Part 6

Meanwhile there had been a tumult of varied feelings in Geoffrey's mind. Who can this stranger be? had been naturally his first thought when he saw the accident. There could be but one answer--it was an enemy; none other would have been concealed at such an hour on those lonely cliffs. One of Chichely's spies must have been lurking behind the rocks, and, missing his footing, had fallen to what must be his certain destruction if not speedily rescued. And this was the man whom certain feelings of humanity in his heart were calling on him to save at the risk of his own life--one of the very men, perhaps, who had aided in making his father a homeless outlaw; nay more, who had been but a few moments before thirsting for the blood of himself and his venerable protector. Was it not the dictate of common prudence which incited him to send a cross-bow bolt after the wretch, rather than rescue him to go on in the commission of crime?

But however passionate Geoffrey might be when roused by a sense of his wrongs, in his calmer moments he was always ready to be led by the Bible laws of right and wrong, which had been taught him from his infancy. "Thou shalt not do evil that good may come," was a precept which had been impressed upon him by his father's lips more than once, and now the conversation he had just held with his brother brought a still more forcible argument to his mind. "He died for them even while they were murdering him." "Forgive us our sins as we forgive them who sin against us." He was decided: he would, as Hubert had said, act the prayer, and in a moment--for it took him far less time to think all this than it has to relate it--he stepped forward, and flung his loose cloak out of the way.

"Nay, father, there is yet hope: I will go down and help him."

"You!" exclaimed the old master and Bertrand in a breath. "Boy, you are mad! It is almost certain death; and know you not that this is without doubt a spy, sent to hunt all of us to the scaffold?"

"He is a fellow-man," replied the boy undauntedly, "and a sinner too; perchance his soul may be hanging over the gulf of perdition, as his body is over yonder ocean. If it please God"--here he raised his cap reverently from his brow, then flung it down on the ground--"if it please God, I will save both!"

He then stepped toward Hubert, and bending low so that he might not be overheard by the rest, said: "Brother, I am going to act the prayer; you have saved me from the vengeance of God!" There was one tight grasp of the hand, and then, before they had sufficiently recovered from their surprise to prevent him, Geoffrey had seized the rope and commenced his perilous descent.

The next few moments, so full of agonizing suspense, were spent by Bertrand in pushing bunches of dried grass under the rope, to prevent it from cutting against the sharp corners of the rock, and by the rest in prayer. The dangerous descent was not quite unknown to the young Lollard, as but a week or two previous he had climbed down to that very tree to pick up a bird which he shot, and which had lodged in its branches; hence his warning to the man to beware of the dead bough. But then he had had the light and heat of the sun at noonday; now he must guide himself over slippery rocks by the uncertain light of the moon, which, glaring on the patches of snow, served only to render the shadows deeper; still the boy, naturally fearless, was now inspired with a supernatural bravery by the holy thoughts in his soul. Every sense was stretched to its utmost; with firm hands he grasped the rope, and with unerring feet sprang from rock to rock with a speed and sureness of footing which seemed to those who watched him from above almost miraculous, till at last he sent up a joyful shout:

"I am safe, and the man is only stunned; but send us down another rope, and that speedily, for the tree is loosening."

The rope was not so readily procured; and for some time the boy had to remain in the tree called the "elf oak" by the people around, on account of the strangeness of its situation, and support the moaning wretch who lay there, and whom his voice had recalled a little to life. He occupied himself by chafing the man's limbs, and striving to regulate their weight so as to press as little as possible on the tree, which, jarred by the fall of the heavy body upon it, was becoming more and more loosened from its frail tenure in the crevice of the rock.

At length the other rope was dropped to him, and he fastened both round the man, who seemed incapable, either through terror or injury, of giving himself much assistance. Then, supporting himself partly by the rope, but more by clinging to the jutting points of rock, with a hand ever ready to steady the swinging body or turn it aside from a dangerous angle, he clambered up, and then sank down on the grass, wounded, dizzy, and exhausted, but with a strange calmness at his heart, and a great love burning there toward all mankind, and an intense feeling of gratitude toward God for his preservation from a danger whose full horrors he only now began to understand; for, just as he was mounting the last few feet of the ascent, he had heard a crash behind him--the old oak had torn itself from the rock, and was being dashed in fragments by the surf below.

*CHAPTER XII.*

_*Caught and Caged.*_

The man whom Geoffrey had saved was indeed his greatest enemy. He was no other than the captain of the troop who had so lately burned Forest Castle and driven its lord into exile. Enraged at losing the reward which he had considered already his own, and mortified beyond expression at finding himself outwitted by the despised Lollards, he had found the traces of Bertrand like a bloodhound, and having followed them so far, had discovered the retreat of the children of his enemy.

