THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS

PART I--THE SEED

CHAPTER I--BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST

Hilarius stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth, well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene inthe June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even adust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train ofsumpter mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for thebacks of the good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, thedrug stores in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costlyvellum, and on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxiousexpectation. 

On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. TheMonastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the greattrees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. Twice had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he pacedslowly and silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and the occasions were stored in his memory withthe glories of St Benedict's Day and Our Lady's Festivals. Away tothe right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monasterylands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teemingwith glad, unhurried labour. 

At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose thePriory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of theplace, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and workof the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of thatwork, ever unfinished because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order, written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world's treasure; apage on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance adda line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They werealways at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rarestuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame anuncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacleand fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of theLord. 

The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit ofinsistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeonscircling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints intheir niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habitlately acquired--on his face was great peace. It restedeverywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of theblacksmith's hammer smote the sound of the Office bell. 

Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for signof the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior's lips wouldtake a thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue;and it was ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind sweptthe fragrance of Mary's lilies across to the lad; he turned hisdreamy, blue eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of thepinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare he, break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an unwalledworld? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made novice, cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the treesbeckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the voice of theforest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, withbowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles. 

At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hairaflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched andpillared city of mystery and wonder. 

It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius'eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlitblue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if OurLady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as hebathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cooldepths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slippedfrom him, and joy replaced it--joy so great that his heart achedwith it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyesfollowing the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an openglade, halted in amazement. 

A flower incarnate stood before him; stood--nay, danced in thewind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chasedeach other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread thefolds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served asstalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowersitself. Hilarius' eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheekslike a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrilsof curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low levelbrow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not foruntutored novices such as Hilarius. 

His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of StBenedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with amurmured "Apage Sataas!"

The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind. 

"O what a pretty boy!" she cried gaily. "Playing truant, I darewager. Come and dance!"

Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. "Woman, " he said, andhis voice trembled somewhat, "art thou not shamed to deck thyselfin this devil's guise?"

The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily. 

"No more devil's guise than thine own, " she retorted, eyeing hissemi-monastic garb with scant favour. "Can a poor maid notpractise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bredyoungster must cry devil's guise?"

As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she brokeinto peal on peal of joyous laughter. "Poor lad, with thy talk ofdevils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?"

Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid inthe eyes, and now he drops his own. 

"Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and enticemen's souls to their undoing?"

"An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kindsir?" she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like ascolded child. 

"It is wrong to deck the body, " began Hilarius, softening at herattitude, "because, because--"

Again the merry laugh rang out. 

"Because, because--nay, Father" (with a mock reverence), "methinksthy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and _I_ willcatechise. How old art thou?" She held up her small fingeradmonishingly. 

"Seventeen, " replied Hilarius, surprised into reply. 

"Art thou a monk?"

"Nay, a novice only. "

"Hast thou ever loved?"

Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went onunconcerned -

"'Twas a foolish question; the answer's writ large for any maid toread. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?"

Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet. 

"There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God andthe Saints and the Brethren--"

"But not the sisters?" the wicked little laugh pealed out. "Poorsisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for theSaints and the Brethren, and it is good--good--good!" She openedher arms wide. "'Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heardthe nightingale sing?"

"It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child. That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to Godand the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful ofyesterday's homily in the Frater. 

"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancerpersisted. 

How did he know?

"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he criedtriumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, andanxious only to come well out of the wordy war. 

But the unexpected happened. 

"Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?--I HATEher;" and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion ofweeping. 

Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman's tears. 

"Maid, maid, " said Hilarius, in deep distress, "indeed I did notmean to vex thee;" and he came up and laid his hand on hershoulder. 

So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!

The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer andmore flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking upat him through shining lashes. 

"There, boy, 'tis naught. How could'st thou know? But what ofthine own mother?"

"I know not. "

"Nay, what is this? And thy father?"

"He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I camea little child to the Monastery, and know no other place. "

"Ah, "--vindictively, --"then THY mother may have been a light o'love. "

"Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound, " said Hilarius with asmile. 

The maid looked at him speechless. 

"GO HOME, BOY, " she said at last emphatically. 

Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through theundergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair. 

"So, Gia!" he said. "We must make haste; the others wait. "

"'Tis my brother, " said the dancer, "and"--pointing to the bagslung across the youth's shoulder--"I trust he hath a fine fat henfrom thy Monastery for our meal. "

Hilarius broke into a cold sweat. 

The Convent's hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred, and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in theMonasteries?

"'Tis stealing, " he said feebly. 

"'Tis stealing, " the dancer mocked. "Hast thou another sermonready, Sir Preacher?"

"Empty bellies make light fingers, " quoth the youth. "Did'st thouever hunger, master?"

"There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat, " said Hilarius. 

"But ever a meal certain once in the day?" queried the girl. 

"Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast. "

The mischievous apes laughed--how they laughed!

"So, good Preacher, " said the dancer at last, rising to her feet, "thou dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger. Thou dost know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thymother; but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was tolove. Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach theethese things an thou would'st learn. Farewell, good novice, backto thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; hungerand love--love--love!"

She seized her brother's hand and together they danced away liketwo bright butterflies among the trees. 

Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then withdazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. The train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, andexplanation; and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafedhim, for in his heart reigned desolation and doubt, and in his earsrang the dancer's parting cry, "Hunger and love--love--love!"

CHAPTER II--THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN

Brother Bernard, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellumwith generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at hisdowncast look. 

"Methinks this gold is dull, Brother, " said Hilarius one day, fretfully, to his old master. 

And again -

"'Tis very poor vermilion. "

The Brother looked at him enquiry. 

"Nay, nay, boy; 'tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours. "

Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilariuswas setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady. 

"Now may God be good to us!" he cried with uplifted hands. "Sincewhen did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and blackhair--curly too, i' faith?"

Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue andgold, he faltered. 

It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued himthrough chant and psalm. Did he really LOVE the Saints--StBenedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names lefthim untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the greatlove between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he hadhad a sister would they have loved like that?

The Saints' Days came and went, and he scourged himself with therepeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes fromwhich tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. "Light of Love, " the girl had called his mother; what morebeautiful name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? Sohe prayed in his simplicity:- "Great Light of Love, Mother of mymother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful son!"

The question came in his daily life. 

Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was forHilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared himtoo; Brother John's tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard, old, half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard?--sad, helpless, and lonely, by reason of his infirmities--or was it only pity hefelt for him?

Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, thePrior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild wordsof the witch in the forest? And yet what was it she had said?"For me the wide world, hunger, and love--love--love!"

He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by itsbeauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall whitelilies at the farmery door. Did they love?

He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of businessand cheerful bickerings. Did they love?

SHE had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wanderedstaring, wide-eyed but sightless. 

At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship-wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene andunhurt above the devouring waves. 

The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewdquestion. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, hisstern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firmline of his mouth. 

"My son, " he said at length, "thou art in the wrong school;nursery, was it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to thehen. Thou art a limner at heart--Brother Bernard tells of thywondrous skill with the brush--and to be limner thou must learn tohunger and to love as the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, though alack, men gainsay it. "

"Father, " said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, "did'stthou ever love as the maid meant?"

"Ay, boy--thy mother. "

There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:-

"The maid said she might be light of love; 'tis a beautifulthought. "

The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:-

"What didst thou tell the maid?"

"That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight whodied ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother waslight of love. "

"Boy, " said the Prior gravely, "'tis a weary tale, and sad oftelling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckonedlove lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, butthought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul"--his voice grewstern--"as for one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, mayhave mercy. Thus have I prayed these many years. "

 Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:-

"She was evil, wicked, my mother?"

"Ay--a light woman, that was what the maid meant. "

Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he claspedthe Prior's knees weeping and praying like a little child. 

"And so, my son, " said the Prior, "for a time thou shalt go outinto the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have acare that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pureshall see God, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may setin order thy going; and send the Chamberlain hither to me. "

That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, and then at St Mary Maudlin's altar he did penance for his deadmother's sin. 

A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrorsof the great world without. He had a purse for his immediateneeds; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who wouldbe his patron; and another to the Prior's good friend, the Abbat ofSt Alban's. The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they lovedthis gentle lad who had been with them from a little child; andBrother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look his last at theyoung face he would never see again. 

The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him tothe gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he mightstay and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook hishead. 

"Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Masterfor this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us--an thoucan'st--let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes areopened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the faithful heart of a little child. "

Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart-strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road andalong the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into thewide, wide world. 

CHAPTER III--THE KING'S SONG-BIRD

Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly tohimself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow withstraight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyesthat smouldered in hollow cavities. He wore the King's colours, and broke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast. 

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him, "another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe-leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket 'til Iwin back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, fromCandlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile orfrown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and ajug of cider instead of a king's banquet. Now but another fewleagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a songhere and a song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 'tis a poor birdsings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edwarddid but know it. 

"Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries alight heart from his song; and no ill voice either. "

It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptoris as he sped alongthe green grass which bordered the highway. 

When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit upat the sight of the vielle. 

"Whence dost thou come, lad?" said Martin, eyeing him withinterest. 

"Many days' journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen, " answeredHilarius. 

"But thou art no monk!"

"Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth tosee the world. It is wondrous fair, " he added sincerely. 

"He who speaks thus is cloister-bred, " said Martin, and as Hilariusmade sign of assent, "'tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Priorgave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter's, I doubt not; thy faceis set for Westminster. "

"Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, SirJohn Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying erenow but that two days ago I met strange company. They took mypurse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until thelate dawn. Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me God-speed. '

"But kept thy purse?" Martin laughed. 

"Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passingstrange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they didme no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving meprovision, which I lacked. "

"Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God's judgments for once, "muttered Martin; then aloud, "Well, young sir, we shall do well ifwe win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey togethersince our way is the same?"

Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him ofCourt and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabelwas wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel andsport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir JohnMaltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and no meanmusician; "and, " added Martin, "three fair daughters he hath, theeldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fainbe a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claimthee for page. "

"I will strive to serve well, " said Hilarius soberly, "but I havenever spoken but to one maid 'til yesterday, when a woman gave megood-morrow. "

Martin looked at his companion queerly. 

"And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints thisPrior of thine is a strange master!"

"It is but for a time, " said Hilarius, "then I shall go back to theMonastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; Ihave some small skill with the brush, " he added simply. 

Martin stared. 

"Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now, not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust andbanquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making andlittle reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but notsuch as makes a monk. "

Hilarius smiled. 

"Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, writefor him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love theCourt? It seems a fine thing to be the King's Minstrel. "

"Nay, lad, nay, " said the other hastily, "give me the open countryand the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the Kingis a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but comeback; 'tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cageand follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on usagain. "

He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower paceas the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he wasstill heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind inthe tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monasterywall. The song itself was sad--of a lover torn from his mistressand borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended theytook a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius saidtimidly:-

"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?"

