‘He stood transfigured there
In the smile of God.’
IN the gray dawn of the next morning Hubert rose and went forth to watch and wait for the opening of the cathedral; for he knew the crowds would be enormous, and the session was to begin with High Mass, as early as six o'clock. An intense longing possessed him to see again the face, to hear again the voice of the man who had stirred his soul to its depths. He entered the church amongst the first, and, being strong and agile, climbed into the embrasure of one of the windows, which afforded him a seat commanding an excellent view. Presently he discerned in the crowd below him, and much pushed and jostled thereby, Master Ulrich Schorand, the priest of St. Stefan's, who had married Robert and Nänchen. He offered him his hand, and with some difficulty helped him up to the window, where by close sitting there was room for two.
Now they could both survey the cathedral at their ease. At the upper end, near the high altar, which was duly prepared for the celebration of Mass, there was a stately decorated seat or throne for the Kaiser, and lesser seats for those great princes of the empire who were to accompany him. Lower down, there were chairs for the cardinals, archbishops, and other princes of the Church; behind these, benches for the bishops and abbots; and lower still, in what was called the third rank, places for doctors, delegates of universities, and other members and officials of the Council. About the middle of the nave there was a kind of scaffold with a table or altar upon it, where the vessels used in the celebration of Mass were laid ready; and beside them, upon a post, hung the full canonical vestments of a priest.
Whilst Hubert was wondering what these things could mean, cardinals, bishops, and doctors were pouring in rapidly and taking their places with haste and eagerness. With and after them came a crowd of spectators, filling the church to suffocation. Then at last came the Kaiser with his splendid following. Schorand plucked Hubert by the sleeve, and bade him observe the Elector Palatine, who occupied one of the lower seats beside the Kaiser; a stately figure, in his electoral crown and ermine, with the golden apple and cross of the Holy Roman Empire in his hand. ‘His highness represents the Civil Power,' said Schorand, to whom, by the ecclesiastical sentence, the heretic is to be made over for execution. ‘You will go, of course, to the Brühl, and see the end?’
‘I will do no such thing,' said Hubert, shuddering. ‘I have seen the like in Paris, on the Place de Greve.'
‘As for me,' said Schorand, ‘I shall see all that is to be seen. But let us betake ourselves to our prayers. The Mass is beginning.'
‘But they have not brought in the—the condemned.'
‘Don't you know the Canon Law? The presence of a heretic would pollute the Holy Sacrifice. They are making him stand outside the door until the Mass is over.'
The organ pealed out, and the white-robed choristers began their chant. Music, incense, the elevation of the Host, the beaded knees and heads of the worshipping crowd, all lent impressiveness to the scene. But one at least did not worship, though he went through the outward forms. Hubert never prayed now; what was the use of it? he thought. He spent the time in looking around him at the grand and solemn assembly, and trying to read the faces of the men—the foremost men of the age—who composed it. He saw a few noble, ascetic, spiritual faces, like Gerson's; many keen, intellectual faces, belonging to learned doctors and schoolmen; plenty of astute, clever faces, the faces of men of affairs, statesmen and diplomatists, so numerous amongst the great churchmen of the Middle Ages. There were faces which were commonplace, scarcely arresting the eye; faces which were kindly, even benevolent; and others which were not kindly at all, but hard, cruel, sensual. Some of these, especially amongst the Italians, were beautiful in form and feature, though with a dark and evil beauty. Others were coarse and brutal, and in these today there was a hateful joy. As typical of the rest, Hubert singled out that of the Burgundian, Pierre Cauchon. The look of eager, delighted anticipation in his small, cold, cruel eyes, the smile on his sensual lip, made him hate and curse him from his heart. He could not have cursed him with a more bitter curse than that which actually came upon him—the execration and loathing of all future ages. For we know him now as the infamous Bishop of Beauvais, to whom the betrayed innocent Maid of France put up her piteous cry, ‘Bishop, I die through you.'
At last the ‘Ite missa est ' pealed through the cathedral. The door was opened, and, guarded by four men-at-arms, the prisoner was led in. Every eye in that vast assembly was fixed upon the man who stood face to face with death. His pale features wore a firm and resolute air, like that of a soldier going forth to battle, but also a look of hope, as if the soldier knew the battle was his last, and after it would come victory and rest. He was dressed in a long black gown or coat, with a doublet of the same beneath it, fastened at the waist with a girdle having a silver clasp. The chains had been taken from his hands, but his feet were fettered still. He came up the middle of the nave, where the scaffold was, and stood, calmly facing his judges. The spot where rested those fettered feet is still remembered, still pointed out in the pavement of that old church. It is marked evermore with white ' —always white, always dry, the legend says, however dark or weather-stained the surrounding stones may be. There are things which keep the glory of their whiteness undimmed through the centuries, and will keep it still when years and centuries shall be no more.
