There's many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag, stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! What atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones,—
My riding is better, by their leave.'
R. BROWNING.
THE field-preaching was openly discussed at Pihel, like most other things, for secrecy was not the custom of the place. Chlum was reserved on the subject; he rather checked the eagerness of Václav. When the talk with Frantisek was reported to him, he said, ‘I like not to hear of new notions. Our enemies will say we had them from Master John, and slander him the more as a heretic. Nevertheless, if any man of mine will go and hear this Master Wenzel, I shall not say him nay.'
Before the day came, however, the thoughts of most of the household were turned in another direction. In a little village some leagues away, belonging to the lord of Pihel, a German chapman, or peddler, had been attacked by the peasants, who, it was said, had beaten him severely and left him for dead. Chlum could not tell from the accounts that reached him whether the object of the outrage had been robbery or revenge-whether they simply wanted to seize the contents of his pack, or thought they had been cheated by him in the sale of them. Or perchance the long-standing hatred between Czech and German might have had something to do with it. Chlum felt bound not only to protect the wounded man, but to do justice and judgment upon his assailants. The barons of Bohemia, at that time, had the power of life and death over their vassals, and power and responsibility are co-extensive.
He took with him to the scene of the outrage his steward and several of his servants, all fully armed. He also asked Hubert to be of the party, not only for the sake of seeing the country, but because he was already beginning to lean on his young squire's quick intelligence and sound judgment. One of the horses was sick, and he did not wish to take Rabstein, as the road was rough and in parts only a bridle-path. So Vaclav's palfrey was put in requisition for the use of Hubert.
The boy grumbled a little; he ‘wanted to go to the field-preaching,' he said.
‘It can't be helped,' his father answered. ‘Moreover, thy mother will like well to have thee at home with her. Perchance thou mayest entice her to go forth and breathe the air. She is so much better now.'
Vaclav was disappointed at this reply. He hoped his father might have suggested—or at least have sanctioned—his using Rabstein, a privilege which had already been accorded him on rare occasions. His whole heart was set upon going to the preaching. The more he thought of it, the more impossible it seemed to him to give it up. He made up his mind at last to ask his father boldly to let him take Rabstein; but it was not easy to find a convenient opportunity.
Wednesday, the day of the preaching, was the very day fixed on for the journey to Miloval. In the gray dawn the party mounted at the castle gate. Vaclav, with due observance, held his father's stirrup. ‘Take care of thy mother, my son,' said Chlum as he sprang into the saddle and, gathering the reins in his hand, looked down affectionately at his son.
‘My mother wished me to go to the preaching,' the boy cried desperately. ‘Father, may I—'
At that moment Zedenka waved a kerchief from an upper window in farewell. Chlum saw it, and kissed his hand to her. Then his horse—a young one scarcely broken, and very fresh and restive—began to plunge and rear. A prompt start and a rapid canter were the best remedies; he therefore gave the word, and in another moment all were gone. Vaclav's request was never made. Had he made it, how would he have been answered?
This question might have perplexed an older casuist. Plainly, he ought to have referred it to his mother and abided by her decision. But his mother was not yet awake, and might not be for some hours. In those days people usually rose at five, breakfasted—if they breakfasted at all—where and how they could, dined about ten, noon being unusually late. But the invalid lady of Pihel was a law unto herself. She slept little at night; and though, since her lord's return, she had begun to make many exertions untried before, the long morning's rest was still a necessity.
Zedenka, however, was a very early riser; should he go to her? He was very fond of her, but he also held her in great reverence. She was so wise, so learned, so good; perhaps a little awe-inspiring in her goodness, and certainly less indulgent than his gentle mother. Before he went to Constance, Zedenka used to take him to task pretty sharply for his childish faults—when he tore his best jerkin; sent an arrow through the glazed window of the dining-hall; and, worst transgression of all, broke the goblet of Venetian glass the queen had given to his mother. No; he did not care to tell Zedenka; although he thought she would approve of his going to the preaching, and would certainly have gone there herself had she been a man.
Vitus and Clodek would have gone, but they were with their lord. Prokop would go gladly; but the ladies needed him that day. The Rani had a fancy, much encouraged by Zedenka, to make a pleasaunce near the castle, like those the travelers told her of at Constance, where the burghers took the air on summer evenings. Zedenka saw the benefit to her mother of this new interest and occupation, so she threw herself into it heartily, and Prokop, with others, was to delve that day under her superintendence.
Vaclav, knowing this, thought his mother would be fully occupied, and have the less need of him. But then his father had told him to take care of her. Perhaps it would be better after all—perhaps, at least, it would be more right to give up his own will and to stay. What would Hubert say if he were here?