"Ay, lad, and of my mistress. " He stopped suddenly, louted low tothe sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. "A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. Aman suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at nightshe is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smilesand tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelterfrom her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails thevery traces of her hair across a man's face only to elude him. Sheholds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he mustseek as though he knew her not, or she flouts him. "

Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant--the"wide wide world, hunger and love"?

"Did'st thou ever hunger, good Martin?"

"Ay, lad, " said the minstrel, surprised, "and 'tis good sauce forthe next meal"

"Did'st thou ever love?"

Martin broke into a great laugh. 

"Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, herecomes one who knows little enough of hunger or love. " Round thebend of the road came a man in hermit's dress carrying a staff anda well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become lessupright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an almsfrom the two travellers. 

Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him. 

"Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses thanhelp to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; 'tis not the first timewe have met. See here, " and with a dexterous jerk he caught thehermit's wallet. 

This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthfulof oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pacedown the road, while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laidon with a cudgel. 

Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughingcompanion, who answered the unspoken question. 

"A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pestof every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand'sturn and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has goodstuff in that larder of his to make merry with. "

Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head. 

"I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness, " he saidat last. 

"It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and 'tis true enough thatgodliness is far from most men; but if a hermit's robe may cover arascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured faceand tongue. See, lad, " as another turn in the road brought them insight of Westminster, "there lies thy new world, God keep thee init!"

He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water's edge, withroof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of thewestern sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of moltengold. 

Hilarius gave a little cry. 

"'Tis like the New Jerusalem!" he said, and Martin smiled grimly. 

An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, andHilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin's side. Aroundhim he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gailydressed ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts ofthe houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it wasa shifting scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius'untutored eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered allsorts and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for theday's work was done. In the courtyard of the "Black Boar" achained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossedhimself anxiously--was the devil about to beset him under allguises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me to St Benedict ashe hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sentfolk flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, onlythe man in him stayed the indignant tears. "Martin, Martin!" hecried; but the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was hailedeverywhere with acclamations, and news given and demanded in abreath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with roughoaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by the easy manners roundhim, his cheek hot from the late salute, took refuge under a lowarchway, and waited with anxious heart until the minstrel shouldhave done with the crowd. 

Martin did not forget him. 

"Hola, lad!" he cried, "see how they welcome the King's bird backto his cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot likea homing pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey'send. " Then, apprehending for the first time Hilarius' white faceand piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swept him under the archwayinto a quiet courtyard where a fountain rippled, and, having handedhim over to Sir John's steward, left him with a friendly slap onthe back and the promise of speedy meeting. 

Hilarius delivered the Prior's letter, and followed the stewardinto a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busywith preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely anddejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole beingcrying out for the busied peace and silent orderliness of hiscloister home. The servants gibed at him, but he was too weary toheed; indeed he hardly noticed when the household swept in tosupper, until a page-boy tweaked him slyly by the ear and bade himcome to table. He ate and drank thankfully, too dazed to take noteof the meal; and the pages and squires among whom he sat left himalone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, something restored bythe much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall. 

It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was farloftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in throughhigh lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, whichthe morrow's sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork--aman's thought in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesquebeast and guarding saint. A raised table stood at the upper end ofthe hall, and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of thehouse and his honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than Sir Johnhimself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wandered carelesslyover the rest of the company until they were caught and held by awoman's face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight's threefair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a wearytraveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land. 

"Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had, " he thought, hismind reverting to his favourite Saint; "she is like the lilies inthe garth at home. "

It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressedin costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in thefoolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, shelooked a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when she was much moved, were like grey shadows veiling anunknown soul; her mouth, delicately curved, was scarcely reddened;her head drooped slightly on her long, slender neck, a gestureinstinct with gracious humility. She was like a pictured saint:Hilarius' gaze clung to her, followed her as she left the hall, andsaw her still as he sat apart while the serving men cleared thelower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the night. Helay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows themoonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do onbright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men laysleeping soundly after the day's toils; there was none to heed, andhe sobbed like a little homesick child, until his tired youthtriumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in thecloister garth. 

PART II--THE FLOWER

CHAPTER I--THE CITY OF PURE GOLD

"Blind eyes, blind eyes!" sang the dancer. 

Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench in thesunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing hishair into a halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near frettedrestlessly on her perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly stretching its great limbs, came towards him. 

It was four o'clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard wasdeserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and hishousehold, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the LadyEleanor, Hilarius' mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir Johnhad so appointed it. 

It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which hadseemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise;but he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets fullof the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to theBabylon of Blessed John's Vision--with a few holy ones who wouldsurely be caught up ere judgment fell, amongst them Sir John andLady Eleanor. 

A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to hischildren, gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God andKing Edward; shrewd withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and because of the love he bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilariusto attend his eldest daughter, who seemed to belong as little tothis world as the lad himself; and felt that in so doing he hadachieved the best possible for his old friend, according to hisasking. 

Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tendsthe chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than asaint, by reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as hewatched her at banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to arevel as to the Sacrament, and sat at a mummers' show with eyesfixed on the Unseen. She moved through the gay vivid world ofCourt gallants and joyous maidens like a shadow, and the rout grewgraver at her coming. 

It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning--brother ofthat Hugh de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius--a gentleknight with mild blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervourfor heavenly things. The pair liked one another well; but theirtime was taken up with preparation for Paradise rather than withearthly business, and their speech lent itself more readily todevout phrases than to lovers' vows. It was small wonder, therefore, that another year saw them both by glad consent in thecloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine House ofwhich her aunt was Prioress. 

Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen justas he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter's Abbey:"With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks 'tislike the forest at home" (forgetting that his more intimateknowledge of the forest partook of the nature of sin). "The LadyEleanor, my honoured mistress, " he wrote, "is a most saintly anddevout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring nought for thethings of this world;" and he added, "'tis beautiful to see suchdevotion where for the most part are sinful and light-mindedpersons. "

The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and whenBrother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, "Nay, Brother, he still sleeps;" and indeed there seemed no wakinghim to a world of men--living, striving, sorely-tried men. 

He dwelt in a land of his own making--a land of colour and lightand shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only thegorgeous pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded byangels; while the knights at a tourney in their brave armourpictured St George, St Michael, or St Martin in his dreams. 

It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress, not a page attending a great lady to the Court functions. Heyearned ever after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks andstores of colour and gold. It lay but a stone's throw away behindthe jealous Monastery walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen'splan that the lad should go straight from one cloister to another. 

To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor'stirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once andfollowed her through the hall and up the winding stair, along agallery hung with wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bowerwhere Eleanor sat with two of her women busied with their needle. 

Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He loutedlow, and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her. 

"I am weary, " she said; "this life is weariness. Tell me of theMonastery and the forest--stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalemthat Brother Ambrose saw and limned. '

Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee, and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out ofthe window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles. 

"The Brother Ambrose, " he began, "was ever a saintly man, approvedof God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, savethat of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he laya-bed in the dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: "Come, and I will show thee the Bride, the Lamb's wife. " And BrotherAmbrose arose and was carried to a great and high mountain, even asin the Vision of Blessed John. 'Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother Ambrose, looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens;and lo! the stars gathered themselves together on either side untilthey stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him aboutas in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacleaflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limnerdreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates ofPearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, anda face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding radiance. 

"Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of hisgreat longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hungbetween the walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but heard only a sound as of a great multitude crying, 'Alleluia';and suddenly the winds came about him again, and lo! he foundhimself in bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bellwas ringing to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest; butwhen the Brethren left the choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast inhis place, hearing and seeing nothing because of the Vision of God;and at Lauds they found him and told the Prior. 

"He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard theVision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and thePrecentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and whatcolours he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned awondrous fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaidblue for the sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilionwhere the city seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angelshe could not limn, nor could he set the rest of the colours as hesaw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrosefell sick because of the exceeding great longing he had to limn theHoly City, and was very sad; but our Prior bade him thank God andremember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little greycloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight. "

There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veinedhands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing. 

"It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick, " shesaid, at length. 

Hilarius nodded:

"He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and oftenhe would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to theOffice bell. "

"Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that HolyCity. "

"Nay, lady, " said her page tenderly, "surely thou hast had a visioneven as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like untohis. "

Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadowof her eyes. 

"Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though mydesire is great, 'tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reasonI would get me to a cloister where I might fast and prayunhindered. "

Hilarius looked at her with great compassion. 

"Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thouart already as one of His saints. "

"Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world, " she answered. "Sing tome, Hilarius. "

And he sang her the Salve Regina, and when it was ended she badehim go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon herprimer. 

"Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!" he said, and left her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of hertender childlike heart. 

CHAPTER II--THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW

Hilarius went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. Heleant against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fellwith monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. Thecloudless sky smiled back at him from the broken mirror into whichhe gazed, and the glory of its untroubled blue thrilled himstrangely. He too had a vision which he longed to limn; but it wasof earth, not Heaven, like that vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; andyet none the less precious, for was it not the Monastery at homewhich so haunted him, the grey, familiar walls with their girdle ofsunlit pasture, and the mantling forest which bowed and swayed atthe will of the whispering wind?

"As well seek Heaven's gate in yon fair reflection as learn to lovein this light-minded, deceitful city, " Hilarius said to himself alittle bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness andlearnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned thecompany and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was everready to serve them. A prentice lad's homely brawl set himshivering; a woman's jest painted his cheeks 'til they rivalled ayoung maid's at her first wooing. He plucked aside his skirts andwalked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or juggler held thecrowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose mother, like his own, was light o' love: a strange link truly to bindHilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity. 

Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, anda gay young page came spurring with bent head under the lowarchway. He reined up by Hilarius:

"Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?"

"That will I, Hal, an it be in my power. "

"Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. 'Tis Luke Langland's reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, butmy head was full of feast and tourney, and 'tis yet undelivered. Mine host will not let the serving men and the two horses go 'tilhe hath seen Luke's money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will needme. "

Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for agood comrade, clattered back through the gateway. 

The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the liveryof Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doorsdicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately andstrove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. Hedelivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly becauseit was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled andjeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, hesought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way. 

The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, andsuddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within acity; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind savefor two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced womancrossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the verychildren rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chatterednor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismalsordid place. 

Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-

"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"

He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of anecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm. 

"Sanctuary, " stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I--"

The other laughed. 

"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into theseprecincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which aman may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or beenguilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander--a strange place inwhich to see such a face as thine. "

"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning, " saidHilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place. "

"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety--even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts:but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee;hence I say 'tis a place of darkness and despair. "

The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the otheranswered it. 

"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice Igave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn thewisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom. "

"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelterof Holy Church?" asked Hilarius, perplexed. 