Presently he was commanded to ascend the scaffold; and having done so, he knelt upon it in silent prayer. Meanwhile the Bishop of Lodi occupied the pulpit, and was delivering a long, and, as most of his hearers thought, an eloquent sermon. Hubert did not listen, until Schorand whispered in his ear, ‘My Lord of Lodi wants to have the antipopes burned, and not John Huss.' In truth, the sermon was little else than a diatribe against the schism and its authors, and a panegyric of the Kaiser.
A significant proceeding followed. A solemn proclamation was read, threatening with the major excommunication and an imprisonment of two months any one, from the Kaiser downwards, who should ‘dare to interrupt, by word or act, or by any sign, even the slightest, of applause or disapproval, the proceedings of this assembly, convoked by the inspiration of God.'
Then rose up in his place the papal auditor, and demanded the condemnation of the works of Wickliffe; from which there was read aloud a very long series of propositions sentenced as heretical. This tedious business over at length, he proceeded to demand the condemnation of the works and the person of John Huss. He read out all the evidence which had been brought by witnesses against him, and all the articles which had been extracted, either truly or falsely, from his books, with the addition of thirty quite new ones never heard of before. At first Hubert's attention wandered, but all his soul sprang up to listen when he heard the prisoner ask leave to answer for himself. ‘Now,' thought he, ‘I shall know all. Now I shall learn the secret of his strength.' He bent forward so eagerly that Schorand caught and held him fast, lest he should lose his balance and fall. But—could he believe it?—could it be true indeed that permission to speak was denied him? Hubert could hardly accept for this the evidence of his senses. Yet he could not be mistaken, for he heard the prisoner ask for this last grace, plead for it earnestly—even passionately, saying with uplifted hands, Only hear me now—and afterward—deal with me as you will.'
‘Hold your tongue!’' cried the cardinals. ‘We have already heard you sufficiently; ' and one of them, turning to the guards, bade them silence him by force.
‘This is horrible!’ said Hubert to himself. ‘To speak out once before he dies is the last right of every man, though he may have no other right left him upon earth. At least his fellows owe him this—to listen to his voice, to let him tell them, if he can, the meaning of his life, before they send him away from their midst into the great silence of eternity.'
Schorand touched him again, and whispered, ‘Was not that proclamation at the beginning well thought of? Look at those angry faces down yonder! Look at that knight with his hand on his sword! I' faith, but for the "major excommunication" and the strong guard beside, we should have had trouble here today.' Hubert's eyes followed those of Schorand, and rested with momentary surprise on the flushed and angry face of his brother, who stood with other gentlemen in the crowd near the door. But he soon forgot him.
Meanwhile the work went on. Hubert now tried only not to listen; save when the prisoner—forbid him as they might—still threw in a trenchant word of comment or contradiction. One of the new articles ' never heard of before laid to his charge, on the authority of a certain doctor,' the blasphemy of calling himself a Person of the Godhead. No wonder Schorand muttered, ‘If they knew that of him, why did they seek for anything else? '
Never while he lived could Hubert forget the look of pain and horror in the face of the slandered man, and his quick, indignant cry, ‘Name that doctor! Who said that of me?'
His appeal to Christ was again brought forward as a crime. He clasped his hands, raised them solemnly to heaven, and said, ‘Behold, O Blessed Jesus, how Thy Council forbids what Thou Thyself hast ordained and practiced. Thou didst commit Thy cause into the hands of Thy Divine Father, leaving us an example, that we might have recourse to Him and to Thee. Yes,' he added, turning to the audience, ‘I have maintained, and I maintain still, that the best and safest appeal is to Him who cannot be corrupted, over-reached, or deceived.'
He was accused of despising the excommunication of the pope. ‘I did not despise it,' he said. I sent my procurators to Rome, where they were ill-treated and cast into prison. It was therefore that I determined, of my own free will, to appear before this Council, under the public faith and protection of his majesty the Emperor here present.' As he spoke thus, he looked steadfastly in the face of the Kaiser, and a crimson blush mounted to the imperial brow. That blush was well remembered. ‘I should not like to blush as Sigismund,' said another Kaiser, when pressed to violate another safe-conduct, a hundred years later. So Luther lived—to do the work we know.
