'Sad and slow,
Home they go.'
IN Northern Bohemia the fair summer sun shone brightly over waving cornfields and verdant pasture-lands, through which the broad waters of the Elbe were flowing in a swift strong current. Green rounded hills, often crowned or girt with trees, diversified the landscape, and more than one of them bore upon its summit a grim square tower, the abode of some warlike knight or baron. But the central object of the scene was the town of Leitmeritz, its gray walls and crowded houses, its turrets and church spires rising upwards in steep ascent from the banks of the Elbe to the higher level of the plain beyond.
A band of horsemen was approaching one of the gates of Leitmeritz, the St. Michael's door. They wore rough traveling cloaks, furnished with the ample hoods often found so useful in those troublous times to conceal the faces of the wearers—but not needed now, and thrown back accordingly, for these wayfarers were in a friendly country. They were going home, and in fact had well-nigh reached it, since Leitmeritz, their last halting-place upon their journey, was but two or three leagues from its termination.
Yet they showed little of the gladness men are wont to feel at the home-coming, especially after a long absence and many toils and dangers braved or borne. Their look and bearing were those of men who come back sad and slow—not, indeed, from a lost battle, but from one which has been all too dearly won—from a field whence honor has been brought and victory, but upon which their best and bravest have been left behind, to return again no more.
Most of the little band were servants or retainers, but three were of higher rank. The leader was a tall, gray-haired knight in a crimson mantle, with a sad, firm, quiet face. He wore no plume in his cap, but a medal fastened by a golden chain; and he rode a beautiful black horse, which he managed with grace and dexterity. At his right hand rode a young man in a scholar's gown, at his left a handsome boy of twelve, on a stout palfrey.
As they drew near the gate the knight turned to the scholar. ‘We must tarry here and sup, Master Hubert,' he said, ‘though my men grudge the delay, and so does Václav. But our horses need a halt and must be thought of—especially Rabstein,' and his gloved hand rested caressingly on the sleek and shining coat of the noble horse. Moreover, the townsfolk, amongst whom we have many friends, expect this much of me.'
‘No doubt you are right, sir baron,' answered Hubert Bohun. But he spoke with a sigh; for the tidings which the Knight of Chlum brought back from Constance to Bohemia were not as the song of one that playeth well on an instrument and hath a pleasant voice. Rather were they words that rang like a trumpet-call in the ears of all who heard them. Such words are apt to cost the speaker dear.
The gate was open; and the knight and his followers rode in unchallenged. But not unwelcomed. First one, then another of the loiterers in the narrow street recognized the well-known face and figure. A cry of greeting was raised; people poured out of the shops and houses to join in it, and with shouts and eager exclamations to give God thanks for the safe return of their good friend and protector, whom they called Pan Jan z Chlum—or Chlumsky—or Kepka.
In the eyes of Hubert, the stranger, they looked a motley crowd. Most of them were meanly clad, in jerkins of undyed wool or untanned leather, sometimes merely in coarse frocks fastened round the waist by a thong or a piece of rope. But among them were citizens of a better class, arrayed in seemly fashion, with good cloth doublets and hosen; there were women, too, both young and old, some of them in bright colored skirts, laced bodices with silver ornaments, and white kerchiefs on head and breast. Nearly all had the dark hair and complexion and the oval faces of the Czech, with the eager, intense expression of their passionate race. The cries and greetings were mostly in the Bohemian tongue, though now and then a hearty German Willkommen, gnadiger Herr! or Gott sei, Dank! fell pleasantly on the ear of Hubert Bohun.
But even the shouts of joy seemed to have in them an undertone of sadness. The words were not all of welcome.
There were murmurs of another kind amongst the constantly-increasing crowd that gathered round the band of horsemen, as they slowly ascended the steep and stony street which led from the gate to the market-place. The thought that surged in many hearts found a voice at last. An old woman, bent, gray, and withered, sprang forward, and at much risk to herself seized the bridle of Chlum. ‘Where is he who was given in charge to thee, Kepka?’ she cried, in shrill, high tones of passion that rose above the clamor of the rest. ‘Answer that to God and us! How dost thou dare to come back to us without him? '
‘How dost thou dare to insult my father?’ cried the boy Vaclav, half-unconsciously raising his hand, which held the riding-whip.
