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■ C^^ Lit/ ' 








1869. . 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S69, bj 


in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Eaatem District of the State of Pennsylvania. 





Sm: — 

I would not, at my advanced age of seventy-eight years, 
have thought of taking the trouble to write and publish a 
romance, even were I endowed with genius and learning 
sufficient to qualify me to produce a picture so admirable 
as this tale of the Twelfth Century, composed by you 
while lately Ambassador of France to the King of the 
Hellenes, at Athens ; but I felt constrained to make this 
translation solely as an act of personal homage to you, 
and as my most sincere expression of gratitude for many 
hours of happiness, and for much instruction that I have 
derived from the perusal of your works on Ethnology and 
other works of various research. 

Your Abbaye de Typhaines appeared to me, too, less a 
romance, than a history constructed on the same basis 
as that adopted by your admirable countryman, the late M. 
Armand de Menteil, in his History of the French during 
the last five centuries. I know nothing to compare in vivid 
truthfulness of representation with your Typhaines Abbey 
like the old Cordelières letters to Frère André, in M. de 

1* (V) 


MeiiteiPs first volume, written from the Chateau de Mont- 
bazon, and which, though pure fictions, serve to impart to us 
a true picture of life in the seigneurial castles of Frauce ia 
the thirteenth ceutury ; just as your story is a pictograph, 
a broad and beautiful translation of the inner-life, the sen- 
timents, aspirations, and actions of peoples of every social 
rank, high and low alike, in western Europe, at the epoch 
of the Crusades ; an epoch most interesting to every reader, 
not only as to its romance, but by the real influence it ex- 
erted and continues to exert on the condition of the entire 
Christian world. 

It was at the outbreak of our late rebellion and wars 
that I came into possession of your ''Essai sur Pluégalité 
des Races Humaines," and which I read in my sequestered 
country-home with a delight I have no words to express. 

The dogma on which that work hinges is, that peculiar 
races of men, and animals as well, are imbued with in- 
stincts, peculiar and special to each, and by you applied as 
interpretation of the instinctive and inevitable tendencies 
of man's action in all ages of the world, past, present, and 
to come : that principle, or law, which you was the first to 
discover, and which is true as Kepler's or Newton's, was 
carried out by you to times even beyond the origin of the 
Yedic hymns, and so closely followed down to the actual 
present, that it seemed to me you must have planted your 
foot, so to speak, in every track left by our race in the 
secular migrations, changes, and combinations of the vari- 
ous peoples of the world ; so that, as if you had been eyewit- 


ness of the ages, the " Essai" seemed to me an absolute 
Baconian induction from all the facts of history, annals, 
traditions, monuments, and philology of our race, so far as 
they have been hitherto made known to us. All this had 
been a myth and a mystery to my understandiDg until you 
came to shed on the long story of man the light of your 
scholarship. In saying this I am very far from the least de- 
sire to disparage the labors of other illustrious benefactors 
of learning in the same fields— the Niebuhrs, Bunsens, Karl 
Bitters, Lepsius', Lassens, Bournoufs, Movers', and Schaf- 
faricks, and numerous other writers, none of whom appear 
to me to have founded their interpretations, as you have 
done, upon the physiological and spiritual principle of an 
original and imperious natural instinct: still the world 
owes those remarkable scholars a debt of respect and vene- 
ration forever impayable, for the resurrection they have 
effected of long buried and forgotten nations and quasi 
civilizations, that, like the silent remains in that old valley 
of the dry bones, have waked again, risen up and been 
clothed upon, and now speak to us with fleshly lips to tell 
the long mournful story of man's origin, progress, and now 
partial triumph in learning, and science, and civilization. 
Avicenna is reported to have said of the works of Galen : 
" Sexies legi, et iterum vellem légère." I can say of the 
"Essai sur PInégalité des Races," that I have read your 
four volumes not sexies but decies, and that I hope, aged 
though I am, to read them again and again, as leading me 
to springs of living waters that are both refreshing and 
strengthening to my spiritual life. 


As I am trying to explain to yon and to my friends at 
home why I, so old a man, was led to make this Transla- 
tion of a romance, let me further say that I was won over 
to a sort of enthusiasm on the subject of Persia, so lon^ 
ago as 1829, by obtaining possession of good old Sienr 
d'Aubaiue's curious and instructive account of his travels in 
Persia and India, and that, so far as I know, I have perused 
all the documents on Persian history and story that have 
since come into ray hands. But I ever read Persia as in 
a mist ; I found nothing clear, defining, or penetrating like 
the lenses in a modern perfected microscope, until I became 
acquainted with the " Trois Ans en Asie" (a work of re- 
search), which was the result of your protracted sojourn as 
Minister of France at the Court of the Shah, at Tehran. 
Then came your "Philosophies et Religions dans PAsie 
Centrale," and your, to me, amazing interpretations and 
criticisms on the Cuneiform Writings at Khorsabad, Bisu- 
tun, Persepolis ; on Babylon-cylinders and bricks ; on 
Abraxas and Talismans. Before I read your writings, I 
say that I read Persia in a sort of mist — but now, any 
man may read her as under a lime-light, so clear and dis- 
coverable have you made that wondrous land and story. 

I have, too, your " Aphroessa," freighted with pages that 
appear to me far to surpass, in many respects, the efifusions 
of your Clement Marot, your Racine, Yoltaire, and Delisle. 
Your "Achilléîde" contains as charming passages as some 
of the choicest phantasies of the jEneid ; and lastly, your 
work, written in German, and just published at Leipzig, 


serves as the complement-evidence of your most ripe 
scholarship and philosophy, I mean the ''Untersuchungen 
uber Yerschiedene Aeusscrungen des Sporadischen lebens." 

Am I not your debtor, then, and deeply your debtor ? 
and have I done a thing non séant for seventy-eight, in 
translating your story of the twelfth century, though stand- 
ing, as I do, on the outer verge of existence Î I cannot 
think it ; particularly, when I remember that the good man 
and philosopher, Herr Fichte, tells us that the Scholar is 
man's teacher and guide, ever discovering to him, and in- 
viting him to partake of his well of living and sweet waters ; 
waters springing up to cleanse him of ignorance and error, 
and strengthening him to fight the good fight, to keep the 
faith, and finish the course that leads to victory at last 
over the world, sin, and death. 

Men should adore their Scholar-class — T do — and I lay 
this labor of my hands on the altar of your scholarship as 
my oblation of unreserved respect. 

But who is a Scholar, most worthy Sir ? Every man 
who upholds and gives aid to religion and morals ; every 
man who, by example, teaches others to be good citizens ; 
all founders of schools, inventors of steam-engines, mills, 
ships, — every ruler of an honest Press ; every farmer who 
shows how to make two blades of grass grow where one only 
could be grown before ; wise and upright judges, statesmen, 
lawyers, physicians, and civil and military officers ; such 
are of the Scholar-class, and such should be, and forever 
held in both public and private respect. 


I admit that personally I have had pleasure in the task 
—for you made me fall in love with your beautiful Dame- 
rones the Rose of Typhaines; and dear Monseigneur 
Philippe de Cornehaut has a place in my heart by the side 
of my great-grandchildren. 
And see, your Excellency 1 what a strange thing I 
You had buried the Commander of the Temple-Order 
with his valiant brother Payen, by his side, on the banks of 
the Orontes, by Antioch I The saintly relics of Damerones 
the sweet Rose of Typhaines, too, were calmly reposing, by 
the side of the unfortunate Héloise, at the convent of Para- 
clete. But by your permission I have clothed them in a 
new American dress, and if my countrymen should give 
welcome to them, they will long be seen traversing this 
new world of our American civilization I We shall per- 
haps see the knight and the heroine, and even Mahaut — 
and Fulk, all flying at a speed of forty miles the hour from 
Boston to San Francisco ; scurrying away along the banks 
of our ocean -rivers to their very spring-heads; scattering 
tens of thousands of stampeding buffaloes from the rail- 
track on the prairies, and hurrying along by myriads of 
toppling-down prairie-dogs on their cones; looking out at 
the swarthy, stalking forms of impassive Arapahoes and 
Camanches ; rushing beneath the towering heights of Pike's 
Peak; scorning the foul Mormon, and breathing warm 
breath on their frozen fingers by the shores of our Alaska, 
and our Behring's Strait. "When I start for San Francisco 
and Oregon, I will be sure to have, as part of my company, 


the Good Crusader and all his cortege ; and to make sure 
that he is a portrait, and not a schema of a portrait, I will 
have with me this Sirvente (which I beg your leave to 
add), the Troubadour, which is said to be by the hand of 
Bertrand de Born, Comte de Hautefort en Périgord, in the 
twelfth century, at the very time the cloth-merchant was 
plotting against your holy Abbot Anselm at Typhaines. 
This Sirvente is given by Mr. Roscoe in his translation of 
Sismondi's literature of the Middle Ages, who says he was 
indebted to the translation out of the langue d'Oc into 
English, to a friend. 

You, sir, are not a writer by profession ; you are a French 
noble, "eZe la vielle roche f"*^ and if I have made free — per- 
haps too free — ^to express in this manner my poor private 
opinion as an American of your worth as a philosopher 
and scholar, I am only the more confirmed in my boldness 
and gratified to hear that the government of your sove- 
reign, the Emperor Napoleon, has authoritatively acknow- 
ledged your literary and philosophical pre-eminency so 
far as to take charge of and to print and publish, at the 
expense of your nation, the four volumes of your " Histoire 
des Perses," the result of fourteen years of labor, with it? 
numerous inedited manuscripts in Sanscrit, Zend, Arabic, 
and Persian, with all which languages, as well as with 
Cuneiform writings, the classics and the modern languages 
as well, you seem to me as familiar as I with the New 
England Primer, that taught me in 1Ï9Ï that 

" In Adam's fall, 
We sinned all." 


I have the happiness to possess the first 199 pages of 
that precious boon you have just bestowed on the world. 

It is an honor and a homage to every true lover of learn- 
ing when such testimonials are given by great Nations like 
yours to those who are in truth man's teachers and guides. 

Farewell, most excellent sir : that honor and happiness 
may attend your every step, is the prayer of 

Your most respectful and 

most grateful servant, 

CH. D. MEIGS, M. D., 

Emeritas Professor in Jefferson CoUege. 

1210 WALinrr Street, 

Philadelphia, February 18, 1869. 



An Augnst sun was pouring down vast floods of radiant 
light and heat all over the wide-spread glade that lay there 
bounded by a lofty and dense wall of oaks, chestnuts, 
birches, and other secular giants of that dark and gloomy 

The huge forest trees were crowded to their topmost 
spray with a maze of vines and creepers and twisted 
climbers, whose thickly tufted volutes gave intenser ex- 
pression to the shade below, where beneath their verdant 
canopies sprung in wild profusion, myriads of grasses, 
weeds, and tall ferns that half buried the prostrate trunks 
of mighty ancient monarchs of the woods, now mouldering 
there under a pall of exuberant vegetation. Here might 
be seen a huge rock lifting its enormous rifted summit all 
over mottled with many-hued lichens from among the de- 
caying trunks at its feet, while there an ancient fir looked 
not unlike a broken bridge just where its top was still 
upheld by a couple of great ash trees as aged as itself 
And all around these monuments the place was thick sown 
with bushes, ferns, heather, and tall wild weeds that seemed 
inclined to emulate the lofty columns above them, so vigor- 
ous was their green and luxuriant growth. 

In all this majestic solitpde not a sound fell on the ear 
2 I'd 


save the silver song of a streamlet, clear as purest crystal, 
as it fled hastily ouwards, winding in and out over its bed 
of bright sand, gleaming, hiding, and flashing out by turns, 
now plashing among many colored pebbles and stones, 
and again rushing among broken masses that vainly strove 
to check its mutinous career. 

The spring that gave birth to the brook lay off at some 
distance over the green, where it burst forth at the foot of 
a low hill. 

The rude workmen, of many centuries ago, had covered in 
the fountain by means of three tall unhewn stone slabs, 
two of which served as walls, and the third laid across the 
top as a solid roof, which rustic though it was stood never- 
theless a mark of their respect. So then it seems that 
this daughter of the wild woods must have had friends of 
her own, even so long ago, among the children of men ! 
Yes, friends — and better than that, timorous worshippers ! 
a ready inference — seeing the care taken by the clergy of 
old, who had set up on the roof a rude stone effigy of the 
holy St. Procul, who was the original missionary and 
apostle of conversion to that idolatrous population, cen- 
turies ago. 

In those remote ages, the wild sparkling fountain, free 
as its own bright clement, might well have dispensed with 
a patron saint. She was a divinity in her own right. 
Under the outward form of a beautiful girl, she was said to 
have made these woods a fearful place, by seducing any too 
rash invading huntsman, and even by now and then drown- 
ing one of her lovers. A reputation so equivocal as that 
might have well drawn on her the suspicious regards of 
the ecclesiastical authorities, nor was it less than sound 
common sense to provide the fair maiden with a powerful 
mentor, who might put a bridle on her extravagances. 
Even Saint Procul himself was nothing more than just 


equal to the task ; his very cross and stole could hardly 
keep her quiet to her work, so that even now people shivered 
as they told how master Luke, the carpenter, brother 
Maclou, the bailiff, and (horresco referens) one of Lord 
de Pomes' own sons, happening most rashly to pass after 
sunset, too near the fairy's spring, were suddenly plunged 
heels over head into the water, and almost strangled to 
death I 

Now, what could blessed St. Procul be about, while his 
neophyte was playing such wicked gambols ? It 's quite 
clear that a saint, such as he, must have had charge of 
more than a bare one penitent, and so the mischiev- 
ous fairy might take advantage of his occasional absence 
to indulge in her diabolical pranks. At last, about the be- 
ginning of the twelfth century, when Louis VI., commonly 
called Louis le Gros, was king, and in a remote corner 
of the Nivernais, where it bordered on Champagne, where 
our story is laid, things had reached such a pass that to 
brave the vicinity of St. Procul's Spring after sundown, 
was considered an act of temerity that might well lead to 
the most disastrous consequences. 

It was on that bright August day, then, at about three 
o'clock in the afternoon, that you might have seen strolling 
along the blind path that led across the green prairie 
from out the dark and dreadful wood, a well-made active- 
looking man, who seemed to be walking slowly onwards, and 
very busily looking all around, as if in search of something. 
Anywhere else than in so desert a spot he would have 
hardly attracted a look, but in the midst of such a solemn 
vast and silent nature, the appearance of any human be- 
ing is a thing not to be disregarded even by the haughtiest 
and most disdainful observer. The coming man was 
dressed in a black and white goat-skin frock, with the hair 
outside. The rude garment was close drawn about his 


waist, by means of a yellow leather strap, at wliieh hung a 
scrip, a sheaf of arrows, and on the left side a long bare- 
bladed knife, with a wooden handle. The rawhide sandals 
on his feet gave a moderate protection against the briers 
on his path. As to his head, there was no other covering 
bat its forest of crisp chestnut curls, that certainly had 
never known the comb. The savage-looking huntsman 
held an ashen bow in his hand. There's little to be said about 
his features, which conformed with the rude appearance of 
his arms and dress ; they were rough enough, and clothed on 
with that subdued gravity so characteristic of a sort 
of majestic stolidity in the being whose face is ever un- 
moved by the variable emotions of an intellectual soul. 
He looked as if between twenty-five and thirty years of 
age. The light red beard was as matted as his hair ; long 
mustachios giving a brutal soldierly look, reached their sharp 
points as far down as his shoulders, after the fashion of 
our Frankish ancestors ; and lastly a pair of dull gray eyes, 
announced a creature devoted to the superstitions no less 
than to the impetuous passions of the savage. 

While we are looking at hira, he has strolled across the 
wide green meadow, got beyond the golden sunlight, and 
was already in shadow close to where the path led into the 
heart of the wood, when suddenly he stopped short, 
and his strained eyes took on a terrible expression of 
mistrust and rage. 

" What are you about there, you thieving villains," cried 
he, passing his bow instantly from the right to the left hand, 
and clutching the knife with the right. 

** Well, what then," said an insolent voice ; " are peo- 
ple not allowed to walk about in these woods ?" 

" Walk about ? Yes ; but not to cut down the limbs, 
and steal the wood, and that's the very thing you aro 


Hardly had he spoken, when a dozen stout fellows 
sprang to their feet out of the thicket, and hurried for- 
wards to support the man who had answered our travel- 
ler so boldly. They all, as they stood there in their coarse 
gray smock-frocks, looked stout and strong, while the 
chopping axes in every man's hand, and their great bushy 
beards gave them a very determined look. 

Standing with his band around him, the wood thief 
spoke again. 

" Come now, Rigauld ! don't be cross. It was only 
yesterday and you might force us to look at the forest as 
a thing of terror, and we would no more have dared so 
much as to touch it than were it the shaven crown of the 
very least of the Abbey brethren over yonder. To-day, 
things are on another footing ; so, lest you should take the 
trouble to get into an unprofitable passion, I'd have you to 
know that threats and wrath are not worth a rush with a 
set of men determined to make use of their hands to show 
who is the stronger, you or we here. Eh I by my truly, 
Rigauld; people in paradise used to cut their wood 
wherever they chose ; there were neither Abbots nor monks 
in those days." 

"You lie in your throat 1" briefly replied the hunter, 
without regard to the number of his adversaries, *' and you 
shall soon find out in the Abbey dungeon, that such scum 
as you are not allowed to lay their hands on what belongs 
to their betters." 

The jeering peasant at once began to make his axe fly 
round and round above his head. 

"Oh, hoi Rigauld," said he, "you think to make a 
dozen such stout comrades as we all tramp just as you 
please I Were you monseigneur the Count de Ne vers 
himself, on his biggest charger, wrapt all up in mail, you 
couldn't speak out bolder. Come on, then, you braggart, 



and let me show you that your knife isn't master, face to 
face, with a dozen chopping-axes !" 

Rigauld shook his head like an insulted bull, and with 
a single bound fell on his opponent, who, unprepared as 
he was for so sudden an assault, felt the terrible grip of his 
enemy at his throat; he was choking already: at the 
same instant, that sharp uplifted blade was about to strike 
him dead : the other peasants rushed up quite sure of at 
least avenging their spokesman by exterminating the 
Abbot's bold huntsman, when all of a sudden there rose 
up from the tall grass, near by the angry group, a strange 
figure murmuring with a strangling voice I 

"Help! Rigauldl Help." 

To this outcry the peasants responded by exclamations 
of terror, and suddenly turned and fled. Rigauld's hand 
dropped down without striking, and let go the fellow he 
was choking, who as soon as he was free, and active as 
a deer, plunged at once into the thickest depths of the 
forest. As to the guard, there he stood stock still, his 
mouth agape, his eyes bursting from their sockets, his face 
all horror-struck, and he unable to move a single step. 

But no fear of a mere mortal enemy could have troubled 
him so. He had just thrown himself without the least 
fear on an antagonist supported by a dozen comrades. 
One champion more to fight, would have been nothing to 
make him give back. No I but the voice he had just heard 
was so strangling and hoarse, so strange — ^that lump, or 
whatever it was, lying there in the tall grass, and which his 
horror-struck eyes could not make out — ^looked so sinister — 
and what's more, it was such a fearful place, this St. 
Procul's Spring, that it were hard to feel surprised at the 
appearance of even the most dreadful apparition. That it 
was that chilled the very blood in Rigauld's veins. 

Meanwhile the terrible phantom that had fallen back 


again among the tall herbage, uttered no articulate sound ; 
nothing save low and plaintive moans. In the course 
of a few moments, Rigauld, who found that he had as yet 
suffered no attack, began partly to recover his presence 
of mind, and with a trembling voice, asked — 

" Art thou man ? art thou ?" murmured he. "Art thou 
demon ?" 

" Help I" replied the lugubrious voice. '* I am an un- 
fortunate monk ; they have murdered me. " 

The suspicious forester muttered twixt his teeth : — 

" It's one of the demon's tricks ; if I go near him he will 
iump on me and strangle me to death." 

Had he dared to run, it is likely that he would have 
asked no questions, and fled from the haunted spot, but he 
was afraid to retreat lest he should be assailed in the rear, 
and so he spoke. 

" Monk, who was it murdered you ?" 

" The robber band in the woods there : — art thou not 
Rigauld ?" 

*' I am Rigauld," answered the woodman, and venturing 
a few steps nearer, the better to see the object of his terror : 
he cried out in his astonishment : — 

" Why I it's father Nicolas I" 

Before him lay the horridest sight his eyes had ever 
beheld. The poor Monk's frock was all rent and torn in 
a thousand places, soiled with earth and mud, and bits of 
grass and broken reeds, as if he had been dragged along 
the ground, and had not fallen without a struggle. His 
naked breast was gashed with a blow from a wood-axe. 
Numerous wounds of the head and neck made it almost 
impossible to know him, so steeped and stained was he with 
his still fast flowing blood. On his hands, his arms, and 
legs, Rigauld saw nothing but gashes ; they had chopped 
him to pieces. 


" It is father Nicolas," repeated he. " I know him by his 
long gray beard." 

The sight of the Monk all hacked as he was and horrible 
to behold, were a mere trifle to the savage forester in com- 
parison with the very smallest of the devilkius in the 
bottomless pit. 

He kneeled down among the ferns by the Monk's side 
and spoke. 

" Were yon fighting with the peasantry, father ?" 

" No. I was riding along on my mule ; — they were 
cutting down a noble fir ; — I tried to strike them ; — ^they 
have murdered me — I am dying now." 

" Who struck the first blow ? Tell me, for I will revenge 

" It was," — said the Monk in a feeble tone, " it was Pierre 
the blacksmith at Grand Clos." 

" I," said Rigauld, "recognized Eustache the ploughman 
among them." 

" Yes, he was there too. Ah, Jesus, my God I I shall 
die without confession." 

" If you had only had a little more patience," said 
Rigauld, " I would have killed him for you ; but as soon as 
ever they heard you speak they all ran off, no doubt 
because they thought you were coming to." 

" Oh I" spoke the Monk, his eyes already beginning to 
glaze, " why must I die out here ; — which way is the 
Abbey ? — my own cell I I would like to die in my own 
cell I — My sins are great — but I have expiated them alL 
— Miserere Mei Domine P^ 

He sighed heavily, and crossing his hands on his breast 
began a fervent prayer. 

Rigauld kneeling in the grass bent over his form. 

" Father, shall I carry you to the Abbey ? I can carry 


you on my back, and perhaps we may get there time 

" Two long leagues ! — No. — I should die on the road. 
No. It's too far I — Oh, my Holy Patron I who would have 
thought of all this ?" 

" At any rate," resumed the forester, " you shall be sorely 
revenged. The Typhaines peasantry will talk for long 
about your death I His reverence the Abbot will not let 
a scamp of them go unpunished 1" 

"No I" replied the Monk with difficulty. — "I forgive 
them. — I am now under the religious habit. — But it is a 
very hard thing for a man of my lineage," and the aged 
Monk began to pray again in a low tone. 

" I'll go to the spring and get some water for you, and 
wash off some of the blood from your face, father." 

" Go, my son, and if you find me dead on your return 
— bear witness that I fell a martyr in defending the rights 
of the Church. — My God I this is a great grace thou hast 
vouchsafed unto me !" 

Pather Nicolas began to pray again. Rigauld rose 
from his knees and ran to the spring, whence making his 
scrip serve by way of bucket, he brought a supply of the 
liquid. The Monk was still alive, but his eyes were closed, 
and his lips, that alone were moving, murmured a whispered 

" If only some one would happen to come by," thought 
the guard, " we could soon rig up a stretcher, and by a fast 
walk or even at a run an hour would be enough to bring 
us to the Abbey, and console this poor father who is dying 
here like a mere infidel, without the least bit or crumb of 

Rigauld looked all around, but not a soul could he see 
in the whole immense clearing ; and now the hunter, find- 
ing himself alone in this way, began to grow uneasy again. 


Jnst as the thought struck him, the father once more opened 
his eyes, " Give me — some water," said he. 

Kigauld took up a few drops in his palm and poured them 
on the dying man's lips, and next tried to wash away some 
of the blood that begrimed the whole face and head. This 
process, which gave him a clearer view of the horrible 
^ wounds made by the peasant's chopping-axes, convinced 
him that it was no use to stay any longer, and he expressed 
his wish to be gone. 

" You can't live much longer, father ; I can do you no 
good, and as for you, in a few minutes you'll have nothing 
to fear. Let me go then, and do you die here quietly ; your 
murderers shall get their dues, I promise you, and that is 
a thought that ought to comfort you, say what you will 
about it." 

"Don't leave me," replied the Monk in a suppliant tone. 

" I can't do anything for you," rejoined Rigauld with a 
frown, and casting a timid glance towards the witches' 

" It is hard to die here alone" — and a moment afterwards 
— "you are right," said he. "Go, then — take a packet of 
letters out of my frock. — That's, well — ^that's the one I 
Carry the letters to the Reverend Abbot — ^he will find that 
I did fulfil my mission ; I should have been happy could I 
have met with a better success. — Go now — my death is but 
the beginning of many crimes. The Lord's House is in 
danger ; tell the Abbot I die a true believer in all the 
Church teaches. Tell him. — Begone, the day is closing. 
Perhaps the Abbey is already in peril. Run — ^tell the 
Abbot to have prayers said for my soul." 

Rigauld thought the poor father must be raving ; he pnt 
the letter with its red seal in his bosom, and went off with- 
out once looking back and without the least remorse for the 
cruel precipitation with which he had left the dying man 


all alone. The fact was, he saw the sun was near going 
down, and though night was not on him quite yet, he 
dreaded the idea of being caught by the twilight in such a 
fearful place. So he hurried on in the gloomy track as it 
wound beneath the limbs of the trees, and unhesitatingly 
plunged into a dark labyrinth in which he felt far safer 
than he would have been near that limpid spring. 

He went onwards until he came to a cross-roads, and 
there, as he heard the tramp of several horses on the short 
greensward, he turned and saw advancing on his right 
four cavaliers that he who was in the habit of meeting all 
the gentlemen hunters in the neighborhood, could not make 
out as belonging to that part of the country. For some 
time he gazed at them with a distrustful curiosity. 

At the head of the cavalcade rode a handsome young man, 
for he looked not more than twenty-five or twenty-six years 
of age, who wore a hauberk of iron mail, over which was 
a surcoat of green cloth with a small red cross sewn on 
the shoulder. The Knight, for from his equipment he was 
evidently a Knight, was coiflfed with a black plush 
hood ; on his neck was a gold chain and heavy gold spurs 
at his heels. A broad heavy high hilted sword hung from 
an embroidered leathern belt. His hands, as well as his 
thighs and legs, were encased in mail. No one ever beheld 
a more resolute and spirited physiognomy than that of this 
handsome Seigneur ; large, dark, beautiful, well opened 
eyes, nearly on the face level, and bright as a brand, were 
all aglow with intelligence and fire ; exquisite teeth ; cheeks 
imbrowned by the wind and the sun — all these and a close 
curling beard — ^he looked the very model of a warrior. 

Next behind the Knight, mounted on a vigorous Flanders 
roadster, came a big burly looking individual, stout and 
square of build, and blind of one eye, who seemed to be not 
at all inclined by any evidences of good temper to evince 


his gratitude to his mother nature, for so large an endow- 
ment with brawn and bone, or the incomparable strength 
revealed in every iota of his outward man. This giant, 
this Caligorant's crabbed sullen visage was half hidden in 
a thicket of red beard. Like his master, he too was covered 
with mail, but wore no surcoat. On the right of his amia- 
ble figure was an enormous dagger, and on the left a sword 
still more enormous; while a massive battle-axe swung 
from the pommel. His dexter hand bore a couple of spears, 
one of which surmounted with a blue pennon was blazoned, 
a lion rampant argent, his master's arms ; with the left 
hand he managed his powerful steed. 

In the rear of this tragical looking figure, and in evident 
awe of his vinegar scowl, came on a pair of pages, one of 
them thirteen or fourteen and the other of some sixteen 
summers, bearing the Knight's helm and buckler blazoned 
like the pennon. 

The two boys, who when out of the old squire's sight, must 
have been a precious pair of blusterers, also wore armor of 
mail and had steel caps on their heads. 

As soon as he observed Kigauld, the gentleman put 
the question that never fails the lips of a traveller upon 
meeting a countryman. 

"Halloo, fellow," cried he, "how far to Typhaines 
Abbey ?" 

"A league, monseigneur." 

" Thank you, we shall get there in time then. But, God's- 
blood I what is all this I see, master rascal ? Blood on 
your dress ?" 

" What I Blood I Have I blood on me ?" 

"You are all covered with it," rejoined the Knight. 

The fact is, Rigauld could not have been kneeling down 
by the dying Monk without staining his clothes with great 
staring purple splotches. 


" He's been killing and robbing some one," put in the old 
Squire in a sententious tone. 

"You lie!" replied the guard; "you are more of a 
murderer than I am. " 

" Shall I split his skull open?" inquired the giant, passing 
his hand towards the battle-axe. 

"No, Fulk, not just yet, let me interrogate him first." 

"Answer me now, whence this blood that stains you 

"It's a Monk's; it's father Nicolas's blood, who was 
murdered just now, about a league from here, close to 
Saint ProcuPs Spring, by a set of mutinous burghers, and 
I am on my way to the Abbey to tell them about it." 

" What I How long is it since your vilains hereabout 
broke out in insurrection ? God's-death ! I am sorry for 
you all ; I am familiar with that kind of scourge and know 
what it costs with vermin of that sort. No reasoning for 
them equal to blows." 

" That's the very fact," muttered Fulk, in his moustache, 
nodd'.3g his head with an air of conviction. 

The Knight resumed : — 

" Thou shalt show me the way ; I am going to the Abbey 
too ; walk close to my horse." 

" Willingly I" 

This brief reply, given with no hurry or the least sign of 
confusion, seemed to lessen the Knight's suspicions, who 
began a familiar chat with the forester. 

" So then, you say your burroughmen are in a state of 
mutiny I Are they already crying out for the commune ?" 

" Commune ? what do you mean by commune ?" 

" He knows nothing about that," said Fulk, with an in- 
dulgent glance at his ma^ster. 

"The commune, my lad I" cried the Knight. "Why, 
it is the most abominable invention that the devil ever let 


loose in the world for the eternal damnation of poor pea- 
sant folk. Whenever the Tempter gets very hungry for 
Jacques Bonhomme's soul, he begins to whisper in his ear, 
telling him what a nice thing it would be to have no more 
taxes to pay, to be ordered on no more corvées ; not to be 
compelled to obey anybody ; to walk about, right or left, 
just like a gentleman or a clerk. Such an idea being pare 
and simply scandalous and absurd, of course he takes it up. 
So the clodpoUs with commune in their heads run about 
preaching that all men are equal — one man just as good as 
another. To all this I have only one answer, and that is 
that the bishops should excommunicate every propa- 
gator of such lies, that nobody believes in, not even the 
insurgents themselves." 

" They don't believe a word of it," said Fulk. 

'' As soon as the demon's suggestions have got fair hold," 
continued the Knight, " the clodhoppers begin to stir, and 
it naturally follows that their Seigneurs can't allow them 
to keep such notions in their numbskulls. So they go to 
work, snatching at any weapon in reach of their paws, and 
as if really possessed by the devil, crowd to their towns and 
burghs, running hither and thither, and howling out ' Com- 
mune ! commune V The more they shout the more people 
they massacre: they devour little children; rip up women's 
bellies, and behave just like excommunicates, as they are 
in fact." 

" They've killed father Nicolas," muttered Rigauld, in 
corroboration of the Knight. 

" They've played the devil wherever they happened to 
break out. Look, my lad, they put out Fulk's eye there 
only five years ago." 

" They put out my eye," gravely added the Squire. 

"Then we shall have a fight; so much the better," put 
in Kigauld. 


As the travellers were talking in this way, they issued 
from the forest, and coming to a heathery plain, looked out 
before them and beheld, on a rocky eminence, the Abbey of 
Typhaines, and the Burgh far below, that looked as if it 
were crawling at this feet of the sacred edifice.. 



A SINGLE glance at the Abbey might well satisfy the 
highest expectations of an approaching pilgrim to that 
holy sanctuary. 

At the summit of a rocky hill, where the two branches 
of a broad valley came down to spread over the wide fer- 
tile plain, it stood all alone, like a strong fortress resting 
as it were on a firm pedestal. Its massive belfry, towers 
and lofty walls of reddish stone, filled the beholder with 
respect, while his admiration swelled at the aspect of the 
wide and varied landscape, that stretched out in every 
direction at the feet of this venerable house of God. 
To the west, the sloping hill fell downwards to the mar- 
gin of a deep, narrow stream, whose banks were choked 
with reeds and rushes, and other aquatic plants, the favorite 
resort of thrushes, fish-hawks and various birds, among 
them an occasional heron, that rose heavenwards with flap- 
ping wings and loud screams, as he sought the airy fields 
above. A bridge with two narrow and strong arches, for 
it was built of huge blocks of hewn stone, served as com- 
munication between the abbey and its town below ; for the 
Burgh of Typhaines was on the farther shore of the stream, 
— ^grouped in the broader plain, its narrow streets crowded 
with the abodes of the burghers and peasantry that seemed 
as if shrinking into the smallest possible magnitude, like a 
man panic-stricken or suffering under the condensing power 
of an ague- fit. 

It certainly was a considerable town, and really deserved 
to be called a city, for from the height down whose slope 


the Knîgbt, with his companions guided by Rigauld, was 
now descending, among the cabins of the rustics and other 
more pretentious buildings, they looked down on two larger 
strucftires that alone evinced the importance of the Bourg 
de Typhaines. One of them was a small church edifice, 
the other a stern square structure, which was neither 
more nor less than the Abbej-gaol ; to deserve a more 
honorable title, nothing was wanting to the Burgh but a 
proper provision of ramparts fit for offence as well as de- 
fence. The view before him of the Abbey, the town, and 
flourishing fields, so much better cultivated than lands be- 
longing to the secular seigneurs of the time — the whole 
scene, indeed, heightened the Knight's rapture and admira- 
tion so, that, checking his steed, he exclaimed, in his 
enthusiasm : — 

" Good God I This, then, is the celebrated Abbey of 
Typhaines ! This the abode of that holy Abbot, Anselm ; 
the spot so renowned by that virtue and pure piety of his I 
Yonder, too, stands the glorious church, the tomb of so 
many venerable personages, so many illustrious knights, 
and, among them, even as many as three of my own 
honored ancestors I As for me, I can now well compre- 
hend that love that impelled so many gentlemen to enrich 
the worthy monastery, and I cannot die in peace unless I 
too shall be enabled to bequeath her some portion of my 
own domain. I suppose, forester, that the whole of the 
country before me belongs to yon glorious Abbey?" 

" Oh, monseigneur," replied the hunter, his eyes spark- 
ling with pride, " though your view extends very far from 
this spot, you cannot yet see the outer bounds of our fiefs !" 

" I am glad of that," growled the man-at-arms ; " never 
can the masters be as rich as I could wish them to be — and 
it's safe for you to say, they have not a warmer friend or 
more devoted servant than I am. And so, yonder auda- 



cious Bargh is so bold as to venture into a qnarrel with 
this noble mansion, and insolent burghers dare to threaten 
its holy monks I Will they go to murdering their pious 
seigneurs ?" . 

" Have a little patience," rejoined the hunter. " I know- 
the names of the guilty, and the reverend Abbot will surely 
have them aU executed. Besides, in case he should hap* 
pen to forget the knaves, didn't I promise Father Nicolas 
to take vengeance for him ? I swear to you that his poor 
soul need not give itself the trouble to come back to this 
world and put me in mind of my engagement." 

" You'll be a lucky dog," said Fulk, " and your Abbot 
too, if the rustics who committed that crime should agree 
to be captured like sheep, and suffer their throats to be 
cut, without a single bleat. As to me who am pretty well 
acquainted with that sort of cattle, I rather think Master 
Jacques Bonhomme has a very sharp set of teeth, and 
knows how to bite too. Try him, and youll be ready to 
swear that the idolatrous Saracens themselves have tlie 
most angelic tempers compared with a set of peasants and 
burghers in open insurrection." 

Kigauld appeared to not very clearly understand the 
Squire's meaning, or at any rate, to care very little what 
he was talking about. At first he looked at him vdth an 
air of surprise, and then, after shaking his fist, turned away 
and began to whistle. 

Again the Knight broke the silence : — 
*' Tell me now, after all, what about this Abbott Anselm, 
who, after what I have heard about him, I am ready to 
pronounce a great saint and the very best man in the whole 
world. I must confess, bold huntsman, that I am on 
my way to yonder Abbey for the purpose of treating with 
him about a matter of great importance to myself, and I 
would explain it to you if I had time. I wish I could sat- 


îsfy myself beforehand that I am to meet a hearty welcome 
and my business too." 

" Faith I" responded Rigauld, "provided you don't know 
Abbot Anselm better than that, there must be very little 
news where you came from I Ah, you ought to have seen 
the Abbey when under Abbot Ranulph's charge, if you 
would know the différence. Abbot Anselm certainly is a 
saint, a real saint I Whenever I find myself in his presence, 
I begin to tremble as if in the presence of God himself. 
E verybody knows he is wiser than any magician, and that if 
he chose to do it, all he would have to do to summon before ' 
him all the devils in hell — only just let him open one of his 
big books. It is a fact that he has worked miracles. I 
am not going to tell you about them, for here we are at the 
gate — but he did work miracles ; so, if what you want is 
all square and fair, you may feel quite safe — for he will do 
it for ye in a trice." 

" Thank you for your information," answered the Knight. 
" And to show you how well I am pleased with the good 
hopes you give me, here, take this purse, and buy you a 
good sheaf of arrows, or a pot of wine — what you will." 

The forester put the money into his scrip, and the little 
troop, now at the summit of the rock, passed on through 
the great gate, into the interior of the wealthy Abbey of 

It was easy to perceive at the very first sight, that Ri- 
gauld had by no means exaggerated the hospitable dispo- 
sition of the Monks within. Two of them, though still 
environed by a mendicant crowd, were busily engaged in 
the yard with the stated distribution of provisions, and the 
wretched gang were dispersing, some carrying off their 
jugs of beer, their loaves, their fruit and slices of bacon. 
Farther off, you might see people on crutches, and all sorts 
of lame folk just coming, with bandaged head or arm, out 


of the leech's office, who was still bnsy giviog and enforcing 
his last injonctions, as thej crawled on with that piteous 
look so peculiar to a clodhopper when he thinks he is sick. 

On discovering the Knight, two of the lay brethren has- 
tily advanced to greet him. 

" Brethren," said the Kpight, " I salute you. I have to 
beg your hospitality, which I venture to hope will not be 
refused me." 

" This holy house is never so unjust as that," replied one 
of the monks. " How then should she dare to refuse a 
soldier of the Cross ? Come in, Monseigneur, come in 
with all assurance of welcome. Pray, alight, and while 
the Father Abbot gives welcome to you and your company, 
allow me to ^ke charge of your horses, and see them well 
cared for. " 

The Crusader did not give the Monk the trouble to renew 
his invitation, but leaping to the ground, and his men, as 
well, they followed one of the brothers appointed to con- 
duct them into the presence of the great ecclesiastical 

The travellers followed their guide through long, low, 
dark cloisters, and mounted more than one stairway. The 
Abbey had not been built by a single architect, nor in 
accordance with a single plan, so that, at various periods, 
new buildings and even entire wings had been added to the 
original pile. To effect easy communication betwixt the 
old and the newer parts of the monastery, it must have 
severely taxed the invention of the new builders to supply 
infinite passages, corridors, and stairs. They had almost 
converted it into a labyrinth. 

On the second story, at the end of a wide gallery look- 
ing out on an inner court, the lay brother opened what 
looked like a cellar door, to give admission to the new- 
comers. It opened into the Abbot's room. A look showed 


what the abode of that puissant dignitary was. It was a stone 
cell, some twelve feet square, with a ceiling so low as to 
prevent any one from standing erect in it. The light came 
in through a loophole in a very thick wall, and let in an ob- 
lique and imperfect beam. Beneath the pale ray of light 
was an oaken table unfamiliar with the plane, standing 
on rough posts, and loaded with huge volumes, diplomas 
with their parti-colored seals, and parchments, some of them 
still blank, and others covered with that large, strange, 
angular writing characteristic of the age. A few pens, 
ink-stained and ragged, sticking in a vast leaden ink- 
stand enthroned above the chaos, imparted a proper 
finish to its severe physiognomy. In front of the table 
stood a wooden stool, quite as rough as its major pendant. 
Off in the darkest corner of the room lay a couple of 
bundles of straw upon the stone floor, which was deemed 
bed and pillow suflScient. A wooden crucifix secured to 
the wall dominated above this terrible couch, and a disci- 
pline garnished with long, sharp iron points, hung close 
hy the image of God the Saviour. 

As the visitors made their appearance, they saw the 
Father Abbot, who, doubtless deep in meditation, stood 
leaning against the wall, his tall figure bent forwards, the 
arms crossed on his bosom, and the eyes downcast towards 
the flagstone floor. The Abbot, seeing the strangers, with a 
grave smile at once advanced to meet them on the gallery, 
where they had kneeled, so that, stretching forth his hands 
above them, they received the benediction. 

" Holy Father," said the Crusader, " I am come hither 
to commend me to your good grace, and demand a boon at 
your hands, the very greatest the world could give me. 
But God's work should take precedence of mine, and here is 
a forester whom I met on my way, and have brought hither 


to disclose to year holiness a sad and most dangeroas 

At these words, and as if news of a new misfortune 
might be by no means unexpected, the father tamed towards 
Riganld, who stood humbly in the background at the end 
of the gallery, holding in his outstretched hand the blood- 
stained missive of Father Nicolas. 

" Well, Rigauld," said he, " what is this letter and what 
the misfortune you are come to announce ?" 

Rigauld presented the letter, and said : — 

" Father Nicolas has just now been killed by some of 
the burghmen." 

The lay brothers turned pale. The Abbot displayed no 
sign of emotion, or at most, an imperceptible tremor might 
be seen about his thin, compressed lips. He opened the 
dispatch, read it rapidly through, and then slowly folding 
it again, turned to address the Knight : — 

" You are come to our house, my son, at a painful mo- 
ment. Be not, however, less welcome on that account, 
and whatever may be the motive of your visit, if a poor 
monk, as I am, can do anything for your contentment, I 
promise you beforehand that your wishes shall be gratified. 
I shall give orders to let you want for nothing here. But 
the duties of courtesy may not, by your permission, com- 
pel me to postpone others not less imperious for persons 
of my rank in this Abbey. When I shall have performed 
a painful task, I shall be ready to hearken to you." He 
next spoke to Rigauld : — 

" Take with you four of my valets, and let a couple of 
the lay brethren accompany you to find and bring in the 
body of our unfortunate brother, in order that it may re- 
ceive burial in conformity with the rites of the Church." 

As the Abbot uttered these words amid the profoundest 
silence of every auditor, loud outcries suddenly broke 


on the ear, hurried footsteps resounded along the cloisters, 
and, mingled with groans of distress, rose up and reached 
even the distant cell of the Christian priest. 

The Knight, his head stored with souvenirs of burgher 
insurrections, cried out : — 

" How now, holy father ? Can it be that your townsfolk 
have broke out in sudden rebellion ? As I passed by near 
the outer town, I observed nothing calculated to excite 
suspicion. " 

"Let us not be alarmed," quietly spoke the Abbot. 
"Let us go forth, and learn the meaning of this tumult." 

"If your serfs break out," said the Crusader, striking 
his portentous sword with his hand, " you may count upon 
her, holy father. Rudaverse is a good Christian, and she 
won't sleep quiet in her scabbard." 

" There's nothing I'd like better than a chance to teach 
the clodpolls what a nice thing it is to have only one eye 
left," added Fulk. 

"My dear children," responded the Abbot, "I give 
thanks for your zeal ; but, no doubt, we shall not be under 
the necessity of putting it to the proof. Patience and man- 
suétude are arms stronger than yours — follow me." 

The tumult was still swelling, and, step by step, ran 
through every portion of the monastery. As he passed 
onwards along the cloisters, the Abbott saw door after door 
opening, and the astonished and terrified monks coming 
out of their cells to join him and ask for information from 
their spiritual father. 

" I know no more what it all means than you do, my 
children, but we shall know what it is in a few minutes." 

In this way, surrounded by his flock, and attended by 
the Knight and his people, the Prelate stepped out into 
the yard, where a scene was presented fit to melt all hearts. 
Lying on the ground, surrounded by lay brethren and 


valets, who were lifting up their hands to heaven and 
uttering lugubrious cries, lay stretched a corpse dressed 
in the monastic frock of the order, that had been just 
brought in by five of the townspeople. One of them, 
who appeared to be their head man, was holding a horse 
by the bridle. 

To understand the course of this history, it is indispen- 
sable for the reader to take a good look at the last-named 
personage. He wore a coarse, brown serge dress, and was 
armed with merely a short cutlass with a horn handle. A 
leathern purse hung from his belt, close to the war- 
like implement, and he is coiffed in a red cloth hood of the 
plainest sort. Although dressed in this humble guise, 
which announced nothing more or less than a merchant of 
the period, the man, who looked some fifty years of age or 
more, evinced in the traits of his countenance a firm ex- 
pression of rude boldness. His darkly tanned features, 
massive and square, embrowned by exposure to the sun 
and the wind, are lighted by piercing eyes, that look fearful 
beneath their restless gray eyebrows. He is not a tall 
man, but visibly he is strong as an athlete, and his motions 
evince a quickness amounting to temerity. Seeing the 
Abbot come forward, he uncovered, but did not bend the 
knee, a thing that excited universal surprise there, and gave 
rise to some murmuring. 

" Holy father," said the burgher, not in the least embar- 
rassed, " as I was on my way home from the fair at Troyes, 
we found this monk in the woods, and thought it best to 
bring him here to you. He was dead." 

" Are you very sure of that ?" asked the Abbot, in a 
severe tone. 

" Do you mean that you are suspecting me ?" the mer- 
chant spoke out haughtily. 

" God forbid," returned the priest, " that I should accuse 


any man, save upon clearest evidence, you or any one else, 
of having taken the life of a human being ; yet, and I 
tell you frankly, I do not hold that the man alone that 
drives the steel is a murderer ; the evil counsellor guides 
the arm, and is no less guilty of the crime than he who 
stabs. " 

"I understand you not, holy father," replied the burgher, 
with the same provoking tone. "Besides, I am nowise 
disposed to hide my thonghts. Perhaps this monk here 
drew down upon him his misfortunes by some insolent act 
of oppression." 

" Shall I strike him down ?". said Fulk, looking at his 

The Knight arrested his squire's hand, which was already 
on the dagger-hilt with a clutch, and in the mean time the 
Abbot gave answer to master Simon, the cloth -merchant, 
in a gentle and sorrowfnl tone. 

" Learn, my son, and meditate on these words of Holy 
Writ, 'Woe unto him by whom offence cometh !' You 
have just now insulted the memory of our unfortunate 
brother lying there, and I, as your temporal Lord, might 
lawfully execute justice on you for that outrage. I know, 
too, yes, I well know, the seditious harangues you often 
make to excite our burghers and serfs against us, breathing 
with all the power you can wield, an evil spirit into their 
feeble souls. I fear much that the demon has blinded 
your heart and mind, to the end that he may at last crush 
you beneath the ruins of the guilty edifice you are striving 
to erect. At this very moment, with menace in your eyes, 
and with insult ready to rise to your lips, you cast down 
at our feet the mutilated body of one of our people. Take 
heed — take heed, lest the same stones now red with the 
blood of the righteous, rise not up at some future day to 
testify against you !" 


The merchant erected his head with an air of defiance, 
as he heard these words, and with a contemptuous stare at 
the monastic crowd around him, he spoke : — 

" Is this then your gratitude f Menaces when I bring 
yon body home to you I Bah I The monks, I fear, have 
forgotten the very simplest virtues, and are greatly in want 
of some reform." 

" By the Holy Cross I" exclaimed Fulk to his master, 
" I feel I am a sinner until I shall perform some act of 
faith !" 

He suddenly drew his dagger, and stretched out his hand 
to take hold of Master Simon. But the Abbot strode be- 
fore the squire, and in a severe voice, " Withdraw," he 
said. " And you, Master Simon, go in peace, but if your 
conscience troubles you, rest assured you shall be punished." 

The merchant answered not a word, and at once passed 
out at the great gate, laughing a^oud, along with his com- 
panions. The Abbot and the monks kneeled down around 
Father Nicolas' corpse. 



While the monks were engaged in prayer, Rigauld and 
the other valets following their example, as well as they 
knew how, the Knight turned to Fulk, and whispered : — 

" The good fathers are chanting an office for the dead, 
but it were quite as well for them to be thinking about 
some measures of defence. Thou sawest how pleased 
Master Simon and his comrades looked, and how sure of 
compassing their ends ? Could we but get a peep into 
their hive just now, we would find the bees not at work 
on their honey-comb — ^but sharpening their stings the 

" I think so, too," said Fulk, " and it would be well fpr 
us to begin the fray. A few well-put thrusts and cuts 
readily reduces a mutinous burgher to his duty. They 
never are indomitable except when they are first to begin. 
Go and request the Father Abbot to lend you his men-at- 

" He hasn't any," replied the Crusader, scanning the 
yard and the adjoining walls. " I see no soldiers. Hoods 
and frocks in plenty, but not so much as a helmet. It 
seems to me that we happened here in good time — for if 
there should be a fight, we alone are stout enough to stand 
the shock, and that gives a chance to do the Abbot such 
good service that, even were he so inclined, he could not, 
after the victory, decently reject the demand I came here 
to make. So everything is in my favor, and please God, 
I wish the vilains would soon stir. But come, I am cu- 


rioas to see the poor dead monk that those wretches killed 
to try their hands." 

The Abbot had risen from his knees, and some of the 
lay brothers having provided a bier, several monks respect- 
fully took Father Nicolas np in their arms, and after un- 
covering his face, laid him down on it upon a white cloth. 
Others stood ready to lift the sacred burden to their 
shoulders, while yet others hastened forward to throw open 
the church doors. Just at that instant the Knight came 
up to look at the corpse. 

The feeling that brought him there was doubtless one 
of curiosity pure and simple ; he had but small tinge of 
the horror produced by such sights in our times ; the cus- 
toms of the twelfth century inspired no very great degree 
of delicacy. In those old times blood was blood, and 
nothing more, that is to -say, a thing of no great import- 
ance, only a dead body : nothing but a sad-looking object, 
a disagreeable occurrence, which everybody, especially 
soldier folk, ought to expect on his own account. The Cru- 
sader's eyes, therefore, gave expression to a mere common 
pity when they first rested on the features of the victim. 
But scarcely had he begun to look upon it when a sudden 
expression of terror, grief, and rage broke forth, and the 
Knight's countenance became wholly changed. 

" Ah I" exclaimed the youth. " Am I gone mad ? Is 
it a vertigo I have ? Tell me, is it really a monk, is it one 
of your companions I behold here before me ? Answer 
me, oh, holy father. Who is this man lying here slain ? 
Is it not Messire Geoffroy ? It cannot be my father ? 
Oh, monseigneur, my honored parent, it is thou indeed !" 

The Crusader threw himself on the body and began to 
sob, crying out aloud, weeping and uttering broken words 
that could not be understood by the people about him. 
Fulk went up to his master like a hound passionately 


attached, and he, too, looked at the dead face of Father 
Nicolas. Folk nodded his head with a solemn air, and, as 
if he deemed his master's sorrow too legitimate to allow 
of his intervention, let his arms drop, locked his fingers, 
and stood silently gazing on his prostrate lord. 

The Crusader's cries and despairing gestures were very 
surprising to the whole assembly of spectators. The 
monks, lay brethren, and valets began to whisper to each 
other their different opinions as to an adventure so unex- 
pected; but the Abbot, laying his hand softly on the 
Knight's shoulder, said : — 

" Have courage, my son. Are you sure that your grief 
does not deceive you ? May it not be that a false resem- 
blance is the only and frivolous cause of your sorrow ? 
Are you quite certain that this is your father ? The man 
you embrace with such filial devotion was known as Father 
Nicolas, though h^ once bore the name of Messire Geof- 
froy de Cornehaut." 

'* Ah, monseigneur, my dear father," resumed the young 
man, with streaming eyes, " there was no need of further 
certainty. I knew but too well it was thee whom I hold 
in embrace on this funeral pall. Oh, most redoubted and 
dear lord, heaven has punished me now because I did not at 
once fly to bear you the news of my return, and prefer to 
your embraces other ties, however legitimate they might 
be. Ah, my Jesus I Why did I not follow at once the path 
that led to my paternal castle ? Why did I come hither ?" 

"Because you would not hear a word I said," said 

The groans of the unhappy young man for some minutes 
stifled every word he tried to utter, and then he cried 
again : — 

" But it is my father I I left him fall of life and ardor, 
bearing old age as lightly as his armor I I left him, p 



true knight, renowned, illustrions, admired, adding day by 
day to the honor of our bouse, and here he now lies, a 
monk, and a silent corpse !" He buried his face in his 

Had Fulk, who was of a calmer temper than his master, 
been in possession of even a very little power of observa- 
tion, he would have wondered at the expression of the 
Abbot's features, while Messire Geoffroy's son was giving 
way to the bitterness of his sorrow. Father Anselm 
seemed to be suffering from some feeling that was not sor- 
row merely, though it looked like a painful state of anxiety; 
some deep-laid form of thought. 

But Fulk's intelligence was not subtle enough, nor suffi- 
ciently awake, and he drew no extraordinary conclusion, as 
the Abbot turned to him and said : — 

" So, my son, the knight here is none other than Mon- 
seigneur Philippe de Cornehaut ?" 

" Certainly it is he — he is no shame to his name 1" 

" He is renowned for his bravery and piety," was the 
Abbot's reply. — 

" Then renown is no liar," said Fulk, his eyes brooding 
over his master's prostrate form. 

" Is it true, then, that Messire Philippe, at his return 
from the Holy Land, did not go at once to his castle? 
At least, had he received no news from home ?" 

" Not a word, father," said Fulk, with a shrug. " Xot 
a jot. In that I grant you he was very wrong, but from 
the very moment of our landing at Marseilles, his every 
thought was to come hither. What would you have him 
do with a head crammed with projects, the nature of which 
he himself will give you to understand ?" 

" I can't guess," said the Abbot, talking to himself, 
"what it means. But, no matter! It's God's own cause, 
and it cannot fail. " 


He stepped forward to the Knigbt. 

" Have a care, my son, lest this terrible grief should 
prove to be rebellion against God's will. God's chastise- 
ments reach those only whom he proves. Rise — be firm. 
The man who visits his native land, after a prolonged ab- 
sence, must expect to meet with more disasters than one." 
Though Messire Philippe did, perhaps, hear this conso- 
lation, he answered not a word, and went on weeping. It 
was his squire who succeeded in giving his feelings quite 
a new direction, and that by a single reflection addressed 
aloud to himself: — 

" Such a brave knight — and to be killed by such a low- 
born mob I" 

These simple words proved more powerful than the Ab- 
bot's exhortations had been. The Crusader leaped up at 
a bound. The tears on his burning eyeballs were dried on 
the instant. His nostrils expanded in his rage. Bare- 
headed, for his hood had fallen to the flags, his countenance 
all ablaze with auger, he flung open the great portal, and 
looking to the town below, he lifted up his hands on high, 
and exclaimed : — 

" By the Holy Sepulchre, by Mount Carmel, Bethlehem, 
and the bones of all God's saints, I swear it — I will wear 
a hair cilicim garnished with iron nails next to my body 
until the very last of my father's murderers lies before mo 
in his blood I Bourg de Typhaines — oh, thou burgh ac- 
cursed — should I be forced to tear thee down with my fin- 
gers, and stone by stone, I will search thee in pursuit of 
the assassins to the bottom of thy deepest caverns. All 
hell shall not wrest them out of my hands I" 

As the young man spoke, he shook his arms in his rage 
ferociously. His hair streamed out on the wind. At other 
times, and beneath other skies, he would have been taken 
for an inspired prophet denouncing ruin to a city. The^" 


as if some part of his burden of woe had been alleviated 
by his crnel vow, the Crusader returned to the Abbot, with 
his head aloft, his footstep firm, and perfectly master of 

** Holy father, yon are right. No more despairing — ^oo 
tears — ^no more outcries. It would be offensive to God, 
and wholly unprofitable. My cause is yours as well. We 
are united — allies inseparable I My lands are bounded by 
your own ; and since your burghers are in a state of rebel- 
lion, I will, under our united banners, do battle in your 

" Yes, come, my son ; little by little, peace shall settle 
down on your soul. In the mean time, brethren, be it yours 
to repair to the church, and there set down these precious 
remains of Father Nicolas in front of the altar. We will 
pay him the last duties we owe, and then pass the night in 
prayer for the repose of his soul." 

The Abbot's orders were at once obeyed. The monks, 
entoniug a liturgical chant, lifted up the body, and march- 
ing two by two, moved in procession to the church. The 
squire and the pages were conducted into the domestic 
part of the monastery. Rigauld returned to his hut in the 
forest, and the yard being now quite deserted, the Abbot 
led the Knight, still torn by grief and rage, into the solitude 
of one of the inner cloisters. 

After taking a few steps in silence on the ringing flag- 
stones, the priest spoke aloud : — 

" You, my son, appeared to be greatly astonished to find 
your father under the monastic habit of our order. Just 
now, when I am weighed down by a thousand pressing 
cares, I am compelled by my conscience to speak to you 
of yourself as well as of Messire Geoffroy. That vene- 
rable seigneur, that holy monk, previous to his unexpected 
death, had made certain arrangements you ought to be made 


acquainted with, and which, though it may occasion you 
to feel somewhat chagrined, will yet give you an opportu- 
nity to show your devotion to God's service." 

" I am prepared to hear you, my Lord Abbot. Some 
great change must have taken place in Messire Geoffroy 
in the five years I have been from home, to induce him to 
give up his battle charger, and range himself under t&e 
rule of your order. " 

" You are about to know the whole story," resumed the 
Abbot. "But, before I begin, answer me this question: 
When your father commanded you to proceed to the Holy 
Land in fulfilment of a vow he had made, did he explain 
the motives of his resolution ?" 

"No, indeed," was Messire Philippe's unaffected re- 
ply. "My redoubted seigneur was not in the habit of 
explaining his orders ; and when he had once spoken, that 
was enough — all that was left was to obey." 

" Well, then, I shall proceed to lay before you some facts 
which, if you would know me well, you ought to fully 
understand. It was more than twenty years ago that 
Messire Geoffroy conceived the project of assuming the 
Cross. Although he was a married man, and you only 
just born, he was desirous to proceed to Syria, and spend 
some portion of his blood, with the hope of securing in 
that an eternity of celestial joy. Thinking of nothing 
but his laudable design, and perfectly resolved to put it in 
execution, he unfortunately happened to be in want of the 
necessary funds, and so he was not only unable to provide 
for his own proper equipment, but he was obliged to procure 
a sufl&cient number of squires and men-at-arms and archers. 
So he was in great distress, and knew not which way to 
turn, when one day, a demesne-burgher of his came forward 
with a proposal to lend a large sum, on condition that, upon 
his return, he would make a concession of freedom to him- 


self as well as to all the mortmain inhabitants of his do- 
main. Messire Geoffroy reflected not so carefully as he 
should have done upon the consequences of such a proposal, 
and, pressed with anxiety to get off, acquiesced in all that the 
people asked for. Consequently the money was counted 
down, he raised a fine troop of men-at-arms, and leaving 
the Lady of Gornehaut with her infant child at the manor, 
set out for the Crusade. He came back at the end of the 
third year. He returned alone ; all his companions having 
perished, some in battle, some by sickness. He came back 
an impoverished man, on foot, the beggar's scrip at his 
side, and yet, no sooner had he planted his foot on Chris- 
tian ground, than the idea of recovering his castle and its 
domains revived a spark of joy within him. 

''But what must have been his astonishment when, after 
he climbed to the top of the rock whereon stood his manor 
house, he beheld a banner not his own flying from the 
summit of the donjon I It was then he began to feel a 
thousand bitter thoughts about your mother and yourself 
too. A peasant who was coming down the incline, informed 
him that within a few months after his departure, the dame 
of Comehaut had applied to her vilains, who had long 
ceased to pay in their taxes ; that they now exhibited the 
charter of their franchise and laughed at the lady's impo- 
tent demands ; that, in her embarrassment, the chatelaine, 
in utter want of the necessaries of life, as she sat within her 
old castle walls, had hearkened to evil counsels, and sold 
the castle to the peasantry. Within a month they had 
entered into possession of the place, and planted the banner 
of the commune on the old keep. As to the dame of Gor- 
nehaut, she had taken refuge with one of her relations, 
some leagues away, and was now living there in a poorish 
way, together with her son. 

" While Messire Geoffroy was hearkening to this re- 


citai, his heart seemed ready to break, and he has since 
told me that what most deeply wounded him, was not the 
wretched state of his family, but the sight of a strange 
banner flying on the abode of his ancestors. He felt as if 
he had been defeated, and his arms dishonorably stained, 
and gave himself over to the most sorrowful reflections. 