The thought of Hubert brought back the memories of Constance; and with these came the recollection of the peril into which his self-will had betrayed him there. His meditations were not unprofitable, and they led him at last to an excellent resolution.
He said within himself, and then he said out loud, to make it sure, ‘I will not go.' Once the thing was settled, he felt strangely light of heart, and not a little proud. He knew that he had made a real sacrifice, and he tasted the joy that follows sacrifice.
Having been up since daybreak, he asked the servants, who were all devoted to him, for some breakfast. Prokop brought him the remains of a venison pasty, and Vaclav, while he satisfied his boyish appetite, told rather grandly of his virtuous resolution to stay at home and forego the preaching.
‘It is very right, Panec̆, that you should stay with your lady mother,' said Prokop. ‘No doubt the day would be long to her and to the Patina if you were away. But see here, Panec̆ '—he drew near him and lowered his voice Master Wenzel's preaching is not the best thing, after all. ‘Do you mind what Frantisek said about the Mass at daybreak in the upper chamber, and the giving of the Cup? '
‘Nay, Prokop,’ he said ‘naught of that. Only that perhaps somewhere, in some chamber, it might be.'
`It will be, Panec̆. On Sunday there came to the church here, to Pihel, one who told me all. He is a friend of Frantisek's, and it is in Frantisek's own mother's house this thing is to be done. In Prague, you know, Panec̆, they have been doing it these months past.'
‘Who is Frantisek's mother? Where does she live? I like Frantisek; he is a brave fellow. I wonder he is not a soldier.'
‘Do you know, Panec̆, that his father was of the town council, and very well thought of? A good Bohemian, and respected in his calling;-he was of the guild of armorers. It was through the default of certain barons, who had his goods and never paid him, that he came to poverty. Not every noble lord is like our Kepka, who would rather want himself than bring a poor man to want. The son has the good word of all, even of his churl of a master; and he is working hard, that by-and-by lie may keep his mother in comfort.'
‘But dare they give the cup anywhere save in the church?’ asked Vaclav, with wondering eagerness.
‘Dare not a priest say Mass anywhere, Panec̆, specially if it be a case of necessity? Did not Master John say Mass in your lodgings in Constance?'
There was a pause. Vaclav looked up with a brightening face. A thought had dawned upon him—a thought so grand and glorious that he scarce knew how to utter it. ‘It would be very early tomorrow morning,' he said.
‘Certainly, Panec̆. At daybreak.'
‘There was a splendid moon last night,' pursued Václav.
‘Then, after a pause: Dost think my father will come home to-night, Prokop? '
‘Not likely, Panec̆. Those villagers are the very devil for bewildering a man with talk. Add to their tongues, which will wag fast enough, the glozing tongue of a German chapman, used to talking the maids into buying barragon for French taffetas, and you may guess how long it will take my lord to see daylight through the business.'
‘Would he might come to-night! I would crave his leave—ay, on my bended knees—to go to that giving of the cup.'
‘And I am sure you would have it, Panec̆!’
‘Ay, if he comes. But then the horses, they will be all tired out.'
‘There is Rabstein, Panec̆.'
‘True—Rabstein. I think he would let me take Rabstein for that.'
‘Think? You may be well sure of it, Fame. And I would be proud to wait on you, and to see that he is properly cared for in the town.'
‘That means a second horse, though.'
‘Not at all, Panec̆. I shall run beside you, as Frantisek did that night,' said Prokop, who was an active young fellow, quick and daring, though rather heedless.
‘Well, I hope he will come. If not—' Vaclav did not finish his sentence; he rose from the table, and went upstairs to his mother.
Evening came, and night; yet Chlum had not returned. Vaclav held his young eyes back from slumber until midnight. He had dreamed all day of the night's ride to the secret meeting, until at last
'The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear.'
There was in his young heart a very real desire to do the will of the Lord Christ. Surely this taking of the Cup was His will, for all His faithful people; even for a boy like himself, if he truly believed and loved Him? Master John had written from his prison telling them it was right to do it. Then he would do it, even if it were to cost him his life. Here, no doubt, a secret excitement mixed with his graver thoughts. He would be the first in all his house to do it. Neither his father, nor Duba, nor Latzembock, nor any of the knights and barons he knew, had ever attained this high privilege.
Then there was the charm of the adventure; the long moonlight ride all alone, the visit to the town, the meeting with Franz. He did not choose to take Prokop. He told himself that he did not wish to give him the fatigue of keeping pace on foot with such a horse as Rabstein; but perhaps an unconscious pride in carrying through the whole affair without assistance had as much to do with his determination. Moreover, why should he need an escort?