With one of his Chlum put it aside, with the other he soothed his startled horse. Then bending over the grey haired woman, he answered gently, ‘Mother, be comforted for him. He walked with God, and he was not, for God took him,'
‘Took him to heaven in a chariot of fire, like Elijah,' said one of the bystanders. ‘Sir knight, we pray you tell us all about it.'
Chlum bowed his head.
‘Not here,' said another. ‘Come to the market-place, good people; let them move on. Don't block the way.'
At last the market-place was reached. They rode by the pillared town-hall, and paused before the door of the principal inn. Someone immediately hurried out with a stirrup-cup' of wine, which he presented to Chlum, saying in German and with much respect, ‘Welcome back to us, noble Kepka!’ Hubert, Václav, and the attendants were served also.
While they drank, the crowd in the square settled into a dense solid mass, mostly of men, packed as close as they could stand together—their strained, eager faces upturned to Chlum, where he sat on horseback. A strange silence held them all as they waited breathless for his words. When at last he spoke, his voice, in its deep sadness, was calm and firm. So David, had he been there to see, might have told afterward how Jonathan was slain on his high places. Or rather, had David been the one to die for God and Israel, so Jonathan, in the after-days, might have told the story.
Hubert, of course, could not yet understand the Bohemian tongue. He sat still and watched the faces of the men who were hearing from the lips of Chlum how the noblest life they and he had ever known went out in fire' in the Brühl meadow in Constance. Many times during their hasty journey he had done the same—in the market-places of other Bohemian towns, or in the great rooms of the village inns, often ‘as large as churches.' The men of Leitmeritz were like the rest. They heard the tale in profound stillness; if any sought to interrupt even with a cry, the others silenced him promptly. But, as soon as the last word was spoken, with one accord they ‘lifted up their voice and wept.'
Hubert's eye singled out amongst the throng one representative hearer—an apprentice lad, whom the crowd had pressed so close to him that his leather jerkin rubbed against the scholar's gown. The young Czech, a tall, dark-haired, athletic youth, wept and sobbed as unrestrainedly as a babe of four, the tears streaming unchecked down his manly face. But presently he dashed them aside, and looked up to heaven with some strong resolve in his face, while his lips moved as if in prayer. Hubert wondered what he was thinking—what he was saying to himself, doubtless in that strange Bohemian tongue.
By-and-by a portly and imposing personage, wearing a handsome fur-trimmed gown and a long gold chain, came out upon the steps of the adjoining town-hall, and apparently exhorted the people to disperse. Then he approached Chlum, and greeted him with extreme deference, bowing low, and holding in his hand his three-cornered cap while he spoke with him. After a short colloquy, Chlum dismounted and went into the inn, directing the others to follow him.
They did so, leaving their horses to the care of a crowd of zealous attendants, who were ready to contend for the privilege of serving them. Ere long they were all seated together at a plentifully spread table, Chlum, Václav, and Hubert being above, and the rest ‘below the salt.'
Chlum looked weary, and had soon ended his repast. As he leaned back in his seat he observed in German to Hubert, ‘That was the burgomaster who spoke to me at the door. He is a German; a merchant of cloth and silk, and very rich, but in his heart opposed bitterly to our cause, though just now he thinks it well to speak me fair. Perhaps he thought I would have asked him to supper, but I could not bring myself to do it.'
Hubert had observed Chlum's lack of cordiality, which he attributed—in this instance quite falsely—to the contempt of the knight for the merchant. So he was far from pleased to see the portly burgomaster enter the hall, and with an air of deprecatory humility struggling with a self-importance which he could not wholly suppress, approach the knight, and request the honor of a few minutes' conversation.
‘I am ready to hear you, Herr Burgomaster,' said Chlum, with the uneasy air of a naturally courteous man trying hard to behave as he ought to a person he dislikes.
An attendant brought a stool, which, however, the burgomaster declined to accept, until Chlum had formally requested him to do so. Then he drew out of his ample furred sleeve an open letter, and presented it to Chlum. ‘I have had the honor of receiving this from your noble lady at Pihel,' he said.
‘I think,' said the knight rather haughtily, and declining by a gesture to take it—' I think it can scarcely concern me. Doubtless it hath reference to some mercery, or other gear for the ladies.'
