‘Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing.'
ON the morning of the 5th of June the heart of Hubert Bohun was lifted up within him. He was to take notes for the chancellor, not, as he had often done before, in a meeting of the French nation, but in a solemn congregation of the whole Council, assembled to transact important business. The chancellor, it must be owned, showed especial favor to his young protégé, and brought him forward whenever he could. He destined him, as a matter of course, for the Church; but he never intended to make a saint of him, nor did he direct his training to that end. He did not think him the material out of which saints are made. But the medieval Church had room, not for saints only, but for scholars and statesmen, for men of letters and men of action. Gerson hoped that Hubert, in whom he thought he discerned unusual abilities, might have a brilliant career before him as a man of action, and possibly as a great statesman. He recognized the active life as good and useful in its own degree, though certainly lower than the life of contemplation.
That day the Council was to meet in the splendid refectory of the Franciscans. Vast as was that lordly hall, it was sure to be densely packed; for the Council was now to redeem the promise made to the Bohemians, and allow their countryman to appear and to speak in his own defense.
Hubert was more eager to see and hear him than even to perform his duty to his lord. Owing to some mismanagement, he was not permitted on this occasion to go in with the chancellor, and take his seat at his feet, as he used to do in the meetings of the nation—an obviously convenient arrangement. He had to fight for an entrance, at the door of the hall, with a crowd of priests, notaries, scribes and spectators.
A portly abbot blocked the way, disputing with the janitor about his right to some special place. Hubert could not slip by him, and durst not push him rudely aside. But a tall young Bachelor of Arts, who was next him, seemed to be troubled by no such scruples. He jostled the abbot without mercy, and rushing past Hubert in hot haste, tore the sleeve of his gown. Hubert, freeing his right arm with difficulty, dealt him a blow in payment.
‘Strike, but let me on!’ said the other, unconsciously parodying the great Athenian. Then, seeing what he had done, ‘Pardon: 'twas an accident.'
Hubert, looking at him for the first time, observed that he was as tall as himself, though more bony and angular. Pleased at once with his height and his good-humor, he said, ‘Let us keep together.' Of course they spoke in Latin, in which language also the proceedings of the Council were conducted.
Pushing together, shoulder to shoulder, they soon made their way into the hall. They had brought with them small portable seats, which were bought or hired in the Platz outside.
‘I want to sit where I can see that man,' said Hubert. ‘I have never seen him yet. Hast thou?'
The other did not answer, but busied himself in securing their places. At last they were settled; not too soon, for the day's work was beginning. First, a very impressive prayer for the guidance of the Holy Spirit was recited, all present kneeling or standing. Then a few verses taken from the fiftieth Psalm were read aloud; intended, as someone remarked to Hubert, for a description of the dangerous heretic with whom they had to deal. But unto the wicked God saith, ‘What hast thou to do to declare My statutes, or that thou shouldest take My covenant in thy mouth; seeing thou hatest instruction, and castest My words behind thee? When thou sawest a thief, thou consentedst with him, and hast been pataker with adulterers:’ ‘Put on that cap of infamy yourselves, for you it fits, not him!’ said the scribe at Hubert's side, in a fierce whisper. Hubert turned to him.
‘But the man is not here. Why don't they produce him? '
The scribe made no reply; probably he did not hear. When the Psalm was finished, the clerk of the Council began to read a long list of articles taken, as the act of accusation set forth, from the writings of John Huss.
Presently the scribe started up.
‘Wilt keep my place for me?’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘Ay, if I can; but 'twill be hard. What's the matter? I am summoned. Look yonder!’ Following the direction of his eye, Hubert distinctly saw a person standing up on a seat behind the clerk of the Council, and making signals to his companion. ‘There's foul play afoot,' said the latter, as he hastened out.
It was no sinecure to guard his place for him in his absence. The reading of the articles of accusation went on; but Hubert knew he need not take notes of them, as it would be easy to procure them afterward. He was growing tired of the whole proceeding, when a picturesque incident diverted his thoughts. Two personages, splendidly dressed, and evidently of the highest rank, entered the hall, one of them carrying a couple of large books. They had a conference of some length with the cardinals who sat at the upper end, but those at a distance could not hear what was said. Then they retired, leaving the books on the table. Whispers ran from lip to lip down the hall, and reached at last the ears of Hubert.
‘The Kaiser hath been told by someone that the Council was about to condemn the heretic unheard, and in his absence. So his Highness hath sent these princes to forbid them, on pain of his high displeasure. Moreover, he hath sent copies of the books of Master John Huss, lest unfair and garbled extracts should be given of them! '
At the same moment Hubert descried the friendly scribe pushing through the crowd, trying to regain his place. He had turned to give him a helping hand, when someone cried out, ‘Here comes the heretic at last!'
