Part 17

"It was high time to be making up our minds," Simon grunted, as he addressed himself to the terrible attempt to extricate his companion and himself from their desperate peril.

He leaped off his horse on to the squashy earth, and, though his great weight drew him deep over ankles into the loathsome slush, he was nearer to the edge of the terror than the main of the cavalry, and better able to move and act. With carnage raging ahead of him, Simon, as coolly as if he had been in a tent at a tournament, stripped most of the mail from the body of his unresisting lord, taking care to leave him his sword girded about his middle. Then, with a like composure and a like rapidity, he ripped the armor from his own limbs, and, picking up Rainouart from the slough where he lay senseless, flung him on to his shoulder as easily as he might have lifted a woman. Even in that moment, however, he showed his campaigning spirit. Knight or no knight, Simon had a fine appreciation for the merits of a ripe old wine, and, as fighting was ever hungry work, he had not thought it beneath his new dignity to make a filled wallet and a leather bottle of red wine part of his equipment. Now he snatched both from his saddle-bow and hooked them to his belt before beginning on his desperate enterprise of escape from the mouth of the pit.

The mouth of the pit was like the mouth of hell. There were little lanes of oozy earth running in all directions behind him, green with trampled corn and red with Frankish blood. In front of him the bog he had crossed spluttered and gurgled, and across its treacherous surface he essayed, at all adventure, to reach some firmer soil. Up to this time Simon's doings had passed unchallenged. All around him the morning was made hideous by the screams of the dying and the shrieks of the triumphant Catalans as they drove home their pitiless knives, and knight after knight of those that had been the glories of Duke Baldwin's court went unprepared on the path to paradise. If any of the enemy noticed Simon at his work they may, seeing one man stripping the armor from another, have taken him heedlessly for one of themselves, who, having slain, was prompt to plunder. But now some five or six of the Catalan stabbing rabble, having worked ahead of their fellows, and seeing a man with another man on his shoulders wading through blood and mud towards the dry land, where the main strength of the Athenian army was still standing, came rapidly to head him off, running quickly and securely on the ridges familiar to them that divided the different fields of wheat and barley, or wading through the bog itself with ease in their nearly naked condition.

They chose their prey unwisely, for Simon had his great sword bare in his hand, and, as the rascals came at him, Simon, wielding his terrible weapon, struck off head after head of his assailants till none were left to face him, and then made use of their bodies as convenient stepping-stones to help him a little farther to his desired haven, while such others as were tempted to join in the chase, seeing the havoc he wrought upon their comrades, turned with alacrity to less-resisting victims.

Little by little, inch by inch, through what seemed an eternity of effort, Simon struggled with his burden, every muscle of his great body strained, every vein in his great body throbbing as he strove inch by inch to gain a firmer foothold. At last, with the shrieks of the dying and the cries of the triumphant well behind him, he felt his heels tread upon a firmer foothold. A little more, and, with the sweat raining off him like a deluge, he staggered to sound earth, and stood dripping and stained and aching, but free. He paused for a moment to draw breath and to see what lay before and behind him. The view either way was disastrous for the future of Athens. Behind him, as it seemed, every man of the gorgeous company that had ridden with Duke Baldwin from Athens that morning had fallen a victim to the cunning and the fury of the Catalans. Before him the bulk of the Athenian army was by now in ignoble flight towards the city. Dismayed by what it saw, puffed by a panic terror and spurred by a conviction that the Catalans must be irresistible, the war-used army of Duke Baldwin fell asunder like a pack of frightened children. The road to Athens was free for the Catalans to march on; the city itself was free for the Catalans to deal with as they pleased.

Not far from where Simon now stood, a great war-charger wandered quietly and bit unconcernedly at the sweet grass. Doubtless it had unhorsed its rider in the first struggle in the concealed wash, and had made its way back again instinctively to the firm soil it had just quitted. Simon, still carrying his unconscious load, advanced towards the horse, holding out his hand, and trying to speak to it caressingly, and it startled him as he did so to find what a thin thread of a voice came from between his burning lips.

The horse did not start or shy, but went on cropping the grass unconcernedly until Simon was close beside it, and then, with no show of fear, it allowed Simon to seize its bridle. In another moment Simon was astride the saddle with the young prince lying limp on the saddle-bow. In yet another he had turned the great horse's head to the west, and was making at the best speed he could compel for the woodlands.

