Hark what a sound, and too divine for hearing,
Stirs on the earth, and trembles in the air!
Is it the thunder of the Lord's appearing?
Is it the music of His people's prayer?
Surely He cometh, and a thousand voices
Call to the saints, and to the deaf and dumb;
Surely He cometh, and the earth rejoices,
Glad in His coming who hath sworn, "I come." '
FREDERIC W. H. MYERS.
Six months have passed away since the persecuting edict of King Wenzel awakened the fears and the indignation of the Hussites. It was then November—now it is July; and we know that the earth wears a very different aspect in July and in November. But something more than the change from winter frost and snow to summer sun and air was needed to account for the alteration in the looks and the bearing of the men of Bohemia, and in the aspect of their country. Had we, who, peering through the mists of centuries, see but dimly men as trees walking,' been actually amongst the eager, joyous pilgrims who thronged the roads of Southern Bohemia in the summer of 1410, we would have found it hard to realize that we were in a land over which so lately the heavy thunderclouds were brooding, and which even then was full of wars and rumors of wars.
Young and old, rich and poor, men, women, and children, were streaming onwards by every road and path, from every castle, town, and village, and from many a solitary hut or cottage, towards a single point.
The picturesque hill, a promontory near the fort of Luschnec̆—henceforth and forever to be known in history as Mount Tabor—was in the very center of the district where Huss had preached most often during his exile from Prague. The neighboring town of Austi was the dwelling of his most attached disciples and most intimate friends. All around the living seed of his evangelical teaching had sprung up and borne fruit a hundredfold. When the edict of King Wenzel drove the Hussite preachers from Prague and other cities of the kingdom, many of them took refuge in Austi and its neighborhood, sure of a welcome. A crowd of the laity of all ranks and classes flocked thither also, wishing to hear the Gospel preached and to receive the Communion of the Cup. The movement for some time was entirely spontaneous. But great open-air gatherings and field-preachings were becoming more and more the fashion amongst the Hussites. It was determined by the chiefs of the party to make Mount Tabor the scene of the greatest and most imposing which had yet been held. So they sent messengers throughout the length and breadth of the land inviting all good Hussites to attend an assembly, wholly for religious purposes, which was to be held upon Mount Tabor on St. Magdalen's Day, July 24.
The journey thither was in itself a festival and a holiday. A sky of deep palpitating azure,' flecked with bright clouds, bent down over the pilgrims, and seemed to bless them silently. The earth around them was green and glad, full of promise for the later harvest-time. The grass was jeweled with flowers, the birds sang in the branches of the fruit-trees by the way.
Pihel contributed a goodly band to the pilgrim host. Hubert was the acknowledged leader, and beside him rode Vaclav, now a tall youth of sixteen. They were followed by a company of retainers, with steel caps and corselets, and armed with pikes or swords. Some townsmen from Leitmeritz, in more peaceful attire, were taking advantage of their escort.
Chlum, whose visit to the king was ineffectual, had gone to Melnik, a fort at the junction of the Elbe and the Moldau, of which the queen had made him castellan, it being part of her appanage or dowry. He would fain have had Hubert with him there; but he thought it of more importance that he should accompany Vaclav, who was bent upon going to Mount Tabor, in order to keep him within the bounds of sobriety and discretion. Zedenka was in Prague, with Palma Oneshka.
Half a day's march from Tabor the Pihel band overtook a little procession from a country village. They had already seen a hundred like it, and passed them with a friendly exchange of greetings and good wishes. This time the pastor walked at the head of his parishioners, having resigned his pony to a tired woman, who sat on it holding her baby fastened cornerwise on a pillow, as Bohemian babies use, while a neighbor led it for her. There were young men and old, there were women and little children. In the midst was a wagon, drawn by bullocks, containing provisions, cloaks, blankets, and a few simple cooking utensils. Perched high amongst the gear, on a kind of throne, sat two golden-haired children of six or seven, safe and fearless, laughing and playing with the flowers their companions plucked by the way and flung up to them.
‘Stay, Hubert!’ cried Vaclav, as soon as he caught sight of the pastor's face. ‘You priest is Wenzel of Arnostovic̆. I must speak with him.'