There was a trampling of armed men, and another lower sound, as if iron clanked upon iron. Hubert turned again, and looked up eagerly—far too eagerly to note that his companion, now back in his place, gave but one quick glance, then buried his face in both his hands, and looked no more.
Hubert's eager eyes rested on a tall, slender figure, and a face so worn and wasted, so pale and hollow-eyed, that at first he could read nothing in it but pain. Yet, as he continued looking, the impress of character, which was permanent, came out more and more, effacing that of suffering, which was temporary. Unawares he said to himself, If this man were not a great heretic, I should take him for a great saint.' For there was in his face an austere and lofty purity, as of one who dwelt much in the presence of God; yet a gentleness also, as of one who came forth from that presence to do much loving service to man. The brow was noble, if not commanding, though perhaps the lines of the sensitive mouth expressed sweetness more than strength. The hair and beard had grown long in prison, and their black was touched with silver—not from age.
Thus Hubert first looked upon the man whom bishops and cardinals hated so bitterly, while simple, honest hearts like Robert's opened to him everywhere, and the men who really knew him loved him as Jonathan loved David—loved him with that love greater than which no man hath. Many would have died for him—one did so die, vindicating with his latest breath his dear master's' name and honor rather than his own.
‘Do you acknowledge these books to be yours?’ asked the clerk of the Council, pointing to the volumes that lay upon the table.
The accused took the books, and Hubert heard again the clank of the iron, as he raised them up in his fettered hands and examined them carefully. He turned to the assembly, and said in a calm, firm voice:
‘I acknowledge them to be mine. If any man among you can point out an erroneous proposition therein, I will amend it with hearty goodwill.'
‘A fair beginning,' thought Hubert; ‘this heretic will not be obstinate, or hard to deal with. All will end well, as I said to Robert.'
After this certain articles were read, said to have been taken from the books which were thus acknowledged.
Then the accused began his answer. But no sooner had he uttered a word than cries of rage and scorn broke out from every part of the hall, entirely drowning his voice. Hubert's amazement was beyond words. He could hardly credit his senses. He thought he must be the victim of an evil dream. Was this the Holy Council?' Was it not rather some lawless gathering of students in the Sorbonne?
During a momentary lull the prisoner raised his voice again: ‘Allow me to explain my meaning—'
‘Drop your sophistry,' someone cried; and then from many voices the shout arose, ‘Say Yes or No; say Yes or No! '
' Yes,' he answered; ‘for it is written in the Holy Scriptures—'
‘That is nothing to the purpose.' The cry came from the bishops' seats, and echoed and re-echoed through the hall. Again and again he tried to speak—always with the same result. Mocking laughter, cries of rage, jeers and insults, drowned his voice. An eye-witness has thus described the scene for us:— ‘It was more like a herd of wild beasts than a grave assembly of fathers of the Church.'
At last he stood silent, looking from one to another in sad surprise, and not without a mute appeal for justice. But even silence availed him nothing. ‘He is dumb!' they shouted, ‘he is dumb! He has nothing to say. This is a sign he confesses his errors.'
Then once more he lifted up his voice, and its penetrating tones were heard above the clamor.
‘I expected a different reception. I thought you would have heard me. I cannot make myself audible in so great a noise, and I am silent because I am forced to it. I would gladly speak, if you would listen.'
That was all. He made no further attempt to speak, but stood perfectly silent, perfectly motionless, and let the storm sweep over him. Sweep over him it did; from every part of the hall, and without order or method, taunts, accusations, reproaches were flung at him. ‘Some did outrage against him, and others did spitefully mock him.' Mockery, abuse, and insult—insult, abuse, and mockery; so raged the tempest, until its own fury made it impotent. At length the fathers of the Church could not even hear each other's voices.
Long ere this Hubert's amazement had changed to indignation. One man alone against a hundred, and not allowed to speak a single word in his own defense! Heretic or no heretic, he ought to have justice and fair play. To shout him down after this fashion was mean, cowardly, horrible. Forgetting for the moment that this was the Holy Council, hitherto the object of his own admiring worship, he longed, with a wild, passionate longing, to stand up and cry out his protest before them all. But why should he do it? Was not the great chancellor there? Would not Gerson interpose in the cause of right and justice? Hubert could not see him from the place where he sat; but he looked towards his seat, listened anxiously for his voice. In vain; no word was heard from the honored lips of Gerson. He did not swell the tide of mockery and insult; but neither did he stem it—perhaps he could not.