"Most surely he knows; but what would'st thou have? It hath everbeen the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lestthey repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither;but should he set foot in the city without, he is the law's, and noman may gainsay it. "

"Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance, " said Hilarius. 

"Ay, ay, true eno', " rejoined the other cheerfully, "but then 'tisnot for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man's law may failto reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner. "

Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place withthe North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty. 

"It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloodyhands. "

"Nay, " said the old man hastily, "many of them are kindly folk, andmany have slain in anger without thought. 'Tis a sad place, though, and thy young face is like a sunbeam on a winter's day. Come, I will show thee thy road. "

He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more onthe edge of the city's stir and hum. 

"I can no further, " he said. "Farewell, young sir, and God keepthee! An old man's blessing ne'er harmed any one. "

Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streetscrowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rangout above the shouts and din. 

"'Tis an evil, evil world, " quoth young Hilarius. 

CHAPTER III--A SENDING FROM THE LORD

October and November came and sped, and Hilarius' longing to be alimner waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he metMartin, of whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrelfollowed the Court. 

"The cage grows too small for me, lad, " he said, as he stood withHilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; "ay, and Ilove one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be awayto my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and myheart break. "

"'Tis even so with me, good Martin, " said Hilarius sadly; "I toowould fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door isbarred, and I may not open it from within. "

Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder. 

"Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen thisMartinmas, say you? In truth 'tis a great age, but still leavestime and to spare. 'All things come to a waiting man, ' saith theproverb. "

A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under thesouth wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, and suited the Minstrel's mood. 

He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilariushad once more cried his longing, he said gravely:-

"One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad--and yet earn no welcome. "

Hilarius looked at him questioningly. 

"Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?"

"Nay, good Martin. "

"It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw thePlague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came outwith a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landedin the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wiltknow Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from. "

Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and turned to speak of other things. 

Martin looked at him gloomily. 

"Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad. "

"Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter forthe Abbat of St Alban's, and would hasten thither if Sir John wouldset me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar, " went on poor Hilariusruefully, "for I have not yet gone hungry--and as for love, methinks there are few folk to love in this wicked city. "

Martin laughed and then grew grave again. 

"Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain findthee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban's anit be possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thywise Prior Stephen may say. "

And he went off singing -

"Three felons hung from a roadside tree, One black and one white and one grey;And the ravens plucked their eyes awayFrom one and two and three, That honest men might seeAnd thievish knaves should pay;Lest these might beAs blind as they. Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day!One--two--three! On the gallows-tree hung they. "

Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin'svoice had died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, thedancer and the Prior. 

Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say:

"I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger--Ihunger, and I love. "

He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again theshrill quavering voice called:

"Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, prayfor me! Blessed Michael, defend me!"

Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixtyyears had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of thecloister. He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, and wondrous wise; the King himself had sought his counsel, and theConvent held him in high esteem. 

Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated windowof the cell--it was too high above him. An overpowering desirecame upon him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring hecaught at the window's upright bars; his cap flew off and he hungbare-headed, the sun behind him, gazing into the cell. 

On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in mattedlocks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below hisgirdle. The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and hisdeep-set eyes glowed strangely in their hollow cavities. 

Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him. 

The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with itsaureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands. 

"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!" hecried, gaining strength from the vision. 

"What would'st thou, Father!" said Hilarius, afraid. 

"Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet--" the oldman's voice grew weaker--"the Bread of Heaven, that I may die inpeace. "

He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius wassore perplexed. 

"Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?"

The Ankret looked troubled. 

"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" he murmured entreatingly. 

Hilarius' hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man sawsome wondrous vision, and 'twas no gain time to speech of him. 

"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" quavered the old, tired voice. 

Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fastand braced himself against the wall

"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!"--The appeal in the half-deadface was awful. 

Hilarius' grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore fromthe unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained nocounsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man--ay, evenwhen he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itselfshould bring a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thoughtcame to him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failingcry from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again andhis fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin stillair:-

"Iesu, dulcis memoria, Dans vera cordis gaudia;Sed super mel et omniaDulcis ejus praesentia. "

At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear theAnkret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softlylike a little child. 

Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word ofwhat had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub-Prior gave him the last sacraments. 

Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holyman before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself hadbrought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content tothink that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kepthis own counsel. 

He told Lady Eleanor of Martin's words. 

"God save the King!" she said, and went into her oratory to pray:and there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel's foreboding was noidle one. Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet theKing, undeterred, came to spend Christmas at Westminster; butMartin was not in his train. Men's mirth waxed hot by reason ofthe terror they would not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegoryand miracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men;junketing, ay, and rioting--thus they flung a defiance at theenemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bellssounded the mournful note of funeral dirge and requiem. 

Eleanor, knowing Hilarius' ardent longing for school and master, prayed her father to set him on the way to St Alban's instead ofkeeping him with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight, feeling one page more or less mattered little when Death was soready to serve, and anxious for the lad's safety and well-being, assented gladly enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast ofthe Three Kings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, awell-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under hisjerkin; for the Death he had never seen loomed large, a great king, and by all accounts a most mighty hunter. 

CHAPTER IV--BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE

It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the faceof Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patientindifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, andoften flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass that while the stricken poor agonised in thegrip of unknown horror, bishop and merchant, prince and chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters, abbesses with their train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and west, from the pestilentcities, and encumbered the roads with much traffic. Oneprocession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its way toLondon. 

It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain orsnow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare andstricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold greysky. Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the stillair, music and words alike strange. The singers came slowly up theroadway, men of foreign aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggardfaces. They were stripped to the waist, their backs torn andbleeding, and carried each a bloody scourge wherewith to strike hisfellow. At the third step they signed the sign of the Cross withtheir prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus in blood andpenitence they went towards London. 

Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it. These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank backwith the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with agreat sob. 

"I left wife and children to perish alone, " he cried, "and fled tosave my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for Igo back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!" and he stepped in frontof the first flagellant. 

At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and manyfell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselveswith groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyeswide, the blood drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels--a horror that could drive a man from wife and child, that haddriven brave Martin to flee against the wind, and all this folk toleave house and home to save that which most men count dearer thaneither. 

At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, comingtowards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way inthe hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was asmall, mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand andstaff; his face upturned, craving the light. He stopped when hecame up with Hilarius, and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fireburnt in the dead ashes. 

"Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lordpromised me?"

Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friarlaid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip backagainst his shoulder, felt Hilarius' face, not with the light andpractised touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowningthe while. 

"Son, thou wilt come with me?"

"Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban's. "

"Whence, my son?"

"From Westminster, good Father. "

"Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monasterybut now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to thosefrom the pestilent cities. What would'st thou with the Abbat?"

Hilarius told him. 

The friar flung up his hands. 

"Laus Deo! Laus Deo!" he cried, "now I know thou art in very truththe lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore mecarried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, andHell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and manyhideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my motherhath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I lay atMechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stoodup by reason of the awfulness of the vision; then as I mused andprayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might wrestle withSatan for my mother's soul, for she was ever inclined to evil artsand spells, and thought little of aught save gain. 

"Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague atmy heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach itscoming in every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as Itarried on the seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because Ihad preached its coming, the people rose in wrath, and, fallingupon me, roughly handled me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing my eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat. 

"Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darknessand light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flamesof hell burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart becauseof my mother's soul. "

"And then, and then?" tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of purepity in his eyes. 

"Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas, and sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. Theshipmen were kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by agreat wind, and at last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have comesouth thus far by the aid of Christian men, but time presses; andnow, lo! thou art here to guide me. "

"But, my Father, " said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier inthe way of his desires, "'tis a limner I would be; and I am fromWestminster, not London, and then there is Prior Stephen's letter--"

 The friar held up his hand:

"Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me. Last night the vision came again, and a voice cried: 'Speed, for ason of Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps, ' and lo! thouart here, waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, anthou wilt come thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham--'tis a cellof this Abbey--for there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hathwondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, for thou shaltsay to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thou shalt set me inthat village of Bungay, where my mother dwelleth. "

Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes thatvainly questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, in this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was evenas one of the blessed martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner!How should he, Hilarius, gainsay one with a vision from the Lord?

"I obey, my Father, " he cried joyously, taking the friar's hand;and they two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east. 

CHAPTER V--THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED

It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes' Eve; the snow fellheavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleakunprotected heath, met the full force of the blast, and each momentthe snow grew denser, the darkness more complete. They struggledon, breathless, beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading theFriar by one hand, held the other across his bent head to shieldhimself from the buffets of the wind. 

Suddenly he stood fast. 

"I can no more, Father, " he said, "the snow is as a wall; there isnaught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way. "His voice was very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support. 

"I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as Heopened the eyes of the prophet's servant in the besieged city; soshalt thou see a host of angels encompassing us, for we are aboutthe Lord's business. "

"Nay, my Father, " said Hilarius feebly, "I see no angels, and Iperish. " He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caughthim in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on hisbreast, then flung away his staff and lifted him to his shoulder. 

With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, awhite figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at oncethe wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, restedand comforted, spoke:-

"Is it thou, my Father?"

"It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before toguide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?"

He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the starsalight!

The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion's darkness, pointed to the left where lay a snow-clad village. 

"A miracle, a miracle, my Father!"

"A miracle, i' faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to theblind as He promised. Let us go down. "

They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was fullof awe and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on apoor friar. 

At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainmentand several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, andHilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save amorsel of bread. 

A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, brightblack eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding withdespatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearfultales to tell of the Plague; how in London they piled the dead intrenches, while many who escaped the pest died of want and cold; itwas a city of the dead rather than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste from Westminster, had been found by hisservants to have the disorder, and they fled, leaving him by thewayside to perish. 

Hilarius heard horror-struck. 

"'Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master, " he said. 

"Nay, lad, " said a chapman in the corner, "but a man loves his ownskin best. "

"Ay, ay, " said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm onhis way to a neighbouring village, "a man's own skin before all. Fill your belly first and your neighbour's afterwards. Live andlet live. "

"Ay, let live, " chimed in mine host, bustling in with a stoop ofcider for the chapman, "but, by the Rood, 'tis cruel work when twolone women are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon and a lump ofbread; for I'se warrant 'tis a long day sin' they had more thanthat at best. "

The chapman took his cider. 

"Where was this work done?" he said. 

"Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found Wednesdayse'n-night by the herd as he went folding. They lay on the floorin their blood. "

Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had beenspared the sight of violent death--ay, or of death in any form--andhad seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sighthe had thanked Heaven piously. 

"'Tis the fault of the rich, " said a voice, and Hilarius saw, tohis surprise, that there was a second friar in the room; a tall, bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented with ascanty fringe of black hair. 

