sounded in the stillness. There was awe, joy, and great wonder in the tone:

"_Hush! hark! see!_"

They were hushed; no sound was heard, save the gentle crackle and hiss of the logs on the hearth; they saw--the little white form lying on its pillows, with the red firelight beaming on opened, sightless eyes, parted breathless lips.

_He_ hearkened, and heard 'the angels' song of welcome--_he_ looked, and beheld the face of his Saviour!

*CHAPTER XXI.*

_*Father Paul.*_

There was no noisy grief, no boisterous lamentation when, one lovely spring morning, the small funeral-train left the soldier's cottage, and passed through the forest-paths toward the last resting-place of the little Lollard martyr. Dick and Bertrand had dug the grave in just such a spot as a child might choose to rest in after a long day of happiness--a glade with a southern slope, purpled with violets, and enlivened by a little brook, which leaped out of a thicket of wild roses, and, after dancing awhile in the sunshine, and hugging the worn rocks as though it loved them, plunged again into obscurity, under the arms of a great overspreading willow, and went dancing on to the sea.

There were no chanting monks with flaming tapers, but the returning sun spoke to them of nature--awake again after its long sleep--and of little brown seeds, hidden away in the ground all winter, now bursting forth into beauty and fragrance, every seed having its own body. "I am the resurrection and the life"--how glorious those words sounded as echoed by a thousand voices in that grand cathedral of God's own handiwork! Every budding branch, every flower, every tiny blade of grass the mourners crushed beneath their feet was to them a witness of that fact.

We, who have all our lives been used to the consolation which the pure gospel gives to all thoughts connected with death, can hardly imagine what were the Benedictine's feelings when he stood by that little grave, and read that glorious funeral anthem, the fifteenth chapter of Corinthians, for the first time in his mother tongue. It was all new and striking to him. He had now no need to let his mind dwell on a fearful purgatory, from which the departed soul could only be released by the prayers and penances of living friends. He now knew that all connection had ceased between the disembodied spirit and those it had left behind. In due time they might go to it, but it was at that very moment safe in its Saviour's bosom, whence none could pluck it away.

The soothing effect of the scene and the simple service was felt in every heart; and when at last they saw Bertrand arrange the last sod that covered the dear one from their eyes, there were no outbursts of grief; for the peace which is not of this world, and therefore over which the prince of this world has no power, was upon them, and rested in each soul.

No tombstone marked the spot; they did not even dare to raise a mound, lest the precious remains should be desecrated; but each, as he passed by, laid on it a handful of the sweet spring flowers. Those who loved him knew where he lay, and God would guard the ashes of his saint.

Their preparations must now be made speedily, for only two days remained of the time granted them by the abbess. While they were looking for a fishing-boat, the master of which might be induced, by the promise of a large reward, to convey them to London, they were also busy contriving how they might best take Lady Katharine Hyde without endangering the safety of any who had aided them in their flight. Fortunately, the abbess had never seen her young charge hold any communication with her other prisoners; she was also entirely unaware that the young lady possessed means of access to the garden, and indeed to the outer world, whenever she was pleased to avail herself of them. The ghost also had never been laid, but remained as great a mystery as ghosts generally do. All this greatly favored their plans. It was at last arranged that she should come down to the garden at as early an hour as possible in the evening, locking the door behind her; that she should then enter the little room under the tower, where Bertrand would meet her with her disguise, which was to be that of a monk of Father Paul's order. They were then to fasten up the entrance to the secret passage, and meet the others at the designated spot on the coast. The others were to pretend to start at sunset, that afterward, when Lady Katharine should be missed, the abbess would not imagine that she had joined them. It would be very easy for them, when it was dark, to turn back and take up the rest of their load.