‘What Wenzel?’ asked Hubert. ‘There be so many Wenzels. I do not remember him.'
‘Nor couldest thou, brother, since thou hast never seen him. But I could not forget him if I lived a hundred years. He it was who gave me first the Communion of the Cup in the house of Frantisek's mother, in Leitmeritz.'
So saying, Václav drew near the priest, and brought his horse to a walking pace. ‘God save you, father,' he said. ‘I heard you preach in Leitmeritz four years ago, and I hope I shall hear you again tomorrow.'
Notwithstanding the great difference between the youth of sixteen and the child of twelve, the pastor of Arnostovič soon recognized the eager-hearted boy who had taken the Cup of Christ from his hand with such evident and genuine emotion. He had been struck by his early piety, and interested in him as the son of Chlum. He asked him now after his father.
‘My father is at Melnik,' said Václav. ‘He hath the place in charge from the queen. I believe he hopes still to convince the king that there is no use in trying to crush us. Nor is there. The whole country is with us, Master Wenzel.'
‘God is with us, which is better,' said the pastor reverently. ‘But tell me, I pray you, is Frantisek, the mercer's apprentice, in your company? '
‘No, poor lad; to his sorrow he could not come. His mother is dying; and, moreover, his master is a pestilent Papist, and he cannot afford to anger him more than needs, for he is betrothed to his daughter.'
‘Is that so? Then he must be very unlike himself, or she very unlike her father. Which is it? '
‘The last,' said Václav, heartily. ‘Aninka has lived with us since we came from Constance, and thinks just as we do. She is my sister's bower maiden, and is with her now in Prague.'
‘Prague has not been very quiet since the Hussite priests and schoolmasters were driven away,' observed the pastor ‘would our friends there, and some also of those yonder'— with a glance at the broad, low hill now rising in the distance— ‘would remember that the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.'
‘True,' said Václav; ‘yet there is such a thing as righteous wrath. We may be forced to fight.'
‘You may,' the priest answered. ‘As for us, the weapons of our warfare are not carnal. Better so. It is better to suffer than to fight.'
Shouts of laughter from the children interrupted this grave discourse. The little ones on the wagon had got hold of a basket in which some of the women had packed certain small articles of finery, chiefly knots of bright-colored ribbon, intended to grace the morrow's festival. They were throwing them down to their companions in exchange for the flowers, much to their delight. The owners, however, did not appreciate the sport, and tried to recover their property, which the children, half in fun and half in mischief, struggled to keep. Presently two or three smart cuffs and boxes on the ear changed as many peals of laughter into sounds of another kind.
But the pastor promptly interfered; the little disturbance was quieted, and order and good-humor restored.
‘I marvel you should bring babes like these such a distance,' said Václav, glancing at the pair on the wagon.
‘How could their mothers come if they were left behind?’ asked the pastor. ‘Babes though they be, they know what they are going to, and their little hearts are full of it. They will remember it all their days, and tell of it to their children and their children's children, when we are gone to rest. If we grow weary, or if any disorder begins among us, it is our way to sing a hymn, and with your permission, Panec̆, we will do it now.'
‘With all my heart,' said Václav.
The pastor called for silence, and struck up an old Bohemian hymn, in which all joined, and none more heartily than the children on the wagon, who beat time with their little feet, and sent the words of faith and hope ringing up to heaven in their clear, childish treble:—
‘Should hosts arise against me,
I know no fear at all;
For God is fighting for me,
And will not let me fall.'
Václav joined also; and his party, hearing the familiar air and words, contributed their manly bass to swell the tide of sacred song:—
'For He is with me still,
In whom I trust forever;
He will His word fulfill:
Despair shall find me never.
This one thing from my God
I crave with longing mind—
Within His blest abode
My resting-place to find.
Hear me, O Lord, I pray;
My spirit longs for Thee:
Turn not Thy face away
But ever dwell with me.
Look back upon me, Lord,
Amidst the thickest fight,
Thy gracious help afford,
And change to day my night.'
This was not the last hymn they sang together on their way, and as they neared their destination they heard the same sweet sounds from other bands of pilgrims whom they overtook, or who overtook them.
