‘Woe worth the hour, woe worth the day.'
THE lord of the soil found plenty of occupation in Miloval. The peddler, happily, did not prove to be so badly hurt as was thought at first. He had certainly given the peasants some provocation. He was offering saffron for sale, and he told them that if it was not pure he would submit to the fate of Berlin and Wlaska, the two unlucky merchants of saffron, who were burnt alive in Prague for the crime of adulterating their wares. They were almost as bad as heretics,' he added. ‘Though, of course, they fared better, since, being duly shriven ere they died, they had only to burn once, whereas heretics, like him who died at Constance, burn twice—here and hereafter.' The poor man made the mistake of supposing himself in a papist village—but he was quickly undeceived.
It was only wonderful that he was left any life at all.
Still, Chlum could not pass over the outrage. Independently of the claims of justice, it would have been very bad policy to allow chapmen and pedlars to be maltreated on his lands. He could not fine the offenders, as they had nothing to pay; nor could he carry them off to the rarely-used dungeon of Pihel without cruelty to them and inconvenience to himself. So he bade his steward return to them in kind the treatment they had given to the chapman. They bore the infliction (which, moreover, was not very grievous) with true Sclavonic stoicism; and afterward their lord said to them, ‘You see, my children, those who sin have to suffer. Furthermore, they make others suffer with them. I must take this German, whose words I like no better than you do, back with me to the castle, and have him tended there, lest he should die, and his blood should be upon us. Next time, think twice before you do what hurts all and helps none.'
Other affairs, each a trifle, but altogether requiring time and patience, claimed the attention of the lord of the soil, who had not visited Miloval since his return from Constance. When night approached, a wagon-load of fresh straw was thrown down upon the floor of the largest room in the place, and the party slept on it in their cloaks. It was the evening of the next day before they could set out for Pihel, and the condition of the undesired guest, ‘whom, like good Samaritans,' as Clodek observed, they were bringing with them, made their journey a slow one.
Everyone was in bed when they arrived; but the servants were soon roused, and Zedenka also made her appearance. All hurried to and fro, getting food for the travelers and finding accommodation for the wounded man. In the bustle, if any one remembered Vaclav, it was only to think it quite natural that he should be fast asleep. Hubert, like the rest, soon sought repose, for they were all very tired.
Out of his first sound, dreamless sleep, he was awakened suddenly by a blaze of light. Prokop stood over him, torch in hand, his face white as marble. ‘What is it?' he cried, starting up. ‘Is the place on fire? '
‘No, master.'
‘Is any one ill—dying? '
‘Depends on what you call it, master.'
‘Give me my clothes, then. Who is it, in Heaven's name?'
He flung on his garments while he listened for the answer.
‘The Paned never came home all day.'
‘Home? Whither had he gone?’
‘To Leitmeritz. To the meeting.’
‘But that was at noon on Wednesday.'
‘There was another meeting—at daybreak. He went to that.'
‘And has not come home?’
‘He has come home, master.'
‘What has happened, then? Speak at once, Prokop. Must I shake it out of thee?’ cried Hubert in an agony, as he threw his gown about him and clasped his belt. This was easier to him in his haste than to don a tight jerkin, with close-fitting hosen.
‘The Paned himself is safe, master.'
‘Then what is all this coil about?’ he added, in a gentler voice, for he saw that the tears were streaming down the honest fellow's face. ‘What ails thee, good lad?'
‘Master Hubert, it is Rabstein.’
‘Rabstein?'
‘Ay, master. God knows I would give my life for his this night. The beautiful horse Master John loved!' Thy life? Is he killed? '
‘Not killed—better if he were. Kepka will never ride Rabstein anymore. God forgive me—it was my fault. I encouraged the Paned to take him, that he might go to the giving of the cup.'
‘How chanced this evil thing? '
‘I scarce understand. The Paned was riding home by the level road in broad daylight. I Trow he was thinking more of what he had heard and seen than of his going, though the thing might have happened to any man anywhere. It was at that turning to the right, past the half-way stone by the wood where the charcoal-burners live. The Paned says Rabstein put his foot suddenly into a deep hole neither of them had seen, and fell—on both knees. He led him slowly to the forge of Martin the smith, who is well skilled about horses. He did all he could for him.'
‘Is he there yet? '
‘No, the Panec̆ hath brought him home. He is in his own stable.'
‘Let us go to him. Where is the Panec̆?'
‘With him. He will leave him no more than he would a Christian in like case. What our lord will say or do God only knows.'
Hubert hastened to the stable, Prokop going before him with the torch. Once he turned to say, ‘Master Hubert, I shall never have the courage to speak to my lord. I look to you to tell him it was I who put the thought into the mind of the Panec̆.'
‘How came no one to miss him all day? '
‘I told the Nana where he was; and somehow she contrived to keep the Páni's mind easy about him. I believe they thought he stayed in the town.'