Geoffrey had been gaining strength rapidly the last few days, and his spirits rose also. Not that Hubert was forgotten: there was not a moment in which he did not miss that dear brother, rendered doubly dear by the trials they had undergone together for their mutual faith, and who had been for so long the object of his care; but though he was not gay, he could not be sad. Hope was awake again, and that calm, peaceful death-scene had left no bitterness behind. The little grave in the forest glade, with the golden light flickering through the elm-branches on its violets and snow-drops, was not brighter than the sunny memories the child had left behind him. Life was not so very precious a thing to a Lollard in that age of oppression and tyranny, that he should grieve deeply over one who had laid aside its burden, and received the reward. During the weary hours of his imprisonment, Geoffrey had learned many a lesson of unselfishness and self-sacrifice, and besides, heaven had grown nearer and more real to him--more real in fact, than the world from which he had been so long separated. From his tomb in the convent-dungeon he had arisen to a new spiritual life, he who had entered his prison a haughty, passionate boy, fired, it is true, by many noble impulses, but with an untamed spirit and unsanctified will, came forth a calm, collected young man, disciplined in soul and mind, older by many years than he had been six months before. He had learned to read in a different way the history of his past life, as well as that which opened before him day by day. He had also learned in his loneliness to comprehend and to trust more fully that pure gospel truth which he had until then received more as a political than a religious creed, as intended to lead to freedom from worldly tyranny, rather than from the dominion of sin and death.

He held several conversations with Father Paul about his future plans. The ecclesiastic had the best means of judging concerning the spiritual state of the kingdom, and its readiness for the reception of the reformed doctrines, and he pronounced the movement premature. The people were not, as a general thing, ready for any change in religion. Papistry had too firm a hold on the lives and property of every class to be dislodged, except by a combined movement of the masses, and that could not be hoped for until the superstition and bigotry which now enshrouded the whole land had been driven away by the diffusion of education and a pure gospel. But how could the gospel be diffused when not one in a hundred could read or write their mother tongue? And how could education be brought to bear on the common people when it would cost the laborer all he received for months of toil to purchase a single book?

"I tell you," said the priest emphatically, "that as long as the Bible is locked up from men, and men are shut out from the Bible, we can have no general reformation in the church. When the Word of God shall be so multiplied that every man may have it if he will, and every man's mind is so enlightened that he may read it if he will, then let Rome tremble, for her power over the nations will be gone."

"Has all this blood been expended, then, in vain?" asked Geoffrey.

"No," replied the monk; "that cannot be. God in his providence wastes nothing; certainly not human suffering. Those who shall live after us in future ages, and look back on the history of these times, will understand how God is working with this land and its inhabitants; we cannot; we can only trust. A thousand years are but a day in his sight, and one day as a thousand years. We must only labor on, seeking to lead, here and there a soul out of darkness into light. Do you know that I intend to be your fellow-traveller to-morrow?"

"No," said Geoffrey, joyfully; "but whither and for how long?"

"I cannot answer the last question," replied Father Paul, "and the first only in part. I am now, like yourself, an exile, for my life will not be worth an hour's purchase when the archbishop hears of my heresy. My plan is first to go with you to London, see my sister, Lady Katharine's mother, and convey her and her children to a place of safety; then to join Lord Cobham in Wales, and there, under him and other godly men, learn more of these glorious truths, for I am but a child in the true knowledge, and have much to unlearn, as well as to learn. After that, if God will grant to me, so unworthy, the privilege of preaching his good tidings, I will go about the country and seek to lead home some of his lost sheep by telling them how I was restored."

"That was Hubert's great desire," said Geoffrey rather sadly; "but God thought otherwise."

"Nay, there you mistake," replied the Father with emotion. "I have stood in many pulpits and pronounced many discourses, for men say I have the gift of an eloquent tongue; but as I look back on them all, I cannot remember that one has been the means of saving a single soul. I have bidden men subdue the flesh by penance--never the spirit by penitence; I have taught sinners to seek a release from the consequences of their crimes in the cloister, in pilgrimages, in costly offerings, but I have never directed them to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world. I have taught my people to fear the wrath of the church, but never warned them to prepare for the judgment of God. Oh! my burden is heavy, heavy! Be thankful, my son, that you are spared from knowing that thousands have gone down to the grave depending on your false teaching. A blind leader of the blind I had been for nearly half a century, until a few words from the lips of a child taught me myself. What I now am, whatever hereafter God will permit me to do for my fellow-sinners, will all be owing to your brother.