Yet the earth he left is holy,
Sacred every step (he) trod,
For (he) came a starry preacher,
Dedicating all to God;
Telling that a fair tomorrow
Shall come after this to-night.
Oh, the earth for us is holy,
Oh, the other world is bright!’
HUBERT repaired to the Golden Lion, where he found Armand awaiting him, seated at a table covered with snowy damask.
His head was resting on his hands; but when he heard Hubert's step he looked up, and his face brightened. 'I have ordered supper at five-hours,' he said; ‘a croustade royale (highly-seasoned game-pie), brouets of almonds and cream, some trifle of a "subtlety" in sugar to follow, and a flask of the best wine of Beauce our host can find in his cellar.'
‘That is a repast for royalty,' said Hubert; 'not fit for a poor squire and a poorer scholar.'
More he might have said; but he did not like to blame his light-hearted young brother, especially on the eve of a parting which might well be forever.
‘I thought we should sup royally together for once, like honest gentlemen in place,' Armand returned, ‘before we take staff and wallet, and go forth on our travels like pilgrims and saunterers.'
Hubert came near, and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, looking down at his upturned face.
‘I am no more a saunterer,' he said. ‘Even already God has provided for me. That good knight of Chlum has offered to take me to Bohemia. He will make me his esquire.'
‘Give you good luck,' cried Armand, springing up overjoyed. ‘Or, rather, you have it already. Were I not a Frenchman, I should like to be a Bohemian. Don't you know the proverb, "There are a hundred devils in every Bohemian soldier?" '
Hubert smiled. ‘A strange taste of yours,' he said.
‘Tush! you know what I mean. They are such splendid knights and soldiers. Dost remember hearing tell of the old King of Bohemia, who was slain at Crecy? Old he was, and blind, yet no braver warrior ever found a soldier's bed on the battle-field. But then you deserved your good fortune; you saved Chlum's son.'
‘Not knowing who he was, or what I did. The cry of terror called me, and I followed. That was all.'
‘I wish some princeling would fall into the river conveniently for me. There are enough here, and to spare, to do an honest lad that slight service amongst them. Still, I am not to be pitied. An esquire always has his sword and his cloak. Should my lord of Burgundy dispense with my services when he hears my story, I have reason to think Queen Barbe would accept them gladly; and I should be near my lady.'
‘I had not thought of that for thee, Armand.'
‘No; and I will not have it,' said Armand, with decision.
‘There would be no chance of fair fighting; and it is to that a squire must look who has to carve out his fortune with his sword. Moreover, I like not the manners of the court. Sorry enough I am to leave my lady there, yet her it will not harm. She is like a sunbeam gliding stainless through it all. But a sinful man like me! Not to talk of other foul things, which her faithful knight and servitor must needs abhor, and ought not even to name, I drew yesterday upon a Hungarian gentleman of the bedchamber, who made me wroth with his profanity. Priests and prelates may be as bad as he says, and in truth I think they are. There may be bishops sitting in that Council who believe neither in God nor the devil—and certainly they act as if they feared neither. Still, all good men everywhere believe in God, and try to serve Him, and so fain would I.'
‘Ay,' said Hubert, and ‘I trow knights and squires can serve Him just as well as churchmen and scholars.'
‘Better, at least, than churchmen,' said Armand. ‘There was a silence, during which he meditated, very profoundly for him, and at last he announced the results of his meditation after this fashion: Every man has got to fight, one way or another; or else he is a coward, and goes under, scorned of God and man. One has seen how a churchman even, fighting against lies and falsehood, can be braver than any soldier sent on a forlorn hope. He believed in God with all his heart, and in Christ our Lord. That is what I mean to do; not, of course, to be a scholar, a heretic, or anything like that. What is a heretic, Hubert? I cannot make out for the life of me. I should have thought my Hungarian yesterday was more of a heretic than John Huss. Don't think I mean anything wrong, or contrary to the Catholic faith, Hubert. I only mean that I should like to stand so for truth or right, and God; even if it were against all the world.'
‘Wrong! or contrary to the Catholic faith!' cried Hubert, his face beaming with joy. ‘Nay, it is now you are in the Faith, brother. I thank God for you.' After a pause he went on, in a tone of emotion: The Lord was his light and his salvation. Then the light shone, and was reflected upon you, and upon me too.'
‘Ah! you are a scholar, and have fine words at will, Hubert.'
‘Finer words than deeds,' said Hubert, sadly. ‘See what a fool I have been about the Holy Council— that I believed could do no wrong! You thought more rightly about the Council than I did. Still, in spite of all, I thank God I have seen the light. I hope to walk in it, God helping me. You will, too; and perhaps someday the light may shine reflected from you upon others.'
