‘He is brought before the Council;
There are chains upon his hands.
And strange it was to witness
How the false king turned aside,
For he dared not meet his captive's
Thus ever the spirit's royalty
Is greater than pomp or pride.'
NOTWITHSTANDING the terror and excitement caused by the eclipse, the Council met that day, although not until after noon, which then meant after dinner. This time Hubert sat in his proper place, at the feet of the chancellor. In this convenient, though far from comfortable position, he could hear everything, but he could see nothing, except the broad back of the Bishop of Litomissel, who chanced to sit in front of his lord. For Gerson, although one of the ablest and most distinguished men in the Council, still took rank only as a doctor, and had his seat behind those of the cardinals and the bishops.
Hubert's longing to see the face of the prisoner had therefore to remain ungratified. He only knew when he was led in by hearing the footsteps of his guards, whom he judged to be more numerous than on the preceding occasion. After the formal opening of the session, certain articles were read, taken, it was alleged, from the writings of the accused. To these Hubert listened with scant interest; they did not seem to him of much importance. If there was heresy in them, at least he did not think it could be very heinous. He failed to see any special significance even in such a proposition as this: ‘There is but one Holy Universal or Catholic Church, which is the Universal company of all the Elect.'
Much to his relief, the proceedings were soon interrupted by the entrance of the Kaiser and his nobles.
‘He will see fair play, as he promised,' thought Hubert. Rising from his seat for a moment, like the rest, to do him reverence, he caught a glimpse of the stately imperial head, with its halo of golden hair, as Sigismund advanced to the throne prepared for him at the upper end of the hall. He saw also the faces of some of his suite, and recognized amongst them with pleasure, Duba and Chlum. He could not see, however, what others did not fail to note, the look of trouble and perplexity on the commanding brow of Sigismund. For once, those terrible eyes were fain to quail; they rested anywhere, or upon anything, rather than upon the poor priest who stood fettered before him.
Just then an article was being read, purporting that the accused had asserted that material bread remained upon the altar after the consecration of the Host; in fact, that he denied the doctrine of Transubstantiation.
Hubert listened eagerly for his answer. This would be a heresy indeed! ‘I have not done so,' said he; and he added an explicit declaration of his belief, which was that of all, or nearly all, his contemporaries.
‘But,' he said, ‘it is true that I have called the Host, even after consecration, by the name of bread, for Christ calls Himself the living bread that came down from heaven.'
Then the great Cardinal of Cambray, Pierre d'Ailly— ‘the Hammer of heretics '—stepped into the arena to measure swords with the Bohemian Realist.' Dost thou not believe in the Universalia a parte rei?' asked he. ‘Then it is impossible for thee to hold aright the doctrine of Transubstantiation.'
Hubert was all attention now; these scholastic disputes were familiar ground to him and highly interesting. To the accused apparently they were equally familiar; for he took up the challenge with promptness and dexterity. ‘Transubstantiation,' said he, ‘is a perpetual miracle, and therefore exempt from logical forms.'
A rejoinder was made, and the argument went on. John Huss soon proved that he could wield as deftly as any man the well-tempered blade of scholastic logic. That acute and subtle intellect, for which even his enemies gave him credit, enabled him to hold his own, not against the cardinal alone, but against the whole assembly; for everyone threw in, as it pleased him, a syllogism, a question, a remark. He met them all, and parried or answered them, as the case might be, with unfailing quickness and presence of mind. To one who spoke foolishly, he even said with a touch of scorn, ‘A boy in the schools could answer that.' Not until a long time had been spent in this way did an honest Englishman close the discussion by saying, with English common sense and fairness: ‘What is the use of all this irrelevant matter? He thinks aright concerning the Sacrament of the Altar.' This was, so far, a victory for the accused. But what, on such a stage, could victory avail him? In a sense it was even worse for him than defeat—it exasperated his enemies.
An attempt was made, very skillfully, as even Hubert could discern, to entrap him into an acknowledgment of error. The Cardinal of Florence, in a tone of studied moderation, reminded him that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word must be established, and added, pointing to the witnesses, almost twenty men who were arrayed against him, ‘How you can defend your cause against so many, and such reliable men, I cannot see.'
Hubert listened breathlessly for the answer. Would the accused, by owning himself even partially in the wrong, consult his safety and propitiate his judges?
There was nothing further from his thoughts. ‘I call God to witness,' said he, ‘that I have never taught, or even thought of teaching, as these men have dared to testify, in regard to what they never heard. And though there were many more arrayed against me, I make more account of the witness of the Lord my God, and of my own conscience, than I do of the judgments of all my adversaries, which I regard as nothing.'
Other accusations followed, and other replies. Hours went by, and still the tide of talk rolled on. At last Hubert's attention flagged. In that crowded hall the heat was stifling; and more than once he was half asleep when his lord's command to him to write down something roused him up again.
Still, one thing did not fail to strike him—the continual appeal of the accused ‘to the Holy Scriptures.' This came back again and again, like the key-note of a melody. He might play with the keenly-tempered weapons of the schools; but it was with this sword—the sword of the Spirit—that he fought the battle of life and death. This,' said he, is the highest authority in the faith; not so the statements of holy doctors or the pope's bulls, whereto it is proper to give credence only so far as they state something out of Holy Scripture, or that is founded upon Scripture.