" After parting with the peasant who had, without re- 
cognizing him, given the above details, he sat down on a 
stone by the wayside, to eat a miserable bit of oaten bread 
a kind woman had bestowed on him that same morning. 
Still, unable to withdraw his gaze from the castle above, 
and with eyes veiled in tears, he pondered upon the posi- 
tion of his affairs, to find out what it was he ought to 
do. He was terribly embarrassed, but could by no means 
comprehend that God, whose servant and liegeman he was, 
could now recompense him for his services by letting him die 
of hunger and overwhelmed with shame. Just then there 
came along another man, whom he remembered as one of 
his stable-boys at the castle Dressed in a new, close-fitting 
cloth coat, the peasant was riding on a stout horse, with 
his wife seated on the pillion behind him, and laughing as 
they went on. Messire Geoffroy could not get rid of the 
idea that his own wife and son were, perhaps, even at the 
very moment suffering for want, and was giving way to the 
sorrowful reflection, when he heard : — 

"'There, vagabond, take that ;' and a small coin fell at 
his feet. His former stable-boy was calling him vagabond, 
and giving him alms I 

*'My son, your father was a good Christian — a gallant 
knight ; but in those days, he was still fond of the maxims 
of the world, despising poverty, and detesting humiliation ; 
he remembered not that, after the coming of Jesus, the 
greatest saints made it their special delight to be in want 


of everything and overwhelmed with opprobrium. He 
did not pick up the money, but went off at a hurried pace. 

*' He soon reached the fortress in which you and the 
chatelaine had found refuge. He did not reproach the 
lady ; there was none he had a right to make, seeing that 
he had left her without any means of support. But he 
hardly took time to rest his weary frame, and on the mor- 
row, attended by the lord of the place, he went about, 
visiting his relations and old friends and companions, 
whom he invited to meet him in arms in a meadow lying 
near his old castle. The whole company having assembled 
at the rendezvous, to the number of eight knights and 
fifteen squires, with their people, amounting to eighty men, 
well supplied with swords, lances, battle-axes, bows and 
arbalists, your father, who had no armor on, and nothing 
but his rags, his cross on the shoulder, and his pilgrim's 
staff, addressed the meeting as follows: — 

" * My dear relations, my dear friends, and neighbors, 
behold what a condition I am reduced to I And you know 
I earned these rags, not by harming any person, by attack- 
ing my allies perfidiously, or by betraying those who con- 
fided in my honor. You well know that I have ever 
endeavored to deal fairly with all men. Now, it is certain 
that I could never, unless I had taken up a loan, have pro- 
ceeded to Jerusalem to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. Was 
it just, was it right, then, while I was shedding my blood, 
to deliver the tomb of the Saviour — ^that my peasants, whom 
I left in their comfortable houses, busy making money, 
should bear no portion in the burden of such a sacrifice as 
that ? N©. It was not right nor just. Yet they refused 
to help me. They declined to give any gratuitous aid in 
the way of funds, or follow me to the battle-field I They 
sold me their succor at the cost of my rights. Next they 
abused my absence, to obtain from the urgent necessities 


of my poor wife, concessions that I never did make. In 
this they have acted like false vassals ; and I now ask you 
to say whether it is fitting that I am to be left to perish 
with hunger, while my serfs are feasting at the great table, 
and in the very hall where you and I used to greet each 
other in bygone times ? ' " 

"I can readily describe beforehand," cried Philippe, 
" what answ^er Messire Geoffroy ^s friends gave — that is, if 
they were gentlemen at heart." 

" Ah I Yes, my son," pursued the Abbot, with a sigh, 
" men — in a worldly sense held to be high and illustrious, 
but in my view men of violence and injustice — every man 
of them standing there in that meadow beneath the wil- 
lows, were of one mind, that your father and his family, 
who for centuries had been lords of the canton, could not, 
by the mere stroke of a pen, and a few silver marks, to be 
spent in a cause so sacred, be righteously despoiled and 
beggared. Every man of them declared upon his faith, 
that the serfs were in the wrong, and deserving of a proper 
punishment — that a man, a gentleman, situated as Messire 
Geoffroy was, would think it right to recover by force any 
domain wrested from him by guile, and that it would be 
a right thing to bring the serfs back to their duty, at any 
cost whatever. 

" Your father stood waiting for the decision, and then 
proposed what he thought ought to be done ; to which they 
agreed, and further engaged to give him such help as 
might be required. 

'* After agreeing upon the necessary measures, two of 
the oldest knights quitted the assembly, and proceeded at 
once to the town. It is hardly necessary to say that your 
father's return was already known there. You well know 
that, in such country parts there are ever idlers to be found 
who make it their business to run about hither and thithe- 


gathering news of all sorts, and retailing it again wherever 
they can find a listener. The knights found the people assem- 
bled in crowds in the public square, and among them four in- 
dividuals dignified with the title of wardens, and who acted 
as their captains. Thej saluted the assembly, and declared 
aloud that Messire Geoffroy de Comehant had returned 
from the Crusade to the Holy Land ; that he thanked his 
vassals for the friendly way in which they had advanced 
funds for his voyage ; that he would refund them as soon 
as ever he could provide the necessary means, and that for 
the present all they had to do was to prepare a reception 
suitable for the occasion of the seigneur's return to his 
domains. It was his intention to take possession of his 
manor that very day. 

" Scarcely would the populace allow the knights time 
enough to bring their address to a close. They began to 
utter frenzied cries, vociferate curses, and some of the 
worst of them to gather up stones. But the wardens or 
captains succeeded at last in quieting the disturbance, and 
told your father's envoys that the money had not been 
loaned, but given ; that in his absence, they had established 
a commune, which they intended to maintain, even at cost 
of their lives ; and that the castle was theirs, and they 
would keep it too. The old knights returned to the 
meadow, and reported the result to Messire Geoffroy and 
his friends. Then it was that your father, lifting up his 
voice, exclaimed : — 

" ' You see, my dear relatives, that these people are an 
unreasonable folk, and that they are determined to live 
with us on a footing that was never before allowed since 
the world began. Our fathers and their fathers lived here, 
ours above and theirs below. I know not whether it may 
happen some day — whether we, after the loss of our skill 
at sword-play, may be compelled to put up with such a dc- 


gradation as that Bat, as to me, I must say, that times of 
that sort are as yet very far off.' 

" They all shouted, * You are right I You are right I' and 
every soul of them got to horse — ^your father like the rest ; 
but he had no armor, and said he could do without it in a 
matter of bringing a parcel of serfs back to duty. Then 
seizing a battle-axe, and nothing more, he galloped off to- 
wards the village, shouting, as he went, his battle-cry, * No- 
tre Dame ! Notre Dame P 

*' The peasants were taken by surprise, and had no time 
to run to the castle and shut themselves in, nor even to 
barricade their streets. In utter dismay, and without 
leaders, and badly armed, they vainly, here and there, tried 
to resist the fierce onset of the knights. Though ten times 
more numerous, they were driven back, surrounded, trampled 
down, and massacred. There was a great carnage, and 
the streets and squares were stained with gore. The re- 
sistance ceased in the course of a couple of hours, for some 
were slain, many had fled, and the rest, on their knees, 
were begging for mercy. Of the four wardens, one had 
made his escape, the others were arrested and hung on the 
spot, from the donjon battlements, and after that it was 
deemed well to spare the survivors. 

" In the mean time, Messire Geoffroy had disappeared. 
They called out his name — they searched for him high and 
low, but all in vain. For a while it was supposed that he 
had been killed in the fray. At length they found him in 
a house, down on his knees beside a corpse, looking as if 
he had been stunned. And now it was seen what a fear- 
ful crime he had been so unfortunate as to commit — a 
crime, compared to which, any other is to be looked on as 
a trifle. In the heat of the fight, he had, without knowing 
it, broke into the Curate de Cornehaut's house, and as he 


was killing everything he met, he had killed the priest, 
like the rest !'' 

I lore the AblK)t coasod speaking, as if terrified himself 
at the bare meiuorj of the event. Messire Philippe bent 
down hirt head. He fully understood the grave import of 
the relation to which he had just hearkened. 

" From that day onwards," pursued the Abbot, " there 
was no more rest for Messire Geoffroy. It 's true he 
re-entered into the possession of his property; he was 
highly esteemed through the whole province ; he became 
prime favorite to his suzerain, the Count de Nevers; upon 
a thousand occasions he gave proof of his wisdom and 
valor ; but he was never known to smile, and though he 
often repeated to himself and to his own conscience, that 
be had slain the priest unintentionally, he ever looked 
on himself as a great sinner, and lived on, overwhelmed 
with remorse, and in just dread of everlasting punish- 
ment. In vain did he erect and endow a chapel ; in vain 
multiply his good works ; in vain did he send you, my 
son, to the Holy Land as soon as you had attained your 
twentieth year. Nothing could alleviate the burden of 
his sorrow, and so, finding himself at last a widower, he 
took up the resolution of seeking the supreme remedy for 
all his ills. That is the reason why it will be three years 
next St. Martin's day since he assumed the habit of oar 
order in this Abbey." 



The Abbot had brought his recital to a close, and 
Philippe de Cornehaut, who remained pensive for a while, 
turned suddenly to the Abbot, and spoke : — 

" Think you, holy father, that Messire Geoffroy 's pen- 
ance was sufficient to merit pardon for his crime ?" 

"I have some reason to think so, my son. Neverthe- 
less, I shall not conceal from you that so. precious a result 
is not wholly dependent on any austerity through which 
Father Nicolas may have attempted to redeem his error. 
I have to declare that there is another person who may 
yet very seriously compromise your father's salvation, and 
that person is your very self I" 

" I I" said Philippe. " I — why, what can you mean ?" 

" Before I explain myself, and open my whole heart to 
you," replied the Monk, in a grave tone, "it's necessary, 
my son, to know what I am to think of you yourself, and 
to learn whether I am to regard you as a good and loyal 
knight, or rather, as one of those men without faith or con- 
science, who, in our unhappy times, seem to make their 
pilgrimages to Saracen vices rather than the virtues of 
the Holy City. I shall not hide from you the motives of 
this prudence of- mine. Your father had heard news from 
you that gave him no little concern ; and though the mat- 
ter was not altogether so bad as was supposed, there was 
enough in it to justify me in some lingering distrust as to 



At these words, Messire Philippe appeared to be not a 
little contrite. For a moment or two he was silent and 
still, and then, making up his mind, he spoke as follows : — 

" I am not about to deny, holy father, that there haye 
been some wrong things about me ; but appearances made 
them oat worse than they were in fact, and it concerns me 
that you should believe so. Besides, as I told you when 
I entered this pious abode, I did not come to see you 
merely haphazard, or out of a merely truant disposition. 
I have a serious matter in hand, and have to ask your con- 
sent to what will assure my complete felicity, and to that 
end it is necessary that you should not regard me as a 
great sinner or a brainless fool. " 

" I am not going to accuse you, my son, without some 
proof at least. Say, then, what you have to allege in your 

" The day," resumed Messire Philippe, " when my re- 
doubted father made me set out for the Holy Land, with 
my squire Fulk and a dozen archers, I was not, I must 
confess it, very joyous at the idea of quitting my native 
land. I was young, and far more in a hurry to go in search 
of pleasure than to voyage to a country where, as I had 
heard say, there are more kicks than coins to be got, and 
I thought it a hard thing to go and haply get myself killed 
before I had enjoyed any opportunity to win a fair fame 
among my companions. In a word, I was hardly twenty 
years old, and reflected but little on the consequences 
of my actions. And so, when I had gone but a few leagues 
away from the castle, instead of pursuing my route south- 
wards to embark for Palestine, I turned right about, and 
went northwards towards Cambrai, where I had a great 
desire to go. 

"My squire, Ï must do him the justice to say, did all 
in his power to dissuade me from such disobedience, but 


finding me very much bent on ray project, and that all his 
persuasions went for nothing, he chose rather to go with 
me, than leave me to follow my inclinations all alone, and 
so pay a visit to countries that excited my curiosity far 
more than Palestine." 

" I can hardly understand all this in a gentleman such 
as you are," responded the Abbot. "To me it seems that 
no land should appear more attractive in your eyes than 
one where you was to expect glorious battle-fields ; you 
ought to have preferred the battle, and not your private 

"I was a madman I" replied Messire Philippe. "And 
perhaps, too, I had hearkened too eagerly to the counsels 
of my companions, no wiser than I. I had no fear of hob- 
goblins either, as you perhaps may find. I was sure that 
without going to sea, I should find, my good lance helping 
me, a thousand chances to win both booty and renown. 
Just about that time a quarrel had broken out for the 
second time, between the Bishop of Cambrai and his 
burghers there. Reports had reached our province to the 
effect that the good bishop was imploring all knights and 
sergeants-at-arms to give succor in his distress ; that all 
his attempts had failed to bring them to their senses, he 
proving wholly unable to convince them that peasant-folk 
are born into this world to the sole end of paying due 
obedience to their seigneurs. Further, that stiff-necked 
race still refused to hearken to their rightful Lord and 
head, and were actually, at that very time, crowding to the 
brink of the castle fosse, and howling out that odious 
cry, ' Commune! Commune P a sound that, once heard, 
never ceases to ring in one's ears. Thus there was nothing 
to be done now but to make use of some force that might 
compel those deaf brutes to hearken to his paternal ex- 
hortation. The bishop promised good pay, booty, ar 


such indulgences as holy Church usually concedes to all 
true Christians who fight against excommunicats in her 
defence. It boots not, of course, that I should tell you the 
commune had already been struck by an Interdict. 

"Your holiness is probably aware that Cambrai is a 
'large trading town where young people find plenty of 
chances to enjoy themselves, and that consideration deter- 
mined me to proceed thither, and there make my first proof 
in arms. 

" On joining, we found that we made up a force of some 
two hundred knights and squires. I am not going to 
trouble you with details of our splendid fights at that town. 
The burghers and peasants fought like so many real devils, 
and we had no little trouble to hold our own against them. 
My poor Fulk lost an eye in one of the frays. But at 
last, after many a conflict and with the help of our courage, 
we succeeded in putting an end to their obstinacy, and 
that gave us a good three whole days of plunder and booty 
— days, the like of which I can never hope to see again." 

" Have a care, my son I Have a care I For, although 
your cause was a just one and sanctioned by heaven, never 
forget that military excesses are odious and accursed by 
more than one holy council. " 

" I assure you, holy father," replied the youth, " if yon 
had only been there, with a trusty horse under you gallop- 
ing through streets of flame, with a good lance in your grip, 
among swarms of people running, praying, screaming, 
crying for quarter, some shouting for gold, some for silver; 
with exquisite tapestries or beautiful clothes and furniture 
flying out of the windows for whoever chose to lay hands 
on them, you'd hardly have found time to think about 
councils and all that. Besides, don't you be scandalized 
about it, for when I was at Jerusalem I did full and com- 
plete penance for whatever I happened to do. that day at 


Cambrai ; and it. was even the Archbishop of Tyre himself 
who gave me his absolution for it, when he saw how I 
wept over my sins in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre 

** After a stay of two months at Cambrai, and when the 
bishop had thanked and paid us for our services, besides 
arming some of the best ot us knights, of whom I was one, 
I took my leave, and turned my face towards Champagne, 
hardly knowing as yet what I was going to do, and perse- 
cuted by Fulk, who was always insisting on my going off 
at once to fulfil my father's vow, in Palestine." 

" It seems to me that you have a good servant, in that 
man," said Anselm. 

** Excellent. Rather talkative, but a capital soldier, and 
remarkably obstinate. We were travelling along one day, 
side by side, and talking away about a matter that was 
always nearest my heart. I had left my heart behind me 
in Cambrai. I was in love with a dame of high lineage, 
and instead of proceeding to the Holy Land, I should not 
have deemed it a very sore disappointment if I could have 
stayed and got a chance to perform a few nice exploits, the 
renown of which might perchance reach her ears, and at 
the same time hold me at no too great a distance from her 
beautiful eyes. I confess that the lady in question was 
not wholly insensible to my friendship ; that with the con- 
sent of her guardian, we exchanged our betrothal rings. 
But the lady had never been apprised that I had assumed 
the Cross, for I had carefully kept that matter a secret 
from her, for fear that she, a very religious person, would 
take a dislike to me, in case she should happen to find out 
how wretchedly I was procrastinating the fulfilment of my 
father's vow. It was Fulk's opinion that I was in the 
wrong to dissemble with her, and indeed that I was always 
in the wrong, do what I might; that some misfortu' 


would be sure to overtake me, unless my patron saint or 
the holy virgin herself should take pity on such blindness^ 
I certainly was somewhat shaken by Fulk's discourse, and 
was trying to give him an answer of some sort, when we 
were overtaken by a man, who I at once recognized as 
valet to the lady I served. I eagerly demanded what he 
wanted, and whether he was looking for me. 

** * Yes, Messire,' was the reply ; ' and I am sent by 
Madame to say that Ic Seigneur de Pornes has made oath 
to her on the holy relics, that you secretly assumed the 
Cross, and the reason why you did not quit the country 
was to be found in your want of courage, and nothing else. 
Further, she charges me to demand whether that is true or 
no ; and in case she had not been deceived by the Lord 
de Pornes, then she requests you to send back the ring, and 
think of her no longer.* While so saying, the messenger 
had drawn the gold ring out of his purse, and tendered it 
to me. 

** Ah I holy father, on hearing words so unexpected, I 
seemed turned to stone. But my wrath soon got the better 
of my shame, and I said, ' Carry the ring back to your 
mistress. Tell her that if I did not set out for the Holy 
Land as soon as I perhaps ought to have done, it was out 
of my love for her ; but that you saw the Cross on my 
shoulder, and I on my way thither. ' So saying, I took out 
the Cross from my bosom, where it lay concealed, and 
placing it on my shoulder, I added : — 

" ' Further, you shall say to your mistress, that in case, 
before I return, or the coming of no assured news of my 
death, she, without a motive, should fail in her pledged 
word to me, I will wage war to the death on the man, who- 
ever he may be, that shall have traitorously espoused her ; 
and that she herself shall never again find rest in this 
world from my just revenge, nor in the next from the 


demons who are appointed to punish perfidy like that." I 
then dismissed the messenger, and for this time seriously 
set out for Palestine. I arrived there ; I fought there ; was 
wounded there ; made prisoner, redeemed, and then taken 
ill, nursed and cared for by the Knights Hospitallers of St. 
John ; and concluding I had done enough, ruined, emaciated, 
and exhausted, I set my face homewards, along with my 
faithful Fulk, quite as worthy of pity as I was myself. In 
this condition we reached the kingdom of Naples ; and you 
may rest assured it was by no means a pleasing spectacle 
to see us in our rags, half naked, with our miserable beg- 
gar's scrip, and asking alms at the hands of the poor 

" One day, sitting by the margin of a spring, and trying 
to soften our black bread by soaking it in the water, 

"'Dost thou think,' said I to Fulk, 'that it would be 
séant in us to return to the Nivernais, in a pitiful equip- 
ment like ours ? As for me, however much I long to see 
my betrothed again, I must say I should blush with shame 
at the thought of appearing in her presence in a condition 
more like that of a brute beast than a Christian knight.' 

" To this Fulk made answer : — 

" ' If you have any skill to mend our fortune, why not tell 
what it is ? And tell it quick ; for I am quite as tired as 
you can be of the way we are getting on.' 

'''All that 's necessary,' said I, 'is to enlist in some 
leader's service and do battle for him until our pay and 
booty suffice to make us better off. I am aware that years 
perhaps may elapse, but what would you have ? I can 
never make up my mind to appear before Mahaut in the 
guise of a miserable beggar.' 

" Fulk approved my advice, and the heavens smiled on 
us. We took service under a Neapolitan prince, who fur- 
nished us with numerous opportunities to repair our eqn' 


ments ; and, to be brief, when we took leare of him, I was 
in a most flourishiug condition. I had won good clothing 
for Fulk and myself, fine armor, and fifteen hundred silver 
marks, besides the honor. I set out for France. At 
Rome I received the Pope's benediction. At Marseilles, 
where I left nearly all my followers and baggage, I learned 
from a Champenois that my betrothed was still waiting for 
and expecting me, but that I could not apply to her uncle 
now, as he was dead, but to you, holy father, who are her 
new guardian. Then I came hither, and I now demand 
your pupil, Mahaut, in marriage." 

"Was that demand," said the Abbot, rather incredu- 
lously, "the sole motive of your visit to me ?" 

" I have none other. But why are you so astonished ? 
In that marriage there is nothing but what is right and 
wise ; at least so I think. Madame Mahaut's lands and 
mine adjoin. Numerous alliances have heretofore united 
our families, and you ought surely to know that her uncle, 
the Bishop of Cambrai, had sanctioned my suit, provided 
my father should approve ; an approval I can no longer 
hope for, since Messire Geoffroy is dead." 

For some time the Abbot was silent. 

Philippe, who was impatient at getting no answer, could 
not restrain himself, and he cried out : — 

" By our Lady, I don't understand, holy father, why 
you make me no answer I Is it because you have some 
favorite of your own on whom, and to my detriment, you 
would prefer to confer the Dame of Cornouiller's hand ?" 

" Not so, my son," responded the Abbot. " I have no 
thought of doing you an injustice. My reflection was not 
such as you suppose." 

" What were you thinking of, then ? Why not give your 
consent at once ?" 


" Is it the part of a faithful guardian to marry a wealthy 
heiress to a knight her unequal in fortune ?" 

" You must be jesting, holy father. The lands of Cor- 
nehaut, if that is your way of looking at such matters, are 
one -third larger than the domains of Cornouiller. And as 
to revenues, you should know that a charter conceded by 
Monseigneur, the Count of Nevers' grandfather, greatly 
augmented them some forty years since, as compensation to 
my grandfather for signal services to him rendered." 

" I am aware of all that ;" and stopping, the Abbot 
put his hand on the young man's arm, and then proceeded 
to say : "But did I not tell you there was something still 
left for you to know ? Have I here before me a good 
Christian, or a Pagan — one hard on Holy Church ?" 

" How you do drag I" cried Messire Philippe, stamping 
with his foot so as to make his heavy sword rattle in its 
iron scabbard. " How you do drag I Know you not, holy 
father, that I am one of Christ's vassals ? a man who has 
shed his blood in his cause ? and is there any occasion, 
then, for you to ask me whether I am a miscreant ? Make 
an end. Tell me, and that quickly, what you have to say 
to me, and let us get back as soon as possible to the only 
subject that I am interested in — my prompt union with 

The Abbot shook his head. His companion's vehe- 
mence didn't half satisfy him ; yet he armed himself with 
resolution, and, with a sigh, delivered himself as follows : — 

" My son, when your father entered this Abbey, he was 
shone on by a ray of divine wisdom. He was a priest's 
murderer, and deemed that nothing he could do woul9 be 
too much by way of appeasing the vengeance of heaven. 
He dreaded lest the penalty for his crime might extend 
even to you ; yea, even to your descendants ; and besides. 


he frit some remorse on accoantof the way he had adopted 
for the recovery of his estates !" 

" What *s the meaning of all this ?" said Messire 
Philippe, with frowning brows. "Are you going to attack 
Monseigneur, my father's reputation ?" 

" God forbid I" was the monk's soft and gentle response. 
" God forbid that I should ever dream of disturbing that 
valiant gentleman's memory — a monk so holy I The fault 
he had committed he had, indeed, most nobly expiated and 
redeemed ; for the demesne he had recaptured had been 
the cause of so many misfortunes — that, too, he expiated 
by making a solemn donation of it in full and without re- 
striction of any kind, to the holy Abbey of Typhaines." 

" My father did that ? My father gave away my estates ? 
What, my father leave me without an inch of land of my 
own ?" 

" Your father ransomed his own soul," was the monk's 

To portray the expression of blind fury that brought in- 
stant change on the Knight's features — that would be a 
thing impossible. lie stood there unable to speak. Ilis 
eyes darted out flames, and his crisping fingers had clutched 
the heavy haft of Rudaverse. A mere nothing — a bare 
word, and less than that — a movement of the Abbot's eye 
— might have been enough to extinguish the very last spark 
of reason in his soul — and then what would have been the 
monk's fate ? Messire Philippe was in one of those 
paroxysms common enough among the redoubtable men 
of that epoch, in whose hearts an all powerful passion might 
hushsdown even religion itself, though far more powerful 
than reason or experience. Had he discerned in the Ab- 
bot's features the least indication of a menace, or any sen- 
timent of aggression, or even of flight, certainly it would 
have been all over with the priest, and Philippe would have 


laid up for himself a store of terrible remorse, such as often 
ill those days gave rise to penitential sufferings as dreadful 
as the very crimes themselves. But, by the energy of his 
courage, the Abbot first restrained, and at length subdued 
the 'fiery rage of the laic before him. It would not be going 
too far to say that the Churchman actually fascinated the 
Chevalier. He held him in arrest by the calm intrepidity 
of his gaze long enough to allow the Crusader's emotions 
to subside by gentle degrees ; the fingers on the hilt gradu- 
ally loosened their hold, and the face grew less stormy and 

"Messire Priest," said Philippe in a choking tone, 
" it 's your good pleasure, then, to plunder an orphan, and 
turn me out of doors at my ancestral home ?" 

" You are too angry just now to hearken to words of 
wisdom," was the Abbot's reply. "At a future moment, 
I shall be able to show you " 

" Falsehoods I" shouted Philippe, ready to burst again 
into another towering, furious paroxysm. " Ha I You 
churchmen I you did mighty well to invent the notion that 
to smite such as you is a crime of the deepest dye. Yes, 
that was well, for you often conjure up the temptation to 
do it." 

The Abbot smiled a little, looked down to the ground, 
but said nothing. 

The Knight madly hurled his steel gauntlet at the stone 

" I will deny God, if But I am gone mad I You 

are in the right, sir, and all this does no good. Let's talk 
— let's talk calmly. Do you really propose to keep posses- 
sion of my estate ?" 

Monseigneur withdrew some ten paces from the Abbot, 
and stood there, leaning against the cloister wall. He 
fixed his eyes on him, and waited for the reply. 


" Should you," so spoke the Abbot, "should you, to the 
eternal damnation of your soul, strike down this miserable 
body of mine, that would not help to put you in possession 
of a domain that is not mine — ^for it belongs to God's 
Church. Cease, then, to regret the past. You are too 
young to nurse a sorrow far fitter for an old man. Think 
of the future, when the powerful influence of the Abbot 
of Typhaines may, without any fault, either on his side, 
or your own, brilliantly repair all the losses you are now 
deploring. " 

*' Ha I" broke in Philippe. "If but only you weren't 
a priest I" 

The Abbot, not in the least disturbed, was about to make 
answer, when one of the monks entered the gallery, drew 
near him, and said : — 

" Holy father, here is Master Simon come with four of 
the boroughmen, to confer with you on some business 
about the Commune I" 

" The Commune P^ cried Philippe, at the top of his voice, 
forgetting at once the loss of his estate, his father's mur- 
der, and all thought of his betrothed. 

" The Commune I" said the Abbot. " What, already 1" 
in a lower and troubled tone. 

"Yes, they said the Commune," continued the monk, 
all of a tremble. " They did utter that execrable word. 
Am I to guide them hither, or send them away ?" 

The Abbot paused awhile to think. He looked askance 
at Monseigneur Philippe, who had advanced to the door 
to have a look at the five deputies, and then spoke : — 

" Yes, go, brother, and beg those poor deluded people to 
come hither, when their Seigneur will try to find some way 
to cure them of their treasonable designs." The monk 
bowed low, and withdrew. 



Let us leave Abbot Anselm and the Knight of Corne- 
haut waiting for their visitors, and return to the moment 
when the five Typhaines men, after they had brought in 
the remains of Father Nicolas, had left the Abbey court, 
and were taking their way down again to the Burgh. The 
monks were looking on with indignation, as they moved 
down the steep rocky way, laughing aloud, and shaking 
their fists at the sacred pile befiind. But it was too far to 
hear what Master Simon and his friends were saying. 

" There they are," said one of them. " There they are, 
those monks. They really seem to think that the whole 
world belongs to them I" 

" Ha 1" spoke one of the party. " What would you 
have, Payen ? My father lived at their feet, and they have 
got it into their heads that I'm going to do so too." 

" Well said, Antoine," rejoined a third. " Those insolent 
monks there, hard as any of the secular lords, treat us poor 
burghers like slaves. They claim to make not a bit of 
difference between us and the very glebe-men. But upon 
my faith as a Christian, it is not going to be always so, 
and I rather conceit that I know the whereabouts of a good 
sharp knife that is ge.tting to be very restless in its sheath." 

" Listen to me, Eudes, and listen well — ^you, too, An- 
toine, Payen, and you, Jacques," said Simon. "You are, 
all of you, neighbors of mine, and to-day is not the first 
time we ever groaned together over the wretched lives o\i^ 



seigneurs compel us to drag on with. You, Antoine, old 
crony, are quite right in what you say. Knight or abbot, 
squire or prior, sergeant-at-arms or plain monk or seigneur, 
all the same : all of them are just so many Herods — all 
hungry and athirst for our money and our blood. They 
know very well — for the very children at the breast know 
it — ^that we are no slaves, no miserable creatures like their 
field hands. Whenever we tell them that our forefathers, 
in the olden times, were as free as they, they don-t deny it, 
and couldn't if they would ; and yet they never put a stop 
to their oppressions and intolerable exactions. They tell 
us, to mock at us, I suppose, that they are all our pro- 
tectors, and that they defend us against the châtelains of 
other demesnes, but what is it to me, whether I am pil- 
laged and robbed by my seigneur's neighbors or by my 
seigneur himself? No 1 By all the saints, no I Must I 
go on repeating, all I have been saying, day after day, these 
two years past ? But we have broken the ice on this mise- 
rable theme, and it 's time for us to stand shoulder to 
shoulder like true brothers. I must repeat it I If you will 
go on living along in this wretched way, you are no better 
than so many dogs. You are as servile as they are, 
and every kick you get, I tell you beforehand you well 
deserve them. I tell you now, for I — ^you know it full 
well — am preaching not my own merely, but your honor 
and your advantage, far more than any of mine. I am 
above their insolence — those monks up there — as a stran- 
ger in this demesne, and being monseigneur the King's 
burgher, I am independent of them : they are neither my 
seigneurs nor my judges. I've a right to come and go — 
buy and sell — it 's no afiFair of theirs, and when I've paid 
up my regular taxes, I'm just as much ray own master as 
the proudest knight or vainest prelate of them all. Like 
any other gentleman or clerk, I depend on the royal suze- 


rainty, and on nothing else. Whether you lose your patience 
at last, or stay as quiet as so many sheep, with your mas- 
ters^ knives at your throats, 1 've nothing to lose by that. 
When I am trying my best to make you look inwards down 
to the very bottom of your hearts for some faint spark of 
courage there, you ought to know, and that full well, that 
1 am speaking for you and for your wives and children." 

After speaking as above, in an animated tone, the mer- 
chant ceased. The men kept silent around him, and for 
some time not a sound was heard save their great heavy 
shoes, as they went tramping downward on the stony road, 
and the horse^s hoofs that Master Simon was leading down 
hill behind him. At last thus spoke out one of the Ty- 
phaines men : — 

" You are a very lucky man, neighbor, very lucky, indeed ; 
and upon my word, if, as you did, I could possibly make 
out to buy a royal charter to get me out of the power of 
the monks, I swear to you that the money wouldn^t be slow 
at coming out of my purse. Tell us, for the love you bear 
us all, what can we do to secure such a boon as that ?" 

Master Simon merely shrugged his shoulders, and then 
said : — 

*' The thing you want — that you '11 never learn from me 
— No I Never will I show how you can betray your rela- 
tions, your friends and neighbors — every soul that has as 
good a right as you have to live free, rich, and prosper- 
ous I And though you see me here, far away from my 
native land, don't go to think I left of my own free will : 
I was driven away from home by evil fortune. And this 
title of kings-man, that you are envying, please God Al- 
mighty, I'll change that some day for public liberty in this 
Burgh, and for yours among the rest 1 It 's a poor matter, 
believe me, to be the only fortunate man where slavery 
weighs down all around you, lands and men alike I" 


" That 's so," was Payen's instant reply, as be boldly 
raised bis bead. ''Yoa talk as a brave man sboold 
talk, and I answer you in a like strain. Tbe bare sight 
of those monks set my very blood a tingling. What you 
told us on our journey to Troyes' fair, about those splen- 
did communes at Aix, Narbonne, and Toulouse, made my 
blood boil, and my heart choke. In the devil's name, let 
seifs be serfs if they like, but not us burghers though I 
The men of Noyon have set up their commune, and the 
Rheims men are at it too. The people at Laon made no 
bones about massacring their gentlemen, or even their 
bishop. Ton my soul — let's have a heart; let's pluck up 
our courage. We have arms and legs and blood to boot. 
Whenever I fire my arbalist, I can make nine out of «very 
ten bolts drive the one last before it. Whenever I fence 
with the trained-band sergeant, I always make him give 
back. Holy Cross of Typhaines! My mind is made 
up I I am not the poor devil I used to be I" 

" Listen to me," said Antoine. " Don't let us be in too 
much of a hurry." 

Antoine was a man about forty years of age, a cooper 
by trade, somewhat stooped by hard work, lean, sharp- 
nosed, and sharp-eyed. But there was no smack of mean- 
ness about him. It was only that prudence and cunning 
were his predominant characteristics. 

" Don't let us be in any hurry as yet. If we can provide 
us with some good friend and even some powerful ally, it 
would be all the better for us. Money can do anything, 
and I am ready to loosen my purse-string, that I am, and 
let the shiners sparkle in his eyes, whoever the good knight 
may be, that comes to our help." 

"Let us understand each other," resumed Master Si- 
mon, hooking arms with the cooper, "and you'll find 
Payen not far in the wrong to be in a hurry." 


" Certainly I am not wrong in that," said Payen, with 
a toss of his head. *' Let me have a talk with neighbor 
Antoine. Yon know, Antoine, that for several months 
past we 've not been slow to speak out what we thought 
about the monks and their seigneurage." 

" Yes, I know that. And to tell the truth, a little more 
care would have done us no harm." 

" That 's your way of thinking. It 's none of mine, 
though. Nor theirs, either" — pointing to the other men. 
"If'there 's any harm in it the mischief's done already, and 
you heard lust now that the Abbot knows all about us. 
Is it your opinion that it would be a wise thing for us to 
wait quietly till they take us to the abbey gaol ?" 

" They sha'n't take me," cried Jacques. " Crime of re- 
bellion I No pardon for that I Once you are shut up, 
there 's an end of it ; you '11 never get out again." 

"That's not the whole of it," pursued Simon. "If 
Father Nicolas really was killed, who do you think did 

" Some discontented or drunken serf, I suppose," replied 
Antoine ; " as I told you when we were coming away 
from the woods." 

" I let you talk then," said Simon, " but you was under 
a mistake. He was killed by some one of our young fel- 
lows here. Our talk, my good friends, and it 's a lucky 
thing, too, has set all their hot heads a burning." 

To this, Payen and Jacques both nodded assent. 

" If that 's what you think about it," said Antoine, "you 
must have been a set of big fools to carry the dead man 
home to the abbey with your own hands ; why, they will 
accuse you of being accomplices at least." 

" Good I" said the king's burgher, with a smile. "Did 
you suppose I had any motive but that, when I took you up 
to the abbey ? Liberty or the rope, friend Antoine, tha' 


cloth coif on her head. She looked like a fitting companion 
for a man so resolute as he, her face expressive of a sort of 
severe and hard temper ; her blue eyes cold and deter- 
mined in their outlook, and her stout, heavy frame bore 
witness of a vigor that was not belied by a pair of big 
hands, made coarse and hard by work. She was well 
dressed for one in her condition, in a brown linsey-woolsey 
gown and a black mantle. Truth to tell, she would ha^e 
best been compared to a furze-bush, yet even then it must 
be admitted that on her rude, ungainly stem a fair and ex- 
quisite rose had bloomed. 

Her daughter was as tall, delicate, and slender as any cha- 
telaine in the whole land. Damerones' face and hands were 
all of a delicate blonde, wherever the hues of health were 
not seen burning. The candor and brilliancy of her glorious 
blue eyes were unequalled. She was a marvel to look upon ! 
I may well add, that of all this she herself entertained no 
shadow of a doubt, for the whole village had long been 
telling her so, evening and morning, and the lads of the 
town all assumed to be as amiable as possible in hopes of 
winning her good-will. Nobody, not even Master Simon 
himself, had ever been able to resist the charm, for it 
was the universal opinion at Typhaines that it were im- 
possible for him to refuse anything whatsoever to the fair 
Damerones. Though it was a work day at the time, she 
was dressed in a woollen gowli, sky-blue, neither more 
nor less than an exact counterpart of the Holy Yirgin's 
eflBgy, where it stood there in the old abbey church on the 
rock ; and to carry out to the very full such audacious co- 
quetry, a scarlet mantle, the edges bound with silver cord, 
gave a perfect finish to the likeness. Temerities of this class 
are adapted to none but beauties perfectly sure of them- 
selves ; but like everything else about Damerones, she never 
seemed in the wrong, and even that very day no less than 


three of the most splendid young fellows in town, one of An- 
toine's nephews, Eude's eldest son, besides Jacques' second 
son, the very flower of Typhaines youth, one and all, as 
they passed by her doorstep, where she sat spinning by her 
mother's side, had assured her over and over again that she 
was the exact image of the Queen of Heaven up yonder in 
the old minster. But it was no use, for she had long been 
perfectly blasée as to such compliments as that. 

Simon smiled benignantly as he kissed his charming 
daughter's brow, and then drawing his purse from his 
girdle : — 

" There, my dear Jeanne," said he, " lock up this money 
for me. The cloth had a capital sale at Troyes. Be quick 
about it. I 've something to say to both of you." 

The housewife took the money, counted it with a pleased 
look, and then went over to the corner of the room behind 
the bed, and opening a hole in the darkest part of the room, 
she poured the coins out, which fell ringing on a pile of 
their fellows that had long been stowed away as clear gain 
in the same hiding-place. The joyous sound seemed to 
add not a little to Master Simon's cheerfulness, for he tapped 
his daughter on the knee, and said : — 

" Damerones, do you know you '11 have a very nice little 
portion ?" 

" Do you know," said his wife, "that there 's great news 
here ? Father Nicolas, from the abbey yonder, has been 
killed by some of our folks. " 

" That 's a very good thing," replied Simon, rubbing his 
hands together. 

" Yes," continued the womaH, " it makes one seigneur 
less, anyhow. But the lads that killed him are at their 
wits' end, and don't know what 's to become of 'em — people 
only whisper when they want to tell what they 've done, 
and, in fact, everybody is frightened. There 's not a s<^ 


to be seen in the streets, for everybody is gone home, and 
shut the door — and as you was away, we did just like the 
neighbors, though it's such a splendid day." 

" People that hide to-day will soon show their faces again. 
— ^Tjisten to what I say, Jeanne ; you, too, Damerones. 
This is a great day for Typhaines. It 's all over with the 
abbey ; and as to Nicolas, the monk, whose other name 
you know so well, 'twas, I — ^yes, I — that gave orders to 
have him killed, just as I was setting off for the fair at 
Troyes ; and I want you to know it." 

'* What a brave fellow," said his wife, looking at him 

" But, father, you will be excommunicated I" said the 

" I expect so, my daughter," said he, " but one must risk 
everything for liberty." 

For a while he sat pensive. His brow was lowering, 
for the thought just presented to him by his daughter gave 
rise to some sad reflections. He soon drove them out, 
however, and then went on : — 

" After two whole years, I have succeeded at last I The 
whole population here are of my way of thinking, and 
ready to follow my lead. Perhaps there may be some 
blood shed ; but I care not for blood if it only flows for the 
good of the public." 

"You must hate our seigneurs very much," said Dame- 

" Simon has good reason to hate them," said Jeanne ; 
and she squeezed her terrible husband's hand. 

The merchant was just about to impart to the two women 
an account of his conference with the four burghers in the 
morning, when indistinct sounds, as if of a distant tumult, 
were beginning to be heard in the street. Damerones and 
Jeanne rose. Simon kept his seat, but smiling the while, 


his head turned to one side, as if listening. The noise 
growing louder and louder, came nearer and nearer to the 
huge hovel where he sat. 

" Go sit down," said Simon, in a severe tone. They 
both obeyed him, and the door suddenly opened. A great 
multitude, burghers, peasants, women and children, with 
alarm painted in their faces, were crowding about the door- 
way with moans and cries of distress. Antoine, Pay en, 
Jacques, and others from the crowd came into the room. 

" Comrade I" exclaimed Payen, " up with you, up at 
once, or we are all lost men I" 

" Not so," replied Simon. " We are saved men, even 
now." He rose from his stool. 

" Dost thou know," said Jacques, " that the monk was 
slaughtered by our own friends, our own sons, nephews, and 
cousins ?" 

" They are brave fellows !" Drawing his knife, he strode 
to the door, brandished the blade, shouted to the crowd, and 
exclaimed — 

" You people there I choose what you will have, and 
choose at once. Are you willing to see your friends, the 
men who rescued you from the grasp of your masters 
and tyrants; are you willing to see them put to death 
without justice or law ? If not, to your knives, to your 
knives, then I" 

The whole crowd shouted their approval. 

" Have no fear ot the monks," continued he. " A monk's 
frock is no armor of defence I" 

" That 's true I That 's true I" they cried. " Down with 
the monks 1 Down with the monks I Away with them I" 

" A paradise on earth is liberty to do as you like ; to be 
master of your own property. What are you worth, mise- 
rable slaves as you are, bowing beneath the yoke of a mas- 
ter ? You can neither go out nor come in, nor marry, nor 


inherit, nor bequeath without buying beforehand the con- 
sent of a master, most of them knowing no name of pity I 
It 's time to put an end to such a miserable state of things. 
Let us set up our commune. You are no slaves 1 To your 
knives I To your knives I Let us all combine and let us 
set up our commune, and then neither monk nor knight shall 
prevail against us I How many strong, able-bodied men 
do I see before me, every man fit to bear arms ? Two 
thousand at least I" 

" Yes, and the women besides I" rung out a thin, shrill 
tone from the distant outside of the crush. 

This interruption carried the public enthusiasm to its 
topmost height: shouts and cries and clapping of hands 
and bursts of laughter showed forth the common devotion 
of the people to the common cause. 

"Now," shouted Simon, "men, women, all of you; we 
are ready I" 

" Yes, yes, we are all ready I" 

" Let us to work, then, at once. I rejoice to see you 
so brave I You are free men and free women from this 
very hour, and I proclaim that you are just as noble, this 
day, as the knights and seigneurs themselves. But courage 
is not the only thing we want — we want prudence as well. 
It 's well to be prudent. It 's your business now to select 
your leaders. Choose out the best and bravest among you, 
the wisest you can find, and let them take care that all the 
cunning and skill of your enemies may attempt in vain to 
subdue you." 

This proposal was received with acclamations, and, as is 
usual under such circumstances, they elected their chiefs 
on the spot. As soon as that was done, Simon, who was 
the first on the list, ordered the mob to retire peaceably to 
their homes, and wait for further orders. He then invited 
his colleagues into the house, and sending his wife and 


daughter away, shut himself in with the rustic senate — 
which consisted of the four burghers who had come back • 
with him from the abbey, and who were of the richest and 
best of the townsmen of Typhaines. 

The whole affair did not detain them for more than half 
an hour. In all revolutions of the sort, liberty is only the 
word, the thing is ever a dictatorship, and all that Simon 
had to do now was to state his opinion — it was adopted 
unanimously; and so the door was thrown open again, and, 
standing at the head of the new council, he addressed the 
people as follows : — 

" My friends, all we people here are men of peace, and 
all we ask is justice. We shall first seek Heaven's favor 
by bearing to the Lord Abbot a pacific proposition. Should 
he prove to be a wise man, what we propose in your behalf 
may be accomplished without a struggle. But if his pride 
should mislead him, and it comes to a matter of force, I am 
ready to shed my blood, and I doubt not you will pour out 
yours in the common cause." 

" Yes, yes, Simon. God's blessings on you ; God save 
you, Simon I" Amid such shouts, and pouring down 
blessings on his head, the crowd followed their chiefs to 
the great abbey gate. The lay brothers and valets, see- 
ing the approach of such a host, became panic-struck, 
and hastily closed the portal, where they remained until, 
after much parleying on both sides, the gates were opened 
by the Abbot's order, who consented to admit the five 
deputies, and them only : the burghers were led into the 
cloister, where Abbot Anselm and Messire Philippe de Cor- 
nehaut stood waiting for them. 




It was doubtless involuntary — but Antoine, Jacques, 
and Eudes stopped at the cloister door, and cast their ejes 
downward as they stood there before the cold looks of their 
ecclesiastical and temporal lord : not so Simon ; followed 
by Payen, he advanced with intrepid step, and when near 
enough gravely saluted the Abbot, and then spoke : — 

*' Holy father, this morning I did you a service for which 
I got but a poor acknowledgment. I knew not then that I 
should so soon return as bearer to you of the just demands 
of the good people of Typhaines." 

" Say on," coldly said the priest. 

The burgher looked distrustfully towards the knight, at 
the men-at-arms and the monastic crowd around him, and 
then went calmly on : — 

" You, my Lord Abbot, know better than I do, that 
Adam and Eve were created free to do whatever seemed 
good in their sight, and that we — all of us — children of the 
same parents alike, are lawful inheritors of their rights. It 
nowhere appears in the Holy Scriptures that knights and 
clergy are descendants of a human family superior to that 
of the glebeman and laborer, bound by birth and lineage 
to obey and to suffer for their betters who can claim a veri- 
table right to command them." 

Here Simon stopped to see what effect his reasoning had 
had, but the impassible Abbot merely said : — 



" As the unhappy burghers and peasants of Typhaines 
are your veritable, your true brethren born, they have de- 
cided to leave the best portion of their celestial patrimony 
no longer in your hands. They cannot think it just and 
right to toil on forevCT in your service ; and following the 
example that has been set by many cities in the realm of 
France, in the County of Flanders, and in the country of 
Languedoc, they have adopted a resolution to combine to- 
gether in the form of a commune, and they now require 
of you an acknowledgment and an approval of their 

Master Simon here paused again, and his eyes, like all 
others in the assembly, were bent on the countenance of 
the Abbot. 

*' Are you done ?" asked the ecclesiastic. 

" Not yet. The inhabitants of Typhaines are a peaceful 
folk, and loth to engage in a quarrel with your lordship. 
They request your friendship, and in return therefor, pro- 
mise to supply you with a hundred sheafs of wheat, a flock 
of fifty sheep, eight oxen, and a caparisoned horse, in con- 
sideration of which you shall hold them quit of all taxes, 
ordinary and extraordinary ; and also of all compulsory 
service. Further, they do not refuse to pay you down a 
reasonable sum in money, by way of redemption of any 
ancient seigneural rights of yours. Make answer now, 
holy father, for I have spoken." 

The Abbot straightened himself, like a bold champion 
entering the lists, and spoke as follows : — 

" My son, to all you have here advanced I have but one 
reply to make. Holy Church, who is the spouse of God, 
and my sovereign as well as yours, forbids me, by the voice 
of her Pontiffs, to yield up any of her lawful property to 
any earthly greed whatever. Were I a mere lord temporal, 
I know not whether my sincere love of peace might not 


prevail on me to accede at least in part to your demands ; 
bat the property you covet is not mine to give ; it belongs 
to this holy abbey, the guardianship of which has been 
confided to my hands, in order that, as a vigilant watch- 
man and steward, I might preserv# it, and at my death 
restore it, augmented perhaps in value, but never dimin- 
ished. Know, then, that never while Abbot Anselm enjoys 
authority in this house shall the least iota of her rights be 
wrested out of her hands. I believe that you are a poor 
people misled by vain desires — but if you will persevere 
in your sacrilegious enterprise, you shall come to loss in this 
present world, and what is far worse, in the world to come. 
And were you the Count of Nevers or the King of France 
himself, all your power would become as nothing in presence 
of the power of God." 

" Reflect, holy father. Remember that your only means 
for resisting our will consists in your orisons and the ring- 
ing of your bells. You have no sergeants-of-arms here, nor 
crossbowmen, as in the days of Abbot Ranulf ; and I must 
inform you that your neighbor, the Count de Nevers, will 
not take sides with you." 

The Abbot, in spite of his firmness, turned pale — ^but he 
soon recovered. 

" What know you of that I" said he. " That pious noble- 
man is not in the habit of abandoning the feeble clergy to 
the furious cravings of the laity I" 

" Oh, holy father," returned Simon, with a laugh, " it 's 
useless to feign. We know full well that you have received 
from the noble Count letters less than pleasing — and, more 
frank than yourself — we beg to show you this." 

Drawing from his bosom a parchment-roll, he put it into 
the Abbot's hands. 

The priest read the document, and then raising his eyes 


towards heaven, exclaimed, with an expression of distress 
he no longer pretended to conceal : — 

" Jerusalem I Jerusalem I Is it thus thy princes and 
chief men abandon thee ? I have seen the time when 
princes and knights would have blushed to not lend their 
swords and their lances to the Church's cause. But now 
they not only leave her in the hands of her old enemy, but 
attack her themselves, ^earken, my brethren, hearken my 
children, to the words of the Count de Nevers. He, the 
son of an illustrious house, even he takes no shame to 
write to the insurgent serfs of a holy abbey :" 

" Raoul, Count of Nevers, to his feal and good friend, 
Simon, merchant ; salutation in our Lord. Say unto the 
good people of Typhaines, that, in consideration of a 
monthly payment of twenty silver marks, I will lend them 
fifteen knights, thirty squires, and two hundred crossbow- 
men, to defend them against all and every, without distinc- 
tion of person or condition." 

While the reading of the parchment-roll was going on, 
the three peasants looked proudly on the assembly around 
them, and the monks and servitors began to moan and 
tremble, as they heard the dread detail. Great tears were 
falling down the Abbot's now wrinkled cheeks. At this 
spectacle, Messire Philippe felt his heart swelling with 
emotion, for though his eyes had been witness to many 
dread disasters, it was still open to impressions of pity. 
He was preparing to take part in the passing scene, when 
the Abbot, brushing away his tears with his hand, 
exclaimed : — 

"Oh, man of little faith that I am I Oh, my brethren, 
imitate not my example. Can you, like your cowardly 
pastor, forget that against our Holy Church the gates of 
hell shall never prevail I Oh, my friends, let us be prepared 


to suffer martyrdom if we must, but let us never desert our 
holy cause." 

Then Anselra, turning an angry scowl on Simon and his 
colleagues : — 

" Think not, oh miserable men, that I stand here de- 
fenceless. In vain shall the Count de Nevers lift his lance 
against this holy house. I will raise a tempest against 
which his buckler shall prove no shield for you." 

" They are far away — those clouds you threaten us 
with," said Simon, insolently, "and your mutinous people 
are thundering at your door even now. Who is to guard 
you against them ?" 

" I — in Christ's name. I, miserable vilain," cried Mon- 
seigneur Philippe, stepping towards him. "And the holy 
Abbot needs but make a sign and your riven skull shall 
never go out hence to preach sedition again I" 

" Ah I Is it your voice I hear. Monseigneur Philippe 
de Cornehaut ? Robbed of your estate by these greedy 
monks, are you about to take their part in this quarrel ? Ah I 
If you are the man I named — and I know you are he — you 
must be signally degenerated from the pride of your raee, to 
undertake the defence of your cruellest enemy I Or per- 
haps, think you, this monk, rescued by your hand, will re- 
store the plunder. Ask him. Monseigneur, and you will 
speedily find what his gratitude comes to." 

" By all the saints in Champagne," said Messire Philippe, 
laughing aloud, " for a poor vilain as you are, you can talk 
like a bishop, and your counsel is so good that I will cer- 
tainly follow it. Come now, holy father, be frank. If I 
and my squire there, and my two pages, and my two archers, 
will undertake to defend you to the death, will you restore 
my manor and lands ?" 

Like a man on a wreck, and seeing his last hope sinking 
beneath him, Master Anselm cast a look fraught with an- 


guish and terrible reproach at Simon, and then mur- 
mured : — 

" Oh, my God I wilt thou abandon thy children ? Shall 
the snares of the devil prevail against ns ?" He wrung 
his hands, and then, with a suddenness unequalled, threw 
himself on his knees at Messiré Philippe's feet. 

" Ah 1 my son," he cried, "bethink you. Think of my 
old age — think of my misfortunes, and behold how I kneel 
before you 1 No I You will not suffer me to be taken in 
the snares of the enemy of Christ I It is in vain that yon- 
der man stands flattering himself for his hideous triumph. 
Neither you nor I will ever betray our duty. I have con- 
fidence in my Master. All this wickedness must come to 
naught. And I have no thought to mislead you. What 
belongs to the Lord, cannot return to secular uses. But 
if you will defend the Church, and protect her ministers, 
temporal blessings can never fail you — nor happiness be- 
yond the grave, as well. Ah I my son, do you frown upon 
mc ? I conjure you I — I implore you, tarnish not the honor 
of your good name I Cast me not bound into the inexor- 
able hands of these rebels I" 

A violent struggle broke out in the soul of the Cheva- 
lier. The fury he felt when, not an hour ago, he first 
learned the fate of his demesnes, broke out afresh on hear- 
ing the heroic though imprudent avowal of the Abbot. 
Yet the sight of that old man, whose trembling hands were 
clinging to his knees, and his respect — he could hardly 
quell it — for that holy personage ; all these varied feelings 
and emotions triumphed at last on seeing how "Eudes and 
Jacques put their arms akimbo, and laugblng, with a sneer, 
in the very face of their rightful lord on his knees before 

Monseigneur Philippe instantly raised the Abbot to his 
feet, and said : — 


**Holy father, what will you have me do with this 
rabble ?» 

Prompt to avail himself of the change, 

" They are bad advisers for my serfs," said he, " and I 
have every tight over them to prevent any evil of their con- 
cocting. Seize them, my son !" 

Philippe, without a moment's hesitation, dashed forward 
to take Simon by the throat. Fulk and his men followed 
his example. But Simon, who was on his guard, instantly 
drew his cutlass, leaped aside, and began to retreat with his 
comrades, who had put themselves, like their leader, on the 
defensive. Had the cloth-merchant not missed a stroke 
that Rudaverse aimed at him, it is likely his career would 
have come to an end on the spot. Luck would have it that 
an agitated monk just at the very moment stumbled against 
the knight, and his terrible sword swerved from its path. 

" Accursed race that ye are I" said Simon, as with a back- 
handed blow he tumbled on to the stones one of the lay 
brothers who was pressing on him with a hayfork : once 
fairly in the court-yard with his comrades, they readily 
reached the great gate, and finding it shut, they shouted to 
the multitude outside : — 

" Help, good people 1 To the rescue I They are mur- 
dering us here I" 

The appeal was heard, and a terrible uproar of voices 
arose from behind the walls. It was a howl of rage, more 
furious than any war-cry, that music of the battle-field, and 
mingling with the tempest, arose the bellowed sounds, 
" Commune ! Commune P^ and then the sharp stroke of 
axes fell thick as hail. 

" They are shouting out ' Commune P " said Fulk, stop- 
ping still just as he was pressing full sore on Eudes, who 
had found it a very hard task to keep him off. 

Making this reflection, Fulk scratched his ear with liis 


finger quite thoughtfully, and then went up and took his 
master by the left elbow. 

" Monseigneur," said he, with that calmness that never 
deserted him, " the rabble are hallooing out ' Commune P 
We are not strong enough to stand up against such a cry 
as that. The door will give way in a few seconds more. 
Are you not of the opinion that it would be well for us to 
retreat with the father Abbot and his monks, to the inside 
of the convent, where, at any rate, seeing how few we are 
in number, we might make a better defence than we can 
out here ?" 

"You are right, Fulk," replied the knight. " Fathers, 
retreat — and be in a hurry, for the gate is giving way ; a 
great piece of the splintered wood showed how true that was, 
for at the sight, the whole monkish crowd began to hasten 
forward, terror-struck, after the Abbot : the soldiers formed 
a rear-guard, and in less than a minute the whole great 
court-yard was cleared ; not a soul was left in it save the 
leaders of the Typhaines communeers, who at once went 
to work assisting their friends outside to break down the 
obstacle between them, and so shut oflF all access to the 
convent. To that task, well fitted to be called homicidal, 
Simon addressed himself with an ardor and passion that 
left far behind the less impetuous though still excited zeal 
of his confederates. The man worked as if endowed with 
superhuman strength and activity. He was, visibly, one of 
the race of the strong, who are born to command all that 
come within range of their will. 

As the peasant crowd rushed into the abbey court-yard, 
brandishing axes, sharpened stakes, scythes, and every 
form of offensive engine they had snatched up in their 
haste, Simon dashed into their midst, and succeeded in pre- 
venting them from separating into small squads, as they 


were just about to do, ravening to break into the monastery, 
and lay hold on the monks. 

" Dont separate I Keep together I To the cloisters 1 
To the cloisters I" he shouted, in a ringing tone. " Run 
to the cloisters I Commune I Commune /" 

The whole crowd poured on at his heels, and the doors 
soon gave way as the portal had done just before. The 
assailants, dancing and bounding with delight, threw them- 
selves bellowing into the vaulted corridor, and soon reached 
the end, whence a spiral stairway led up to a higher floor. 
The unreflecting peasants pushed onwards and got jammed 
in the dreadful gulf. No sooner had they begun to ascend 
than two arrows, rapid as a blast, overthrew two of the 
excited mob, and tumbled them back at the feet of their 
friends, yet a third mounted over the corpses of the slain, 
and fell back with his head laid open by an invisible battle- 
axe. Others continued to climb over the prostrate car- 
casses, only to meet the like fate, hewed down by a formi- 
dable sword. In such a labyrinth, the besiegers scarce got 
a glimpse of their adversaries. 

The attack began to grow cold. Simon saw that to per- 
severe would be to compromise the enterprise, and expose his 
party to disasters that must tend to cool their ardor in the 

" Back, neighbors I" he shouted. " Back 1 Don't go 
and get killed I Don't go into that rat-trap. Our enemies 
can't escape. In a few minutes we'll have 'em at a cheaper 
cost. Commune ! Hurrah for the Commune .'" 

The peasants now gave back, and went out to crowd the 
court-yard. There Simon selected fifty of the most vigorous 
and best armed among them, who were put under Payen's 
orders, with instructions to keep vigilant watch and ward 
over the lawn and the outer walls, to prevent any soul from 
escaping to seek succor for the beleaguered pile. Simon 


then withdrew the rest of his men, and went down the rock 
to Typhaines. As he marched onwards, he established a 
post, consisting of about twenty men, at the bridge, to 
secure his communications with the besiegers in case of a 
sortie by the monks or their defenders, and then entered 
the town. 

The women, who had, at-e safe distance, been following 
the insurgents, testified by their shouts and congratulations, 
what a part they had taken in what they supposed to be a 
victory, although it had not been crowned by a great suc- 
cess. Husbands, fathers, and brothers were loaded with 
compliments, and embraced as if they were so many heroes. 
Simon himself accepted the congratulations of his wife and 

"At last, at last," murmured Jeanne, as she squeezed 
her husband's hand, and with a singular expression of her 

"Damerones," said he, "rejoice, oh, my daughter, re- 
joice, Damerones; never more shalt thou be poor girl, 
receiving no respect from the high born, and exposed to 
danger by thy beauty. Henceforth thou art become a 
lady, and thy presence shall inspire with respect all that 
come into the presence of a powerful burgher's child." 

"It is well, father," she coldly replied. 

"Now, my daughter, and thou too, my Jeanne, go, like 
prudent women, to your bed. I must return to my col- 
leagues, for I must acquit myself of some heavy duties 
this night." 

He departed — he was transported with enthusiasm ; he 
seemed as if endowed with the energy and the will of two 
ordinary mortals. He thought not of hunger or of thirst, 
or rest, or sleep, and though just returned that day from a 
long and difficult journey, he was insensible to any signs 
of fatip:ue. 


It was now dark night, and no moon in the sky to shed 
down a cheering light. By Simon's orders large bonfires 
were kindled in the streets and squares. He then went to 
the abbey gaol, henceforth to be dignified with the title of 
townhouse, where a council was about to be held, and which 
was to serve as the town hall, until, according to custom, 
a proper city hall and belfry, to be built out of the public funds, 
should arise. In the course of that night, he demanded, with 
a spirit unequalled save only by his colleagues, that every 
man should hold himself ready to spend his all in the good 
cause. Every man of them declared his acquiescence. In 
the borough which had grown rich by its trade and agricul- 
ture, and where the numerous pilgrims of Typhaines had been 
long in the habit of depleting their purses, there were many 
wealthy people, but not a single egotist. It was not the 
chiefs alone who returned the exact amount of their estates, 
but other people of flourishing means came forward with 
offers of all they had for the public weal. Simon settled 
the figures of every assessment, and then charged himself 
double the sum due by any of the others. Other resolutions 
adopted by the meeting clearly show the prevailing state 
of burgher feeling of the time. It was resolved that a 
commencement should be made that very night of a military 
fortification by which the whole town was to be surrounded 
and secured. Next, laborers were to be brought in from 
all the country round about, to work on the walls and fosse, 
with towers from distance to distance. The city hall and 
belfry were to be commenced without delay. Two com- 
missioners were despatched to Troyes for arms and warlike 
munitions, and a courier to the Count de Nevers, to request 
him to promptly send forwards his promised succors. Fi- 
nally, the number of supreme communal chiefs was defi- 
nitely settled — they were to be five in all — and Simon, 
Payen, Jacques, Eudes and Antoine, in imitation of the 


southern communes, assumed the sonorous appellation — 

After all these resolutions had been adopted, and an- 
nounced to the assembled populace, Simon and his col- 
leagues went forth to visit and inspect the posts. Again 
and again they made the complete tour of the abbey. It 
was a dark and moonless night, yet they hearkened, as they 
went along under the outer walls, to the chants of the monks 
within, celebrating as usual their nocturnal ceremonies. 

