CHAPTER XIII

A THRILLING SPECTACLE

When Bumpus opened his eyes he saw a weird flickering light reflected on the wall of the small cell-like room in which he had lain down to sleep. Of course for the moment he did not know where he was. Then the recollection rushed over him like a wave, and it was all plain.

But had he been passing through a horrible dream to cause that creepy sensation which boys describe as “goose-flesh” to grip him? No, there came that strange sound again, causing another spasm of shivering. It monotonously rose and fell in the queerest way imaginable, and somehow made Bumpus remember a ghostly chant that he had once heard on the stage, when his folks visiting in New York City took him to the opera, and the grave-diggers were discovered at work throwing up the earth in preparation for a funeral.

Bumpus slid off his cot. The awe-inspiring sounds certainly came in at the narrow window, and although still trembling with excitement closely bordering on fear, he found himself creeping toward that opening.

When he reached it and looked out he saw a most amazing sight indeed, and one that riveted his attention. It seemed that the window opened on a garden that was enclosed on three sides by the walls of the long building. There were trees and shrubs in this enclosure, also winding walks that had been laid out for a purpose.

Half a dozen flickering lights could be seen trailing along, the glow rising and falling intermittently. These he immediately discovered were some sort of torches held in the hands of strangely garbed men, who walked slowly, and as they proceeded chanted that solemn requiem in deep, hoarse voices.

Bumpus rubbed his eyes. Was he indeed really awake, or could this only be a part of a most realistic dream? Still, as he continued to look he saw the ghostly procession, for every figure was garbed in white, passing slowly along the serpentine path below.

Then the staring scout received another shock. His eyes, following back the line, rested on a group that seemed to be bearing a muffled form on a stretcher. With war in the land it was only natural for Bumpus to jump to the conclusion that this might be a wounded soldier, though hardly had he come to this conviction than he changed his mind.

These odd-appearing figures were not at all martial looking. Indeed, they were intoning some Latin hymn, he concluded, and the solemn character gave him his clue.

Yes, they must be monks, or members of some religious order that had escaped the general eviction when the French Government ousted most of their kind from the monasteries and convents. One of their number had died, perhaps sacrificing his life for France; and the Brothers were now engaged in giving him a midnight burial, after some rule of the order.

Bumpus felt a whole lot better after coming to this conclusion, though he still continued to keep his eyes glued on what was passing below, and did not mean to miss the least portion of the ceremony.

That rising and falling chant thrilled him strangely. He would never forget it as long as he lived. Still it was a relief to know that he was watching real flesh and blood people, and not visitors from the other world; for to tell the truth Bumpus had in the beginning suspected something of that sort. Indeed, considering the circumstances surrounding him, who could blame the boy for giving way to a deep-seated fear of the supernatural, half dormant in the hearts of every human being?

Now they were all in view. He counted just seventeen of the figures in white slowly moving along at stated intervals and holding the burning torches above their muffled heads.

The chant continued without a break, rising and falling again and again as they wound in and out among the bushes and the low-lying trees. Then Bumpus saw that they had evidently arrived at the spot where an open grave yawned, for the solemn procession no longer progressed, the figures gathering in a circle instead.

The torches formed a weird circle, and the deep-toned voices rose and fell with increased fervor. Though the watcher in the little window of the cell could not see all that was going on because of intervening branches, he knew that the body of the dead monk must have been lowered, for while the singing continued he could see men busily at work with shovels.

Bumpus was feeling somewhat easier in his mind. He knew now what manner of building he had come across. It was not a sanitarium, such as he had imagined, but a retreat of some kind, where benevolent Brothers had their home away from the cares and anxieties of the wicked world.

When war broke upon the land possibly some of their number had volunteered to work with the Red Cross units who looked after the wounded. While their vows would forbid that they take an active part in the fighting, still they could labor to relieve human distress.

It might be the younger and more active members thus offered their services to the sanitary corps for this purpose, while the older Brothers remained in the sanctuary. And perhaps one of those who had gone forth had been cut down by some hostile shot, for when the air was filled with bursting shells the field hospitals did not always escape serious damage, though they might be located far back of the firing-line.

They had brought the dead hero home to be buried according to the quaint rules of the Order; and accident had allowed Bumpus to be a deeply interested spectator of the midnight funeral.

He considered the situation, and decided that he surely could not have anything to fear from these good Brothers of the cowl and robe. The night air was chill, which was the only reason why he continued to shiver now, and not because he entertained anything like fear, for he indignantly spurned the idea.