At length the crowds became so dense that the parties had to separate. The Pihel men, of course, got on more quickly than the others, as they were all mounted.
‘If you please, Master Hubert, what are we to do for quarters?’ asked Vitus, bringing up his horse abreast of the squire's.
‘Take what we can get,' returned Hubert. Never saw I such a multitude—scarce even in Constance.'
‘I wish we saw our way to a lodging and a place for the horses,' pursued Vitus.
‘A lodging!’ laughed Hubert. ‘I warrant but very few of all this multitude will sleep under a roof to-night, and we shall not be among them. Some have brought tents, perhaps; but only women and children will care for them. Well for us that we have bread and meat in our haversacks, and there are brooks enough to quench our thirst.'
Austi they avoided: they knew it was already full to overflowing. They sighted the fortress of Luschnec̆, but did not approach it; and along their route they saw few houses, or none. At last they came to the entrance of a pass which led to the hill of Tabor, and was, in fact, the only way of approaching it, as its other sides were defended by rocky ravines, through which streams of water were flowing. Here they were met by certain of the inhabitants of the place, if those could be so styled who dwelt in tents upon the hill or in its neighborhood. They saluted the new-comers as brethren in the Lord, and, regretting that they could show them no better hospitality, offered to find them a place for their bivouac, and to supply them with food.
Hubert thanked these new friends, and said that they had their own provisions, but would be glad to know where they might spend the night without inconveniencing others. Accordingly, they were shown a field on the southern slope of the mountain, just over a steep ravine. Here they picketed their horses, and supped upon the food they had brought, with the addition of some light wine given them by the people of the place. Then they prayed, sang a hymn, and lay down to sleep in their cloaks, the grass beneath them, and the stars above their heads.
Sleep was not easily won. Almost throughout the night parties kept arriving and settling near them. Some set up tents, but most were content with the primitive arrangement they had themselves adopted. But although the noise of voices and the trampling of men and horses were of course considerable, above and through all other sounds the whole night long came that of sweet singing. It seemed to come from every part of the hill.
At last Hubert fell asleep, but was awakened by feeling the hot breath of a living creature on his cheek. He started up, and saw a horse, not one of their own, composedly cropping the grass by his side. For fear of accidents, he rose and drove the intruder away. Then he looked around him. No one near him was awake. The sacred dewy silence of the starlit summer night was only broken by the voices of those who sang far away in the distance:—
‘Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.'
Too full of solemn gladness to sleep again, he withdrew a little from the rest, and knelt down on the grass. God was very near him in that hour. God was very good; the earth was full of His glory. All things praised Him—the world, the sky, the stars; and now the sons of men were learning to give thanks to Him, and to honor His great name. Everywhere His Word was preached—surely the day was coming, foretold and promised long ago, when the knowledge of His glory should cover the earth as the waters cover the sea, when the kingdoms of this world should become the kingdoms of our Lord and of His Christ, and He should reign forever and ever. Hubert did not consciously connect the promise for the future with the peace of the present; yet is it true that all fair scenes of Nature are charged with a burden and a message for the aching, yearning heart of humanity. ‘Wait,' they whisper softly; ‘wait and trust. All will be well yet. For, behold I make all things new! And I am coming.'
Perhaps the heart of Hubert was the more open to these influences because of another whisper—' a little whisper, silver clear '—which told him there was hope for him of the brightest and fairest joy earth had to give. From where he was he could see in the distance the stately tents of the lord of Hussenec̆, lit up in the darkness by the glare of torches and watch-fires; but he was not tempted now to envy the heir of the mightiest baron of Bohemia. Can even fruition bring with it anything more bright and glad than the witching hour when Hope first touches the hand of Joy?
To him the time seemed short till the heavens whitened into dawn, and the first drowsy notes of the birds began. Soon the sun shot up; the glory of the morning was around him, and every blade of grass at his feet was quivering with misty sunlit dew. His companions were beginning to stir. Václav leaped first to his feet, eager to lose not a moment of the long, happy, glorious day. A rapid toilet was performed, prayers were said, and a hymn was sung; but no one tasted food, for all intended to communicate.