" They are celebrating mass for their dead," said Payen. 

" Never doubt it," said the consul, squeezing him by the 

So passed the night away. For the insurgent com- 
muneers it seemed to be the best night they had ever 
known, and when the sun arose in the morning it shone 
down on them gayer and stronger than the most perfect re- 
pose could have made them. 




And now, every brain in Typhaines was intoxicated with 
the enthnsiasm of liberty. The people who the morning 
before bent to the knee at the passing by of the very least 
of the brethren on the hill out yonder, were proudly smack- 
ing their lips at the delicious savor of their new-born 
happiness. Every order that came forth out of the old 
abbey gaol, now the city hall, but added to their delirious 
joy, and they were continually, in this exaltation, uttering 
cries which rose upwards on the wings of the breeze, to 
be transported thereon to the now silent and solemn abode 
of the professors of a holy religion — sad warning to the 
ears of the venerable Abbot and his devout children and 

" They '11 soon come out of their rookery up yonder," 
cried many a villager, as he pointed to the lofty walls and 
towers above, and then shook his fist at them. " They '11 
come down by 'r Lady ; and even should we let them alone, 
without another assault, hunger will soon force them to sur- 
render. When that happens, won't these chopping-axes 
that have split their wood for so long, have a good pay 
out of their necks?" 

So spoke the peasants in their revolt ; and he who could 
find the most violent, ferocious, and insulting expression, 
was chosen favorite for the occasion. Gathering around 
their street fires, mixed up with women and children, the 
burghers kept up these atrocious conversations, which are 


the usual pride of insurrection days. The sun's return, 
that had put to speedy flight an August night, had but 
added vigor and intensity to these terrible apostrophes to 
the desolate abbey. 

And yet the abbey, ever since the close of Simon's vain 
assault, had given no outward sign of life within, save that 
gloomy nocturnal chant and invocation. Those night- 
songs might well, in that distant century, have passed for 
angePs voices wafted from on high by immaterial forms, 
and certainly, had any sincere partisans of the good Father 
Abbot been surprised by those pious wailings, they never 
would have failed to spread abroad the rumor of a miracle. 
But we have seen what a sinister reflection it was that was 
aroused in the minds of the patrolling consuls, as they fell 
on the ear in that dark and starless night. 

The pious abode, then, was silent without. Within, the 
monks and their servants, not to say the very men-at-arms, 
were far from being as cheerful or joyous as the townsfolk 
below. The fight was hardly over, when the knight hur- 
ried up the winding stair, and approaching the Abbot, re- 
turned his sword to its scabbard, as he found him and his 
people engaged in prayer, on the landing above. 

Monseigneur Philippe's face was radiant and bright, 
and a smile played about his lips. The genius of 
battle lighted up its aréole on that bold and hardy front, 
that had been all uncovered during that short but rude 
melee, for the knight had not taken time to snatch either 
helm or buckler. He approached, as I said, the Abbot, 
who, as he was looking at him, could not keep down the 
secret thought that Gideon himself, armed for the Moabitish 
fray, could not have appeared brighter or more terrible. 

" Well, now, holy father, I rather think we have had 
some pretty good sword play. You can get up, now, and 
leave off praying. The rascals are gone, save some few 


who fell down stairs there, and I suppose are just ready 
to give up their last breath, so as never to give you any 
more trouble in this world." 

" Yes, my son, next to God himself, this holy house owes 
its safety to you ; and never will I be unmindful of that 
service. But would it not be insensate to abandon our- 
selves to joy so soon ? Though repulsed now, our serfe 
will come back to-night or in the morning, and then " 

" Then," said Monseigneur Philippe,/' they shall find a 
like reception. Still, you speak like a wise man. It is 
not time as yet to glorify ourselves. As I am the only 
knight here, I think it would not be presumptuous in me were 
I to assume the command of the garrison. Let us go and 
make all the necessary arrangements that are now possible. 
And to begin with, holy father, is there any other entrance 
but this winding stair to the interior of the abbey ?" 

" Yes, my son, there is the great church door, though, 
to be sure, it is defended by a battlemented wall, but I know 
not whether, weak as we are in point of numbers and cour- 
age, our servants are enough to garnish the wall." 

" To garnish walls with the small force at our disposal 
seems to me not a very easy thing to do," replied Philippe. 
" But show me your wall, and I will do the best I can 
with it." 

As he was moving off, he charged Fulk to keep a strict 
watch, and calling his two pages to follow him, accompa- 
nied the Abbot to the point which was likely to prove most 
critical in the coming operations for defending the place. 

The church façade, consisting in great Roman arches, 
was pierced for three doors spacious enough to admit, on 
grand festival occasions, of the entrance of the entire popu- 
lation of Typhaines, the good people of the neighboring 
villages, and the crowds of pilgrims, in one serried mass. 

Whenever the Abbot, surrounded by his monks, appeared 


officiating before the sacred relics, clothed in his whole 
pomp of dress, such was the nature of the architectural 
arrangements that the ecclesiastical dignitary was CDabled 
to cover with his edified gaze the whole vast crowd that 
crammed the whole church, filled the lawn, and even hung 
around on the rocky slopes of the hill. But a wise and 
prudent forethought had considerably modified so sump- 
tuous a disposition of the sacred spot. The abbey had, 
in the rude war times of old, been menaced with confla- 
gration by whirling firebrands from without, to the great 
peril of the monks, as well as the church itself, and it be- 
came necessary to renounce some portion of a magnificence 
so perilous. Guided by the best military skill of the age, 
a wall fifteen feet high had been traced on such a plan as 
to protect the entire front by means of its solid battle- 
ments. The only entrance now consisted in a passage- 
way some eighteen inches wide, and so low that one had 
to stoop in going through the defile. 

There is no doubt that though the religious display 
lost something in point of splendor, the abbey got a large 
gain in the matter of security. 

No sooner had the Crusader got on the top of the wall 
than he began a rapid reconnoissance, and at the very first 
sight he laughed out for joy. 

" You are not going to expect me, holy father, to defend 
this rampart? Had we a dozen men-at-arms the task, 
even then, would be a hard one, for I see no ditch here, 
and the wall is a low one. Why, Charlemagne and his 
nephew to boot would never agree to take charge of such 
a post 1 Never 1 But let us do better than that ; let us 
give up the church, and be satisfied with working hard all 
night to wall up the passage that leads out of the church 
into the monastery. By so doing, we should have abso- 
lutely nothing to do but guard our winding stair— and I 


swear 'pon my honor that a whole army could never get np 
there I" 

The Abbot looked resolutely at the knight : — 
" You may be in the right, my son. To me it seems as 
it does to you that we are too weak to save our church ; 
but if, in these days of disaster, my blood must be shed, 
let it flow out on the very threshold of this holy house. 
No 1 Never will I abandon to profaning hands the sanc- 
tuary of the Lord, the chapels where so many sacred relics 
are reposing, the tombs of the Abbots who have gone before 
me, nor the very pavements where so many of the faithful 
once trod, honored and made sacred in my eyes. What is 
there in this whole inclosure that is worth saving at the 
cost of bloodshed ? Our cells, the cloisters, the corridors, 
the chapter-halls I Nay, my son, the church is all in all, 
the rest not worth thinking about. And I tell you truly, 
that if my monks and I can find no other way to save our 
miserable lives but by betraying our altars, think no more 
of it, for we are ready to perish." 

The knight made no answer, and thought the Abbot 
was not far wrong. People in those times had none but 
absolute sentiments, unreasonable reasons, such as impel 
men who put them into practice up to the very palm of 
heroism or to the disasters of madness. In a less barbar- 
ous age a captain would have tried at least to convince the 
Abbot that there might be no great harm in transferring 
the relics and other most valuable objects in the church to 
the interior of the cloister, at the risk of being obliged at 
some future day to purify the church, if the rebels should 
dare to profane it. But Monseigneur Philippe found the 
Abbot's views on that subject so just and natural, that he 
made no attempt to change it, and without decreeing a 
crown to himself for the bright thought, he simply 
replied : — 


" Very well. We '11 try to defend the wall. Now, holy 
father, come, and let us have a talk about a very serious 
matter ; and you, my pages, do you stay here. Should 
the rabble down yonder behind the ruins of the great gate 
show any signs of coming forward, call me to the rescue." 
So saying, the Chevalier led the Abbot away ; and after 
they had got into the interior of the monastery, said : — 

" What have we to eat, to-morrow, next day, and the 
next day after that ?" 

The Abbot crossed his hands, and made no answer. 

" H m 1" said Monseigneur Philippe. " Yet people 

generally do brag a good deal about the good cheer to be 
found among the monks." 

" I have been improvident." 

" Yes ; your charity to the poor people has carried you 
too far, holy father," replied the knight, with great respect. 
" Still, we may expect a crust of bread and a cup of wine 
for to-morrow ?" 

" Yes, you can have that; but nothing more." 

" So, we have a chance to hold out till to-morrow even- 
ing," pursued the Crusader. " Let us make use of that 
to secure our last chance for safety. One of your people 
must devote himself, get out of the convent, deceive the 
vilain guard, and go to demand succor from the nearest 
neighbor you have." 

" You are right," said Anselm. " I will at once write to 
the only person who can help us. The Count de Nevers' 
vassals are all around us. Their fidelity due to the Count, 
will prevent them from doing us anything but mischief. 
There is. only one support I can rely on, and that is the 
Lady of Cornouiller." 

" Ah I holy father," cried Philippe, all red with 

emotion, " is it really possible to inform Mahaut of what 
is going on here ? By the Cross, you redouble my courage, 


and I beg jou, when yon write, to pat in that I am here 
with you." 

"I shall do so." 

" Bat don't delay ! The night favors us ; the moon is 
not up yet ; perhaps we could not find a better time to 
make the attempt." 

" I believe you, my son, and I '11 go directly and write 
to the only person who, at this time, can possibly come to 
our assistance in this terrible misfortune of ours." 

They now separated : the thought of Mahaut's being 
speedily apprised of his return from the Holy Land, and 
the danger that threatened him, awoke a most delicious 
feeling in his soul. A few words that had fallen from the 
Abbot's lips left no doubt that the affair of his marriage 
was in a much better train than what concerned the restora- 
tion of his domain, and as, after all, love and war of all 
else in the world were what he most delighted in, he rather 
thought his prospects not altogether of the gloomiest. As 
far as to any checks probable, or merely possible, we must 
do him the justice to declare that he never so much as 
thought about them, for he was a real soldier to the fullest 
extent of the word, and improvident as a child. 

Filled with the most flattering hopes, he went out to 
join Fulk, whom he found, his drawn sword tucked under 
his arm, leaning against the wall of the winding stair, 
and giving a lecture, in a savage tone of voice, to the 
valets. In his master's absence, he had issued his orders. 
They were all to go and arm themselves as best they 
could ; and when Messire came up, his eye fell on some 
twenty of those unvalorous rascals, not a bit fond of fight- 
ing, but furnished far better than could have been expected, 
with rusty swords, bows, lances, not to add, here and there, 
a helmet. 

" If we were out now in the open country," said Fulk, 


" I know very well that we should be obliged to march in 
the rear at these fine fellows' heels, to keep them from run- 
ning away. But here, behind these stones, and a little 
bit out of danger, we may get some good out of them in 
spite of their villainous mien." 

Messire Philippe detached fifteen of them, and ordered 
them to join the two pages on the façade rampart. He left 
Fulk and the two archers at the important post at the 
stair, stationed the five improvised militia that were left, 
as pickets here and there where a good view could be got 
of the country, and the burgh especially, from the belfry, 
for example, and when all these dispositions had been 
duly made, he lay down on the flagstones, wrapped in his 
cloak, to catch a few moments of rest he was much in want 
of. Then his thoughts wandered to his betrothed, to his 
murdered father, his stolen goods, and the splendid fights 
that he was about to enjoy, and musing so, he waited until 
the Abbot could get his letter written. 

Think, then, whether any man whatever, speedy to think 
and prompt to decide, would not be likely to grow confused, 
wandering among such a variety of subjects of contem- 
plation, and judge whether or not the good knight, with 
his wild imagination and hot, impetuous brain, might not 
be utterly lost among so many blind paths. Yet there 
were two dominant points in his reflection. One was Ma.- 
haut ; the other, an ardent desire to bring the revolted 
clodpoUs back to their duty. The very word " Ôommune^^ 
w&s to him instinctively odious, and the behavior of the 
Count de Nevers was, to his loyal soul, so utterly inexpli- 
cable, that he conceived a feeling of contempt without 
bounds for the name and character of his suzerain. 

While the gentleman was thus giving aloose to his 
imagination, the chief and lord of this place of prayer had 
proceeded to his cell, and when there, and the door closed, 


had thrown himself down on his straw bundles in an atti- 
tude of the deepest discouragement. Father Anselm took 
a more discouraging view, no doubt, than the careless and 
turbulent knight had conceived. He knew far better than 
the man-at-arms did, the power of the shout, ** Commune/ 
Commune P^ which was heard at that period in almost 
every region in Europe, sounding out from the throats of 
the mainmontable crowds wherever they deemed it a pos- 
sible thing to publish their will to the world. He knew 
that the coming strife must issue in the abasement of all 
ecclesiastical power of his, or the massacre of the burghers 
who had been for so many centuries the docile instruments 
of the grandeur and wealth of his abbey. 

In the Abbot's grief there was no element of a narrow 
minded and scandalous egotism. To glance merely at the 
poor, miserable living room he had constructed in the very 
centre of his splendid monastery might well convince any 
one to the contrary. Certain it is that throughout the vast 
extent of the demesnes of Typhaines there was not a pea- 
sant, nor in the whole expanse of all Christendom, a her- 
mit so poor as not to have been shocked at a view of the 
wretchedness by which Abbot Anselm was perpetually 
striving to augment the rigor of his surroundings. A dis- 
ciple, and a beloved disciple, too, of Saint Bernard, though 
Anselm had risen to the very highest rank to which his 
talents, the elevation of his character, and his devotion to 
the Church, had carried him, never did he, in that eminent 
station, lay aside the virtues, the asceticism, nor any part of 
the inflexible that had made him dear to the founder of 

But though hard on himself, and more than disinterested, 
he became an ambitious man whenever a question arose 
involving the interests of the cause or the wealth of his 
abbey. He had meditated bravely upon the passing events 


of the age. He had seen, whether in France, in Cham- 
pagne, or on the domains of other lords ; bishops and 
abbot's despoiled by submissive servants to their time-old 
authority, and had done all that in him was to divert from 
his own monastery the advent of days so evil. He had 
made every effort to win the confidence and love of his 
vassals. As far as possible, he had lessened their burthen 
of taxes and corvées. His immense charity had gone 
forth far and wide, to seek out and to solace every wretched 
soul. His seigneural granaries were found ever empty from 
the generous prodigality with which he ever succored the 
poor. And he hoped to find safety in this policy, sacred 
in itself considered and in the protection that his personal 
austerities and the virtues of his monks, so submissive to 
the rigorous discipline of his order, must constrain the 
bare justice of heaven to vouchsafe. Distrustful, as well 
he might be, of the secret intentions of his illastrious 
neighbor, the Count de Nevers, he had endeavored, with 
Father Nicolas' help, a man known to have been held in 
high esteem by the bold suzerain, to turn aside the threat- 
ened storm ; in short, all that the most prudent provision, 
all that the most ardent and truest devotion could prescribe, 
that he had done ; but prudence, devotion, charity, all had 
failed in face of the secret persistency of the glebe-men, 
who, more than charity, more than affection, more than 
justice itself, cherished and henceforward would insist on, 

At length, after a moment surrendered to what the Ab- 
bot considered as his human frailty, he took up a fragment 
of parchment, wrote a few words to his pnpil, and went 
back to seek the chevalier. The youngest, most active, 
and boldest of the abbey valets was selected, for he was 
familiar with all the paths that led down to the town, and 
put in charge of the message. The Abbot made an appeal 


to his devotion, gave him his blessing, with a promise of 
liberty and a farm, provided he should return on the mor- 
row as guide to the Cornouiller men-at-arms, and lead them 
up to one of the abbey towers. 

To prevent him from being observed by any of the ene- 
mies's pickets, he was lowered by means of a rope from 
one of the windows farthest away from the bargh, where 
their vigilance was supposed to be least keen. It was an 
anxious time they spent there, watching his proceedings, 
as he was carefully looking all about him, and at last began 
to creep down. They watched him as he disappeared in 
the dark, and then the Abbot, quite composed, as a man 
in command ought ever to be, said : — 

" If that man should succeed in putting my letter this 
night into the Dame of Comouiller's hands, our deliverance 
is made sure. The rebels are not strong enough to stand 
fast against the smallest squad of cavalry, and I do not think 
the Nevers ment-at-arms have joined them as yet. Let us 
hope on, my son." 

" I do hope," replied the Crusader, suppressing a for- 
midable yawn. " But, if you please, holy father, I' 11 go 
and stretch myself down on the rampart, and sleep a few 
hours. It will enable me to handle Rudaverse so much 
the better, when the assault does come." 

" Do so, my son," rejoined the monk, inwardly envying 
the laic's quiet way. " In the mean time I will go and 
unite in prayer with my people, and invoke's Heaven's 
pity on us all." 

While Anselm was on his way to the church, the valet 
who had charge of the precious message went forward at 
a good pace, with his face townwards, where he speedily 
arrived, and put Mahaut's letter into Master Simon's 



Thus, it appears that when the sun of the new-risen 
mom was beginning to gild the walls of that terror-struck 
though still hopeful abbey, every chance of escape was 
clean vanished and gone. 

The garrison were soon apprised of the miscarriage of 
the missive. About an hour after sunrise, the knight, 
leaning on one of the battlements of the façade wall, saw 
the serfs, who still occupied the lawn, running about and 
uttering loud shouts, and gathering in crowds round the 
ruins of the great gate. At the same time a crowd of 
people issued from the burgh, and crossed the bridge, 
headed by Master Simon and Pay en, armed with hauberks, 
just like so many knights ; and they all began to climb the 
hill. Meanwhile, a still more considerable mass of the 
populace, consisting in the main of women and children, 
spread themselves out on the plain, and with picks and 
spades and barrows, set about tracing and digging out 
the ditches that had been ordered by a consular decree, for 
the purpose of completely inclosing the entire town with 

This second troop made no great impression on Mon- 
seigneur Philippe. He cared but little, and, sooth to say, 
not in the least about what the Typhaines folk might be 
about at home, for he considered the only important mat- 
ter was what they were proposing to do at the abbey. 



He didn't wait long before he could find out what Master 
Simon was going to do. 

In the first rank marched a number of men bending 
under the weight of their long ladders. Behind them came 
peasants, armed with bows and slings. Others advanced 
provided with scythes, and a few of them had long lances. 

The knight sent for Fulk. I 

" What thinkest thou is going to happen ?" 

" Nothing at all," replied the giant, " only we may have 
a rather tiresome forenoon." 

" Tiresome I Why tiresome I" 

" Whenever I come to a quarrel with communeers, I 'm 
sure to meet some sort of ill luck. It seems to me I 'm 
going to lose, this other eye of mine." 

" Not at all — not at all. You '11 be quits for a finger 
or some other trifle of that sort," said Messire Philippe. 
" People never are hit twice in the same spot." 

" I 'm rather inclined to the opinion," said Fulk, while 
that other eye of his was always turned towards the ad- 
vancing mob, " that we are not going to get out of this 
alive. The Saracens do, at times, give quarter — but pea- 
sants, never I I 'm sorry we didn't take some other notion 
in our heads, instead of coming here." 

" And I — I 'm delighted with perhaps a fine opportunity 
to do what nobody ever as yet attempted to do. Dost 
thou opine, that since the days of Baron Olivier and the 
twelve peers, any man-at-arms has by himself, alone, ever 
defended a fortress ? 'Pon my faith, if I should even hap- 
pen to be killed I'll leave a good^ renown behind me ; 
and Mahaut will have far to seek before she '11 find a suc- 
cessor fit to take my place. As I am only doing this ex- 
ploit out of love for her, this old monk here ought to have 
thanked me ; not robbed me of my domains. I 'd have 


served him right had I let his serfs have the pleasure of 
cutting his head off." 

" Do be reasonable for once in your life," said Fulk ; 
" and let 's get out of this. It 's mighty fine, I suppose, 
to leave a fellow's poor bones bleaching about these walls 
in the rain I Pshaw^I" 

"Go to the devil with you," said his master. " I sent 
for you to ask whether you are willing to trust our two 
pages so far as to leave them alone to guard the stair. 
You and the fifteen vilains would be a marvellous reinforce- 
ment just here." 

"Very well. Send the pages," replied Fulk. "I think 
I can stay with you." 

As he was talking, a man made his appearance on the 
lawn. He proved to be Master Simon. He stopped about 
twenty paces in front of the wall, and raised his hand. 

The knight stepped forwards to thé edge of the parapet, 
and said : — 

" What is it ?" 

"Monseigneur," replied the man, "we are just about to 
give the assault." 

" Give it." 

" Before we begin, I have to say that you should not 
deceive yourself. This is not to be a fencing match, nor 
anything of the sort. If the Typhaines burghers should 
scale that little wall of yours, they '11 slaughter everything 
that 's before them, monks, abbot, valets, knight, men-at- 
arms, the children, the women, and the dumb beasts, too, 
if they find them there I" . 

" Use your pleasure," answered Philippe de Cornehaut. 

" Consider, monseigneur, that those brave fellows I see 
behind you, looking as valiant as you are yourself, will 
probably run away as soon as the fray begins — the only 
thing, be it said, they can do, to save their lives." 


Messire Philippe involuntarily turned his head to look 
at his garrison — and the fact is, that everj mother's son 
of his raw recruits, on hearing what Simon had said, 
turned remarkably pale, but that didn't prevent his making 

" You can massacre them, if so please you, but you '11 
have to get in first, won't you ?" 

The consul bit his lips. However, he once more re- 
sumed : — 

'* Monseigneur, you are but a young man as yet, and 
you ought to cling to life rather than risk it in the defence 
of the worst enemy you have in the whole world. I have 
but one word to say to you, and perhaps that word may 
induce you to decide. You are relying on the speedy ar- 
rival of succor from the Lady of Cornouiller. Very well, 
then. This is the Abbot's letter to her — you may see it 
is so by the seal. Your messenger came, like an honest 
man, to join his brethren in town, and delivered it to me. 
Will you still hesitate ?" 

" No, sir vilain," replied the knight, as he was crossing 
his arms on his breast. ** Such as I do not hesitate. Men 
of my lineage never go back on their word when once it 
is pledged. I promised the Abbot to defend him, and I 
shall defend him, and now I have to give you notice that 
in case you should venture to come within bow-shot, my 
only answer will be an arrow." 

"Begone, then, wretched fool that you are," cried Simon, 
in a towering passion that showed how false and seeming 
his mansuétude had been. "Begone — and rest assured 
these flagstones shall soon be wet with your infamous 
blood, and that you'll have no one to blame for it but 
yourself" With these words Simon withdrew. 

" How tiresome all this is," muttered Fulk. " What a 
wretched day I I begin to think, for want of something 


better to do, it wouldn't be a bad notion to throw all these 
rascals here over the battlement. When we get to busi- 
ness with their village friends down there, they '11 be sure 
to attack us in the rear." 

" Not a bad notion that," responded the chevalier, look- 
ing fiercely at the garrison behind him. " What say you 
to that, my masters ? Don't mind now. Do you mean 
to behave like that infamous scoundrel who has just betrayed 
your master ? Speak out 1 But only take notice that the 
very first knave that seems wanting in will or courage 
either shall find out how heavy Rudaverse is 1" 

The valets — the whole of them — on seeing Rudaverse 
aforesaid flaming in the knight's hand, were suddenly 
seized with a violent enthusiasm for the monastery. An 
enthusiasm, I say, that rendered them utterly intrepid. 
They had discovered a great difference between the rusty 
old scythes, and sharpened stakes, down there in the lawn, 
and the flaming brand in the chevalier's hand, as well as 
the ponderous battle-axe of the burly squire. It was a 
very questionable matter with them whether the burghers, 
numerous though they were, could ever succeed in carrying 
the wall against a gentleman clad from head to foot with 
iron mail. All these considerations filled their hearts with 
boiling ardor, and they began, of their own unbiassed will, 
to salute the approaching crowd with most energetic shouts 
and imprecations. 

" Stand fast, Fulk 1 Stand firm, brave vilains," cried 
Messire Philippe, at the top of his voice. '* Notre Dame 
de Typhaines and Cornehaut I" he shouted for his battle- 
cry. There 's enough in that to startle better men than 
that scum." 

The threatening crowd came on the while, laid three 
ladders to the wall, and at once began to climb. Philippe 
struck but three blows with his ponderous blade, when 


furioQs lamentable cries, screams, and groan^ told the tale. 
The ladder was lying at the foot of the wall, with every 
soul of the poor men that had rushed to claim the privilege 
of mounting first to the assault. The Crusader flew to the 
next, but the work was already done. Fulk had knocked 
over the foremost assailants, and broken the ladders to 
pieces. Such success carried the valor of the gallant fifteen 
to the topmost height of delirium : they screamed like so 
many possessed; they brandished their swords over the 
wall, and poured forth volleys of abuse on the crowd below. 

" Keep cool I Keep cool I" growled Fulk, as he saw 
more ladders coming up, dragged forwards by the furious 

" How disagreeable 1" muttered the squire. 

The second assault turned out no better for the besiegers 
than the first. It 's true the burghers did succeed in lay- 
ing a dozen scaling ladders to the wall, and that four of 
them made out to g^t a footing on the battlements, but the 
weight of the scaling parties that crowded the rungs, broke 
three of them, carried to the ground all bruised and bleed- 
ing every soul that was eagerly striving to reach the top 
of the wall, and then the valets began to behave like heroes, 
while the knight and Fulk were knocking down, slashing 
and hacking every man bold enough to come within their 

This time they didn't wait for their adversaries to renew 
the assault. They poured a storm of crossbow bolts and 
arrows on the rabble ; they picked up enormous fragments 
of the battlemented walls, great paving-stones they had 
piled up at hand the night before, and dashed them down 
on the miserable wretches still lying at the foot of the wall. 
Then rose up a fearful cry most piteous to hear. The poor 
creatures, tumbled all wounded, broken and dying, from 
the fallen scaling ladders, uttered dreadful «creams and 


groans, till the terror-stricken mob, seeing their friends 
squirming and convulsed and howling with pain as the 
rocks and stones rained down from above to dash out their 
brains and cover them with gore — the crowd, I say, struck 
with horror, began to give back as their impetuous ardor 
grew cool. They now felt how much it would cost to carry 
the terrible height. Monseigneur Philippe de Cornehaut, 
his armor all blood stained, his vizor down, and helm closed, 
lifting up and then casting down huge fragments of rock 
on the ruined masses below him, looked as if he might be 
the fatal genius of that miserable race. 

Eudes and Antoine, in utter disorder, rushed up to where 
Simon stood. 

•* Wretched man I" they cried, " see what you have 
brought us to I Our men are all driven back in terror I 
That knight must be the devil — and we Ve done our best : 
neither prayers nor threats are of the least use to persuade 
the very bravest of them to face his sword and the rocks 
he is showering down. " 

" Oh 1" said Simon, as he stood wringing his hands. 
" You are in the right there ; that dog is indeed a child 
of the house of Satan, and till we can get him into our 
hands I shall never have a happy "hour. But to suflTer a 
defeat would be fatal — it is impossible to submit to it — ^it 
would be the ruin of the commune. The abbey must be 
taken 1 Don't answer me I Don't speak to me I Victory 
is as necessary for us as life itself Do you suppose the 
state of the abbey can remain long unknown in the country ? 
No I To-morrow, or the next day at the farthest, succor 
will come from some quarter." 

"But remember now, Simon," replied Antoine, "the 
Nevers men will be here in four days' time, and with their 
help we can do better than we can alone." 

" How blind !" cried the Consul. " Do you think those 


allies are going to be your servants ? They '11 help you to 
carry the abbey; but the entrance once forced and the 
Abbot and the knight fairly in their hands, you don't sup- 
pose they will be handed over to you to have justice done 
upon them. No I They '11 keep them themselves. They '11 
send them to the Count. They '11 feed us on hope, and I 
tell you now, that so long as the Abbot is alive and the 
gentleman can wield a sword, neither your liberty nor lives 
are safe. No I not if you should reduce them to beggary I 
Believe me then, dear friends — my dear neighbors — if you 
do love the commune for which you took up arms, and for 
which you swore to die if needs must — to the assault I to 
the assault I Never let your courage fail. Never despair." 

So speaking, Simon's soul was deeply moved. He ges- 
ticulated, he shouted aloud. Great tears rolled down his 
cheeks. He seemed on the point of casting himself down 
at their feet. Payen, with a wound of the shoulder and 
his dress all torn, his steel head-piece broken in, just then 
came up : the blacksmith had succeeded in struggling for 
a few moments with Monseigneur, on the top of the wall. 
Jacques, who had just escaped by miracle from a blow aimed 
at him by Fulk's battle-axe, seemed somewhat cooled. 
Still Simon's impetuosity and his supplications won them 
all over at last. 

" Well, then, once more," said Jacques. 

" Let 's try it," shouted Payen. 

" Brave fellows I" cried Simon. " God will bless you. 
Come on — I '11 lead you." 

He laid hold of a ladder and began to draw it along 
at a run, shouting, ",To the wall I To the wall, good men 
of Typhaines ! Vengeance for our friends I" 

The spectacle of their Consuls returning to the fight 
aroused something of vigor even in men who seemed to 
have lost it all. Some of his comrades seized the ladder 


that Simon was drawing after him, and many a combatant 
came up to the rescue. 

"Here comes the most tiresome part of the whole affair," 
said Fulk to his master. " I doubt whether we shall get 
well out of it." 

"Never doubt it," replied the knight. 

Seeing Simon come on, Messire Philippe grasped his 
hilt with a force so great that no human power could have 
torn it from his hand ; the sword and the man looked as 
if made of one single piece of iron. 

Fulk's prediction was not very wide of its fulfilment. 
Three of the valets were down already at the first shock. 
Simon, who now faced Monseigneur, parried his strokes so 
skilfully that he succeeded at last in planting one foot on 
the battlement, while the other stood on the upper rang, 
and he had nothing to do now but leap into the place to 
win an entrance. The man was so vigorous, so hardy, so 
intrepid, so adroit, that the gentleman thought he had got 
at last a foeman worthy of him. Yet Messire jvas not in 
the least disturbed at that ; but, seeing the danger was 
pressing, he determined to not yield an inch, and sooner 
than that, die on the spot. 

And he was very near doing that very thing. Master 
Simon's sword had cut his buckler in two, and wounded 
him on the arm. In the hurried melee, which allowed no 
time for a regular duel, victory was about to declare for 
the peasants, for Fulk and the valets were finding it nearly 
impossible to drive them ofi', when the youngest of the two 
pages darted in to take part in the fray, and snatching up 
an axe that a dying peasant had dropped, he struck the 
Consul such a furious blow, that he stumbled on the wall, 
threw up his arms, fell backwards, and toppled down to 
stretch himself on the pile of dead and wounded men at 
the foot of the rampart. 


" Well hit, my little fellow I" cried Messire Philippe. 
The whole garrison gave a shout of triumph. 

" The stones I The stones 1 Take to the stones I" roared 
Fulk, seizing a broken flagstone to crush Simon's body 
below. In the wild confusion and amazement of his men, 
Pay en, who was the most intrepid man among them, had 
presence of mind enough to dash into the very heart of 
the turmoil, raise the stunned body of his friend, hoist 
it to his shoulder, and carry it off at speed. Without a 
signal-call, and at the same instant of time, the whole 
rabble, the whole Typhaines army took flight, and ran like 
a flock of frightened sheep out of the fatal courtyard, 
where so many bold peasants lay dead or dying. 

The fight, with its repeated attempts to scale, had lasted 
not more than an hour. 

" It 's my notion," said Fulk, " that it 's over for to-day. 
I should not refuse, just at this time, to eat a bit of bacon, 
or even to have a stoup of wine. Such a running about in 
this hot weather makes a fellow thirsty." 

" Hush, you brute 1" said Philippe, as he was unlacing 
his helm to get a little breath : " there 's nothing here to 
drink but water, and as for bacon, there 's hardly enough 
to last till sundown : don't set all those scamps to shouting 
'famine.' " 

The caution came too late ; the valets had overheard 
the squire's proposal, and a hubbub broke out enough to 
deafen one's ears. 

' My throat 's on fire. Halloa I Wine I We want some 
wine I Let 's go to the cellar I Wine — and of the best ! 
Haven't we fought — and well, too ? Good God, how I did 
fight I I 've got a sprained wrist, and my shoulder 's out 
of joint I" " As for me, I have sprained my back so bad, 
that 1 11 never get over it in all my born days I Did you 
see me plant that rock in the very pit of that big fellow's 


stomach, there ? And would you believe it, just as he was 
tumbling over, he said I was an awkward dog ? Were 
you hit ? Has your axe got such a nick as mine here ? 
What a thump I did give him, hai ? 'Twas on the top 
of the wall, just as I was knocking over that grand Clos 
carter fellow. Drink, give us something to drink I Give 
us something to eat 1" 

" My darlings," said old Fulk, rolling his cyclop at them, 
" it 's quite clear you aren't much used to fighting, and 
that you 've been having a very good time of it in this old 
minster. You never stump your toes, you don't ; for you 're 
always sure you '11 make good time. Why you ought to 
know that the very worst thing a man can do is to drink 
when he 's too warm. All the doctors will tell you that; 
and there you are now red as lobsters, and sweating like a 
spring-head. It 's my mind that you won't get a drink till 
supper time." 

" I '11 die if I don't get a drink." 

" If you do drink, you '11 be sure to die of the fever — a 
bad cold, and a thousand other disorders," said Fulk, "and 
besides, Monseigneur wants you, and wants you strong and 
sound, too. So, now, the very first man of you that even 
squints at a visit to the cellars before I say he may, shall 
have a talk with me. Do you hear that ?" 

The squire was busy in this way quieting the very 
legitimate claims of his infantry, and the knight on his 
route to the charch where the Abbot had gathered his 
monks before the fight broke out, and was still engaged in 
offering up such prayers as would seem best fitted to draw 
down Heaven's blessing on the arms of their defenders. 

Upon the chevalier's appearance at this end of the 
nave, the chants of the monks suddenly ceased, giving place 
to silence the most profound — a silence of expectation and 
anxiety. Leaning over their stalls, the monks, with open 


months and straining gaze were hearkening to what the war- 
rior might have to say. The Abbot was the only person 
to feel encouraged by his appearance in the church, for he 
well knew the Crusader was not the man to quit his post 
merely to carry useless news. 

" Well, fathers," said the gentleman, " for once more, the 
assault has failed, and the enemy haven't got into your 
church. " 

A murmur of satisfaction ran through the meeting. All 
those cénobites seemed to have got a new lease of their 
almost expiring breath. 

" My son," said Anselm, "think you our persecutors will 
renew the assault to-day ?" 

" No," responded Monseigneur Philippe. " If they are 
wise, if they 've got any sense, they '11 let us waste away 
on our poor victory. If they should come back, Rudaverse 
here will be ready to receive them. But if they keep their 
distance, and only continue to surround us, we are but lost 
men. There 's nothing to eat now, or next to nothing ; 
to-morrow it will be a complete famine. Our messenger 
has betrayed us and the maiden of Cornouiller knows 
naught of our straits. To speak frankly, holy father, I 
must repeat it because I believe it — we are lost men." 
As the knight spoke these words very calmly, he walked 
on and sat down in one of the stalls, and folded his arms 
across his breast. 

A monk now rose. He was the Prior of the community. 
He was ninety-two years of age, at least, and was still in 
the practice of austerities so great that it was the general 
opinion that not a soul in the convent, except the Abbot 
himself, could be considered more of a saint than he. 
The white-bearded old man then rose up in his stall, and 
humbly demanding his superior's permission to speak, 
he said : — 


" In the time of your predecessors, I mean the one before 
the last, a great conflagration broke out in the northern 
cloister. All appeared to be lost. But holy Gilles de 
Gouron, who w^s governor of the abbey at the time, ordered 
the reliquaries to be placed in front of the flames, and the 
fire stopped. Inasmuch as temporal means can't save us, 
it appears to me the part of wisdom would be an appeal to 
the goodness of God. " 

" Yes," said Philippe, " a miracle, or we are lost without 
recourse, and every man of us massacred 1" 

" Come, my brethren," said the Abbot, with a loud voice, 
" let us see what the bones of the saints will do for us in 
our extremity. That is indeed our last resource." 




The reader, no doubt, remembers that while the monks 
were moving towards the great church with the remains of 
poor Father Nicolas, Rigauld, finding he was of no further 
use at the abbey, had set off for his sylvan abode. The 
path he took led him quite clear of the town, for, turning 
his back on Typhaines, he strode down a narrow, scarce 
discernible track, and was soon lost in the depths of the 

The duties of his office, which at times obliged him to 
repress and even to punish the burghers and peasants for 
infractions of the abbey rights by plundering their wood 
and stealing the game, had ended in making him an object 
of universal detestation to the townsfolk. His name was 
hardly ever mentioned without an accompaniment obligato 
of insulting epithets. He, too, serf though he was, treated 
the mainmontables very much as if he really belonged to the 
master-race. Governed by these hostile feelings, repelling 
and repulsed alike, he had gradually laid aside all connection 
with his own class, and as he could not fray his way to a 
full companionship with monks and squires, he had come 
at last to lead the life of a hermit in the woods ; and yet no 
one had ever heard him complain about that. It often hap- 
pened to him to spend days and even whole weeks, without 
once opening his mouth to speak, and if he should occasion- 
ally discover a person, he rather avoided than sought for a 
meeting with such fellow-being. It was very natural that, 


under such circumstances, mixed up with other charges 
against Rigauld, the Typhaines people should accuse him 
of being a sorcerer, and as he was always going about 
scouting every portion of the forest, not only must he have 
come across legions of hobgoblins, but must have made 
familiar acquaintance with Satan as well; and, in fact, 
had sold him his soul ; and in this they were not so very 
wide of the truth. The hunter, in fact, showed that this 
must be so — and every one knew it must be so, judging 
merely from the supernatural weight of his ponderous fist. 

Rigauld, then, had returned to his hut, where it lay half 
hidden in the densest thicket in the forest. On his way 
home he had never even looked towards the burgh, and so 
his disdainful indifference led to his total ignorance of the 
events that had transpired at the abbey since his departure 
for the woods. But after a sound sleep on his moss bed, 
and his awakening by the morning light and the chirping 
of the birds on the surrounding bushes and spray, he was 
not long in learning the terrible tale. This is how he found 
it all out. 

He had traversed, during his morning scout, a consider- 
able portion of his official domain, and came at last to the 
edge of the vast, expanded glade where this history began. 
He had come to the very spot that had long been the object 
of his respect as well as his terror, and in order to continue 
his course, had been compelled to jump across the haunted 
mutinous brook, and tramp onward through the tall ferns 
and bushes on its banks. 

Had it pleased kind heaven to rid the place of St. Pro- 
cuPs Spring and all its diabolical surroundings, Rigauld 
would have been lifted, by the change, to a state of supreme 
felicity. The fact is, he once told the Prior at Typhaines 
Abbey that he certainly had never in his life caught a dis- 
tinct view of anything to really justify his terrors, and just 


now as he happened to strike on the spot, the hour — about 
six in the morning — was not a very unfavorable time, for 
it is well known that spirits, demons, and goblins are not 
half so lively in the morning light as they always are in 
the dark. So Rigauld walked on till he found himself on 
the short rich greensward of that fair and wide meadow- 
land near St. ProcuPs Spring. Just at that very time he 
heard himself called by name I . He started, and turned sud- 
denly round, and saw . fifteen years subsequent 
to the events related in this book, Rigauld turned pale 
whenever he ventured to give an account of the incidents 
of that memorable morning ... he saw, 
then, relieved against the east stone slab that inclosed St. 
ProcuPs Spring, what seemed the likeness of a beautiful 
girl, dressed in a green robe. He couldn't believe that it 
was a real, natural woman that he saw there. Besides, he 
hadn't got a fair look at her, because, as soon as he turned 
his head, the apparition had swiftly drawn down a rather 
thick veil, and hidden her face, so that he couldn't make it 
out very well. The terror-struck forester fell on his knees. 

" Hunter I" cried the strange creature, the spectre, " ap- 
proach me not I Hearken to my words ! Listen well I 
The burghers of Typhaines have revolted, and unless succor 
comes and comes soon, the abbey will be taken this very 
day. Thou lovest thy masters. Tarry not — look not be- 
hind thee — ask not who I am. Run — run vnthout stop- 
ping an instant. Hasten to the Chatel de Cornouiller. 
Demand succor for the minster — prompt succor." 

Rigauld felt ready to faint : his whole body was in a 
tremor of alarm. His gross imagination, excited to the 
highest pitch by his habitual loneliness, and a continual 
sense of the presence of invisible ghosts and hobgoblins at 
his side, made him susceptible to boundless fears, while his 
absolute belief in them developed a feeling of curiosity that 


gave him some little courage. Passing, as he did at Ty- 
phaines, for a sorcerer, there really was, in his very inner 
man a violent temptation to become a wizard, that gave 
him some small endowment of courage. Hence, he tried 
to see who the vision was, and said : — 

" You won^t hurt me ?" 

The apparition replied : — 

" Get up, and go in peace, to do thine errand. Thou 
hast nothing to fear. " 

" You ain't a wicked fairy, then ?" 

This question appeared to anger the vision, which an- 
swered in an angry tone : — 

" I have nothing to tell thee. Thou hast lingered too 
long already. Remember, thou wretched serf, that thy 
master and a noble knight are at the point of death. Haste 
thee to Cornouiller thou babbler, or thou shalt pay for thy 
disobedience I" 

Rigauld made an effort to rise, and though pallid, with 
hair on end, half stunned with dread and scarce mas- 
ter of himself enough to find the path, he moved, as the 
phantom pointed with outstretched hand, towards the castle 
of Mahaut. Though he fairly flew over the plain, scarcely 
had he reached the margin of the woods when he turned 
his face towards the mystic spring to get another glimpse. 
The three stone slabs stood there, and the stone efifigy of 
St. Procul at the top. The vision was gone. Fear gave 
wings to his speed, and Rigauld darted on as if the goblin 
was at his heels in chase. 

As he could not see the witch at the spring, his frantic 
imagination made him sure she was following, and off he 
went like an arrow, winding on in the dark narrow path 
obstructed with trees, and bushes and briers, and as he 
bounded onward heard gibbering howling hissing noises, 
mysterious and awful, above, below, and all around him 


that harried on his rapid flight. For all the demesnes of 
Typhaines, for all the wealth in the world ; hardly to win a 
paradise in the next, would Riganld have checked his car 
reer for an instant long enoagh to catch his breath, for he 
seemed to feel that the claws were already clutching at his 
hair, to punish his least act of disobedience. Driven for- 
wards at this flying rate, he soon passed the wood, and 
was now out in the open country, where he began to feel 
not quite so distressed, like a poor soldier flying from a 
lost battle-field from the swords or pikes of the panting 
cavalry behind. Though in a race of two leagues he had 
run himself quite out of breath, he dared not stop, and 
continued at a fast walk for four leagues more. He had 
just done two leagues in the woods, and his legs were now 
all bleeding and lacerated with brambles and thorns. He 
was impelled by terror, but a strong motive for his haste 
sprung from. the dangerous posture of affairs at the abbey. 
Kigauld was the most faithful of servants. 

It was ten o'clock when he descried on a lofty rock the 
buildings that constituted the Chatel de Cornouiller. Built 
in a preceding century, the fortress exhibited the same 
dark and rugged aspect that still continues to impress us 
with a feeling of respect for the ruined donjons of our feu- 
dal ancestors. It was a square tower that rose up above 
the peaked summit of a steep rocky acclivity that seemed 
to make it all one with the living stone. Windows, narrow 
and few, and loopholes, gave admission to the light of this 
sombre abode. The entrance-gate was narrow and low, 
and had no drawbridge, for such a form of defence was 
useless, so difficult was the scarped ascent thus made secure 
by its original constructors, the seigneurs of old. In war 
time, all that was wanted was a proper supply of huge 
pieces of rock to roll down the narrow ladder-like track, by 
which alone access to the tower could be gained, and which 


could instantly be swept clear of any assaulting party, 
should due vigilance not be wanting. 

An inclosure, consisting of a thick battlemented wall, 
surrounded the donjon, and in this outer inclosure were 
stables for horses and great sheds, under which, in case of 
a raid, the villagers and peasants might find a safe refuge. 

Rigauld, a man well known through all the country 
side as abbey forester, had no difficulty in making his way 
within, for one of the guard at the gate opened for him, 
and as he said his message to the lady was very urgent, one 
of the men went up to announce his arrival and his pressing 
haste. He soon returned to the courtyard, and led Rigauld 
up to the great hall, where the Dame de Cornouiller was 
seated in the third story of the tower. 

In the great hall, when Cornouiller had a master, and 
where the gentlemen of the surrounding region used to 
meet round the massive table still standing there, Rigauld 
beheld à large company assembled — a large company, it 
should be said, considering the strict seclusion in which the 
maiden mistress had lived so long. 

In the first place, there was Mahaut herself, seated in her 
grand seigneural chair, with its high carved back, sur- 
mounted by a little canopy. She was a very beautiful girl, 
and of a noble and imposing air. Her gown was a rich 
purple sandal silk stuff, worked in large golden silver and 
azure flowers, and her light golden hair was confined by a 
veil of marvellous fineness, which was attached in front to 
a circlet of gold. It was a mass of rich and multitudinous 
curls, close and thick. 

When Rigauld entered the hall Mahaut's elbow was 
resting on the arm of her sofa, and the chin in the white 
palm, in a listening attitude of concentrated attention. She 
was hearkening to a personage sitting in front of her, and 
dressed in the apparel of a regular canon of the time. 


Behind her were seated her serving-women, all twirling 
their spindles, and listening, with attention wrapt as her 
own, to the discourse of the venerable personage. Ranged 
along the wall stood a number of men-at-arms, some with 
their arms crossed on the breast, and some with hands down 
and the fingers locked in front, all imitating the contem^ 
plative air of the feminine portion of the audience. 

"Come in, Rigauld," said the chatelaine, turning her face 
towards the forester. " They tell me you demand to speak 
with me." 

" Lady," responded the hunter, throwing himself down 
on his knees, ** the father Abbot of Typh aines is sure to 
perish unless you give him instant succor. Attacked as he 
is and ajmost captured already by his rebel burghers and 
peasants, for the love of the Holy Virgin make no delay." 

" What is it you say ?" 

" I saw naught of it myself, my lady ; but one, whose 
name I dare not repeat, appeared to me at St. ProcuPs 
Spring, and despatched me to you. Ah I madame I Give 
me your men, or monseigneur the Abbot is lost 1" 

Every soul in the hall now looked in his neighbor's face, 
and in an instant nothing was seen except the whole crowd 
making the sign of the cross. They little doubted the 
truth of the forester's story. In our own day, perhaps, the 
mere fact of intervention by a being so widely known as 
St. ProcuPs fairy, in favor of an abbey, might have had 
something of a squint in it. Why, and to what end should 
hell intervene for the protection of God's servants and the 
property of the church ? This was not the way they saw 
things in those times; on the contrary, they supposed 
sprites, goblins, and ghosts, to be rather fond of looking 
after the affairs of the seigneurs, and even of ecclesiastics 
too, and so, of upholding and maintaining their authority 
in the land. 


Madame Mahaut rose from her sofa. 

" What is to be done, master ?" said she to the canon. 
" You are aware that the Seigneur de Pomes has alreadj 
made two attempts to capture the chatel by surprise and 
carry me off to force a marriage with his eldest son. If I 
lend my men-at-arms now, I shall be left here without any 
defence 1 yet, on the other hand, as the Abbot of Typhaines 
is my guardian, I owe him succor." 

The priest replied in a strong German accent : — 

" My daughter, you mustn't be frightened. The Seigneur 
de Pomes, doubtless, has no idea of what is going on, and 
even if he does know it, and in spite of his disloyalty to 
you, instead of coming here to assail your house, he '11 do 
all he can to defend the holy abbey. And, besides, your 
chatel is such a strong one I If you keep up a strict watch, 
who can capture it ? But if you can't feel easy, call your 
serfs into the fortress; they'll be enough to guard you 
for a short while, till your soldiers come back ; and that '11 
be very soon." 

"But," cried Mahaut, " I must either send them all, or 
keep them all here I The Typhaines folk are thousands, 
and it would be a difficult matter to defend the Abbot with 
only my poor ten men-at-arms and some twenty sergeants. 
Of course, the Abbot hasn't a single lance I" 

" Oh I lady," answered Rigauld, "by God's mercy it was 
only yesterday forenoon I guided a knight there. He had 
just come back from the Holy Land, and he and his squire 
and pages will fight for the minster — of course they will I" 

" The Holy Land I What did you say ?" cried Mahaut, 
her face all flushing. " Know you the knight's name ?" 

"No I but he 's a brave gentleman." 

"Tall?" said Mahaut. 

" Yes, truly ; tall and generous looking." 

" Has he brown hair ? Has he blue eyes ?" 


"I can^t tell about that." 

" Stupid creature I" cried the Maid of Cornouiller, stamp- 
ing her little foot. " But, at least, you must have seen the 
sign on his pennon — ^his armor and shield ?" 

" It 's a — " putting his finger to his forehead, and try- 
ing to remember : ''oh, yes I it 's a lion argent ; the rest 
is blue — ^yes, I think it's blue." 

" Holy Virgin I" screamed an old waiting-maid, and drop- 
ping her distafif. " Our master 's come home I" 

Mahaut now quickly turned to the old canon. 

" Master," she said, " Monseigneur de Comehaut, my 
betrothed husband, is at the abbey ; and I have reason to 
dread a great misfortune. He is just come back from the 
Holy Land ; and if he has gone there to seek Master An- 
selm, it is probably because he has found out about his do- 
mains. In that case, he will be very angry, and join the 

V Do you judge him capable of so black a crime as that ?" 
said the priest. 

" Passion," replied Mahaut, with a shake of her head, 
'* passion knows neither crime nor virtue — ^neither good nor 
evil I But we mustn't allow Monseigneur Philippe to bring 
dishonor on his fair fame. " 

" I am far more afraid he '11 perish along with the Abbot : 
those rebels will be very furious. He '11 perish just as 
those gallant gentlemen did at Laon, who flew to defend 
Bishop Gaudry against his burghers." 

" I 'm not so uneasy on that score," she said, with an 
air of scorn. " Monseigneur Philippe isn't the man to es- 
cape the sword of the Saracen and come here to get killed 
by a swarm of low peasants. But don't let us talk about 
it. To horse, all of you, my men I to horse I and hold 
one in readiness for me too !" 

" For you Î" cried the canon. " Are you going mad, my 


child ? It is only a moment ago, and you was afraid to 
lend a few of your men to holy Father Anselm in his dis- 
tress, and now you are going to take horse yourself I Do 
be a little wiser I Do as I advised you to do, and while 
your people are away to deliver the holy abbey and Mon- 
seigneur Philippe too, from the hands of that rabble, do 
you stay here with me and hear the rest of my holy exhort- 
ations that I so delight to lavish on you." 

Mahaut, while he was talking, went on giving her or- 
ders without attending to what the canon was saying ; but 
when he had made an end at last, she apostrophized him 
as follows : — 

'* How is this. Master Norbert ? You, a servant of God — 
are you going to give me such timorous counsels ? Is it 
the fashion in your country of Cleve for women to care not 
a rush about their husbands and betrothed lovers in peril ? 
Do you know that I have been patiently waiting here for 
mine these five long weary years ? that, deaf to the whis- 
perings of my own grief, I — yes, I — sent him to Palestine 
where so many of Christ's gallant soldiers have been ? He 
might die ; and do you suppose that I am going to let him 
stain his illustrious name, or die in my sight ?" 

In spite of a retort so lively, venerable Norbert would 
take no discouragement, and seeing the Lady of Cornouiller 
about to leave the apartment, without hearing his answer, 
he seized her by the mantle, and in a severe tone said : — 

" Stay here, my daughter ; I command you, out of my 
aflFection for you ; it 's not seemly for a young lady to be 
galloping About the country and affronting perils fitter for 
warriors, and not for women 1 Shall I, who am ever striv- 
ing to keep churchmen far from the battlefield, shall I allow 
a lady, and my own penitent too, to give way to the same 
blindness ?" 

Master Norbert held fast to the mantle, as he spoke 


to the chatelaine in a tone half indignant, half suppliant 
Bat he clung to the hope of making her hear him, little 
knowing the haughty temper of his spiritual child. She 
looked about her, and seeing that the men-at-arms had 
all gone down the donjon stairs, leaving Riganld at her 
side, she looked at the man in an imperious way, and 
then said : — 

" You I Here, take this monk, and shut him up in the 
great hall 1" i 

Scarcely were the words uttered, when, lifting the old 
man in his arms while she twitched the mantle, to which 
he still clung, out of his hand, the wild forester bore him 
off, and set him down in the arm-chair where he first found 
him preaching to the lady. That done, Riganld went out 
at the door and rejoined Mahaut 

Meanwhile pious Norbert, left alone among the waiting- 
women, gave himself up to, probably, not his first series 
of reflections on the savage independence of his contem- 

He, whose mission it was to soften their manners, and 
recall priests, women, and seigneurs to practices less vio^ 
lent and sinful — he, who by the church has been honored with 
the title of saint for his life-long labors in the cause of re- 
form — ^he found his work every instant balked and even 
nullified by the violence of a race that he found it very hard 
to bend to the light yoke of the evangel. How tenacious 
this barbarism was I Ever since morning, with what pious 
meditation and sincere enthusiasm she had hearkened to his 
counsels ! But now, a mere circumstance was enough to 
put to flight all he had flattered himself for having effected 
in her, and her women in waiting, as well. Yet, be it said 
again, Norbert was not a man to be discouraged in any 
work of love or mercy : he meditated for a few minutes, 
rose from his chair, went out for his walking gear, and, bis 


long staff in hand, went forth to join Mahaut, who by this 
time was far away. 

For her to change her worked veil and mantle for a red 
cloth cloak, to descend the steep stair to the court-yard 
and spring into the saddle, and give the order to march, 
was an affair of bat a few moments. 

Rigauld, mounted behind a trooper, guided the party 
by the shortest though not the safest paths, in obedience 
to Mahaut's orders, and a few hours would have brought 
them to the towers of Typhaines but for the compulsory 
delays of the tired footmen, who compelled the men-at- 
arms to implore her not to hurry them on at such a rate. 
In spite of her anxiety, Mahaut felt obliged to yield to 
the necessity of the case, so that the sun was sinking low 
down in the west as she caught sight of the distant abbey, 
half drowned in the many-hued mists of the coming eve. 

To look through the dim vapors at the spot where her 
lover was, rendered the maiden's anxiety almost intolerable. 
In spite of the prayers of her men, she ordered the knights 
to follow at a gallop, and recommending the best speed to 
her infantry, she struck her horse with the switch and flew 
over ditches and hedges, and soon reached the foot of the 
mount on which stood Typhaines. She was about to press 
her steed up the rocky side, when Rigauld, who had leaped 
to the ground, darted suddenly at her bridle-rein and 
turned the horse's head just as an arrow whistled close by 
her side, and Qew to bound away again from a rock hard 

" Frontless vilain !" she cried, as she lifted her rod to 
smite him. 

The men-at-arms uttered a startling cry. 

"We are too late I" spoke an old knight — ^the seneschal. 

It was too true. Mahaut descried a troop of peasants 
at the bridge, who, on seeing the lady, began to hoot and 



shout alond. She looked with scrntinizing gaze to see if 
glint of helm, or spark from lance and pennon, might be 
in the crowd, and seeing none ; — 

" Then he is dead or a prisoner !" 

Insisting, as she did, on knowing something clearer on 
this lamentable subject, Rigauld asked for nothing better 
than a permission to devote himself, and they allowed him 
to take his own way. He climbed to the top of the ascent, 
and cautiously made his way into the great court-yard, 
where he saw a great many dead and wounded men, the 
latter striying by their lamentable cries and moans to secure 
his pity and his help, but it was to take trouble to no pur- 
pose ; the forester, descrying none but Typhaines men 
among the poor wretches, paid no more attention to their 
appeals than he would have bestowed on the bleating of so 
many half butchered sheep. He next came to the postern 
in the facade-wall, so long defended by the valorous knight 
and Fulk, his squire. It was not broken down, but stood 
wide open. Passing through to the church, he beheld the 
two pages stretched on the pavement — the brave boys I — 
one with his head laid open, and the other with a couple of 
arrows deep sunk in his breast. Rigauld got into the nave 
— then into the choir, where he found nothing but solitude 
— ^no wounded, no corpses — neither abbot, knight, nor 
squire. He thought that was enough done, and so went 
down the mount again. 

" What of it ? What did you find ?" said Mahaut. 

" Nothing.— Nobody !" 

" They are prisoners," she said. 

No doubt that such a thought was less lugubrious than 
others she had allowed to torture her imagination, as she 
was hurrying along the road thinking to find her lover 
dead or dishonored. Yet that thought was fraught with 


its own bitterness, too, for to become a prisoner, he must 
have begun with a defeat. 

" Perhaps," she murmured, " he made his escape." 
But the seneschal shook his head doubtingly. 

" That 's hardly possible," said he. " The peasants are 
too many for that." 

" We can inquire about it," said she. 

" It would be far better to make our way to the chatel. 
liook you, lady I That rabble there are running to their 
barricade in crowds. Should it, perchance, be a sortie they 
are thinking of, your presence, with our small numbers, will 
pot us to a great disadvantage." 

" No matter 1" said Mahaut. " Do what I order you to 
do — and at once. After that, you can use your pleasure." 

The seneschal put his horse at the walk, and so ad- 
vanced alone towards the bridge, and when at ear-shot, he 
cried : — 

"Messieurs burghers and peasants of Typhaines, the 
Lady Mahaut of Cornouiller requires to know whether truly 
your Abbot and Monseigneur Philippe de Cornehaut are 
priscftiers in your hands, and in case they are so, then at 
what ransom do you hold them — each of them ?" 

He waited, expecting one of the armed burghers or pea- 
sants then gazing at him to make answer to this polite in- 
vitation ; but all of a sudden the crowd opened, and an 
interlocutor made his appearance whom he by no means 
expected to see in such a place as that. He was none other 
than a herald-at-arms, bearing the blazon of Nevers, who 
cried aloud : — 

" Messire Seneschal, make known to the Dame of Cor- 
nouiller that, in the name of her seigneur, the Count de 
Ne vers, she stands prohibited from undertaking any en- 
terprise in this place ; and that she shall retire without 
delay, under penalty of forfeiture of all her fiefs 1" 


The seneschal; utterly confounded though he was, would 
gladly have argaed the point, or at least repeat his ques- 
tion, but as the peasants replied only with hootings, he 
hung his head, and, with a heary heart, rode slowly back 
to the lady. 



Yes, the seneschal was compelled to return to his mis- 
tress. The poor old old gentleman, who hadn't much heart 
for the affair, was very naturally clearer headed than she on 
the question — a very serious one to him — of the material 
interests involved in the case. To carry on a quarrel with 
a set of burghers and serfs at Typhaines was one thing, 
and though a rather foolish piece of business, considering 
their recent success, it was quite another matter to fly in 
the suzerain's face and make war on his allies and even 
run the possible risk of being obliged, some day, to pass 
your sword-point right through his own banner, an enor- 
mity not to be for a moment thought of by any person, even 
one moderately schooled in feudal principles and usages. 
Certain it was, that the Maid of Cornouiller wasn't on 
such a footing as that in her relations with the Count de 

The old soldier had a very piteous look when he came 
up to the lady and told her and the men-at-arms that stood 
round her, what had just happened — ^for he was still fear- 
ful of some intemperate bit of obstinacy on her part. 

Mahaut looked down, and kept nibbling her glove 

" It 's time for us to go," said the seneschal. " It 's 
near night already, and if the peasants should happen to 
make pursuit, and we should meet any of Seigneur de 


Pomes' forces, it woald be a hard matter to defend our- 

" If Messire Philippe is a prisoner, what will they do 
with him ? they '11 kill him 1" said she. 

" They woaldn't dare do that," rejoined one of the 

" They will set a heavy ransom on him," sighed the old 
seneschal. " Let ns be gone." 

Mahant put her horse to a gallop — ^but she drove at the 
barrier. The men stopped her ; 

" Suppose you too should be taken prisoner ?" asked 
the seneschal. " Do you think you 'd get the chevalier off 
any the sooner for that ?" 