XXVI

THE ANCHORITE

In a waste and desolate place of the Eleusinian wood, aloof alike from highway and byway, there stood a little shrine, with a little hut hard by it. The shrine was rudely shaped of heavy stones, piled one upon another with scant skill but with great pains, evidently the handiwork of an untrained but persistent artificer. All day the shrine enclosed a goodly image in wrought silver of our Lord upon the tree, the which image was always carried reverently at nightfall within the shelter of the hut. This hut was the habitation of an anchorite who had dwelled there for many years in little less than absolute solitude, and the place where he abode so lonely was reputed of great sanctity. The travellers were rare who passed that way by mischance, for it neighbored no pathway leading directly anywhere, and was far from the beaten path of trade or travel or use. But such as, passing, paused and prayed before the shrine that sheltered the silver image were wont to aver that they renewed their journey with a strange exaltation of the spirit and exhilaration of the flesh.

The beauty and the value of the image had, according to country-side gossip, on more than one occasion tempted the cupidity of thieves, but each essay to steal the sacred emblem had resulted in the discomfiture of the would-be plunderers. For on each occasion the hermit, whom the robbers hoped to take unawares abed and asleep, issued from his dwelling as the enemies came creeping up, and made such strange manifestations of physical strength and spiritual influence as effectually scared the sacrilegious rascals into flight. Now there was no thief in Athens bold enough to renew the enterprise, and the holy man was left to his loneliness, while weeks and even months passed without a living human creature passing by his hut. This loneliness seemed to be to the liking of the ancient man.

No one knew who the hermit was, and those few who ever had speech with him and sought to question him gained little by their pains. Even Duke Baldwin fared no better than the rest. For Duke Baldwin once rode that way by chance, a-hawking on a summer day, and some one of his company telling him of the recluse, the duke condescended to halt for a moment and hold speech with the holy man. But he found that his questions won him answers unsatisfactory and enigmatical, and that even the pompous announcement of his title and state had no more effect than to bring a faint smile to the thin lips of the hermit. So Duke Baldwin rode away in something of a huff, and spoke severely of recluses for some time afterwards.

It was believed that the hermit came from abroad; it was believed that he was exceedingly aged; it was believed, no one quite knew why or wherefore, that in a distant past he had been neither hermit nor holy; and it was whispered by a few beneath their breath on winter evenings, when there was leisure to loll by the fire and talk gossip, that the stranger had practised in his youth the black art and had been an accomplished sorcerer. Whatever the old man had been, and whencesoever he had come, there could at least be no doubt of his present sanctity. He fasted, vigilled, prayed, macerated his nature, lacerated his flesh, read on the Great Book till far into the night, and was at his devotions in the open at the earliest coming of the day, be the weather fair or be the weather foul. The few who ever saw him found in his reverent features no trace of dissatisfaction with his lot, and Sir Jaufre de Brabant, who rode with Duke Baldwin on the occasion when Duke Baldwin spoke with the hermit, declared that the anchorite had the peacefullest face for an old man that he had ever beheld.

On the morning of the day when slaughter reigned in the distant Theban plain, the hermit was sitting in the open air after his first devotions, quietly conscious of the freshness of the air and the color of the hour. He was busy in scattering the larger part of his scanty meal as a pasture for a multitude of birds that fluttered and hopped around him, and chirped and twittered, and sometimes, to his pathetic consternation, battled among themselves as they scrambled for the spoil. "My little brothers," he began, the phrase of St. Francis in his mind, as he observed with sorrow the contest of one large bird with three smaller ones for the solace of a single crumb. But even as he began to speak he became aware that his familiar solitude was invaded. A girl was coming towards him down the slope, a girl tall, stalwart, blue-eyed and yellow-locked, a girl with naked arms and legs, in a kirtle of white stuff. Though the girl came running rapidly towards him over the grass, the birds a-nigh him showed no signs of disturbance at the stranger's coming, but picked and chirruped as unconcernedly as if they were still alone in their timidity with their ancient friend.