‘Pardon me, sir knight, if I take it upon me to say that it hath reference to a very different matter. Condescend to glance over it, and you will see for yourself. I shall only venture to observe that your noble lady hath been pleased to grace me and mine with an honor beyond our deserts and for which we shall be forever grateful.'
Chlum looked much surprised, not to say annoyed, but he no longer refused to take the letter. He read it very slowly and deliberately. It was written in a fair and delicate hand and in good German.
The burgomaster, like most fussy people, was impatient of silence. ‘You perceive, sir knight,' he began, that your noble lady has had the great goodness to offer my daughter—though unworthy of such favor—a place in your illustrious household. This letter, in her own hand, testifies her gracious intentions.'
‘It is in the hand of my daughter,' said the knight. ‘Nevertheless you are right. My lady wishes to receive your daughter as a bower maiden.' He paused a moment and stroked his beard, then added frankly, 'My lady's wishes are my law, and my lady's pleasure is my pleasure. That is of course, there is no reason therefore why this matter should be referred to me.'
‘But pardon me, sir knight, your lady is good enough to propose that the maiden should ride to Pihel under your escort.'
Chlum looked again at the letter, and could not deny it, though the suggested arrangement added to his evident vexation with the whole business. ‘Doubtless the maiden is not ready,' he objected. ‘We shall send for her by some other opportunity, for we are in haste to get home, and must set forth on our way immediately.'
‘The maiden is full ready, sir knight. She can go with you. We expected your coming today.'
Chlum uttered an inarticulate sound, not understood, nor meant to be, by those around. ‘Very well, Herr Burgomaster,' he said. ‘As I observed, my lady's pleasure is mine. Get the maiden to horse as quickly as you may; and if we give her not all due and honorable care, she will be the first maiden towards whom the House of Chlum hath failed in knightly devoir.'
‘I well believe it, good sir knight,' said the burgomaster, bowing low. Then, receiving no sort of invitation to further converse, he withdrew to get his daughter ready for her journey.
As soon as he was gone, Vaclav turned to his father, and said in a tone of great annoyance, ‘Now what has possessed my lady mother, the good saints only know! To take for bower maiden and companion to my sister the daughter of a German—a lying varlet who sells cloth and silk at twice their value! Moreover, everyone knows old Peichler for a bitter papist, and a hater of all that is good.'
‘Hush, my son,' interrupted Chlum, who looked, however, every whit as much annoyed as he did; ‘we cannot doubt for a moment thy mother hath some good reason. She hath always excellent reasons for what she does. Hold thou ever by her, Vaclav, and guide thyself by her counsels. She is wiser far than I.'
‘I do not hold with having a German girl hanging round Zedenka, talking German to her, and getting in the way when I want her,' grumbled Václav. ‘Everyone at Pihel must speak Czech. Pihel, Pihel! We shall be at Pihel in two hours, or three at furthest,' he cried, springing from his seat with a sudden change of mood. 'Halloa there! To horse—to horse! The daylight will be gone ere we are half way if we do not hasten.'
As the party sat on horseback before the inn, ready for their start, the same apprentice Hubert had noticed in the crowd led to the door of an adjoining house a quiet-looking horse, bearing one of the side-saddles that the Bohemians are said to have introduced into Western Europe. He knocked with his hand upon the door, which was opened. ‘Now,' thought Hubert, whose station happened to be close by, ‘now we shall see this burgomaster again.' He did not see him, however. Two women, or rather a woman and a girl, stood just inside the door. The woman, who seemed to be of lower rank, was straining the girl to her heart in a passionate embrace, and both were weeping bitterly. But at a word from the apprentice they tried to bring their farewells to an end. The girl sorrowfully disengaged herself, the woman kissed her fondly and repeatedly, and led her, still sobbing, to the door. There she gave her a last lingering kiss, and, murmuring some words of sorrow and endearment, drew the hood of the traveling cloak so closely over her face as almost entirely to conceal it. The apprentice then took in his the passive hand of his master's daughter, led her to her horse, and assisted her to mount, which she did with no little difficulty.
Chlum, in spite of his-prejudices, looked at her compassionately. ‘Fear nothing, fair maiden,' he said, ‘we will take good care of thee.' Then to one of his attendants: ‘Clodek, take thou the reins and lead the maiden's horse. She is, no doubt, unused to riding.'