Mahant made no replj: she was a sensible young 
woman, and so found nothing to object. Yet she sat 
there, gazing intently at the crowd in town. She shed 
no tears ; nor did she make any wild, passionate display 
of her feelings ; but when Riganld, at a signal from the 
seneschal, took hold of her bridle-rein and turned the 
horse's head towards the chatel, she drew a long sigh, and 
that was all. 

The foot^soldiers had now come up and joined, and the 
whole band, infantry and cavalry, being made acquainted 
with the state of the case, took the road to the castle in 
a very bad humor, for they had a march of six long leagues 
before supper-time, and so they went trudging ^ong the way 
with a hang-dog look that showed how disappointed they 
were. As many as could do so, got into the rear-guard, 
where they could swear and curse to their heart's content, 
without any risk of offence to the Maiden of Chatel- Cor- 

I know not whether it was that heaven was now touched 
by the dolorous tranquillity of that fair maiden and the pa- 
tience of her submission to so distressing a lot, but the 


fact was, that at a tarn in the path she met old Norbert 
stalking forwards along the dusty way, with his long staff 
in hand. 

" Well, daughter I" said the canon, " has any good come 
out of your violence this morning ?" 

" Master," responded Mahaut, " God has justly punished 
me, and my sin requires a penance. Holy Abbot Anselm 
and Monseigneur Philippe have been taken prisoners by 
the rebels ; and Monseigneur de Nevers is their declared 
enemy. He has joined the rebel party." 

" Don't despair," cried Norbert. " Neither your violence 
nor your arms can avail anything here ; but the word of the 
Lord can open every door unto me. You, lady, have greatly 
sinned against one of the servants of the Most High. 
Repent I" 

"I do repent," she said, submissively. "And I am 
ready to do whatsoever you may order me to do. " 

" You come of a hard and a violent race," resumed the 
saint, " and bone and flesh are ever driving you on into 
the snares of Satan. Go now, in peace I Return to your 
manor, but go on foot, and tread, as I have done, the dusty 
road. Alight from your horse, and humble yourself, if 
such a thing as that is possible. Let it be your duty to 
wait with patience and in fasting and prayer for the success 
of the attempts I am about to make in your behalf." 

Mahaut made no remark whatever. She quitted the 
saddle, and made ready to prosecute the journey as mod- 
estly as she had been commanded to dp by the canon ; and 
according to the usage of that age, her entire suite at once 
imitated her example. Norbert stood until the whole sad 
party of penitents had defiled by him, and then set off for 
the Burgh of Typhaines. 

The attempt he proposed to make was not devoid of great 
peril. Though by his preaching he had endeared himself 


to the commoQalty and the seigneurs through the length 
and breadth of the land; though his piety had begot 
universal reverence, he well knew the men of the time to 
be as variable and capricious as any barbarian people what- 
ever, and that in their paroxysms of ferocity, even the 
most cherisTied olyects of their devotion lost much of their 
sanctity in their eyes. As he had just said to the Lady 
of Cornouiller, they were a hard and violent race of men 
he had to deal with ; and to trust to the passions of the 
laity was, sometimes, to expose one's self to the cruellest 
fate. Yet, in all ages, one excess gives rise to its antithesis, 
a great vice oftentimes giving birth to a greater virtue, 
and though knights, burghers, and serfs were terrible 
scholars, the church was wise and skilful enough to set over 
them a class of preceptors whose pious intrepidity refused 
to go back in presence of any menace whatever. Besides, 
they too, those hardy preceptors, they were a stiff-necked 
and impetuous generation : naught but the direction they 
gave to their passions could have sanctified and made 
them venerable. 

K'orbert went up to the barricade, and presented him- 
self at it with as much quiet assurance as if he had himself 
been one of the consuls of Typhaines — and right before the 
eyes of the crowd, who were astonished at his audacity, 
knocked at the gate with his long staff; it was a sort of 
postern they had constructed among the stones, beams, and 
great heaps of barrels. 

" Come, open to the servant of the Lord I Open at once 1 
Let not justice languish for admission !" cried Norbert. 

Norbert was well known, for he had been travelling the 
country there for six months. One of the burghers on 
guard at the gate went hurriedly away to call Payen, who 
was commander of that important post. The consul came 


np, and respectfully inquired of the pious canon what his 
object might be in a visit to the burgh. 

" What means this insolent language ?" haughtily asked 
Norbert. " And how long is it since the sons of sin began 
to question the will of the Most High ? I know thee. Thy 
name is Payen — and pagan thou art, no doubt, and well 
deserving the stake shouldst thou dare detain me here I 
Open I" 

And the saint struck the door heavily with his long staff 

Norbert's pious double entendre produced a great im- 
pression on the consul and his attendant crowd. A pun 
in those days used to be accepted as an unanswerable argu- 
ment. In the schools, in the pulpit, in the books of the time, 
the power of a pun was daily tested, and whoever he might 
be that was successfully hit by one, was obliged to confess 
the triumph of his antagonist, provided he failed instantly 
to reply by a successful thrust in point, and to the very 
purpose. Payen (gallice, Pagan), who never could have 
so much as dreamed of chopping logic with such a gram- 
matical host as the canon, judged there was nothing left 
for him to do but open the wicket and let the master in. 

" Come in, holy father. Perhaps my colleagues will 
blame me for admitting you within the burgh without first 
ascertaining the nature of your business here ; but provided 
you will only pray for me, I '11 try to bear it." 

"Yes, I'll pray for you, provided and on the sole con- 
dition that you are not one of holy Abbot Anselm's mur- 

"Would to God," replied Payen, with a sudden change 

in tone, " you had to absolve me of a crime like that I May 

I be excommunicated if I might first stamp my foot in his 

gashed throat — ^that false traitor, that wicked seigneur I 



But the cowardly villain still lives, for his master the 
devil tore him out of our hands I" 

Norbejt raised Tiis arms towards heaven, his face radiant 
with joy, and utterly reckless of his surroundings, cried 
aloud : — 

" Blessed be God who hath delivered his servant out of 
the hand of the impious I Come, then, thou hardened sin- 
ner, tell me now what miracle it was that rescued that 
venerable father from the jaws of death, reserved for him 
by such as thou. And then say what thou hast done with 
the brave knight, Philippe de Cornehaut." 

" I shall tell you nothing about them" retorted Payen, 
in a very bad humor. " I am airaid I have betrayed my 
duty already. As some reparation for that fault, I shall 
take you to the council chamber, at once, and my colleagues 
may do as they, in their wisdom, may think befitting." 

"Come on at once 1 You anticipate my wishes;" and 
the canon, though burthened with a weight of years, ex- 
hausted by the heat of that August day, and his walk of 
six leagues from Cornouiller, kept step with his guide, and 
in a few minutes reached the commune-hall. 

Payen pushed open the door of a large room, and led 
Norbert in, where one glance showed him the tragical nature 
of the scene before him. 

At a large table were seated the consuls, Simon, in the 
centre, seeming to direct all the proceedings. Two knights 
were seated with them, who, no doubt, were the represen- 
tatives of Count de Nevers, and also a sort of scribe, bend- 
ing forwards over a parchment, ready to engross the verdict 
about to be pronounced by the judges. Verdict is the word, 
for Messire Philippe, then and there on trial for his life, 
was sitting on a wooden stool in front of the table ; he was 
laughing as the venerable canon entered the hall. 

The aspect of the crusader was enough to tear the heart- 


strings of them that loved him. His surcoat was all rent 
and torn ; and poor Rudaverse, where was she ? bnt the 
Bomest sight of all was Messire Philippe's head, wrapped 
in a coarse linen cloth all stained with blood, which, toge- 
ther with the extreme pallor of his face, showed that the 
chevalier had not been taken without knowing why, and 
that his defence must have cost somewhat to somebody. 

The appearance of Norbert interrupted the proceedings 
in council. Payen went and whispered to Simon about 
whom the members and the commissioners from the Niver- 
nais now crowded, and as the rapid conference went on, 
a deep shadow fell on the face of the cloth-merchant. At 
length the magistrates and their allies resumed their seats, 
and Simon addressed the pious canon : — 

" We know not the cause that has brought you hither ; 
yét we hold your sanctity in respect, and out of our vene- 
ration, we beg you to be seated with us and assist us in 
the trial of yonder knight." 

Norbert without answering him, took a seat by the 
clerk's side and put himself in a listening attitude. 

Simon now addressing Seigneur de Cornehaut, said : — 

" Knight, you will not deny that you have done battle 
against the Commune of Typhaines without pretence of 
right to do so, and solely moved thereunto by your 
malice ?" 

"Messire vilain," responded the crusader, "I was laugh- 
ing, just now, with all my heart at the sight of a parcel 
of rascals like you setting themselves up as judges in the 
case of a gentleman ; but really this is no laughing time, 
for I plainly see that what you want is to take my life, 
and I 've no disposition to let you have it. Therefore, I 
now declare — if you do not know it already — ^that no man 
can be tried save by his peers, and that peasants, even 
rebellious peasants, are no peers of mine 1" 


"Don't be so bold," said Jacques; "a burgber's axe 
is as sharp as jouf sword, and please remember we are 
masters now, and we intend to try you by our laws I" 

" I believe you," responded Philippe. " And because I 
fear your vengeance, more than I confide in your equity, 
I '11 not be tried by you. I did defend the Abbot of Ty- 
phaines ; I could not suffer him to be butchered before 
my own eyes. lie is my betrothed wife's guardian, but at 
bottom he is my enemy, and had I happened to be two 
leagues away instead of at the minster, and knowing that 
he had taken possession of my estates, I swear the quarrel 
might have fought itself out for all I cared." 

One of the knights now rose, and said : — 

** Messire, your suzerain, the Count's law would be harder 
on you than that of Typhaines. You have defended his 
enemies, and killed and wounded several of his allies. For 
all these offences, you deserve to be punished I" 

" Messire," said the knight, " make these fellows set me 
at liberty, and I will then make answer as is befitting ;" he 
made a scornful shrug; it was clear that the verdict was 
made up before the trial. 

Simon was gazing the while at the soldier, with eyes 
burning with hate ; and sentiments equally sinister were 
legible in the faces of his colleagues. Yet, as if the legal 
formalities of a trial, ill observed as they had been, were 
still in their way, Antoine struck his clinched fist on the 
table, exclaiming : — 

" There 's been too much of this already I Are we going 
to spend the whole evening, and the night, too, to find out 
whether that knight there is guilty or no ? Are we a par- 
cel of children to amuse . ourselves with such nonsense? 
I say he did defend the Abbot— that with his own hand 
he put many of our friends to death, and wounded more of 
them, some mortally, and others now doomed to be crippled 


as long as they live, and had it not been that the valets 
at the abbey opened a window for us to get in, we should 
be this very instant exhibiting the shameful spectacle of 
a whole army fighting against one single man 1 Isn't this 
enough of his "misdeeds ? What more can you want ? I 
know that he ^ot the Abbot off to levy whole armies of 
our enemies ; and now you have got him fast and safe in 
your hands, you are not going to put him to death !" 

"Antoine talks like a sensible man;" said Simon, "and 
if you'll believe me, the knight ought to die." 

Norbert rose from his stool. 

" So," said he, " you are preparing to carry on war like 
a troop of brigands ?" 

" No," replied Simon, " like trodden down men who want 
revenge 1 Master Paul, write down that the consuls con- 
demn the prisoner to death I" 

The crusader stretched forth his hand. 

" It can't be," said he, " you are about to use me so 
harshly as that 1 Don't kill me I Set a ransom on me." 

" Your ransom I" cried Simon, shaking his fist at him, 
" your blood 's your ransom 1" 

Here the knights of the Nivernais broke into a coarse 

"What a pair of base scoundrels 1" cried poor Philippe, 
staring in their faces. 

Just then he felt the weight of two heavy hands pressing 
on his shoulders, and looking back, saw an immense savage 
of a serf, who said : — 

" Kneel down I Lay your head on the stool 1 I won't 
hurt you much. " 

The crusader's eyes were drawn towards a glittering 
something behind the peasant ; it was a ponderous axe. 

Norbert seized the gentleman's hand. 

" Don't be afraid," said he. 


" Do I look like it ?" replied the crusader. 

" Isengrin, make him bend his knees I" shouted Jacques. 
" Let us have the pleasure of seeing how a gentleman looks 
when he 's begging for pardon I" 

This lucky thought delighted everybody except Philippe 
and the canon, who at once jerked Philippe out of the 
executioner's hand, and then stood in front of the victim. 

He stood betwixt the prisoner and the serf, and boldly 
he spoke as follows : — 

" If you are to cut off any head here to-night, it shall 
be my head — and I am a priest — and your souls shall be 
damned if you do that 1" 

The hangman rubbed his ear, and then turned to his 
masters with a hesitating look; but not waiting to let 
some one else get the floor, Norbert exclaimed : — 

*' You have said enough, and done enough in this busi- 
ness already. I forbid you to go any further with it. I 
prohibit you I You know perfectly well that God and the 
Yirgin are now here I — Yes, now I — invisible, at my side 1 
Were you a band of pagans you wouldn't dare execute 
what you7)urpose I Why ? Because you are not a gang of 
fools. Come now — merciless men that you are — come now, 
let me teach you something. Why did you take up arms ? 
Did you do that to have the pleasure of murdering people ? 
No I You did it to set up your commune, and live under 
it in liberty and your own laws. How can you hope 
to succeed, then, if you will persist to rouse horror-struck 
reprobation and the justest vengeance on you and your 
people? Messire Philippe, who you are wanting to 
butcher — Messire Philippe, whose life you are now seeking, 
has relatives and friends who will not patiently submit to 
see him butchered. His suzerain, the Count de Nevers, is 
not so base a man that he too will not be angered should 
you traitorously shed this gentleman's blood. I clearly 


discern that yoa are stimulated to commit this rash act 
by interested persons : yes, thou base and unworthy 
knight — ^thou wicked Baldwin de Pornes, thou art the man ; 
thou art the false gentleman that art cunningly driving 
these poor people on to the commission of a crime that may 
serve to remove the worthy rival of thine own son I 

" But if they are wise men, they will not venture to en- 
hance the dangers that surround them to please and serve 
such an one as thou. Come, then, my masters, try to under- 
stand what I am sayiog clearly. I say that if one hair 
of Messire Philippe's head should fall by any violence of 
yours, I will go forth from this place ' and in the public 
square of Typhaines, in the "presence of the people, I will 
call down vengeance oh your heads and all your abettors. 
If they refuse to hear me there, I will traverse the whole 
of the Nivernais and Champagne ; I will visit Burgundy 
and France, if it must be so. Against you I will league 
knights, communes, and the king himself. If they will not 
hearken to my voice, I will preach a crusade against you, 
and in a week's time, you shall be found standing among 
the ruins of your houses ; and you shall weep, and others, 
if left alive, shall weep and repent for your mortal ferocity 1" 

Simon now cast a scrutinizing glance around the com- 
pany, where the only individuals he could deem firm to 
their purposes were de Pornes and Simon himself. 

" Master Norbert," said Baldwin, "you had no occasion 
to threaten us so sorely I You ought to know that the 
consuls of Typhaines both respect and obey you." 

" Let them make proof of that, then. Set a ransom on 
the prisoner." 

" Never I" shouted Simon. " Never, while I live I I took 
that young man with my own hand. He is my own prisoner, 
and so I will hold him I" 

Philippe, who for a moment had felt that he was about 


to be liberated, lost hope once more and sat gazing at the 

" What then, will you cede me ?" asked Norbert. " Are 
you rallying me ?" 

" I never rally any person," replied Simon. " For the 
present, I concede you his life. Isengrin, take the prisoner 
back to his dungeon." 

Messire Philippe now stepped to the edge of the table, 
and in a grave tone, quite conformable to the serious nature 
of his position, he said : — 

" Sires vilains, I comprehend marvellously well what is 
about to happen to me. For the present, you are afraid 
of this venerable canon here, to whom I would now gladly 
promise a long and grateful remembrance, though I know 
him not. But as soon as he is out of sight, you will recom- 
mence your trial, now only suspended. Yet I desire to 
make known unto you that I hold you to be a band of trai- 
tors and brigands, and that .... It seems I have nothing 
more to say." 

Messire Philippe deemed that by this speech he had ac- 
quitted himself of what was due to his self-respect and his 
good renown : the scruple, honorable though it was, failed 
to subject him to the rather uncharitable will of either Si- 
mon or his friend, de Pomes. Norbert, after pronouncing 
a benediction over him, at once addressed the council with 
a view to obtain some rather better condition. In the 
mean time Isengrin led his captive away. 

If there really does exist one moment in the course of a 
man's life in which it would be most particularly disagree- 
able to him to die a violent death, it must be the one in 
which he is not only wounded, but humiliated by defeat 
Depression of spirits and bodily exhaustion are ill prepa- 
rations for the heroic appearance, without which it is a 
most painful thing to stand face to face with one's aveng- 


îng enemies. So the poor crusader, who had been most 
cruelly beaten, bruised and wounded, while resisting the 
crowd of peasantry who were admitted by the infamous 
valets into the interior, and who, besides, had had nothing 
to eat since the morning before, was only so much more to 
be admired for his haughty courage on the occasion. 
Under other and more favorable circumstances, it would 
have been a mere frolic for him ; but the effort he made to 
carry on with a high hand, must have cost him not a little. 

When he had got into the dark corridor that led towards 
the descent to his dungeon, he had nearly fainted with 
weakness. Loss of blood and starvation had made him 
more sensitive at the sight of that great, horrible axe, and 
now he could hardly stand : still, his courage forbade him 
to call on Isengrin for help, and letting the jailer walk on 
ahead, he stopped to lean for support against the wall. As 
he stood leaning, giddy, and ready to sink to the floor, he 
suddenly witnessed a scene within a couple of paces of him, 
which passed so rapidly that at first he thought it must 
have been a dream. 

To reach the dungeon he had been confined in, and where 
he was now going, you had to pass along a dark corridor, 
and then down a spiral stair, which came winding down 
from the upper stories, and so clear down to the dark 
prison below. Isengrin, who supposed the prisoner was 
coming along behind him, had already begun to go down, 
with a lantern in his hand imperfectly lighting with its red 
glare the secular darkness of that awful hole, and was 
carefully stepping down the cold and slippery stone stairs, 
when Messire suddenly saw something darting down on 
him from the ascending part of the spiral — or rather, a 
man falling on him as sudden as a flash of lightning, who 
gave him a blow, thanks to which, our acquaintance with 
that amiable personage is here brought to an instant close. 


The effect of the blow was so prompt that, without ntter- 
ÎDg a sonnd, the jailer threw up both arms and fell head 
foremost down the winding gulf in which he was yery 
carefully picking his way. He reached bottom with a 
heavy thud, and as Philippe was stepping forward to see 
what had happened, Isengrin's murderer rushed up to him, 
seized his arm, and whispered : — 

" SUence ! Not a word I you are free ! follow me I" 

The unknown snatched a cloak from the foot of the upper 
stair, threw it over the knight's shoulders, and holding 
tight to his arm, began to drag him away. Poor Philippe 
could have asked nothing better than to get away from 
that sorry abode, but he needed help to walk. The un- 
known hurried him on, and as he knew nothing of Mon- 
seigneur's weakness, grumbled at him for being so slow. 
In this way, they came to where a door led into the 

Messire Philippe cast a side look at that terrible door, 
out of which might suddenly start a new horror of captivity 
and all its sinister cortege. Of course then he tried to 
make as little noise as possible ; but that precaution was 
not needed, for the honorable consuls, the brave knights, 
and the venerable canon, were mixing the loftiest diapason 
up with an inexplicable web of retorts, questions, outcries, 
and apostrophes, with, perhaps, some few curses, that swal- 
lowed up the sound of footsteps in the passage. 

His conductor turned, and suddenly said :-^ 

" Either walk faster, or stay here by yourself: may the 
devil smother me if I 'm going to stay and get butchered 
for your sake I" 

" Don't you see that I am badly wounded ? Have pa- 
tience. I 'm going as fast as I can. " 

By this time they had got to the front door of the town- 


" Wrap that cape about you. Pull it over your head," 
growled the savage. 

" It 's done," said Philippe. 

" Come along, then." 

The two fugitives now got into the street. The night 
had shut in, and though many torches were burning here 
and there, the crowd was so thick that they ran very little 
risk of -observation. Besides, round every one of the 
torches, some provident burgher, combining profit and pa- 
triotism in one, was serving out drinks at his improvised 
bar, whether bench or a wine-cask with its head stove 
in, to the intrepid victors of the day, who were busy eating, 
drinking, and paying each other compliments on their 
splendid deeds. The Burgh of Typhaines was too busy 
just then to be thinking of trifles. 

This proved to be the poor gentleman's safety ; for he 
was so weak, and his gait was so awkward, that he cer- 
tainly would have attracted notice in a less enthusiastic 
crowd. But he did go on, and without any mishap reached 
a small alley, where his guide stopped at an old thatched 
building, and said : — 

" This is the place I" 

" This I What do you mean ?" 

" The place we are to stop at." 

" What, brave vilain, are we not to get out into the 
country ?" 

"You 'd'look nice in the country, and especially with a 
long tramp before you — you would — particularly as you are 
looking just now. Come this way ; you can rest a bit 
and I '11 get you something to eat. " 

The knight looked round about him, and did not feel 
quite satisfied. 

" My good fellow," said he, " I don't think I ever saw a 
more sinister, cut-throat spot than this is. Are you quite 


certain you haven't made me exchange a chop of that axe 
for a stab J The fact is, that betwixt the two, I shouldn't 
choose either of them." 

"Here's a great talk about nothing," said the man. 
" Go in, or devil take me if I don't make you 1" 



Though he was a good tempered man and naturally in- 
clined to be grateful, Messire Philippe felt somewhat vexed 
by the words as well as the tone of his guide. Yet, as he 
on all occasions trusted more to his strong arm than to his 
eloquence, he turned round and raised his fist with a mani- 
fest purpose of driving it at the vilain's face, but the fellow 
suddenly stepped back, and said : — 

" Monseigneur, if you strike me, 1 11 rip up your belly ; 
and that would be a pity, for I have nothing against you." 

" Then give me a better lodging than this house here." 

" Monseigneur, we have no other choice ; anywhere but 
here you 'd be retaken, but there — Dame Dieu I — ^you '11 be 
safe enough. Gome, make haste I Sick, wounded, and 
hungry, as you are, what could be better for you than to 
go and get a little rest ?" 

" If I had a good horse under me, I could ride to the 
world's end." 

" But we haven't got a horse." 

" I don't like this hole of yours." 

" Oh, you '11 do very well. But I must beg to say, Mon- 
seigneur, if you won't go in with a good-will, you '11 have 
to go somehow, and I should be sorry to hurt you." 

The chevalier looked at him, and saw the gleam of that 
very same short, bright blade that had just worked such 
wonders on Isengrin. 

" Not such a fool 1" said Philippe ; " I don't run a risk 


of getting butchered without a chance to kUl somebody 
myself; so, comrade, open the door, I '11 follow you." 

The man didn*t wait to be asked twice. When he 
opened the door it was pitch dark, but the serf drew him 
inside, shut the door behind him, and then Philippe couldn't 
have seen his hand before his face. 

" The deril !" cried the knight 

" Take care you don't fall," said the guide, pushing him 
before him to an invisible stair, where he gave him a shove 
that sent him slipping down several steps, until he lost his 
balance, and then rolled down the rest to the bottom. 

He rolled down at least a dozen steps, and had it depended 
on himself, would have gone on rolling, but he did reach 
bottom, and was brought up against a wall of some sort 

" Where am I ?" grumbled the knight, as he was trying 
to get on his feet, '' in a bole, a cellar, a cave, in a cata- 
comb, or in some new dungeon worse than the other? 
Worse ! No doubt of that, for in that old one I could see 
a little. May you be executed, you traitor vilain, for 
bringing me here I But where the devil are you now ?" 

He raised his arms as high as he could, to feel if there 
was anything above him. At length, high above his head, 
he heard the guide say : — 

"You are safe enough now. Be quiet Don't get 
angry — it 's no good to heat your blood so. Besides, you 've 
nothing now to fear as to your life. Good -night !" 

Messire Philippe now heard a dull sound, as if some 
one was shutting down a trap-door and then shoving the 
bars. When that was over he heard not another sound. 

What he did next was so nattiral, that in all ages, before 
as well as since the twelfth century, everybody of such a 
temper as his did do, does now, and shall do hereafter. 
Against the walls of his new prison he launched volleys 
of oaths most terrible, most redundant^ most splendid, each 


more frightful than the last. Thanks to Monseigneur's 
travels, he had been so fortunate as to adorn his memory 
with choleric invocations, arranged in a multitude of lan- 
guages, so that had a philologist happened to be at hand 
there, he might have enjoyed the pleasure of picking out 
from among the various formulas of French blasphemy, many 
rich gems in Latin, Langue d'Oc, Flemish, Italian, Greek, 
Catalan, and Sarrasinese, that would have left him nothing 
more to wish for, in respect at least of their extreme energy. 

After some time, he found how wrong his behavior was, 
and so falling on his knees, he recited, with equal warmth 
and impetuosity, not less than a round dozen of paternosters 
to the saints, the virgin, and to God himself. 

But, alas I his prayers availed no more than his oaths 
had done, the walls being as solid as ever, not even opening 
to let him out, nor allowing a single beam of light to come 
in, was it but to show how thick the darkness was. Mes- 
sire had now become completely discouraged, and thought 
he had better sit down *; but he must first have something 
to sit on. He thought -of the steps down which he had 
just tumbled at such a rapid rate : holding out his hands 
before him, he started to find them by feeling after them, 
and got stopped by a wall. He turned a little to the left, 
and hit his shin, and stooping down to find what it was, he 
felt a great plank or beam, perhaps, sticking out from the 
wall, which reached onwards he knew not how far. Tired 
of groping for the stairs in this way, he took a seat on 
the piece of timber : his heart seemed choked up — and he 
began to bemoan himself as follows ; — 

" How was it that Monseigneur, my father, sent me to 
the Holy Land, instead of going himself ? Had he done 
that, I might have stayed at Cambrai, where, after making 
a good number of thrusts and cuts to gain a stock of 
renown, I could have been married like a brave knight, 


to Mahant After that, I might have gone back home, and 
being a young, and a rather sensible person too besides, I 
might have found some way to hinder Monseigneur from 
giving, not himself, but my property to that abbey that has 
given me such a world of trouble of late. But I 'm wrong 
to blame my redoubted parent He is not the only guilty 
one in this matter. Just look at me here 1 If the truth was 
told, what have I been doing except behaving like a mere 
fool ? Why I had got that splendid chance of coming back 
from Syria far better off than most of the folks that have ever 
been there ; I hear that my sweetheart is still perfectly faith- 
ful ; and with not a bit more sense than a starling, I plump 
right into a net I Donkey that I was, I take it into my 
head -that everything is working like a miracle I I go 
to Typhaines, get her guardian's consent, take him with 
me to Comehaut, and we two are to persuade Monseigneur 
Geoffroi to agree. And then we all three start for Cornou- 
iller with followers, with troops of friends, and then I get 
married to Mahaut, all in a sea of pleasure and joy. What 
infernal troubadour was it that put all that nonsense into 
my poor head ? 

" Yes, Fulk was quite in the right. If, instead of taking 
up the notion of giving Mahaut a surprise, I had only 
found out that those monks had ruined me, and that, but 
for my booty that I luckily left behind at Marseilles, 
I was without a sou or a maille, most certain I am that 
I 'd never have gone to the old abbey, and of course I 
shouldn't have been a prisoner here this day." 

Had Messire Philippe gone on in this rigorous course 
of self-examination, it is very likely he would have gone 
mad with rage against his own self and others as well. 
But his holy patron saint gave his thoughts another di- 

" I must confess, though, after all," said he, " that if I had 


not come to Tjphaines, I should have missed some most 
splendid cut and thrusts with poor old Rudaverse. That de- 
fence of the church is a thing that 's not going to disgrace me 
— at any rate, I don't think so, and I certainly did give about 
one dozen points and as many backhanded blows that it isn't 
every man you 'd expect to see do the like. Corps St. 
Denis I I can see right here, that poor clodpoll I tumbled off 
the top of the wall with a cut in the shoulder that went 
half way through his breast I How well poor Rudavers did 
behave 1 It was a most lucky thing for me when I whirled 
her up in the air, just as those thousand devils of vilains 
laid hands on me. She got caught on a gargoyle, poor 
thing, hard and fast, and it 's to be hoped I '11 get her down 
again one of these days. Why not ? You are not going 
to suppose any peasant is fit to handle her Î Yes — and 
thanks to me, the abbot 's safe, for Fulk was enough to get 
him out of the scrape. Yes, indeed, 'pon my soul that 
was an elegant exploit, and I 'd be soiTy enough if anybody 
else had accomplished it." 

This new perspective opened up a very smiling scene in 
the crusader's future prospects. He nearly forgot that he 
had lost his father, his castle, his liberty, and his good 
sword Rudaverse, that he was not sure of saving his life 
from that axe, and, battered and wounded, and aching with 
his broken head, poor Messire Philippe at last stretched 
himself down on his plank, in this act of doing himself jus- 
tice on the score of his being by no means a mere vulgar 
sort of a knight, drew a deep sigh, and, oh, marvellous 
power of vanity I fell asleep I 

While this most valorous of champions was, contrary to 
all manner of hope, thus taking a little rest, the consuls 
the Nivernais knight, and Canon Norbert, were going on 
with their conference. 

Norbert had soon made ont that the members of the 


coancil were not all alike eager to put Philippe to death. 
Payen would vote for his execution ; bat it might be a pos- 
sible thing to bring that bold burgher over to a more 
moderate way of thinking. Eudes^ Jacques, and Antoine 
talked very loud, wearied themselves with threats against the 
sanguinary warrior who had wounded and killed such num- 
bers of their friends ; but still they had an eye to the real 
interests of the commune ; and so the three magistrates 
were to be looked on as men not wholly unchangeable in 
any resolution of theirs on the subject of Messire Philippe's 

One of the knights of the Nivernais, Anseau de Loysel, 
a sort of impudent, debauched imbecile, and son-in-law to 
de Pornes, seemed to have no decided opinion on the sub- 
ject — and the rest consisted only of Simon and Monseig- 
neur Baldwin. But those two were raging, savage, obsti- 
nate, for good reasons, no doubt ; but whatever those reasons 
might have been, they were fully determined against the 
knight's release. Messire Baldwin was a great wheedler, 
cunning, a cheat, and wicked to a degree, according to the 
general belief. There were rumors current about things at 
his castle-dungeon that looked very bad. The condition of 
his mainmontables was such that none of the surrounding 
serf population were at all envious of them. Nobody ever 
could think, without horror, of the condition of his tailla- 
biles de alto et basso ad volu7itatem, and his people used 
to talk about them with tears in their eyes. It was no 
secret in that region, that the amiable châtelain had been 
soliciting the Demoiselle de Comouiller's hand for his eldest 
son, and had been refused by Abbot Anselm, and that 
another more formal demand, addressed to the lady herself, 
having met with a decided refusal, he had twice attempted 
to scale her walls at night, and carry her off, to compel her 
to marry the youth. From all this, the interest he so 


warmly took in cutting Messire Philippe's head off seems 
quite plain, as one chop of that axe would take off, at a 
blow, a head and a rival too. 

None of those people were able to find out Master 
Simon's real motives ; but the man was always such a 
mysterious person, that no one could from his mere silence, 
conclude he had any personal spite against the crusader. 
Besides, he disguised his own sanguinary designs under the 
cloak of good of the commune, and was always talking of 
the necessity there was for a public example, one that might 
well strike such terror into the hearts of the neighboring 
seigneurs as to keep them from making anj attempt on the 

In the face of two such opponents, any one but Norbert 
must have given way. But he too was ardent, he too was 
firm, and influence was by no means wanting, and that to 
a great extent and at his command. 

In that remote age, it was not a rare thing for a person 
in a fit of furious rage, to venture an attack on some 
churchman, but as soon as the fit was over, the madman 
cast himself down more prostrate than ever before, at his 
clerical adversary's feet. 

Besides, the canon was not Seigneur de Typh aines, and 
was generally looked upon as far superior to holy Anselm 
in the business of miracle working. 

" No I" cried he. " No ! every sensible man in this 
council will take good care not to commit the crime that 
is being urged upon them. Yon have already in a tumultu- 
ous way, set up your commune — and that, in the sight of 
God, is an execrable piece of business, of which, sooner or 
later, you will all have to repent. Yet the very children 
of darkness have some sense left I Instead of irritating 
the nobility, all of them connected with the Cornehauts, 
don't you think you '11 have enough to do to defend your- 


selves against all Abbot Anselm's power, and the indigna- 
tion of every bishop and prelate in the whole land ?" 

" But, holy father," replied Jacques, somewhat troubled 
in mind, " you should remember we have the support of 
Monseigneur, the Count of Ne vers. The presence here 
of these two honorable knights is proof enough of that." 

" As for these two seigneurs, I know them, and know 
them well, too I" looking contemptuously at them. " I 
know all about them ; and to send those two persons here 
as envoys shows very plainly what kind of succor you are 
to get I Though your affairs are nothing to me, my advice 
to you is to keep a strict watch on those two men, and weigh 
well any advice they may give you. But even admitting, if 
you please, that those gentlemen have come hither full of 
zeal, and in good faith, know you not how precarious is any 
assistance they can afford you ? As long as you continue 
successful, and are stronger than your adversaries, those 
traitors who go so far as to desert their own cause in your 
behalf, will divide the booty with you, only they will always 
take the better half of it — ^but wait till defeat comes, and see 
if they, like all traitors, will not be the very first to turn 
their backs on you f Never do more than half trust in the 
promises of refugees, and don't be like that old king of 
Assyria, whose pride grew so high that it turned him into 
a brute beast I" 

It is clear that the Sire de Pomes and Monseigneur An- 
seau de Loysel would hardly suffer themselves to be handled 
in this way, without some reply. One of them, who had 
too correct an appreciation of the saint's influence to treat 
him with open disrespect, tacked about, looked humble, and 
defended himself, though pretending submission. The 
other one, who was not so crafty, was not sparing of abuse, 
in trying to defend himself. Simon, however, endeavored 
to refute the canon's arguments, turned them over and re- 


turned them, and twisted them in every direction, in hopes 
of preventing his colleagues from hearkening to the good 
man's advice, which tended to nothing less than the imme- 
diate release of the prisoner. 

After a long and violent discussion, it was resolved that 
the accused should not be immediately sent to execution, 
and that was the utmost concession Norbert was able to 
obtain. It is very evident that the* lords consuls were not 
very distinguished for what is called niansuetude. 

Norbert now loaded the knights and the burghers, too, 
with reproaches, and got up to leave the hall. The consuls 
eagerly made tender of their several houses for his lodging 
that night, but he roughly declined the invitations, saying, 
he preferred to ask hospitality of the very first serf in the 
street. As soon as he had withdrawn, the council set 
about establishing the terms of the proposed treaty of 
alliance that the two Nivernais knights had come to solemnly 
ratify between the Count de Nevers and the commune of 
Typhaines. That being over, and the document or charter 
as it was then called, drawn up in due and acceptable 
form, by the clerk, the whole party affixed their signa- 
tures or their marks, and sealed it with their arms, such as 
had any, leaving a large vacant space for the great seal of 
the commune, which was not to be finished until the next 
day. It might be as well, just here, to say, that the en- 
graver was to make a figure of St. Procul, with the legend, 
" Communia Burgensium Typhaniensium," 

The treaty being concluded, the assembly next passed on 
to the consideration of a question not less pressing in its 
present, and much more so in its prospective influence on 
the future of the communal charter, to wit, the liberties, 
immunities, duties, and obligations of every burgess of 
Typhaines. In form, the consuls in this matter were to be 
looked on as the mere registrars or secretaries of the com- 


mune, though, in fact, they knew quite well that any propo- 
sition of law to be now drawn up by them, would meet 
small opposition at the crisis of the grand ratification day. 
The proceedings were carried on, therefore, with a manly 
and perfect confidence. As the two Nivernais knights were 
indispensable confidants, they were invited to seats at the 
board, with the right of discussion on all questions to come 
before them. And so they went on, all night long, inquir- 
ing into the terms on which the emancipation of the 
burgh of Typhaines w^as to be finally settled. 

Thirty years ago, in France, people had forgotten that 
the spirit of liberty had its representatives among the noble 
classes in the sixteenth century, but they entirely ignored 
the existence of the same spirit in the burgher classes of 
the twelfth. A few scholars who had been greatly surprised 
at the revelations made to them in old musty tomes, could 
hardly believe their own eyes, and pondered over statements 
that they could not but regard as exorbitant, incredible, and 
contrary to nature itself. As they knew not how to proceed 
in publishing and securing any faith in them, they kept 
them for themselves, as a secret of their own discovering. 
But at the present day, we who are so familiar with the 
behavior of people in great crises of political excitement, 
find it by no means a difficult task to conjure up a picture 
of the interior of a communal council-hall, even so far back 
in time as the twelfth century. 

Let any one, then, figure to himself our five consuls, 
dressed like plain working-men, just as they are, in their 
coarse cloth coats and cloaks of felted wool, with their 
square-built faces, coarse, heavy features, and yet with eyes 
flashing with anxiety to comprehend everything well, to 
express their thoughts clearly, and enforce the adoption of 
them. Look at them, as they go on discussing there, with 
the vigorous thought that God had endowed them with, 


the various questions about the prejudices of the age and 
the principles on which the communal system they were 
building up ought to be founded. — Look especially at Si- 
mon, the ablest man of them all, ever making the balance 
incline to his opinion by his ready citation of authorities, 
such as the communal charter of Laon, Amiens, or Cambrai. 
Simon, it is clear, was the politician for Typhaines ; he was 
the knowing man — the bold brave guide of public opinion 
there; Payen, the generous soul — Jacques and Antoine 
are the timorous minority, the men who make up majorities. 

As for the two Nivernais men, they only looked at each 
other and smiled, and now and then shrugged their shoul- 
ders, though they were always ready to applaud anything 
their allies thought right. 

The consuls were in the height of their work, very busy 
in elaborating a difficult and important article, when a dozen 
wild looking men rushed into the hall. The discussion was 
broken off at once. 

The new comers were great stout fellows, dressed pretty 
much in Rigaud's style, except his arms, for they too wore 
wild beast-skin clothing. Their great-coats — such as had 
great-coats — ^were worn-out coarse rags. They made up a 
burly, dirty, and dangerous looking set of people. 

One of them went up to the table ; he was the spokes- 

" Who are you ?" asked Simon. 

" Me ? Why, I 'm Joslin," replied the giant. " Me and 
my comrades here are De Pomes' serfs, and we 've hearn 
how you are making up a commune here, and so we We 
come to join you in it." 

" One minute I" cried Messire Baldwin, " are you joking 
now, you scoundrels? Oh, yes, I remember you now — 
you, Joslin — ^yes, I remember the whole of you 1 To the 


glebe with you, villains I back to your glebe, and to- 
morrow you shall have a talk with my seneschal I" 

" We aren't going to have anything more to do with 
glebes," said Joslin, drawing back a little from his seig- 
neur's stare. *' We know the Comehaut serfs have been 
with you this very morning, and got a welcome, too. 
We 're quite as good as them I" 

" But," said Simon, rather confused, " but that 's a dif- 
ferent matter. Monseigneur Baudouin is one of the com- 
mune's friends, and we are not going to ruin him — we '11 
defend him against all and every ; you didn't know what 
you were after, my friends ; you 've been far too quick in 
this thing." 

The serfs began to grumble, and Joslin, on finding them 
ready to stand by him, returned to the charge. 

" There 's only one word to be said about it," he added. 
'* You 've freed serfs already, and you '11 have to free us 
too, just the same I" 

" We are not a band of robbers," rejoined Payen, in a 
passion. " Begone with you I Off with you, rogues I" 

" My seneschal — ^yes, my seneschal," said Messire Bau- 
douin, with a quiet smile, " will tell you what affranchise- 
ment means." 

" Hang the seneschal 1" boldly replied Joslin. " Here, 
you Typhaines-men, don't go to be so hard on us. I and 
my comrades have lots of money, and we can put up 
houses here as well as any Cornehaut fellows can. They 
told us that's one of your conditions of admission." 

" He 's rich, that scamp is I Just look at him I and 
yet people say I don't treat my serfs well ! Mv good 
friends of Typhaines, please to have those fellows taken up 
at once 1" 

'' To be sure we will," said Simon ; " their impudence 
deserves to be chastised." 


" Now don't refuse us," answered Joslin, " for we have 
it in our power to get all we want out of you. We have 
a good security for that." 

" Security or not," cried Antoine, "get out of this, and 
go right back to De Pornes, and leave us to take care of 
our own business — which is none of yours." 

The serfs grumbled loudly, and Joslin again spoke : — 

" As to sending us back to glebe, don't think of it, for we 
won't have it. We are quite as good as you are at shouting 
out ' Commune! commune P But here, we haven't come to 
you empty handed. Look but for yourselves now 1" 

" Money 1" said Monseigneur Baudouin. " When did 
you steal that from me ?" 

" No, not money," retorted the serf. " But if you should 
happen to find out that you hadn't that prisoner of yourn 
in the dungeon, now ! maybe you might happen to ask 
what 's become of him, and maybe I might be able to tell 

At the idea that Messire Philippe had got away from 
them, Simon and the Seigneur de Pornes both uttered 
ejaculations of agony. They jumped up as if mad, over- 
setting their stools, and looking — it is not too much to say 
it — like a couple of ferocious, threatening tigers, so frenzied 
were their gestures. 

They would certainly have strangled Joslin on the spot, 
if they could but have got hold of him, but as the huge 
table was between them, the serf had time to reach the 
door, and rush out into the street ; the other men, while 
Simon was thinking of nothing but Joslin, got away, fol- 
lowed their spokesman, and became lost in the crowd. 

Seigneur de Pornes, whose gait was made awkward by 
his armor of mail, and Simon, who began to reflect on what 
was due to his station as magistrate, stopped at the door- 
sill, for they soon found it to be in vain to follow the run- 



aways, and so they went back to the council-chamber, where 
they found their colleagues looking as much disconcerted 
as they were themsel?es. 

" Bah I" cried Anseau de Loysel, breaking out into an 
uproarious laugh. "Bah! gentlemen, don't worry your- 
selres about such a fellow's lark. You '11 find the fool soon 
enough in some old Typhaines thatch. All you have to 
do is to look him up and then hang him and his fellows at 
the first limb you come to. Ah I do you know, now, that 
if all the serfs on our lands should take it in their heads to 
walk OTer here to your burgh, we should be a couple of 
nice donkeys to come here and defend your cause I Don't 
you think so ?" 

"All this talk is of no use," said Simon — "for if what 
that serf said is true, then where is our prisoner, where is 
our revenge, where is our hostage ?" 

" Let us go and look at the dungeon-lock," said Payen. 

" Yes ; make haste," Antoine said, as he seized a pine 
torch that was flaming from an iron ring in the wall ; and 
the whole party followed him, with anxious looks. The 
honorable council and their allies went down the damp dun- 
geon stair, at the bottom of which they found Isengrin, 
with his legs upwards on the lower steps, a wound in the 
back, penetrating deep into the chest, his head split open 
by striking in his fall one of the sharp stone angles, a 
wound that couldn't have hurt him, after the deadly stab 
in his back. Simon examined the door. It was close shut. 
He picked up the keys out of a puddle of blood, drew back 
the bolt, and went in. There lay the straw bundle and there 
the mug of water — there was nothing else. The prisoner 
was gone I 

Simon turned pale as death, and could not find a word 
to say. lie turned back, and met Monseigneur Anseau 


in the passage-way, who was standing by Isengrin's corpse, 
and just saying to Jacques : — 

" You must get another hangman, for this one is quite 
out of office now 1" 

He went up the stair, followed by all the rest of them, 
took his seat at the table, and when they were all seated 
in their places, in profound silence, he wiped his forehead 
of the cold sweat that stood on it in drops, and with a firm 
voice, he said : — 

" We were discussing the question as between our 
burghers and the serfs of the neighboring seigneural do- 
mains ; we had resolved that no serf of ours should inter- 
marry with neighbors' serf-classes, save by consent of the 
proprietor, where such proprietor should have subscribed 
to our commune — Let us proceed." 

In this way Master Simon set the very first example of 
civil courage and strength ever seen at Typhaines. 

The discussion was now resumed and continued. 

At about three o'clock in the morning the meeting ad- 
journed its long deliberations with the recording of a re- 
solution that on the morrow the population of Typhaines 
should be convened in the square, to decide on the fitness 
of the laws projected, then and there to be reported in their 
presence. And the consuls went forth into the night to go 
the rounds of all the posts, and see what advance had been 
made in the work on the walls and ditches that were going 
on in pursuance of orders issued by them. The two 
knights did not accompany them on these grand rounds, 
but went home to the lodgings prepared for them by 

It was a splendid night, warm and calm. The consuls 
found everything going on well, the people at work, and 
perfectly cheerful. The diligent sentries looked about them 
as they patrolled their beat up and down to see that all 


was well. The pioneers were hollowing out the great, wide, 
deep ditch, with a speed never wanting, and only to be 
found in the first days of a new revolution, when every- 
thing seems delightful to everybody, so that the consuls 
were gratified at the prospect of finding their burgh inclosed 
by an enormous earth-wall and fosse. 

Probably even all this joy was insuflacient to calm the 
deep-laid sorrow in Simon's breast, for when he got home 
to his own house, he did not go to bed, but seating himself 
by the embers on his hearthstone, he buried his face in his 
hands, and burst into tears. 



S^MON sat there in silence, weeping. His tears ran down 
between his fingers, and fell dropping, one by one, on the 
ashes of his own home-fire. By the hearth-flame, Jeanne, 
half raised up in the immense bed, and leaning on her 
elbow, was intently gazing on her husband, and wondering 
what it all meant. 

" What art thou doing there, Simon ?" said she. "Why 
dost thou not lie down ? The hour is late." 

As Simon made no answer, she got carefully out of bed, 
for fear of waking Damerones, who, as was the custom of 
that now distant age, was lying across the foot of the bed, 
and buried in tranquil sleep. Jeanne crossed the room to 
where the consul sat, bent over him, and discovering the 
reason of his silence, said : — 

" What 's the matter with you, Simon ?" 

" Speak lower," he whispered, looking askance to where 
his daughter was sleeping. " Speak low. My misfortune 
is so great that I would fain no ear save thine should hear 
it. Indeed, I am in the wrong to sit here crying like a 
child. But after so many years of suffering, such repeated 
cruel disappointment, to find, at last, a traitor in one's 
own house, is enough to plunge one into despair, and put 
to flight forever the most resolute and unflinching courage." 

" I hardly know you, Simon I" said Jeanne. " It 's not 
your way to give up like this 1" 

'* When I made up my mind to attack the abbey," b^ 


rejoined, " I trusted to the suddenness of the assault for lay- 
ing hold of the monks there, before any news of their peril 
could reach the surrounding country. But not so. It was 
by mere chance that I did succeed. Who was it, do you 
suppose, that warned the Lady of Cornouiller ? To be sure, 
when I had got that miserable Philippe into my hands, my 
heart was ready to dance for joy I I felt at last that that 
vile heart's blood of his would soon gush out at my heads- 
man's stroke, and the last living drop of that infamous line 
of the Cornehauts should sink into the earth I Who warned 
the canon ? Whoever did that, will defraud me of my 
revenge, and ruin our commune, as well !" 

" Neither one nor t' other," replied Jeanne. " What you 
call treason was probably a mere accident. And besides, 
arn't you master of the situation ? Philippe is in your 

" Not so. No I The serfs of De Pomes have carried 
him off, and refuse to give him up to me save at one price 
— one only price — and that 's their enfranchisement I What 
am I to do ? Can we venture to anger our only feal sup- 
porters, Baudouin and Anseau de Loysel ? Not a single 
nobleman in the whole country will raise a lance for our 
side, except those two scoundrels ; and everybody is aware 
that they always lead the Count de Ne vers by the nose — 
he never does anything but what they tell him to do." 

Jeanne was shocked, and held her peace for a while. At 
last she spoke again : — 

" And so, then, our enemy is to go on living still ? Our 
dangers are gathering about us again, Simon I And you, 
husband, after so many escapes, through such miracles of 
your address and courage, from the rope, the sword, and 
the dagger, if I am to see you again safe, it must be in 
exile, in poverty, and wandering I Ah ! what a miserable 


life 1 How it tires me 1" Her tone was very low and 

"Hearken, Jeanne. Listen to what I must tell you." 
And he looked hard towards the foot of the bed where 
Damerones lay sleeping, with her face covered over with 
the bedclothes. " I '11 not hide from you, even the very 
bottom of my thought I believe I know who it was that 
betrayed me I" 

" Then let him find no mercy I" she said, in a ferocious 

"Dost thou remember how Philippe found a mug of poi- 
soned ale at his bedside, one night, when he was a boarder 
at our house in Cambrai ?" 

" Pretty poison, indeed, that I We got nicely cheated 
that time — for it was nothing but some stuff as weak as 
water I" 

"You are greatly mistaken there," said Simon. " The 
poison was good, but Philippe never took it 1 Was he 
warned, do you think ? The ale was emptied out on the 
ashes : if 'twas he did that, then he must have been told 
aboutit. If. it was some other person, we were betrayed 
all the same." 

While they were talking in low voices, a slight tremor 
was observable in the bedclothes where Damerones lay, 
and Simon, starting to his feet, darted to the foot of the 
bed, and began stripping the covers from off Damerones' 

" You miserable wretch 1" he cried, " you are trying 
to save Philippe's life 1" 

Jeanne, who stood petrified at the action and words of 
her husband, seemed at first as if she would seize his arm to 
stop him, but she couldn't stir — and there she stayed, mouth 
open, and eyes all on a gaze, like one fascinated. 

Damerones' fair face now seemed changed, and she looked 


pale as a corpse. Her clenching fingers vainly strove to 
draw back the clothing and hide her face again. She 
would put you in mind, as she lay under her father's stare, 
of a poor little lark, all palpitating with terror under the 
statue-like gaze of a trained pointer, as she lies helpless 
and fascinated there, half hid, half disclosed, in the tall 

The terrible moment was soon past and gone, and it was 
Damerones who put an end to it. 

" Father," she said, in brief and tremulous words, " what 
is it you have against me ? What is it? Accuse me at 
once I I will make answer." 

" Was it you that saved the knight at Cambrai ?" 

" Yes, I saved his life there." 

" You wretch I" almost screamed the mother. 

" You infamous girl I" muttered the cloth-merchant, and 
he ground his teeth in his fury. " You infamous girl, you 
have sold your father, your own mother, and the memory 
of all your people butchered at Comehaut by this very 
villain's father — the inhuman beast I It was you, too, no 
doubt of it — ^you, too — that sent for succor to the Cor- 
nouiller men-at-arms I" 

Damerones no longer stood with downcast eyes before 
the scintillations of his glaring balls. On the contrary, she 
seemed to borrow half their fiery energy. 

" 'T was I !" she answered resolutely. 

Simon's hand moved slowly to where the handle of his 
dagger hung at his girdle — but the hand stopped short of 
the haft. 

" It was you, too," still more agitated, *' 't was you that 
taught the serfs of De Pornes how to carry their point by 
wresting Philippe out of my grasp : you thought that was 
the way to save his life. Was it so ?" 

"I did it I" she replied, for the third time. 


" When a man finds a viper under his hearthstone, you 
know what he does with him I'' 

" Listen to me, father," replied Damerones. " Threats 
are of no use now. You are not going to kill me, I know 
that ; you are my own father I Just at present, you know 
not what to do I But you love me, and you are not going 
to slay me ; I tell you so, again ! What 's the good of all 
this violence ? Think you I am afraid of you ? Before I 
laid me down to rest, I made my prayer to God, and he, I 
know it, will not desert me now." 

"What is that Philippe to you? Are you his mis- 
tress ?" 

" His mistress I No 1 By the blessed Yirgin, no I But 
if you will, I would be his wife." 

*' His wife I His wife /" roared Simon, and burst into 
a loud laugh. " Do you forget, then, who you are ? Do you 
think that a son of old Geoffroy de Comehaut is going to 
offer his hand in marriage to a maiden of your class I If 
ever you spoke to him of such a dream as that, and he did 
not hoot at you, 't was because he adds to the other vices 
of his family, the basest hypocrisy." 

" I never did speak to him about it," responded Dame- 
rones very calmly. "I know not, indeed, whether he ever 
looked at me, or if he knew of my existence even. But I 
— yes I — do know that marriage of such as I into noble 
houses is not a thing impossible. Didn't we see merchants' 
daughters at Thoulouse who became wives to noble knights ? 
You know we did." 

" Thoulouse I" impatiently, responded Simon ; " Thou- 
louse is not a French city, and people on this side of the 
Loire differ from them on all points. But to let you know 
— and know it well too — your projects are impracticable 
ones, I tell you that if Philippe were to throw himself at 
my feet, to beg your hand in marriage, I'd spurn him. I 'U 


hare nothing of that man bat his heart's blood. Never can 
there be betwixt him and me any sentiment in common bat 
one of irrémissible hate ; so you may drive all this non- 
sensical stuff out of your poor brain ; and if the thought of 
them proves bitter as wormwood, may the bitterness long 
remain as a punishment yon well deserve I Ton said well — 
I will not slay you ; the new commune must not be founded 
on a crime detestable alike on earth and in heaven. Bat 
by all God's saints and all the wounds of the crucified 
Lord, you shall be disappointed if you hope I '11 ever for- 
give you I" 

Damerones threw herself off from the foot of the bed, and 
stood before him, with an intrepid countenance. 

" I don't ask you to pardon me, for I am fully resolved 
to compel you to desist from the pursuit of what you call 
your just revenge. You shall not take Messire Philippe's 
life ; that I swear here, before your face, father 1 And 
against all your hateful oaths the only barrier I set up is 
the true devotion and holy love I have in secret sworn for 
him. Yes, father, in your own words, * by all God's saints 
and all my Saviour's wounds,' I swear it I You shall not 
poor out the heart's blood of the man I love I Baise but 
your arm to strike him down, and my bosom shall be a safe 
shield for his life I If you know what it is to be implacable, 
I, too, know, and know quite as well, how to guard the 
life I love so well from every threatened peril 1" 

" By the souls of my fathers," cried Simon, " 'twas a 
lucky thought of mine, that day when hell breathed into 
me the idea of putting you in the Archdeacon of Cambrai's 
hands, to make an educated woman of you I That dreadfdl 
knowledge — ^how you bring it to bear, this very hour, on 
the fondest hopes of thine own parent I See how full are 
thy words of the perfidiousness and malice of the demon I 
Oh I Damerones I Damerones I Child of my heart I Is 


it thus I must gaze on mine only child — in open rebellion 
against my house, and serving mj most mortal enemies ? 
Oh, Damerones I my child I my child I" 

During this terrible struggle with his daughter, the only 
being for whom he ever indulged a feeling approaching his 
all absorbing devotion to the freedom of his class, Simon 
had gradually subsided from the towering height of mad- 
dened passion, to a sort of miserable depression and lan- 
guor. He clearly discerned that there could be no issue 
to the quarrel. As Damerones had boldly told him, he 
could not stab her with his own hand, and yet the maiden's 
offence was one, the consul thought, to be fitly punishable 
by death alone. And so, finding that nothing in the world 
could ever make Damerones give way, he left off speaking 
to her, and stood still in an attitude of doubt and wistful 
hesitation. His face was painfully expressive of his mental 
agony, and cruel conflicts seemed raging ambng the hard, 
coarse features of his countenance, just as the tempest-tossed 
ocean lifts and by turns lets down the angry waves. Dame- 
rones, partly from her tender nature, and partly from 
policy, offered to clasp him round the neck with her beau- 
tiful arms. But, for the very first time in his whole life, 
Simon pushed her away from him, and with frowning gray 
eyebrows, went to sit down on his stool by the hearth. 
Jeanne was still leaning against the wall in a dark corner 
of the room, praying in secret and from the bottom of her 
heart, that nothing ill might befall her child, though at the 
same time cursing her fatal perfidy. Damerones sat down 
on the foot of the bed. 

The consul's hatred of Philippe de Cornehaut and his 
love for the new commune were so blended into one ; 
they sprung so absolutely from the same source, that the 
two sentiments mingled without mutual discordancy, in his 
soul. To abandon the hunt for the blood of Messire Geof- 


froi's line, or to yield one hair's breadth of the interests 
of Typhaines, would have been, in the eyes of the old 
burgher, equally base : and yet his daughter's crime made 
it an impossible thing henceforth to nurse his schemes of 
vengeance and for the good of his city too. He could not 
but admit that the Abbot's flight from the minster was a 
misfortune far more serious than Messire Philippe's evasion, 
for the ecclesiastical dignitary might, by force or cunning, 
at least so be flattered himself, as to be led to agree to a con- 
cession of communal rights. In those olden times, no person, 
no burgess, however powerful he might happen to be, ever 
dreamed of what we, in our own day, call a radical revo- 
lution. All that they could expect was to buy their free- 
dom from the suzerain seigneur, and in case of his refusal 
to sell on any terms, they endeavored to extract the con- 
. cession by force. Still they never did conceive that violence 
of any kind could abrogate the old-time laws of suzerainty; 
and even when oppressing one of these seigneurs, they 
never went further than the putting, by main strength, 
into his purse, a sum of money estimated as a proper equiva- 
lent for rights they thus wrested from him. Should they, 
in the tumult of an attack or a resistance, happen to do 
meshaing on him, or to meshaing him, as they called it, so 
as to wound or kill him, they never considered themselves, 
on that account, absolved from obligation of seigneurage ; 
and it was with the new master they had to treat for ran- 
som, and for the reserved rights of the commune, outside 
of the true suzerainty. -Under these circumstances, as 
Simon had not the abbot in his power, he must, perforce, 
treat with the prelate at a distance, and so felt all the diffi- 
culties of his position. Besides all this, other cares came 
in to assail him. 

The Count de Nevers was not the man to give the burgh 
a gratuitous succor. He, too, had claims which, if not 


ponderated by the legitimate rights of the abbey, might 
prove to be dangerous ones. While Simon was in treaty with 
that puissant neighbor for a mutual alliance, he found that 
by only half breaking the monkish yoke, he must wear the 
other half of it as a shield against the pretensions of his pro- 
tector, who might well some day lay the weight of his hand 
on the commune itself, in case it should ever come to belong 
to no one but itself alone. But now, the Abbot being fled 
away, and it being probable that no power could be brought 
so to bear on him as to make him yield one poor inch, 
he might possibly find it necessary to throw himself much 
farther than prudence would admit, into the wiley count's 
arms. It is quite clear, then, that the consul's affairs were 
as various and as serious as those invariably appurtenant 
to states of a far higher range than his poor Typhaines. 
There was yet another awkward incident. 

The serfs of the De Pornes estate, and Joslin their 
leader, by holding the prisoner as hostage, had shown that 
they too could rise and strike for freedom. Yet the com- 
mune could not, without very great risk, make them such 
a present as that; scarcely could she now hope to save 
her own affranchisement. How, then, could she lend a 
hand in the cause of other men, without drawing down 
innumerable dangers on her own ? While still busily at 
work to found her own institutions, and offering to swear 
a mutual support with the surrounding nobles, was that a 
fitting moment to rob them of their working-men ? Simon 
did not even for an instant pause on that point, so inad- 
missible did it seem in his eyes ; and yet what could he 
do to recover possession of his captive, provided he would 
not turn a listening ear to Joslin's proposals ; but on the 
contrary show him that on no account would he do any- 
thing for him or in behalf of his village ? He finally made 
up his mind to come to an understanding with Monseigneur 


Baudouin, who, deeply interested as he was in the affair, 
ought to have got hold of some scheme by this time, for 
getting himself and his Typhaines friends out of the diffi- 
culty. Monseigneur Baudouin was well known for his 
talents in the way of finding out expedients as well as for 
the elasticity of his conscience on all occasions : effective 
expedients, right or wrong, were alike acceptable. There 
is a^ manuscript genealogy on parchment, and written in 
characters apparently of the early part of the thirteenth 
century, in wliich that eminent personage is called Bau- 
douin III, the Trickster, showing that his contemporaries 
were men who did full justice to his abilties.i 

The dawning morning had now begun to light up the 
scene of that mute consternation, wrath, and concentrated 
anger, that had transpired during the night, in the abode 
of the most eminent of the five Typhaines consuls. The 
silence of that chamber had not been broken by either of 
its unhappy inhabitants ; and it can scarcely be said that 
either of them had stirred during that whole long time ; 
sitting there in their different attitudes, they might have 
been taken for so many statues. 

The morning light seemed in some degree to relax the 
tremulous tension of Simon^s heart-strings, and he gradu- 
ally grew calm under the influence of the growing light, 
as it came in through the narrow windows to disclose the 
furniture, the floor, and the three unhappy souls that sat 
there. Simon turned a side look to where his daughter 
sat, and saw her so changed that his paternal love was 
shivering in the profound deep of his soul, whither it had 
been banished by the raging passion that had crushed it back 
and trodden it down there. The voice of his old blind love 
for Damerones, the only child now left to him in the world, 
began to sing and be musical once more, amid the tumult 
of passions far more austere. 