At last they came to the reading of the two sentences—the first condemning his books to the flames; the second delivering over his person to the secular arm. Against the first he protested; to the second he listened patiently, kneeling and looking up to heaven. He rose when it was ended; but, after a brief pause, knelt down again.
‘Lord Jesus Christ!’ he began. He will appeal to Him once more, thought Hubert—or haply, he will summon his judges to meet him at His bar. He did neither. ‘Lord Jesus Christ!’ he said, ‘pardon all my enemies, I pray Thee, for the sake of Thy great mercy. Thou knowest that they have falsely accused me—pardon them, for the sake of Thine infinite mercy! '
Hubert's strong frame quivered with a choking sob. But the tears that might have followed it never came; for the burst of laughter and mockery with which the prayer was greeted dried them at their source. The cup of his indignation was full now. ' I must go,' he said, ‘I can endure this no longer.' He had quite forgotten his special business there.
But Schorand laid a detaining hand upon him.
‘What are you about?’ he asked, in an earnest whisper of remonstrance. ‘Don't leave your place. The best of the show is coming on now.'
‘What more is there to see or hear? They have condemned and sentenced him unheard. He will take his secret with him to the grave.’
‘What more? Why, the degradation, of course. One does not see everyday the degradation of a priest. Although, God knows, one sees priests enough who deserve it.'
Now Hubert saw the meaning of the sacred vestments laid ready on the scaffold. As directed, the martyr put them on, gravely, reverently, and with some sadness in his look and manner, as one who fulfills for the last time a dear familiar office. When he took the alb, he said some words, beginning ‘My Lord Jesus Christ—' but Hubert could not hear the rest.
Then he stood erect upon the scaffold, a tall and noble figure, robed in priestly white, and holding in his right hand the sacred chalice. And now, once more, he was summoned to retract; and mercy, on these terms, was offered to him. He looked away from the prelates who surrounded him, and addressed himself to the crowd beyond. His voice at first was low, and broken with emotion, but gathered strength as he proceeded. ‘These lords and bishops,' said he, ‘exhort and counsel me to confess that I have erred. But I stand here in the presence of the Lord God, without whose reproach and that of my own conscience I can by no means do it. For how then could I ever lift up my face unto God? Or how could I look upon the faces of that great multitude whom I have taught and instructed in His word, if, through me, those things which they thought most true should have become uncertain and doubtful unto them? No; I will not thus offend my brethren by esteeming this vile body more than their health and salvation.'
At these dauntless words the soldier-blood of Hubert's knightly ancestors mounted to his brow. He scarcely heard the cry of the bishops, ‘See how obstinate he is in his malice, how hardened in his heresy!’ But he waited breathless for what was to happen next.
The martyr descended from the scaffold, and was led up the church to the high altar. As he passed along, Hubert saw with wonder that a change had come over him. He looked like one whose warfare was accomplished; who had done forever with conflict and with strife. From henceforth could no man trouble him. In his face there was the shadow of a great peace.
Seven bishops had been appointed to the task of degrading him. The first of these, the Archbishop of Milan, came forward, and took the cup out of his hand with the words, ‘Accursed Judas, who hast forsaken the covenant of peace, we take from thee this cup of the blood of the living God, which thou hast profaned.'
A gleam of light—such light as never came from star or sun—illumined the pale face of the martyr as he answered, ‘Yet shall I drink of it with Him this day, through His grace, in His kingdom.'
‘Christ has heard him, then!’ Hubert cried in rapture.
‘Hush!’ said Schorand and others near him; but in the extreme tension and excitement of the moment the slight interruption passed unheeded. To Hubert a new thought had come, flooding his soul with impassioned hope. This man, abandoned and cursed by all, because he refused to utter a falsehood, had reached up beyond Council and Church and pope, until his hand touched the right hand of Christ Himself, in the heaven of heavens. Christ had answered his appeal; and in some strange incomprehensible way was with him even now.
Meanwhile the painful scene went forward. Alb and amice, girdle and stole, all the insignia of the priestly office —things in his eyes infinitely precious and sacred—were taken from him, each one with separate curses and reviling. Even the worn fingers were scraped, where the anointing oil had been put at his consecration. Once he said, ‘For the sake of my Lord Jesus Christ I willingly bear all these mockeries; ' but for the most part he stood in patient silence, still with the same radiant calm upon his face.