So he had better go back to his cot and try to finish his sleep, for he was in great need of further rest. A scout should not give way to such a feeling as timidity, Bumpus stoutly told himself several times. In the morning he could show himself to the monks and beg a breakfast, perhaps. Even then it can be seen that Bumpus had an eye to the future, and remembered how he was in the habit of expecting a hearty meal when he woke up.

The chant was dying down by degrees, and he supposed it would soon cease altogether, as the last shovel of earth was placed over the Brother who had gone to his reward. So with his teeth firmly set and his mind made up, Bumpus crept back to his cot, upon which he spread himself.

Long he lay there, his thoughts taking many curious twists and turns, due to the fact of his recent alarm and the remarkable sight he had witnessed. Well, for one thing, he would have a startling story to tell Giraffe and the others when he joined them again. Somehow this seemed to afford him a wonderful amount of satisfaction. But the droning chant outside finally acted upon his mind as a sedative, and finally Bumpus lost all recollection of time, for he slept.

Not once did the tired boy awaken during the balance of that night. When he finally opened his eyes it was because he heard some one utter a loud cry of amazement. Bumpus, staring upward, found himself looking into the fat face of one of the older Brothers, evidently astounded to discover a stranger, and a boy at that, calmly sleeping on the cot, which, Bumpus afterward learned, actually belonged to the one whose midnight funeral he had witnessed.

Bumpus smiled blandly. Somehow he seemed to grasp the essential facts this time without any beating around the bush. And he meant to do everything in his power to make friends of these recluse members of the monastery.

The man in the rough robe asked him something. Bumpus knew that undoubtedly he must be inquiring as to his identity and how he came there; but, alas! the questions being in French, he could not make a suitable reply.

“I am an American boy; can’t you talk English?” he asked.

Of course that last word gave the Brother the cue. He shook his head in the negative, and then made gestures to indicate that Bumpus should remain where he was, after which he hobbled from the cell.

“Anyway, he _looked_ friendly,” Bumpus was telling himself, with considerable satisfaction; “and a man as big and round as he is generally does turn out kindly in his ways. I guess I’m in clover, and mebbe I’ll get that breakfast after all.”

Shortly afterward he heard shuffling footsteps approaching. Then his former interlocutor appeared once more, this time accompanied by another Brother, a tall, thin man with a leathery face, upon which could be seen more or less surprise, as though the news communicated by the fat monk might be almost unbelievable.

“Can you speak English, sir?” Bumpus immediately asked, as this latter Brother came up to where he was standing.

“Yes,” came the reply; “but who are you, and how do you come here?”

Bumpus gave an audible sigh of relief. His troubles were probably at an end. It would be all right now, and he could explain the situation from the start. Yes, and surely they would understand how a growing boy had to have his breakfast regularly. So he began by telling his name, and how it happened that he and three chums were over in Europe at the time the mad war so suddenly broke out. From that point Bumpus went on to relate in a brief way how they had struggled to reach Antwerp so as to join his invalid mother. Then came the discovery that Mrs. Hawtree had gone on to the French capital when the Germans broke into Belgium. Bumpus described how the four scouts had decided to reach Paris, and then found themselves cast adrift between the lines of the hostile armies.

All this time the tall, thin monk listened intently. Whenever Bumpus would pause for breath he turned to the big fat Brother and said something in French.

At last Bumpus reached the point where, after becoming lost, he happened upon a building he thought might be some abandoned sanitarium, and, tired almost to death, had sought a place to rest. He also told of witnessing the burial of the patriot Brother at midnight, and his firm belief that he had nothing to fear from these benevolent monks whose refuge he had invaded without meaning any harm.

“You are welcome, boy,” said the other, when Bumpus finished his story. “It is not often that we have a guest from the outside world; but in war-times ordinary customs and habits are no longer possible. The Brother whom you saw buried with all the honors of our Order did give his life for his beloved country. He was killed while carrying the wounded to the field hospital. And we have a score of other members who this day are serving France as best they may, under the sacred vows. But you must be hungry, I fear.”

Bumpus smiled broadly. It gave him a thrill to know that this grim monk understood the weakness of boys so well.

“Not so very, sir,” he hastened to say; “though I was just wondering whether I’d get any breakfast this morning. It’s awful kind of you to mention it, and I think I’ll accept the invitation, if you don’t mind.”

“Come with us,” said the tall Brother; “our fare is simple, but there is always plenty for any wayfarer who may happen along. And afterwards, I myself will set you on the right road that perhaps may take you once more to your comrades.”

Cheerfully did Bumpus trail along after the two monks to the “refrectory,” where the members of the Order gathered to partake of their simple repast. He mentally shook hands with himself because of the wonderful luck that seemed to have taken charge of his fortunes; for surely things could hardly have come about more happily if he had personally shaped his destiny.