Master Simon moved -• he turned towards his child, and 
stretched forth his arms. He stretched them out to her 
with a look so humid, so passionate, indeed, that she saw 
he was pardoning her misdeeds, and that, implacable by 
nature though he was, yet he was now softened by the 
magic power of affection. Damerones threw herself down 
at his knee. 

'* You know I love you as much as you love me, father ; 
I well know my faults are many, but you won't have Mes- 
sire Philippe put to death, will you, father ?" 

" Damerones, even while I am embracing you, you can 
think of nothing but that detested crusader 1" 

" Yes, I am always thinking of Monseigneur Philippe." 

" You love none but him ?" 

"No ; I love you and my mother too ; and you are 
both ever present in my heart, even though you be not at 

" But you prefer Philippe to both of us ?" 

*' I love him more than the whole world besides I" 

And now came another dreadful, silent pause. 

" Suppose the knight should happen to die : what would 
you do then ?" 

" If I died not myself, I would put on sackcloth next my 
body. I would go on foot to Corapostella, to Rome, to 
Jerusalem, praying, ever praying for the repose of his 
soul, for yours and mother's, and so would I continue to 
do as long as ever I lived I" 

" See, Damerones, my anger is gone, and ray heart full 
of tenderness and pity. For you, my daughter, I desire 
nothing but your good, and I pardon you many, ah 1 many 
things. Speak to me now frankly, and answer me truth- 
fully in everything. Does the knight know that you love 
him so ? A little while ago you told me * no,' but perhaps 
you were not sincere." 


" He knows it not, father ; I swear it in your presence, 
and know it he never shall, unless he should ask my hand 
in marriage. But let me alone about that. What I wish 
for must happen. Father, I am not a giddy girl." 

" Then 'twas you that got Joslin to carry him off?" 

"Yes, father, 'twas I." 

" How could you have given such order to that vulgar 
brute ?" » 

" I have been acquainted with Joslin this many a day. 
He used to come to Typhaines to sell his fruit of different 
sorts, and we bought of him more than once. It 's a good 
while ago, but he told me he was well off; that under the 
wood-pile in his cellar, he had put away about a hundred gold 
bezants, a part of which had been bequeathed by his father. 
As he says he wants me to be his wife, he often tells me 
about different projects of his. I saw him yesterday and 
told him he never would gain his freedom, nor his village 
either, unless he got a hostage from you." 

" That was a cunning device of yours," said Simon, nod- 
ding his head, and smiling. " And so Joslin took posses- 
sion of Monseigneur Philippe ? You and Joslin make a 
pair of cunning foxes. It 's a very ticklish thing to have 
a couple of enemies of that sort ahead of you." 

" You are smiling now, father ; and you terrified me so 
all night long ! You wasn't so angry as you pretended. 

Damerones, lifted by her father's own hand, was bj this 
time sitting on his knee, and he tapping her soft cheek 
with his great, rough fingers, and Jeanne, seeing that con- 
cord was now restored, came forward in great delight, and 
leaned on her husband's shoulder, hearkening, bat not 
interrupting, and joyfully savoring to the very centre of 
her soul, as if it were a delicious restorative perfume, every 


question and retort, that filled her poor heart with its old 
joys again. To his daughter's question, Simon replied ; — 

" Don't you think that. I was angry, and I am so yet. 
A maiden, methinks, however knowing she might be, can 
never be truly wise, or you would not ask me a question 
like that. But to an ill that can never be cured, there is 
only one thing to be done, and that is to submit to it at once. 
Now perhaps, if you and I could have a good understanding 
together, I might, maybe, not go on blocking your project. 
In what you was telling me a while ago about Thoulouse 
and other places, there was one thing that struck me very 
much, and that was that the nobles at Perpignan and Thou- 
louse really do make no diflSculty about marrying burgher- 
girls, and it 's just as easy, too, for their burghers to marry 
into the families of the gentlemen there." 

" To be sure, father, and why shouldn't Monseigneur Phi- 
lippe, who has travelled so much and knows all about those 
matters as well as we do ; why shouldn't he want me to 
be his wife, once we could but know each other better ?" 

"You forget," rejoined the cloth-merchant, with a cruel 
smile, "a thing you thought about only a little while back, 
and that is, that the Dame de Cornouiller is Philippe's 
lover 1" 

Damerones proudfully and confidently tossed her head. 
That toss, those eyes of hers, that smile, all combined to 
show forth the confidence in herself that every woman has 
when none come near but to praise and flatter her and fast 
fix in her very nature the conscious power of her charms. 

"Well, then," resumed Master Simon, "as you are so 
sure of making Monseigneur Philippe bend to your will, 
from this very moment I will make no further objections, 
and I consent to all that is honorable and just on his side ; 
and now, to prove my good-will, I must tell you that of 
all asylums in this world, the one where you 've put Mop 



seigneur Philippe is the most dangerous one. This com- 
mane never can or will agree to aflfranchise Joslin and his 
comrades, for silver or gold, for Philippe's life — no, not 
even for the life of Monseigneur, the King of France, him- 
self I Never I" 

"Now, what's that to me^?" said Damerones, smiling 
the while, and with a little saucy shrug. 

"You talk like a child ; yes, just like a mere baby," con- 
tinued Master Simon, as he went on caressing her cheeks 
again. " Don't you know that as soon as your allies are 
forced back to their glebe, and Joslin ready to hang on 
Messire Baudouin's gallows-tree, there will be only one real 
satisfaction left for the wretches ?" 

" What satisfaction ?" cried Damerones. 

"Eh I a very simple one, truly," said Master Simon, 
quite jovially ; " why, of course, they '11 be quite delighted 
if they put your nice knight to death, and they '11 be sure 
to do it, too." 

" I don't believe one word of that I" replied Damerones, 
very dryly. "No I they'll set him at liberty in hopes of 
his helping them to their freedom." 

" I see how little you do know about those brutes of 
serfs when their passions are once roused on the liberty 
question. They haven't half as much sense as you think ; 
and what 's more, you surely ought to know that if Joslin 
should take it into that blockhead of his to even talk of 
such a thing to Messire Philippe, the knight would think 
himself dishonored by the very proposal." 

Here Damerones fell into a deep reverie, and she answered 
not a word. At last she said : — 

" He 's in great danger, then ? You are not deceiving 
me, father ?" 

" Judge for yourself," he replied. " Only weigh what I 


told you, and yon can't differ from me on the subject ; no, 
you can't, at all." 

Damerones sat still, thinking again, and Master Simon 
twiddling with the little silver cross hanging on her neck. 

" I am afraid to ask advice of you, father, you hate 
Monseigneur Philippe so I" 

" Very well, then, don't you see, child, that as you are 
determined on having him for a husband, I am obliged to 
change my mind, whether or no." 

" Come now, father, since you do know that Monseigneur 
Philippe's life and mine are bound up in one, tell me how 
I can get him out of Joslin's hands ?" 

" There's only one way." 

" And what is that way ?" 

" Tell me where they have put him, so that I can get 
hold of him again I" 

Master Simon, as he uttered these words, involuntarily 
squeezed Damerones' hand hard, his eyes grew flashing 

Damerones screamed. 

"You are deceiving me I" she said — and she pressed 
both her hands on her father's shoulders, and sat staring 
him full in the face. Simon bore the inquest steadily, 
desperate though she looked, and went on playing with her 
fair cheek. 

"Ah !" she said, tears in her eyes, and her voice tremu- 
lous with emotion. " " Ah I can it be possible you are play- 
ing a mere game with your Damerones' life, and falsely 
giving me hopes that you disavow in the bottom of your 
heart, father ? Tell the truth now, are you deceiving me ? 
Do not ask me to deliver Monseigneur Philippe into your 
hands to put him to death, and for that only. Only think, 
what a crime I I — ^yes, I — would be his base betrayer 
into the hands of the executioner I And do you suppose. 


or can you dream that I could ever pardon you for that, in 

this world or the world to come ? Oh I rather But do 

you really, truly mean to abuse your daughter's dear love ?" 

"If you think that," said Simon, very simply, "all you 
have to do is, don't tell me your secret. My vengeance 
will be paid by the serfs who have him, instead of by my 
own hand, and you '11 have nothing to blame for that but 
your distrust of your own father. That 's all. So do as 
you like." 

Damerones got off his knee, and he rose and stood up. 

" So, you won't tell me," said he, muttering. 

" I '11 think about it." 

Jast then, a rather imperious knock at the door was 
instantly followed by the appearance of a mail-covered 
knight, none other than Monseigneur Baudouin himself. 

" Ah, Sir Consul I" said Baudouin, with a courteous 
mien, " up already, and your women, too ? Here, come 
this way, I 've something to say to you." 

"Yes, I know," said Simon, smilingly. "It's that bosi- 
ness about the serfs that gives you such an early start. " 

" My serfs ? that 's the word. And I hope you are 
going to be all fair and square about that." 

" Never doubt it. But let 's go out. Good-bye, Jeanne. 
Damerones, you had better think about what I was saying, 
and quickly, too. I shall come back in about an hour to 
hear what you have decided on." 

The knight and burgher left the room, and there sat 
Damerones, lost in a mist of painful hesitation and dread. 



And so, the consul's daughter sat alone, lost in contem- 
plation. Given wholly over to a passion, which in people 
of her class might seem an enormity ; traitress to her own 
father; enfranchised, though so young, from the notions of the 
time that required and expected an absolute devotion to the 
opinions and will of the house-chief — children and servants 
alike — she must henceforth live, and ever be, a stranger in her 
father's house and heart. The burgher being gone, Jeanne 
at once went to work to put her housekeeping in order ; 
but though she passed and repassed again and again the 
place where her poor daughter was sitting in sorrow, she 
spoke never a word to the child, and the only sign she 
made was, every now and then to give her an angry scowl 
that did not go far towards raising the maiden's down- 
trodden spirits and courage. Even if Damerones chose to 
forget her duty, she, Jeanne — yes, she — ^had ever clung to 
it, without having one self-reproach, all the days of her 
life, and that, too, without one moment's hesitation. This 
perfection of married love and obedience only served to 
make her just now utterly intolerant, especially of a love 
affair so doubly criminal as poor Damerones'. Had her 
child's life been in danger, she no doubt would have inter- 
ceded for her, but as all that was now over, she gave full 
swing to her ill-temper. 

For some time Damerones sat there, worn down, miser- 
able and weeping, and trying to catch her mother's eye. 


But when she at last fonnd that she had nothing to 
expect from Jeanne's commiseration, and that she was 
left to struggle all alone against her father's secret wiles, 
she suddenly recovered all her courage and energy, and 
then wiping her humid eyes, leaned her forehead on her 
hand, and began to reflect on the situation. Jeanne, in the 
meantime, had gone out of the room, and shutting the 
door behind her, left her daughter algne there. 

Monseigneur's Philippe's protectress, finding she was no 
longer watched, immediately walked across the floor, opened 
a small door, and stepped out into a garden where there 
were a few trees, some piteous-looking cabbages, a few pot- 
herbs, and a bunch of summer-flowers here and there. She 
went rapidly forwards, and came to a hedge between that 
and the neighboring garden. Damerones looked all around 
her with anxious care, but her face soon brightened up as 
she discovered Joslin stretched on the grass, on the other 
side of the fence. As soon as he saw her he got up. 

" God's blessing, and all his saints' too, be on you, Dame- 
rones!" said the de Pomes serf, as he saw, with scintil- 
lating eyes, the fair maid of Typhaines. "I was wishing 
from the bottom of my heart you 'd come to me, for our 
affairs don't get on as I expected. Your father isn't a man 
easy to deal with I" 

"I am aware of what has happened, Joslin," replied 
Damerones, gravely ; " but father hasn't said his last word 

" Your father ? Yes, maybe that 's so ; but since I saw you 
last, I barely missed falling into the seneschal's clutches, who 
has been chasing me, and his two men-at-arms to help him. 
If those men-at-arms were not on such bad terms as they 
are with the Typhaines people, and afraid to go into 
the houses, they 'd have followed me here, and hung me, 


too, by this time, all the same as the burghers hung that 
poor abbej-bailj yesterday morning." 

" Don't you be afraid, Joslin ; ycur prisoner is your 
safeguard. Monseigneur Baudouin is quite as much afraid 
of losing him as father is ; he 's a good security you have 
in hand." 

Joslin shook his head, as if not so sure of that. 

" I rather think you are mistaken, Damerones," said the 
serf. " The consuls and Monseigneur, too, would far rather 
let that poor devil of a prisoner get off than lose a chance 
to hang a dozen revolted serfs. As for me, my mind ^» 
made up now." 

"And might a body know what that wise 'made up' 
means ?" said Damerones, pretending to smile. 

" Oh I I Ve no secrets with you, sister," said the giant. 
" I am going to knock out the fellow's brains with my axe 
here, so as nobody shall get him, and then my comrades 
and I are to make for the woods, and there we are going 
to live like bold robbers until some Free company comes 
by, and then we '11 all enlist in the corps. I intend to soon 
be a captain, and as soon as I get that, come back here, 
burn the town down, and carry you off with me I You 
shall see what a nice time you and I '11 have together 1" 

Damerones on the instant saw that, even if Simon was 
trying to cheat her, his purpose was in a fair way of being 
served by the circumstances. She had been acquainted 
with Joslin for a good while, and knew that nothing could 
equal the brutal obstinacy of the fellow who was brave to 
rashness, and of a ferocity unparalleled. 

To this happy quality it was that he owed the honor of 
being frequently called on by Messire De Pornes, a circum- 
stance that gave him a high standing in his village, and so 
made him ambitious. 

** Joslin, I should like to have a talk with your prisoner." 


' " That 's rather a surprising notion," replied the brute ; 
" and what might you happen to want with him ?" 

" Well, I guess he 's a kind of a man that 's likely to 
have his money hid somewhere, and if he 'd only tell me 
where, don 't you see what a capital thing that would be 
for us both ? Why, you could go right away and buy you 
a splendid horse, a nice set of armor, and then, of course, 
you 'd soon get to be captain 1 Don't you see, man ?" 

Joslin's eyes were now gleaming with greed, but he sud, 
denly thought of a better way. 

" You needn't trouble yourself talking to him. Dame- 
rones. I '11 go bring Allard and Thierry, and we three 
will make him feel so bad that he '11 be obliged to tell us 
all about his business before we kill him I" 

'* I forbid that I" cried the consul's daughter. "And if 
you should even dare touch Monseigneur Philippe " 

She stopped short, feeling that such warmth was but 
ill suited to* effect the desired conversion in her brutal 
lover, and likely at best to arouse suspicions very danger- 
ous to the unhappy Philippe. 

" You are too bad, Joslin. I pity the woman who 's to 
have you for a husband, ready as you are to strike and 
torture your neighbors. I've no idea of getting myself 
damned by doing a wrong thing when there 's no use in 
doing it." 

" Then your notion is that you can make Messire Philippe 
give up his money ?" 

" Easy," replied the girl. 

" But you 'd be frighterfed at the sight of him," cried 
Joslin. " He was severely wounded in the head, at the 
capture of the abbey, and he 's all over bloody and pale as 
a corpse, and I really have had too much to do to get time 
to take him anything to eat yet." 

Dameroncs answered very quietly : — 


" You are very hard hearted, Joslin, and if you go on 
this way, making such complacent exhibitions of your wick- 
edness, I shall hardly be able to love jou very much. I '11 
go to the house, and get some bandages, some bread and 
a flagon of wine, and I '11 take them to the prisoner." 

" Very well. Do as you like best, Damerones. By the 
blessed Virgin, you are the only soul I do love. I 'm en- 
tirely besotted about you." 

Damerones hardly heard these last words, so hurried 
was she to get back to the house. But Joslin was quite 
sure she not only heard them, but had them packed away in 
the very hollow of her little heart. Joslin, notwithstanding 
his athletic form and his broad back, thoroughly versed as 
it was in the delicate attentions of the De Fornes' seign- 
eural baton, was a rare specimen of what they call a great 
big fool. Some little good fortune as a beau in his vil- 
lage, and his renown for strength and brutality, had made 
him so bold as to lift his eyes to the cloth-merchant's daugh- 
ter, though the fact is that, until the morning before, never 
had she given him even a civil reception ; but that was 
enough for him, and he thought he might venture to declare 
to himself in terms used to express one's good opinion of 
himself, in those times, namely, that he really was and in- 
tended ever to be the lucky and irresistible scoundrel that 
he had been all his life long. 

In about five minutes Damerones came back. She was 
hurrying along as fast as she could walk, with a jar of 
wine and a great roll of bread on her head, and bandages, 
thread, scissors, and a small jar of balsam in her hands. 

** Come 1" said she to Joslin. 

" That 's the place. There in your neighbor Lienard's 
cellar. I hope when the knight has done eating, you '11 give 
me something too, for I 'm half starved." 


"I promise you. Is this the place — this little alley, 
where you and your comrades always hide ?" 

" Yes, always. And here we intend to stay till we make 
for the woods, and that we shall do as soon as we are sure 
the Typhaines people won't take us into their commune." 

As they were talking in this wise, Joslin led the way to 
an old shed, at the farther end of which was a trap-door, 
hidden beneath a pile of fagots, that led down into a deep 

" Is this the place where you put Monseigneur Phi- 
lippe ?" asked Damerones, in trembling tones. 

*' Yes ; this is the place. Ain't he well hid ? I 'd defy 
the devil himself to find him. But stop, let me light my 
lantern for you. There, take care yon don't fall — the 
steps are steep, and very slippery. If you come out before 
I get back, you must pile up the fagots again ; for I must 
go and send Lienard into the town, to find out the news 
this morning." 

Damerones went down the dark steps. 

The place looked like the inside of a sepulchre. 
Notwithstanding the season of the year, the air inside was 
very cold and damp. She wept carefully down the steep, 
slippery steps, and when at the bottom, she found she was 
in a confined hole not more than fifteen feet square, and 
very deep. 

Upon a large wooden plank that might, perhaps, have 
been put there as a shelf to stow away the peasant's pro- 
visions, lay Monseigneur Philippe, stretched on his back, 
his hands crossed under his head, for a pillow, and fast 
asleep. Damerones scarcely could recognize, in the unfor- 
tunate prisoner before her, the brilliant young seigneur she 
had seen five years ago, prancing along the streets at Cam- 
brai with his mailed companions in arms, and fell in love 
with, then and there. Somewhat embrowned by the Syrian 


sun, the features of her beloved had lost the freshness of the 
juvenile bloom of that old time. And that was not the 
saddest part of the change. He was deadly pale now, and 
his bloody head wrapped in a coarse, ensanguined cloth, 
and signs of great suflFering, fatigue, and misery, all of 
them sad presages of what was to come for the man she 
loved, were enough to rend her very heart-strings. 

She put the lantern in a hole she saw in the wall, and 
then stood still, gazing intently on the knight's counte- 

Five years of absence, especially absence in one who 
never showed you any particular preference, is so rude a 
love trial, that few persons in our busy and enlightened 
age could stand it ; but in the Middle Ages, when once a 
maiden had hugged one dear thought to her breast, common 
opinion ever blamed her if she let it go, and on the other 
hand, applauded her if she proved to be unchanging and 
true, for there was then no such word in love as " forget." 
In the lives of people so little hurried, carried out in a 
sort of unchanging uniformity from beginning to end, you 'd 
have far to seek if you would hope to find a case of incon- 
stant love ; and so, Damerones' whole nature was love 
for Philippe, as fervid now as the first day she saw him at 
Cambrai, riding among his men. The only change that had 
taken place in her feelings all that long time was but an 
increase in their intensity. 

In this miserable funereal cavity, on that rustic beam, in 
spite of his pallor, in spite of the blood that begrimed his 
face, in spite of Syrian suns that had embrowned him, Da- 
merones saw Monseigneur Philippe more beautiful than 
ever before. At that spring-day of her existence. Dame- 
rones looked on him as a youth, fresh, rosy, fair, just out 
of pagedom, and just entered on his career as a bold 
lancer. Now she looked on him as a knight well prov^'' 


in the dast and blood of the battle-field f a erasader; God's 
avengiDg hero ; a defender of the holy sepulchre ; one of those 
intrepid knights-companions far famed for courage, and just 
returned from the field of victory. Sick though he looked, 
lying there asleep, he yet looked bo strong, so firm, so 
puissant by nature, that Damerones imbibed a feeling of 
respect and reverence that came to take place along with 
her constant, glowing affection for his person. She felt, in 
a measure, sorry to wake the soldier, and she hesitatingly 
touched his shoulder, and gave it a little push. 

Monseigneur Philippe opened his eyes wide, and gazed 
with surprise on the beautiful maid of Typhaines. 

" God's name I" said he, with a sweet smile. " This is 
a rather more gracious waking than I thought for when I 
fell asleep here. I must be well off", so it seems to me, if 
they give me such jailers as you are." 

"Don't think that. Monseigneur," replied Damerones, 
" for you are in the power of the very wickedest people on 
the whole earth, and unless the blessed Virgin guards you, 
this very day you must die." 

" All right, then, and I sha'n't die at all, for in all my 
life long I certainly never did give holy Mary the least of- 
fence — that is, as far as I know of." 

" Monseigneur, if you have any questions to ask, I can 
answer them just as well while I am dressing your wound. 
Let me take off the bandages from your head. We had 
better make good use of the few moments I have to spare 
here with you." And so saying, she at once began to 
remove the bandages from his brow. 

" True, now I Mademoiselle, who are you ? Don't de- 
ceive me, for I never have been forgetful or ungrateful, when 
people have done me a kindness." 

" Do you remember the burgher at Cambrai where you 
lodged five years ago ?" 


"Remember; why certainly I remember. He was a 
cross sort of a man. I never could get a civil word out of 

" He had a daughter," pursued Damerones, as she went 
on with her surgery. 

*' Oh, yes 1 A little girl about fourteen. Yes, I remem- 
ber her." 

" Hardly, I should think. Monseigneur. But my memory 
is better than yours. As you was going away, you gave 
me a silver cross, and asked me to pray for you ; and not 
a single — no, not a single day has come and gone since — 
but I prayed fervently for you I" 

" Ah I what a brave child 1" cried Philippe, drawing his 
head backwards in spite of Damerones' endeavor to make 
him hold still, and not see how she was blushing. He 
looked steadily at his consolator, far more than he had 

" I remember you now I" with a face lighted by the 
frankest smile. " How beautiful you 've grown to be I 
Why, you are a miracle I" 

Damerones went on washing olBf the hard, dry "blood on 
his brow, and exclaimed : — 

*' You '11 soon be well again. This cut they gave you 
isn't very deep." 

" Burghers and peasants, lucky for me, don't know much 
about sword-exercise. Had I raised my hand as high as 
the knave did that gave me that blow, I 'm sure I 'd have 
cut him right in two. But, my dear, did you happen to 
think while you were so kind as to get ready to come and 
cure me, that I am a little hungry or so ?" 

" To be sure. Monseigneur. See, here 's some wine, and 
here 's a nice buttered roll for you." 

" What a good girl you are I I '11 go on with my break- 
fast, and you please to tell me all you know about my 



affairs at Typhaines, and why those people are so bent on 
taking my life ? By the Cross, I never was guilty of the 
least disloyalty as to them. All I did, while fighting them^ 
was the mere, plain duty of a good soldier." 

" What you ask me to tell you is what I do not know 
myself," said Damerones, " but certain it is, you have some 
violent enemies here, and had you not got out of that dun- 
geon, you must have been dead by this time. I it was, 
who had the happiness to get you out of it." 

" What, Damerones ? Is it to you I owe my rescue ? 
I promise you — yes, I promise by my poor Ruda verse, and 
by my spurs too, I '11 never forget it. How comes it that 
you could desire to do me so great a service, for you are 
not a vassal of mine ?" 

Monseigneur's question was quite a natural one, but the 
gentleman hadn't as good an opinion of himself as Joslin 
had. As the consul's daughter made no answer, but merely 
went on with her charitable ministrations, Philippe de Cor- 
nehaut began again with : — 

" But, my pretty child, from what you 've been telling 
me, I seem to have got out of one danger only to fall into 
a worse peril I How are you to get me out of that ?" 

"I know not as yet. Monseigneur; and, indeed, I must 
confess that I have been thinking about it this many an hour. 
Let me make you fully acquainted with the situation, and 
then see if you are luckier than I at finding expedients." 

" I hear what you say, but I want you to know that I 'm 
no great matter of a clerk ; where address is wanted, or cun- 
ning, wisdom, or what they call prudhomie, I haven't much 
to boast of, and I guess you are better at all that than I 
am : anyhow, go on, and tell me all about it. " 

" Monseigneur, if you were in the hands of the Typhaines 
people, they would put you to death at once 1" . 

" Good ; I know that already." 


" And now, if you continue to be held as hostage for 
the serfs, you must die as soon as ever they find that the 
consuls will not let them join the commune 1" 

Damerones now entered on the detail of many subjects 
already known to the reader, for the purpose of clearly 
explaining to the knight the pretensions of the De Pornes 
serfs, and the indispensable necessity for the rejection of 
them by the burghers. 

"I it was," said she, closing, "I it was that put you 
into the power of that frightful wretch, Joslin ; but, trem- 
bling as I was for your life, what better could I do. Mon- 
seigneur ?. I tried to ward off one peril by interposing 
another not so near at hand." 

"You did quite right, sister," answered the crusader. 
"Yes, a thousand times I say it, and all the days of my 
life I will hold it in faithful remembrance. Wouldn't 
anybody think I am looking for a long life to hear me 
talk so ? and why not, indeed ? Qod will save me, Dame- 
rones I In fact, now that there 's an end to my abstinence, 
and having drunk up your wine to the last drop, and 
swallowed the very last crumb of that nice roll of yours, 
I find my heart 's got back to its old place again. Sit 
you down here, close by me, and let us have a talk about 
it all. So, you say Joslin and his fellows are coming down 
here directly to break my neck, in case you shouldn't fore- 
stall them by handing me over to your father ?" 

Damerones nodded affirmatively. 

" It 's my opinion that we had better not decide on such 
a poor recourse as that, until we Ve tried some other way. 
Go and get me an axe, a ploughshare, or even a good club ; 
anything that comes to hand, and when Messire Joslin 
and his friends come down to pay their ugly visit, I'll 
hold such a conference with them as may show them how 
very much they are in the wrong." 


" I believe your courage is very great, Monseigneur, and 
your strength as well ; but if you should not be killed by 
a dozen serfs as strong and better armed than yourself, 
the survivors will deliver you to the Typhaines men, or, 
possibly, shut yon down in this hole to die of starvation. 
If, on the other hand, you should defeat your assailants» 
what will become of you ?" 

"I'll get out of this dungeon," said the knight, "and 
try to get clear of the town." 

" You couldn't do that. There 's a deep, wide ditch 
around the whole place, and every issue is strictly guarded. 
Of course, as you look like no other person here, and are 
totally ignorant of the roads, you would be retaken at 

" As that is the case, sister mine," said Philippe, ** give 
me up to your father, then. After all, it may be that the 
pious canon, who has already saved me once, will make 
his appearance again, just in time to deliver me from the 
jaws of death." 

" That's a very feeble resource," murmured Damerones, 
moving her head from side to side. 

"It's a thread, at least," continued the knight, "and 
that very thread may turn into a cable, to hoist me up to 
a place of safety. Anyhow, though I must say it annoys 
me to think of dying in this unlucky adventure of mine, I 
trust I shall do no dishonor to my name or my knighthood, 
nor to friends that love me — nor you either, Damerones." 

The young girl raised up her beautiful eyes, all wet with 
tears, to the knight's, who, when he saw her admirable face 
so brimming with passionate expression, felt softened and 
went on, without thinking the least evil : — 

" Dear sister Damerones, what a pity it is you aTe a 
burgher girl I For you have a heart equal to the noblest 
maiden's in the land. How glad it would make me to see 


a gold crown on your brow I Still, all that can't pre- 
vent me from repaying your friendship with lasting grati' 
tude. Pray, believe, Damerones, that I truly love you for 
your faithful souvenir of me." 

So strong was the poor girPs love, that she could desire 
nothing better than to yield to its illusions. Without any 
idea that the gentleman's affection was in the least of the 
like nature with hers, she felt that she would willingly sac- 
rifice her life a thousand times over for his dear sake. True 
love asks but little. 

She rose from her seat. 

" Adieu, Monseigneur I" she said. " Adieu I I know 
not what I am about to do. I will go pray to the blessed 
Yirgin for enlightenment ; but be sure of this, you shall 
not perish I I '11 find resources that a vulgar affection could 
never dream of. Perhaps I shall not see you for long — 
for very long should my father keep watch over me, or 
confine me to the house, so that I could not get out you 
know, to come back again. But believe me, I shall always 
think of you, and believe, pray, there 's one devoted heart. 
Ah, Monseigneur Philippe, if you should die, do not blame 
me — and wait for me a little while in heaven 1" 

Damerones burst into tears. 

"You love me too well, sister I" said Monseigneur, 
deeply affected at the scene. " I don't like to see you weep 
so. Because I am so unfortunate in this affair, that 's no 
reason why you should weep for me. Many a better knight 
than I am has perished from the earth, and yet nothing came 
of it ; the world goes on all the same. I understand very 
well how sorry it makes you to think your father should be- 
have in such a cruel way to me ; but what would you have? 
'tis a very uncommon miracle where a rebel burgher shows 
any courtesy and goodness of heart. Don't you worry 
yourself about it ; you are not to blame, and I love you all 


the better for what you have done. Farewell, sister ; and 
trj, if you can, to let me see you anywhere else than in this 
hole. It would please me well if I could see the sun shine 
once more, before I set out for eternity." 

Damerones had by this time taken up her lantern. She 
cast on the knight a woe-begone, despairing, burning look, 
as a mother's when quitting a child with bat a frail hope of 
ever seeing it more. She made no answer to the knight, 
save by movements of the head — her heart was too full. 
To speak, would be to burst into sobs. She went np 
the stairs, raised the trap-door, and went out, leaving the 
prisoner alone in the dark. When he got back, by groping 
his way, to his beam, he sat down, and began to think 
about Damerones and the great love she had shown for 

Good Monseigneur Philippe felt convinced that that 
young maiden was moved by her pure and warm piety to 
act as she had done, and that her father's brotal conduct 
was driving her almost to despair. It was to this filial 
sentiment, and to her fears for the future state of her 
father's soul — so black was it — ^that he attributed the warm 
expressions of Damerones. He remembered at last quite 
clearly how he used to give her ribbons, at Cambrai ; and 
another thing that had wholly slipped his memory till now, 
how he one day knocked down a gay page he caught trying 
to kiss her by force. He thought of the sweet smiles she 
used to lavish on him ; but he did not dwell very long on 
those, to him, insignificant reminiscences. 

" How is all this to end ? Ton my faith, I feel very well, 
and in good heart too ; but when I think how sadly I lost 
monseigneur, my father, without counting in my other mis* 
ventures, I am really mad at myself for being so lively. 
Never mind, though. I '11 do penance for all that as soon 
as I get a good opportunity." 


He was reasoning in this way, when the trap-door was 
raised again, and looking up towards the light, he saw 
several faces stooping and looking down at him, and then 
some one said : — 

" Monseigneur, come up 1" 



Monseigneur Philippe, on seeing so many people bend- 
ing forwards to look below for him, and whose hands he 
doubted not, were ready to lay hold on him, stood for a 
while, thinking what was best to be done. It was a diffi- 
cult problem; nor is it surprising to find that he was 
putting off the crisis as long as possible, and trying to make 
up his mind. Let us leave him for a while standing down 
there, his arms crossed on his breast, and he looking up 
at them, trying to make out the physiognomies of the new- 
comers, and threshing his brains, in hopes of beating out 
some liberating idea, some miracle, in short. In the mean- 
time, we will go back to Master Simon, who, as we already 
know, had been called on by Monseigneur de Pornes, at 
an early morning hour. 

"I have a great deal to say to you," was the opening 
remark of that gentleman. 

"And I have none the less to talk about," replied the 

" Let me begin first, comrade," rejoined the knight, " for 
what I 'm going to say will certainly make you open your 
eyes to the course of conduct of these Typhaines affairs. 
Messire Anseau de Loysel and I are quite determined that 
you must not receive our serfs into your establishment, and 
that is what I want you to understand most clearly. I 
hold so strongly to that condition of friendship, that I 
would rather even sacrifice my rancor against Philippe, just 


and right as that is. Let him escape, let somebody rescue 
him, let him get out into the country — I even prefer such 
a misfortune as that to the loss of my serfs. What could 
I do if my peasants, one and all, should make for your vil- 
lage ? Who would supply my corvées ? Who would pay 
my taxes f And when taxes and corvées have been paid, 
should it unfortunately happen, as it always does in fact, 
for me to want a little money, who would be left for me to 
tax over again at my good discretion ? No I I '11 not let 
my servants, my mainmortables go, and whole squads of 
my vilains I No I rather than that, I 'd renounce my hom- 
age to my suzerain, the Count de Nevers. Now you see, 
sir burgess, that I say just what I think ; and Messire 
Anseau de Loysel is exactly of my way of thinking on this 
matter; exactly." 

" You have no occasion to trouble yourself in this way," 
coolly replied the Ty phaines functionary, " or to threaten us 
about the matter either, for all we want is justice and the 
good of all concerned. We are neither heretics nor Sara- 
cens: we are perfectly loyal to our friends and allies. 
Your serfs are serfs, and, please God and his angels, serfs 
they will be to the day of judgment, before the Typhaines 
folk '11 meddle with the subject ; and this I am ready to 
swear on any relic you choose, or on the holy wafer itself, 
if you 'd rather have that." 

"Meanwhile," said Monseigneur, smiling, "you are all 
of you here in a state of revolt against your suzerain, serfs 
and burghers and all, and- 1 see a good many of the former 
in town, who have run away from their masters, and yet 
you keep them here I What does that mean ?" 

" Monseigneur," added the merchant, " if you will attend 
to your own business, we will take proper care of ours. 
Provided we are willing to receive the good people from 
Cornehaut or the abbey-lands, and the demesnes of Cornoa 


îller, what difference does it make to you ? You are our 
ally, and have nothing to fear from us." 

'' I should be much gratified," said De Pornes, with a 
wink at him, " if such fine words as those could be put into 
the body of that charter you are making." 

"They shall be, for we as a people are brave and 
loyal, and there shall be no cause for any dispute between 
you and us. Now you are satisfied, I suppose, and it 's my 
turn to tell you something." 

" Do so, then." 

" I '11 begin with one question. Is it a matter you care 
much about whether you hang Joslin and his comrades to- 
day or to-morrow, and rather to-morrow than a week 
later ?" 

"Certainly. Good workmen don't like to have their 
business put off; they are never well served if not promptly 
served. " 

" I agree with you as to that. But suppose the question 
to be to recapture Monseigneur Philippe, and by a little 
patience have him and your serfs too, safe in hand ? It 
seems to -me it would well be worth the trouble of waiting 
a little." 

" Oh, ho I you are a very knowing sort of man. Master 
Simon ;" and his eyes blinked like a cat's at the thought ; 
" you are very knowing ; and if you can procure such a 
twofold pleasure for me, I '11 esteem you and honor you 
more than any man in the whole world." 

" I am sure I can do it. Do you only feign to be fond 
of your serfs and quite ready to forgive them. Let it be 
bruited abroad that a few silver marks often settle the very 
worst kind of trouble. Tell how well you think of Joslin ; 
and in fact do your best to make him and his comrades 
think that the word you said yesterday wasn't your last word 
about it." 


Monseigneur Bandoain had so high an opinion of all sorts 
of trickery that he always was suspecting everybody else, 
and the consuPs remarks rather tended to renew his doubts. 

" Comrade," said he, "if I could but see a little further 
into your projects, and understand what they are to end iu^ 
I might say, 'yes;' but just now, you seem to be demand- 
ing a rather extensive credit." 

"lam surprised," replied Simon, "you don't see into 
my perplexities : am I perfectly sure of what Joslin and 
his fellows will do with Philippe ? It may be that they will 
allow him to escape, to checkmate you, especially if they 
have got him out of town already, and that they might 
have easily done last night, and even yet, seeing how much 
disorder there is in the borough. If I could be sure they 
could be in such a rage as to kill him outright, though I 
should regret not to have a hand in it, I could be consoled 
about it, I suppose ; but who knows what such a set of 
brutes might do ? I shouldn't be surprised i6 they 'd take 
him straight to the Lady of Cornouiller, and then he would 
begin to carry on a war with us, that wouldn't be very good 
for our side." 

" You are right, comrade," rejoined Baudouin de Pomes. 
" and that, too, without taking into account how his mar- 
riage to the Lady Mahaut would block my game. In that 
event, my poor boy Enguerrard would fail of getting pos- 
session of those splendid tracts of land of hers that dove- 
tail so nicely into ours. Hurrah, then. Master Simon, you 
must carry out your plan, of course ; and in case of need, 
I promise you I '11 kiss Joslin on both cheeks the first time 
I meet him I" 

"One word more," said Simon. "We must also lay 
aside all appearance of animosity against Messire Phi- 
lippe I" 

" A capital idea that I" cried the knight, misconceiving 


Simon's purpose. " It will be an excellent way to keep 
Canon Norbert's tongue still. That old ereatare might 
possibly come np once more and worry ns, and I wish he was 
further off. He has conyerted Monseigneur the Count de 
Ne vers three times already, and it might do me consider- 
able damage if he should go and convert him for the fourth 

" Now that that 's settled," said Simon, ** let us go and 
look at our workmen and the fortifications." 

When the consul and knight reached the scene of the 
works opposite the abbey where the ditch and wall had 
commenced, they were delighted to find a wide, deep fosse 
and an earth rampart, completely finished, at the most 
important point of all. Without doubt, the whole town 
would be completely inclosed before sunset, so eager were 
the people to complete the works of defence. 

Baudouin and Simon soon met with Payen, who had 
just come from handling the pick-axe for a quarter of an 
hour, by way of example and encouragement 

"All 's well," said the blacksmith ; " and now we shall 
have to distribute the arms, but I wanted to see you, Master 
Simon, before I would make up my mind about it, and 
Eudes and Antoine thought just as I did, so did Jacques. 
There 's no doubt the coats-of-mail will be here this even- 
ing, and the bows, too, and above all, the lances we ordered 
from Troyes ; however, I don't think we shall be in any 
great need of them to-night ; I went to see the abbey 
yesterday, and found them ail panic-struck up there." 

"Where is the canon ?" said Simon. 

" H!e spent the night in an old woman's thatched hut in 
town, and then went out to inquire after the monks ; he 
was told they were all quite quiet in their cloisters ; but 
without saying one word to the crowd, who pressed around 
him to beg his blessing, he only answered by threatening 


scowls, and proceeded to the barrier, where the guards 
were afraid to refuse a passage. lie 's at the abbey yet.'' 

" I wish he would stay there, and die there, too," ex- 
claimed Messire Baudouin. " If people would only be of 
my mind, those chattering priests wouldn't be allowed to 
tramp about the country, frightening old women and fools I'» 

" Master Norbert is a saintly personage," said Payen, 
respectfully, and at the same time makicg the sign of the 
cross, " and I don't advise you to say hard things about 
him, in this town, for you '11 find few people to agree with 
you. It 's true we are at war with our Lord Abbot, but 
we are no misbelieving Turks, for all that." 

"You are in the right there, master," said Simon, in a 
conciliatory tone; "still, it must be confessed the canon 
has worried us not a little, and 'twould be better if he 
would put off his visit here to some other time, for in case 
we recover the prisoner, it is absolutely indispensable to 
keep it from him." 

" Just as you please," replied Payen. " You hold to 
the execution of Philippe de Cornehaut, and I suppose you 
have your own reasons for that, and I* shall not meddle 
with it. But let us have an end of it some way, for it would 
be a very unpleasant thing to me to get cursed by so holy 
a man as Norbert is." 

The conversation now took a political turn, and the three 
personages were joined by Anseau de Loysel, who accord- 
ing to usage was already well advanced in his customary 
intoxication, though it was an early hour. That amiablo 
seigneur had given himself quite over to the tuition of his 
father-in-law. De Pomes, and his touching confidence in 
his wife and parent had been rewarded as might be natu- 
rally expected. The châtelain of De Pomes had put a 
garrison in De Loysel 's castle, and on his own private 
account touched a special tax on the property. Anseau 



was not an unhappy person, for he always had wine 
enough and of the best ; and as his father-in-law had no 
further fears of him, he treated him with the greatest 
joviality and good humor, over their daily wine at the dinner 

Anseau planted himself close by his father-in-law, and 
with his usual stupid laugh, began : — 

" Yentre Dieu ! Monseigneur, so we are going to have 
a grand time here to-day, eh ? I 've just come from the 
square, where they are putting up a scaffold of beams and 
planks. Are they making a platform to receive the abbot 
of Typhaines' benediction ?" 

" Nothing of the kind," answered Jacques. " We are 
going to read the articles of the charter to the good men 
of Typhaines. We drew it up last night — you was there, 
and Monseigneur Baudouin, too." 

"It will be a splendid spectacle," Payen said, with a 
very serious air. " I We been looking forward to see it 
this many a month, and hardly ventured to hope I 'd ever 
live to see it I" 

"You are a strange set of fellows, you burghers are," 
replied Anseau, with his half drunk look. " You really do 
get novelties into your heads that nobody else even so much 
as dreams of" 

" Yery well. Let all that pass, and we '11 now go and 
make proclamation in all the streets and lanes, that any serf 
or serfs who will deliver to the public authorities the person 
of Monseigneur Philippe de Comehaut, shall be made a 
freeman, and a citizen of this commune. You, Monseig- 
neur Baudouin, are acquainted with the conditions, and 
know that nothing shall be done in conflict with your 

" I think I can guess what it means I" said Payen, 
*but I don't like to have a lie told to any man. Kill the 


knight, as he is an enemy of yours, and I see no harm in 
that. But don't go and deceive the poor serf-folk." 

" Bah I" rejoined Monseigneur Baudouin. " Do you sup- 
pose that castles and communes are to be managed as you 
manage your shopkeeping ? You Ve a good deal to learn, 
if you do, friend blacksmith I" 



The consuls and knights, after addressing and encour- 
aging the workmen, now quitted the rampart, and moved 
forwards to where the old abbey-gaol stood, on one side of 
the square ; there we shall for the present leave them, 
while we repair to the presence of Saint Norbert. That 
saintly man's object in going to the abbey, was to offer 
some consolation and encouragement to the poor distressed 
monks ; but a still higher and more pressing consideration 
for him was to provide lest the depression of spirits and 
the terror naturally to be expected, after the late events, 
might, in some small degree, influence the rigorous observ- 
ance of the discipline of the holy sanctuary, or weaken the 
force of the order, even for ever so short a time. 

On entering the great court-yard, he noticed the signs 
of disorder there, that have been already described. The 
church, though utterly deserted, was intact ; and the old 
priest went and kneeled on the flags at the entrance of the 
choir, where he made a long, fervent prayer. Pressed 
though he was, to fulfil the task he had undertaken to per- 
form, he concluded, in common with the generality of 
clerics of his times, that there was not in all the world a 
precedence over that, the most rigorous of obligations, and 
so, for a whole hour long, he continued on his knees on the 
hard stone floor, praying and utterly absorbed in devotion, 
just as if he were not the only human being in the vast. 


solemn pile. He ended his prayer at last, and rose to his 

The canon discovered a small side door behind the choir- 
stalls, opened it, and stepped into a long, low, narrow, 
vaulted corridor, lighted by dim dormer windows. At the 
end he foand a spiral stone stair that went winding down 
deep below into the bowels of the earth. He stopped to 
listen. A low sound, like a psalmody, convinced him the 
community must have retreated into that dark abode. At 
once he went along the passage, and then down the winding 
stair, until he found himself at a strong oak door. He 
struck the door with his staff. The psalm went on ; yet 
an aged voice from within inquired : — 

" Who art thou that comest to disturb God's poor ser- 
vants in their morning oflRce ?" 

" I am Norbert, Canon of Treves, and I bring you such 
words of consolation as I have. Open 1" 

At these words the bolts were drawn, and the lay-brother 
who had been posted as watchman at the only opening by 
which the poor monks had been momentarily expecting to 
see the mutinous crowd rush in upon them, was hurriedly 
thrown open. The name of Norbert was at that day a 
thing of power and public respect throughout the west of 
Europe, the like of which is nowhere to be found at the 
present day. 

The canon pronounced a benediction over the kneeling 
brother, and moving forward, a few steps brought him into 
the middle of the crypt or subterranean church of the abbey 
of Typhaines. The aspect of the place was an imposing 

Though an image of the catacombs in which the early 
Christians took refuge with liberty, religion and life, the 
cavern was not a very extensive one. It had in ancient 
times served as a habitation for St. Procul and his pious com- 


panions, when fleeing from the Arian persecution for refuge 
there. Situated far down below the church pavement, it 
received its light through a small iron-grated window, that 
was partially obstructed with ivy and other climbers, all 
green and vigorous, that had pushed their ambitious shoots 
and tendrils even into the interior of the apartment. Still 
through the narrow opening the joyous light was dancing in 
between the bars and tendrils and leaves, to play gayly on 
the paved floor below. There, in its pure rays, on a stone 
altar where the sainted bishop used to celebrate the holy 
.mysteries, the abbey-relics were now reposing, and sur- 
rounding those rich treasures, the fifty monks, kneeling in 
their white cistercian garments, were performing the offices 
of the order and with all the fervor inspired by holy An- 
selm's recent reforms, were trying to save their souls at 
the very moment when, as they apprehended, their bodies 
were threatened with imminent peril of death. 

The canon was made happy by seeing that not a soul 
moved from his knees to give him welcome. He took a 
low place in the assembly and joined in with the chants of 
the congregation. At last, when the ceremony came to a 
close, all the people turned their faces towards him, and 
the prior asked : — 

" Holy father, what news is it that yon are come to an- 
nounce to this unhappy flock ?" 

" First of all," said Norbert, " where is holy Abbot An- 
selm ?" 

*'He is no longer herewith us," replied the prior; 
"while he was busy yesterday giving directions for the 
transportation of the holy relics to the church rampart, 
the Typhaines rebels were admitted by the valets through a 
window they were appointed to guard ; they got next into 
the cloisters : in obedience to our superior's orders we 
-'"owded round the martyr's bones and hurried here with 


them. We then heard loud shootings ; and brother Gilles 
saw Monseigneur de Cornehaut's two pages fall at the 
church steps ; he saw the knight lift the Abbot in his 
arms and bear him to the stables, and while the valiant 
gentleman's squire was bringing out a couple of horses, 
he looked with admiration that nailed him to the spot, at 
that noble gentleman holding his ground, and with his 
single arm keeping the whole wild crowd of vilains in 
check ; the Abbot and Fulk went off at speed, but Mon- 
seigneur Philippe, when he in turn atttempted to vault 
into his saddle, was grappled by the raging masses of pea- 
sants, dismounted, and thrown to the ground. Doubtless 
that noble knight must have met his death in the melée^ 
but God will have found him a place already in his para- 
dise between St. George and St. Alexander." 

" He is not dead," replied Norbert, " and if I can trust 
the previsions I have acquired from on high, that champion 
so illustrious and terrible, so proved by Saracenic steel and 
Syrian suns, is not doomed to fall like a hired infantry man, 
by the knives of those rebel peasants and serfs I No I let 
us have no fears for him, my brethren, for he lives still. I 
saved him last night, with God helping me ; the celestial 
puissance fell on my tongue last night, and that forced liis 
murderers to give back. Since that hour. Monseigneur 
Philippe, by some miracle, has escaped from the hands of 
his persecutors, and even if they should succeed in retaking 
him, I '11 be there again to wrest him out of their power. 
But let us dismiss all thought of him for the present, as he 
has no pressing need of our assistance. Let us think rather 
of you, my brothers." 

" What will become of us ?" cried the prior, with melan- 
choly accents ; " the flock hath lost its shepherd, and will 
perish in the wilderness." 

" I hope that you are not like so many sheep with neither 


forethought nor courage I I know Abbot Anselm right 
well ; he is a man of a rare firmness, an intrepidity equal 
to any danger, and totally incapable of resigning a single 
one of the rights of the church to any emissary of Satan 
whatever. Either I am greatly mistaken, or he decided as 
he fled, to what door he should go and knock for succor. 
Honored as he is by the whole church of the Gauls, alike 
dear to the bishops and legates of the holy Roman See, 
your superior, my brothers, is not a champion to be braved 
with impunity. Should the proud Count de Nevers, em- 
boldened by his temporal puissancy, send aid, as 'tis said 
he will, to this impious commune, Anselm will be sure to 
put a stop to all that. Fear nothing then, and meditate 
in all confidence that sacred word, that buckler of holy 
Church : * the gates of hell shall not prevail against her.' " 

The canon's words restored a small measure of energy 
to the poor monks, who had courage enough to die under 
the blows of the rebels, but not enough to struggle for their 
own lives. The new perspective opened by Saint Norbert 
revived the dying spark within, and concluding there was 
no danger now of a massacre, they pressed round the 
saintly canon, supplicating him to direct them in the way 
of duty. 

" Your duty, brethren, is very simple," replied the priest. 
"The Typhaines' burghers may revolt, they may utter 
threats against you, and they are actually in possession of 
some temporal power, and might, in a fit of satanic rage, put 
you to death ; but never can they, save with your consent, 
give to their commune the rights indispensable to secure 
its existence. It can never exist in truth without your 
sworn consent. This is the reason why the communes 
succeeded at Amiens, Soissons, Laon, and Noyon : with- 
out the Seigneur's consent, no commune ; that is the law, 
and the law it will ever remain. If your insurgent burghers 


had to deal with masters temporal, they might find some 
way to frighten them into a concession by threatening them 
with the destruction of their race, or by placing themselves 
under the protection of another seigneurage, but where is 
the daring suzerain to openly accept a domain robbed from 
the Church ? So, you have nothing to fear. To any and 
every demand they may make, you have nothing more to do 
than refdse compliance with it. Be firm, immovable in 
your answers ; but, at the same time, be kind and moderate ; 
for you, brethren, are stronger than lance or sword. Be 
then wise as serpents, but harmless as doves. -Your Ab- 
bot is the only person who has a right to give orders in this 
place, and it is yours to refuse every proposal that may be 
made in his absence." 

The monks gave thanks to Norbert for his advice, reco- 
vered their outward appearance of calm, and followed him 
out of the crypt to make a beginning of putting things in 
the grand court into their usual order. The dead were 
taken away, washed, and deposited in the church. The 
lay-brothers commenced repairing the broken gates, and a 
lay-brother was despatched to the town to say that, if they 
desired their dead to be honorably buried, the monks would 
willingly give the assistance of their prayers. This pro- 
ceeding exhibited an air of humility about it that was very 
gratifying to the canon, who conceived it as likely to sub- 
stitute the rule of negotiation for that of violence. Norbert, 
therefore, urged the prior, over and over again, in no case 
to step beyond the bounds of true prudence and patience, 
and then, when he had given the fathers his blessing and 
advised them never to lose sight of their rules of order, in 
any tribulation whatever, he set off in haste for the Burgh 
again. Monseigneur Philippe, in case of a recapture, 
might possibly once more require his intervention. 

As the canon passed into the street, where all who met 


him went humbly down on their koees, he saw Master 
.Simon, who seemed in very high spirits; he was jnst 
parting with his daughter Damerones and approaching 
Jacqnes, to whom he spoke with a vivacity and sprightli- 
ness that led the old canon to snspect something amiss. 
For a moment the old man hesitated ; but suddenly giving 
way to one of those interior inspirations which his ancient 
zeal had always induced him to respect as if they i^rere 
heaven sent, he moved off in haste and at last overtook 



When the holj canon had come within a few paces of 
Damerones, who was walking onwards, absorbed in reflec- 
tion, he cried — 

" Stop, young woman 1 I have something to say to yon : 
don't kneel to me ; I am but a poor sinner myself, and we 
have no time now to lose in vain demonstrations. Art not 
thou consul Simon's daughter? I think I saw thee a 
month ago in his company, and heard thee call him 

" Yes ; you are not mistaken in that. I am his daugh- 
ter. What would you have with me ? Pardon me, I am 
in trouble ; my soul is more tossed than a bark on the sea 
in the angriest tempest." 

" Never mind your troubles ; the question now is neither 
more nor less than a knight's life." 

" A knight ?" cried Damerones. " What I Messire Phi- 
lippe's ? Is it possible my father has deceived me, then ?" 

" I know not what you mean, but this I must tell you. 
You are young yet, and your heart, no doubt, is not hard- 
ened to crime ; you are a woman, and you can't be happy 
at the sight of bloodshed. Now I am come to implore 
you, yes, old as I am, to implore you to intercede with 
your father in Philippe's behalf, if it 's true, as I suspect it 
to be from his joyous air, that he has got the knight into 
his power again." 

Damerones uttered a cry so dolorous, so agonized, at this 


intelligence, that the moving crowd in the street stopped 
to look at them, and pressed roand her to ask what conld 
have so disturbed the rose of Tjphaines, the powerful con- 
BaPs child; bat Xorbert dismissed them with an angrj 
scowl, and they went on their way thinking that it might 
be a matter of some penance, some bizarre act of devotion, 
not uncommon in that age ; and as they respectfully with- 
drew, the old man took Damerones' arm, drew her to a 
lonely alley, and there they both sat down on a stone seat. 

" What 's the use of all this despairing?" asked Norbert, 

" I, yes, I am the canse of Messire Philippe's death : 
'twas I who to save his life led him into a danger from 
which it became absolutely necessary to rescue him. Yes- 
terday evening I tore him out of father's hands so save his 
life when the danger was most pressing ; and to-day I was 
obliged to wrest him from the power of the de Pomes serfe, 
because a moment more might have insured his death. 
Ah, holy father 1 I trusted to father's promises; I allowed 
me to give way to the oaths he swore ; twice did he re- 
turn to the charge, and at last made himself master of my 
secret. Ah, I have murdered Monseigneur, for I have 
just confessed where he may be found; ah, Philippe I 
Philippe 1" 

The poor girl's despair was so real that Norbert, ascetic 
though be was, and habitual despiser of all sorts of pas- 
sions and the language of them as well, was unable to^eep 
down the emotions of sympathy for the beautiful maiden 
that her anguish inspired. He ordered her to be calm, 
and give him a circumstantial account of the whole matter, 
which, as yet, he had no clear .idea of. She obeyed, and it 
was easy for Norbert to comprehend that ft was a sentiment 
far livelier than one of simple piety that so stirred the very 
depths of grief and remorse in the soul of poor Damerones. 


But that was no time to talk what they call moralities to 
her ; and so the canon, as soon as he had gathered all she 
knew on the subject, rose from the stone bench, and said : — 

"Go, daughter, go home — after awhile I will see you 
again ; perhaps I may have need of your help to save the 
brave knight's life. God — ^be sure of it — will never aban- 
don thee to such misery as this." 

" Father I" she cried, " father, you won't let him be 
killed 1" 

''I hope not; I believe not," replied Norbert, "but do 
you obey me ; go and sit down at home, nor leave the house 
until I return. Perhaps you are the instrument in hea- 
ven's hand, by which the precious life of Messire Philippe 
de Cornehaut is to be saved I" 

Hearing these words, Damerones wrapped her mantle 
about her ; her hands were crossed on her bosom, and her 
eyes lifted heavenward as she stood supplicating the power 
divine, to realize the promise just made by the canon. 
Never had saint, aspiring to the glories of martyrdom, in 
eyes or features an expression more celestial. She then 
walked rapidly away, and Norbert went off in a different 
direction. He reached Lienard's clos just as a band of 
armed burghers were raising the trap-door. Simon and 
the Seigneur de Pomes were at their head, and Payen was 
there too. 

Simon was in the act of speaking to the men about him — 

" Don't go to amuse yourselves with taking him I As 
soon as he reaches the top of the steps, drive your lances 
into his breast, and cleave his head with your clubs. Do 
that, and you will save us time, and some trouble too." 

Norbert's voice broke out like the sound of a clarion 
bearing a defiance : — 

" Wretches that you are," said the old priest, " have you 
not supped full of your crimes yet ? can't you give them at 



least some semblance of law and right ? How long is it 
since knights are murdered in cold blood, and non-resist- 
ing J I, yes, I ; these sad eyes of mine have looked on 
most wicked deeds of men ; I looked on while the excom- 
mnnicate rebels as Laon were trampling down the body 
of their own Bishop Gandry 1 but these very men, outcasts 
from holy church, and a disgrace to humanity itself, would 
have never dreamed, as you do, of butchering a prisoner 
spared by the sword of the battle-field I Withdraw I — be- 
gone hence ; let no man dare to touch even the garments 
of the knight!" 

Simon and the knight of de Pomes seemed not so much 
touched as angered by this second intervention. 

"By the devil's gorge I" cried the gentleman, "I don't 
like sermons out of church. I' 11 have no monk intermed- 
dling with affairs of my own 1 I' 11 not have it 1" 

" The holy father spoke right, all the same," said Payen, 
" and, as I am a consul in this commune, I'm not going to 
have a murder committed here without knowing why. 
Monseigneur -de Cornehaut is an enemy of ours, that I 
know ; let us put him to death publicly and openly, if needs 
must, and on the town square. It shall never be said that 
we murdered him for want of any good reason to execute 
him in sight of all the people." 

" Is there any man here that loves me ?" cried Simon, 
looking round on the whole company. Payen at once re- 
plied — 

" Every man of us loves you, every man of us loves the 
commune too ; but every man of us loves his own soul, 
his eternal salvation, and his honest fame. Comrades, 
down with your arms, and let the chevalier be led to prison, 
and guarded well, until the executioner is ordered by us to 
strike off his head." 

" You '11 not think of doing that, Payen, will you ? Don't 


you see that all Norbert wants is to save the prisoner's 
life ?" 

"That is nothing," said Payen. "The canon did very 
right to come. I said nothing, but I was full of remorse, 
and the thing shall be just as he may please to say. If the 
knight of Cornehaut makes his escape, be it so ; we 11 fight 
him afterwards. He wounded me bad, to be sure, yet I 'd 
not be afear'd to meet him again, sword in hand. In fine, 
I 'm not going to have him butchered in this way ; I 'm as 
much of consul, and as free as you in this commune, and I 
won't have the knight butchered just here, and that 's all 
of it." 

" We must give up," said Simon, turning to Seigneur De 
Pomes, and then looking on Norbert with a smiling coun- 
tenance, that ill concealed his rage. 

" Yon see, holy father, that we act as your will pleases 
you to ordain. But you will remember that the verdict for 
his death was rendered last night I This day, as soon as 
our commune is regularly and legally proclaimed. Monseig- 
neur Philippe will have to go and join his forefathers I" 

" What God allows, that you will do I" said the canon. 
" For the present, I can rely on Payen's spoken word, and 
to him it is that I commend the cause of justice and 

" Don't you be afraid, holy father," said Payen, firmly ; 
" may I never get your blessing, if one hair from the knight's 
head shall fall to the ground here." 

So saying, the burghers, at a sign from Payen, raised the 
trap-door ; and, as if the very sight of the prisoner was 
oflfensive to their eyes, Simon and Baudouin withdrew. 
Norbert gazed after them for awhile, and then, after new 
assurances from Payen, he too went away in a different 
direction. The people about took no notice of him, for 
Monseigneur Philippe had at last made up his mind. 


and was coming op the steps ; bat he came up very delibe- 

When he reached the top he rubbed his eyes, for so 
many hours passed in that outer darkness made the sudden 
flash of day blinding ; at length he looked round on the 
crowd, and spoke : — 

" Well, well I have I had the nightmare ? I thought it 
was all over with me I Have you got your senses at last, 
and are you agreed to talk about a ransom ?" 

" Never hope for that, Monseigneur," said Payen. "You 
are to die this day ; and if you have any arrangements to 
make, it would be well to make them at once ; night will not 
find you a living soul ; and now follow me to your former 

Monseigneur Philippe made no answer. He had no wish 
to bandy words with his conquerors, and he merely said to 
himself: " So it seems Damerones could find no other way 
to get me out of Joslin's claws." It was but a few min- 
utes, and the chevalier found himself shut up in his first 
prison again, not less than twenty feet down under the 
ground. A new jailer — quite as worthy of his office as the 
late M. Isengrin — turned the keys on him, and he readily 
knew that a guard had been stationed above to keep watch 
and ward over him. 

" For once," said Philippe, " I don't see how I am to 
get out of this — that is, if I am to get out of it." 

The knight was down on his bundle of straw, with his face 
between his hands ; he heard a great uproar in the streets. 
But let us quit the dungeon for awhile, and stop on the great 
gaol-door step, and we shall see whole files of the workmen 
coming in from the ramparts, where they had been busy 
with shovel and pick all night long. The whole multitude 
are buzzing or shouting, or singing, chafiSng, coming and 
going, as busy as a hive of bees hard at work. The appear- 


ance of the crowd gradually changes, and the whole scene 
puts us in mind of a Sunday. Everybody is dressed in his 
best ; burghers, good old women, young girls promenading 
hither and thither in their finest gowns and frocks, mer- 
chants and artisans in their tight-fit or holiday hats ; the 
whole mass seems metamorphosed, and the whole buzz, 
confusion, and noise have given place to a general feeling 
of solemnity. The carts are gone from the streets, and 
every spade, shovel, and pick was now clear out of sight. 