"The rich grow fat, and the poor starve, " he went on, "'tis hungermakes a man kill his brother for a mouthful of mouldy bacon. "

"Nay, " said the miller, "there was no need to kill, Father. A mancould have taken the meat from two lone women and left them theirlives. "

"Why take from folk as poor as themselves?" said mine host. "Letthem rob the rich an they must rob. "

"Ay, " said the friar, "rob the rich, say you, take their own, sayI. God did not make this world that one man should be over fulland another go empty; nor is it religion that the monks' shouldlive on the fat o' the land and grind the faces of the poor. Howmany manors, think you, has the Abbat of St Edmund's, and how manyon his land lack bread?"

Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathfuldefence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraininghand on his sleeve. 

Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching wasseditious, and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but ittickled the ears of the common folk and 'twas ill to quarrel withthe Mendicants. Help came to him in his perplexity: a loudknocking on the barred door made the guests within start. 

"'Tis eight o' the clock, " said the miller, affrighted, for he hada heavy purse on him. 

"Let them knock and cool their hot heads, " said the seditious friarcomposedly. 

The rest nodded approval. 

Then a man's voice threatened without. 

"What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man without?Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it. "

Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; hemoved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stoutwooden bar. As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burstin, at sight of whom mine host turned yet paler. 

"Food and drink, " said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on abench by the fire. 

Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hairwas close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very smalland near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn upshowed two rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the company, and thechapman who had been searching amongst his goods for somethingwherewith to pay his hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, looking up, caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipesamong the miscellaneous wares. He plucked one to him, and in amoment the air was full of tender liquid notes--a thrush'sroundelay. Then a blackbird called and his mate answered; a cuckoocried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting cadence; anightingale poured forth her deathless love. 

Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; theman threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell toravenously on the victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishlyamid dead silence; then he looked up and cursed at them for theirsorry mood. 

"What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? Damn youall for dull dogs!"

The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man'sdreadful face. 

"Piping Hugh of Mildenhall, " he said, and at his voice the manleapt to his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. "Piping Hugh of Mildenhall, " said the Friar again, "I have amessage for thee from the Lord God. I cried thee damned in my ownname once, when thou did'st take my little sister to shame anddeath; now I cry thee thrice damned in the name of the Lord, forthe cup of thine iniquity is full and thy hands red with blood. Man hath branded thee; now God will set His mark on thee and allmen shall see it. The Plague will come and come swiftly, but itshall not touch thee; many shall die in their sins; thou shalt liveon with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes thou shalt herd;thou shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men shall hunt theefrom their doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought andfound it not, because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and heshall torment thee with remembrance. "

There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man toreopen the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch uponthe whiteness of the night. 

The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, untilHilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward toclose the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crashlike the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on thebench, and the company began in silence to make preparation for thenight. When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and herose at the lad's voice and touch. Then he crossed to where theothers stood apart eyeing him fearfully. 

He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, lowvoice: "Thou wilt die, brother. "

He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother. "

He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother. "

He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother. "

Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, hisface dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast:"Thou wilt live, my brother--and repent. "

CHAPTER VI--A DARK FINDING

It is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay--which village of thegood ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leaguesdistant--and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilariusand the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent moodhad imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved littlekinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men;but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed inthe presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wonderingeyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men torepent and be saved, for Death's shadow was already upon them. Folk wondered and gaped--the Plague was still only a name tenleagues east of London--but many repented and confessed and maderestitution, though some heard with idle ears, remembering theprophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same message halfa man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed hispreaching. 

At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund'sAbbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality thatnight, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house--abrother had charged himself with the care of the Friar--he heardthe sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good roundEnglish against the fashion of the day. 

"Martin, Martin!" he cried. 

The vielle was instantly silent. 

"Hola, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caughtHilarius to him and embraced him heartily. 

"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure thePlague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayedfarther afield. " Then seeing the injured faces round him for thatthe song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside himand took up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finishedmy ditty for this worshipful company; then, an't please thee totell it, I will hear thy tale. "

The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took uphis song:-

"The fair maid came to the old oak tree(Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), The throstle he sang merrily--merrily--merrily, But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, Her sweet knight--Oh! where was he?

He lay dead in the cold, cold ground(Moon and stars and rain on the hill), In his side and breast were bloody wounds. Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, The poor knight--Ah! cold was he. 

The maiden sat her down to die(Cold, cold earth on her lover's breast), And the little birds rang mournfully, And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, And the stars looked down right pityinglyOn the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight. Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!"

This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; andthe company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caughtsight of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent'svictuals, and marvelled to see him in a place to which he had givenso evil a name. 

Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intentlyto his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friarhe companied with preached in each village that men should repentere the scourge of God fell upon them; "but there is naught of itas yet, " said the lad. 

"Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; andthen the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard abruit of London that it was but a heap of graves--nay, one graverather, for they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was notime to do otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke. "

Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar's death-words tothe guests. 

Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh. 

"Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse onPiping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a blackdeed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yetthere was never a bird that would not come at his call, and I neverheard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?"

When he had heard the story of the Friar's twice-repeated visionand quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow andhead sunk on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly. 

"Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungaywith thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. Also I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the endof it. "

That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried:"Haste, haste, ere it be too late. " And so Hilarius and Martincame to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own. None of the three ever saw St Edmund's Abbey again, for in oneshort month the minster with its sister churches was turned to be aspital-house, while the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting tosummon to their ghastly company the living that sought to make thema bed. 

Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the lowvine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friarstrode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martinand Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken faceon his companions. 

"What is that?" he said shrilly. 

A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himselffearfully. 

"Let us make haste, " cried the Friar when they told him; and so atfull pace they came to Bungay town. 

The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came theroar and hum of an angry crowd. 

"The people are abroad, " said Martin, and his face was very grave, "no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on thecommon. Prithee, where is thy mother's dwelling, good Father, andI will go and ask news of her?"

"'Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate;Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for. "

Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friarfollowed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate theystood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously andstraining to make his ears do a double service. 

Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar's businessas the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of thecrowd, saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and pointto the Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, butHilarius was too far off to catch what was said. 

"See there, 'tis her son, " Martin was saying vehemently; "yon holyfriar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads itotherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestlewith the Evil One for his mother's soul--and now, and now--"

The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An oldwoman lay on the ground by the river's edge; a bundle of filthywater-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and greyhair smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapelesshuddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: therewas a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had notstayed to strip her. 

Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengefulcrowd:

"By Christ's Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought, " he said. 

"Nay, " said one of the bystanders, "but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts inthis place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barrenthrough her means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seenlast near her door, ay, and never seen again. When we came toquestion her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, andwould but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of themisbegotten brat. "

"Maybe 'twas true eno', " said Martin. "I hate these rough-castwitch-findings--'tis not a matter for man's judgment, unless 'tissworn and proven in court before the Justiciary. "

"Nay, " joined in an old man, "what need of a Justice when Godspeaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sinkor swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Masterhelping her; and seeing that, we drew her under--ay, and see hernow as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark onhis own?"

Martin wrung his hands. 

"For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say noword of this to yon holy man. "

Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busiedthemselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and bore her to her wretched bed. 

The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front ofthe miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poorplace and its dead dishonoured mistress. 

Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilariusand the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windsweptcommon. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; thedry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilariusshivered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke. 

"Friar, " he said, "God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou arttoo late to speed thy mother's soul; she passed to-day, and lieseven now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands. "

The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin witha look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their headsabashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave hisblessing. 

They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin. 

"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the peoplefeared her?"

"Ay, she died alone, " answered Martin, and muttered, "now Godforgive me!" under his breath. 

As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke throughthe lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. Itlighted each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surchargedwith horrid fear. 

Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death?The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him. 

"Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didstread in thy dream. "

The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed washeard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beatenearth floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched thedank, muddy hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with anexceeding bitter cry. It was answered by another cry--the glad cryof a lost child that is found. 

The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached tothe cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched inthe down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turnedhis blind, anguished face to the setting sun. 

"Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counselbut not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall comeupon them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know themno more. Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let themconfess and repent ere I visit them as I visited Sodom andGomorrah, cities of the Plain. 

"O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judgedfalsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, evenaccording to your measure. Repent, repent, for Death comethswiftly and maketh no long tarrying. It shall come; it shallsnatch men's souls away, even as ye have torn away my mother'ssoul, leaving no space for repentance. "

He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to thelittle town. 

"Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps. Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none;for the arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of thewickedness of the earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient andgainsaying people! Woe, woe, woe, a people hating righteousnessand loving iniquity! The Lord shall straightway destroy them fromoff the face of the earth. "

He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and thenanother in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling, growling, but afraid. 

Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretchedden; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by theelse unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside him. 

Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer;for what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had mether due, damned alike by God and man?

Martin came up to him. 

"She was his mother, " he said, as if making excuse. 

Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evilliver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sendingher to her own place. He crossed himself piously at the thought ofthe near neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul. 

Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friarclung to him like a little child, for the strength of his visionwas spent. They lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but onlyone slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet-smelling hay, and dreamt of Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and blue; of wondrous pictures, and a great name: andthe scent of the pine forest at home swept across his quiet sleep. 

On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was allaglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friarat least as far as Norwich. 

"As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another's bidding, "he said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never tomeet again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went toYarmouth, not Norwich, and there they perished among the first whenthe east wind swept the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickenedshipmen. And Hilarius--once again the Angel of the Lord stood inthe path of his desires. 

CHAPTER VII--THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE

Hilarius fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road ingood weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!--that was a timeto commend oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, picking his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which was all that remained to show where the piety of the pastonce kept a road. The low land to his left was submerged, adesolate tract giving back a sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt poplar like the mast of a sunken ship broke thewaste of waters. 

The sight brought Hilarius' thoughts sharply back to the events ofthe evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of God! Awitch--plainly proved to be such--had been struck dead in the midstof her sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was aheap of graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and thejustice of the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, thereto learn to be a cunning limner; and having so learnt wouldjoyfully hie him back to Prior Stephen and his own monastery. 

Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right asmall hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp-set, for the shepherd's fare had been meagre; and so turned asidein the hope of an ale-house. There was no side road visible, andhe struck across the dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rudetrack which led to the group of cottages. The place struck him asstrangely quiet; no smoke rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushedout barking furiously at a stranger's advent. The first hovel hepassed was empty, the open door showed a fireless hearth. At thesecond he knocked and heard a sound of scuffling within. As no oneanswered his repeated summons he pushed the door open; the low roomwas desolate, but two bright eyes peered at him from a corner, --'twas a rat. Hilarius turned away, sudden fear at his heart, andpassed on, finding in each hovel only empty silence. 

Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhatlarger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above thedoor: it was the ale-house that he sought; here, at least, hewould find some one. As he came up he heard a child crying, andlo! on the doorstep sat a dirty little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear life. 

Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away thegrimy tears. 