They reached the stable. The porter, the chief groom, and two or three other servants were there already, but there was nothing they could do. Vaclav stood in the midst, white and scared, a wooden bowl in his hand filled with corn, which with caresses and coaxing words he was trying to induce Rabstein to eat. It was not the best food for him at the time, and probably he showed his instinct by refusing. Evidently he had been sorely shaken and terrified, as well as badly hurt. The blacksmith, however, had bound up the wounded knees carefully with some soothing application.
Hubert had little skill to minister to Rabstein, and almost as little power to console Václav. He gave him what he could-a brotherly embrace. This broke down the boy's remaining fortitude; flinging his arms round the neck of Hubert, he wept and sobbed like the child he was. ‘What shall I do?’ he cried. ‘Oh! Hubert, what shall I do? '
‘Hast had any food all day?’ asked, Hubert.
‘Frantisek gave me a piece of rye bread, for I would not stay to dine.'
‘Prokop,' said Hubert, ‘fetch me a manchet of wheaten bread and a cup of wine.'
Prokop went upon his errand, and managed to procure both; though not without some delay, wine and wheaten bread not being the ordinary fare of the Pihel household. While he was gone, Hubert persuaded the other servants to go back to their beds, since it was evident that nothing more could be done for Rabstein.
‘Sit down on you chest,' he said to Vaclav, ‘and eat and drink, ere I hear another word from thee.'
Vaclav obediently took the bread; but ere he tasted it he broke off a piece and offered it to Rabstein. Seeing that he ate it, he gave him more, and stood alternately eating and feeding the horse until the goodly portion brought by Prokop had disappeared. Then he drank the wine.
Seeing him restored to something like composure, Hubert said, ‘The thing thou hast to do, Václav, is to tell thy father.'
‘Oh!—I cannot. Tell him thou, dear Hubert.'
‘I will,' said Hubert quietly.
A little comforted by this assurance, and worn out with fatigue and want of sleep, Vaclav presently began to doze. As his eyes were closing unawares, and he could no longer sit upright, Hubert induced him at last to throw himself on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable. The next moment he was fast asleep.
Hubert watched and waited for the morning. His vigil was not a long one. The lord of Pihel was an early riser even for that age; as soon, therefore, as the earliest of the servants came out into the yard Hubert went in.
Ere long he returned; not alone. With white, wrathful face and hasty, powerful stride, Chlum followed. Vaclav still lay sleeping, and Hubert knew not whether to be glad of it. His awakening would be a terrible one.
Cilium did not even look at him. For Rabstein knew his master's step, gave a pitiful neigh, moved stiffly towards him, and held up first one and then the other wounded knee to him, with a mute appeal for sympathy in his great, soft, wistful eyes.
As mutely Chlum caressed him. Accustomed words rose to his lips, but something choked them back ere they were uttered.
Meanwhile Vaclav awoke, struggled to his feet, came forward, stood before his father pale with terror, but unflinching. At last Chlum's eye fell upon him. He trembled from head to foot, and even Hubert held his breath, awaiting the inevitable outburst.
It never came. Chlum stood in silence, looking at his son as if he saw him not. The strange silence lasted-it seemed for an age—it might have been for a minute.
Then Václav could bear it no longer. ‘Father!’ he cried, averting his face as he spoke.
‘Speak on,' said Chlum slowly, in a voice not like his own.
‘Knight and father, strike me! I deserve it.'
There was no answer.
‘Father, strike me!’ prayed the boy once more. ‘Only—do it now.'
‘My son,' said Chlum at last, and the voice, with all its sadness, was so gentle that Vaclav ventured to look in his face again. What he saw there made him throw himself sobbing at his feet.
‘My son,' said Chlum again, ‘I cannot look at Rabstein without remembering how great wrong may be borne—and forgiven. How, then, should I not forgive the lesser wrong wrought only through want of thought and by one I love?'
‘Yet the wrong is done,' sobbed Václav, ‘and done to Rabstein! Father, I deserve to suffer. Thou canst not hurt me more than I have hurt Rabstein—than I am hurt already in my heart.'
‘That I well believe. Therefore, why should I strike thee? Not in anger—I am not angry; nor yet for thy profit, since thou art punished already. Rise up. Go and tell thy mother thou art forgiven.'
‘Father, it makes me worse—more sorry, a thousand times—to be forgiven,' sobbed Václav.
‘More sorry?—yes. Worse?—not so. But go hence, for I must needs examine Rabstein's injuries myself. Hubert, stay thou and help me.'
Vaclav went, to sob out his story at his mother's side. ‘Mother,' he said, ‘hast thou ever seen a knight so brave and kind and generous as my father? '
Pani Sophia's answer may be easily guessed. ‘I do mind me now,' she added, of certain words of Master John's, which he spoke concerning patience and forgiveness. "It brings a man nearer God," said he, "to take one contrary word," or belike one vexing deed, "in patience, than to scourge himself with all the rods he could find in a forest."'