Clodek obeyed, and they set off at a good pace, for all were anxious to reach the journey's end. But the apprentice still ran beside the maiden's horse, with his hand upon the mane, keeping pace with the riders seemingly without exertion. ‘Thou'rt a brave lad,' said Clodek admiringly, after a long and brisk canter. ‘But go home now to thy master. Thy duty is well done. Thou canst see for thyself the maiden is safe, and will be well seen to with us.'
But the apprentice shook his head. ‘I shall see Mistress Aninka safe to Pihel,' he said. ‘We lads of the ell-wand know what beseems us as well as you men of the pike and the cross-bow.'
Chlum meanwhile was saying a few earnest words to Vaclav, Hubert having dropped behind. He had rather fallen into the habit of speaking to the boy as he would have done to an older person. 'It is not only because she is a German, and, as I fear, a papist, that I am as sorry as thou art for the coming of this maiden to Pihel,' he began, but corrected himself quickly—' or rather, that I would be sorry, only for the excellent reasons which no doubt have moved- thy mother to receive her, and which she will tell us in due time. There is another reason, which thou art old enough to understand, but which I could not speak of before Master Hubert.' You might—in Czech,' said Václav.
‘What sort of courtesy would that be? Besides, Master Hubert is fast learning our tongue, and will soon understand what is said before him. We must be careful not to let him know our affairs are so embarrassed that even the addition of one to our household is scarce to be desired.'
Is it for fear he'd think himself unwelcome? But how could he, my father? King or Kaiser would be glad to have our Hubert, if they knew him! Do you not think so, knight and father? '
‘I like him as well as thou, my son. Had I liked him less, I should not have ventured to ask him just now to cast in his lot with ours. But I think his heart is not set upon this world's wealth or glory. Nor, I hope, is thine, Václav. For thou art the son of a poor knight, and likely, when thine own time comes, to succeed to a greatly impoverished estate.'
‘My father, I scarcely understand you,' said Vaclav in some bewilderment. ‘We are not poor; we are rich. We have broad lands—Pihel and Janovic̆, and Kashimbock, Palmoky, Palkovany, and Chrudim, and I know not how many more. We could never come to lack meat and clothing—like beggars and minstrels, and poor scholars who go about singing, and people of that kind. We are noble.'
‘Canst thou not see, my son, that though a man may have a long purse, still, if he owes more than is in it he is a poor man? Yes, we are noble; but that does not always mean having broad lands and castles, and gold and silver. It means having ancestors who were leal and brave in fight, and gentle and courteous withal. Nothing can rob us of that. Many things may rob us of the lands and castles. My affairs have lain unsettled since the death of thy grandfather; so that I know not what is mine, and what is thine uncles'; and thereout has arisen confusion and loss. Yet it is not that which makes me a poor man today. Vaclav, I brought to Constance all the ready money I could raise; and while there I sent home once and again for more. It is all gone, like last year's snow—but the debts remain, and must be paid. I might say, indeed, that I went forth full and have come home empty, were not that too sadly true in another way to say it of so poor a thing as gold.'
‘With the journeyings to and fro, we were well-nigh a year away,' said Vaclav thoughtfully. ‘And then there was that new boat you bought for Robert,' he added, with a child's literalness and ignorance of proportion.
Chlum smiled. ‘That was a little thing,' he said. ‘Quite little enough to do for Robert, and for Nänchen, who saved thee and Master Hubert. Hard enough it was, too, to make them take the gift. No, Vaclav, it was for a yet more precious life than thine that our gold was poured out in Constance like water. And in vain. But I do not regret it. Tell me, dost thou? '
‘No!' cried Vaclav passionately. ‘Never! Not if we gave our last groschen, and had to take the beggar's staff and wallet, and beg our bread through the land.'