Early as they were, others were astir before them; going to the great central field or plain, the crown of the hill, they found eager crowds already gathering at the various stations where preachers of note were expected to take their stand. The multitude was far too vast to be addressed by one: it broke itself up, though in a quiet, orderly way, into several distinct congregations. Happily, the space was ample; there was room for all. Hubert and his companions were attracted towards a compact, soldierly band, which might, indeed, have been called an army. The men wore no special dress, but they stood in ranks, and all had arms of some kind-swords, pikes, hooks, or flails. Over them waved a banner; all the field was bright with banners and pennons, but this was a strange one, which Hubert had never seen before. It was black, and bore upon it in red the sacred emblem of the Sacramental Cup. As the strangers approached, the whole company were thundering out, in their deep, manly bass, the strains of a martial hymn:—
‘Soldiers of God arise
And combat for His laws!
Implore His present help,
And trust to Him your cause;
For he who owns the Lord his friend
Must ever conquer in the end.'
When the hymn was finished, a young man came forth out of the ranks, and, throwing his arms round the neck of Hubert, bestowed upon him a hearty embrace. It was Ostrodek, grown to his full height, and altogether much improved in appearance. He embraced Vaclav also, and greeted Vitus and the other men in friendly fashion. ‘Is Kepka here?’ he asked eagerly.
Hubert told him where he was, and what he was doing; and then in his turn inquired the meaning of the warlike array.
‘My lord trains his following somewhat in the use of arms, and in those habits of regular and orderly movement men must acquire if they are to serve in war,' said Ostrodek; and he began to chant, to a rather plaintive yet stirring tune, a verse of the hymn they had been singing:—
‘The watchword bear in mind
Which first was given to you;
Mark well your Captain's eye,
Be to your comrades true;
In ordered rank and file stand right
So heroes conquer in the fight.'
‘But see!—there yonder is Zisca himself, beside that tree.'
Hubert saw a dark, soldierly man with a shade over one eye—more he could not discern at the distance.
‘We are now going to hear a sermon,' pursued Ostrodek.
‘Stay with us, Master Hubert, and listen. 'Twill be well worth your while.'
Ostrodek had not been wont to pay much heed to the rather monotonous pulpit utterances of Stasek, so Hubert was surprised at his zeal. ‘Who is the preacher?' he asked.
‘Martin, a priest, whom we call Loqui for his eloquence He preaches splendid sermons, Master Hubert. He expounds the Apocalypse of St. John; and tells us all about the Battle of Armageddon, and the Seven Last Plagues, and about the Great Red Dragon, and the Woman clothed with the Sun.'
In spite of this attractive bill of spiritual fare, Hubert had the bad taste to decline, as he wished to hear Václav’s friend, Wenzel.
Ostrodek pitied him for losing his chance of hearing the most eloquent preacher in the field, but proposed that he and the other Pihel men should come back, and dine with the people of Zisca. ‘You will know where to find us,' he said, ‘by the standard of the Cup. We are the servants of God and of the Cup, Master Hubert.'
As everyone was free to do as he pleased, some of the Pihel men remained to hear Martin Loqui; while Hubert, Václav, Vitus, and others wandered through the field in search of Wenzel.
Whilst thus engaged Hubert happened to catch a few words from an old man who was addressing a dense crowd of peasants, all men, for the women and children formed congregations apart. The words arrested him, and he stayed, telling Václav and his companions not to wait for him.
