Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

THE GATHERING OF
BROTHER HILARIUS

By MICHAEL FAIRLESS
AUTHOR OF “THE ROADMENDER”

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1912

A. M. D. G.

“To those dearworthy ones
to whom I owe all;
I give that which is theirs already.”

PREFACE

Through this little book runs the road of life, the common road of men, the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart.

The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of the Black Death and a monk with an artist’s eyes; but for the author it is a romance of the Image of God. While the Divine Face is being unveiled for Hilarius in the masque that shocks and bewilders him, and the secret of sorrow and sin, of death and life and love, is told by his speechless and dying “little maid,” we, if we choose, may hear again the Road mender’s epilogue to the story of the man of this earth, the man of the common highway:—“‘Dust and ashes and a house of devils,’ he cries; and there comes back for answer, ‘Rex concupiscet decorem tuum.’”

CONTENTS

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 in the June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a dust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores in the farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation.

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

At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, 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; a page on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They were always at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas, finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of the Lord.

The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately acquired—on his face was great peace. It rested everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer smote the sound of the Office bell.

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

At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared 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 sunlit blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced it—joy so great that his heart ached with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open glade, halted in amazement.

A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced in the wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for untutored novices such as Hilarius.

His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured “Apage Sataas!”

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

“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing truant, I dare wager. Come and dance!”

Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” he said, and his voice trembled somewhat, “art thou not shamed to deck thyself in 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 his semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can a poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must cry devil’s guise?”

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

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

“Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice men’s souls to their undoing?”

“An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind sir?” she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a scolded child.

“It is wrong to deck the body,” began Hilarius, softening at her attitude, “because, because—”

Again the merry laugh rang out.

“Because, because—nay, Father” (with a mock reverence), “methinks thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and I will catechise. How old art thou?” She held up her small finger admonishingly.

“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 on unconcerned—

“’Twas a foolish question; the answer’s writ large for any maid to read. 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 and the Saints and the Brethren—”

“But not the sisters?” the wicked little laugh pealed out. “Poor sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the Saints and the Brethren, and it is good—good—good!” She opened her arms wide. “’Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the 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 God and the Saints!” quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of yesterday’s homily in the Frater.

“But how can’st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?” the dancer persisted.

How did he know?

“How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?” he cried triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and anxious 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 hate her;” and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of weeping.

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

“Maid, maid,” said Hilarius, in deep distress, “indeed I did not mean to vex thee;” and he came up and laid his hand on her shoulder.

So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!

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

“There, boy, ’tis naught. How could’st thou know? But what of thine 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 came a 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 a smile.

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 the undergrowth, 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 bag slung across the youth’s shoulder—“I trust he hath a fine fat hen from 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 the Monasteries?

“’Tis stealing,” he said feebly.

“’Tis stealing,” the dancer mocked. “Hast thou another sermon ready, Sir Preacher?”

“Empty bellies make light fingers,” quoth the youth. “Did’st thou ever 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 thy mother; but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to love. Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee these things an thou would’st learn. Farewell, good novice, back to thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger and love—love—love!”

She seized her brother’s hand and together they danced away like two bright butterflies among the trees.

Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. The train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and explanation; and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned desolation and doubt, and in his ears rang 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 vellum with generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast 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 Hilarius was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.

“Now may God be good to us!” he cried with uplifted hands. “Since when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black hair—curly too, i’ faith?”

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

It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him through chant and psalm. Did he really love the Saints—St Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left him untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great love between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had had a sister would they have loved like that?

The Saints’ Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from which tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. “Light of Love,” the girl had called his mother; what more beautiful name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So he prayed in his simplicity:—“Great Light of Love, Mother of my mother, 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 for Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him too; 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 he felt for him?

Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words of 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 its beauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white lilies at the farmery door. Did they love?

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

She had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wandered staring, 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 and unhurt above the devouring waves.

The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd question. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his stern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firm line 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 the hen. Thou art a limner at heart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous skill with the brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger 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’st thou 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 beautiful thought.”

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 who died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was light of love.”

“Boy,” said the Prior gravely, “’tis a weary tale, and sad of telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul”—his voice grew stern—“as for one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may have 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 clasped the Prior’s knees weeping and praying like a little child.

“And so, my son,” said the Prior, “for a time thou shalt go out into the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a care that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure shall see God, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set in 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 dead mother’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 terrors of the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron; and another to the Prior’s good friend, the Abbat of St Alban’s. The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been with them from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look his last at the young face he would never see again.

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

“Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us—an thou can’st—let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are opened 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 and along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into the wide, wide world.

CHAPTER III
THE KING’S SONG-BIRD

Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to himself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that 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 I win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of a king’s banquet. Now but another few leagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song here 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 bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward did but know it.

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

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

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

“Whence dost thou come, lad?” said Martin, eyeing him with interest.

“Many days’ journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen,” answered Hilarius.

“But thou art no monk!”

“Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to see the world. It is wondrous fair,” he added sincerely.

