'In a service which Thy love appoints
There are no bonds for me,
For my inmost heart is taught the truth
Which makes Thy children free;
And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.'
THE archer took the lead, and with right goodwill made way for Hubert and his brother through the crowd. Having reached the tower at the head of the wooden bridge which in those days spanned the Rhine, he contrived, they scarce knew how, to get them up the steps, and to secure for them a standing-place. There they had an excellent view of the broad river, and of the gaily-decorated boats which dotted its surface with flashes of light and color. Taking his stand beside them, the archer pointed out the different boats, explaining the rules and the incidents of the race, and sometimes even naming the rowers.
Hubert, whose English blood stirred unawares within him at every sight of boats or shipping, followed him with keen interest, until, at the end, he warmly applauded the winner of the last and decisive race.
‘Glad they are done with it!' said Armand in French. ‘But, for once, Hubert, you were right. If this lad has learned his manners from the Black Monks, certainly he does them credit. I have left my money at home—do you chance to have a florin about you to guerdon his good service? '
‘I have, thanks, indeed, to the senior chaplain; he counseled me to leave my purse behind, as you did, for fear of thieves; but Charlier and I are such unfriends that when he bids me do one thing, straightway I do the contrary.' Hubert produced the coin from the purse which hung at his girdle, and, with a pleasant word of thanks, offered it to their guide.
But the archer refused it, saying respectfully, ‘Sir, I owe more than that to you and to your friend, and right glad am I to have the chance of showing you I am grateful.'
‘How is that?’ asked both at once; and Armand added in very bad German, ‘We have never seen you before.'
‘But I have seen you, sir knight, and your good friend, sir scholar. Do you remember—nay, you must remember—how some weeks ago you gallantly took the part of a poor girl who was insulted by some unmannerly Italians? That girl was my Nänchen, my betrothed. We are to be married in St. Stefan's Church, come Easter, if God wills it so.'
‘But how is it that you know us?’ asked Hubert.
‘Nänchen has often seen you together, gentlemen, and she has pointed you out to me. She wished me to thank you for her, and I longed to do it, but could find no way until today.'
‘Now it is we who have to thank you,' said Hubert, well pleased at the meeting. ‘But, good—' He paused for the name.
‘Robert, to serve you, sir.'
‘Good Robert, you must take our gift to buy a token for your Nänchen.'
‘No, sir, if you please. A gift to Nänchen would be not only a gift to me, but a gift to me twice over, which from-you and your friend I cannot take. But I will tell her I have seen you, and so make her very glad.'
‘Give you good luck with her,' said Hubert; while Armand laughingly complimented him on his choice, and praised the sweet blue eyes of the Swabian maiden, of which he seemed to have a lively recollection. ‘Let us know in time,' he added, ‘and my brother and I will go and see the wedding. You will find me at the house of the Burgundians, in the Rosgarten. Ask for the Sieur de Clairville. My brother, Master Hubert Bohun, dwells with the Chancellor of Paris, whose secretary he is. Prithee, who are those noble-looking knights riding past us on the broad way? Hungarians? '
Hubert looked also, and with evident admiration, at the tall and stately horsemen who rode leisurely by, their steeds, their arms, and all their accoutrements in splendid order, and bearing upon them, as sign and cognizance, a lion.
‘They are Bohemians, sir,' said Robert; and, turning towards them, he doffed his cap to the leader of the band, a grey—haired knight in a crimson mantle, with a strong, thoughtful face.
Hubert said in French to his brother, ‘I have seen them before. They have come here about the affair of their countryman, Jean Hus, or John Huss! '
‘Oh, another "affair," like that of Jean Petit?’ returned Armand.
‘Not half so important, or so interesting. The man is a heretic, and, by the way, he is imprisoned in yonder Dominican house.'
‘You did not tell me that before. You took good care, when you were vaunting the glories of your monks, to forget the captive in the dungeon.'
‘I was just going to tell you, when you stopped me.'
‘Well, tell me now, if you can—you who are so learned —what are his heresies? '
‘They are very grave and very dangerous, I fear,' said Hubert, dogmatically. ‘Already the chancellor has condemned at the Sorbonne nineteen heretical propositions taken from the works of Jean Hus. But as to what they are, even I do not understand them fully, and, of course, to anyone who has not studied theology it would be impossible to explain them. However, as it happens, I remember one, which is so plainly a dreadful thing that it does not need any learning to condemn it. He says that “heretics ought not to be corporeally punished, or delivered over to the secular arm." Heard ever any man the like of that? Besides, he is a pestilent Realist. After the re-union of the Church, and the affair of Jean Petit, I believe the thing about which the chancellor is most anxious is the condemnation of this John Huss.'