Bertrand recognized him the moment the blood and dust were wiped from his face, and nothing but the positive command of his master's son prevented him from killing him on the spot. Still all precautions must be taken for their safety, and they bound their prisoner securely, placing him in an out-house near the hut, while they prepared everything for instant flight. Their precious pages of Scripture were divided among them and concealed in their garments. Such of the old man's few effects as they could not carry with them they buried or concealed, and partook of a hasty meal.

Their plan was to leave sufficient food and firewood near their prisoner to last him till he should recover or his friends come to seek him. For this purpose Bertrand went to carry him meat, but returned in a moment with a face expressive of mingled wonder and alarm.

"He is gone!" he exclaimed. "Gone, and we are undone! Why did I not strike him down at first? Fool that I was! why did you hinder me, master Geoffrey? We are indeed lost if he escape, for his band is but a short league off in the village. He may have had time to warn them even now;" and Charles Bertrand sprang to the door, cross-bow in hand; but when there, he stopped. Gleaming in the gray twilight which was heralding the morning, he saw the spears of quite a numerous band of soldiers approaching the hill on which the hut stood, from three sides, slowly but surely compassing their prey.

"It is too late," he added more calmly; and in a whisper to Geoffrey, who had followed him, "_We_ might by a rare chance break through--but not _those_;" and he pointed with the butt of his weapon to the old man, exhausted with the labors and excitement of the night, and Hubert, pale and unused to hardship.

"Go you, trusty Charles," said the boy, grasping the rough hand of the man-at-arms in both his; "I knew not that I had periled their life and yours as well as mine own; go you alone by the rocky path: it lies still in shadow, and they will not see it I stay to die with them."

"Hold, young master," said the man, affecting a rough manner to conceal his emotion; "you do not know Charles Bertrand if you think he will basely flee and leave the old man and the child to perish alone, not counting the heir of his lord's house. Nay, I will stay and bring down more than one of the wretches ere they cross the threshold."

"Not so, friend," said the young Lollard. "You have not my permission; for my father's sake, you must escape to tell him of our fate, and beside, you being free, may do somewhat for our liberty in planning some way of escape, while you can do us no good by shooting down one or two of yonder troop. I command you to follow yonder path to the first turning, then to the right, till you see a rock like a horse's head, then ten paces to the left, is a bush growing close to the cliff. Pull it away, and there is a hole large enough for one to lie concealed. Go, Bertrand; there is not a moment to lose, do not say a word."

The man looked still reluctant; but there was such an air of decision in the flashing eye of the young man that he could not disobey, but bounding up the hillside, disappeared as Geoffrey turned to the hut.

"Up, father!" he said in a firm voice, lending his arm to the old man, at the same time motioning Hubert to his side. "Father! you have taught us how to live as Lollards and Christians; now teach us to die like them, for the time is come!" and he led them out to the rocky platform in front of the door.

Scarcely had he ended when a dozen men leapt up to the top of the hill, and as many hands were laid on their unresisting victims, while the morning air was filled with their shouts of delight at their cowardly victory. Some tied them securely, some went to search for the missing soldier, while others threw firebrands about the hut and set it on fire.

Then, driving the boys before them, but disregarding old Humphrey Singleton as a piece of worthless booty, they descended the hill toward the village, where they had left their horses. There each of the boys was fastened to a horse behind a soldier, and by the time the sun had risen they were on their way toward York.

The captain, while looking with the utmost care to the safety of his prisoners, kept as far as possible from the boy whose kindness he was so shamefully repaying. Though his heart was pretty well steeled by many years of rough service as a soldier of fortune, and he was deeply impressed with the hatred of the Reformers which pervaded all classes, yet he had a little conscience left, and it pricked him sharply when he looked on the sea, and thought that but for that lad's strong arm and courageous heart he would there be dashing about, a lifeless, mangled mass. His better angel whispered to him that he might still partially retrieve his error by using his influence with his band to let them escape; but then rose the thought of the disgrace which the escape of Sir John and Lord Cobham had thrown upon him, which could only be atoned for by the capture of these "whelps of rebellion," as the archbishop styled them. Besides, his greedy palm itched for the golden angels which he already saw poured out to him by the delighted ecclesiastic.

So at last he determined to divide matters with his troublesome conscience. He would not take them to York, where they would certainly be killed, but would leave them at a convent near by, where they might not be kept very safely, and thus escape, without the odium resting on him, or the loss of his reward. He therefore ordered his troop to turn into a side-road, and galloping on before, led them to a gloomy, fortified building, surrounded by thick woods, and known to all as the convent of "Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows."

The porteress looked surprised and a little doubtful at the sight of such a band of armed men; but the archbishop's livery, worn by some of his retainers, and the assurance of the captain that he came on holy business, procured them an audience with the head of the establishment.