The hour is come for the good people of Typhaines to be 
made acquainted with the new code of laws just drawn up 
by the consuls. They are now about to take rank with the 
powers of the time ; their burgh, henceforth dignified with 
the title of City of Typhaines, is now about to be governed 
by regulations of their own devising and own choosing. 
True it is that, for the full and effective power of their char- 
ter of freedom, their consent and their acceptance is not 
the sole condition ; but just at this glorious hour nobody 
thought of that, for it was a rather disagreeable thought. 
The whole town is crowded into the great square, and to 
see their splendid attitudes, their nonchalant looks, and 
their haughty strut, a man would be apt to think himself 
in an assembly of a sovereign people. 

The forum of the borough of Typhaines covered no great 
space, nor was it very regularly laid out. The surround- 
ing houses had not been built in very exact lines on the 
street, and mostly consisted of one-story huts, with thatched 
roofs. In fact, the houses were few, and the hovels many. 
These hovels had left an open space or square between 
them of about two hundred feet long, by a width of from 
one hundred and thirty, in its broadest part, to some ten 
feet, where it was narrowest. 

In front of the old abbey gaol they had erected a huge 
stage, or platform, furnished with a balustrade, and covered 


with blue cloth, draped in upholsterer's best taste; A part 
of the town militia was drawn up in line opposite the great 
stage, leaving only a small guard at the ramparts. The 
militia too, as yet badly armed, exhibited not more than 
about a hundred men in light coats of mail, small iron 
head-pieces, without visors, and short swords and lances 
as heavy as they were long. Some two hundred of 
these bold warriors had bows and arrows, and were quite 
fine in their Sunday clothes. The balance had scythes, 
axes, flails, and other such agricultural apparatus as might 
readily be converted into muniments of war. Every troop 
had its officers, and not a soul was there to keep up any 
order or discipline; for order, discipline, and above all, 
silence, are more modem inventions. The women and 
girls seemed to have the highest opinion of those valorous 
patriots ; conversations were going on everywhere between 
the spectators and the defenders of the good commune. 
The old men had been provided with benches in front of 
the stage, and the graybeards, as lively as the very boys 
and girls themselves, sat there laughing and talking at a 
great rate. As to the children — and the number at Ty- 
phaines was named legion — they had secured the very best 
places in the square for seeing at once, and keeping out of 
reach of their fond parents, especially the manual part of 
them. They garnished every roof, and clung to every 
chimney like those clustered tribes of live monkeys we meet 
with in an African forest. 

After a long waiting, eager expectation and a variety 
of the usual episodes in a restless crowd, that are so very 
delightful to the mob, the five consuls of Typhaines made 
their appearance on the splendid stage. They were at- 
tended by their clerk, Baudouin de Pornes, and Anseau 
de Loysel, with ten men-at-arms commanded by the two 
seigneurs, and, further, by a trumpeter habited in the 


Nevers livery, who was part of the ambassadorial suite. 
The five consuls were at once greeted with the most tu» 
multuous acclamations. Shouts of admiration, joyous 
stampings, clapping of hands, there seemed no end to ; 
when the militia stopped shouting, the women took up the 
hurrahs, and as they grew weak, the children got the upper 
hand ; in fact, so great was the burst and outpour of joy, 
that it took nearly an hour to get down to silence at last. 

The popularity of the consuls was unbounded ; yet the 
love and confidence df the people was not the sole cause of 
the grand success of the hour ; it was the new costume that 
excited the liveliest enthusiasm. Never, never had that 
populace dreamed of having so splendid a magistracy at the 
head of affairs, and their patriotism was increased an hun- 
dred fold as they looked on their superb chiefs. All the five 
consuls wore magnificent scarlet robes, with furred collars 
and cuffs; every man of them wore a long heavy sword, just 
like so many knights ; and over all was a violet cloth mantle, 
and chaplets on their heads of the same hue. Through the 
folds of their robes were seen their limbs in shining mail. 
It is pleasing to think that the reader will thus readily 
comprehend the immense admiration of the good people of 
Typhaines, on so magnificent an occasion. I might ven- 
ture to add that the virtuous and yet determined look of 
the five consulars, and, above all, Payen, who, with his 
wounded arm still in a sling, stood bold as a lion in full 
view of all the people, contributed not a little to the dig- 
nity and splendor of the consular costume. 

At last, and there always must be an at last, the crowd 
had got somewhat used to the gorgeous show, and then 
Master Simon, taking from the reverent hands of the clerk- 
of-council a huge parchment roll, proceeded to read aloud 
the Communal charter. 
. "Ye good burgesses of Typhaines," cried Simon in a 


ringing tone, " here is what we have thought it fitting to 
ordain in your behalf as the future code of laws for this 

" Every person in this commune swears to contribute to 
the public defence. In case any one burgess should be 
attacked or insulted, all other burgesses shall defend and 
avenge him." 

This article first — which was beforehand deeply engraved 
in the hearts of all Typhaineers — was received with shouts 
of admiration. The consul proceeded : — 

" You shall pay into the chest of your seigneur no tar 
but a poll tax, and he shall have no right to impose either 
taille or corvee." 

This article was saluted as warmly as Article I. had 
been, and the clapping and cheering broke out again. 

"Good people!" cried Jacques, "if you go on inter- 
rupting us so every minute, it will take Master Simon a 
whole fortnight to get through the reading of our charter : 
you should keep quiet, then, and listen quietly. If you 
arn't satisfied you can say so when we Ve got through ; 
and if you are satisfied, you can halloa as loud as you like 
after it 's all over." 

This observation brought out plenty of cheers, and as 
soon as silence was restored. Master Simon read on : " Ty- 
phaines burghers may intermarry with the daughters of 
any serf whatever, saving those of the Church of Typhaines, 
and such gentlemen as may have signed this charter on 
oath taken. Whoever violates this article shall be reduced 
to serfdom." 

This provision drew a smile of satisfaction from Mon- 
seigneurs Baudouin and Anseau de Loysel. The clause had 
been inserted by particular request of the Count de Nevers 
and those two knights, as well as the following : — 

" No person shall be admitted as a member of this com- 


mnne who is unable to bny a lot and dwelling, or to baild 
one in the town ; for, if a burgher should do any unlawful 
act and then escape from arrest, it is just that the people 
should take possession of his goods, as a penalty for his 
misdeed. " 

Under this clause was concealed a measure the consul 
thought it not fitting just now to specify — namely, a sure 
means of getting rid of all pauper peasantry, a class of 
but little use to the republic. Simon went on through a 
great number of other clauses, some touching matters of 
trade, some artisans, and some the city police establishment ; 
next, followed numerous stipulations, the profound wisdom 
of which was universally recognized, as they saw the venera- 
ble graybeards on the front benches accepting them with 
a grave nod of each reverend poll. 

'' A merchant having a claim, not paid at due, shall have 
the right to proceed in person to levy on the goods of the 
debtor, and pay himself out of the sales of the goods afore- 
said, provided always that it shall not be lawful in him to 
seize the wearing apparel and working tools of said debtor 
nor his front door. 

" Provided there should arise a suit at law between two 
burgesses of this town, it shall be lawful, their several pre- 
ference being made known, to fight a duel to the end that 
the truth and right shall be by that means proved and es- 
tablished. The strongest man shall be adjudged victor in 
the cause. In case one of the two parties to the suit should 
refuse trial by battle, he shall be punished by a heavy fine." 

This article appeared to give general satisfaction, for it 
gave a gentleman-like air to the Typhaines men ; but it 
was followed by another that was not so favorably received, 
especially by the gentler sex. 

" A burgess may beat his wife, and his daughter, even if 
a married woman ; his sons and his valets, to the extent of 


wounding only; in any case where snch correction had 
proved too severe, he may make oath to the effect that in 
acting as he did his intention was good. The nse of sharp 
ground weapons of iron is for such occasion hereby inter- 

" In case a burgess should engage in a quarrel with a 
serf, or even with a free mechanic, it shall be lawful for 
him to call him thief, dirty dog, or to apostrophize him 
with other abuse of like nature, but it shall never be law- 
ful to strike him." 

The charter was very long, and except for the commu- 
neers, would not have proved very interesting in every 
particular clause. The reading of the document took up 
several hours, and the sun was evidently declining to the 
western horizon when Master Simon reached the closing 
paragraph, which ended with these words : — 

*' The only thing, good people, that is now wanting is the 
consent of the Abbot of Typhaines to our charter, and the 
warrant of Monseigneur the King of France ; but I beg 
you to believe that we shall obtain both of these advantages 
with but little trouble. Don't vex yourselves at all about 
these high concerns ; it is enough for you to know that 
Monseigneur de Nevers is our friend, and ready and will- 
ing to protect us against every and any enemy of ours. All 
you have to think of is to lire in peace at home as long as 
order reigns at Typhaines, and to behave like brave men, 
as you did yesterday, whensoever we summon you to the 
defence of your liberties. It is ours to watch over your 
rights; be you assured that we will in nothing fail to 
secure that high end." ' 

These words spoke, the meeting proceeded to the execu- 
tion of the charter. It was to be solemnly sworn on a book 
of " Hours" that Jacques laid on the front of the stage. 
The book was open. The burge&ses of Typhaines extended 


their hands towards the volume, which the consuls, knights, 
and men-at-arms in like manner covered with their out- 
stretched hands, and the formula of conjuration was re- 
peated aloud by the whole congregation there assembled, 
multitudinous though it was. It was a scene of emotion — 
many of the people shedding tears of joy for the grand con- 
summation. Our own fathers can still remember the oath 
taken by the people at the Jeu de Paume, and they can 
never forget the enthusiastic weakness that drew tears from 
the eyes of so many dreamers, who thought they could see 
the heavens opening above them that day. The commune- 
oath of Typhaines in the twelfth century exhibited a simi- 
lar spectacle, and a like sincerity. The ceremonies being 
at last fully accomplished, the consuls, in their brilliant 
attire — one they were henceforth never to put off, save in 
obedience to the public will — descended from the grand 

"Tête Dieu 1" cried Sire Baudouin, "you look quite 
pleased. Master Simon." 

" I am so, and all the troubles of my whole life are at 
this moment fully rewarded." 

" Are you like these good folks here, and do you really 
think all those fine phrases so piled up by your scribe are 
going to keep you clear of the snares and the pig-headed 
obstinacy of your Lord Abbot yonder ?" 

" No, not at all," answered Simon, looking alternately at 
the gentleman, and at his impassible colleagues — " Not at 

all but this we do know ; we know what we have to live 

for, and to die for too." 

" As for me," said Payen, " I have learned the meaning 
of commune now, and my eyes henceforth shall never look 
on servitude more ; no, never I No monk shall come to dic- 
tate his orders to me, and if the edifice we have here raised 


should crumble to ruin some day, I '11 never go out from the 
wreck to ask what 's next — never." 

Jacques, Antoine, and Eudes approved of what their 
colleagues had said, and Anseau de Lovsel at once began 
to jeer as if he had been listening to utter nonsense. 

Monseigneur Baudouin resumed : — 

" I am delighted to see how very happy you all are, and 
I now propose to conclude this joyous day by keeping our 
promise to the captive. Come, now 1 let 's be merciful I 
poor Philippe de Comehaut has languished long enough 
by this time in the bowels of the earth. Let 's bring him 
up and give him the comfort of seeing the beautiful sun- 
shine as it is going down !" 

"And we must hope," said Simon, "that Norbert the 
Yenerable won't be here to stop us by breathing some 
tender scruples into a colleague or so of ours." 

"If you mean me," replied Payen, "you are far in the 
wrong. All I wanted this morning was justice — and I 
want nothing else now. Come on 1" 

The consuls, knights, and men-at-arms had reached the 
jail door. Lifting up their eyes, the very first thing they 
saw was Norbert leaning against the wall, his arms crossed 
and composed as a statue ; he seemed to be waiting there 
for them. Near him stood a man-at-arms, a stranger, with 
his bridle rein under his arm, and leaning upon the sad- 
dled steed. 

" What are you doing here again, sir priest ?" cried Si- 
mon. " You are abusing our respect for your cloth, and 
you are always tracking us I Don't interfere with our pur- 
poses again I Christians though we be, you may perhaps 
push us too far I" 

" You insolent vilain I" replied the priest, with the au- 
dacity that was a real element of his great , influence ; 
" what care I for your threats ? Are you here to accom- 


plîsh your sanguinary projects on Monseigneur Philippe 
de Coriiehaut ?" 

" Certainly," rejoined Simon, planting his foot on the 
door-sill, "and yon cloud shall not have flitted across the 
sun's disk till our prisoner has felt the keen edge of our 
communal axe." 

"As that is what you are thinking of doing, you might 
as well first hearken to what this messenger has to say to 

The man-at-arms now stepped forward and said : — 

" In the name of the lady of Cornouiller I come to offer 
you an exchange of prisoners." 

" Prisoners ?" and he laughed loud. " Prisoners, indeed I 
Go your way, friend, you are wasting your time. There 's 
no prisoner equal in value to ours. Tell your mistress that 
we will keep Monseigneur Philippe, and not only so, we 
mean to put him to death." 

" In that case, I am charged to say to you that to-morrow 
morning in right of reprisals, we will set your daughter 
Damerones' head on one of the donjon battlements at Cor- 

" Damerones I" screamed Simon, overwhelmed with ter- 
ror. " Damerones I" 

" Master Simon," said Norbert, " Damerones is in their 
hands ; and if you can't resist your blood-thirst, how can 
you expect the betrothed wife of Monseigneur to be more 
generous than yourself ?" 

The consul made an effort to speak, but not a word 
could he utter ; his eyeballs seemed starting out of their 
sockets ; he clenched his hair and tore at it — ^his head bent 
far backwards, and at last with a roar of anguish he rushed 
from the spot and flew towards his home 




FuLK and the Abbot, without any great difficulty, forced 
their way through the crowd of peasants and at length got 
away from the monastery. A few well-given blows with 
his battle-axe, and many more threats than hits with his 
formidable weapon, had sufficed the honest squire to open 
a track through the mob of assailants, and while his unfor- 
tunate master was clearing round Anselm a circle more 
than thrice the longitudinal diameter of his trusty Ruda- 
Terse, Fulk laid hold of the Abbot's bridle and dashing his 
spurs into his own roadster's flanks he launched at a gal- 
lop down the steep incline of the rocky mamelon, hoarsely 
shouting "Oome^au/.' ComehautP^ A few crossbow bolts 
and two or three arrows whistled by his ears, bat all such 
attempts proved useless and vain, for the arrows and bolts 
were scattered on the hillside without harming either the 
soldier or his ghostly companion. 

The first and most terrible difficulty was now over ; but 
Fulk did not deceive himself at all in view of the fierce 
exasperation of the communeers ; he felt that his venera- 
ble companion must be exposed to the very greatest risks 
until he could get beyond the frontier of the abbey domain ; 
and so, he continued to push the horses at a high rate of 

Fulk was an old campaigner ; a man who had handled 
dagger and sword in more countries than one ; who knew, 
and knew well and on solid principles, the best way to 


burst open doors, wrench out iron gratings, and scale stone 
walls ; with the help of good friends of his own he had put 
to sac at least ten cities, fifteen fortified burghs, and thirty 
chatels, without counting in the Saracen Mosques and 
villages. A flight, fast though it was, or even a route itself 
if you like, was never enough to disturb such a champion's 
perfect coolness and presence of mind. Fulk was one of 
that sort of men who, in the most terrible circumstances, 
would be apt to merely say, "I have seen better times 
than this." 

So, he seemed to have lost not a whit of his ordinary 
phlegm, and he had all his head about him as usual. In 
about half an hour, at a hard gallop, seeing no signs of a 
pursuit, he turned to the Abbot, who was quite as cool as 
he was himself, and said : — 

" I say, holy father, are we near your boundary line ?" 

'* You 've nothing to fear, my son," said Master Anselm, 
"they are yonder on that hill, where Seigneur de Pomes 
joins our lands. To be sure we run some risk there ; but 
if you will take this path across the fields we can in an 
hour's ride reach one of Etienne de Galaude's vassals, 
where we shall be quite safe. Let the horses walk now ; 
we ought to be very careful of them ; and besides, it is 
not God's will that we should be lost." 

Fulk at once obeyed orders ; he put the horses at the 
trot after their long gallop ; but the country was so flat, 
so devastated and deserted, and the enemy, if he should 
pursue, could be seen so far ofiF, that they began to feel a 
sense of great security. 

" By my faith as a Christian man, holy father," said 
Fulk, " I am not quite sure that it was right in me to obey 
Monseigneur Philippe's order : to save your life, and you 
are nothing to me; I left that good knight in the midst of a 
mob he '11 hardly get clear of, God help him I" 


"Your master," answered the Abbot, with conviction, 
"is in no danger whatever. He has fought for Holy 
Church, and the Church will protect him. But if, by some 
impossibility he should have fallen, or is even now at the 
point of death, being taken prisoner, you ought to believe 
and trust that paradise is his — and he with nothing to re- 
gret as to this world." 

" I Ve nothing to say against that," said the man, " but 
me I me here, who have left my own proper seigneur, merely 
to take good care of a strange monk 1 I don't think Holy 
Church is going to count me anything in this world but a 
traitor ; just fit for all the claws of so many homed devils 
in hell. I 'm confident I should not find a word to say 
against it." 

" You," said the monk, " only judge by your worldly 
notions of these matters." 

" Give me an answer, and don't go and comfort yourself 
so nicely about the misfortunes of a brave man-at-arms. 
The times we are living in are very bad times. Sir monk. 
Knights by the hundred are always on the road to get 
themselves killed by the Turks in Asia, while monks stay at 
home and fill their places. To tell you the real truth) I 
must say that I don't think much more of a monk than I 
do of a hazel-nut, and I don't believe one half the fine 
things people tell about theoL Please remember too that I 
was once a page in the suite of the Comte de Sens, sur- 
named King of the Jews on account the protection he gave 
to usurers, and though it 's true he did turn heretic at last, 
he had a good many very clever notions in that head of 

The Abbot, exceedingly scandalized as he was by such 
a speech, was about to give ï^ulk a very short dry answer, 
but he concluded the poor man talked in that fashion only 
because he was worried about his master, and not because 


he wasn't a pretty fair Christian. «He allowed him, there- 
fore, to go on giving vent to his disgust at the situation, 
and Fulk finished his apostrophe as follows : — 

" I don't say this to offend yon. Yon are a monk — very 
well, then, be a monk, if you like it best ; but my master is a 
brave cavalier, and if anything bad has happened I would 
rather go myself to see about it ; so then, let me know the 
very first minute I can go and do my duty to him." 

' That conclusion," said Anselm, "just and reasonable 
though it is, did not require you to vent your abuse before 
you made up your mind about what you had to say. But 
no matter ; fighting men are rude of speech, and it 's not 
worth while to look to them for such gentleness as belongs 
to clerics. All I have to do with you is to remember your 
services to me, and as long as I live Ï shall ever pray for 
yon. As soon as we come to the fortress I told you of, 
you shall be free to go wherever you please. " 

"Free!" replied Fulk with a growl. " Yery nice kind 
of free, that — free to go and perhaps bury my master I 
However, better late than never 1" 

The rest of the way was gone over in silence, and the 
silence still held as the fugitives entered the fort. 

Here dwelt a gentleman extremely religions and de- 
voted to letters, for which he had a great taste. The second 
named of these qualities was not absolutely rare at the period ; 
and Messire Jean Berniot, in his youth, that is to say about 
his twenty-fifth year, had studied grammar at the Episcopal 
School at Paris. He had even made himself sufl&ciently ac- 
quainted with theology to take great interest in the scholas- 
tic discussions and quarrels that were constantly breaking 
out between the rival scholastic philosophers and their vari- 
ous adherents, the clerks in different parts of France. This 
erudition of his, added to his military qualifications, had 
gained him many powerful friends, and though he was far 


from being a wealthy personage, he held his own along 
with many illustrious feudatories of the daj, and among 
others he was great friends with le Sieur de Garlande, 
grand seneschal to King Louis the Sixth of France. 

Abbot Anselm's coming under the guidance of a squire 
astonished Messire Jean very much ; but the recital of his 
late adventures moyed him very much more. He lifted his 
arms heavenward as he loudly deplored the wickedness of 
the communeers of Typhaines ; and then with the greatest 
eagerness offered the ecclesiastic his house, his men, and 
everything he could contribute to his service, his own per- 
son in the bargain. 

" I expected no less at your hands, my dear son," said 
the Abbot; "but before you think about me let us, so it 
may please you, attend to this valiant squire who rescued 
me from death with God's help, and who is just now a prey 
to severe anxiety touching the death of his master." 

" Squire," said Messire Jean de Berniot, " it is nearly 
dark, and you *11 get nothing by tramping all night long^ 
and perhaps falling into the hands of the Typhaineers 
or Seigneur Pomes' people, a set of real brigands, in- 
famous villains and rascals, just as their master is ; pro- 
moters of all rebellions and atrocity. If your master is 
not dead, he is a prisoner ; no, it will be time enough to- 
morrow morning for you to set off" 

"I'm of a different opinion," replied Fulk. "As long 
as Monseigneur Philippe is in peril you won't be likely 
to see me amusing myself by going to sleep, or sitting 
down to a carouse. I mean to go at once." 

"Halt now, my brave fellow I" said Messire Jean; "it 
may suit you to go and get your neck broke, but it does 
not suit me at all to risk my men's hides. You are fond 
of your master ; very well then ; I 'm fond of my soldiers. 
You know nothing about the roads, and you couldn't 


get on at all without a guide ; hence, you see, you are at 
my discretion. Surrender, I beseech you, my lad ; get your 
supper ; take a good sleep, and to-morrow, before day, you 
shall be guided to a place in sight of the abbey." 

" It would be better for you," said the Abbot, "to hasten 
on to the Chatel de Cornouiller at daybreak. You will 
be far more serviceable to your master by telling the lady 
about all that has happened than you will by allowing 
yourself to be taken prisoner by the rebels." 

" That 's your advice — then persuade your friend to give 
me a guide to-night — at once." 

"The holy Abbot needn't give himself that trouble for 
nothing ; it would be putting his eloquence to waste ; any 
man-at-arms that I might put on the road this night would 
be a man-at-arms lost to me. At such an hour as this 
every tramper in the whole land is out, and I marvel much 
that you got off as well as you did; and, upon reflection," 
said Messire Jean, as, throwing the door open, he halloaed, 
" Ho, there, men I all of you I shut up the house with great 
care ; inspect the crossbow strings ; put a stock of arms in 
the corridor to be ready to hand in case we should want 

When he had given these orders the gentlemen returned 
to the hall, and Fulk, now fully convinced that neither 
prayers nor threats would avail anything, and acknow- 
ledging, moreover, the impossibility of finding his way in 
the dark, yet very angry and grumbling in his beard, and 
cursing all and sundry the monks and all their friends, went 
off and found a seat at the corner of the terrace in the 
open air, and swore that there he would stay all night long, 
and would have neither supper nor bed. The fact is that 
his grief and rage choked him so bad that the very smallest 
crumb of comfort must have stuck in his gullet. 

At last, Messire Jean and the Abbot were left to them- 


seWes, and the Châtelain returned to the consideration of 
the monk's troubles, that far more concerned him than any 
thoughts about Messire Philippe or his gruff old squire. 

" Holy father/' said he, "what have yon resolved on? 
Will yon stay here, and caU around you aU good Christians 
in the neighborhood ? Dont it seem to you proper and 
right to address a complaint to the Archbishop of Rheims ? 
Yon are friends with the learned Alberic and his old 
théologal. I have no doubt the clear justice of your cause 
will insure the support of all the Rémoise prelates. While 
the councU is getting ready to launch its excommunica- 
tion against Typhaines. I '11 take care to warn the noblemen 
hereabouts, and I think I can answer for it, yon shall 
within a month, have at your service an army quite capable 
of making every door fly open to let you, in all honor, enter 
into your own church and your own monastery. Such is 
what has just this minute got into my head, and such as it 
is, I lay it before you." 

"Your good intentions are very clear," answered the 
Abbot ; " but, though you see me here now a fugitive and 
robbed of everything, and though I may seem cast down 
into the very lowest abasement and misfortune, you have 
no real idea of the extent of my troubles. Had I nothing 
else to do but carry on a war with my revolted peasants 
and burghers, the measures you propose would be ample 
for the purpose, no doubt, but behind Master Simon and 
Ms accomplices stands a power that none of my surround- 
.îngs could hope to contend with. The Count de Nevers 
your suzerain, for several years past, has been putting forth 
certain claims, as he calls them, against the holy abbey of 
Typhaines. He pretends that our lands are vassal to him, 
and that their abbots owe him homage. You, my son, to 
whom science hath imparted such magnificent gifts, you 
must well know what a gross error there is in such a claim." 


" Don't I know all about it ?" said Messire Jean, much 
flattered by the compliment the Abbot had just paid him. 
''Who is there, that does not know that the lands and 
church of Typhaines were conceded, free of all claims, and 
independent of all vassalage whatever, to holy St. Procul, 
and that that gift, since renewed and confirmed by charter, 
is as clear and plain as the light of day itself? Eh I truly I 
Monseigneur the Count de Nevers has not far to seek to 
find that out I It is perfectly easy to find the very docu- 
ments in its charter now, all authenticated with sign and 

" Still," pursued the Abbot, "it appears that the Counts 
of Nevers have never been satisfied with even all those 
proofs ; and the odious and tyrannical claim I told you of, 
was first put forth by the present Count's father ; yet the 
fact is that when he was on his death bed, he was not al- 
lowed to take holy Eucharist until he had first agreed to 
sign an Act of Repentance, an act that is still preserved in 
our registers, and begins with : ^Suggestionibus diaboliciSf^ 
and which he regularly executed. That whole piece is en- 
graved in my memory ; and only yesterday, an hour before 
the attack commenced, I was studying it with the utmost 
care and with the most thorough disgust at the crimes and 
perfidy of our adversary. Crimes, did I say ? Perfidy ? 
Yea, my son I Scarcely had the old count closed his eyes, 
when his successor began to plot against us. For several 
years past the good and just right was maintained by a 
firm and faithful hand unscathed ; but when the spiritual 
power of Typhaines fell into the hands of a wolf in the 
disguise of a shepherd, the Lord of Nevers reinstated his 
enterprises, and favored by the disorders of the times, he 
did succeed in setting on foot certain abusive usages, on 
which he now founds his most insolent pretensions. 

" Just now, backed as he is by a certain cloth merchant, 


a vagabond from no one knows where, and who bj ineaDS 
of his title of king's bnrgher, has got a footing among onr 
people there, the seeds of madness and sedition sown by 
him have sprang np among them. I tried, in Tain, to 
oppose the spread of the mischief by gentle measares, by 
prudent reserve, by goodness of all sorts, and by generous 
])resents. You know as well as any man what happens 
when the idea of commune once gets into a burgher's head. 
1 tried to open the eyes of my mainmortables as to the 
Count's projects. I have utterly failed. Nothing what- 
ever could make the least impression on their stony hearts ; 
they are rushing to destruction blindfold, ander the lead of 
the demon who hath blinded the eyes of his victims. What 
more can I say ? The Abbot of Typhaines, menaced and 
torn from his sanctuary, is compelled to take flight, and 
you now see him before you like Jacob fleeing from the 
face of the wicked. Do you still believe that the Arch- 
bishop's protection is enough to rescue me from the hands 
of the violent? Do you suppose the seigneurs of this 
region, even should they make a coalition for my defence, 
to be powerful enough to restore my sheepfold, and that 
too in spite of the Count de Nevers, who alone is thrice 
or four times their superior in strength ? and, besides, who 
is to answer to me for their friendly intervention ? Is not 
the Seigneur de Pomes a robber, determined and always 
hot in pursuit of any plunder he can lay his hands on ? 
Is not his son-in-law's soul as perverse as his own, and as 
for all the rest of them, are they not as vassals to the 
Count, obliged to follow his banner against me under 
penalty of forfeiture ? And yourself even, my son — " 

"I interrupt you, holy father ; you have nothing to fear," 
said Messire Jean, " and what is more, I can help you. 
Speak, then I and I will freely act, and Monseigneur de 
Nevers shall in nowise hinder me. It 's true I am a vassal 


of his, and I owe Lim service for this house I now hold 
under him ; but, on the other hand, he is my man, for one o\ 
his manors in Anjou, a manor depending on a hauberk 
fief of mine ; just as the King of France himself is at 
once suzerain and vassal to the Count de Sancerre. I 
suppose you will say that this just right of mine must give 
way to Monseigneur de Nevers' numerous knights: not 
at all — don^t believe it. I, thank God, have some good 
supports and have no fears for the legitimacy of my cause. 
If Monseigneur should pronounce my lands here forfeit, I 
would send him a like declaration as to his own, and he 
knows well enough that our common suzerain, the Count 
of Anjou, would defend me in my rights. Still, I must 
confess that, setting aside all consideration of my own 
position, the circumstances you have now detailed both 
surprise and discourage me. Your situation is good for 
nothing, and my notion about helping yon is of no avail. 
What will you do then ? In the names of all the saints, 
tell me if you can discern any way of escape out of all this 
terrible network of misery ?" 

" I never had any doubt of the goodness of the God 
whose servant I am," boldly replied Anselm; "and this 
is the plan that my Good Master has inspired me with. 
To the assaults of the bear I will oppose the teeth and 
claws of the lion. I will go and demand succor of King 
Louis of France : I will depict all my misery before him. 
They say he is a man both pious and magnanimous. Do 
you doubt his willingness to welcome and serve me too ?" 

"I know not," replied Messire Jean, "whether you will 
find him willing to embrace a new quarrel, for he has his 
hands full of them already. Ah I he is no poor soldier 
like the Henris and Philippes, his predecessors I In their 
day, as long as the barons of the Isle of France carried 
their raids no farther than in sight of the ramparts of Paris, 


those poor knights let them have their own way in full 
liberty. Bat it is qnite a different case with King Lonis ; 
he is never out of the saddle; armor on his back, and 
lance in his gauntlet ; and I answer for it, he is a hardy 
prince, who never complains of any trouble ; only I mast 
tell yon he has a great deal on his hands, and I know not 
whether he will hearken to yon or no." 

" No matter/' answered the Abbot ; "1 11 go to his city 
of Paris and seek this king so active and valorous, and in 
case he should refuse to hear, I will find out plenty of 
people about him to force him to lend me his ear — ^yes — 
even if it should be necessary to go so far as to appeal to 
the Pope's legate himself I" 

"Yours are brave and noble projects," said Messire 
Jean. "You talk, father, like a man nurtured in learning, 
and in the Spirit of God 1 May you succeed I To-morrow 
morning I shall be ready to attend you on your way to 
Paris ; there I will conduct you to Etienne de Garlande, 
and thence proceed to Anjou, where I must make my- 
self acquainted with the Count's views •before I return 
to devote myself to your cause and lifb my lance, if needs 
must, against the Nivernais." 

The conference was yet prolonged for a few minutes. 
Messire Jean was a man of an elevated and hardy nature ; 
he knew all the greatness of the adventure the Abbot was 
about to attempt. To invoke the royal authority against 
one of its powerful feudatories — to excite active enemies 
against that feudatory — to appeal to the thunders of the 
church of the Gauls, was certainly, if he could succeed in 
it, to be armed with very great power. In this. Abbot 
Anselm gave proof of both his courage, and the expanse of 
his views. His pallid features and hollow, sunken eyes, 
veiled a heart that, for intrepidity and audacity would yield 
to no heart of knight or baron, were he ever so bold. 


On the next morning at three o'clock, before the first ray 
of the dawn had glimmered in the remotest east, Fulk, with 
loud cries, had waked the whole house. Immovable in his 
brutal sorrow, he had refused every offer of food ; though, 
from a feeling of precaution, he had very carefully attended 
to the comfort of his good steed. As he led him out of the 
stable, and, grumbling the while, fixed the saddle on his 
back, the Abbot made his appearance, attended by Messire 

"We are about to separate," said he to Fulk; "you 
saved my. life, and I will never forget that you did so. If 
you find your master alive, bear him these express words. 
You defended the abbey of Typhaines at the peril of your 
existence, and the Abbot of Typhaines will think of a means 
to acquit that debt ; though he is at present in a state of 
embarrassment, the day will come when he will bestow 
upon you, and that without wrong done to holy church, 
twice as much as the fief of Cornehaut was ever worth. 
Go, my son, I bestow my benediction upon you." 

Fulk shrugged his shoulders and made the sign of the 
cross at one and the same moment. Thus mussing his 
piety and ill-temper into one, and then discovering a lad 
of some fifteen years standing near him, and looking at 
him quite curiously, he said : — 

" What are you after, master rascal ? what the devil do 
you want, eh ?" 

" Sir, squire," responded the boy, " I 'm to be your guide, 
please, as far as Castle Cornouiller." 

" Yes, it does please me ; but where 's your horse ?" 

" I hav'n't no horse," said the lad, " but I can walk very 
fast along by yours." 

" I wish this miserable old house was squashed flat, and 
all the people in it I Such a guide as that I Pshaw I Here, 
you, come here with you ; I '11 cure all that," and so lean- 



ing oyer his horse's shoulder, he opened his big hand wide, 
took in the nape of the boy's neck, and lifted him, as light 
as a feather, to the crupper behind, and without a thought 
of the child's grimaces " liow now, which way ? right or 
left ?" 

" Left I" said the guide, very much alarmed, and clinging 
to Fulk as tight as he could hold. Fulk touched his war 
horse with the spur, and without a word of leave-taking 
dashed through the portal at a gallop. Half an hour later 
Messire Jean, the Abbot, and a dozen mounted cavaliers 
took the opposite road that led to Paris, leaving the fort in 
charge of a select though a small garrison. Messire Jean 
promised himself to employ the hours of their journey in 
the discussion with Anselm of certain theories of the Trinity, 
recently put forth at Laon by a canon of the cathedral 
there. Such was the pastime of the erudites of those times, 
long, long ago. 



The jonmey was speedily accomplished, and without the 
least accident ; there was a trace of God at the time. In 
those remote ages there were no taverns or hostelries to be 
found on the roads, but for travellers of rank like the Abbot 
and Messire Jean de Berniot, the doors of all the priories, 
chapels, and manors were ever open to give them welcome. 
The story of the misfortunes of Typhaines excited surprise 
and indignation among ecclesiastics and nobles, wherever 
it was told. Master Anselm heard on every hand that cer- 
tainly God was not to leave him in the hands of the Ty- 
phaineers, to be robbed of his seigneural rights, centurial 
as they were. 

Cheered on in this way by the numerous evidences of 
good-will all round them, the travellers, toward noon of the 
third day, came to the hills to the southeast of Paris. 

It was but a small matter in those days that city, now 
grown to be so great — that is, if we compare its then con- 
dition with its present extent and magnificence ; and yet 
civilization had elected it even then as one of its most 
active centres for western %nd northern Europe. On the 
top of the slope that descended toward the Seine sat the 
abbey of St. Genevieve, with its battlemented walls and 
towers ; lower down on the hillside the abbey of St. Victor, 
and Saint Germain des Près seemed to emulate St. Gene- 
vieve in martial and ecclesiastical gravity. The remains 
of the still important Palais des Thermes recalled to mind 
the antique glories of the Gaulish Lutetia, and among those 


illustrious monuments, groups of houses, scattered thick on 
the hillsides, sprung up like mushrooms with new ones ever 
rising all round about them. This was the spot where 
science, among the clumps of tall trees, the vineyards and 
meadows, was daily installing whole swarms of students 
from every part of Europe ; from Denmark, as well as 
Italy, from Aquitaine, as well as from Germany. A love 
for scholastic learning gathered in this particular spot, in 
very savage looking and coarse lodgings, all these students, 
too numerous for Paris to contain them. Here, too, came 
the most illustrious masters, rivals of the chancellor of the 
metropolitan school, to teach and develop their special doc- 
trines upon this great neutral ground. In fact, the love of 
learning brought in and daily magnified the crowds of stu- 
dents and teachers that laid the foundation of those vast 
town-quarters, on the left bank of the Seine, where, even 
to the present day, all the surroundings seem to put on a 
claustral physiognomy. 

After quitting that rustic slope, and crossing the Petit 
Pont, they found they were in the city of Paris, partly in- 
closed with walls, with here and there a wide beach, flat and 
pebbly, along which flowed the waters of the Seine. Here 
numerous barques, come down from Burgundy or ready to 
start on the up-river voyage, or going down toward the sea, 
were moored to the shore. There rose the stores that con- 
tained the trading establishments of the good burgesses of 
the city of Paris, who were so fond of their river trade that 
they afterward took the figure of a vessel as their blazon. 
In another direction you beheld the stir and hurry of a busy- 
trading town, and along with many an agrestic remnant of 
country life evinced in great flocks of poultry, geese, ducks, 
droves of s^ine, vast piles of sheep iniquities heaped up 
along the t ^lls of the houses, to drain and dry, inquining 
the whole atmosphere with noisome smells. Clothes lines 


loaded with new-washed clothing, of every varied shape 
and hue, were swinging in the breeze, and groups of chil- 
dren were wantoning in the gutters, scarce watched by their 
coarse cross and grumbling mothers and nurses, save now 
and then by an angry growl, a smart slap on the back, or 
a severe shaking. Disorders of this sort are not to be seen 
in our days, hardly in the remotest and poorest of our 
French villages. Then, after coming out of one of these 
narrow -crooked alleys, where the badly-aligned houses 
Htood, some jutting far out, and others retreating far within 
the pavement line, with buildings — some towering high 
above and built half over the roofs of their humbler opposites 
— some, one-story houses, and others all new and gay, and 
smart as a bridegroom ; some half rotted away, and covered 
with brown and velvet lichens and mosses — all of them 
garnished with little windows of little panes of glass set in 
their little leaden sash. Then at last, I say, you came to 
a point from which a distant view might be had of the 
royal palace, or of the ancient abbey church of Notre Dame 
de Paris. 

The Notre Dame of that day was not the sumptuous ba- 
silica that we now behold rising so pompously, with its 
innumerable stone carvings and traceries at the point of 
the island ; nor was it the old Merovingian temple, built, 
as 'twas said, on the ruins of an ancient fanum, sacred to the 
religion of old. Still, on her heavy, and massive form, the 
Romane metropolis of the time was none the less worthy 
of the veneration of the faithful. Like a noble and puis- 
sant matron she sat enshrined among cloisters inhabited by 
her chapter, and extended her supremacy far and wide and 
strong, over fifteen churches, all of which had found stand- 
ing room within the very narrow circumference of the town. 
She daily threw open her nave, adorned as it was by the 
piety of kings, knights, and burghers, to a busy, hurrying, 


pious crowd, some promenading on the green lawns, and 
offering a grare contrast to the more regal and more mun- 
dane abode that was ever peopled with warriors and feadal 

The reader should not, however, figure the palace to him- 
self as a highly luxurious regal dwelling-place. Kings, in 
that age, enjoyed no great might of power, nor had they a 
great abundance of money, nor was it in their power to sur- 
round themselves with magnificent and sumptuous adorn- 
ments. In that they pretended not to vie in splendor with 
their distant vassals in far-off Aquitaine. They, after all, 
were but lordlings who, suzerains though they were, yet 
were obliged to be very moderate and modest The chief 
ornament of a regal palace consisted in its garden, which 
was neither more nor less than a grove of planted trees, 
where on festival days the people and clergy of Paris were 
allowed to make their promenades ; it is easy to conceive 
that the marvels of Le Notre Dame were not to be looked 
for in those times at Paris. 

Such was the Paris of the day. It was all Paris, pro- 
vided it may please you to add a small strip of ground, 
rather more methodically laid out than the student-bo- 
hemia before described. This settlement began to grow up 
along the right bank of the river, and served as homes to 
the tradesmen and merchants who had settled themselves 
betwixt the fortified churches of St. Germain PAuxerrois 
and St. Gervais. You reached it by way of the Grand 
Pont, and you found there a far coarser and gross-looking 
crowd in the streets than the other more genteel quarters 
on the opposite shore. Everybody seemed eager in pursuit 
of gain on this side — of pleasure on that. Such was the 
Paris of that day, and yet we must call to mind the great- 
ness of its renown throughout the world of that age. Lon- 


don was but a poor Tillage, inhabited by mainmortable 
Saxons; Aix-la-Chapelle had lost its imperial prestige; 
Cologne and Treves, that had in former times been very 
powerful, could boast of none of that intellectual splendof 
that had crowned it with distinction in olden times ; Rouen 
was rich, Thoulouse literary, Poictiers marvellous for the 
pleasures that abounded and superabounded there under 
the reign of the Guillaumes, of Aquitaine. Still, all these 
secondary glories, all the stars of second magnitude were 
far from shining with such far-reaching light as the city of 
Paris. Rome alone, of all the European towns, carried it 
over the French capital, on the banks of the Seine. 

" It 's growing late," said Messire Jean to the Abbot 
just as the travellers, debouching from le petit Pont, were 
getting into one of the narrow streets of the town. " If 
you will take my word for it, holy father, we had better go 
seek asylum from some of the good priests of your ac- 
quaintance here, and we will defer our visit to the Sire de 
Garlande until tomorrow. There 's hardly an hour of 
daylight left, and there 's not time enough to reach him 
and have a very short conference with him." 

"You speak well," responded the monk, "and as you 
justly say, I am not wanting in friends in Paris, friends 
who are very dear to me, and whom I can well call on for 
a welcome for myself and you too, Sir Knight. Come 
then, we will go for that end to Master Guillaume de 

" Oh ! what a happiness," cried Messire Jean in a burst 
of enthusiasm. " What a happiness for me to pay my re- 
spects to a man so holy — so great as he ! I confess it 
has been one of my secret, my ardent desires to listen to 
the words of that learned Doctor. We are very unfortunate, 
we knights, ever engaged in the military affairs of the age 
and never having it in our power to attend as we could 


wish to do, the public lectores of illnstrioas teachers lile 
him I bat erer on horseback, lance in hand, we are compelled 
to waste oar lires in defending onr domains and in reveng- 
ing our insults and injuries. But let me see 1 What else 
can I do 7 Master Guillaume, as he is your friend, will be 
an efficacious protector as far as the kiug is concerned — 
for the king, it is said, is very fond of his company and 
conversation, and that is a state of things far different from 
our poor humble satisfactions." 

** Tell me I" said Anselm, leaning forward on the saddle 
and pointing with his finger — '' say, who is that personage, 
Messire Jean — ^the one there who seems to walk with so 
proud a bearing as he moves forward with the crowd around 

" I do not know him," replied the gentleman ; " I have 
not pranced along these streets for many a year, and I 
don't know a single face I meet. The one you are point- 
ing out seems like a person who must be a man of conse- 
quence in Paris." 

The fact is that a personage, followed by a crowd of 
people, and dressed in a sort of ecclesiastical costume, was 
moving towards Grand Pont, with a sort of haughty and 
sumptuous air of mundane pride that was by no means 
pleasing to the ascetic eyes of our good Abbot. Clearly 
the man couldn't be a priest, or at any rate a priest at all 
diligent in the observance of any religious rule of life. He 
was a youthful looking person ; his chestnut curls seemed 
wantoning about his neck and shoulders as they fell and 
rolled on his fine cloth robe ; his hands were loaded with 
gold and silver rings. He crossed the square with slow ma- 
jestic steps, and his proud eyes glanced over the multitude 
around, all hurrying and pressing to get near enough to 
salute him as he passed by them. Behind him came on 
multitudes of young students and even men of mature age, 

!nrPHAIN£S ABBEY. 241 

many of whom were bending in deep respect while they 
addressed their questions, to which he lightly threw ofiF 
answers that were eagerly collected and repeated and 
hearkened to with admiration. 

"Doubtless," said Anselm, "this Master must be some 
very learned doctor ; yet to me he looks so young and vain 
that I can hardly think him a truly learned scholar. Both 
you and I, Messire Jean, know how readily the foolish 
populace embrace and grow wild about many a shallow 
and lying oracle. Let us, however, get on faster. I am in 
a hurry to get under the hospitable roof of the dear friend 
of my youth." 

Forcing their way through the press the travellers pur- 
sued their route, and at last arrived in the cloisters of 
Notre Dame. A passing cleric pointed to the abode of 
Master Guillaume de Champeaux, Archdeacon of Paris, 
well known as time long Professor of Dialectics in the Me- 
tropolitan Church. Crossing several lawns, many courts, 
besides threading narrow passages, they reached a door at 
which one of Messire Jean's men knocked. 

I shall omit an account of the preliminaries of their 
reception. Besides, no sooner was the Abbot announced 
than his old friend hastened to meet him and embrace him 
with both arms, with warmest welcome. He issued orders 
at once for the proper entertainment of the knight, his fol- 
lowers, and their horses, who were all made as comfortable 
as possible. 

" Well now," said he to Anselm, " you are come ; you, 
whom I may name my soul's predilection — ^you are come 
to see a man broken hearted, a miserable being, visited by 
the wrath of God ! You knew me, Anselm, once ; you 
knew me when I was swollen with glory and pride, which, 
perhaps, was far too pleasing for the good of my soul — 
but I am punished now j crushed, yes, to the very earth ; 


and there is room in this heart of mine for joar pions con- 
solation, to bring back there some faint emotions of joj 

Thus the Master spoke, and the Abbot looked with 
saddened gaze on the emaciated pale features and hollow 
red eyes and bowed stature of the great archdeacon. 

''Hayen't I," said the Archdeacon, with a sad smile, 
"haven't I been making rather free with the spoils of age?" 

•• Far too free," responded the Abbot; " but what is the 
great misfortune that has changed you so ?" 

*' I will tell you the whole story, Anselm — I will confide 
to your bosom griefs that I must conceal from every eye 
but yours. You shall see the frightful depth of my fall." 

In spite of his sympathy for his old companion, for the 
man was at his side when they were attending the lectures 
of the celebrated Manigold, one of the illustrious leaders of 
that age; the Abbot, by nature and by duty above all 
things else absorbed in the concerns of his community, 
shivered, as he thought that sorrows like Guillaume's, if 
they really did depend upon some temporal check, might 
soon become his own as well. Coming to his bosom friend 
in search of a protector, was he doomed to find him a 
broken-down man barely able to sustain himself ? 

" Tell me — quickly tell me all about you," said the Ab- 
bot. **You see before you a poor monk driven from a 
church profaned by wicked hands, one who came hither to 
implore your succor; tell me, soon, whether I can rely 
on you; whether you can bring me to speech with the 
king I or whether I must look elsewhere for help I" 

" I know not," he answered, " whether you are talking 
seriously or not ; but if your words are to be taken to the 
very letter, then you must know that I 'ra still able to be 
of use to my friends. My sorrows and misfortunes are not 
of the kind you seem to suppose, and I hope ever to keep 


some part of the power I have long enjoyed and that I 
never have used, save for the good of the church. Let me 
know what it was that compelled you to quit your cloister, 
and you shall see whether I am the man to haggle about 
the terms of my succor." 

Anselm told him the whole story. Ever since his flight 
commenced, he had everywhere met with willing and sym- 
pathizing auditors, but never yet had monk or knight taken 
so great an interest in his case as his new auditor. Arch- 
deacon Guillaume, like all the eminent men of the day, 
had the very highest idea of clerical power, and considered 
it could never be too much exalted. According to him, it 
was vain to look for reason, gentleness, and a true spirit of 
equity, save with here and there an exception, but in the 
clerical classes. 

" I have listened to you," said he, " with an anxiety that 
has almost made me forget my own griefs. I have but one 
word to say in answer, and that is that your cause is the 
cause of the whole church ; it is the cause of the Christian 
religion, and it is a matter of salvation that these mon- 
strous innovations — called communes — should be put an end 
to. Time was, my venerable brother, when Christian peoples 
thought of nothing else but heaven ; or, filled with disgust 
and shame for their lives here below, they no more loved 
them than a man loves the chain, whose gilt surface lessens 
no jot of its odious weight. But now all is changed ! Main- 
mortables, burghers, and serfs, all run into rebellion, not 
merely against their seigneurs, but against the very church 
itself. It imports, I tell you, to the salvation of the human 
race no longer to submit to such a state of things ! And 
yet" . . . 

" Why do you stop ?" asked the Abbot, gravely, and lay- 
ing his hand on his friend's. " Let me know what it is you 
fear ; I am not a weak child to be frightened at a supposed 


danger abead, and terrified into a state of helpless inaction. 
With the will and the coarage to conquer in God's cause, 
I 'm not the man to stop or to stay ; no, not for any tiling 
here below 1" 

"Well, then, my friend," replied the Archdeacon, "you 
must learn that the men whose help you are to seek for are 
not the men to walk in the fair paths I could wish for them. 
In one word, the lord Louis himself does sometimes give 
his succor to those communes." 

" I have heard that already," said the Abbot sadly, "and 
yet he is a pious prince, and a lover of justice I" 

" No doubt," replied Master Guillaume ; " no doubt of 
that ; but don't yon know that lords, and kings too, ever 
suffer themselves to be influenced by circumstances ? Such 
is the fact as to King Louis. At bottom he is no lover of 
rebel burghers, and he showed that when he marched in 
person at the head of his troops to put down the Laon com- 
mune, though he at first had upheld it. But since then, he 
has supported the Amiens men against their count, and the 
Soissons folk against their bishop. In fact, busy as he is 
just now making war on several barons who have been 
raiding the country about Paris, I can't say whether he 
will lend a willing ear to your complaints, and take part in 
your quarrel." 

" But my quarrel is his quarrel too," said Anselm ; " and 
is it not clear that, if the peasants and serfs will go on set- 
ting up communes on baronial and church domains, it will 
not be long before they will set them up on the lands of 
lord Louis himself!" 

"Perhaps so," said Guillaume ; "but do you not see on 
the other hand that, however detestable tho^e communes, 
they tend to weaken the nobles, bishops, and abbots ? De- 
priving them of their men lessens their resources, cuts 
them off from the control of cities and towns, and humbles 


their pride ? See you not, too, that money is needed to 
procure the king's charter; money to maintain it, and money, 
money to pay the suzerain's claims. See you not that, in 
this way the king gets his hand into the husiness of his 
vassals, and meddles with matters not his own ? This is 
the reason why — though he fully understands the iniquity 
of his conduct, Louis of France sometimes gives way; 
and for one commune that he forbids, he consents to the 
establishment of three or four." 

" You will not succeed in frightening me," said the Ab- 
bot, squeezing his friend's hand. " I ever have before my 
eyes the desolation of our blessed Saint Procul, who looks 
down on his church, so shamefully despoiled of her rights, 
and accusing me, in the secret recesses of ray own con- 
science. You must take me to the king." 

" That I will do, most certainly," cried the Archdeacon, 
" and your courage but quickens my own. I think as you 
do, dear brother ; God will not desert his ministers, and 
Satan and his diabolical communes shall be driven back to 
the hell from which they were evoked by miserable wretches 
and false Christians. Eh, now ! why should we be surprised 
at the monstrous innovations we mourn over, when the very 
foundation of all that 's right — all religion and all learning 
are daily trampled under foot by an impudent, proud fool ?" 

By this transition Anselm saw that the Archdeacon was 
about to recount the history of his own misfortunes, and 
preferred to go on with his story, which had been broken 
off an hour before. 

" You know," said Guillaume de Champeaux, " that for 
years I was devoted to the instruction of our students in 
the arts and sciences. Every one knows that in Dialectics 
I never had even a rival. For years I stood victor over 
the captious and lying demon who is ever striving to mis- 
lead the souls of Doctors, and cast them into the wildest 



heresies. Long snrroanded and snstaÎDcd bj the zeal of 
m J papils, I contiooed mj lectures in this cloister, and 
though I saj it in all homilitj, I had reached the highest 
summit of all earthly glory, when feeling how vain is this 
world, I made np my mind to retire from it and provide for 
the salvation of my own soul ; nerertheless, I still went on 
with my course of public instruction, and my classes most 
certainly were not diminished in numbers. All of a sudden, 
while I was lecturing one day on Rhetoric, in the very 
midst of the assembly there appeared a young man, a stu- 
dent — just like any other man in the class, if not their infe- 
rior I This demon, this serpent with a human head, im- 
pelled by some unaccountable madness, began to openly 
dispute against me ; and whether it was that I had been 
misunderstood, or that I was confounded by his extraordi- 
nary audacity, I know not ; only that, at the end of the 
discussion he withdrew with a conqnering smile, and left 
me planted there in the midst of a dumb and terror-stricken 
audience ! 

" My audacious contradictor, after his pretended victory 
over me, came here — ^here into this very cloister, where one 
of my best scholars — a man I loved, and had the utmost 
confidence in—was lecturing by my authority ; he came 
here, I tell you, and the poor creature, seduced, won over 
or bribed, for aught I know, by the monster ravening for 
my destruction — ^yes, here, mfy agent came down out of the 
desk and made that fellow mount up and scatter among 
hTodî^^ ^^ îinbeeiles, maddened by his pestilent speech, 
lous doctrines that were to overwhelm me forever I 

as not long till his name began to be whispered all 
about me ; thA r^^ , - . , - , * 

^,.^w r.^ J ^ ^^o remained faithful to me began to 

grow restless anri .1 

tended defeat , ""^^«^ ^^^^^^ ™y «^^^^^e ^°<3er the pre- 

courage by advi ^^^ ^^^"^^ ^^^^^ ^ ^^^^""^ *^ ^^^^^^ *^^^^ 
^G, and even by threats ; they hesitated more 


and more day by day, grew colder and colder, and I learned 
at last that I was daily insulted and calumniated in this 
very cloister ; yes, here, where I had so long reigned su- 
preme I My profound retreat was attributed, not to my 
humility, not to my disgust at the world, but to a vile 
shameless feeling of submission and fear I 

" Then, I must confess it, venerable brother, and I do it 
with tears of grief and shame, then I allowed my pride to 
mislead me ; thinking I was quite in the right, I made up 
my mind to crush the rash man with a thunderbolt I 
descended into the arena, I went there to look out for 
Abelard, and" — 

Here the archdeacon bid his face in his hands and a 
burning blush ftashed over the old man's pale forehead. 
He resumed his story and bitterly exclaimed, "Should you 
stay in Paris but a single day, you '11 be sure to meet with 

" I have met him already," replied Anselm, " strutting 
along like a prince surrounded by an idolizing crowd." 

"Yes, that was he," said Guillaume, "parading his in- 
solence and affectation, seducing the humble, frightening 
the weak minded, scattering sarcasm and mockery, and so 
he will go on in triumph until the day, not distant, shall 
come when his madness will lead him to the dreadful abyss 
that yawns for him. As to me, what care I for what he 
calls his victory ? I yesterday received the cross and the 
ring. I am Bishop of Chalons, and will go in a few days, 
and forget the ingratitude and madness of mankind, who 
pretend to be lovers of learning, and yet turn aside from 
true scholars, and hearken open mouthed to the insipid 
divagations of a set of jugglers. It is no way surprising, 
brother, that in times when such enormities go unpunished, 
serfs and burghers should break out in open insurrection, 
and communes should be set on foot in the land 1" 


Such was the expression of Master Guillaume de Cbam- 
peaux's cruelly wounded self-love. That celebrated doctor, 
in fact, had reached the painful crisis, wherein so many 
writers and poets, so many men of talents, are to find their 
fame eclipsed by some younger and more eloquent rival. 
Ah, painful hour ! ah, sad necessity t Happy they who, at 
least, find some consolation in their misery t Such was the 
lot of Master Guillaume, and yet the episcopate, though 
so- elevated a dignity at that day, was an insufficient com- 
pensation for his popularity lost, and his shame endured 

In his inner man, the Abbot took but a small share in 
his friend's chagrin. He looked at all that grief as a proof 
of weakness in a man whose extraordinary talents he, 
however, fully admitted. And so, sliding very readily into 
the track of consolations he felicitated him on his newborn 
greatness that was about to put it in his power to serve 
the cause of the abbey so much the more effectually. 

" Holy father," said he, " I think your city of Paris is 
just now agitated about a thousand various interests and a 
multitude of passions unknown to our provincial solitudes." 

'' It is a gehenna," responded the archdeacon, sighing, 
" and to-morrow, after you have seen our lord the king, 
and the troubles that plague him, perhaps, you will think 
quite as I do on that point." 

Supper was now announced; the two dignitaries sat 
down with Messire Jean de Berniot, whose profound 
deference and enthusiastic admiration of the illustrious 
scholar infused a little gayety into Master Guillaume's 
melancholy soul, so that the new bishop that evening again 
saw somewhat of the early successes of his youthful years 
and a spark even of his former glory, though now deep 
sunk in dim and dark eclipse. 



In the twelfth century, it was not the fashion to sit np 
late at night : as soon as the sun had gone down and dark- 
ness began to prevail over the land, every body went to 
bed, particularly the burghers, a race of people ever famous 
for the regularity of their habits ; their doors were closed 
and the kitchen fires put out as the last light failed out in 
the west. 

Paris was sleeping now: the servitors of the canons 
were fastening the cloister entrance, and the beadle shoving 
home the bars of the city gates, as the bishop and canon 
each retired to his sleeping chamber, said the evening orison, 
and laid him down to wait until the morning dawn should 
come to make it lawful to live over again the life of that 
busy teeming world. The silence of the town was deep ; 
cries were now and then heard from the other side of the 
river, where there was a less peaceful population, and 
where the taverns were often kept open with guests drink- 
ing at the tables until daylight, to the great scandal of the 
honest city folk, who could hardly reconcile their notions 
of a true love of learning, a thing in itself so excellent and 
orderly, with a fondness for rowdyism and night brawling. 

It was summer-time, and the same fashion of the day that 
prescribed early bedtime required early rising as a rule of 
living. As soon, then, as the first morning beams began 
to venture themselves among the narrow lanes and alleys 
of the town, open flew window-shutters, and the good 


burgesses and their wives thrast forth their heads to snufif 
the morning air and bid good-daj to the opposite neighbors; 
discuss the present state of the weather, and enunciate 
their final opinions as to the possible conditions of that 
important question for the rest of the coming daj. The 
beadles rolled the grand portals of Kotre Dame on their 
I groaning hinges; the clergy and monks commenced the 
office of primes, or devoutly listened as they proceeded ; 
the students were hurrying in from their remote scattered 
schools, to pursue their studies of the IHvium, that is to 
say, rhetoric, grammar, and dialectics ; or to venture on 
the Quadrivium, comprising what they called arithmetic, 
geometry, astronomy, and music. 

As the cloister gates of Notre Dame rolled open, the 
first comers were brutally repulsed by the zealous valets, 
shouting, and rather more than brushing their visages with 
soft and gentle fingers cried — 

" Back I back with you, knaves I Place I place I place 
for the Bishop of Chalons^sur-Mame I place for the holy 
Abbot of Typhaines I place, you vagabonds, for the Knight 
Messire Jean de Berniot 1" 

Those three personages, in fact, at once made their ap- 
pearance ; the two former mounted on good strong mules, 
and the third bestriding his war horse, and all followed by 
a band of clercs and laics on foot, chattering away or help- 
ing the cloister porter to put back the crowd, by the most 
efficacious if not the gentlest of remonstrances. But in 
those times there was nothing very disagreeable to the 
recipient of a blow, they were so common, and so great 
was the abuse of that current coin that nobody had any 
gainsay to it. Sensible people were quite satisfied with a 
proper rejoinder, when the blow had been rather rude, and 
no one ever complained of that; it was all fair and right. 

The two ecclesiastical dignitaries and their military 


companion came out into the dense crowd, cither apostro- 
phized by some of the rude pupils of Abelard, or greeted 
by worthy burgesses on their knees, as usual, in praise of 
the antique reputation of the archdeacon or profoundly im- 
pressed, perhaps, by his new title of bishop, and in this 
way the cavalcade stopped at last in front of the battle- 
mented inclosure of the palace. 

At that period the King of France kept no standing 
army on foot — no hired soldiers were employed by him. 
The return to the old Roman customs on that point took 
place long after Louis' time. Whenever the lord Louis 
had occasion to sojourn for a season in his palace at his 
good city of Paris, he had no following about him, save 
some of his barons, brought thither on affairs of busi- 
ness or on visits of ceremony or friendship ; all these, to- 
gether with servitors from his own immediate domains, 
constituted his main power: there was no equipage, no 
luxury ; the most that was aimed at was a moderate de- 
gree of comfort. Hence, we are not to conclude the scenes 
we are about to witness to be the ordinary state of affairs in 
the royal palace in peaceful times ; for to do so, would be 
to make a great mistake ; but let us pass through the outer 
inclosure of the palace : the moment of our arrival is by 
no means an ordinary one there. 

" What ?" cried Messire Jean de Bemiot, " is the king 
setting off on an expedition ? I find a great many men-at- 
arms in the court I" 

" There must be something of the kind on foot," rejoined 
the bishop ; " I knew not that peace was seriously threat- 
ened just now ; but, no matter, let us alight and go in." 

The three friends quitted their saddles, and leaving their 
animals to the care of their valets, passed through the low 
narrow door, the only issue for the royal manor ; ascended 
the dark stairway, and at once found themselves in the 


great hall, where they beheld the king surrounded with the 
elite of his barons. 