The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrillcry of joy, she held out her thin arms. 

At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood awoman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was alittle babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child toher in the doorway, waved him away. 

"Stand off, fool!--'tis the Plague. "

Hilarius shrank back. 

"And thy neighbours?" he asked. 

"Nay, they were light-footed eno' when they saw what was to do, andleft us three to die like rats in a hole. " Then eagerly: "Hastthou any bread?"

He shook his head. 

"Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?"

She threw out her hands. 

"'Tis two days sin' I had bite or sup. "

"Where lies the nearest village? and how far?"

"A matter of an hour, over yonder. "

"See, goodwife, " said Hilarius, "I will go buy thee food and comeagain. "

She looked at him doubtfully. 

"So said another, and he never came back. "

"Nay, but perchance some evil befell him, " said gentle Hilarius. 

"Well, I will trust thee. " She went in and returned with a fewsmall coins. "'Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, elsethey will hunt thee from their doors. "

Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go inthe direction of the village. 

The woman watched him. 

"Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?" she muttered, as shesat down to wait. 

It was love. 

Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the littlemoney he had to the woman's scanty store, bought bread, a flask ofwine, flour and beans, and a jug of milk. 

"'Tis for a sick child, " he said when he asked for it, and thewoman pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed. 

The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because ofhis precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in asnare, lay a fine coney. 

"Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!" criedHilarius joyously, and added it to his store. 

When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she brokeinto loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if givingup the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed withher fast-failing babe in her arms. 

Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine--not for nothing hadhe served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severefor some weak Brother--and then turned his attention to the littlemaid who sat patient, eyeing the food. 

For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and takingthe child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. At last the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxenhead against her nurse's shoulder, and fell fast asleep. 

Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly toher, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his littlesister, the child he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady hadguided him to her, and her great Mother-love would shield thislittle one from a foul and horrid death. In that dirty, neglectedroom, the child warm against his breast, Hilarius lived thehappiest moments of his life. 

Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the littlepale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closedeyes, and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother. 

The woman was half-asleep, but started awake. 

"Art thou going?" she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes. 

"Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together, " he saidsoothingly. "I would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter. "

Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth. The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told hertale. 

"'Twas Gammer Harden's son who first heard tell of a strange newsickness at Caxton's; and then Jocell had speech with a herd fromthose parts, who was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill hehad done. Next day Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and breaking out of boils, and in three days he lay dead; andGammer Harden fell sick and died likewise. Then one cried 'twasthe Plague, and the wrath of God; and they fled--the women to thenuns at Bungay, and the men to seek work or shelter on the Manor;but us they left, for I was with child. "

"And thy husband?' said Hilarius. 

"Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his andmine. Some hold 'tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of itthis evil hath fallen upon me. "

She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn andshrunk with the stress of its short life. 

Hilarius spoke gently:-

"It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to livetogether out of holy wedlock, and perchance 'tis true that for thisvery thing thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. But since thou didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent meto serve thee in thy sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Ladyherself showed me where the coney lay snared. Let us pray God byHis dear Mother to forgive us our sins and to have mercy on theselittle ones. "

And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Fatherfor his new-found family. 

Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short. Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but atlast the pinch came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, thebabe scarce in life--there could be no thought of flight--and thelittle maid grew white, and wan and silent. Then it came toHilarius that he would once again beg food in the village where hehad sought help before. 

He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be thebetter fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village hefound his errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was comingfrom many parts, and each man feared for his own skin. At everyhouse they questioned him: "Art thou from a hamlet where thePlague hath been?" and when he answered "Yea, " the door was shut. 

Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place. He gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of theSaviour and His holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid andher mother. Let them set it in the street, he would take it andcross no man's threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let alittle child die of want?

"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe, " cried a voice; thenthey fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the villagewith blows and curses. 

Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chaseceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge. 

A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waitingopen-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled withtears as he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up astone, and watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He hadnever killed, but were not his nestlings agape?

Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shapeand gaily painted. 

He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help inhis awful need. 

The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, thehorse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck upheart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and ahen. If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. Aminute later the sack and the hen had changed owners--but notunobserved; a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; twofigures sprang out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood beforethem on the white highway--a thief. 

"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply. 

Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and sheknew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him. 

"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis arare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?"

But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, andhunger, sudden darkness fell upon him. 

When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge;the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and herbrother stood watching him. 

"Fetch bread and wine, " said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried tospeak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten. "

Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-

"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thySaints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?"

Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because ofhis little maid, and his were not the only tears. 

The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food takenfrom her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held butfodder. 

"But, Gia, " grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us to-night. "

"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry, " she retorted, and filleda small sack with the victuals. 

Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out tohim: "Now up and off to thy little maid. "

Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as hekissed them. 

"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in theforest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!"

"Nay, " she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thouhast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, wepass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word ofthy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bringher to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she will carefor her. "

Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yetgreatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God. 

When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. Hehastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and wouldscarcely eat. Then he went out to find the woman. 

He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she criedto him to keep back. 

"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to thehouses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. Asfor thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; somaybe God will spare the innocent. "

Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him tobring her food, but she would not. 

"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alonethat I may die the sooner. "

Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with thelittle maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite hisfear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high andthe child awake. 

He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidingsof the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the doorof the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, ashe searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, hesaw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay thewoman, dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain downto die alone with God in the silence, that haply the living mightescape; and on her face was peace. 

Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he wentback to his fatherless, motherless maid. 

She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and tospare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last shecould not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tenderarms; and he fought with death for his little maid. 

Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tinymorsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat throughthe long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thoughtbeside. The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying forthe dawn. When the new day broke and the east was pale with lighthe carried the child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fearpossessed him. And it came to pass that when the light kissed herlittle white face she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, andso smiling, died. 

The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggondrew near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he wasstanding by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying himwith it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked noquestion. 

PART III--THE FRUIT

CHAPTER I--HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!

The Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with nogreat event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west forthe Plague to be more than a terrible name. 

True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned toCluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub-Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in hisown estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, theSacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore;whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselledBrother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlainalso, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted theBrethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving thechapter, the Convent--yea, even the novices--were silent, to showtheir displeasure. 

When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but saidlittle; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all thatappertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; andBrother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, hemade Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace. 

Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slippedthrough the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longinggaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receivetheir sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer--but of him let us saylittle and think with charity; for 'tis to be feared that hegreatly abused his office and is come to judgment. 

Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who hadspent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for thesummer sunshine was very pleasant to them. 

"Since Brother Thomas died--" began Brother Paul. 

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Brother Anselm. 

"Since Brother Thomas died, " said Brother Paul again--a littleimpatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough--"methinksthe provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother. "

"Ay, and the wine, " said Brother Anselm. "Methinks our Cellarerdraws the half of it from the Convent's well. "

They shook their heads sadly. 

"No doubt, " said Brother Anselm after a short silence, "ourCellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance ofhis office--while Brother Thomas, alack--"

"Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties, "said Brother Paul. "The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing ofthese things. On Sunday's feast one served him with a mostunsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black andbroken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly withappetite. "

"He is but young, he is but young--sixty come Michaelmas--sixty, and twenty-two years Prior--'tis a long term, " and Brother Anselmnodded his head. 

"Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth, " said Brother Paul, "whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas--God rest his soul!--was wont to give savoury messeasy of eating to the elder Brethren. "

"Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults, " said Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. "Think you 'twould be well to speakof this matter to the Prior?"

"Nay, nay, " said the other, "he is ever against any store being seton the things of this world--''tis well for the greater disciplineof the flesh, ' so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden theblood-letting to us elder Brethren. "

"Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died, " saidBrother Anselm ruefully. 

"Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him--maybe hewill hear a word in season, " and the two old monks moved slowlyaway to the Cellarer's office as Prior Stephen came down thecloister walk. 

He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, butgovernment sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy withHilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left theMonastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had comeof him, save that he never reached St Alban's. Had the Plaguegathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or hadthe awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed withoutthe gate?

He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the liliesthat Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of namelessgraves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but onelay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk'sdying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained hiseyes to see. 

Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary'sflowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. Hestretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of astrong man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of paleyoung corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards andvineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleekkine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace andprosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty asthe spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new gloriesfor the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached forhis own helplessness, and for the exceeding longing that he had forthe boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of herlittle hand. 

Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of thisworld to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again heoffered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast andpray and wait. 

The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer aircalling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place. 

"Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent, " chanted the deepvoices of the monks, and Prior Stephen's voice trembled as hejoined in the Psalmody. 

"Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua. Venientes autemvenient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos. "

He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but theharvesting was not yet. 

CHAPTER II--MARY'S LILIES

It came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se'nnight later, thatPrior Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream whichcame to him. 

It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after thenoon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song ofthe bees busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, thewarm, still air overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard avoice calling--a voice he knew in every fibre of his being and yetcould set no name to, for it was the voice of God. He arose inhaste and went out into the garth, and lo! under the liliesHilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, hisheart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece ofgrass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door. 

As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, cameswiftly from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior wasgrieved, and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one;for it was a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within theMonastery precincts. He strove to cry, but his voice died on hislips, and his feet were as lead. 

The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped toarouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was asthe calling of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilariusgave no heed. Then, in great impatience, she caught at the whitelilies under which he lay; and, as she broke the flower-crownedstems, Hilarius stirred and cried out in his sleep, whereat sheplucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the woman's side: there was but one lily left. Helaid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him:and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry offear--and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but hewas sore troubled. 

"Maybe, " said he, "evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew hismother, on whom God have mercy!" And sighing heavily he took hisway to the great Rood and made supplication for his son. 

Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces ofFlorence, there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenchedhands, whose many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyesflashed under threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curlingupper lip. Great, alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee likespaniels craving favour. Great was her wealth: a golden piece forevery ruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Herbeauty--nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape the tormentof her look. She stood in the curtained doorway, a heavy purplehanging at her back; and the man who awaited her paled as he sawher vengeful face. 

It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slenderheight, and bowed. 

Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-huedmarble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white liliescaught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pausethe Angelus sounded from a church hard by: Hilarius crossedhimself devoutly; and the stillness fled before a woman's scornfullaugh. 

"Nay, then, Signor, " she cried mockingly, "is ours to be a war ofsigns and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough withjudgment, though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if allthat is said of thee be true, I will e'en have thee whipped at thegibbet for thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee;'tis a last asking. Wilt thou paint this face of mine that is, itseems, so little to thy liking? Strain not my patience over much--'tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat tried already. Speak, isit yea or nay?"

Hilarius looked away to where Mary's flowers lay bruised andscattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low andclear:-

"'It is nay. '"

She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there wasa stain where her teeth had been busy. 

"'It is nay, '" she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him. "May a poor Princess ask the Signor's reason?"

Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies. 