This was what the aged preacher—not a priest, but apparently a peasant like themselves—was saying to the multitude: ‘"This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen Him go into heaven." Do you know this, my brothers—do you believe it? It is written in the Holy Scriptures, and not in this place alone, but in divers and manifold places, more than I can tell you. Do you know that a day will come which will begin, like this day, with the sun rising in yonder sky, but will not end like any day there has ever been since the making of the world? For it is the Day of the Lord. That day the heavens shall open wide, and He that shall come will come in the clouds of glory, His holy angels with Him. His holy angels! Dearer than angel faces will be seen around Him then. For "those who sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him!"—I know one who will surely come again with Him that day. You all know him. Once more our eyes shall see him, our ears shall hear his voice, our hands shall touch his hands—though wicked men burned him to ashes in that fire at Constance. Shall we be glad of it, my brothers? '
Through the densely-packed and breathless crowd there ran a quiver, a thrill of deep emotion. A murmur rose, to be checked instantly by the next words of the speaker. ‘But, behold! I show you a mystery. We shall not be glad of it at first. We shall not think of him, we shall not even look at him. Friends, brothers, the desire of whose eyes has gone from you to the grave, before you look upon those dear faces when God brings them back, you will look upon the face of One—that One who died for you; you will kiss His blessed feet, you will touch His blessed hands, which were pierced for you. To you who love Him thus, I say that you shall see Him, and that soon! How soon I cannot tell. Perhaps today, while we are waiting and looking for Him—perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps not till next year, or a few years hence. He may tarry even until His people are in sore need and trouble, and their foes prevail against them, as saith the Scripture, "Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried." But surely He cometh!—He cometh! And we who love His appearing shall go in with Him to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, and rest and rejoice with Him forever.'
Much more was said, but for Hubert this was enough. His soul had grasped a new truth. All his life he had been repeating in the Credo, Who shall come again with glory, to judge the quick and the dead.' But if he thought at all about it, he thought this coming again ' was something vague and mystical, and very far away. It was a mystery of the Faith '—one of the four last things' which should accompany the end of the world. Of how long the world ' had, lasted, of how long it might last yet before that consummation, he had not the least idea. That the Lord Christ might come again soon—any day—and that His coming would be joy unspeakable to those who loved Him, was a new and wonderful and rapturous thought. It filled his whole heart. It vivified and strengthened that passionate, personal love to Christ—that intense realization of His presence—which had come to him first in Constance.
What if, in another sense than Chlum meant it, the time was short? ‘What if, in that world to come, they should be as the angels of God in heaven?’ Still, they would be together there; and, in that hour of exaltation, this was enough for Hubert Bohun.
Then old thoughts swept over him. He remembered his dear young brother; he remembered Constance, and the great chancellor, and the great Council. He thought tenderly of Armand, trusting that he too would be ready when the King came. And the chancellor? Was not that just what he was longing and toiling for, though he knew it not himself? It was from the chancellor Hubert had learned, in those old days, half to adore the great Council—to dream of it as Michael the archangel with the dragon beneath his feet.
Now, at last, he was comforted concerning the great Council's failure and the great chancellor's broken heart. This was what Council and chancellor meant, though the one was not pure and the other not strong enough to inaugurate it—this reign of truth and justice upon earth. It was the reign of Christ, and He was coming from heaven to establish it. When He came, would He judge Jean Gerson for his share in the death of His saints?
‘Well, if He does,' thought Hubert, ‘if He even slays him for it with the sword that is in His mouth, Jean Gerson will rejoice in dying, because He is there, and because He has won the victory.'
Finally, the preacher exhorted his hearers to approach the table of the Lord, and, by partaking of the bread and wine, to ‘show forth His death until His coming again.'
Thus, for the first time, was the onward look of that blessed ordinance emphasized for Hubert. Almost in a dream of rapture he mingled with the crowd who knelt reverently ‘in ranks upon the green grass,' whilst some of the exiled pastors, with prayer and solemn rite, administered to them the ‘Bread' and the ‘Cup of Christ.'
Heaven seemed so near, and earth so far away, that, when the rite was over, the voice of Václav by his side made him start as one too suddenly awakened.
‘Where hast thou been, Hubert?’ he asked. ‘I have heard two sermons, and partaken of the Holy Sacrament. Also, I have seen the lord of Hussenec̆; and thou shouldest go to him after dinner. Klaus hath come home at last, and he hath a letter for thee from England. But he can scarce talk of anything save a horrible sight which he saw there—the cruel martyrdom of a great English Hussite—(there they call them Lollards)—a knight and baron named Lord Cobham. You ought to hear him, Hubert.'
‘Yes, I will go to him. Knowest thou from whom is the letter he hath for me? '
‘He says it is from the chief of thy name, asking thee to go back to England, and he would advance thy fortunes there. Whereupon I made answer: "My father would like it ill for Master Hubert to go to England, since he is as a son to him; and, moreover, I think there is one in our house who would like it worse!"'