‘Well spoken, boy! Thou wilt not need to take the beggar's staff and wallet, but perchance thou mayest have to do instead that which will seem to thee harder. I thought, as thou knowest, of sending thee as page to the lord of Hussenec̆, who noticed thee so kindly in Constance, and who keeps one of the best households in Bohemia, and would give thee such training in knightly exercises, and in all thy devoir, as could not be surpassed in any royal court. But now I have not the means to equip thee bravely like thy comrades, and I would not let thee go anywhere to be scorned and flouted, as a poor man's son. Wilt thou, then, be content to abide at home, and to learn thy devoir from me? Moreover, wilt thou be content to forego costly armor, and fine horses, raiment of cloth of gold and velvet and the like, jewels to wear, and gold and silver to scatter at thy will? '
‘I want none of these things,' returned Vaclav with decision. ‘Dubo wants fine clothes and jewels, for he is going to be married, and Latzembock, for he has gone to the Kaiser's court. But I shall not marry; because I have you, and our mother, and Zedenka, and Master Hubert; and, certes, I shall never go to the court and serve Sigismund the Word-breaker,' said the boy with kindling eyes.
‘Thou art willing, then, for thy part in our sacrifice?’ asked Chlum.
‘Knight and father, I am heartily willing,' Vaclav answered, with earnestness beyond his years.
‘Well spoken! Now, my son, go thou and ride by you forlorn and sad-looking maid. Speak to her courteously, as a young knight should, that she may feel that she is welcome among us.'
‘Whilst the son and father talked together thus, Hubert had been conversing with the fleet-footed apprentice. Spring up behind me, an' thou wilt,' he said to him. ‘My horse can well carry double.'
‘I thank you, master secretary, but this is my place, and I had rather keep it,' returned the lad, answering, as he was addressed, in German. ‘But,' he added immediately, ‘pardon me, master, but how is it that you speak German? Are you not Master Petr Mladenowie? '
It was not the first time that Hubert, in his scholar's dress, had been mistaken for the secretary of Chlum. Indeed, it was scarcely a mistake, for since they left Constance he had been acting in that capacity at his own earnest request, and much to the relief and satisfaction of the good knight.
He said: ‘Master Petr has remained in Constance, to try if he can effect aught for the relief and solace of Master Jerome, who lies in a grievous dungeon—God pity him, and send him deliverance, if it be His will! But that we scarce hope for now. Didst thou know Master Petr? '
‘No, he was never here. Pan Jan of Chlum found him in Prague, at the University. But I have seen some of his letters, written from Constance to the ladies at Pihel. Many of us in the town cared more for them than for meat and drink. But these things are not to be talked about too openly. Only, one is always safe with any man who eats the bread of Kepka.'
‘Which I do,' returned Hubert. ‘But in future I am to serve him as esquire, not as secretary.'
'But tell me, master,' asked the lad, drawing near him eagerly—' tell me, were you also there?'
‘I was not at the Bruhl. I would have gone there if I could.'
‘Ay, gone there! So would I—so would every man of us!’ cried the youth, his restrained emotion bursting forth at last. ‘But come back again? No, not if we knew it! Were there no more fagots in Constance, or no more executioners to kindle them? What hindered you all from crying aloud before the Council that you shared his faith, and sharing his suffering and his glory? '
‘Would you have done that? '
‘Ay, marry, so I would! It were better to be a martyr for the Lord Jesus Christ than to reign over all the world and all the kingdoms of it.'
‘You are right there,' Hubert answered. ‘Yet methinks it becomes not common folk to raise their eyes to such high honor. God keeps it for His holy saints.'
“It shall be given unto them for whom it is prepared,"' said the apprentice in Czech.
Vaclav, who meanwhile had been trying, with poor success, to win more than a monosyllabic ‘Yes' or ‘No' from the new bower maiden, now called out, ‘Master Hubert! Master Hubert! Pihel is in sight. There is the watch-tower, on the top of yonder hill.
Soon the winding road brought the travelers to the base of the conical hill which was crowned by the towers of Pihel. Only a cross, a piece of broken wall, and a deep hollow (the former cellars) now remain to show where once the chivalrous lord of Chlum had his dwelling. But what Hubert saw was a frowning mass of dark gray stone, with turrets and battlements and narrow slits of windows. Everything was for strength and security, nothing for beauty or for luxury; as was meet and fitting in a state of society where war was the rule, and peace and safety were the exceptions.
‘Welcome to Pihel!’ Chlum said cordially, as he turned to Hubert. ‘Spake I not well before the Council that I could have kept our martyr here, and neither king nor Kaiser could have torn him from us? '