Robert had been listening to all this as eagerly as though he understood every word; whereas, in fact, he only caught the sound of one familiar name. Now he drew near, and said in a low voice, marked and almost broken by strong feeling: ‘Sirs, may a plain man speak a plain word to honorable gentlemen, such as you? '
‘Surely, good Robert, as many as you please,' said Hubert, looking surprised.
‘Then, sir, I beg of you, as you prize the grace of God, never to speak lightly that name you said just now, for it is the name of no heretic, but of His holiest servant upon earth.'
‘Bless thy honest heart! ‘cried Hubert in amazement, 'what canst thou know of heresies and heretics, and of the affairs that come before the Holy Council? '
‘The Holy Council (as you call it) must have infected the air,' said Armand, ' since the very archers and lanzknechts are beginning to talk theology.'
‘I know nothing of heresies and of theology,' said Robert, standing his ground firmly. ‘But I know Master John Hum, and no man has better right or better reason.'
‘How?’ asked Hubert. ‘Has he made a convert of you? I thought at least that he could make no converts now, being in prison.'
‘Sir, it is I who guard the door of that prison. Said I not well that I ought to know him? You are honest-hearted gentlemen, both of you, you who saved my Nänchen? I may speak out before you without fear? '
‘Certainly you may,' said Armand willingly, for he scented another scandal about the Church.
‘Why should you fear?’ added Hubert. ‘What harm could we do you, even if so minded? '
‘Only, sir, that if the lord abbot chanced to hear how I —and Jacob and Gregory too, for that matter—have learned to love him, it might come into his head to remove us, and to put others in our places. And that would be doing a very ill turn—'
‘To your prisoner, doubtless? '
‘No, sir, to ourselves. As for me—I speak for myself—before I knew him I was no better than one of yonder kine that are grazing in that meadow over the bridge. I used to think of nothing but meat, drink, and such-like things, which satisfy the beasts that perish. But he has wakened me, sir, as you would waken a man out of a heavy sleep. He has put a soul in me—I mean, he has taught me there is a soul in me, and a God above who cares for me. He has taught us—me and the others—the Ten Commandments, and the "Our Father" in German. He has made us understand that we can call God our Father through the Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us. And that if we serve Him, and do His will, we will come at last to live with Him forever.'
‘But that is no heresy. It is good Christian doctrine, such as the chancellor himself would teach,' said Hubert, in great astonishment.
Robert went on eagerly, without heeding the interruption: ‘Moreover, that we may know and remember it all, he has written it down for us, in simple, easy words, such as plain men may understand.'
‘What? Canst thou read?’ asked Armand.
‘I am learning, sir. It is worth while now. He has written a little book too, for me and for Nänchen, all for ourselves. For I have told him about Nänchen—somehow one tells him everything—and she says a Paternoster every day for his deliverance. He has given us good and holy counsels, that we may so live together on earth as to enjoy God's blessed heaven together hereafter.'
‘One would think,' said Armand, who was listening attentively to every word— ‘one would think his own peril, and the task of defending himself from the charge of heresy, would give him enough to do and to think about.'
If Robert had ever heard of a heart at leisure from itself, he would have used the words in answering. But he had only seen it, and had no power to describe what he had seen. ‘I cannot tell you how it is,' he said. ‘But I think he trusts God so entirely, and is so sure he is doing His will, that he rests at peace for himself—and is free to think and care for everyone else.'
‘But tell me, Robert,' Hubert broke in anxiously, ‘can nothing be done by anyone to turn him from his heresies, and to bring him to a better mind?'
‘To a better mind, sir, than he is in now, could no man bring him; as you would say yourself, if you could only see him, and talk with him—and God knows I wish you could. When you have seen a man suffer, and when you have heard him pray, you know pretty well what he is. Master John lies yonder, in the tower by the lake —you can see it from this—in chains, in darkness, in cold, breathing poisoned air, continually attacked and harassed by his enemies—and yet always brave, fearless, patient. They may kill him; and it is very like they will; indeed, already he is ill. But they will not break his purpose, nor will they kill his words —Never!' Robert drew himself up to his full height, and flung the challenge out boldly, with an air of strong conviction, almost of fierce defiance. Then, seeming to recollect himself, and perhaps observing the curious looks of some of the passers-by, he added in an altered tone: ‘I have said enough—too much, perhaps—yet I think not—you are gentlemen of honor, who would not betray a poor man's confidence. God be with you, sirs, and reward you for your kindness to Nänchen and to me.' He lifted his cap and moved away, the brothers looking after him in silence.