“He who speaks thus is cloister-bred,” said Martin, and as Hilarius made sign of assent, “’tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter’s, I doubt not; thy face is set for Westminster.”

“Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere now but that two days ago I met strange company. They took my purse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the late 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 passing strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision, 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 if we win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is the same?”

Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; “and,” added Martin, “three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claim thee for page.”

“I will strive to serve well,” said Hilarius soberly, “but I have never spoken but to one maid ’til yesterday, when a woman gave me good-morrow.”

Martin looked at his companion queerly.

“And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this Prior of thine is a strange master!”

“It is but for a time,” said Hilarius, “then I shall go back to the Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I have 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 and banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and little reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk.”

Hilarius smiled.

“Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King’s Minstrel.”

“Nay, lad, nay,” said the other hastily, “give me the open country and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; ’tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again.”

He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with tears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song itself was sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:—

“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?”

“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He stopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. “A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of her hair across a man’s face only to elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must seek 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 for the 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, here comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love.” Round the bend of the road came a man in hermit’s dress carrying a staff and a well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from the two travellers.

Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.

“Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; ’tis not the first time we have met. See here,” and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit’s wallet.

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

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

“A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand’s turn and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff 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 said at last.

“It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and ’tis true enough that godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit’s robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and tongue. See, lad,” as another turn in the road brought them in sight of Westminster, “there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!”

He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water’s edge, with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold.

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, and Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin’s side. Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius’ untutored eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the day’s work was done. In the courtyard of the “Black Boar” a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously—was the devil about to beset him under all guises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me to St Benedict as he hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the man in him stayed the indignant tears. “Martin, Martin!” he cried; but the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, and news given and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the late salute, took refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious heart until the minstrel should have done with the crowd.

Martin did not forget him.

“Holà, lad!” he cried, “see how they welcome the King’s bird back to his cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a homing pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey’s end.” Then, apprehending for the first time Hilarius’ white face and piteous eyes, Martin strode across, swept him under the archway into a quiet courtyard where a fountain rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir John’s steward, left him with a friendly slap on the back and the promise of speedy meeting.

Hilarius delivered the Prior’s letter, and followed the steward into a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy with preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and dejected, his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being crying out for the busied peace and silent orderliness of his cloister home. The servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly noticed when the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked him slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and drank thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the pages and squires among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at his gentleness. At last, something restored by the much-needed food, Hilarius looked round the hall.

It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far loftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through high lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which the morrow’s sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork—a man’s thought in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and guarding saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, and here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the house and his honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of distinguished presence to be no other than Sir John himself, and he liked him well; but his eyes wandered carelessly over the rest of the company until they were caught and held by a woman’s face. It was Eleanor, the fairest of the knight’s three fair daughters; and when Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary traveller feels who meets a fellow citizen in a far-off land.

“Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had,” he thought, his mind reverting to his favourite Saint; “she is like the lilies in the garth at home.”

It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she looked a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when she was much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an unknown soul; her mouth, delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; her head drooped slightly on her long, slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious humility. She was like a pictured saint: Hilarius’ gaze clung to her, followed her as she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat apart while the serving men cleared the lower tables and brought in the sleeping gear for the night. He lay down with the rest, and through the high, lancet windows the moonlight kissed his white and weary face as it was wont to do on bright nights in the cloister dormitory. Around him men lay sleeping soundly after the day’s toils; there was none to heed, and he sobbed like a little homesick child, until his tired youth triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the Prior, the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the cloister 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 the sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. He sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his hair into a halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly 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 was deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady Eleanor, Hilarius’ mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John had so appointed it.

It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had seemed 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 full of the righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the Babylon of Blessed John’s Vision—with a few holy ones who would surely be caught up ere judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor.

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

Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends the chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a saint, by reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he watched her at banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a revel as to the Sacrament, and sat at a mummers’ show with eyes fixed on the Unseen. She moved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and joyous maidens like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at her coming.

It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning—brother of that Hugh de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius—a gentle knight with mild blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly things. The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up with preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, and their speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to lovers’ vows. It was small wonder, therefore, that another year saw them both by glad consent in the cloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the Benedictine House of which her aunt was Prioress.

Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter’s Abbey: “With all its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks ’tis like the forest at home” (forgetting that his more intimate knowledge of the forest partook of the nature of sin). “The Lady Eleanor, my honoured mistress,” he wrote, “is a most saintly and devout maiden, full of heavenly lore, and caring nought for the things of this world;” and he added, “’tis beautiful to see such devotion where for the most part are sinful and light-minded persons.”

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

He dwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour and light and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the gorgeous pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by angels; while the knights at a tourney in their brave armour pictured 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. He yearned ever after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and stores of colour and gold. It lay but a stone’s throw away behind the jealous Monastery walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen’s plan that the lad should go straight from one cloister to another.

To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor’s tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and followed her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a gallery hung with wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower where Eleanor sat with two of her women busied with their needle.

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

“I am weary,” she said; “this life is weariness. Tell me of the Monastery and the forest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem that 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 of the window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles.

