In the Days of Chivalry: A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince by Everett-Green (amazing books to read .TXT) 📕

moved onwards until, to the astonishment of the simple villagers clustered round the little church and their cure's house, the small but brilliant cavalcade of armed travellers drew up before that lowly door.

The Father was within, and, as the sound of trampling feet made itself heard, appeared at his door in some astonishment; but when the two youths sprang from their horses and bent the knee before him, begging his blessing, and he recognized in them the two boys who had filled so great a portion of his life not so many years ago, a mist came before his eyes, and his voice faltered as he gave the benediction, whilst raising them afterwards and tenderly embracing them, he led them within the well-known doorway, at the same time calling his servant and bidding him see to the lodging of the men without.

The low-ceiled parlour of the priest, with its scanty plenishing and rush-strewn floor, was well known to the boys; yet as Raymond stepped across the threshold he uttered a cry of surprise, not at any change in the aspect of the room itself, but at sight of a figure seated in a high-backed chair, with the full sunlight shining upon the calm, thin face. With an exclamation of joyful recognition the lad sped forward and threw himself upon his knees before the erect figure, with the name of Father Paul upon his lips.

The keen, austere face did not soften as Father Anselm's had done. The Cistercian monk, true to the severity of his order, permitted nothing of pleasure to appear in his face as he looked at the youth whose character he had done so much to form. He did not even raise his hand at once in the customary salutation or blessing, but fixed his eyes upon Raymond's face, now lifted to his in questioning surprise; and not until he had studied that face with great intentness for many long minutes did he lay his hand upon the lad's head and say, in a low, deep voice, "Peace be with thee, my son."

This second and most unexpected meeting was almost a greater pleasure to Raymond than the one with Father Anselm. Whilst Gaston engrossed his old friend's time and thought, sitting next him at the board, and pacing at his side afterwards in the little garden in which he loved to spend his leisure moments, Raymond remained seated at the feet of Father Paul, listening with breathless interest to his history of the voyage he had taken to the far East (as it then seemed), and to the strange and terrible sights he had witnessed in some of those far-off lands.

Raymond had vaguely heard before of the plague, but had regarded it as a scourge confined exclusively to the fervid heat of far-off countries -- a thing that would never come to the more temperate latitudes of the north; but when he spoke these words to the monk, Father Paul shook his head, and a sudden sombre light leaped into his eyes.

"My son, the plague is the scourge of God. It is not confined to one land or another. It visits all alike, if it be God's will to send it in punishment for the many and grievous sins of its inhabitants. True, in the lands of the East, where the paynim holds his court, and everywhere is blasphemy and abomination, the scourge returns time after time, and never altogether ceases from amongst the blinded people. But of late it has spread farther and farther westward -- nearer and nearer to our own shores. God is looking down upon the lands whose people call themselves after His name, and what does he see there but corruption in high places, greed, lust, the covetousness that is idolatry, the slothful ease that is the curse of the Church?"

The monk's eyes flashed beneath their heavily-fringed lids; the fire that glowed in them was of a strange and sombre kind. Raymond turned his pure young face, full of passionate admiration and reverence, towards the fine but terribly stern countenance of the ecclesiastic. A painter would have given much to have caught the expression upon those two faces at that moment. The group was a very striking one, outlined against the luminous saffron of the western sky behind.

"Father, tell me more!" pleaded Raymond. "I am so young, so ignorant; and many of the things the world praises and calls deeds of good turn my heart sick and my spirit faint within me. I would fain know how I may safely tread the difficult path of life. I would fain choose the good and leave the evil. But there be times when I know not how to act, when it seems as though naught in this world were wholly pure. Is it only those who yield themselves up to the life of the cloister who may choose aright and see with open eyes? Must I give up my sword and turn monk ere I may call myself a son of Heaven?"

The boy's eyes were full of an eager, questioning light. His hands were clasped together, and his face was turned full upon his companion. The Father's eyes rested on the pure, ethereal face with a softer look than they had worn before, and then a deep sadness came into them.

"My son," he answered, very gravely, "I am about to say a thing to thee which I would not say to many young and untried as thou art. There have been times in my life when I should have triumphed openly had men spoken to me the words that I shall speak to thee -- times when I had gladly said that all which men call holiness was but a mask for corruption and deceit, and should have rejoiced that the very monks themselves were forced to own to their own wanton disregard of their vows. My son, I see the shrinking and astonishment in thine eyes; but yet I would for a moment that thou couldst see with mine. I spoke awhile ago of the judgment of an angry God. Wherefore, thinkest thou, is it that His anger is so hotly burning against those lands that call themselves by His name -- that call day by day upon His name, and make their boast that they hold the faith whole and undefiled?"