From the time that he despaired of help from Gerson, Hubert's eyes never left again the face of the accused. He stood before them all, undaunted and unflinching. Yet in his look there was neither scorn nor defiance, nor the fierce courage of despair-only patient endurance. And more and more a strange calm seemed to come to him. If still there was sadness, Hubert could not help thinking it was rather for the degradation of the Council than for the shame and scorning heaped upon himself.
Finally a priest, who had been sitting on the bench appropriated to the witnesses, started up and began, ‘Since the days of Christ there has not been such a pestilent heretic, saving Wickliffe.'
The prisoner turned and looked reproachfully at the speaker, while a visible quiver of pain passed over his patient face. This one voice—it must have been the voice, and not the words—seemed to have more power to wound than all the others raised against him. Hubert could endure it no longer; that look shattered the last remains of his self-control. He was on his feet in a moment, and hurling at the head of the offending priest the wrath accumulated against the whole assembly. ‘You coward!’ he cried.
But the strong arms of the scribe beside him forced him back to his seat.
‘Be quiet,' said he in an angry whisper. ‘Would you have us turned out and no witness left to tell of this? Go on with your writing.'
‘There is nothing to write,' said Hubert, showing his tablets, which were nearly blank. ‘There is nothing—and if there were, for very shame I would leave it unwritten.'
‘Then look where you looked before, at the one calm face amidst all this uproar.'
Hubert looked; the momentary pain had passed now, and there was peace. In the midst of his indignation he could not help wondering: he turned to his neighbor.
‘Are you a friend of his? '
‘His disciple. A Bohemian. But hush! It seems the fathers are returning to their senses, and going to dismiss the assembly.'
It was true. The more moderate and reasonable members of the Council (amongst whom we may surely reckon the Chancellor of Paris), feeling the uselessness, as well as the disgrace of the scene, and perhaps also afraid of the Kaiser, proposed the adjournment of the congregation. Hubert soon found himself again in the free air, amidst the glorious June sunshine. But in his heart there was no sunshine, only fierce anger, bitterness, and shame. Never again would he think the Council an assembly of men for the most part like Jean Gerson.
As he walked slowly along, someone overtook him and laid a hand on his shoulder. It was the Bohemian scribe. ‘Can I speak to you, master scholar?’ he asked, in a low, eager voice.
‘Surely; but who is it that would speak to me? '
‘Petr Mladenowie, Bachelor of Arts in the University of Prague. And you? '
‘Hubert Bann, scholar of the Sorbonne, secretary to the Chancellor of Paris.'
‘I thought you belonged to the chancellor—whom God forgive. All the better for my purpose, if you will aid me, Your witness to what was done this day in the Council will be of signal service.'
‘To whom? '
‘Master Bohun, though you be the chancellor's man, I have marked your looks and words, and I will swear you have a true heart. You will not refuse a service—which you may render in all honor—to the man whom you saw so cruelly outraged today.'
Hubert threw back his head, looked up to heaven, and repeated as if to himself words he had found in the chancellor's Latin Bible, and learned by heart because they pleased him so well: "To crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth, to turn aside the right of a man before the face of the Most High; to subvert a man in his cause, the Lord approveth not." ‘I am with you, master scribe,' he said briefly.
‘First, then, let us to the Bohemian lords. I doubt not they will bring us to the Kaiser, to tell him how well the Council obeyed his command to give Master John a fair hearing.'
‘These lords, then, were not present themselves?’ said Hubert.
‘They came, but could not get in. I fared better, thanks to you. No doubt they have gone home.'
‘Who is that fellow? ' asked Hubert as two priests passed by them talking eagerly, one of them being the man whose attack John Huss appeared to feel so keenly.
Instead of answering, Petr shook his clenched hand at him with a fierce look of rage and scorn. ‘Judas!’ he cried.
Then to Hubert: He was Master John's disciple and his familiar friend. ‘Well, when He who tarries long comes at last to avenge His own elect, He will not forget Stephen Palec̆.'
‘And the other? '
‘Michael Causás? Along with Paled his chief accuser and bitterest enemy—a villainous priest, who is selling his soul for gold. Everyone knows what he is, and how much his word is worth, But at least he is only a villain; not a traitor, like his comrade.'
Hubert and Mladenowie learned afterward that the Bohemian lords, though unable to obtain an entrance to the crowded hall, had not gone home, They waited patiently outside until the assembly was dismissed. The prisoner was led forth so near to where they stood that they were able to exchange a word with him. He stretched out his hand to them with a smile. ‘Don't be afraid of me,' he said ‘We are not afraid of you.'
‘I know it well—I know it well,' he answered, with a bright, calm look. Then, 'blessing the people with his hand' (they seem to have shown some sign of sympathy), he passed up the steps ' that led to his prison, going away joyfully after all the mockery he had endured.'