Louis YI., who was not yet known by the title of Louis 
le Gros — ^but rather by that of Louis PEveillé— Louis le 
Battailleur, was standing by a massive oak-table, on which 
were displayed a number of glasses and dishes, some silver, 
some tin, and some of common earthen ware ; he had a 
gilt goblet in his hand, which he was holding out to a lady 
in a rich dress, who, with both hands, was pouring wine 
from a heavy ewer. Clinging on each side to her robe 
were two little fresh-looking, rosy -cheeked boys: it was 
Queen Adelaide of Savoy, and the children were her sons, 
Prince Philippe and Prince Louis Florès. 

The king looked like a splendid and noble knight. He 
was stout and strong, and though his lofty stature already 
began to show somewhat of the wretched obesity that be- 
came the torment of his latter years, he, as yet, showed 
nothing but the stout and intrepid warrior he was. His 
tanned cheek displayed all the hues of health, and his eyes 
shone with vivacity and resolution, and with not a little of 
what might pass for penetration and cunning. Such to 
the lord of Typhaines' eyes ; such, in fact, was that king, 
worthy of remembrance, who extricated the royal house 
of France from its original poverty and weakness. 

"Come, my dear I" said the lord King to the Queen, 
*' pour my last cup for me ; it shall be the stirrup cup ; I 
will then kiss you and the children, and set off with God^s 
help and St. Dennis' ; and you, my valets, take care to pro- 
vide wine for all these barons ! I want them to go forth 
joyful and gay, to make their hands the heavier. But 
God's splendor I Here is the venerable Bishop of Chalons I 
Be welcome, holy father ! I hope you are not going to 
bring me new complaints against Master Abelard ; for I 
should have no time to hear them now." 


"Monseigneur," responded the prelate, "I am come to 
confer with you on a very different subject. I bring with 
me the holy Abbot of Typhaines in Nivernais, who comes 
to implore your justice against the most odious acts of vio- 
lence ever heard of in the world." 

The bright face of the king at once changed to dark — 
and handing the cup to the queen, without putting it to 
his lips — 

*^ I know all about it," said the king, speaking slow and 
low as if he wished to weigh every word and say nothing 
that might turn out to be dangerous. "My cousin of 
Ne vers and the people of the Commune of Typhaines have 
already sent me their messengers — what am I to do about 

"You," replied' the Abbot coldly, "can refuse to support 
injustice, and you can crush out iniquity with your victori- 
ous arms 1" 

" That 's the way with the clergy," cried Louis, looking 
all round on the fifty or sixty armed nobles in the immense 
hall. " That 's just the way they always talk — the moment 
anything happens to clash with their interests it 's justice 
that cries out help I help ! If they are assailed, it 's iniquity 
that is at work ! Ah, holy Abbot I there 's plenty of ini- 
quity and injustice besides what is troubling you just now. " 

"A king's duty," responded the Abbot, not at all discon- 
certed by the king's disobliging answer, " is to protect the 
Church. I find it so in holy writ and in the Acts of the 

"And I," retorted the king, with a bitter smile, "I see 
rich abbots and bishops, with lauds and serfs and subjects ; 
but when a little money is wanted, it must be looked for in 
their strong boxes, whither every coin bearing our effigy 
seems to take instant refuge ; and in the meantime we — 
yes, by Christ's death I yes we, King of France, we, suc- 


ccssor of SO many puissant kings, have been by the vio- 
lence of the age redaced to a few miserable strips of land 
oat of the whole of oar ancient heritage. Ha I brother, it 
seems very mach like jesting in you, to require my aid in 
your squabbles with your own vassals, when you know I 
am overwhelmed all the days of my life with the villainous 
usurpations of my own vassals ! You come and complain of 
the loss of your power, you honest monks do ; power, per- 
haps, you have no real right to, nor ought to have ; and 
yet you care not an iota for the miseries of kings I You 
see me battling, ever battling, and at this very moment 
taking up the time and making use of the loyalty of my 
faithful barons to put down a false traitor who, not four 
leagues away from my faithful city of Paris, has the au- 
dacity to revolt against me, and yet you have the impudence 
to come hither and talk to me about your affairs. Don't 
think of it ; don't think of such a thing, holy father. Wait 
until Louis of France has reconquered the rights bequeathed 
to him by Charlemagne ; wait until Flanders and Artois, 
Normandy, Gnienne, and the Catalan marches acknowledge 
him for suzerain ; wait till the descendant of Francus has 
restored to his kingdom the full lustre acquired by his 
Trojan ancestors, and then, you will be in the right to 
come and lay your cause before me — I '11 weigh it then — 
and, perhaps, heavier than suits you, in the scales of truth 
and justice." 

The majority of the lords in the presence appeared to 
fully approve of this rude apostrophe. Some of them 
clapped their hands by way of cheer, some laughed 
aloud; while a few others, evinced by exclamations far 
more energetic than orthodox, which even the presence of 
the queen's majesty could not wholly repress, that thej 
thought the king had spoken well. Yet, notwithstanding 
the rudeness of the seigneurs, and, doubtless, because of 


that very rudeness, the clergy of the time had come to care 
but little for such opponents, so that giving the Abbot no 
time to make answer, Bishop Guillaume spoke out in harsh 
and crabbed tones as follows : — 

'' Such language as this is by no means usual as coming 
from a Christian king to God's servants on earth, and that 
too with the full approval of his rash counsellors I I have 
heard before now, Sire King, that your mind does wander 
at times, but I never could have believed it unless I had 
seen and heard it myself. Consider, I pray, that Abbot 
Anselin's cause is the cause of the entire church of the 
two Gauls, and that until we obtain absolute and full justice 
we will defend it, as well as we may." 

" I do reflect, I do consider," said the king, stamping his 
foot on the floor, "that time is flying, the day passing away 
and our men getting impatient : my enemies no doubt begin 
to think I am growing timorous, and in the meantime are 
amusing themselves by ravaging our towns and devastating 
my people's fields. Come, my lords, to horse, to horse ! 
Farewell, my dear I good-bye Philippe I kiss me, Louis I 
when thou art grown to be a man," added the king, lift- 
ing the child in his arms, " thou, yes, thou shalt be a brave 
knight, I hope. Come, my lords, are you ready ? As to 
you, my venerable fathers, believe not that I am wanting 
in respect for Holy Church, and to prove it I beg you to 
stay here with the queen — she will present you to Abbot 
Suger, who is fully acquainted with all my purposes ; you 
can better come to a clear understanding with him than 
with a soldier far readier to wield the sword than brandish 
the tongue." 

And King Louis saluted the two priests with a wave of 
his hand ; then, followed by his chivalry, he went down into 
the court-yard. 

For awhile Anselm and Guillaume heard nothing save 


the warlike ring of spars, the clash of arms, the rustling 
of swords in their iron scabbards, shouts and barsts of 
laughter ; next came the tramp of the cavalry ; banners 
and pennons of every shape and hue floated along by the 
tall narrow windows ; the trumpets blared, and at last all 
was silent. Messire Jean had gone off in company with 
his peers. 

" Madam," gently spoke the Bishop of Chalons, " Mon- 
seigneur the king has given us a rude welcome I" 

" Don't mind it, my venerable fathers," replied Adelaide, 
with marked respect. " Louis has a great many cares just 
at this moment ; the Count of Chartres is at this very time 
making a new raid into France, and off there, toward 
Orleans, his men are ravaging and pillaging the whole 
country. But you should not be discouraged for all that." 

** You are a pious Christian lady, madam," retorted the 
bishop, " and I am fully ^ware that in you God's ministers 
can find a sure recourse ; yet I am not quite sure that the 
same is to be said of the Abbot of St. Denis, to whom the 
king has just referred us. Though he is a monk, he is no 
strict observer of the rules of his order, and I may say it 
without failing in charity, since it is a notorious fact ; he 
keeps his hounds and his own men at arms, dresses sump- 
tuously, and in the conduct and manners he recommends to 
the king I see nothing but frivolity." 

Queen Adelaide was not one of the superior class of 
women. She was much attached to her royal spouse, was 
devoted to his children, and took great care of the internal 
administration of his palace as far as her power as its mis- 
tress went. Besides all this, she held everything that wore 
the ecclesiastical garb in the greatest veneration. Upon 
hearing the bishop's remarks on her husband's friend and 
minister, she felt herself unequal to a conversation so criti- 


cal, and taking each of the children by the hand she spoke, 
with downcast eyes and timorous accents — 

" I entreat you, holy father ; I beg you to apply to Mes- 
sire Suger : I know not what language he may hold on this 
subject or whether you and Master Anselra will be content 
with his answer to your appeals ; but if you will pray for 
me and these dear children, I will urge Louis to do all you 
desire to have done." 

She left the hall, and in the course of a few minutes a 
servitor entered, to guide the two ecclesiastics to the pre- 
sence of the Abbot of St. Denis, who had just that moment 
come into the royal residence from his monastic home at 
St. Denis. 

" Think you," said Master Ansel m, as they passed on- 
ward, "that we have any chance of touching the king's 

" His language was certainly not very cheering," replied 
the bishop, " and, as a general rule, it is true to say that 
Louis knows what he means to do ; but his position is just 
now so unsettled, he is compelled to please so many differ- 
ent parties and to sustain himself by the help of so many 
different hands, and he so dislikes to raise up new enemies 
that possibly we may not succeed in getting him to change 
his mind as to what he is at present determined to do. But 
his confidant will, no doubt, let us know what we have to 

" As far as I have heard," continued Anselm, " he is a 
vulgar fellow, wholly given over to errors of worldly policy, 
and by no means to the true obligations of real piety." 

"Yes," said the bishop, "you describe him well, and 
you have not been misled in regard to his character. I 
know not whether he may be converted yet, but for the 
present he has no views whatever, save such as a talented 
worldling might choose to make his boast of. He is, as you 



perhaps already know, a man of low birth ; it 's trae he did 
make very fair studies in letters, both sacred and profane, 
and was King Louis' fellow student in their youth, and 
that was the way he acquired his master's confidence. I 
will not conceal the fact that burghers and serfs have good 
reason to look up to him, as they do, for a zealous pro- 
tector. He is fond of encouraging merchants and traders, 
and attracting them to the city of Paris under the impres- 
sion that a king may derive great advantages from their 
residence in his dominions. He is fond of building too, 
and sculpture as well. I describe him to you as he really 
is, and with his good qualities too; for he certainly is 
at times liberal to the monastic institutions of the country, 
and takes great delight in the conversation of educated and 
learned men. But all that is vitiated by the errors you 
have heard of, and all I have to say is that I agree with 
you — be is a vulgar fellow 1" 

The bishop ended his complex eulogy, or, if you like it 
better, this chastened satire on the royal minister, just as 
the guide, on opening a door, introduced the venerable pair 
into an apartment where sat the celebrated statesman, who 
has so long enjoyed the admiration and gratitude of the 
people of his own nation and the whole civilized world. 

The Abbot of St. Denis was, at that time, hardly more 
than a young man, and as Master Guillaume had said, was 
a person of great delicacy in point of manners and outward 
appearances. His linen was scrupulously white, his monk- 
ish robe of fine woollen cloth was of the very best quality ; 
his beard carefully shaven, and his remarkably neat and 
delicate hands were fairly coquettish ; all which were looked 
on as reprehensible when seen in a monk — ^for even the 
nuns of the day were never known to wear linen ; as the 
usual underdress, they wore drugget. 

Seated in a large arm chair lined with serge, the minister 


of the little kingdom of France seemed to have just finished 
a despatch, to which he was busy affixing the pendant seals. 
In the grosser ages of the world, employments are always 
restricted in number, and an individual, though he might 
be an exalted personage, does a great deal of his work with 
his own hands. Hearing the footsteps of his visitors he 
turned, and seeing the two ecclesiastics he looked at them 
with a half haughty, half inquisitive gaze, and in a tone 
that was kind, or the reverse, just as it might please you to 
take it, he said — 

** What may be your business with me ?" 
" Sir Abbot," retorted Guillaume, in a tone of pedantic 
self-sufficiency, quite familiar to the old Paris scholastic, 
" this is the lord Abbot of Typhaines, who by the King's 
Majesty is referred to you concerning a matter of import- 

" Let him take a seat, and you as well," responded the 
statesman in a more modest tone of voice, and adding by 
way of official politeness: " The lord Abbot, no doubt, de- 
sires to give me an account of the recent occurrences in 
his fief" 

" Do you know about that already ?" said Anselm. " It 
seems the king knows everything I" 

" Yes," replied Snger, with a benignant smile, and look- 
ing aside at the parchment spread on his table ; " yes, a 
messenger has just reached me with news of the whole 
matter there." 

Anselm was much surprised at such promptitude, for he 
had no idea that an express could have reached Paris so 
soon ; he accordingly made no attempt to conceal his sur- 
prise, and at once proceeded to ask : — 

" May I venture to inquire whether the rebels themselves 
have had the audacity to write to the king, or whether the 


Coant de Nevers has aided them by one of his scribes, 
each as he employs in his own councils ?" 

" That question is easily answered," said Suger. " The 
Count de Nevers has forwarded his letters to us, and the 
burgesses of Tjphaines, in like manner; so that the re- 
ports are confirmed by both parties." 

" The villains 1" broke out the bishop, with a haughty 
tone ; " they crown their iniquity and rapine with impu» 
dence inconceivable." 

Suger made no reply ; he only twiddled his abbatial ring 
as he sat there, calm and cool. Now this coldness of the 
royal minister was very afflicting to Anselm, for in that 
very coolness he saw the ruin of his hopes from the king : 
he began to comprehend how completely Louis and his 
minister were subject to be led on by interests in utter 
conflict with his own ; yet notwithstanding the discourage- 
ment, he was of a temper too firm and too resolute to give 
way and hold his peace ; accordingly, stiffening himself up 
with an air of determination befitting his high ecclesiastical 
rank — 

"My lord Abbot," said he, "inasmuch as the odious 
spoliation of the rights and property of the abbey of Ty- 
phaines is already known to you, I can hardly doubt that 
your mind is made up as to the course you are to take in 
relation to it. On all hands I have heard much of your 
prudence ; I have heard it asserted that you are a man 
well inured into the paths of wisdom, and that piety and 
justice have never received offence at your hands : I adjure 
you, then, to make known to me the part that is to be taken 
by King Louis in this miserable affair." 

" Your urgency is very great, sir," replied Suger, haugh- 
tily, " and I know not whether it is befitting one in my 
position to make you an answer to questions so imperiously 
propounded ; were you a laic merely, I would most cer- 


tainly do no such thing ; but the respect I owe to Holy 
Church, to whom I, though an unworthy one, am a servant 
as you also are, induces me to give you the information 
you have asked for. The king is not willing that abbots, 
bishops, and monks, nor secular lords either, should be 
allowed to torment his poor people." 

"I understand not," frigidly retorted the Abbot, "by 
what right the lord Louis claims to meddle with the people 
of my charge." 

" He is your suzerain. Sir Abbot." 
" Thanks be to God and his blessed mother Saint Mary," 
cried the Abbot, "the Church of Typhaines knows no 
bonds of vassality — ^none whatever ; no count nor bishop, 
nor King Louis himself I none of them have a right to 
command on my domains. We bow to St. Peter's Cross 
alone : our clerical obeisance is due to the common head 
of all Christianism, and to none other on the face of the 
globe, before which the Abbot of Typhaines is as inde- 
pendent and as free as lord Louis the kiDg himself. I 
can exhibit the proofs — I have the charters — I hold the 
concessions I" 

" How happens it then that so high and mighty a prince 
should come hither to implore the aid and protection of an 
impoverished king like the poor lord Louis of France ?" 

" Holy Church, when she supplicates," replied Anselm, 
"does not make herself a slave by that act. In her afflic- 
tion she demands aid at the hands of her own children ; 
she does not on that account become subject to them — God 
forbid I" 

" But this is a question not of the church, it is an affair 
of the lands of the burgesses of Typhaines. Let us not 
get out of the true path, my lord Abbot." 

" That distinction," roared Bishop Guillaume, reddening 

262 TTPHAnnss abbet. 

with aoger^ " is almost a heresy ; and I can, by the holy 
canons, prove that" — 

" You forget," retorted the Abbot of »St. Denia, with a 
frigid smile, " that yoa are not speaking to a laical feuda- 
tory ; but this discussion leads to nothing, it leads to no 
issue whateyer. The Count de Severs, by proofs good 
and valid, so they seem to us, establishes the fact that he 
is your suzerain : he takes the people of Typhaines under 
his protection, and at the same time commends himself, as 
well, to his proper seigneur, the King of France. The 
poor peasants have done the very same thing : that 's all 
perfectly regular ?" 

** So," murmured Abbot Anselm, " it is not to a protector 

I am come — ^not even to an enemy — ^it is to a judge ?" 

" You hare said it," responded the minister, " and might 
it but please Heaven, I would I might see the day when 
that word, which seems to surprise you, should be the 
refuge and the law of every acre of land from the Pyrenees 
to the Rhine I Further, Sir Abbot, you appear to me to 
be animated by a degree of daring that really astonishes 
me. Are yOu then, indeed, so high and mighty a lord that 
it is repugnant to your dignity to give obedience to laws 
before which so many bishops and prelates loftier in rank 
and far richer and more influential than you can claim to 
be, have bowed down ? If what you desire at my hands is 
the advice of a real friend I stand ready to give it to you : 
submit to the royal will, confess yourself a vassal to France ; 
it will not be harmful to do so if, on occasion, you should 
be called on to defend yourself against attacks from the 

^ Nivernais." 

! " 1 1" exclaimed Anselm, in a towering passion. " What, 

II I go down on my knees to your master, when I have 
the right to walk even with him, at his side as bis equal in 
rank 1 You little know what I am, my lord Abbot of St. 


Denis, and you know not how gayly a child of the Lord 
chooses martyrdopr rather than the sale, the cession, or 
the desertion of the very least of his just rights ! I a vassal 
of France, indeed ? But I hare heard enough I This is 
not the only place where I can find succor against my 
mutinous serfs. All princes are not robbers, nor do they 
all aspire to enrich themselves out of the spoils of our holy 
mother !" 

"You are audacious, Sir Monk," replied Suger, as he 
touched the Abbotts sleeve with his hand. " But when a 
man has such a courageous heart as yours he at least de- 
serves to know the whole scope of the dangers he is so 
daring as to face — read this." 

So saying, he took up the parchment he had just sealed, 
and holding it open before Anselm, he pointed out the 
significant passages. 

The Bishop of Chalons, seeing his friend's face grow 
pale, leaned anxiously forward. The parchment proved to 
be neither more nor less than a charter of franchises oc- 
troyed under the king's warrant to the good people of 
Typhaines, fêal% et bien amez, conditioned that they disa- 
vow the Abbot of Typhaines as their seigneur, take the 
Count de Nevers in his stead, and engage to pay into 
the Royal Treasury the sum of two thousand marks of 
silver, fine. 

Anselm read the charter, thrust it aside with disgust and 
contempt, and then launching an angry scowl at the states- 
man, hastily quitted the apartment and hurried out of the 
palace, followed by the Bishop of Chalons as full of indig- 
nation as the holy father himself. 



The two ecclesiastics exchanged not one word as they 
traversed the streets of Paris. Each man, folly taken up 
with his own ponderings, had enough to think about with- 
out breaking the silepce between them. Each, according 
to his special temper and position in the world, gave free 
course to his reflections, and though the subject was one 
of interest in common to both, the nature of their thoughts 
was as différent as the nature of their personal identity. 

Master Guillaume did not seem to be very much sur- 
prised ; but the Abbot of Typhaines was deeply disgusted. 
In King Louis of France's conduct he could see nothing 
but a most horrible denial of justice, and the minister's was 
pure and simple a scandal to the Church and the Catholic 
religion itself. According to Master Anselm, all policy, of 
what kind soever, that proved indifferent or hostile to the 
interests of the clergy was worldly, reprobate, and satanic, 
and situated as he was, attacked, and in some sort plun- 
dered over again, and that by an abbot like himself, by the 
head of the most illastrious community in the kingdom, he 
could hardly get rid of his feelings of horror and disgust 
It may be that at the present day, a man of his cloth and 
of his opinions would, under similar circumstances, attract 
but small sympathy ; but it should not be overlooked that, 
in the distant age at which our history transpired, the 
bishop's precedence was equal to that of any feudal noble ; 
no doubt their claims were not in all cases as clear as 


those of the conquerors, though they might well, and 
-without too great a stretch of the imagination, claim to be 
rulers far more beneficent — and far less oppressive. 

The clergy of the time were almost as proud of their 
learning as they were of their celestial consecration, and 
they despised the power of the laity as much as they 
dreaded it. Hence, Anselm could discover nothing less 
than barbarian injustice and detestable spoliation in the 
king's policy, and his minister's too. 

He was irritated and indignant, but not depressed. 
Convinced of the justice of his cause, and fully resolved 
not to yield one inch of his lawful rights, in his single 
person he bade defiance to King Louis, even should he go 
so far as to combine with his own regal force all the power 
of his feudatories to oppress him. His only difficulty ap- 
peared to consist in the choice of means for the occasion ; 
it was important to act speedily, and every moment that 
should be lost for him, would be improved by his adversa- 
ries to their great advantage. In fact, he was not very 
thoroughly acquainted with the temper and disposition of 
certain great dignitaries, and so, unprepared to judge on 
the subject or count on their help. He had heard that the 
Bishop of Amiens, and he of Noyon had favored the cause 
of the burgesses, and that the communes that had been 
got up in their episcopal cities had been instituted with 
their consent and avowal. How could he know that other 
members of the prelacy of the Gauls, won over by such 
examples, would not turn a cold ear, or make open oppo- 
sition to his efforts to reduce his insurgent peasantry to 
duty again ? 

The two priests, then, being safe returned to Master 

Guillaume's lodgings in the canonial mansion, were free 

to converse and compare opinions without restraint, and 

Anselm freely opened out his whole heart to his friend ; 



demanding, too, such counsels as his wisdom and talents 
might suggest for the promptest conclusion of so difficult . 
an affair. 

While they were talking, Messire Jean de Berniot en- 
tered the apartment. The worthy knight had followed the 
king to a certain distance from Paris. In the palace hall 
he had met some of his old acquaintances among the barons 
there; and his fondness for chatting and scheming had 
decided him to get into his saddle, and, like others, go forth 
to see what would become of the expedition. He had quite 
made up his mind to have no hand in it, however, because 
as he was proposing to travel through the lands of the 
Count of Chartres, and he being himself a vassal of Niver- 
nais, the lord king had no right to claim his aid and ser- 
vices. He had come back, after quitting the cavalcade, to 
inform his friends concerning their affairs, as far as he had 
gathered important information from various sources. 

" You are at a bad pass, holy father," said he to the 
Abbot of Typhaines, and I have things to tell you that, 
'pon my faith, have afflicted me not a little." 

"Tell us at once," said the bishop. "You are well 
known for a careful, prudent person, Messire Jean, and 
you are better prepared to speak sensibly on the subject 
than any other person whatever ; not to say that my vener- 
able brother's learning is in any absolute need of any laical 
support ; for I too have some claims in common with the 
lord Abbot I But — in fine—speak 1" 

"I have seen the Nivernais envo3''s." 

" What I you have seen them ; the miscreants ?" cried 
the bishop, lifting his arms up in signification of the horror. 

"I have both seen and conversed with them. I have 
seen the Sieur de Garlande too ; in short, taking all that 
together with what I learned from my old companions, I 


am quite up to the level of the whole current of your 

" Impart what you know then." 

" I have to inform you that the Nivernais and Typhaines 
men, more fortunate than Monseigneur Abbot here, did not 
come to Paris empty handed ; and to double their good 
luck, they came in at the very nick of time too, for the king 
happened to be greatly in want of funds just at that very 

"He is very often in that very case," said Bishop Guil- 
laume; "bahl" 

" With such a recommendation as that," pursued Messire 
de Berniot, " they had no occasion, neither party, to dis- 
play any great power of oratory; their rights were at 
once found to be sound and good and beyond all dispute ; 
in fact, thej were promised a charter on the spot ; and so, 
they are about to start for home in the highest spirits." 

"They haven't got as far as they think for," said Guil- 
laume boldly. 

The Abbot proffered no remark. He sat silent, his 
hands crossed on his bosom ; his gray eyebrows all in a 
frown, with lips close drawn, and his whole posé indicative 
of inexpugnable determination. 

"Say, my son," at last he spoke in low and gentle ac- 
cents, " do you know the names of those same envoys ?" 

" There are four burghers of them ; hard looking cases 
too, they are ; they seem to have a perfectly good under- 
standing together, just like so many thieves at a village 
fair. The oldest one, the man who seems to be chief in 
authority, is named Eudes, an old fox ; a brewer, I believe, 
and who has been, by your Typhaines-folk, elected as one 
of their jurats — wardens, or consuls, or peers — for the fact 
is I know not what titles that low scum delight in for their 
head men." 


" Simon is not among them ; you did not hear his name 
mentioned ?" 

"No, I am certain of that," replied the chevalier, "for 
they told me all about the mission ; that fellow Simon stayed 
behind at the borough ; which, by all accounts, w^ill be in 
the course of a few weeks thoroughly fortified just like any 
real city. Those cheats of burgesses, from all appearances, 
are as rich as Jews, and they are about to put up mansions 
such as few of us poor gentlemen could ever dream of 
indulging ourselves with. To eschew the services o.f the 
abbey, they talk too of erecting a vast parish church, far 
more splendid than your own." 

"What impious creatures 1" cried the bishop- 

"In fine," pursued Messire Jean, "it seems that the 
borough of Typhaines is hard at work : walls, houses, 
fortifications, and embellishments of all sorts are going up ; 
and in consequence of the laws those rascals have enacted, 
the population is increasing at a great rate, and it will be 
still greater as soon as King Louis completely gets the 
burgh under his royal protection, and the Count de Nevers, 
their suzerain, has fully concluded to protect and defend 
them against all and every their enemies." 

" Well then, well then," piously exclaimed Bishop Guil- 
laume, " no more haggling I It is not worth while. Your 
cause is the cause of the whole Catholic Church, and the 
Church must arm in your behalf. What, I pray, would 
become of us all, should our serfs and burghers henceforth 
forever break out in rebellion against our authority, and 
strike bargains with princes who have no more conscience 
than my shoe ? What would become of good manners and 
public decency in case the lower orders should begin to 
pay regard to the world here below, instead of employing 
themselves, as they ought to do, in the pursuit of that 


better part that leads to heaven at last ? Very well, then, 
all we have to do is to convene a council." 

"What, a council I" said Messire de Berniot; "truly 
that is a serious question, in times like these, when every 
man is busy in looking after his own private affairs. Do 
you think you could ?" 

" I agree with the Lord Bishop of Chalons," said the 
Abbot. " Courage and firm determination, with Heaven's 
blessing, can do anything — everything. Let us seek for 
succor at the hands of our brothers of the Church : Heaven 
will not, nor cannot, give up her pontiffs and leave them 
helpless in the hands of such rebellious children of wrath. 
No ; be sure of that. I shall yet see that villain Simon 
the most execrable of men; I shall see his friends, his 
supporters, his clique — ^yes, all the peasants and serfs in 
Typhaines crawling beneath my abbatial cross ! They, 
building houses I they raising ramparts I they glorying in 
their wealth and their obstinacy ! Let them glory I but 
believe me, with their own hands, yes, with their own 
hands they shall be forced to undo all they are doing this 
day, and so save, if possible, their poor souls from the 
eternity of torture they so richly deserve by their rebellion 
against Holy Church !" 

The light of the Abbot's eyes, that shone with the sav- 
age splendor of his enthusiasm, struck the chevalier and 
even the bishop with a feeling of awe. They both alike, 
deeply convinced as they were of Anselm's extraordinary 
sanctity, felt that he had read and interpreted the book of 
the future, in the very words he had just spoken ; and the 
thought gave them redoubled energy for the accomplish- 
ment of the difficult task before them. 

Indeed, the task was not an easy one ; so, at least, it 
seemed. In those times, though councils were plenty 
enough and frequent enough, still it was not the fashion to 



convene them for occasions merely special or personal, like 
this of Abbot Anselm-s. Where questions turaed upon 
some article of faith, some discussion on the Trinity, or 
where some Doctor was to be denounced, nothing whatever 
could be simpler than to convene a council ; but the idea 
of going into a quarrel with the King of France and one 
of the most powerful of all his vassals, merely out of regard 
for the interests of an abbot, was a thing as yet unheard 
of. In spite of all this, the part assumed by our three 
allies was well taken, and their resolution to go ahead was 
too well settled to be shaken by anything. Their thoughts 
then, were turned to the catalogue of such prelates as they 
could best trust, and they did, in fact, go over the whole 
list of the eminent clergymen of the Gauls. As soon as 
they had concluded on the plan, they went forth and opened 
their campaign by calling on influential personages, such 
as the canons, abbots, doctors, and monks, deemed likeliest 
to contribute to the success of their designs. 

And so, we find the beginnings of the poor Typhaines 
commune threatened with the terriblest attack possible for 
those days of old. Just when the envoys were returning 
in triumph to their rising town ; at the very time Eudes, on 
horseback, with the rest of the mandatories, was proceeding 
up the High street, towards the commune council hall, 
followed by the admiring mob, a horrible tempest began 
to rumble in the far distance and roll its awful storm 
clouds towards the vain and haughty town of Typhaines. 
With that air of importance that, at his day and ever 
since his day, was and is the distinctive characteristic of a 
vain magistrate on public occasions, Eudes was proceeding, 
accompanied by his colleagues of the embassy, at a solemn 
and digniGed pace, along the great thoroughfare. Their 
very faces showed how cheerful they were over the success- 
ful accomplishment of their mission, and though they had 


not uttered a word as to the result, everybody, men, women, 
and children, were saying : " How fortunate ! how ready the 
King of France was to octroy his charter ! how delighted 
he was to hear of what his feal and well beloved people of 
Typhaines were thinking of doing ; how his wife and the 
two sweet boys had eagerly insisted on signing their several 
names to the charter ; and how the noble king, bold and 
debonaire as he was, stood ready to march at the head of all 
his chivalry to see justice done for the dear borough of 
Typhaines ; borough indeed I — City of Typhaines !" 

Eudes and the rest of the deputies, meanwhile, had been 
conducted to the council chamber we are already ac- 
quainted with as the place where we were lookers on at the 
time of Monseigneur Philippe's trial for his life. 

Simon was acting as chairman. Payen, with his arm 
still in a scarf, and Antoine and Jacques were seated with 
him at the council table. 

" What news bring ye hither from the good city of Paris, 
my brethren ?" said Simon. " Did you find the lord king 
debonair ? Did he kindly receive the presents you bore — 
did the Nivernais men behave with all honor, and frankly 
as they ought ?" 

"All was for the very best," responded Eudes; "and 
truth to tell, we had few diflSculties to overcome. In con- 
formity with your counsel, we took lodgings at the house 
of Master Gerard, the king's armorer, and a great friend 
of his majesty, and of yours too. Out of love to your 
person, he made us heartily welcome, and as we followed 
his advice in every particular, our success was not long to 
be waited for ; you see that we have been absent only a 
week from Typhaines, and have succeeded at all points." 
Eudes then drew King Louis' charter from his bosom, laid 
it on the table ; the clerk read it aloud, and everybody 
evinced the liveliest satisfaction. 


"See, my brethren, how everything smiles upon our 
enterprise I everything goes on for the best. We ought now 
to take very good care to prevent Monseigneur de Nevers 
from assuming too many liberties with our commune. 
Let us by no means repeat the story of the horse that a 
learned monk at Cambrai once told me. ' The animal was 
desirous to take revenge on a stag that had insulted him ; 
and to come at his adversary in a fair way to pay him off, 
he invited the man to get on his back : the stag was killed, 
of course, but the man refused to get off again.' " 

" You see," said Payen, " that I didn't wait for this good 
advice of yours ; the fact is I persuaded Monseigneur de 
Pomes and Messire Anseau to retire from the borough 
and go back to their own domain, where we could find 
them in case of occasion for their help arising. They 
hearkened to what I said, and it is well for them they did 
so, for their men-at-arms, and they too, began to get very 
ugly scowls in town. Burgher-folk have nothing very good 
to gain by having nobles too close neighbors; the two 
races are hardly well suited to live together." 

"I see," cried Eudes, "that it's all gone right, ever 
since I went away to Paris. Your new-born liberty has 
made you all proud and bold, and even without protectors 
and friends,. you dare to speak out like men. As I crossed 
the foss, I saw, too, that the rampart is at least three feet 
higher already than it was the day I started on my journey, 
and as I came up the street I must have seen as many as 
twenty new houses rising, as if by magic, under the wands 
of hundreds of busy and delighted workmen I By the 
Lord, I never dreamed of a success so speedy as ours has 
proved to be. I assure you, I counted on seeing a good 
many weeks, nay, months of battle and strife, and the only 
security I had of dying a freeman, was that I was deter- 
mined not to outlive our defeat. But how is this ? You 


all listen to wliat I have to say, and yet not a man of you 
comes forward to take me by the hand, and assure me he 
looks on the situation with just the same confidence and 
joy that I do — what does it mean ?" 

" You may be in the right — ^you are in the right, no 
doubt," said Payen, with a very solemn gaze as he looked 
on Eudes^ visage, all lighted up with the glad prospects 
before him ; " we here are ingrates almost, not to rejoice 
forever in such successes as you tell of But you are under 
a mistake, Eudes, if you think we have such solid grounds 
of happiness. To make yourself really acquainted with 
the situation all you have to do is, to look at Simon there, 
and then you may guess at part of the truth at least." 

As the blacksmith was speaking, Damerones' father 
quitted his seat and with an impatient gesture, turning his 
back on the company, strode to a narrow window in the 
council chamber, evidently to conceal his features from his 
surrounding friends ; but Eudes had already remarked how 
pale and thin he looked — and now saw great rolling tears 
bedewing the dark visage of his old friend. 

" What is the matter ?" he asked. 

Both Antoine and Jacques responded by a pantomime 
of gestures that seemed to mean sympathy or compassion 
for the cloth-merchant's distress. As for Payen, he merely 
leaned against the chamber wall in silence. After a few 
moments of utter stillness Simon exclaimed — 

" Yes I our power is but a shadow ; our liberty a vain 
show — and while out good men are doing nothing day and 
night but shouting victory I no more lords I no more monks 
to obey I we here, who are obliged to be wise for their sakes, 
we know full well that we are constrained, enslaved, down- 
trodden, and insulted by a miserable power, which in one 
single moment of time can be started forth as the accursed 


mistress of all we ha^e and hoped for. Thank fate, Endes, 
that spared you the sight of oar first deep humiliation." 

" Though," said the consul, " my eyes did not see it, I 
will resent it, as much as you can. I, like yourself, am one 
of the leaders of the commune, and I have a right to know 
all that interests it Speak out, then, I will hearken — and 
I am no girl to break down for a single mischance, no 
matter what it may be ; speak." 

" Tell him all about it," said Simon, throwing himself 
into his seat again — "tell him the whole story." The cloth 
merchant spread out his arms on the council table, bowed 
down, and hid his head between them, and sobbed aJoud 
with insupportable grief. So poignant was his anguish, 
that though its bursts had for some days been almost con- 
tinual they struck a sort of terror into the hearts of the 
company around him, long accustomed as they had been 
to look upon Master Simon as one of the most resolute and 
indomitable of men; The people said, whisperingly, it 
must be a very great sorrow, an immense misfortune, a 
great and terrible danger thus to shake the firm soul of 
their chief, their counsellor, their bulwark ; that spirit so 
highly tempered and yet so broken now I 

Payen, with a degree of delicacy that his comrades, though 
perhaps as kindly disposed as he, yet far less nobly endowed 
than he, knew not of, detailed in a low tone of voice the 
whole story of Damerones' disappearance from home and 
her confinement in the dungeon of Chatel Cornouiller. 
Then, as far as he was able, explained' the consequences of 
the terrible transaction ; but Payen was very far from a full 
acquaintance with all the particulars, especially as touching 
Simon's part in the case. 

Let any person try to conceive what must have been the 
feelings of the cloth merchant on finding that the devotion 
of his sweet Damerones, a devotion no less fanatical and 


intense than his own private hate, had succeeded in sub- 
stituting the beautiful head of his darling daughter on the 
block designed for Messire Philippe's own I What he had 
felt, no tongue could tell : all ages of the world have their 
passions ; all have their peculiar impulses and tendencies ; 
all their own exaltations, and in some measure, their own 
savageness; but savageism, exaltation, impetuosity, pas- 
sion, all take on at different epochs dififerent shapes, com- 
bine in different proportions, and give birth to dififerent 
ideas. To appreciate, therefore, what Simon felt, and how- 
he felt, one must go back on the ascending path of the long 
gone centuries to study at the tombs of men who died ages 
ago. Let us refer to one, and the chief one : the consul 
of the twelfth century was not the possessor of Junius 
Brutus' soul ; he loved his only child with a burgher's 
loving heart; like a Christian; as a man does around 
whose hearthstone are concentrated the home affections, 
the most holy of all ; and the deep-laid anguish that must 
attend the final abandonment of a long-cherished longing 
after revenge, would alone have suflBced to make him the 
unhappiest of men ; for certainly he could not but hesitate 
between his hoped for vengeance on Monseigneur Philippe 
and the life of his child. But the events that had followed 
Damerones' brave attempt, had also added to the consul's 
grief and despair, for they came on like a host to assail every 
fond interest of his heart, which, thus it appears, had been 
touched at every its most sensitive point. 

Canon Norbert having ascertained from the young girl 
herself that she was willing to surrender as prisoner to the 
lady of Cornouiller Castle, he at once consented to that 
bizarre proposal. His impetuous and very singular temper 
fitted him peculiarly to comprehend, to consent to, and to 
promote them — and besides, he was conscious that at any 
moment his influence and his power were liable to wreck 


in the inexpugnable will of the cloth merchant ; in such a 
case, he would be compelled to witness the death of the 
crusader. lie, therefore, had facilitated the evasion of ' 
Damerones, and had even given her a slip of parchment 
on which he had briefly, but peremptorily, traced a request, 
or rather an order, to Mahaut, to treat the captive with all 
becoming tenderness. 

But, scarcely had Simon's daughter explained to the 
chatelaine the whole of Monseigneur Philippe's danger, as 
well as her own position in the affair, when the lady, 
whether forgetful or disdainful of the canon's orders, com- 
manded Damerones to be cast into the tower dungeon ; and 
at once despatched, as we have already seen, a man-at-arms 
to advertise him on how slender a thread his child's life 
was suspended — and she was in no jesting mood either ; 
never was reality more real : every drop of the burgher- 
maiden's blood was not worth a single hair of Messire 
Philippe's head, in her estimation at least. Beauty, good- 
ness, devotion could not save her should Philippe be held 
in peril of death. A few minutes of converse with the 
Cornouiller man-at-arms was enough to make that quite 
clear to Norbert ; for Mahaut was his own penitent, and he 
was fully aware of what that haughty spirit of hers might 
impel her to do. As to the Tjphaines consul, his well- 
known hatred of the noble classes made it sure that they 
too would show him no mercy. Yet, though it was so 
hard for him to give way in either direction, he at last 
yielded to much persuasion so far as to enter upon negotia- 
tions that ended in a full surcease for both Philippe and 
Damerones. They both, one in the chatelaine's dungeon, 
and the other in the abbey gaol, now found their existence 
prolonged, but with the certain assurance that their lives 
depended on the greater or less firmness and impassibility 
of the boldest and gloomiest of the whole rebel horde. 


But Simon, though carrying on negotiations with Mahaut, 
flattered himself that he might even yet rescue his child 
without surrendering the captive crusader. 

One dark night, guided through by-paths, he led a band 
of brave and devoted burghers to the very foot of the rock 
of Cornouiller, hoping to carry the donjon by surprise, 
deliver his daughter, and at the same time carry off the 
Lady Mahaut into Philippe^s prison. Had he succeeded, 
sure it is that they would have had a sanguinary wedding- 
day ; but Simon's rage was redoubled when on raising his 
eyes to the donjon above him he saw that he was striving 
against an adversary as clear sighted as himself. The 
towers stood garnished with sentinels : his approach had 
been discovered ; torches were flaming at every aperture 
in the walls : so that to give the assault would be mere 
madness. His hurried retreat was made with an accompa- 
niment of hootings and invectives, and some of the enor- 
mous stones projected by the castle mangonels reached a few 
men among his rear-guard. The next day, the better to 
convince the consul that it was useless to try either force or 
cunning on the lady of the chatel, fifty men-at-arms sallied 
forth at daybreak to ravage and destroy the plantations and 
country houses of the Typhaines peasantry and burgesses. 
A large crowd of Cornouiller serfs followed in the train of 
the warriors, so that from the top of their ramparts and 
rising mansions the commun eers looked out deploringly 
over their wide-spread fertile plain, where clouds of smoke 
gave assurance of the wide-spread desolation that followed 
in the track of that remorseless raid, which indeed came 
up within bow-shot of the walls. The people made a 
sortie, but were routed and driven back into the town by 
the cavalry ; after which exploit the men-at-arms repaired 
to the abbey on the rocky hill-top, where the monks wel- 


corned them, cross and banner in hand, and saluted them 
as defenders of God and Holy Church alike. 

The thing that most astonished the consnls in this affsfir 
was the numerous garrison at Cornouiller, and the quantity 
of men-at-arms sent forth from. the chatel to make the at- 
tack. A letter from the Maid of the Chatel soon told them 
the secret. She had set on foot negotiation for the for- 
mation of a league with fourteen of the surrounding seig- 
neurs, who were willing to brave the Count de Nevers, 
their suzerain, declare war to the death against the com- 
mune, and maintain Mahaut's quarrel with them. 




The confederate raid had taken place in the morning of 
the day that brought Eades back to Typhaines, from the 
mission to Paris ; and although there had been no attack 
on the town walls, and the enemy had satisfied themselves 
with ravaging the whole neighborhood, it was clear that 
the lords of the league would not be content to let the 
matter stop just there. Mahaut's letter, too, declared the 
negotiations at an end, in consequence of Simon's night- 
attempt on her castle ; and she further declared that, pro- 
vided Simon would not surrender his captive within eight 
days after the date, the charming head of his daughter 
should be sent to him in a box by the hands of some 
wretched serf, or thrown into the town from a balista. 

Nor was that all ; Simon's colleagues, who had for some 
time appeared inclined to sacrifice their animosity against 
the Abbot's defender to the very natural distress of their 
chief, now changed their minds ; induced, as they were, to 
do so by the sight of their ruined farms and devastated 
fields, and by the confederation got up among the fourteen 
seigneurs of the region round about them. It was the 
unanimous opinion of the council that the malevolence and 
audacity of the fourteen confederates was deserving of 
punishment ; that the commune ought to answer their de- 
fiance by a war to the death ; and inasmuch as they now had 
a knight, ready in their hands, he should be put to death by 
way of reprisals — and in terrorem. Such was the subject 


of the deliberations in cabinet, and at the end of it Simon 
saw, with his mind's eye, tlie sweet rose of Typhaines 
lying a corpse at his feet, as distinctly as if her bleeding 
form were already cast down on the ground before him. 

This was the condition of affairs when Eudes returned 
from his journey bringing the charter, which at once re- 
stored in some small degree the usual calm to their troubled 
spirits ; and as Eudes had not been an eye-witness to the 
terrible operations of the raiders, and had no share in the 
late violent agitations, and, moreover, being particularly 
devoted to his friend Simon, he joined Payen to oppose 
the ferocious longings of Antoine and Jacques. He was 
a man distinguished for good sense and gentleness ; not 
sanguinary, and of a pacific disposition. Payen, who was 
a soldierly man, though a turbulent, was yet the most loyal 
of men : he desired the death of Monseigneur Philippe as 
much as any one of them, but he was still more anxious 
about the safety of Damerones, to save whose life he would, 
no doubt, have drawn his sword to rescue even that of the 
imprisoned crusader. But his remonstrances, though 1^ 
pressed them through the entire morning, had all proved 
fruitless ; he had two of the consuls against him, and Si- 
mon, who was in a state of stupor, had not a word to say 
in the argument. The advent of Eudes was, therefore, a 
fortunate incident. 

Payen was earnestly engaged in relating, in a low tone, 
to Eudes, the story of the late events as Norbert entered 
the hall. Simon, still taken up with his dreadful grief and 
bathed in tears, took no notice of the priest's arrival, but 
when the canon lifted up his voice he shivered, ceased from 
weeping, and yet did not make any change in his attitude. 

" So, you are come together again, ye limbs of Satan ; 
ye dealers in treason, ye vipers athirst for gore I What 
new project is to come forth of your cabal ? IIow is it ? 


and have you at last made up your minds, once for all, to 
offer your children as a sacrifice to your impious rage ? Is 
the bold knight whom you hold in captivity to die at once ? 
Speak out I You have but one hour more ; and as to 
the lady of Cornouiller, if you don't know who and what 
she is, I know her, and that right well. She will keep her 
word with you, and without any fail Damerones must die." 

The consuls sat in silence, with downcast eyes, and afraid 
to decide the dread question. 

Norbert resumed in the same solemn and scornful tone — 

" Follow out your instincts. There is no creature what- 
ever but must give way to their preponderant power. Show 
clearly forth to the world what you really are I Christians ? 
then spare blood-shedding I Children of Satan ? then pour 
it out in torrents I Act out your parts, and so display your 
real nature. But what good will you get by making a 
couple of martyrs more, to join the heavenly hosts above 
you ? The glad heavens shall open their shining gates to 
let them in, with hallelujahs and crowns and blessings and 
praises — ^but you — ^you, hell will pay the whole load of its 
heaped-up debt to you in disaster untellable, catastrophes 
leading to no end but there I No sooner shall the knight and 
the maiden yield up their last sighs than tempests and 
storms and whirlwinds of disaster and opprobrium shall 
rush on you from every quarter of the heavens. 

" What 's the use of that big parchment signed and sealed 
with the hand and seal of the king ? Oh ho I Master Eudes I 
Is it you I see there ? So, you Ve come back and brought 
this rag, have you ? Why I do my eyes read aright ? Has 
that glorious King, Louis the Sixth of France, stained his 
fame by receiving you to his protection ? And so, then, 
you are all right, are you ? you feel all safe now, eh I Poor 
blind creatures that you are 1 You are henceforth free to 



work your will — and trample justice into the dust as long 
as you live I" 

" The devil I" shouted Payen, and he struck the table 
hard with his fist — " The devil I for he is the one we ought 
to invoke, I suppose, as you have handed us all over to 
him I I tell you these compliments and fine-sugared words 
of yours only scorch my ears I I do most certainly respect 
and venerate you, holy father — no Christian can do other 
than that, for you are fully deserving of as much, and more; 
but I begin to grow less and less contented with your in- 
vectives. Heh I when a man wants to get something out 
of another, even an obstinate one, it is wisest to act not as 
you act. As for myself, I confess I am just of your way 
of thinking about this affair, and here Eudes tells nie he 
agrees with me too — we must let the knight go — we must 
do that. Let us exchange him for Damerones, and by so 
doing compensate in some sort our friend Simon for his 
great services to the commune. We all know how hard it 
is to restore liberty to our enemy, and that the wrongs 
committed on us this morning ought to be avenged, but 
nobody knows what a day may bring forth. Messire 
Philippe, if set at liberty to-day, may possibly fall into our 
hands again to-morrow, and then, let him look out : his 
captivity won't be a long one. Come, let us decide at 
once and let the prisoner go." 

Norbert, without deigning to answer the blacksmith's 
remarks upon his behavior, vigorously advocated his con- 
clusion, and Eudes too made an argument against the very 
decided objection urged by Antoine and Jacques. Those 
two burghers cared very little about Damerones. They 
were both old men, both bent down with a weight of years, 
rich and childless ; they had each lost by the morning raid 
a farm and their entire crops, and were greatly exasperated. 
The life of one chevalier and a girl seemed to them not 


too much as an offset against all their sheaves and vine- 
yards now to be replaced at heavy cost. Had their col- 
league the cloth merchant's thundering tone, that never fell 
ineffectually on their ears, only sounded in behalf of mercy, 
it is highly probable it would have won them over at once ; 
but Simon never stirred ; he did not even raise his head 
from where it was buried between his arms on the council 
table ; and he took no part whatever in that animated dis- 
cussion. He was too much agonized on account of Dame- 
rones and too indignant at the morning outrage of the 
Cornouiller men to be willing to take an active part on the 
occasion. He knew not how to choose. Whether out of 
indecision, or whether it was punctilio, he had made up his 
mind to wait for the action of the council, neither dictating 
nor advising. His soul was all as if one throb, every sense 
awake and startled ; and with bated breath he followed 
every phase of the discussion, sometimes deeming his 
daughter must become the victim, and sometimes ready to 
weep over his defeated hopes of vengeance. 

Yet, and we have seen it was so, the soul of the burgher 
of the twelfth century was a barbarian's soul I it was no 
soul of an ancient Roman ; and his child's safety was more 
to him than any other earthly consideration. He was re- 
joiced then to hear Jacques, overcome by Eudes' arguments 
and Payen's impetuosity, as well as the dark mystic denun- 
ciations of the canon, rise to his feet and cry out — 

*' Yery well, then I since it must be so let the knight be 
set at liberty — but before he goes he shall swear that he 
will not bear arms against us. I know what he is, and 
Payen knows it quite as well as I do, for he has felt that 
vigorous hand. We have enemies enough on hand, with- 
out him to help them." 

After a few words from Eudes the clerk left the hall, and 
soon returned followed by the crusader. Master Simon 


had now risen, and appeared to have recovered his usual 
gravity and composure, and as he stood there in his scarlet 
robe he looked on the scene before him — ^the severest and 
the most determined man in the whole assembly. 

As to Norbert, all we have to say is that his face was 
illuminated as with a light-beam of the sublimest joy. 

Monseigneur Philippe, now nearly recovered of his 
wounds, but somewhat broken down by his severe cap- 
tivity, bent his knee to Norbert, who gave him the bene- 
diction, and then, before the consuls had octroyed the 
privilege of speaking, he threw himself carelessly on to a 
stool, and looking with inquisitive eyes on the people he 
exclaimed : — 

" Ah well, how is it now ? are you going to put an end 
to the aflfair once for all ? No doubt the devotion of the 
poor burgher girl has won her a blessed paradise in 
heaven I and now you are about to butcher me too I Am 
I right?" 

" No, you are not right. Monseigneur," said Eudes; " we 
have decided to exchange you for Master Simon's daugh- 

" On your Christian faith ? Are you telling me the truth 
now ?" 

" Yery seriously — the truth. I tell you we are about to 
exchange you for Master Simon's child ; but before you 
quit your lodging in Typh aines we expect from your 
courtesy an oath at least" 

"An oath I and what oath I beg, sir burgher ?" 

" An oath to take no part in any expedition against us — 
to enter into no league with our enemies, and further, to 
retire quietly to some place not less than ten leagues away 
from the walls of Typhaines." 

" You can't think of such a thing," responded Monseig- 
neur, with contempt. " If you want me to give you pro- 


mises of some kind, ask one that I can keep. I am the 
affianced husband of the Lady of Cornouiller, and you 
hardly can suppose me such a base poltroon as to break 
my pledged word to her I and as she is at war with you, of 
course I must go on waging it on her behalf ; of course I 
must. Besides all that, you have kept me in your dungeon 
here, and if I should fail to make you repent of that I would 
be a dishonored knight. Be reasonable — don't force me 
to take a false oath." 

" He 's in the right there," said Payen. " What you are 
asking of him is all nonsense — and I, yes I, though he 
treated me bad at the assault on the abbey, shouldn't be 
sorry to have a chance at him again in a fair field, where I 
would like to pay him back some of the hard knocks he 
gave me." 

" Quite at your service, my lad !" resumed the knight 
with a smile ; " and blacksmith though you be, and nothing 
but a blacksmith, I see you have some very good notions 
as to what honor means." 

Simon now rose to his feet and stepped up close to the 
chevalier ; his eyes like burning coals, his fists and his lips 
and his teeth all hard clenched, as if he could hardly re- 
strain his passionate desire to take him by the throat and 
slay him as he stood ; with a half strangled voice said — 

" Go then ! go, since they say you must You, no doubt 
of it, are no knight — no — ^you are an accursed sorcerer, a 
magician, an excommunicate wretch that has cast a hell 
charm on my poor idiot child I Go — go I" 

" Master Simon," interrupted Philippe, "is it customary 
with such as you to insult a prisoner? I am a better 
Christian than you are." 

" Begone !" said the consul, grinding his teeth. *' Go 
away, and since you will do so, make war on us — try to 
burn down our dwellings — assassinate us — all of us — and 


continue to carry on the infamous trade of your forefathers, 
every soul of them robbers and yillains, a fit prey for Satan 
himself 1" 

" S 'death I" said the knight, "thou liest, thou knave! 
Wretched serf, dost thou think the fear of death can make 
me quietly submit to such insults ?" 

" No violence here, sir, tiger's whelp that you are I I will 
not have your blood now, for that would be to shed my own 
unhappy daughter's ; but know, and know well and truly, 
why I hate you, and why your death is both sure and near. 
I am a son of that unhappy warden of Cornehaut who was 
traitorously slain by your father ; I am the nephew of the 
priest who was put to death by that same sacrilegious hand, 
and while I live I will give you neither rest nor truce I" 

" How you talk I" said Philippe, with a shrug of con- 
tempt — and he took his seat again on the wooden stool. 

"Am I free, my masters!" said he, " or are you making 
game of me ? That 's all I wish to know. As for the re- 
sentment of a cloth merchant, that 's a matter of perfect 

The knight's very real indifference was not participated 
by the rest of the assembly. Norbert himself, who fully 
understood the strength of Simon's character, had been 
greatly moved by the agitating incidents of the past hour, 
and Simon's revelation of the causes of his unalterable 
hate clothed him, in some sort, even in the good saint's 
eyes, with a sort of excuse for all his violence, past and to 
come. The other burghers still felt most deeply the heavy 
griefs of their colleague, and fixing their eyes on him stood, 
expecting every instant to see him strike the knight dead 
with his heavy dagger, in a transport of blinding fury. 
But nothing of the kind occurred. Simon drew his hand 
across his brow to clear away the great drops of perspira- 
tion, and then, as if he had instantly recovered complete 


possession of his presence of mind, coldly inquired of his 
colleagues whether they had thought of the measures 
proper to be taken in eflFecting the exchange of the priso- 
ners : the affair, it is true, was not brought to a close by 
their mere consent to exchange, for a courier must be at 
once despatched to the Maiden of Cornouiller to make 
known the conclusion of the discussion in council, and the 
choice of a messenger was a difficult one. Who among 
the burghers would dare to go out and affront the maraud- 
ing bands, still doubtless in the field, and risk his neck over 
and over again before he could reach the chatel on the rock 
and the redoubtable chatelaine ? For an expedition a brave 
man merely was not enough ; what was wanted was a per- 
son not brave merely, but adroit, keen, subtle, and well 
qualified to negotiate and to settle the terms of the exchange. 
Luckily for all parties the question was promptly resolved ; 
for Norbert offered to go at once to Cornouiller ; and it 
was a very fortunate thing too, as probably he was the 
only individual in the town that could take on him such a 
commission as that. The truth is, that in all quarrels 
whatever between the new communes and the nobles and 
monks, it was too much the custom to treat all burghers as 
seditious and rebellious folk and not as real belligerents. 
Even after the settling of that point, there was yet another, 
and that was to determine the exact method of carrying 
out the convention, or, at least, to lay the programme be- 
fore the lady chatelaine. It was a delicate and difficult 
point, for on both sides it was supposed that the adversary 
would not scruple to seize any chance whatever to get back 
its hostage and keep fast hold of its prisoner as well. All 
danger of that sort must be provided against. 

After many pros and conSy Payen proposed that Mahaut 
should agree to a meeting, to be held next day, in an 
open field half way between the tower and the castle. 


The countTy there was a wîde plain easily to be overlooked 
to a distance. Through the plain ran the little river that 
we have seen flowing beneath the bridge at the foot of the 
abbey-hill ; and Payen proposed that each party, consist- 
ing of twelve men on horseback, not including the prisoners 
(on both sides), should advance to the banks of the stream, 
over which a bridge made of two planks only was to be 
thrown. He further proposed a stipulation, that neither 
arrows nor crossbows nor bolts should be brought on the 
ground by either party. As monseigneur, if set at liberty, 
would increase his side by the addition of one man, it must 
be further agreed that no horse should be led up for his 
use, but he might mount one belonging to any one of the 
men-at-arms. After the discussion and settlement of all 
these questions, which the old canon pronounced quite 
reasonable and proper, Philippe was led back to his dun- 
geon with hopes of stajring there only one more night, and 
the old canon, grasping his long staff, quitted the building 
and set off on the road to Cornouiller Castle again. 

The appearance of a country where war has just left its 
blood-stained track is far otherwise sinister looking than 
any natural landscape, however sombre and awful. In this 
respect man's superiority over nature is tenîble indeed : 
he creates scenes more horrible than precipice or deep and 
dark abyss, or bellowing and foaming cataract, or even a 
snow-covered desert, where the eye discerns in the frozen 
distance no living thing save a flight of famished crows 
struggling with flapping wing to win their way against 
the driving gale I Such scenes are less terrible to the be- 
holder than the most fertile lands, overrun by an army with 
fire and sword and remorseless revenge. Here, through 
the whole territory of Typhaines, he could find nothing but 
blackened ruins and trampled plantations. A few short 
hours had sufficed to destroy the labor of many years ; the 


cabins were burned or torn to pieces ; trees blackened with 
flame, their foliage all gone, seemed to lift up their wild, 
wierd, and naked branches as if imploring for pity — ^the 
shrubs all torn up by the roots and the vines broken down 
and their stakes all destroyed. Here and there a dead 
body or a mutilated limb might be met with among the 
general desolation, to show how cruel is war in its rage. 
As Norbert moved onward amidst these sickening sights, 
he could not find it in his heart not to turn aside from the 
path again and again to seek out some wounded or suffering 
serf, who might admit of having his wound dressed, or, at 
least be prepared through that good priest's ministry for 
his last long journey ; he did, indeed, succeed in giving 
relief to more than one poor fellow-mortal crushed and 
bruised under his fallen roof or beams, and who were still 
alive when he found them. But remembering that should 
he not reach the chatel in time, Mahaut was the woman to 
keep her word and put Damerones to death agreeably to 
her declared purpose, he sighed, as he felt constrained to 
choose between two such duties, and made up his mind, 
once for all, not to stop again for any cause, whatever its 
urgency might be ; and so he went on at a great pace, his 
long staff in hand. 

He at length crossed the Typhaines frontier and now 
was walking fast on the lands of Cornouiller, when he 
soon met with a party of men-at-arms headed by one of 
Mahaut's fourteen allies, who recognized him and greeting 
him reverently furnished him with a horse, by which means 
he soon afterwards reached Madame Mahaut's towers. A& 
the afternoon was growing late, and his uneasiness on the 
score of Damerones was excessive, he had procured from 
the commander of the party a man and horse, to be 
despatched with all speed to announce his approach to the 
chatel. It was perhaps no useless precaution, for night 


was already down on the world around, as the canon passed 
in through the outer gate, and went up to the great castle 

It was the same apartment where we first saw the Lady 
Mahaut surrounded by her women, and her noble vassals 
as they were then listening with compunction to the pious 
exhortations and counsels of the venerable priest and mis- 
sionary from Treves, all saintly as he was. But the aspect 
of the place was now greatly changed : on the immense hall 
table preparations for supper had been completed ; and at 
the end of the hall Madame Mahaut was seated in the place 
of honor, at the head of the feast, her servants all standing 
duly arranged behind the seigneural chair. Order had 
not yet been given them to go to the lower end of the table 
and take their seats there. The fourteen seigneurs were 
seated nearer to Mahaut according to their several ages, 
the oldest being nearest the place of honor. Two elderly 
gentlemen with long white beards sat one on each side 
and next to the noble maiden ; the rest of the hall was 
filled with armed vassals and vassal nobles, all free to par- 
take of the lady's hospitable fare which was far more 
abounding than elegant. 

Norbert's first glance at his fair penitent convinced him 
she was not just then in a mood so humble and tender- 
hearted as he had seen on other occasions. She, never- 
theless, arose as he approached her throne, -and kneeled 
down, her hands joined and somewhat raised as he ad- 
vanced to pronounce the benediction, and that ceremony 
over, resumed her seat and pointed to a place for the holy 
canon near her own. 

"You are come back to my house, holy father," said she, 
" and they tell me you bring good news with you. Can I 
really count on Monseigneur Philippe's speedy arrival 
here ?" 


"Without the least doubt, my daughter," responded the 
canon, "you will see your affianced husband to-morrow; 
that is to say, if you but accept the conditions of exchange 
that I am charged to lay before you." 

"I agree to them already," said she, "though it is a 
galling thing for a noble lady, as I am, to treat on terms 
of equality with a band of insurgent serfs. But you, father, 
who are a prudent man, tell me, I prithee, what I am to 
think of that mad creature of a girl you sent here as a 
hostage ?" 

Madame Mahaut fixed a scrutinizing gaze on old Nor- 
bert's face, and as he made no reply, nor even seemed to 
understand her question, she went on : — 

" Yes, father, what am I to think of that burgher-girl 
who, without compulsion of any kind, and entirely alone, 
passed my portcullis, though her father and his friends 
are bent on the execution to death of a gentleman to 
whom I am betrothed? There must doubtless be some 
mystery in the matter that it behooves rae to know, and I 
cannot, so it seems to me, do better than inquire of your 
holiness, who art the protector of my hostage." 