Mother Beatrice, the prioress, was a tall, dark, hard-featured woman, who, being an importation from Spain, had brought with her all the austerities to which she had been accustomed from her childhood, and meted them out with unsparing hand to the nuns, novices, and pupils over whom she exercised her sway, and soon made the convent as famous for the rigor of its discipline, as she herself was for sanctity and devotion to the Church.

It seemed as though there was scarcely an hour in the twenty-four in which the clanging of the bell did not arouse the luckless inmates to repair to the chapel for prayers, and woe to any one who were so unfortunate as to break any one of the strict rules of the house, for the slightest punishment of the abbess was a thing to be dreaded. Perhaps it was to lie for hours stretched in the form of a cross on the cold pavement of the cell or chapel; to stand in a painful posture before some shrine, till the offender fainted from weariness; to go day after day with the least possible quantity of the coarsest food that could keep soul and body together; or perhaps, in extreme cases, the holy lady would herself apply the scourge to the naked back of the criminal, accompanying each blow by a pious exhortation, or a passage in the life of a saint, until both voice and hand were too wearied to perform their part any longer.

"And now daughter," she would say, as her victim was led away, "go in peace; may this slight correction save thee from the pains of hell! Go in peace, and forget not in thy prayers to thank Our Lady and the saints that thou hast been placed here, where thy soul is so well cared for!"

It was quite doubtful whether the offender ever experienced the gratitude which was expected of her for the benefits received at the reverend Lady's hand, but it was thought that Mother Beatrice quite enjoyed these little opportunities for doing good, and either found, or made them, as often as possible.

It was after one of these occasions, when she was resting from the benevolent fatigue she had just undergone, that the porteress came bustling in, with an unusual air of excitement, to inform her of the arrival of the captain and his men.

The abbess received the soldier with the cold dignity befitting her situation; but as soon as she had heard the story, her heart palpitated with joy and triumph, in a manner quite unusual to one covered with the serge robe of her order. Her ruling passion was for governing, and forcing those around her to an absolute subjection to her will; and she had lately begun to weary of the contracted scope given to her powers in this quiet convent. The sins which she was called upon to punish were, after all, mere peccadilloes, and her subjects were so subdued by severity that there was no hope of a serious enough rebellion among them to excite her faculties in putting it down; but here were intrusted to her two heretics, made all the more interesting by being of the opposite sex, and yet not old enough to bring a scandal upon the convent if it received them within its walls. She promised the captain to do all she could to draw from them the secret of their father's hiding-place and that of Lord Cobham, and to keep them safely till the archbishop, who was then in London, should return, and decide what was to be done with them.

When the captain and his troop had departed, she ordered her prisoners to be brought into her presence. The boys had at first been rather rejoiced at the thought of being placed under female care, but one look at their stern jailer was sufficient to alarm them. Hubert shrank to his brother's side, but Geoffrey drew himself up proudly, and returned her scrutiny by an unabashed and not very polite stare.

The wily prioress noticed this, and determined that they were very different characters, and as such must be differently treated. "Come hither, my pretty boy," she said, throwing as much tenderness as possible into her voice; and, drawing him gently toward her, she questioned him concerning his journey and his fatigue in such a way that his answers, at first confined to monosyllables, became more full, and he was soon talking with her quite freely, unheeding the signs by which Geoffrey, who was standing moodily by the door, tried to check him. At that moment the convent-bell pealed out its summons, and the abbess, arising, said, "Come, my little page, we will go to hear some of that music you were just telling me you loved so dearly;" and before the elder lad had time to put in a word, the superior and her charge had left the room. As the door closed behind her, another opened, and the porteress, entering, bade him follow her. He obeyed, though secretly determined not to be led to chapel, as he conceived Hubert must have been. His fears were groundless, as he soon discovered; it was not the abbess's plan to try him that way. He followed his guide through several passages and courts to a low damp-looking cell, and when Sister Ursula had shown him the pitcher of water and piece of bread for his refreshment, that were placed in a niche serving for a table, she withdrew, and bolting the door, left him to his own reflections.

His first impulse was to examine his prison. The only light admitted was from a small window, or rather slit in the wall, which was well barred; and it was not till his eyes became somewhat accustomed to the dim light, that he found he was in a good-sized room, some twenty feet square, and built entirely of stone. It had evidently been originally intended for a cellar; but that it had sometime been used as a prison was also evident, as there was a chain fastened to the wall, and the door was strong, and well provided with bolts and bars. On a shelf covered with cloth, at the side, stood a crucifix, and behind it hung a rude sketch of the Virgin, with the legend, "Ora pro nobis, peccavi!" in black letter. The boy gave a scornful glance at this, and then threw himself down on the heap of straw in the corner intended for his bed.