‘What a strange man!’ said Armand at last.
‘Yes, strange indeed; passing strange,' Hubert returned. But he meant the prisoner, whilst Armand meant the archer. Armand resumed presently: ‘See how your churchmen love one another! '
Hubert did not even remember to protest, ‘I am not a churchman.' He stood silent, in deep, perplexed thought. Nor did he move until Robert, who, when he left them, crossed the road and disappeared up the Brückenstrasse, came again into sight, and took his way back to the monastery. ‘Wait for me, Armand,' said Hubert, ‘I will not be a moment,' and he darted after Robert. Catching him up at last, and laying his hand on his shoulder, he whispered breathlessly, ‘See here, Robert. I come from Paris, where often for light cause they thrust men into loathsome dungeons. But the prisoners, or their friends, give gold, and that presently mends the case. Take this—' The gold which he thrust into his hand was no great sum, but it was all he had.
But Robert rejected it with a sorrowful smile. ‘No use, sir,' he said sadly. ‘There are those I know that would not spare their gold, nor their heart's blood either, to help him. But they can do nothing. The wicked priests and prelates, whose evil lives he has exposed, will have their vengeance, now they have got him in their power. It is for that they hate him, not because he is a heretic, for he is nothing of the sort. Still, God bless you, sir, for your generous thought. May He think upon you for good, as you have thought upon His servant! '
Hubert quickly returned to his brother, who asked him what he had been doing. ‘Nothing,' was the short reply, and he relapsed into silence. Then he burst out suddenly, ‘don't understand this matter. I always thought that man was an obstinate, arrogant heretic, who turned Prague upside down, and stirred up revolts and tumults. I thought he preached all the errors of Wickliffe, with more, and worse, of his own added on to them. But this is, evidently—'
Here he stopped, perplexed, but Armand completed the sentence for him. Evidently a very ill-used man, whatever he may have preached or believed. Oh, those churchmen!
‘No wonder people are afraid of offending them. However, the affair does not concern us. Come with me over the bridge to Petershausen; I want to speak to a gentleman of the queen's household whom I know about those falcons you saw me trying this morning.'
‘No,' returned Hubert, ‘I must go home. I have writing to do for the chancellor.'
‘A plague on that writing! I wish thou west a squire like me. 'Tis hard for thee to leave the sunshine and the free air to stoop over pen and paper.'
But to Hubert the joy had gone out of the sunshine and free air for that day. ‘Perhaps there may be some harder lot than mine,' he said musingly.
‘And yet,' he added, as he stood gazing at the tower by the lake which Robert had pointed out to him, ‘I will own that the longing for a free fight is sometimes almost too strong for me! Would there were a hundred stout Cabochiens, with white hoods and strong staves, between me—and anywhere I wanted to go—say yonder tower! How I would enjoy fighting my way through them! But then, after that, what should I do? It is not the doing which is hard, but the knowing what to do.'
Hubert announced this as a fresh discovery, which certainly it was to him. The first faint shadow of a perplexity, the first vague beginning of a doubt, stole into his heart that day. Could the Holy Council possibly be mistaken? And could it, of course under a mistake, but still under any conceivable circumstances, be unjust? Robert's story affected him much more than he cared to confess; because he could never hear of any noble doing or enduring without that 'quiver of deep emotion,' half joy, half pain, which those to whom it is given know so well, while others know it not at all. Such things drew his soul as the magnet draws the steel.
Still, of toleration for heresy he had absolutely none. It was to him quite inconceivable that a heretic could be a good man, worthy of sympathy. But it was very conceivable that a good man might be falsely accused of heresy through personal malice and hatred. This was what Robert said, and certainly it looked very probable. Could a wicked man bear suffering patiently, care unselfishly for others, pray devoutly, teach holy words to the ignorant? Such holy words were associated in Hubert's mind with one, and one alone. It was only from the lips of Jean Gerson that he had ever heard the like. This may seem surprising, since he had been brought up in a convent, and used to all sorts of ecclesiastical observances, even to the length of being wearied and disgusted by them. Yet something these had never brought to him, had never seemed to mean (indeed, for him they had meant nothing at all), reached and touched him the day the chancellor bade him serve the Lord Christ, who had paid the great debt for him. It was strange that the words of the reputed heretic should sound to him so like the words of the great chancellor.
But then came a thought which made him sternly silence the voices that had begun to plead within him for Robert's friend. The great chancellor had condemned him. To Hubert's loyal heart this was decisive. There was simply nothing more to be said on the question. Not a word must be breathed, not a whisper even must stir in the depths of his soul.