"It lies there. "

For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of hercheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammeredin her wrath:-

"And dost thou--dost thou dare, say this to my face--to me, whostooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatchedbeauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting ofmy eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? 'Tis small wondermen say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale theybrought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou prating, milk-facedModesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this face of mine: say menay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of forgetting; for I willsilence thy preaching for aye, and lend my serving-men to whip theethrough the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou art too much a cur tomake fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield the rod andlace thy shoulders. "

She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where thepeacocks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had no word. 

There was silence a while. 

Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the stingof a lash:-

"Bring me yon flowers. "

He obeyed. 

"Set them at my feet. "

He bent his knee and did so, wondering. 

A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled theair, as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed lad at the Monastery gate. 

One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble wasyellow with stolen gold. 

Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some livingthing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet. 

It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows. 

"So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will soil thybrush to limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the Queen ofLove--but thy lips, say they, burnt with another name! Bethinkthee, faint heart, there is not a man in all this city but wouldcount death a small price to pay for my favours; and I ask of theeone little service, and thou shalt name thine own reward. Surely'tis churlish to gainsay!"

Her voice was suddenly sweet. 

Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, fingering the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. Sheglanced up at Hilarius through her lashes' net. "Maybe I was overhasty, " she said softly, and a sob swelled the round of herwonderful throat--"and yet how couldst thou call me wanton?" Hermouth drooped a little--she was very fair. 

"Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against theroses in love's garden? For I love thee, " she added, and thensuddenly she was still. 

Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over-mastering beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in theheart of every man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as hehad never before desired aught in all the world, and he knew, tohis shame, that she was his for the asking. The blood thudded andrang in his veins; he feasted his eyes on the curve of her neck andthe radiance of her sun-swept hair. He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised a white, terrified face, andglanced over her shoulder. 

"Who touched me?" she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, "whotouched me?" And she sprang to her feet. 

There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they staredinto each other's eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrankback and covered his face with his hands. Clear and distinct heheard the Prior's voice: "A light woman--a light woman. "

Then the Princess said hoarsely, "Go, go;" and without word or lookHilarius went. 

The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with thedevil for his son's soul, and knew that he had prevailed. 

CHAPTER III--OPEN EYES AT THE GATE

Another year wrote its record on forest and field. The weekspassed; summer sped to autumn, the ripe corn bowed to the sickle. The Convent's lands were rich and heavy, virgin soil reclaimed; andthe Prior, watching the last great wain piled high with wealth ofgolden treasure, saw the porter coming to him. 

Now the porter was stout, short of breath, and of a hasty spirit;and the Prior knew something was amiss by reason of his hurriedgait and wrathful countenance. 

"Domine, " he gasped, "Domine, there is a ragged man at the gate, avagabond by his own showing, and he craves speech of thee. I badehim go to the guest-house, but he will not budge, and hath waitedalready an hour despite my--"

The porter stayed, staring; he spoke to the wind; the Prior wasalready halfway to the gate. 

"This my son was dead and is alive again, " sang his heart. Theporter, afraid, hasted after him with the keys, and had scarce timeto do his office ere the sunburnt vagabond was clasped in thePrior's arms. It was a harvesting indeed. 

That night Hilarius went across to the Prior's house to tell thetale of his journeyings. He found him seated in a great oak chairby the open window; the sky was ablaze with stars, and the flame ofthe oil lamp jarred like a splash of yellow paint on the moonlightwhich flooded the room; the Prior's eyes smiled measurelesscontent, and the murmured "Laus Deo" of his lips voiced thegladness of his heart. Thus, in the shelter of peace and a greatlove, Hilarius told his tale, while the forest waved a welcome tohim over the Monastery wall, and the late lilies burned white inthe garth below. 

The Prior sat with his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on thelad's face, pale against the dark wainscot; and Hilarius told ofhis journeyings, and all that befell, even as it hath been recordedin this chronicle; and the Prior's eyes were wet as he heard of thelittle maid. 

"And then, my son?" said the Prior. 

"Then, my Father, I companied with the caravan folk as far as thesea-coast; and, leaving them there, went overseas in the train ofmy lord Bishop Robert Walter of Norwich, who was hasting to Rome. He knew thee, my Father, and bade his people supply my needs. "

"Ay, he knows me, " said the Prior briefly. "The Lord reward himaccording to his works, but show him mercy forasmuch as he hadcompassion on my son!"

"Then saw I Rome, my Father, that great and beauteous city full oftreasure and many wonders; only the Holy Father I did not see, being let. Methinks life in that country is as one long pageant;but I marked that great holiness and an evil life, much riches andmuch penury, dwelt there side by side, and men reeked little ofdeath but much of pleasure. Then one bade me go to Florence an Iwould be a limner; therefore I hasted thither, and gave my lastcoin for bread as I entered the city. "

The Prior's brows contracted; the lad had seen some schooling. 

"But thou didst learn to be a limner, my son?"

"Ay, my Father, in God's time: at first I must herd goats and sellmelons in the market-place for a lump of bread. Day by day Istrove to gain enough to buy colours, but could not, for the Lordsent me ever a neighbour poorer than myself. Nevertheless I was ofgood courage, knowing the Lord's ways are not as ours; and mindfulhow Brother Ambrose held that inasmuch as the Heavenly City is laidwith fair colours 'twere no sin to deem that a man may limn perfectpictures there, for the gift is from the Lord. "

"My son, 'tis a great lesson thou hast learnt, " said the Prior, "for the Word was made Flesh; and as Blessed John hath it, a mancannot love God unseen, if he love not the brother whom He hathgiven him. What next, dear lad?"

"My Father, the Lord Himself sent a messenger to me. One day agreat limner, the Signor Andrea di Cione, whom men call d'Orcagna, stayed by me where I stood with my melons in the shadow of theShepherd's Tower, and bade me follow him to his house, for he wouldfain use me for an angel's head in the great Altar-piece he wase'en then concerned with for the Church of the White Friars. Laterhe heard my story; and when he found I had some small skill withthe brush, he kept me with him, and taught me as only such an onecan teach: him I served five years. And many times Satan desiredmy soul; nay, once I was in peril of hell-fire, but the Lord waswith me, and plucked my feet out of the pit. But of that I willspeak anon, at my shriving, as is meet. "

The Prior remembered his dream, but he said no word, and Hilariustook up his tale. 

"Then one day my master cried there was an end to teaching;nevertheless he would have me bide with him in honour for the work. But my heart was full of longing for home and the scent of theforest; and, above all, for thee, my Father; therefore I set myface north, that I might bring back my gift to St Benedict and ourChurch; and should have been here long ere this, but I was let bythe way. "

The Prior looked up a little anxiously, and Hilarius smiled at thequestion in his face. 

"'Tis a lawless tract, my Father, under the shadow of the greatmountains beyond Florence; and I was taken by robbers, who bore meand others of our company to their fastness in the hills: there Ilay in a little cave many days; but what befell the rest I knownot. The robbers brought me forth to serve them, and by God'smercy handled me kindly, though they thought little ofbloodshedding. 

"Then one of them was troubled in his spirit, and minded to forsakethis evil manner of life. Therefore one night he fled, carrying mewith him, when the others had gone forth; and we made good our wayto Mantua. There Pietro, for so was the robber called, left methat he might give himself to the service of God and men, inasmuchas he had formerly abused them. Never saw I man so changed, myFather; his speech, formerly profane, was all of God and theSaints; he did penance and confessed his sins publicly; ay, by theJustice's order he received one hundred lashes in the market-place, and at every lash he cried with upturned face, 'Deo Gratias!' AndI was there, because he besought of me to stand in the crowd andpray for him that his courage failed not. But it came to pass thateven the people marvelled at his joyful endurance; and indeed 'twasmore like a scourging of one of the blessed martyrs than of a poorsinful robber. After this the Brothers of the Poor took him, forsuch was his desire; and so I bade him farewell, and craved hisblessing. "

"The Lord fulfil all his mind!" said the Prior with clasped hands. 

"Amen, " said Hilarius. 

"Didst thou not fear to journey further alone, my son?"

"Nay, my Father, I found for the most part good and kindly men bythe way, despite their somewhat evil seeming; but at Genoa I tookservice with a merchant then beginning his journey, and travelledwith him through Flanders, a strange, flat country with many canalsand tall poplar trees; and so we came to Bruges in safety, after amost prosperous course. There he commended me to a good friend ofhis, a wool merchant travelling to Salisbury; and at first allthings went well with us; but later the winds proved contrary, andwe were driven hither and thither in great peril of our lives, butat last made the Bristol Channel, and so came safe into port. Thence I have come hither afoot begging my bread. "

When Hilarius had made an end, the Prior took him in his arms andblessed him for his dear son; praising God that the lad had comeback a child at heart, but hungering, loving, open-eyed. 

Next morning, being shriven, Hilarius ate the bread and drank thewine of the "wayfaring man, " his heart merry for the joy of hishome-coming. When the Lady-Mass was ended he knelt on in herChapel. 

"Great Light of Love, all praise and thanks be thine from thy poorson, " sang his heart; and then he prayed for his little maid. 

CHAPTER IV--THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN

The Convent welcomed Hilarius gladly, and on the Feast of StMichael he made his profession, for the Prior deemed that he hadserved his noviciate and been found faithful; and the Brethrenassented eagerly, for they were fain to keep this wondrous limnerfor the service of their own Church. 

Then, by the Prior's command, Hilarius set himself to limn a greatpicture for the High Altar. It was a Crucifixion, and all hisheart and all his love were in it. When the Brethren first saw thefair proportion and fine colours that Hilarius brought to the work, they rejoiced in that their Church should be glorified above otherChurches of the Order; but when the picture was near completing, and they gazed up into the wondrous face of the Great King wholooked down from the throne of His triumphant suffering, with aworld of hunger and love in His eyes for those who had so enthronedHim, they hung their heads for shame because of the emulation intheir hearts; and lo! the Cellarer, for very love, was careful forthe needs of the elder Brethren; and the monks, for very love, laidhold gladly of suffering, and so the Convent was blessed, and livedtogether in unity. 

In one of the groups very near the Cross, Hilarius set a grey-eyedgirl, a woman with a babe at the breast, and clinging to herskirts, a little flaxen-headed maid. None but the Prior knew themeaning of these three, and their names, with that of a poor light-o'-love, were ever on his lips when he offered the Holy Sacrifice. 

Gentle Brother Hilarius painted and loved, and was beloved of allhis world. The years sped, and he became in turn Almoner, Novice-master, and Sub-Prior: and no man envied him, for he reckonedhimself ever as least of all and servant of all. 

Prior Stephen attained his fourscore years, ruling the Conventwisely and well to the very end: ay, and never ailed aught, hiscall coming as it might be straight from the mouth of the Lord. 