“The Brother Ambrose,” he began, “was ever a saintly man, approved of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, save that of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay a-bed in the dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: “Come, and I will show thee the Bride, the Lamb’s wife.” And Brother Ambrose arose and was carried to a great and high mountain, even as in 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 until they stood as walls of light, and the four winds lapped him about as in a mantle and bore him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then between the stars came the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such colours as no earthly limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding radiance.

“Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between 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 found himself in bed in the dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and he rose and went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left the choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his 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 the Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn, nor could he set the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the exceeding great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad; but our Prior bade him thank God and remember the infirmity of the flesh, which, like the little grey cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his sight.”

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

“It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick,” she said, at length.

Hilarius nodded:

“He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and often he would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the Office bell.”

“Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that Holy City.”

“Nay, lady,” said her page tenderly, “surely thou hast had a vision even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like unto his.”

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

“Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though my desire is great, ’tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reason I would get me to a cloister where I might fast and pray unhindered.”

Hilarius looked at her with great compassion.

“Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thou art already as one of His saints.”

“Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world,” she answered. “Sing to me, Hilarius.”

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

“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 her tender childlike heart.

CHAPTER II
THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW

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

“As well seek Heaven’s gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city,” Hilarius said to himself a little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. A prentice lad’s homely brawl set him shivering; a woman’s jest painted his cheeks ’til they rivalled a young maid’s at her first wooing. He plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or juggler held the crowd 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 bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity.

Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. 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, but my head was full of feast and tourney, and ’tis yet undelivered. Mine host will not let the serving men and the two horses go ’til he hath seen Luke’s money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me.”

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

The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way.

The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal sordid 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 an ecclesiastic, 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 these precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander—a strange place in which to see such a face as thine.”

“I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning,” said Hilarius; “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 other answered it.

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

“Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter of Holy Church?” asked Hilarius, perplexed.

“Most surely he knows; but what would’st thou have? It hath ever been the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest they 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 no man may gainsay it.”

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

“Ay, ay, true eno’,” rejoined the other cheerfully, “but then ’tis not for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man’s law may fail to reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner.”

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

“It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody hands.”

“Nay,” said the old man hastily, “many of them are kindly folk, and many 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 on the edge of the city’s stir and hum.

“I can no further,” he said. “Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee! An old man’s blessing ne’er harmed any one.”

Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang out 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 a limner waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he met Martin, of whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel followed the Court.

“The cage grows too small for me, lad,” he said, as he stood with Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; “ay, and I love one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away to my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my heart break.”

“’Tis even so with me, good Martin,” said Hilarius sadly; “I too would fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is barred, 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 this Martinmas, say you? In truth ’tis a great age, but still leaves time and to spare. ‘All things come to a waiting man,’ saith the proverb.”

A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the south 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 Hilarius had 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 the Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know 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 for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, “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 find thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban’s an it be possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy wise 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 away
From one and two and three,
That honest men might see
And thievish knaves should pay;
Lest these might be
As 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’s voice had died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the dancer 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—I hunger, and I love.”

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

“Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, pray for me! Blessed Michael, defend me!”

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

Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window of the cell—it was too high above him. An overpowering desire came upon him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he caught at the window’s upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sun behind him, gazing into the cell.

On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle. The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-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 its aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!” he cried, 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 old man’s voice grew weaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in peace.”

He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore 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 saw some 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 fast and braced himself against the wall.

“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—The appeal in the half-dead face was awful.

Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no counsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man—ay, even when he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again and his fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin still air:—

“Iesu, dulcis memoria,
Dans vera cordis gaudia;
Sed super mel et omnia
Dulcis ejus praesentia.”

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

Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of what 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 holy man before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his 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 no idle one. Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King, undeterred, came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not in his train. Men’s mirth waxed hot by reason of the terror they would not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegory and miracle play; pageant of beautiful women and brave men; junketing, ay, and rioting—thus they flung a defiance at the enemy; and then fled: for across the clash of the feast bells sounded 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 of keeping him with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight, feeling one page more or less mattered little when Death was so ready to serve, and anxious for the lad’s safety and well-being, assented gladly enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast of the Three Kings Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, a well-filled purse in his pocket, but a fearful heart under his jerkin; 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 face of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass that while the stricken poor agonised in the grip 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 pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much traffic. One procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its way to London.

It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and stricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey sky. Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still air, music and words alike strange. The singers came slowly up the roadway, men of foreign aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks almost hiding their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. They were stripped to the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried each a bloody scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third step they signed the sign of the Cross with their prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus in blood and penitence 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 back with the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob.

“I left wife and children to perish alone,” he cried, “and fled to save my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for I go back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!” and he stepped in front of the first flagellant.

At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the blood drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels—a horror that could drive a man from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to save that which most men count dearer than either.

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

“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord promised me?”

Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against his shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with the light and practised touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the 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 Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from 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 truth the 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 me carried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many hideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my mother hath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stood up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; then as I mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might wrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was ever inclined to evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught save gain.