‘Oh, Václav!’'
‘Klaus looked savage; I thought he would have slain me on the spot. But I tell thee, Hubert, it was quite other with my lord of Hussenec̆. He smiled, and was gracious. He had a great respect for Kepka, he said. He wished him and all his house every happiness and prosperity. Brother, the truth is that my lord of Hussenc̆ is just now the greatest man in the kingdom, and I Trow he is not sorry that his son is free to seek an alliance with some lordlier house than ours. I, for one, will not gainsay the word my father spake before the Council, when he called himself the least of the barons of Bohemia,' said young Vaclav, with proud humility.
They dined with Zisca's men, and might have dined, if they could, in twenty places at once. Unbounded hospitality end frank brotherly kindness reigned throughout the vast assembly. Those who dwelt on the spot and those who had brought provisions with them shared their stores most generously. Bread and meat, wine and beer, were abundant everywhere, yet was there no single instance of excess. No riotous merriment, no rude behavior, no quarreling, stained the record of the day. The great heterogeneous mass, composed of all ranks and classes, not only behaved with sobriety, quietness, and good order, but showed a quite marvelous gentleness and courtesy. Peasants in ragged frocks might have shamed half the courts of Europe in all that constituted genuine good-breeding and good-manners.
After the noonday meal, Hubert said he was going to the quarters of Hussenec̆. Vitus came forward from amongst the Pihel men, who were fraternizing delightedly with the followers of Zisca, and asked leave to wait upon him. As they passed along through the happy, festive crowds, seated on the grass or standing about in groups, talking or singing, he drew close to him, and asked, ‘Master Hubert, does this remind you of aught we read of in the Holy Gospels? '
‘Verily, I have not thought,' returned Hubert.
‘I have, master. I think it is like that day when the multitude sat down on the green grass by hundreds and by fifties, and the Lord fed them Himself. I think, Master Hubert, He is here today.'
‘And so think I,' returned Hubert. ‘To me, Mount Tabor has been indeed the Mount of Transfiguration, where I have seen the glory of the Lord.'
‘There is something better than the glory,' pursued Vitus, who knew his Czech Bible well. ‘It is written that “when they looked up they saw no man, save Jesus only with themselves." '
Soon they reached the handsome pavilion of the powerful baron who was then the recognized chief of the Hussites. He received Hubert with a kindness just touched with condescension, which confirmed Václav’s view of his sentiments. His son was barely civil at first, but thawed as he talked of England. He gave Hubert his letter, which proved to be from the Earl of Hertford, his father's cousin, and the chief of his name. The family arms, which Hubert also had a right to bear, were emblazoned on the cover—a field azure, with six lioncels (little lions) of gold on a band of silver.
‘He bade me tell thee also, by word of mouth,' said young Hussenec̆, ‘what no doubt this letter contains, that if thou wilt come to England he will see well to thee, and ensure thee an honorable career; seeing thou art of his own blood, and that, moreover, he held thy father dear.'
Then they glided into talk about the state of the country, and the best way of securing toleration and the freedom of worship; and, presently, Hubert took his leave.
Little as earthly distinctions appeared to him just then, he was not sorry to find himself recognized and sought after by his relatives in England. He would not have scorned even a wayside flower, if by laying it at the feet of Zedenka he could have given her a moment's pleasure. How, then, should he scorn an honorable blazonry, a long pedigree, a knightly name and rank amongst his peers? Still, he never thought to see the shores of fair England. Bohemia was his country now.
The rest of the long, happy summer day was spent in religious and social intercourse, in meetings for prayer and mutual edification, in singing psalms and hymns. Towards evening Hubert was joined once more by Ostrodek, and they strolled together through the crowd. Hubert wondered more and more at the change in him—a change wholly for the better. He could not but own that Zisca had done more for him in six months than Chlum and Stasek and himself together in three years. A sharp, strong discipline was just what he needed. He had learned to obey, and that very thoroughly; and now he was advancing to the second lesson, and already beginning to command.