At last came the effacing or ‘violating' of his tonsure. A strife arose between the bishops whether for this purpose they should use a pair of scissors or a razor. As they wrangled long and angrily, the martyr said, turning to Sigismund, ‘See, they cannot agree, even in their cruelty.' Finally, the advocate of the scissors gained the day, and the thin hair was roughly cut in the form of a cross.
‘It should have been the razor,' observed Schorand. ‘Nevertheless, that will do. It cannot efface his Orders, for Orders are indelible; but it renders him infamous forever, and incapable of performing any ecclesiastical function.'
‘Infamous?’ Hubert repeated. ‘Well, at least it is done now!’ and with a sigh of relief he buried his face in his hands.
It was not done yet. Once more the martyr's voice rang through the crowded church. For the sake of my Lord Jesus Christ, who wore for me the crown of thorns, I wear with joy this crown of infamy.' Hubert looked up. A hideous paper crown, an ell in height, and covered with horrible pictures of devils, had been put upon his head. To Hubert it only seemed a crown of glory. No throb of indignation, no thrill of pity stirred his heart. He felt nothing, save that he was looking in the face of a man who saw the face of Christ.
Then came the final words of malediction. ‘And now the Church hath nothing more to do with thee. We give over thy body to the fire, thy soul to the devil.'
‘Into Thy hands, most merciful Christ, I commend this soul, which Thou hast redeemed.' As the martyr said this, with his eyes raised to heaven, Hubert thought he must have seen there what the first martyr saw in the far-off ages of faith.
‘Go, take him,' said Sigismund to the Elector Palatine; and he, laying aside the golden apple, came forward and received the prisoner at the hands of the Council. Then he gave him over to the chief magistrates of Constance, who were present, with the words, Take Hans Hus and burn him as a heretic. Take from him neither coat, nor clasp, nor shoe, but burn him as he stands, with everything that is upon him.' More than a century after, the descendant of that prince lay dying, childless, the last of his race. He said it was God's judgment for that day's work; the curse had never departed from their house since his ancestor delivered God's servant to death. And yet neither Council nor Kaiser, neither prince nor burgomaster, had hurt God's servant at all. Nothing more could hurt him now.
Hubert, with his eyes still on that calm face, thought of the Brühl, and the deed that presently was to be done there. For one instant a horror of great darkness—blacker than the eclipse he had witnessed on that very spot—swept over him. But it was gone ere he knew, and instead, like the rays of the returning sun, there flashed across his soul, ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; the Lord is the strength of my life.' He understood those words now. And he learned, in them, that secret he had longed so passionately to hear from the lips of the dying.
Thus the martyr passed from his sight; going forth to his doom with a joyful countenance and a firm and steady step. Absorbed as Hubert was, he scarcely noticed that the auditor of the Council had ascended once more to his place, and had begun to read something aloud about the troubling of states,' and the killing of tyrants.' It never dawned upon him that this was the expected sentence upon the affair of Jean Petit; until, when the reading was ended, he saw someone trying to attract his attention and holding up a folded piece of paper. Finally this paper was passed to him, with much difficulty, over the heads of the crowd. Thus he was recalled to the sense of his duty, which, in fact, he had utterly forgotten until then. ‘I must do it this time,' he said to himself, ‘for I was trusted. This time, but never, never again! '
‘Where are you going?’ asked Schorand, seeing him move.
‘I have business; but I will be back in time to the Brühl’
‘To the Brühl? I thought you said nothing should induce you to go there.'
‘All is changed now. I have no fear left for him. I must look upon his face again.'
He slipped quickly down from his place in the window, but Schorand called after him, ‘Wait an instant, and give me a hand, I will go too. So shall I be in time for the burning of his books in front of the bishop's palace. I want to see how he will take that.'
Hubert turned again, with a sudden flash of indignation in his eyes; but he restrained himself, and without a word helped Schorand down. His strong young shoulders pushed a way for them both through the crowd. Moreover, as the paper which he held up conspicuously showed that he had real business, people gave place to him, and some of the guards helped him out. At last he stood once more in the bright July sunshine, under the cloudless sky. But he only paused for a moment to make a rapid calculation from the position of the sun that it must now be about ten, or perhaps ‘eleven of the clock.' Then he dashed at full speed across the Munster Platz, and through the crowded streets to the chancellor's house. One thought alone filled his soul; to dispatch his necessary work, so that he might go to the Brühl in time to see what the end would be, and how God would deal with His servant who trusted Him.