On the Feast of Blessed Stephen he went into the chapter and saidas always: "The souls of the deceased brethren and believers restin peace!" to which the Convent replied, "Amen. " Then with hishands raised to bless he cried, "Benedicite, " and again with loudand joyful voice "Domine, " and again, "Domine!" as of one whoanswers to his name--and so passed to his place in the Kingdom ofChrist. 

The Convent elected Hilarius to be Prior in his stead, whichelection the Abbat of Cluny confirmed with good grace. 

Time passed, and the fame of the Monastery grew because of theexceeding beauty of the Church, for Hilarius, with those whom hetaught, set fair pictures on the walls, and blazoned the roof withthe blue of heaven and gold of the wakeful stars. In the span overthe High Altar he set Blessed Benedict himself with the face ofPrior Stephen, and round him the angel virtues; even as one Giotto, a shepherd lad, had limned them in the Church of the LittleBrothers. 

Now Prior Hilarius desired greatly to set a picture of Our Ladyabove the Altar in her Chapel. Long did he pray with ever-increasing fervour and much fasting that this boon might bevouchsafed him for her glory and the Convent's greater good. Andone day--'twas her Nativity--he set his hand to the work, for itseemed to him that she would have it so; and he was greatly humbledthat such heavenly kindness should attend so vile a sinner. Day byday he set apart some hours for this service; and he limned a faceso fair and radiant, with woman's love and light of heaven, that itwas whispered in the cloister walks that the Prior had surely beenblessed by a vision, else had he never pictured the Maid-Mother inso wondrous a fashion: and of a truth a man might well givecredence to such a story, for the joy that shone in the Prior'seyes and might not be hid. 

Many other tales did the Brethren tell of Hilarius, but softly, forhe would hear no word of his own deeds or the favours vouchsafedhim. 

When he walked in the garth the pigeons circled round him crooningtheir peace-note; and it was told that the kine in the meadowsceased browsing when he passed, and needs must company with him alittle way. 

Once it befell that a lay-brother was afflicted with heavy sicknessby reason of the sun's great heat; and Satan strove with him forhis undoing, so that the poor soul foamed at the mouth and roaredout blasphemy; yea, verily, and must be held with cords also, lesthe do himself or his fellows some grievous hurt. But when thePrior laid his hand between the man's troubled eyes sweet sleepcame upon him, and his madness forsook him. 

The poor also crowded to the Monastery gate and were fed, ay, evenif the Brethren went hungry; and if any man in all the villagesround had aught against his neighbour he would come to the Priorfor a just hearing. 

Nevertheless, despite these things the Convent's peace began to betroubled. Men sought the Monastery for its famous name, caring butlittle for religion; there were many young novices within itswalls, and the strong hand of Prior Stephen was lacking. Hilariuswas of gentler build; he would speak ever in love, thinking noevil, whereas it is not given to all men to understand that tongue. So it came to pass that the younger Brethren waxed fat and kicked, and the elder Brethren murmured. 

CHAPTER V--"GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND THE VISION. "--DAN. Viii. 16. 

One day the Novice-master, Brother Adam, a most worthy man, came insore trouble to the Prior and would resign his office. 

"Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find shelterin a monastery!" he cried. "They grow fat, idle, insolent, quarrelsome-never at peace among themselves; never a Pater or anAve too many, or a task fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. Iwould that the time of blood-letting were here that their highstomachs might be brought low. I am no longer young, my Father, and this burden tries me sorely. Prithee, let it be shifted toanother and a stronger back. "

The Prior listened with many an inward mea culpa. "'Tis a sadhearing, Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybethis ill mood will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle anddecorous? He hath a most beauteous voice. "

The Novice-master threw up his hands. 

"Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, butmethinks his body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will singan it please him--or when thou art by, my Father, --but, an itplease him not, he is silent; ay, even under grievous stripes. ThePrecentor giveth him as negligent and ill-conditioned; and inchoir, when he looketh most like to one of God's Saints, he is butplotting mischief for the day. "

The Prior heard him sadly. 

"And Hubert?" he said. "Hubert methinks hath a great love ofcolour and a fine hand with the brush. "

Brother Adam was almost speechless. 

"Hubert! Nay Father, forgive me, Father, but even this very Hubertbut yesterday slipped a handful of pebbles into Brother Edmund'smess, whereby he was like to break his teeth or take some moregrievous hurt. And indeed the peace of the Brethren is muchtroubled, wherefore they complain bitterly. "

"Young blood, young blood, but not of necessity evil, " said thePrior. Then, seeing the Novice-master's aggrieved face, he badehim have patience yet a little, for he himself would speak to thenovices; and with this Brother Adam must fain be content. 

The next day in the Chapter the Prior spoke. 

It comes to pass oftentimes that men seeing a sign are made curiousby it; and then forgetting, find the clue thereto, it may be, longafter. Even thus it happened on this day in the Chapter; and whenPrior Hilarius was gathered to his rest the Brethren remembered howthey had marked and marvelled at the strange beauty of his face, the beauty as of one who sees the face of the Lord. 

"My children, " he cried--"for my children ye are, though I seeamong you many it were more fitting I should hail as father, butthat the ruling of the Lord cannot be gainsaid--my children, I amminded to think that I have this day a message on my lips that isnot mine own. 

"Last night a vision came to me as I slept. Blessed Benedict, ourFather, stood at my side, and his face was troubled. 

"'Arise, my son, ' he cried, 'arise, for the Lord is at hand andhath need of thee. '

"And I, deeming it was of judgment that he spake, sprang up inshame and fear that the Master should find me sleeping. 

"Then cried Blessed Benedict again:-

"'If thou wilt serve the Lord, make haste, for He hath called theethese many times, ' and so saying passed from my sight. 

"Brethren, I went forth as one bewildered, and made haste to theChurch lest peradventure I should find Him; but the lamps burnt dimand all was silent. Then I turned aside and went out into thenight, and it was very dark, with no sound but the wind in theforest trees. 

"My heart was a-hungered, and I sought in cloister and garth; andas I hasted to the gate I cried aloud, even as she cried who soughtHim in a garden--'They have taken away my Lord. '

"At the gate I stayed me, and besought the Lord for a sign; and lo, in the darkness one came and led me by the hand away from the gate, across the garth and up the dormitory stair, nor loosed me until Ipassed within where the Brethren lay sleeping, and the chamber wasbright with exceeding radiance. 

"I found myself by the pallet of my dear son Robert: his face waswet with tears; and as he lay I saw upon his shoulder the mark ofmany stripes. 

"Again, one took my hand and led me from one to another of ourBrethren, and on every face lay the shadow of a great need, but inevery face there was somewhat of the Christ; and the lesson burntin my heart. 

"Then One came swiftly and laid healing hands on the boy Robert;but I fled, for I might not see Him; and I awoke sore troubled--ay, and the trouble is on me still. 

"My Brethren, I can but tell the vision as it came to me. Great isthe rule of Benedict, our Father, and in it stripes, grievous andmany as our sins, have their rightful place; but mayhap we forgetthat love, and love alone, should strike. Ay, and I mind me howPrior Stephen, my Father, said that to be monk a man must learnbefore all things to hunger and to love. Love should draw thewater and build the fire, till the field and attend the sanctuary;and hunger we should cherish in our hearts, hunger forrighteousness and for the souls of our brethren, for this is thehunger of God. 

"Men come over lightly to the Lord's work; and lo! pride andemulation, jealousy and discontent, spring up and thrive, and theend is shame and confusion. 

"I speak as to my children; it is in my heart that the Lord is athand: let us see that we love while there is yet time. "

Then he turned to the novices and stretched out his hands to wherethey stood amazed, and it may be ashamed--not after this manner wasBrother Adam wont to rebuke them. 

"And ye, who are, as it were, the babes of our Order, give heed toyour ways, neither bring unwilling hands to this service. Betterfar go forth, yea, even to death, than mock the Lord with frowardfeet and a heart that is full of vanity. Remember the sacrificewhich Cain offered and the Lord rejected, for he gainsayed thevoice of the Lord and disobeyed His Commandment; wherefore thewrath of God fell upon him. 

"I who speak now, speak in love; give ear to my words, and let fearbefriend you; for the coming of the Lord is as a thief in thenight, and lo! stripes bitter and many await that servant whom theMaster finds sleeping. "

Then the Prior, having made an end of speaking, raised his hand tobless, and went forth in silence; and no man stirred in his place, for they knew that the Lord had spoken and were afraid. 

CHAPTER VI--THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN

June was at an end, and men cried aloud for rain. The hedges werewhite, the fields scorched and brown; the leaves fell from thetrees as at autumn's touch; the fruits scarce formed hung wry andtwisted on the bough; the heavens burnt pitiless, without a cloud. 

Dickon, the woodman, sat by the wayside gnawing a crust and a scrapof mouldy bacon. There was no sound but the howl of a dog fromsome neighbouring farmstead, and he sat in sullen mood, his bill-hook beside him, brooding over his wrongs; for the world had gonecontrary with him. 

His wife was dead; she had died in childbed a month gone, leavingsix hungry, naked brats on his shoulders; and now a worse thing hadbefallen him; his gold was gone--his gold to which he had no right, for 'twas blood-money, the food of his children, ay, and somethingbeside; but Dickon loved that gold piece above all the world--aboveHeaven and his own soul--and it was gone. 

A neighbour had surely done it; marked the hiding-place which hehad deemed so safe, and made off with the prize; and i' faith 'twaseasy carrying. There was but one piece, and Dickon minded how hehad changed his petty hoard to gold scarce a month back at thefair. Maybe it was Thomas the charcoal burner had served him thisill turn; or William Crookleg, the miller's man; he was a sly, prying fellow, and there had been ill blood between them. 

He was fain to seek the Monastery that lay the other side theforest, and crave justice of the Prior, but that the Prior mightsay 'twas ill-got gain and well rid of. 

Dickon rose to his feet and shambled homewards; he was ragged, ill-fed, unkempt. The day's work was done, and on the village green hefound men and women, for the most part as ill-clad as himself, standing about in groups gossiping. The innkeeper lounged at theale-house door, thin and peaked as his fellows; there was no goodliving for any man in those parts, by reason of the over-lord whosore oppressed them. 

A little man, keen-eyed and restless, holding a lean and sorryhorse by the bridle, was talking eagerly. 

"Nay, 'tis true eno', and three crows saw I this very day on thechurchyard wall--it bodes ill to some of us. "

"Well, well, " said the innkeeper, "have it thine own way. Methinksthe ill hath outrun the omen, for there will be naught for man orbeast shortly--but fine pickings for thy three crows. "

The little man scowled at him: Dickon came up. 

"What's to do?" he said curtly. 