Moreover, gentler influences were at work upon his heart that day. The nameless preacher Hubert chanced to hear was but one amongst many who thought and spoke of the coming of the Lord; supposing Him, as did the Christians of the apostolic age, to be at hand, ‘even at the door.' Martin Loqui preached the same doctrine; though he mingled it with wild and fanciful interpretations of obscure prophecies, which with sober-minded people tended to discredit it, even as a similar mixture has had in our own day a similar result. In the course of their wanderings Hubert and Ostrodek fell in with a company of children, who were singing with their young glad voices Psalm 121:—
‘To Zion's hill I lift mine eyes,
From thence expecting aid.'
With a softer light in his fierce dark eyes, Ostrodek turned to Hubert. ‘I think Zion's King will come to claim His kingdom soon,' he said, ‘and His faithful soldiers and servants of the Cup will be near Him then.'
When the singing was over, the children began to disperse. Hubert recognized amongst them the little ones of Arnoštovič, especially the two golden-haired babes who had been on the wagon. He coaxed them to his side, and they came very willingly, admired his dress and arms, and those of Ostrodek, and soon struck up an intimate friendship with them both. Hubert perched one of them on his broad shoulder, whilst Ostrodek did a similar kindness for the other, and they walked about with them through the field.
It was a day when strong men became as little children in gentleness, trustfulness, and docility, whilst ‘thoughts that manhood could scarcely bear ' took root in the hearts of children.
Some clouds had come up from the west, and the setting sun was glorifying them with ‘purple and gold and crimson, like the curtains of God's tabernacle.' Over Hubert's shoulder a dimpled hand pointed to the sky, while a little voice whispered, ‘Is you the glory of the King who is coming out of Zion?'
‘No, little one, not yet. That will be greater glory still; so great that we cannot guess what it will be like. But we shall see it. You, at least, will surely see Him come,' said Hubert; thinking that even if He tarried far, longer than they expected, these little lives, only just begun, could hardly end before the promise of His coming was fulfilled.
Now, for long centuries, all these have fallen on sleep; and still we wait for His appearing. So long, indeed, His Church has waited that she has almost forgotten that she waits at all. The poet's wail is sounding in our ears, and our sinking hearts are tempted to re-echo it:—
‘No one asks his brother any more,
“Where is the promise of His coming?" but
“Was John at all, and did he say he saw?
Assure us, ere we ask what he has seen."'
Ever and anon, throughout the ages of the Church's history, the hope has sprung up again, the cry has been raised, Behold, the Bridegroom cometh! ' Faithful hearts have heard, and started from their sleep, and stood expecting; whilst upon their watching, upturned faces there has come a glow and a glory visible to all. Was it from the light they thought they saw?—Then the voice has died away, and the watchers slumbered and slept.' Slowly, steadily, from year to year, from century to century, have the wheels of Time rolled on, with no hand stretched out from within the veil to stop their movement. They roll on still.
Brothers and sisters of that far-away time, can you see, from your place of happy waiting in the light of His presence, how we of the outer sanctuary still wait sadly in the darkness here below? If indeed you can, it must add a strain of intenser human pathos to your loud voice, saying, 'How, long, O Lord, holy and true?’ and to your impassioned prayer, ‘Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly! '
This at least we know: the King sees, the King hears all. Year after year we cry to Him, and say, ‘Lord, behold’ the world which Thou lovest, which Thou didst die to save, ‘is sick'—sick unto death. And although He abides still in His heaven, not ‘two days,' but nearly two thousand years, yet we hear the words He speaks to us ‘leaning from the golden seat:’ ‘This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God.'
Meanwhile, each believing soul finds the promise sure for himself, bears emphatic witness for himself that not one good thing has failed of all which the Lord has spoken. He who ever keeps His pledges to the one, will He break them to the many? He who never yet cast out the prayer, or disappointed the hope, of one suppliant, will He scorn the cry and cut off the expectation of His whole believing Church? No; all things in earth and heaven, all voices within and without us—answer No. Therefore, after all the centuries, still in love unquenchable, still in trust unshaken, do we—
‘Look sunward, and with faces golden
Speak to each other softly of a hope.'
Therefore do we join the grand chorus, chanted consciously by His waiting Church, and all unconsciously by the whole creation, groaning and travailing in pain until now, ‘Even so, come, Lord Jesus.'