It was Argathona who came thus upon the old solitary and his untroubled birds. The moon was still shining when she gained the shelter of her forest on the night of her flight from Athens, and she made at once for the cave where she had so often lain through the ages, her cave in the heart of the wood. There she hid the golden apple, and there she stripped off her male attire and clothed herself in her woman's weeds, according to the old wont. Then she lay down on a couch of fern and slept the dreamless sleep of the immortals that have no need to double their little lives with false seeming. Indeed, she was very weary of the world of men, and wished to forget it and all that belonged to it, save only her lover, who she was very sure must come to her soon in the woodland.

Being of the immortals, she had her will, and awoke refreshed and free of the contamination of the city. But yet her mind was troubled because of her lover and her longing for him, and though she knew that his hurt was nothing, and though she knew that he was fated to escape from danger till he obeyed her call to the woodland, she was conscious for the first time in her young-old life of the length of a long day. She wandered in the forest, visiting all the haunts and hollows, grottos and thickets, that she loved, talking with beast and bird and insect, every creature of the wood. But always in her divine heart she stifled the human desire for her lover, and that day of late spring lagged tardier in his passage than ever yet day of spring had travelled.

Now when she had slept again through the same sweet oblivion, and had wakened to greet a new day, she found her spirit so troubled with unfamiliar regrets and with unwonted fears that there suddenly came upon her a strange sense of loneliness, such as she had never known before, and a wish for the wisdom of another. And even as she wished, there came into her mind the thought of the hermit of whom her lover had spoken to her on the night of their first meeting. She knew, indeed, that such an one dwelt in the confines of the forest, unheeded by her. She did not remember when he came there; he was no more to her than the distant shepherds and yet more distant citizens. But since her lover had urged her to come with him to visit this ancient stranger, her troubled heart inclined towards him, and she resolved to seek him out, she scarce knew why, if it were not that perchance she might speak to him of her lover. Thus it came about that the hermit beheld her descending the slope, what time he was feeding his birds.

As Argathona approached the ancient and saw that he was aware of her coming, she gave him good-morrow in her sweet, clear voice, and the old man, looking steadfastly upon her, thought her indeed the loveliest creature that he had ever seen, even in days when his eyes were daily familiar with loveliness.

"Good-morrow, daughter," he said, gently. "Of what kin are you that are not of my kind?"

Argathona marvelled that the glamour of the woodland could not prevail against the old man.

"Why are you so wise, father," she asked, "that you seem to know what no others have known?"

"Daughter," answered the hermit, "you speak to me with a speech that is not spoken of men, and yet I understand you, and when I speak to you, you understand my tongue though it is unlike yours. Also the birds have no fear of you, the shy birds that fly from a shadow or a sigh."

"Why should the birds fear me," asked Argathona, "that have never hurt living thing? And who has given you the gift to know that I speak the speech of the gods?"

The old man turned, and, going towards the shrine, knelt for a moment before the image of the Redeemer. Then he rose again and faced the girl.

"My Lord and yours," he said, pointing to the crucifix, "has granted me to see and know the things of this world as they truly are. Time was when my eyes were blinded by pride and my heart was big with evil, but the time has been, and I, long dead to the world, wait in patience for the hour of my true translation."

Argathona pointed to the figure on the cross, which she was looking at with a childlike curiosity.

"Is that your Lord?" she questioned, gently. She remembered that she had seen kindred images at Athens, and that Simon had told her hurriedly how they made part of the new faith that had usurped the ancient rule. But she had paid them little heed, being so busy on her own purposes. Now, however, in the silence of the lonely woodside, the image to which its guardian paid so profound a reverence seemed to assume a new significance. So, "Is that your Lord?" she asked.

"Your Lord and mine," the old man answered, "and the Lord of all the souls living in the world."

Argathona looked from the image to the old man, and from the old man again to the image. If that face in its beauty presented the features of a god, why was that god so slaughtered? Why was the brow of divinity crowned with a crown of thorns? For the first time since she passed into the world of men, Argathona felt herself in the presence of something that was higher than herself and her kindred, and for the first time, she knew not why, she felt abashed and astray.

"I know little of the world of men," she faltered. "Few and bitter have been the hours I passed among them, and in those few hours I heard little speech of any lord of the world, though, indeed, I can remember seeing images like unto this to which men paid a kind of reverence, though not with that joy and humility wherewith we of the woodland reverenced our gods. Your Athens seemed only to care for laughter and banquets, and the making of false love, and the waging of false war, and from first to last I heard little speech of this Lord of the world, save when now and then one strengthened an oath with His name. Will you tell me of Him, for of Him I am ignorant?"