No one was likely to be alarmed about him. Prokop would be able to tell whither he was gone. He would be at home again, if not before his mother rose, at least in time for dinner. Should his father have returned in the meantime, he would tell him, what he was telling himself over and over again, with a vigor and insistence that testified to some secret doubt, that he had thought himself justified under the circumstances in taking his leave for granted.
A little after midnight he arose, threw on his clothing, and went down stairs. Within doors all was quiet and comparatively dark; without, a glorious flood of moonlight was making the courtyard bright as day. He could even see the hasp of the sliding bolt on the door of Rabstein's stable. It was scarcely an adventure to ride down to Leitmeritz on such a night, by the best and smoothest road in all the country. Yet the throbbing of his boyish heart as he crossed the courtyard told him not unpleasantly that he was upon adventure bound,' like a young knight-errant.
His next act was to saddle Rabstein, as he well knew how to do. The porter, with some ceremony, had brought to him overnight the keys of the castle; respecting, in the absence of his lord, the youthful dignities of the Panec̆. There was a postern gate, quite large enough for a horse to be got through. His fingers were hurt and his wrists strained in the effort to turn the heavy key in the great cumbrous lock, but he succeeded at last.
He led Rabstein—who seemed to understand what was wanted of him, and bowed his arched neck willingly to pass through the low doorway—softly out, mounted, and cantered gaily down the hill. Now indeed his heart was full of exulting joy. Clear in the moonlight gleamed before him the white line of the Leitmeritz road. Green fields were on either hand, with here and there a pool of water, which the moonbeams changed to liquid silver. Behind him was the village, wrapped in profoundest slumber; not one solitary light in the queer little windows, like half-closed eyelids, that pierced the high, sloping, wooden roofs.
Not a light anywhere, save the moonlight. Not a motion; not a sound of voice or step, save the rhythmic beat of Rabstein's hoofs on the hard, dry road. The good horse went with a will, as if he knew, thought Václav, that with every step he was bearing him on to the fulfillment of his dear master's dying command.
Not a motion anywhere? Stay; was there not some stir in the bushes yonder, where the shadow lay so black? What if near him there were—robbers? It is true that the district had rest and was quiet,' so far as might be in those troublous times; still, the thought of a danger to face, or a foe to fight, could never have been far from the mind of a child of the fifteenth century. Feeling himself a man in very deed, Václavlaid his hand on the small, light sword Latzembock had given him in Constance, but only to see a merry brown hare dart across the moonlit road. He laughed gaily to himself as he sped along, free and joyous, like an arrow from the bow, like a bird in the air. Then he sang aloud in the gladness of his heart fragments of the old Bohemian songs with which his memory was stored.
Presently there came in view the swift, broad river, the moonbeams tracing on its bosom a pathway of living light. The battle-song he was ringing out died upon his lips. He thought that on that bright pathway someone might come to him—some angel, some saint with a golden glory round his head, such as, no doubt, Master John was wearing now. He felt no fear, only a kind of awful joy. Then he thought of what they were going to do yonder in the town—of that solemn, holy rite, so strange and new, yet so old. Master John had bidden them do it—the Lord Christ had ordained it in remembrance of Himself.
Then he sang softly Master John's own Sacramental hymn:—
‘Jesus Christ, our Savior dear,
Brings us to the Father near;
By His bitter pain and throes,
Saving us from endless woes.
That we may remember ever,
And forget His kindness never,
Gives He us His flesh for food,
And for drink His precious blood.
God the Father also praise
For this gift of royal grace;
Since He gave His Son for thee,
From thy sin to set thee free.
Doubt Him not, but trust
Him still; He will all thy sickness heal,
Quicken well thy fainting heart,
Grace for all thy need impart.
Let thy fruits thy calling prove,
For His sake thy neighbor love;
So the joy that thou hast found
Shall flow out to all around?’
Ere he ended the dawn was in the eastern sky. He could see the spire of St. Michael's Church above the dark, indistinct mass which he knew to be the roofs of the Leitmeritz houses.
When at last he knocked at the city gate, he was admitted with a promptitude that surprised him. The gatekeeper was in sympathy with the object of his visit, and already on the alert, watching for friends from the neighborhood. At first he was surprised to see so young a communicant, but his surprise changed to admiration when he found that Kepka's son had ridden from Pihel to join them, alone and at midnight, on the very horse that had belonged to Master John Huss.
Both horse and rider received something like an ovation. An admiring, sympathizing crowd escorted them to the house of Frantisek; then Rabstein was led away, to be fed with the choicest provender Leitmeritz could supply, while the delighted Frantisek took Vaclav in charge, and presented him proudly to the pastor.