Raymond shook his head. He had no words with which to answer. He was beginning slowly yet surely to feel his eyes opened to the evil of the world -- even that world of piety and chivalry of which such bright dreams had been dreamed. His fair ideals were being gradually dashed and effaced. Something of sickness of heart had penetrated his being, and he had said in the unconscious fashion of pure-hearted youth, "Vanity of vanities! is all around but vanity?" and he had found no answer to his own pathetic question.

As an almost necessary consequence of all this had his thoughts turned towards the holy, dedicated life of the sons of the Church; and though it was with a strong sense of personal shrinking, with a sense that the sacrifice would be well-nigh bitterer than the bitterness of death, he had asked himself if it might not be that God had called him, and that if he would be faithful to the love he had ever professed to hold, he ought to rise up without farther delay and offer himself to the dedicated service of the Church.

And now Father Paul, who had always seemed to read the very secrets of his heart, appeared about to answer this unspoken question. Greatly had Raymond longed of late to speak with him again. Father Anselm was a good and a saintly man, but he knew nothing of the life of the world. To him the Church was the ark of refuge from all human ills, and gladly would he have welcomed within its fold any weary or world-worn soul. But with Father Paul it was different. He had lived in the world; he had sinned (if men spoke truth), and had suffered bitterly. One look in his face was enough to tell that; and having lived and sinned, repented and suffered, he was far more able to offer counsel to one tempted and sometimes suffering, though perhaps in a very different fashion.

The Father's eyes were bent upon the faint glow in the sky, seen through the open casement. His words were spoken quietly, yet with an earnestness that was almost terrible.

"My son," he said, "I have come back but recently from lands where it seems that holiness should abound -- that righteousness should flow forth as from a perpetual fountain, where the Lord should be seen walking almost visibly in the midst of His people. And what have I seen instead? Luxury, corruption, unspeakable abominations -- abominations such as I may not dare to speak in thy pure ears, such as I would not have believed had not mine own eyes seen, mine own ears heard. Where is the poverty, the lowliness, the meekness, the chastity of the sons of the Church? Ah, God in Heaven only knows; and let it be our solemn rejoicing that He does know where His own faithful children are to be found, for assuredly man would miserably fail if he were sent forth to find and to gather them. Leaving those lands which thou, my son, hast never seen, and coming hither to France and England, what do we find? Those who have vowed themselves to the service of the Church walking gaily in the dress of soldiers, engaged in carnal matters, letting their hair hang down their shoulders curled and powdered, and thinking scorn of the tonsure, which is the mark of the Kingdom of Heaven. And does not God see? Will He not recompense to His people their sins? Yea, verily He will; and in an hour when they little think it, the wrath of God shall fall upon them. It is even now upon its way. I have seen it; I have marked its progress. Ere another year has passed, if men repent not of their sins, it will be stalking amongst us. And thou, my son, when that day comes, fear not. Think not of the cloister; keep thy good sword at thy side, but keep it bright in the cause of right, of mercy, of truth, and keep thy shield stainless and unspotted. Then when the hour of judgment falls upon this land, and men in wild terror begin to call upon the God they have forgotten and abused, then go thou forth in the power of that purity of heart which He in His mercy has vouchsafed to thee. Fear not the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor the sickness that destroyeth at noonday. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. With thine eyes shalt thou behold the destruction of thine enemies; but the angels of God shall encamp around thy path, and guard thee in all thy ways. Only be true, be fearless, be steadfast. Thou shalt be a knight of the Lord; thou shalt fight His battle; and from Him, and from no earthly sovereign, shalt thou reap thy reward at last!"

As the Father continued speaking, it seemed as if something of prophetic fire had lighted his eyes. Raymond held his breath in awe as he heard this strange warning, benediction, and promise. But not for a moment did he doubt that what the Father spoke would come to pass. He sank upon his knees, and his heart went up in prayer that when the hour of trial came he might be found faithful at his post; and at once and for ever was laid to rest that restless questioning as to the life of the Church. He knew from that moment forward that it was in the world and not out of it that his work for his Lord was to be done.

No more of a personal nature passed between him and Father Paul that night, and upon the morrow the brothers proceeded to the mill, and the Father upon his journey to England.

"We shall meet again ere long," was Father Paul's parting word to Raymond, and he knew that it would be so.

It was a pretty sight to witness the delighted pride with which honest Jean and Margot welcomed back their boys again after the long separation. Raymond hardly seemed a stranger after his visit of the previous year, but of Gaston they knew not how to make enough. His tall handsome figure and martial air struck them dumb with admiration. They never tired of listening to his tales of flood and field; and the adventures he had met with, though nothing very marvellous in themselves, seemed to the simple souls, who had lived so quiet a life, to raise him at once to the position of some wonderful and almost mythical being.

On their own side, they had