The old man saw that he had to deal with a daughter of simplicity that was yet no simpleton. So he addressed her with all gentleness, as a father to a child.

"Yours must have been a strange life," he said, "if the story of our Lord be strange to you. Tell me first your tale, my daughter."

Then Argathona told him her story, even as she had told it to Simon of Rouen in the woodlands such a little while ago. Then she told of all that had happened since, of her encounter with the wounded knight that proved to be the young Prince of Athens, and of their plighted loves, and of the treachery of Esclaramonde, and of her visit to Athens and what came of it, and of her resolve to wait in the greenwood till her true-love came to find her. While she spoke the old man listened in silence, and though there was much in her story to marvel at, yet in his eyes there was no signal of disbelief, and the hope burned hotly in his heart that it might be vouchsafed to him to save this spirit. When Argathona had told her story he turned to her, and his eyes were vessels of pity and his voice was the promise of charity. Gently he bade her sit by him on the grass beneath the image of silver, and tenderly he bade her hearken to the words he had to say. And Argathona obeyed him and sat by him, watching his face and feeding on his words in silence.

Then the old man told her the story of the Redeemer. He told of the prophecy and the fulfilment, the angel and the birth, of the cruelty of Herod the king, and the flight, and the shining of the star, and the coming of the wise, and the worship of the babe in the manger. He told of the going to Jerusalem, and of the child amid the doctors, and the growth in glory; of the meeting with John the Baptist, and the temptation through Satan, and the many miracles, the changing of water into wine, the walking on the water, the feeding of the multitude, the raising of Lazarus from the dead. He told of the danger of the Master, and the treason of Judas, and the last supper, and the passion in Gethsemane, and the trial before Pilatus. He told of the crucifixion. He told of the resurrection.

Argathona sat by the side of the old man in the quiet of the hill-side and hearkened and wondered, and ever as he spoke she seemed to hear far off in the woodlands the voices of the old gods complaining. And the hours waned, and the sacred tale went on, in the solitude of the forest. Far away to the east a great massacre had taken place in the Theban plain, and the levies of Baldwin were flying like sheep on the road to Athens. But no noise of the killing, no echo of the flight came to trouble the ancient and the maid in their business of telling and hearing the mystery of the redemption.

When he had made an end, when the lid of the sepulchre had rolled back and the apparition of the Master had been manifest to the apostles, the ascetic looked at Argathona and saw that her eyes were pools of tears. Then she asked him, sadly, if he had been by when this tragedy came to pass.

"Nay," answered the ancient, "all this happened thirteen hundred years ago"--but he saw that she did not understand him when he said this--"and yet, in a sense, I am one of the Lord's apostles. For there has been a head of the faith ever since from that day to this, and will be to the end, and the opening of the heavens and the yawning of the pit. And in the fulness of time it pleased the Lord to uplift the humble, so that they who had been poor fisherfolk and scriveners, and the like, became rulers of the Christian world. Wherefore, in my turn, Heaven made me the greatest prince in the world. Great kings of great kingdoms, mighty emperors of mighty empires, looked up to me as to their master, and I spoke to them as a school-master speaks to his pupils, as a tyrant speaks to his slaves. For when I lived in the world, who have long left the world, I sat in the seat of St. Peter in Rome, and I held the keys of heaven and hell, and men called me by the name of Boniface the Seventh. But it pleased God to punish me for my arrogance and my pride, and the King of France compassed my destruction, and his partisans made to slay me, and wellnigh did me to death, but my servants saved me when I was left for dead and hid me in a little house. In my sufferings I repented of my sins, and resolved to expiate them in a life of piety. So I caused it to be blown abroad that I was dead that I might escape the vengeance of my enemy, even Philip the Fair, and so live to redeem my soul. Wherefore I journeyed hither, to the country where Paul preached, and here have I lived these many years, daily drawing, as I trust, a little nearer to the desired end, and here when the Lord calls me I look to die. Because I have sinned and suffered in my past days of wickedness I am sick with pity now for all who sin and suffer in the world, and if I could I would help you, my daughter."