But at last something was said which wakened Hubert up completely. It was laid to the charge of the prisoner that he had expressed a doubt of the damnation of the great English heretic, John Wickliffe. ‘Heretic he was, and that a great one,' thought Hubert with a sigh. ‘Yet still, he was my brave father's friend, and if there is any man on earth bold enough to say a word for him, I would like to hear it.'
The voice of the accused rang through the crowded hall: ‘I said not whether John Wickliffe was saved or lost. This I said, that I would willingly have my soul with his.'
A shout of insulting laughter, which even the presence of the Kaiser could not restrain, greeted the dauntless words. Perhaps it was not mockery alone, but fierce exultation. Wickliffe was beyond their reach; let this man, who would have his soul with his, take the doom that he had earned!
Ere Hubert had recovered from his angry amazement, they were accusing him of another crime. From the sentence of the pope (and that pope John XXIII.) he had dared to appeal—to Jesus Christ Himself. He owned the fact. ‘No appeal,' said he, ‘can be more just and more holy. It is right and lawful, from the inferior judge to appeal to the higher. But who is higher than Christ the Lord? Who is more just than He, in whom neither error nor falsehood can be found? Is there anywhere a surer Refuge for the unhappy and the oppressed? '
Again arose the mocking laughter, the cry of rage and insult. In spite of the presence of the Kaiser the assembly was getting beyond control, and the disgraceful scene of Wednesday seemed on the point of renewal. The prisoner himself dared to remonstrate. ‘I thought,' he said, ‘that in this Council there would have been more reverence, piety, and good order.'
Then some effort was made to restore quietness, and more accusations and answers followed. Thus, one said, for instance, that Huss had called upon the people to take up arms in defense of his doctrine. ‘Yes,' he answered—' "the helmet and sword of salvation." No other arms.' But at last the lateness of the hour obliged the assembly' to break up; and orders were given to the guards to lead the prisoner away.
Even this was not the end. D'Ailly rose and demanded that he should be brought back. Back again came the fettered feet, weary enough by this time. Having first taken care that the attention of the Kaiser, which had wandered often during the long examination, should be fully aroused, D'Ailly began: ‘John Huss, I have heard you say that if you had not come to Constance of your own free will, neither the Kaiser nor the King of Bohemia could have brought you hither.'
'Reverend father, this indeed I said, that there were many lords in Bohemia who wished me well; and they could have so kept me that no person, not even the Kaiser, or the king, could have constrained me to come hither.'
‘Do you hear the audacity of this man?’ cried D'Ailly, crimson with rage.
A fierce murmur ran through the assembly, and the Kaiser's brow gathered thunder. But a noble from his own suite stepped forward, and stood undaunted between the angry monarch and the furious Council. It was that good knight and true, John of Chlum.
‘John Huss speaks truth,' said he, ‘and truth it is. I am the least of the barons of Bohemia, yet would I have kept him in safety for a whole year against king and Kaiser. What, then, would those have done who are far mightier than I, and whose fortresses are impregnable? '
Had this been an assembly of knights and nobles, a burst of applause would have greeted the fearless soldier and the loyal friend. But in this conclave of priests the meaning of chivalry was unknown. Still, they could not outrage the belted knight and baron, as they had done the hapless heretic.
‘Enough said,' replied D'Ailly ungraciously. Then, turning towards the accused, he admonished him solemnly to submit himself to the Council. ‘Do so, I recommend you,' he said; ‘your person and your honor will fare well therefrom.'
Now at last from the lips of the Kaiser came the words which all men knew were words of fate. Friend and foe hung upon them breathless. Yet he began with an air of uncertainty and indecision—almost he seemed to be apologizing to the prisoner. ‘It has been pretended,' said he, ' that you were already in prison a fortnight when you obtained a safe-conduct from me. Nevertheless—I allow it, and many are aware of the fact—this safe-conduct was granted you before your departure from Prague. It guaranteed you the liberty of explaining frankly before the Council, as you have just done your doctrines and faith; and we have to thank the cardinals and prelates for the indulgence with which they have heard you. But, as we are assured that it is unlawful to defend a man suspected of heresy, we give you the same counsel as the Cardinal of Cambray. Submit yourself, therefore, and we shall take care that you withdraw in peace, after a slight penance. Should you refuse, you will arm the Council against yourself; while as for me, be sure that I would rather burn you with my own hands than endure your obstinacy. Therefore, be advised, and submit unreservedly to the authority of the Council.'
So failed the last human hope—so gave way the last inch of solid ground beneath the feet of the hapless prisoner. The Kaiser abandoned him to his fate. It was a bitter moment; and it may be that the many hostile eyes fixed upon him so keenly saw of the anguish of his soul. But they saw no sign of weakness. I thank your highness,' he began calmly, for the safe-conduct which you graciously vouchsafed to give me.' More he might have said, but some new clamor interrupted him. When it ceased, he still stood in silence, as one whose thoughts were elsewhere. For the moment he seemed to forget that he had not said all that was needful. It was his first, and last, lapse of memory while he stood before the Council.
The ever-faithful Chlum called out to him, ‘Master John, answer the second part of the king's speech.'
Then he said firmly, in his quiet voice, ‘I did not come here, most serene prince, in order to defend anything with obstinacy. Let anything better, or more holy, than what I have taught be shown to me, and I am perfectly ready to retract.'
By this time it was very late. The Council was adjourned until the next day; the prisoner was led back to his dungeon, and everyone went home.