At first he buried his face in his hands in anxious thought, but soon started up, and began a careful examination of the walls and floor of his prison. His object was this. In the arrangements for flight at the hut on the cliff the preceding night, it will be remembered that the sheets of parchment containing parts of the Bible had been divided among the people. Geoffrey's share he carried in a bag under the cloth jerkin that he wore, and he was afraid lest the prioress should undertake to search him, and so discover those precious pages, which he would then not only lose forever, but which would prove witnesses sufficient to send him, without further question, to the stake. He therefore wished to find some place where he might secrete them, if a search seemed probable.

In the darkest corner of the room, partly concealed by a recess, he found a door, which had evidently, by the cobwebs gathered thickly over it, not been opened for a long time. Induced by the decayed appearance of the wood, he applied his shoulder to it, and one forcible push sent it bursting in, and nearly choked him with dust. At first his heart beat high, for he thought he had found a way of escape; but he was soon disappointed. It only opened into what seemed to have been an entrance or vestibule to the old cellar, for there were marks where some steps had been fastened into the wall; and a doorway, half-way up the side, had been built up with a different kind of stone. The walls were, however, much thinner, and the window larger. After making himself sure that there was no way to it except through the outer cell, he placed his parchments in a crevice under the window and returned to the other room, replacing the door so as to make all look as much as possible as it did before.

He had now time to consider his situation, which was by no means a promising one. He had noticed the deep ditch and massive wall which surrounded the building as he approached it, and the character of the place was better known to him than the prioress had supposed. He knew there were other ways of ridding the kingdom of heretics beside the open trial and public execution. He also knew that he and his brother would be especial objects of interest to the ecclesiastical authority, as it might be supposed that they could be induced to reveal the place of their father's retreat, or even draw him from his concealment, if he heard that his children were held as hostages for his appearance. He saw that great exertions would be made for their conversion, and he was very angry with Hubert for being so easily entrapped and led away, and he imagined him subjected to all kinds of questioning before he had opportunity to warn him how to answer so as to conceal most perfectly their secrets. He had worked himself into such a passion with the child for his "singing folly," as he termed it, that when the bolts were suddenly drawn back, the door opened, and his brother ran and threw himself sobbing into his arms, he repulsed him rudely and contemptuously, and began walking up and down the room, too angry to speak.

"Geoffrey! Geoffrey!" began the child in a trembling voice, springing up from the straw where the elder's rough push had sent him, but not daring to approach the irritated lad, "Geoffrey! I did not kneel, I did not kiss the image, though they told me they would let us go in the garden if I would, and the porteress says they will kill us soon. O brother! don't send me away; we always said we would die together!"

"They may kill me, but not you, Hubert," replied Geoffrey with a sneer. "They will rather keep you for one of their singing-birds; after that you may be a fat monk, and, who knows? his Lordship of Canterbury one of these days, and light up the land with Lollard bonfires perhaps; but"--he stopped suddenly and sprang to his brother's side, changing his tone from harshness and sarcasm to tenderness and anxiety--"but they have done you hurt; they have wounded you, the hounds! Why did you not tell me? You are bleeding fast!"

The blood was indeed trickling down the child's pale face and mingling with his tears, while he was vainly endeavoring to stanch it with his hands.

"It is not much," he sobbed; "she struck me with her keys because I called out to such a pretty young lady who passed us as we came out of chapel. I am sure we saw her in London at the preaching in the brickyard. She was walking with the nuns, and looked very much surprised to see me; but they hurried her away, and then the porteress struck me."

"There," said Geoffrey, whose rage against his brother had quite disappeared now that he had so much better an object to vent his spleen upon, "the old hag has not done you as much damage as she meant to, I think; it is but a little cut, and will scarcely leave a scar. Sit down here, and let me cover you with my cloak, and we will eat the supper our good jaileresses have provided; we have had nothing since daybreak." They were both exhausted with the fatigues and excitement of the last twenty-four hours, and their prison-fare was not much coarser than that to which they had been accustomed; so they ate it thankfully, and then lay down to rest in each other's arms.

Much more tranquil was their rest than that of their betrayer, who, tossing on his pillow in his inn at York, was suffering from remorse in a manner different from any former experience. The conversation he had overheard on the cliff; the fright of the fall; the brave face that had looked into his with compassion as he lay in the tree; that same undaunted young figure standing at the hut door as his captors surrounded him; the patient, reproachful face which he could not help continually turning to meet during the long morning ride--all these rose up before him one after another, and not even the thought of his bag of gold pieces was able to restore the soldier's natural recklessness.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

_*Kate the Quick-witted.*_