Armand took up his sword, which he had unbuckled and laid beside him. Raising the hilt to his lips, he kissed the cross upon it reverently, and murmured some low words that sounded like a solemn vow.
He had scarcely finished when no less a person than the host of the Golden Lion drew near, bearing in his hand a small, very weighty packet, sealed and tied with silk, which he gave to Hubert. ‘You are Master Hubert Bohun?' he said. ‘I was to give this into your own hand. Moreover, there is a chest without, which has just been brought hither for you from the house of the Chancellor of Paris.'
Armand explained: ‘I knew you would hate to go there; so, whilst you were in St. Paul's Street, I just honored my lord with a visit, and bade his people send all that belonged to you to the Golden Lion.'
‘You did not see him?' cried Hubert, eagerly.
‘No, of course. But I saw that reptile Charlier, as I hope for the last time. He told me you had become a heretic.'
Hubert was opening his packet with a thrill of passionate hope. He never heard Armand's conclusion: So I answered that if he had been a man I should have made him swallow his lie at the sword's point, but since he was only a priest it did not matter—he might say what he pleased. ‘What have you got there, Hubert? Gold? '
Gold it was in truth; but that was not what Hubert bad longed to see. The parcel had been addressed by the chancellor's own hand, and sealed with the chancellor's own seal; and a wild hope had sprung up in the heart of Hubert that it might perchance contain some message of pity or of pardon. Was he wholly wrong? A folded slip of paper lay beneath the little pile of good French crowns. With a trembling hand he unfolded it, and read in Latin these two words: Abi Cito:’ Go quickly.' A sudden paleness overspread his face, and he leant his head upon his hand.
Armand drew the paper towards him and read what was on it. ‘A significant warning,' he said. ‘No doubt our friend Charlier will say to others what he said to me. The Council is dangerous just now; it has tasted blood, and, moreover, it has been baffled. The victim has proved the victor. Not the chancellor himself could protect you if some scoundrel priest, like that Paletz— Holy saints, the very notion makes me shudder! Go as fast as you can, Hubert. And till you do, keep close to your Bohemians, for with them will no man dare to meddle.'
But Hubert was as one that heard not. He sat still, with bowed head, gazing sadly on the gold, and on the far more precious slip of paper that lay beside it. There were tears in his eyes.
Armand touched him on the shoulder. ‘Art afraid, Hubert?' he asked, in a tone of surprised remonstrance. My brave brother!—I believe it not of thee. Rouse thyself! Look up! '
Then Hubert raised his bowed head, looked up, and smiled. ‘No,' he said, ‘I am not afraid, I am only grieved to the heart—for the chancellor, whose face I shall see no more. As to fear—Armand, I spent last night in prison, though you knew it not. And never did I feel more safe, or more near to God. For I can say—even I, too—the Lord is my light and my salvation.'
Much more did the brothers say each to the other that evening. Their paths, divided for so long, had run side by side for one brief hour of crowded life.' Now they were about to separate again, perhaps forever. But the six months which they had spent together in Constance had stamped upon them both a character which neither time, nor change, nor any experience life might hold for them hereafter, could ever obliterate. To both there had come a real change, a turning from the darkness towards the light. It was a turning—not a translation. It did not transport them from earth to heaven, nor even from the fifteenth century to the nineteenth. Each had still to tread his own path, to serve his own generation, amidst all its errors, ignorance, superstitions, and delusions.
To one of them, at least, it would never be possible to emancipate himself from these. Armand de Clairville would be to the end only a knight of the Middle Ages, and no 'King Arthur, like a modern gentleman.'
But he would be a true, pure, loyal-hearted knight, pitiful to the poor and gentle to the vanquished; and to the very best of his limited knowledge he would serve and honor ‘Messire Jesus Christ.'
To the larger and deeper nature, other and more difficult tasks might be appointed. Hitherto Hubert Bohun had made more mistakes than his brother, perhaps only because he had loftier ideals. In the future, also, he might make mistakes. Certainly, he would think much—do much—suffer much. It might even be appointed to him to tread the Reformer's difficult and perilous path, and at last to breathe the pure air of truth upon heights which the Martyr of Constance had never trod. But wherever his footsteps might lead, according to his faith it would be done unto him. The Lord would be his light and his salvation, and in His strength he would walk in that light even to the end, and follow it to the very furthest and the very uttermost.
PART 2 A STORY OF BOHEMIA