"Nay, " said mine host, "Robin will have it that some further evilis upon us--tho' methinks we have got our fill and to spare withthis drought--ay, and 'twas at thy house, Dickon, he saw thecorpse-light. "

"Better a corpse-light than six open mouths, and naught to fillthem, " said Dickon surlily. "Whither away, Robin? 'Tis not farthis beast will travel. "

"Right thou art, but my master will turn an honest penny with thecarcass, " answered the little man; "give me my reckoning, friendJohn. I must needs haste if I would see the Forester's erenightfall. "

He pulled out a few small coins and a gold piece. When Dickon sawit his eyes gleamed. Robin paid the reckoning and put the piece inhis cheek. 

"Hard-earned money--'tis blood out of a stone to draw wages from mymaster. Better it should light in my belly than in a rogue'spocket. 'Tis as well for me that John o' th' Swift-foot swings atthe cross-roads. Godden, my masters!" And leading his wearybeast, he took the road that skirted the forest. 

The moon was at full, and he had yet a good stretch of lonely waybefore him, when the horse stumbled and fell and would not rise. 

"A murrain on the beast!" muttered Robin angrily, tugging in vainat the creature on whom death had taken pity. "I must e'en leavehim by the wayside and tell Richard what hath befallen. "

He stooped to loose the halter, and as he bent to his task a manslipped from the shadow of the hedge into the quiet moonlight. There was a thud, a dull cry, and Robin fell prone across thehorse's neck--a pace beyond him in the moonlight shone the gleam ofgold. 

Next day Dickon's child died, ay, and the other five followed withscant time between the buryings. Another had fathered them andfilled the gaping mouths; but men shuddered at his care, for it wasthe Black Death that they had deemed far from them. 

Pale and woebegone they clustered on the green. News had come ofRobin--he was dead when they found him--but no man gave heed. Death was in the air, death held them safe in walls they might notscale. The heavens were brass, food failed for man and beast, Godand man alike had forsaken them. The forest lay one side, theriver, now but a shallow sluggish stream, lay the other; 'twas acleft stick and the springe tightened. 

No evil had as yet befallen Dickon. He stood with the rest andmurmured, cursing. All at once he made for the ale-house. 

"Fools that we are to stand like helpless brats when there isliquor enough and to spare in yon cellars. He who is minded to godry throat to Heaven had best make haste; for me I will e'en swilla bucket to the devil's health, and so to hell. "

Half-a-dozen men followed him, pushing aside mine host who stroveto bar the door. Some of the women fell on their knees andclamoured in half delirious prayer; the rest slunk dismayed totheir pestilent homes. 

CHAPTER VII--THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE MORNING

Meanwhile, news came to the Monastery of the ill case of thevillage, for it lay scarce a league away across the forest; but thepine-trees stood as guardian angels in between. 

The Prior summoned the whole Convent, according to the ruling ofBlessed Benedict when the matter is a grave one, and told thetidings. 

Then he went on to give reason for their assembling. 

"My Brethren, it is in my heart that we dare not leave these poor, stricken sheep to die alone without shepherding; moreover, in theirfear and desolation, they may flee to other villages, and so theterror and pest spread ever further. And I deem that, inasmuch asCharity is greater than Faith or Hope, so it is greater thanobedience also. Wherefore I purpose to set aside the Rule of ourOrder in the letter that I may hold to it in the spirit, and goforth to serve these perishing brethren; and I will take with mewhosoever hears the call of God in this visitation. "

When he had made an end, there was silence in the Chapter. Breakcloister, the Prior himself urging them thereto? The Convent mightscarce credit its ears. 

Prior Hilarius watched his children with a tender smile on hiswhite face, and a prayer on his lips that love might have itstriumph. 

Five monks stood up, among them the Sub-Prior, and seven novicessprang also to their feet. 

"Nay, Brother Walter, " said Hilarius, turning to the Sub-Prior, "this flock must have its shepherd also; thy place is here. But Iwill take with me Brother Simon and Brother Leo, who will doubtlesssuffice at first for the ministry, and--" smiling at the novices--"all these dear lads to tend the sick and bury the dead. "

The Sub-Prior ventured on a remonstrance. 

"Good Father, it is not fitting that thou should'st go on such anerrand; send me in thy stead, for my life is a small thing ascompared with thine. Moreover these novices, 'tis but the otherday the Master gave them as lazy and ill-conditioned, and--"

The Prior held up his hand. 

"Dear Brother, I thank thee for thy love and care for me; but mycall has come. As for these--" he stretched out his hand towardsthe waiting novices--"maybe they are in the wrong school, and theLord hath even opened the door that they may serve Him, perchancedie for Him, elsewhere. And shall I count myself wiser than PriorStephen, who set me without the gate to learn my lesson? Let us goin peace, my children, for we are about the Lord's business. "

Very early next day, having eaten of Heavenly manna, the littleband embraced their brethren and set out, laden with food and wineand herbs from the farmery; and the Prior appointed a place towhich the Convent should send daily all things needed. 

The shade of the forest was very welcome in the hot, breathlesssunshine, and the scent of the pine-needles, odorous, pungent, roseat each footfall from the silent path. The Brethren chanted theGradual Psalms as they paced two and two through the sun-litaisles, full of the Prior's memories; and he looked up again to seeOur Lady's robe across the tree-tops. Then all at once the Psalmbroke, and Brother Simon, who was leading, stayed suddenly. 

Under a bush beside the track lay a man, naked save for filthyrags; his hair and beard matted with moss and leaves; his eyessunk, his lips drawn apart in a ghastly grin. Hilarius made hasteto kneel beside him, and lo! sudden remembrance lighted the fast-glazing eyes, but his own answered not. 

"My son, my son, " said the Prior, and his voice was very pitiful, "thou art indeed in evil case; let me shrive thee ere it be toolate. "

He motioned the others to stand back, and raising the heavy headupon his shoulder, bent close to catch the whisper of the parchedlips. 

At first no sound came, and then a hoarse word reached him. 

"The Convent's hens!"

The Prior stared amazed; then once more the laboured voice -

"Hast forgot thy theft, and the dancer?"

Hilarius needed no further word; in a moment the years were wipedaway. 

"Lad, lad, to find thee again, and in such sorry plight! But see, stay not thy shriving, for the time is short, and the Lord everready to pardon. "

The man strove in vain to speak. At last he said quite clearly:"I hunger, " and so saying died. 

The Prior was greatly moved, and for a while he knelt in prayer, while the Brethren, amazed, waited his pleasure. Then he rose, andlo! before him lay the open glade where his schooling had begun, and he had seen a flower incarnate dance in the wind. 

He bade them lift the dead, and lay him in the hollow of the gladeunder fallen branches until they could return and give him burial. Then, as they went on their way, he told the tale of his littlemaid; and when the telling was ended, the village they had come tosuccour was in sight, and lo! they saw it through a mist. 

CHAPTER VIII--"BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE"

The Prior's heart was ready, and it seemed to him as he passed upthe village and saw the huddled, helpless people, that his littlemaid led him by the hand. 

Brother Simon, Brother Leo, and the novices turned aside to speakcomfort and carry succour to the sick and fearful, and to bury thedead; for three unshriven souls had passed to judgment and mercy. Hilarius made straight for the ale-house. 

As he crossed the green, the door opened and Dickon stumbledblindly down the steps. At sight of a monk he cried out, andsuddenly sobered, dropped on his knees, while the topers androysterers staring from the open doorway fell into silence. 

Hilarius pushed back his cowl and stood bareheaded in the scorchingsun of that windless day; it came to his mind that he was veryweary. 

"Hear, O my children, the Lord hath sent me to succour you, lest yego down quick into the pit. Return, every one of you, for the armsof His love are still stretched wide upon the Rood, and the veryhairs of your head are numbered. Repent ye, therefore, and confesseach one of you his sins, that I may prepare him for the work ofthe Lord; and take comfort also, for they that are with us aremighty. "

One by one the men, sobered by the shock of great surprise, confessed and were shriven under the summer sun: only the manDickon was not among them. Then the Prior bade them get to work ashe should direct; and he set a watch that no man should flee thevillage; and all obeyed him. 

Early and late the Prior toiled with the Brethren and his band ofworkers, nursing the sick, burying the dead, and destroying thepestilent dwellings. 

Brother Leo was the first to whom the call came: he answered itlike a soldier at his post. 

As the Prior rose from the pallet of his dead son, one bade himcome quickly, for a dying man had need of him. It was Dickon. 

The Prior, bearing with him the Body of the Lord, made haste to thehovel where he lay, and shrived him though he scarce could hear hismuttered words; but lo! when he would place the Host he could not, for a gold piece lay on the man's tongue. The Prior drew backdismayed, and behold, the Lord's hand struck swiftly, and Dickondied with a barren shriving--on whom may Christ take pity!

Next day great grey clouds curtained the arid, staring sky; and ateven came the rain. All through the night it fell; and one of thenovices, who lay a-dying in the Prioir's arms, heard it as hepassed, and fell back, joy on his lips and a radiant smile on hisyoung face. 

"'Esurientes implevit bonis, '" said the Prior, as he laid him down, blessing God. 

A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there wasno need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague wasstayed. Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season;rarely such a blessed one. 

The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Priorwas minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent, for his work was done. 

Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidingsreached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of thecloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they hadgiven their lives for their brethren. 

The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed thepines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, becauseof the face of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great bluedome, and earth shone with pale reflection of his glory. 

The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catchthe signal from the lay-brother posted without. At last the wordcame that voices were heard in the distance; and monks and noviceshastened two and two to the gate. On the wind was borne the soundof a chant. 

"'Tis a dirge for those that are gone, " said Brother Anselm; andcrossing themselves, the Brothers chanted out the sonorousresponse:

"Et lux perpetua luceat eis. "

As they reached the open gate, the little band they waited for cameslowly down the forest pathway. 

Four Brothers, only four; and lo! on their shoulders they bore arude bier of pine-branches. 

This was the gathering of Brother Hilarius. Sweet-scented boughsfor his last bed; Mary's lilies aglow for tapers tall; the censerof the forest swung by sun and wind; and the glory of the face ofthe Lord. 

He had called his children to him in the late night-watches, andhaving kissed and blessed them, he bade them turn him to the east, for his time had come; and they obeyed in sore grief and perplexed. Prior Hilarius lay and watched for the light, and as dawn partednight's veil with the long foregleam of the coming day, he shut hiseyes like a tired child and went home. 

It was his heart, Brother Simon thought; but the Sub-Prior criedthrough his tears:-

"Nay, nay, it was God a-hungered for His dear son. "

They bore the Prior into the white-clad Church, and laid him on hisforest-bed under the great Christ; and the novices, seeing thetender smile on the beautiful face, whispered one to another, "ThePrior hath found his little maid. " And the Convent made Hilarius awondrous fair tomb of alabaster inlaid with gold, and carved himlying thereon with Mary's lilies across his breast.