" Your hostage I" said Norbert; " did I send the maiden 
to you as a hostage ? I thought I sent her as a sister, rather, 
and I begged you to treat her with the kindness and re- 
spect due to virtue, as well as to common charity. What 
did you do with my orders ?" 

" At Chatel Cornouiller," replied Mahaut, " I alone have 
a right to utter such a word as that ; and I alone give 
orders here I and as long as my palm remains unclasped by 
a husband's hand, never 'will I receive orders from any 
person. Orders ? Indeed I My prisoner is in the donjon 
prison ; that 's her proper place." 

" Proud girl I" cried Norbert, in a rage, " I '11 break you 
like a reed — I '11 make you feel the sting of the Lord I" 


When these words of the priest were heard, a marmnr ran 
through the whole crowded apartment, among the gentle- 
men assembled there, and one of the oldest of the nobles, 
whose seat was next to the lady's, cried — 

" Upon my soul, these clergy-folk are growing very 
insolent I I We seen the time when, for a lesser thing 
than that, a monk would have been tossed from the top 
of the rampart into the foss below." But old Norbert, who 
never was known to quail in the presence of a burgher 
man, was equally immovable in the palaces of the nobles, ' 
and 80, going on with his apostrophe in the same supreme 
vein — 

" Down on your knees, Mahaut," cried he, "confess your 
sin, and order the saintly maiden to be instantly withdrawn 
from your dungeon." 

Mahaut did not quit her great lordly seat, but turning 
with a cold smile on the old seigneur who had so warmly 
given words to his indignation, she said : " Monseigneur, 
we must make some allowance to the exceeding worth of 
this holy personage ; he always does everything for the 
best, and if he has made a mistake here let God be his 
judge — not we ourselves ; and you, my men," turning to 
her vassals, " go you and bring the prisoner hither, since 
the canon appears dissatisfied with the hospitalities she 
has received at our hands. Possibly by bringing her face 
to face with him we shall be able the better to guess the 
motives for her strange behavior." 

" In the behavior of Damerones, there 's nothing strange, 
nothing whatever, nor did I ever refuse to tell you every- 
thing about her, that I could declare without violating 
secrets of the coLfessional. That young woman is a saint, 
and I have sealed her beforehand, though she knows no- 
thing on the subject as yet, to become one of the lambs of 
the Saviour^s fiock. She this very day saves the life of 


Monseigneur de Cornehaut, and by that good action has 
redeemed her own soul." 

" Don't you think she will lose it, the rather ?" ironically 
inquired Mahaut. " I don't know much, or rather I don't 
know anything at all about the mad actions that follow in the 
train of a guilty passion ; but I have heard troubadours tell 
that they are many and wholly unbounded; the thing people 
call love, and which is accursed of God, may possibly in- 
spire the hearts of such poor wretches with what may look 
like courage ; and in the olden time such things even have 
been seen as women, utterly forgetful of the modest reserve 
appropriate to their sex and their low birth, as even to 
nurse hopes the most extravagant and insensate. I do not 
make these remarks for the purpose of accusing your Dame- 
rones, as you call her, for I really know nothing about her, 
nor do I imagine that anything less than a crazy brain 
could have led so ugly a creature as she is to nourish a 
pride so supremely ridiculous. I merely lay my poor 
thought before you, and now I beg you to give me your 

Mahaut now ceased talking in that constrained and 
frigid style, and grasping the arms of her lordly chair she 
bent far forwards towards the canon and went on — 

"Know right well. Sir Canon, that had I reason to 
suspect even the true loyalty of Monseigneur Philippe, it 
wouldn't be for long that I would bear the shame of being 
a deceived maiden ? Never would I condescend to be his 
dupe; and traitors of all sorts should soon learn how I 
right my own wrongs. Hah I indeed I think you then that 
I here at Cornouiller, surrounded with armed men, dream- 
ing of nothing but assaults, plunderings, and ambushes 
through night and through day for the life of a man who is 
not yet my husband, leading a most odious existence, and 
all that to the sole end of being cheated, cajoled, and insulted 



bj a miserable adventuress brought in here, into my own 
castle, to lay snares for m j simplicity ? Oh no, my lord 
Canon ; do not mistake me so far as that comes to ; and 
if the Sire de Cornehaut counts on rewarding me for all 
the past by such compensation, he may stay with his 
burgher-folk and live with them if he likes. He can 
swap his buckler for the compter, or exchange his sword 
for a shuttle for all I care about it. I can find another 
spouse if I choose — let him make his election — and the 
sooner the better." 

" Young lady I" said Norbert in reply, " I thought you 
had a sounder head, and a riper reason than now seems to 
be the fact. The human heart needs only be opened for 
the admission of a single sin, and hosts rush in to fill every 
chamber of it. Put away all this violence and you will 
see the truth more clearly. As far as I can make out your 
meaning, you are here accusing Monseigneur de Cornehaut 
of engaging in projects of a nature most insulting to his 
affianced bride for the sake of indulging in a culpable at- 
tachment to another woman I I don't know whether in the 
present state of your mind and heart you can put trust in 
me so far as to believe what I might have to say on the 

"Yes, father I" cried Mahaut, suddenly changing the 
train of her emotions, and as humble now as she was arro- 
gant before. " Yes, father, only tell me that Philippe is 
not in love with that girl, and that there is nothing between 
them — only swear me that, and upon my soul, and by my 
hopes of heaven, I will at once go and kiss her, not as a 
sister, but as if she was an angel just come down from 

Norbert looked down at the flag-stones of the hall floor, 
and after a moment of reflection was just about to speak 
in reply when Damerones made her appearance, led as she 
was by the sergeants-at-arms into the great donjon hall. 



While the poor crusader's imprisonment in the abbey 
gaol at Tjphaines had been by no means pleasant or gentle, 
the dungeon in which Damerones had been confined was 
not more demonaire than the knight's she loved. Though 
it was not so savage a place as the one at Castle de Pomes, 
which, rumor said, was crammed with snakes and toads, 
and so dreadful that the very strongest of the people shut 
up there were never known to survive its horrors for more 
than five or six days, especially when the jailers happened 
to forget to send in water or victuals, it was bad enough 
at least to inspire some feeling of terror : the dungeon 
had been excavated in the solid rock far below the foundation 
of the great keep, and was so damp and dark that, though 
it was August, the place was as cold as a cellar, which in- 
deed it was. There was not a ray of light there any more 
than there had been in old Lienard's deep underground 
cell in Typhaines, where she had met and talked with 
Monseigneur, and dressed his poor wounded head for him. 
The only furniture in the hole was the bundle of straw 
that for time immemorial had been the sole couch now re- 
newed for the bruised and aching limbs of the beautiful 
maid of Typhaines. 

Still, it is true to say that if the borough dungeon had 
been lighted, embellished, and magnified by the firm cou- 
rage of the chevalier, the horrors of the chatelaine's were 
victoriously combated and overcome by the high-souled 
devotion and amazing love of the consul's sweet child. 


Still, brought up as she was, out of the horrible darkness 
of that dreadful cavern, her hands yet bound with cords, 
and into the light of the room, Norbert was shocked to see 
how pale she was. A body when sustained by a yigorous 
soul within may struggle for long, but it will grow weaker 
and weaker ; its generous internal monitor in vain points 
out to it the ideal palm branches of virtue in the good and 
the incorruptible ; it hearkens ; it obeys the brave counsellor 
within, but it suffers, and nothing can prevent it from suf- 
fering ; and so, and in such circumstances, Damerones came 
into the hall emaciated by a week of captivity ; her beautiful 
hair all dishevelled ; her garments all stained and befouled, 
yet her face calm, her eyes serene, and her attitude distin- 
guished for its noble tranquillity. 

To be perfectly candid in our relation of the incidents 
of this history, we feel constrained to say how harshly Ma- 
haut had treated the devoted maiden, that sweet rose of 
Typhaines. When the young girl first appeared in the 
presence of the chatelaine with Canon Norbert's letter in 
her hand, and told her in brief and simple terms that she 
had come to give herself up as hostage, for the purpose of 
rescuing Monseigneur de Cornehaut from imminent execu- 
tion, the first emotion of the lady was to press her to her 
bosom, even though she was only a burgher-girl ; but a 
rapid glance at the young person, her countenance, her 
figure, her whole out look, iustantly gave check to the 
sympathetic emotion, and Mahaut very coldly proceeded 
to interrogate her about the motives for a devotion so com- 
plete and bizarre. The poor girPs reserve, her very silence 
even; an indiscreet blush that overspread her features; 
and the downcast looks; all these had been felt like so 
many stabs to the very heart of the jealous lady of the 
chatel. Finding that interrogatories brought nothing but 
imperfect or evasive replies, and that everything, every 


step in the daring course Damerones had taken, was en- 
yeloped in mystery, she at once concluded to the very worst : 
her excited imagination carried her far wide of the truth, 
and she took it into her head that the consul's child was 
not only in love with Messire Philippe, but that the knight 
himself had proved to be by no means insensible to her 
affection, and that the righteous indignation of an angry 
parent had lent additional force to the motives that insti- 
gated the comrauneers to desire his death. Hence her very 
first thought was to cast her prisoner into the tower dun- 

Mahaut now gave herself wholly up to the wild trans- 
ports of this unfounded jealousy : wild, incoherent passions, 
doubts, even perfect certainty of the truth of her suspicions 
took place by turns and completely mastered her soul. 
Once, during the night, she sent for Rigauld, and despatched 
him with orders to put the young woman to death, and 
then suddenly revoked the orders and dismissed the forester 
from her presence. At times she made up her mind to let 
Messire perish at the hands of the rebels, and reserve for 
herself the pleasure of putting Damerones to death by pro- 
tracted torture. Then again she could not bear the thought 
of leaving her betrothed husband to perish at Typhaines. 
Then again she conceived the bold idea of carrying the 
burgh by assault, putting the whole population to the 
sword, carrying off Philippe to the rock of Cornouiller and 
executing him and his paramour at the same instant of time. 
Again she as suddenly dismissed all these hateful projects 
and melted into tears, complaining and bemoaning herself 
as the unhappiest of women. 

All these passionate strivings of her soul were fighting 
and struggling in inextricable confusion within ; she yet, on 
the other hand, steadily thought out and resolved with 
unequalled skill and perseverance a plan for the prosecu- 


tion of war to the death against the rebels in the town. 
She had, as we already are aware, availed herself of the 
negotiations set on foot by Master Simon, and at the same 
time had effected an alliance with the surronnding nobles, 
whom she succeeded in convincing that the existence of a 
communal autonomy in the neighborhood was a far greater 
peril to their material interests than any wrath they might 
perhaps arouse in the heart of their proper suzerain the 
Count de Nevers. By means of the money in her strong 
boxes she had raised a body of men-at-arms, reinforced 
her garrison, and, by firing her old seneschaPs courage, had 
induced him to execute a successful attack on Messire 
Anseau's tower, which he carried by a coup-de-main, and 
so, by wresting one of his best fortresses out of de Pomes' 
hands, forced him to quit Typhaines and hurry home to the 
defence of his own estates. In this way the little twelfth 
century chatelaine hatched out in her brain, and in her 
soul — both alike active and impassioned — schemes, per- 
haps, as fierce as if they had been born of the genius of 
Catherine the Second, and, in fact, her audacity was not 
less than that of the great empress herself, though the 
limited extent of her dominions so dwarfed them in the 

It was the return of her feeling of tenderness that made 
her bend in the old canon's presence, but all that vanished 
-at once when Damerones stopped near her fauteuil. Nor- 
bert did not utter a word, and all the snakes in Mahaut's 
heart at once began hissing again. 

She stretched forth her hand toward the captive maid, 
and with a proud imperious voice she spoke — 

" Young woman," said she, " to-morrow you are to go 
back to your burgh ; the noble knight, whom you desired to 
rescue, will owe his life to your attachment — ^as his affianced 
bride, I give you thanks for that. I am willing even to 


forego my righteous indignation. It is, perhaps, the cus- 
tom with people of your class to not blush for what dis- 
graces them ; be that as it may — you are to go home to 
your people to-morrow, and my wish is that you may be 
happy there." 

" Had you waited, lady, for my response," said the canon, 
" you would not have uttered those arrogant words, which, 
though they cover you with shame, can leave no stain on 
the character of Damerones for purity and virtue. I now 
swear, since you have asked me to take my oath, that Mon- 
seigneur never entertained a thought of love for this pure 
maiden, and that he never spoke to her a single word that 
could, by any possibility, prove offensive to you." 

Mahaut blushed, and smiled too. Hers was like Juno's 
joy when her immortal spouse had just sanctioned her 
Olympian will. 

'* How then happens it, holy father, that you made me 
wait so long for so simple an answer as that? Do you 
really care whether I complain and weep, or no ? Philippe 
is a noble gentleman, and you, my child, you are fair enough 
to please some peasant who will offer you his hand one of 
these days. Fair ? indeed I but perhaps there is pride 
dwelling in your heart, and you think yourself above your 
station ? Though it may chance to be true that Philippe 
is no lover of yours, is it true that you never tried to win 
him ?" 

At the beginning of this speech of Mahaut's, Damerones 
seemed perfectly quiet and composed, but was evidently 
troubled at the question that closed it ; her eyes were at 
first downcast, and then, as if imploring his succor, they 
were turned to the canon, who was by no means insensible 
to the mute appeal. 

"What concern have you, Madame Mahaut, with the 
private thoughts of a burgher-girl ? To be simple and 


foolish is not the same thing as to be criminal. It might, 
one woald think, be enough for you to know that Dame- 
rones has saved Monseigneur's head ; and that, without the 
smallest personal offence to you. Is not the dreadful im- 
prisonment you have subjected her too enough to hush 
down any rash thoughts, if any such, indeed, did ever win 
their way to the secret chamber of this poor girl's heart ?'' 

Mahaut bit her lip, looked hard and long at the captive 
before her, and as if she had at last made up her mind she 
said — 

" Well, then, be it so I I give my assent to the exchange, 
and I accept the conditions. But, instead of twelve knights, 
I will take only eleven, for I intend to be present myself 
on the occasion ; and now let this young person have a 
seat among my women at the lower end of the table : you, 
holy father, I pray you, take a seat beside me here, and 
let us no longer hinder these gallant gentlemen from be- 
ginning their supper. By my truly, after the noble deeds 
they wrought this morning, it is, on the whole, matter of 
conscience to treat their hunger and their thirst as well as 
we are able to do." 

The entire company greeted the address of the chatel 
dame with delighted looks, and for a few moments nothing 
was to be heard in the hall but the clattering of stools that 
were hurried up to the table, the clank of mail armor, 
swords ringing and they clashing their scabbards against 
each other as their owners hastened to their places at table; 
then the clattering of knives, the clink of the dnnking- 
cups against each other as the knights drank healths 
together. Everybody was too hungry to take time to 
carry on conversation, which was wholly suspended for a 
good long quarter-hour, and young and old alike never 
thought of talking until they had swallowed, in rapid 
succession, many a brimming cup — such bumpers as would 


look very wonderful at our modern tables. Still, it must 
be confessed that thej did put a bridle on their thirst, 
knights, squires, sergeants, and all, for they knew that 
at Cornouiller, though only admitted there by the ne- 
cessities of the war-time, they were in the presence of 
the most rigorous and severest chatelaine in the whole 
canton. Not an equivocal phrase, not a coarse jest, not 
even an incipient sign of intoxication, would have been 
pardoned by the mistress of the manor, who, in ordinary 
times, habitually refused the visits of her neighbors, for fear 
of remarks ; she being resolved that her name should and 
must be kept spotless and unquestioned ; besides, they had 
begun, at that epoch, to treat the sex with that tenderness 
and respect which was afterwards carried by the chivalry 
of Europe to the very greatest height. Had there chanced 
to be among all that crowd of mail-clad men with hearts 
as hard as their steel covering, an insolent, twenty of 
the giants about him would most certainly have pitched 
him out of a window on to the scarped rock below ; and so 
it was that Mahaut and her women were surrounded by a 
company of barons who composed a far more elegant, and 
far more refined society than what might be expected to 
be met with in a much more advanced period of civilization. 

When the conversation at length began to flow freely 
among the guests, no words were heard of a nature to 
wound the delicacy of the female portion of the party at 
table, or even of the Holy Canon of Treves himself; but the 
talk was of wars and battle-fields ; subjects familiar to women 
and men alike, and from the highest down to the lowest 
ranks in the assemblage: for seven or eight hundred 
years it was the familiar, if not really the sole topic of 
conversation in the rock-built castles of France. 

Monseigneur Philippe's deliverance now seemed likely 
to impart a far higher energy to the military operations of 

3C2 TYPaAlN£S ABB£7. 

the lords of the Cornoailler league. Though he was not 
the eldest, and very far from the wealthiest of the confede- 
rated seigneurs, it was the most natural thing in the world 
« for him, as Mahaut's affianced husband, to take chief com- 
mand in the confederacy — and again, he was a crusader ; 
he was just returned from his campaigns in the Holy Land; 
he had not only fought the Paynim, but had scattered them 
with the edge of his good sword, and that was enough .to 
give him marked superiority over the other seigneurs of the 
Canton, which, moreover, was a thing not to be questioned 
by any person. 

In the company at table there was one individual, seated 
among the knights and squires, who made himself the ob- 
ject of much attention by means of his excessive loquacity. 
He was a huge one-eyed man, who every now and then 
struck the haft of his knife heavily on the table to mark» 
as it were, the intensity of his affirmations, and who was 
drawing a striking picture of the joy there would be at 
the taking of Tjphaines by assault. That gallant and 
eloquent personage was none else than Fulk the Taciturn ; 
but the fact is that the happiness he felt at the thought of 
soon seeing his dear master had quite upset him. 

" I suppose," said he to the squire in his neighborhood, 
** that you don't know what Monseigneur Philippe is, and 
how well he understands the whole business of carrying 
on war. Oh I we are going to do it in great style now, as 
he is to come back to us ; and those commnneers will fiud 
somebody to talk to when he does come. I give 'em but one 
week more before their town is carried, their houses burned 
down and pillaged, and if only what they say about their 
wealth is true, I promise you now that all these knights 
here will be made counts, every squire a banneret, every 
man that is sergeant-at^arms a feoffed nobleman. Look 
yonder ; there 's a man has seen my master, and he can tell 


you how he manages his war-charger — ^yonder, that 's him, 
that queer-looking fellow there in the corner, who sits star- 
ing at something with his stupid eyes. Halloa ! Rigauld, 
tell us what you think of Monseigneur Philippe." 

The Abbot's forester, thus interpellated, seemed to wake 
out of a sort of dream ; he replied in a few unintelligible 
words to Fulk's apostrophe, and went on staring at the 
chatelaine's women. There was a sort of terror-struck 
look in his gaze ; but no one paid any attention to that, 
and Fulk continued to perorate with his neighbors and a 
few knights near him, while Mahaut was quietly convers- 
ing with the canon, the seneschal, and the two old gentle- 
men. The forester was so completely absorbed that he 
didn't touch a mouthful of the bacon and oaten bread that 
was set before him on his wooden dish. Open-mouthed, 
and face as pale as a sheet, he seemed to be contemplating 
some frightful object, and sat out the whole supper, with- 
out once budging ; a circumstance that would certainly have 
brought down a deluge of questions had it happened in 
any other company. 

Supper being now at an end, all such as had no military 
duty on hand for the night, went off to their sleeping places : 
the canon was ushered to the oratory, where a bed had been 
prepared for him ; and Mahaut, after recommending, with 
a sort of good-will, the prisoner Damerones to the kind 
protection of her women, moved on towards her own 
chamber. She was just about to open the door when she 
found herself held back by her gown. The corridor was 
so dark that the lamp in her hand merely served to show 
how dark it was, and Mahaut, in her surprise, taming to 
see who it was, descried the tall frame and wretched tatters 
of Rigauld the game-keeper. 

"What do you want?" 


" Lady," replietiibe serf, "let me go into your room, I 
must speak to you." 

Now, Mahaut, eyer thinking about something, ever 
anxious, ever uneasy, with a bead full of projects, imagined 
the forester had come to reveal some conspiracy, or treason ; 
an ambush of some kind, or some weakness among her 
friends. She was well aware of the man's devotion to the 
Abbot, and, of course, to herself as well. She therefore did 
not hesitate, and entering the apartment bade him come 
in, and then with her own hand closed the door. 

She took a seat and looked at Rigauld with a grave air. 

** What have you to say to me ?" 

" Do you know that woman in a blue frock that was at 
the supper-table just now, in the hall ?" 

" Yes," said Mahaut, •" it was Damerones, the cloth mer- 
chant's girl at Typhaines ; her I am to exchange to-morrow 
morning for Monseigneur Philippe, my affianced husband. 
Do you know anything about her ?" 

Rigauld looked all round the room distrustfully, and then 
lowering his voice, said — 

" Who do you take her to be, lady ?" 

'* Who do I take her to be ? why, for Master Simon's 
daughter, one of the commune leaders." 

" You are mistaken ; she isn't what she seems to be," 
said Rigauld. 

"Are you gone out of your senses, you clown? or 
are you daring to make a jest of me ? Canon Norbert 
knows her — and he answers for her to me." 

" Well then, Canon Norbert," continued Rigauld, " as 
well as yourself, has been duped by the devil, that 's all. 
I tell you that person in the blue frock out there at your 
supper-table among your women, never budging, never 
eating one morsel, never speaking one single word, was 
anything but the girl you think she was." 


"Who îs she, then?" 

" Who is she ?" echoed Rigauld. 

" Yes — explain yourself !" 

" She — she, please God I she 's St. ProcuPs fairy ... the 
spring over yonder I" 

Rigauld looked so frightened as he uttered these words, 
evidently torn out of him by mere force, and spite of his 
horror, by his fidelity to the chatelaine, that Mahaut began 
to tremble too, and she crossed herself. But after a short 
silence and brief reflection she got the better of it, and 
cried out — 

" What nonsense I I know all about your encounter 
with St. ProcuPs Spring fairy; and it is a certain fact 
that it was through her we got wind of the Abbot's peril ; 
but why should she come here and surrender herself prisoner 
in my hands ? Why would the holy canon assure me she 
was really and truly Master Simon's daughter ? Of course 
you must know that the most powerful creatures of that 
kind are never able to disguise themselves from a priest's 
eyes — at least not very long. I answer for it, you are 
mistaken I even if Damerones was to try to cheat us, she 
could not cheat Canon Norbert ; you may be sure of that. 
You have been misled by some false resemblance." 

" How came it, then," continued Rigauld, '* that when I 
went into your hall and saw Damerones, she flushed up all 
red and put up her finger to her lip as a sign to bid me be 
silent ?" 

'*Didshedo that?" 

" I am ready to take my oath she did, my lady I I don't 
know whether the monks are liable to be cheated by devils 
or whether they ar'n't ; but there 's one thing certain, and 
that is, St. Procul's fairy is one of the worst kind, and the 
whole country knows about many a trick of hers that the 
patron of the abbey never could keep the folks clear of. 



As to being cheated by her, why, St. Procul had to bear it 
a hundred times orer, and be 41 have to bear it again too." 

This argamcnt was a strong one, and Mahaut, who had 
as long a list of the witch's pranks as anybody, could find 
not a word to say against it ; and then too, npon reflection, 
it struck her as a very singular thing that both the fairy 
and Damerones should have taken it into their heads to 
fall in love with the knight, and with equal devotion too : 
to her it seemed out of the question for Damerones to have 
dared to strive in a question of love with her diabolical 
rival, and so she went so far as to conceive that one of 
those devilish tragedies must have been performed some 
dark night that we still now and then hear of in country 
parts. She began to suspect that the wicked sprite in a 
jealous fit had sucked out, while the girl was fast asleep, 
from one of those imperceptible wounds that they know 
how to make in the throat, every drop of blood, and then 
get inside and wear the dead body by way of disguise. As 
soon as the infamous cheat has answered its purpose the 
wicked goblin just walks out and leaves the carcass any- 
where by the way-side, as a thing no longer of any use. 
On such gloomy fantastic wings as these Mahaut soon rose 
up to a height of terror as lofty as Rigauld's own, who 
stood there with his teeth clattering and his knees knock- 
ing together with the horror. 

For a time the chatelaine seemed to feel her castle-walls 
shaking on their rock bases as if they were about to tumble 
down to the plain below. She thought she heard voices in 
the corridors ; jeering and demoniac bat- wings, fluttering in 
ironical impatience at the leaden window sash of her room; 
yet all these menacing appearances were mere fear-crea- 
tions ; nothing really stirred, and those old walls and towers 
were destined to keep up their blackened stone-blocks for 


ages to come above the country they commanded far and 
wide around them. 

" Hearken to me," she said; "if, as you belieye, and with 
some appearance of truth too, that Damerones is the fairy 
of St. ProcuPs Spring, she- must be a fool of a fairy, indeed ; 
and her passion for Monseigneur must have turned her 
very brain. She has had plenty of time, in the course of a 
whole week she ^s been in my dungeon here, to tear us all 
to pieces ; as she has done nothing at all of the kind, it 's 
clear she couldn't, and that 's why she didn't do it, and 
hasn't a bit of foresight ; for by her own confession as well 
as the canon's testimony, which can't be disputed. Mon- 
seigneur keeps on loving me just all the same. May be 
she has not got any knowledge of the future ; and they do 
say Satan himself doesn't know a whit about it either, and 
can only judge of it, and reason, just like any learned clerc. 
But do you attend now to what I am going to say : do 
you know a place called Rusquet- woods ?" 

" Yes," replied the man, "just as well as if I had planted 
every tree in it myself. It 's on the other side of the river, 
where it crowns two of the low hills : the road from the 
burgh that goes through it is so narrow that two men on 
horseback can't ride abreast in it." 

" But, on the other hand, it 's a good place for an am- 
bush ?" said she. 

" So good a one that in the other old Abbot's time, Seig- 
neur de Pomes used to hide in it every year, at the Tj- 
phaines fair time, and never failed to get a fine booty out 
of the foreign merchants that came to it, no matter how 
big their escort." 

"As you know the place so well," said the lady, "you 
must go and softly wake up the seneschal and tell him to 
come to me at once ; I wish to speak to him here. I will 
give you both an order, which, if it should succeed, shaU 


giye yon your freedom, and a piece of land with a cabin 
on it : now go ; make no noise, and come back directly." 

While Riganld was away the damsel went to her prie- 
Dieu, and with a fervor warmed by her inward excitement 
paid oat all the orisons she had learned since her childhood 
days ; nor did she neglect to make a vow to our Lady of 
Chartres ; and she exhausted every measure in her reach, to 
secare Heaven's favoring smile before she would undertake 
to succeed by mere temporal measures. By this method 
of proceeding she in some degree recovered her tranquil- 
lity ; she gradually got back her presence of mind, and 
glowing with the thought of the struggle she was about to 
engage in, this terrible young chatelaine, whom men could 
hardly have terrified, felt ready to go in cold blood into a 
fight with the powers of hell itself. 

The seneschal now came in guided by the faithful Ki- 
gauld. There he had a very serious conference, ending in 
an agreement that the old knight, accompanied with a 
number of well-mounted sergeants-at-arms, the best armed 
and bravest of the fief, should quietly set forth to the am- 
bush in Rusquet woods and hide as completely as possible 
in the closest part of the thicket, and wait perdu, until the 
return of the burgher troops from the place where the ex- 
change was to be efTected. The seneschal's men were to 
rush from their hiding places, and probably finding the 
communeers off their guard, seize the maiden and convey 
her back to the chatel. Such was the plan arranged by 

When the seneschal heard these orders he began to shake 
his head, and confessed that, as far as he could see, nothing 
could look more like an act of perjury, and to give things 
their real names a shocking disloyalty. But the damsel, 
who was expecting such a reproof, most pertinently re- 
marked that, with demons and sorcerers there can be no 


binding engagement; that common morals could not be 
brought into question in the case ; and to conclude, directed 
Rigauld to tell his whole story to the old knight. 

The forester obeyed, and such was the conversion ope- 
rated by his tale upon the recalcitrant warrior that he at 
once agreed that no time was to be lost. 

"You are quite in the right," said he to Mahaut, "not 
to allow such a creature as that to go tramping about the 
country ; but if you will believe me, you would do very 
well not to let her come back here to the manor, where, as 
soon as she discovers that she is found out, she may, per- 
haps, do her very worst. Therefore I shall go and seize 
her at the ambuscade, tie her hard and fast, and as I cross 
the river throw her in with a stone fastened to her neck, 
and let her go to the bottom." 

Rigauld swore that better advice never had been given, 
and the young lady, seeing nothing objectionable in it, gave 
her assent to the happy proposal of her faithful seneschal. 
The conference now broke up and they went off, Mahaut to 
her bedroom, Rigauld to the stables to see the horses sad- 
dled, and the seneschal to the donjon rooms where the men 
he had most confidence in were sleeping, and who had given 
proofs of their fitness by their behavior at the assault on 
Anseau's castle ; behavior to make them fairly crow over 
their companions. Without the least noise, or any parade, 
the chosen troops soon quitted the tower, known only to the 
warder at the gate ; plunged out into the dark, and went 
forward to reach their post before the first morning beams 
should begin to light up the slumbering world. 

At the manor all was still and at rest save poor Dame- 
rones, who was kept awake and full of concern for Monseig- 
neur Philippe's safety. Even although her deliverance 
seemed certain and near at hand, the consul's child, as 
everybody laboring with strong desires must, kept trem- 


bling lest some unforeseen obstacle should be found to de- 
feat the ends of her self-devotion. So great was her abne- 
gation, and so sublime the power imparted by her love, that 
she no more thought about the cruel imprisonment she was 
now to leave, than of the terrible situation which she was 
to encounter in the presence of her angry parent. What 
was the hatred of the Damoisel of Cornouiller to her ; or 
the indignation of the Typhaines chief ? For herself, every- 
thing hinged on the single point whether the knight was to 
be safe and happj ? Although she had revealed to her 
father the hope she cherished of espousing, some day, the 
gallant chevalier, and though in moments of calm she gave 
herself up to the seductive charm of such notions — she now 
thought no more about them. To rescue Philippe — to 
know him free and safe — ^to think of him on his war-horse 
and prancing free in the field like a knight, good and true — 
that was her whole dream ; that was all. She had put her 
life upon a cast, and would have risked it again. She 
would offer it, ever, to win this sole aim and end of a love 

Day broke at last, before she had once closed her eyes 
in sleep. She heard the garrison trumpets that waked the 
knights. The women in whose apartment the rose of Ty- 
phaines had spent the night arose, dressed, and hurried oflT 
to give their personal attention to the mistress, and then 
Eulk soon made his appearance, beckoned to her with his 
hand, and invited her to go down into the castle court-yard. 
There she saw Mahaut seated on her courser, surrounded 
by eleven cavaliers on their war horses; the chatelaine, 
then without a word to the girl, pointed to a palfrey, upon 
which Fulk seated her, and the good squire having got 
his feet into his stirrups, and leading the pony that was 
bearing his master's ransom, the entire troop moved off 
silently, preceded by Norbert, marching on foot with his 
^ong staff in his hand. 



It was noon ; the warm golden sunshine came down oat 
of a high heaven of purest blue. The insects in the grasses 
of the plain were humming, and a few birds were fluttering 
among the branches along the river brink. From opposite 
sides of the widespread plain two troops of cavaliers were 
seen approaching with lances and bucklers gleaming like 
so many particular fires. In the centre of the group from 
the manor rode Damerones, between the lady Mahaut and 
a knight ; and Norbert walking close to her bridle rein. In 
the middle of the band from Typhaines, Monseigneur 
Philippe was seen riding a wretched mule, close watched 
by Payen at his side, and by Master Simon too, both co- 
vered with mail, wearing helmets, and draped with ample 
cloaks of a crimson dye. The men and their followers 
were as well armed and equipped as the knightly attend- 
ants of Mahaut herself. 

The two coming parties detached each a scout, to see 
whether all the stipulations of the pact were completely 
fulfilled, and the videttes galloped up to the rustic bridge, 
earnestly reconnoitred the arrangements of the adversary, 
and hurriedly returned, each to his own band, who imme- 
diately moved forwards to the place of rendezvous. As 
soon as the Cornouiller and the Typhaines horse had got 
within fifty paces of the bridge, they halted at a signal 
from the aged canon, who at once crossed the river and 
invited Simon and Payen to accompany their prisoner 


alone, to the foot of the bridge, while Fulk and Mahaut 
were at the same time to lead Damerones to the opposite 

" How 's this ?" cried Payen, " a squire and a woman I 
No, no, holy father I not so ; the consuls of Typhaines are 
no traitors and miscreants, to show greater distrust than 
their adversaries I As the lady of Cornouiller confides so far 
in us. Master Simon shall go alone to meet his daughter ; it 
shall never be said that we are ignorant of courtesy." 

"Holy father," said Philippe, "the downs are great 
scoundrels certainly, but I am sorry to see this black- 
smith among them ; he has the true heart of a genuine 
man-at-arms. However, do not forget that my hands are 
tied hard, and though I said nothing about it. Master Si- 
mon there did his work too well, and I am in a hurry to 
be rid of these ligatures." 

At these words Payen drew his dagger and cut the 
bonds; whereupon brave Sir Philippe most vigorously 
brandished his fists, for the ropes were so tight as to leave 
great bruised blue circles where they had been so long 
hard tied ; he then flew to the bridge. The first person 
he saw at it, and it was quite natural too, was his betrothed 
bride : a cry of joy burst forth as he rushed forwards to 
kneel, seize her hand, and press it to his lips. 

" Oh I Lady — Oh, Mahaut I is it indeed you that I be- 
hold once more, after so weary, weary a time I How beau- 
tiful you have grown I How charming I find you I Oh, 
Mahaut I upon my salvation, lady, I never conceived of a 
being so beautiful as you are I Yes, upon my soul, by my 
eternal hopes, lady, I love you with my whole heart, and 
would die a thousand deaths rather than in the least par- 
ticular break my plighted faith I I am well rewarded for 
my faithful love, now that I gaze on you again, and you 


booking more perfect than paradise itself 1 Oh, MahautI 
Oh, Mahaut !" 

Uttering these passionate, half-sobbing effusions, Phi- 
lippe's countenance was suffused, earnest, and agitated as 
he stammered his expressions ; he seemed to have lost his 
wits, the poor knight ; and it were not a mere figure of 
rhetoric to say, that merely to gaze on her, he thought him- 
self in the seventh heaven. 

On a sudden he heard Master Simon's hoarse voice like 
a thunder tone sounding close by him. 

"Miserable wretch I" said Simon to his child; "come 
home to the family yon have disgraced, to the town you 
betrayed I Come home to tears, and begin a course of 
penance never to end, for your baseness and wickedness I" 

"Stop!" shouted Norbert — "Stop, Master Simon! I 
forbid you, in the name of my mission from the skies, to 
pour out on this dear girl the diabolical invectives of your 
hate. I '11 be there to watch you I be you assured of that I" 

Monseigneur Philippe, at Simon's first words, started up 
out of his ecstacy, and turned at once to Damerones, who 
gtood with her arms crossed on her bosom at the end of the 
bridge stock still, gazing upon the knight with dry eyes, and 
with an expression so deep, so dolorous, so heart rending, 
that though not much of a physiognomist it greatly moved 
him : his idea was that she considered him forgetful of her 
services, and though he still held Mahaut by the hand, for 
he could not go so far as to let go of that, he said in a tender 
accent : — 

" Farewell, young girl ; never will I disown what you 
have done for me : my name is Philippe de Cornehaut, and 
never shall that name be stained by the meanness of in- 
gratitude. Pray remember, and well remember too, that I 
shall never be perfectly happy until some occasion arises 
in which I may do you a good service ; but I will try to 


find out some way to keep my memory fresh in your heart, 
as an honest knight, as long as you live in this world. And 
yon, Master Simon," resumed he in fierce tones, " if I should 
once hear of you forcing one tear from your daughter's eyes, 
I promise you that I '11 hreak every bone in your skin, and 
knock every tooth down your throat ; — however, that 's a 
thing likely to happen, do what you will ;" and he broke 
out in a joyous laugh. Just as he got to an end with that 
harangue, he felt the weight of a couple of heavy hands 
upon his shoulders. 

" And how about me ?" said Fulk. Monseigneur warmly 
returned his worthy squire's friendly greeting ; for when a 
man has roamed half the world over with a true servant, 
suffered heat and cold, hunger and thirst, fought and con- 
quered with him, there is ever a strong embrace when they 
meet again after a long parting. As soon as the knight's 
excited feelings had become assanged a little the old man 
went on to say — 

" I took it into my noddle those fellows would bring you 
back bare-headed, like a prisoner, the miscreants that they 
are I Now here is a helmet I selected for you at Cor- 
nouiller : you just be easy about it ; it is a well-tempered 
one; I amused myself all yesterday evening hacking at 
it with my sword, and it never budged ; and look here, 
here 's a famous blade I hang it to your belt I" 

" Poor Rudaverse !" said Philippe, with a sigh. 

'*0h, we'll have her again," responded Fulk, with a 
perfect satisfaction in that belief. "Here, take me this 
lance in your grip. My souls I your arms are not so very 
nicely blazoned to be sure, but fact is, for want of a better 
hand, I — I painted them myself." 

The giant was talking in quite a modest guise, and still 
holding his master's hand, when — 

" To horse I" said Mahaut in a sharp tone. 


Monseigneur Philippe yanlted into bis saddle with an 
ease and lightness that showed at least how little his late 
imprisonment had wasted his strength, and then, with a 
volte, he was at his mistress' side. He said, submissively : 
" It seems to me that you are vexed with me; you look so, 
to say the least." 

" Why ?" replied the damsel very dryly. 

" Because you haven't spoken a single kind word to me 
since I came. Perhaps you are worried about all these 
nonsensical things I 've been doing since my return. It 's 
true, and I confess it, I ought not to have allowed myself 
to be taken prisoner ; but after all, I love you none the less 
dearly, Mahaut." 

"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Mahaut, "but 
merely answer me one question. What do you think of 
that Damerones ?" 

" She is a very good loyal -hearted girl," said the cru- 
sader very simply. 

" Very well ; but the sight of her is very pleasing to 
you — is it so ?" 

" Faith, it pleased me very much to see her in that dun- 
geon at Typhaines." 

"I suppose you will be excessively obliged to me, then, 
for telling you she 's a sorceress, who was deceiving you at 
that very time." 

" A sorceress ? Why, it 's you that are deceived, not I ; 
Damerones is a very good burgher-girl, and not a sorceress 
at all. I have known her for several years. Let 's see I 
yes, she put me in mind that I used to see her when I was 
at Cambrai, making love to you, Mahaut." 

Mahaut reddened with spite. Witch, fairy, or plain 
mortal, Damerones seemed more hateful now than ever. 
She resumed in an accent that she strove hard so to control 
as to give an idea she cared naught about it, and said : — 


"Really f Is she not a witch ? Then I am sorry for the 
orders I issued concerning her." 

" See, now I you are always talking to me about Dame- 
rones, and not a word about your dear self or me either — 
pouting. Eh I my God I she saved mj life, and — but 
that she is a burgher-girl, I really believe I am very fond 
of her ; but talking about her all the time annoys me, now 
I have been so long parted from you." I 

** Well, we '11 not talk about her any more" — looking half 
cruel, half jesting — " after we have shed a few tears over 
her tragical fate, we will never mention her." 

" Her tragical fate ? I hope she may live many a year, 
and be happy, too I But let 's talk of — about something 

" Live happy ? Why, she 's damned already, and that 
to all eternity I Live I she hasn't two hours to live, I 

" What does all this mean, lady mine ?" 

" It only means that my men-at-arms, who are lying in 
ambush at Rusquet woods, are going to twist her neck and 
throw her to the bottom of the river — that 's what it means." 

"I bet you are joking I" cried Monseigneur, suddenly 
checking his charger. 

" Never was I more in earnest," answered Mahaut, "and 
that 's the very way, in my opinion, that witches onght to 
be treated." 

The chevalier bent down his head — gave a sigh — red- 
dened in the face — grew agitated — then moved forwards 
to ride half a length to the rear of the chatelaine. It was 
apparent that a violent conflict was raging within him ; he 
greatly dreaded the anger of his arrogant fiancee, but could 
not make up his mind to let his benefactress perish. At 
last, he stopped suddenly — quickly raised himself up in 


the stirrups, looked back on the train, and meeting old 
Folk's eyes, shouted with a thunder tone — 

" Follow me, Fulk I gallop I" Driving his rowels into 
the horses flanks he went off like a storm-blast towards the 
bridge he had lately left, crossed it at full speed, and drove 
on, followed by his faithful companion whose affection 
drew him after him, he rushed like a whirlwind into the 
open plain leading towards Typhaines. I shall make no 
attempt to depict the disappointment, wrath, shame, and 
despair of Mahaut, when she beheld this instant departure, 
for which, as a jealous lover, she assigned any cause but 
the real one. She sat on her saddle nullified, congealed — 
she looked like a stone statue surrounded by her ten com- 
panions, not less stunned than herself. And still the good 
knight tore on, and on, and Fulk had a sore task to keep 
within a reasonable distance of him. While straining his 
destrier after the knight, he little doubted his master had 
suddenly gone crazy, for, as he hadn't overheard the con- 
versation with Mahaut and knew nothing about Dame- 
rones, he couldn't conceive what strange idea had got into 
Philippe's head to carry him back at such a rate towards 
the town where he had been so near to death on the block. 
He conjured up a thousand considerations, and of the very 
wildest, about a freak in which he could discern not one 
single element of common sense. 

But before Fulk got up with the chevalier near enough to 
make him hear his voice, Monseigneur Philippe had gone 
over a great deal of ground. The plain was already far 
away behind him, and the hardy knight had rushed into 
the woods that formed the labyrinth of which Rusquet-pass 
was the centre. It was within a few hundred paces of that 
dangerous spot that Fulk at last got up with him. 

" S 'death I Monseigneur, are you crazy ?" 

" Go to the devil ! none of your preaching here ! It 's 


qnîte enongb to tbink what Mahant will bave to say wben 
it 's all over. Make ready to give a matter of good cuts 
and tbrusts." 

"Thrusts at tbe burghers? They are twelve to two 
of us I" 

"No I tbe Cornouiller men." 

"Ah, bosh 1 I saw them when they went away last night ; 
they count thirty at the least, and of the very best. Are 
they lying in ambush for the communeers ?" 

'* Yes, and to capture Damerones, the burgher-girl yon 
saw, and who rescued me from the edge of her father's 

" Eh I Great God I your integrity is going to cost us 
dear, and perhaps we will do no good, after all, and get 
ourselves maltreated by both parties into the bargain. It 
would be better to halt here and think the matter over, 
and carry your succor to Damerones in. some other way." 

" I take the shortest way ; if it don't suit you — ^you can 
go. Begone with you I" 

Fulk answered not a word, he_ only dashed his spur's 
rowel deep into the charger, who carried him at a bound 
right up to " front dress" by the knight. Just then they 
heard the rustling of fencing swords in the thicket, the 
clank of armor, horses neighing, shouts and imprecations 
most terrible. At the turn of the road, which they soon 
reached at a run, they saw the whole affair plain before 
their eyes. 

That cut-throat looking spot was a small clearing, wider 
than it was long, and bounded by a dense growth of trees, 
among which were numerous large rocks that had often 
been used as a favorite place of ambush by the marauders 
and pillagers of the vicinity. The seneschal had stationed 
his men among the trees and thickets behind those huge 
boulders so as to occupy both sides of tbe narrow pass. 


with orders to rush out at a signal as soon as the Typhaines 
cavalcade should be fully engaged in the narrow defile ; 
and when he at length saw that all was ready he blew one 
loud blast of his horn and the fray began. The pass being 
extremely narrow, the burghers, attacked on all sides, had 
but one of two things to do : they must either surrender, 
or suflfer themselves to be cut to pieces ; there was no other 

The seneschal, who had no wish tb have a fight to the 
death, in case he could succeed in his mission at a lesser 
cost of life, rode in shouting : " Surrender the prisoner, 
and your way shall be cleared I" 

But the only reply made by Simon and Payen was to 
spur their horses against the steel-clad line ; covering, the 
while, the path leading towards Damerones with their 
swords. Being well supported by their men, they made 
terrible efforts to break the line that barred their way ; 
until, driven back by the men-at-arms, they had no other 
recourse than to fall back to the centre of the clearing. 
Simon fought with silent, desperate, solemn courage; he 
uttered not a word, but his blows fell like thunderbolts 
from out of a clear sky. In his hatred for the enemies of 
Typhaines, he found no reason for surprise at their foul 
perfidy and treason ; but Payen, who was younger, boiling, 
ever ready to rise to the height of enthusiasm, and passion- 
ate withal, poured out an unceasing torrent of invectives 
and curses upon those miserable violators of a sworn pact. 
Every time his sword rung upon helm or hauberk it fell 
intensified with a hearty curse. Beneath his-4ron coat his 
bosom was choking with rage and fury, and the energetic 
expression of his feelings seemed to lend tenfold more force 
to his stalwart arm. 

Monseigneur Philippe came at full speed into this scene 
of furious heroic resistance resounding with the war cry of 


Typhaines! Cornouiller I which were mingled with the 
diapason of the battle : the knight's sonorous tones 
blended with them the terrible shout Cornehaut I Come- 
haut 1 and the first push of his lance tossed the old senes. 
chal from his saddle feet uppermost in the air, as he flew 
off in a parabolic curve to roll on the greensward below ; 
the good seigneur, who was looking for nothing of the 
sort, might put one in mind of a ninepin centred by the 
ball from a gay villager's vigorous young hand. Fulk did 
better yet. One back sweep of his sword tumbled a man- 
at-arms under the horses' hoofs, while with his left he 
grasped another, who with his long knife in his hand 
was trying to get at Damerones, by the throat, and not 
knowing who he was, with a grip like a vice was on the 
point of strangling him to death without scruple. Luckily 
for Rigauld, the squire caught sight of his face, and 
remembering the game-keeper's worthy sentiments, and 
particularly his devotion to his master the Abbot, he let 
him drop ; so that the poor fellow staggered and stumbled 
with both arms thrown abroad, until he came at last to 
tumble down on the stunned body of the gray-haired old 
seneschal, and the shout Comehaut ! Gornehaut! rang 
out cheerily. 

Confusion now got into the Cornouiller ranks ; yet five 
or six of them pressed savagely on Payen, who had a hard 
task, in spite of his courage and strength, to keep them at 
a distance. Monseigneur Philippe spurred his charger to 
Payen's side — 

"Stand fast, bold burgher!" he cried, "I am your 
succor I" In times like that a man would accept succor 
from the devil himself; and Payen, gathering renewed 
courage and strength, seized his buckler with both hands ; 
he rose- in. his stirrups and dashed it with such violence on 
a too adventurous soldier's head, that he stove in helm and 


bone at a blow, and freed himself forever of that rash 
enemy at least : instantly £;rasping Damerones' bridle-rein 
he drew her onwards and placed her within a triangle of 
defence, of which he, the knight, and Simon constituted 
the points. 

In spite of gallant feats of arms, in spite of the miracu- 
lous audacity of the chevalier, Fulk, and the burghers, it 
might be doubted whether the crusader's hot-headed enter- 
prise could have been crowned with success had the rein- 
forcement he brought up been bounded by the mere power 
of his hand ; for the fact is, that the Cornouiller men were 
three to one of their adversaries, and a reinforcement of 
two swords was not enough under such a disparity in the 
circumstances. The shout ComehautI did more to de- 
moralize the assailing party than the resistance of the two 
intrepid men ; they knew that the knight was their mistress' 
affianced husband, and already their own half seigneur. 
They even began to question the part they had come to act 
out at Rusquet woods : when they saw the seneschal was 
down, and unable to issue an order, the situation appeared 
still more ambiguous, and under the uncertainty they be- 
gan rather to put themselves on the defence, instead of 
attacking, and they no longer pressed their antagonists so 
fiercely. Monseigneur's falcon eye soon descried a gap 
in the line that barred the path to Typhaines and he bent 
over to Payen and whispered : — 

" Take the young woman, and go ofiF at a gallop." 
The youthful consul understood and at once obeyed him. 
Simon, whose vigilant eyes were directed by turns to every 
quarter of the field, saw the move, and feeling it to be the 
decisive moment, Typhaines/ he shouted, and away he 
rushed after Payen, followed by the whole of his remaining 
party. Philippe and Fulk remained to act as rear guard ; 
but that proved no very difficult task. As soon as the 


inen-at-arms saw theroseWes dispensed of the necessity to 
exterminate their adversaries, or capture the whole troop 
the J found so skilfnl in defence, thej harried to where 
their commander lay and got him on to his feet. The rest 
Df the men, finding there was no more fighting to be done 
with the burghers, and only with Philippe and Fulk alone, 
did not care for the employment ; and after a sort of pur- 
suit that did not go very far, they let the heroes proceed 
to join their friends from the town, if they liked it, who, 
after all, were their most mortal enemies ; and that was 
exactly what Fulk was thinking as the last Typbaines 
horseman disappeared in the distance. 

** I am of a mind, Monseigneur," and he said it in a very 
cross way, " that I have been behaving like a man that 's 
not afraid of blows ?" 

"Did I ever say anything to the contrary, my brave 
Fulk ?" 

"I thought I heard something of the sort; but no 
matter now, as the fight is over and your Damerones all 
safe : what are we to do next, I should like to know ?" 

"Ah, yes I that indeed I" said the knight, looking aston- 
ished the while, " I confess I had not thought about that." 

"But it's worth the trouble of thinking about." 

" Certainly I" replied Philippe. " Let 's think about it 
at once. If we go on in this road we shall infallibly reach 
Typhaines, which is not very far off now, and is by no 
means the very spot where I, as I left it this morning, 
should have preferred to spend the night." 

" Have you changed your mind yet ?" 

" Not at all I While the fight was going on I saw, 
through his helmet bars, old Simon's eyes, with such a 
scowl at me, that sure I am, notwithstanding my help, he 
wasn't very far from handling me as roughly as I did some 
of Mahaut's poor men. No, no I I haven't the least wish 


to go back to Typhaines ; my old lodgings there would be 
too ready to take me in again." 

" H — m 1" said Fulk, " if we turn back, the company we 
just now handled so roughly wouldn't, it 's likely, feel dis- 
posed to give us good welcome." 

" Yery possible that, friend Fulk, but even in case we 
could manage to come to a parley with those brave fellows, 
I don't mind very much just at present to make my appear- 
ance before the chatelaine. I think I have done nothing 
but my duty ; indeed, I 'm sure of it ; but Mahaut must 
be very much vexed, and I certainly have offended her; 
she has taken it into her head that Damerones is a sweet- 
heart of mine I and so, all things considered, I believe I 
would rather not face her to day." 

" That 's just like you, exactly," replied Fulk. " When 
we were in Syria, Greece, Italy, you told me twenty times 
a day : * Ah ! if I could only see her once more !' and now, 
when it depends on nobody but yourself never to quit sight 
of her as long as you live, here you are, it seems, wishing 
for nothing in the world but to keep clear of her I Pshaw 1 
you 're just a mere baby. But for having those exasperated 
Cornouiller men between us and the chatel, I would 
halloa as loud as thunder let's go and get supper, and 
so to bed ; we have had work enough for one day. Sup- 
pose the young lady should scold ; can't you quiet her 
down ? Suppose you couldn't quiet her down ; very well, 
then, let her quiet herself down, and she will get over it 
by morning. Now that's just what I wanted to say to 
you ; but as we are situated here, between two gangs of 
wolves, I 'm inclined to think the best thing we can do is 
to go into the thick of the woods, take off the bridles, 
stretch ourselves down at the foot of a tree, and masticate 
a mouthful of orisons to St. Julian by way of supper, for 
that 's the only one we are likely to get this night. Eh 1 


the good heavens I I hope thej will send us no more sneh 
wild notions in times to come as those that have had fall 
swing this day." 

" Folk, you are cross ;" said the knight, "and we are on 
the point of pulling each other's hair ; for the fact is, I am 
not in the very best humor myself. However, I have got 
an idea that bull-head of yours would never have dreamed 
of, though perhaps I can make you understand it." 

" Well, then, your idea, as you call it — what 's your idea ? 
Idea, indeed 1" 

" We '11 follow this path until we come to the end of it, 
as if we were going on to the town ; then, as soon as we 
get out into the fields, we '11 turn short to the right, and 
make our way to the abbey. Perhaps we can stay all night 
and get supper too. Who in the world is ever likely 
to think we have gone to take refuge so close to our ene- 
mies ? Perhaps, too, I might find Rudaverse again if we 
go, and I confess I never shall be more than half alive 
until I can get her in my hand once more, dear old thing I" 

"Ohl when you talk that way," said Fulk, **I can 
understand why people do sometimes look on you as a 
reasonable being. Fact is, I haven't been easy myself ever 
since I missed poor old Rodaverse at your belt. Hey for 
the abbey then 1 It aint because the time there was a very 
agreeable one for me ; but now the old Abbot 's out of the 
way, they must have better suppers there than that in- 
fernal day we first went to it — may the devil fly away with 
it I" 

And so, chatting away, the knight and his companion in 
arms set off, taking good care not to travel too fast, and 
to allow time enough for night to come down and hide them 
under her friendly veil. In due and good time they reached 
the abbey-gate ; the lights of Typhaines were gleaming in 
the valley far below ; the monastery lay utterly silent and 


dark. They knocked, and getting no answer, knocked 
again — and again ; at last, through the cracks of the late 
ruined portal, they descried a lantern that seemed cross- 
ing the court-yard and coming towards where they stood ; 
and their hopes revived. 




The Bonnd of coming feet now approached the gate, and 
the two cavaliers saw the red beam of the lantem-h'ght 
glancing beneath on the silL A voice, broken and tremn- 
lous by fear, no doubt, now very gently spoke : — 

" My good Christian men, if yon are not Pagan Ma- 
hometans, go your way, I entreat you, and don't compel 
us to open ; you will find in the borough of Typhaines 
everything any traveller can want for." 

" Good father," responded the crusader, " we are gentle- 
men, and have nothing to do at Typhaines ; open, then, for 
the love of God." 

" I shall do nothing of the sort," answered the voice, "for 
what betwixt gentlemen and rebel burghers nobody knows 
which is worst for Holy Church, now-a-days. Heaven 
guide you, good people ; go your ways, and don't torment 
us any longer I" 

Finding how obstinate the man with the lantern was, 
our good knight was on the point of an outbreak of his 
quick temper that would have done no good, situated as 
he was ; but Fulk touched his arm, and summoning up a 
most seducing tone to show what very good folks they 
were standing outside there, he said : — i 

" Open, good father I if you do, you 11 not repent it ; for: 
we bring news of the father Abbot of Typhaines." 

No answer was returned to Fulk's observation ; on the 
contrary, the light seemed moving off with the man that 


had it ; bnt all of a sudden its glare shot down from the 
top of the battlement above and fell full on the two noc- 
turnal visitors, and the brother porter, who had adopted 
this mode of making his reconnoissance, cried oat with â 
delighted tone : — 

" How I Monseigneur I is it indeed you I see down there ? 
and you too, my brave, faithful Fulk ?" 

" Yes, certainly, we are both here — open the gate, will 
you ?" 

" To be sure I will — yes, I 'm hurrying as fast as I can. 
Bless my heart I these bars were never made to keep such 
as you out. Ah I how glad the prior will be I how all our 
fathers will rejoice 1 I ^11 hurry as fast as I can ; don't you 
be impatient." 

In fact, and very quick too, the gate was flung open. 
The two horsemen entered the court-yard ; the brother 
porter shut, locked, and barred the gate again and fixed 
the chain, and then, lantern in hand, guided the new 
comers to the refectory, where they found the whole com- 
munity assembled. 

Fulk and his master made their appearance just as the 
friars were about sitting down to their evening meal. 
Their refectory was a vast hall, with a low ceiling sup- 
ported by two rows of immense heavy columns, rudely 
sculptured with bas-reliefs representing men, women, and 
animals ; a large oaken table stood in the middle of the 
room, lighted by lamps suspended from the ceiling in 
numbers sufficient to light up the scene below. 

Every monk arose at the entrance of Monseigneur, and 
the prior, quitting his place, advanced to pay his respects 
to and give good welcome to the knight. 

" First of all, holy father, after the fight in your court- 
yard was over, did you find my sword that I threw as 


high as I could up in the air as I was being seized hj the 

" We did find that good weapon," responded the prior, 
"and not only so, but we deposited her in the chapel, 
where Father Nicolas was buried." 

" Let me have it," said Philippe, and he sighed at the 
thought of Monseigneur Geoffroy. "My chief object in 
coming hither to ask your hospitality, was the hope of 
recovering Ruda verse." 

'* One of our lay-brothers will at once go for it, and it 
shall be placed in your hands within a few minutes ; but 
in the mean time, please take a seat by me, and let your 
valiant squire be seated too, and when your hunger is 
appeased, you can tell us what news you bring of our 
father the Abbot." 

"About your Abbot ?" cried Fulk, pouring out his wine, 
" we haven't the least word of him. I went off with him, 
as you must remember, as soon as the knight rescued him. 
He must have got to Paris, and beyond that we know 
nothing of him." 

" Forgive our stratagem," said Monseigneur Philippe. 
" We could find no other way to get inside the abbey ; they 
were going to leave us out in the cold all night." 

" I am the more ready to forgive," rejoined the prior, 
" for I have this very day had news from the Abbot, and 
excellent news it is too." 

" Excellent — did you say ?" 

" They are so, I assure you," said the prior, " and I 
leave you to judge. The venerable Bishop of Chalons 
has given succor to our seigneur. They went, both of 
them, to Rheims, and the holy prelate who presides over 
that church turned a favoring ear to their protests and 
their complaints, and it was at once resolved to call a 
council. That council will open within a few days, and 


is to have eight bishops and twenty abbots in session. 
There 's no doubt the Seigneur King of France and the 
Count de Nevers will both be appealed to answer to the 
council for their late conduct ; and still more than that, the 
Typhaines Commune is to be excommunicated." 

"Hah I that^s capital," said Fulk, and he poured out 
another bumper — "will they hang the whole of them 
burghers ?" 

" Of course they will," said the knight; "but, father, are 
you aware of the fact that the King of France has already 
guaranteed the new commune ?" 

" Oh, he '11 soon come out of his guaranty, and it won't 
be the first time either, that I can assure you of." 

" Come on I the thing is going all right ; but how as 
to me — are they to giv.e me back my property at Corne- 
haut? for the fact is I don't know what interest I really 
have in the defence of your minster ; if you are satisfied 
with my services, you surely will give me back what be- 
longs to me, and to nobody else ?" 

The prior's eyes were downcast. 

" It would ill befit such an one as I," said he, in wooing 
tones, " to utter an opinion in the absence of my superior. 
But, in any case. Monseigneur, you may feel q[uite sure that 
the Church never did do a wrong to any living soul ; and 
that even where the world judges too lightly from appear- 
ances, the spirit is vivified and enriched, though the flesh 
is humiliated and plundered." 

"That's as much as to say," added Fulk, "that they 
don't intend to give my master any portion of his property. 
Very well, then 1 all I have to say in the matter is that as 
soon as you have settled your business with the Typhaineers 
you will find you 've got a terrible bill to foot up with us ; 
that 's all. As to the balance, I must say, this wine of 
yours is very good wine." 



" It 's not worth while to talk of that matter just now," 
said Philippe, " for the present we are friends, and I most 
beg you to show me my chamber — supper is over, and I am 
in need of rest." 

The knight looked sad and down hearted as he thus 
spoke. The monks supposed that thinking of his dead 
father and the loss of his estates might be the causes of 
his depression at returning to the abbey, which certainly 
had had a great deal to do in bringing him into difficulty ; 
nor were they far wrong in that idea. At the very time 
he was told that his sword had been deposited on Messire 
Geoffrey's coffin, tears had sprung to Monseigneur Phi- 
lippe's eyes, and would have burst forth from their lids bot 
for the great effort he made to keep them down. The 
thought, too, of his tower at Cornehaut was a very griev- 
ous one ; but far more than all those, and it never quitted 
him for a moment, was the idea that Mahaut was offended 
and angry with him, notwithstanding his conscience told 
him he was innocent, and that he had done nothing but 
his plain duty — he still feared he might have, somehow, 
been in the wrong. 

The knight was not a man endowed with the ready and 
subtle kind of intelligence that is equal to the coping with 
several different subjects at once, and following out any 
single one of them, without confusion, to the very end ; 
but give him only time enough to think and he was as 
clear headed as anybody, and the fact is that after ponder- 
ing long over the question with Mahaut, he had satisfied 
himself that his betrothed bride really considered him 
guilty of, at least, giving encouragement to Damerones ; he 
therefore would have been willing to give anything in the 
world to procure the assistance of some friend as fully 
convinced as he was himself of the perfect purity of his 
honor, yet eloquent enough to entirely extinguish every 
remaining doubt in Mahaut's heart. 


The sight of Rudaverse, which was put by a lay brother 
into his hands as he entered his sleeping chamber, was to 
him a pleasing one ; he kissed the dear old sword as if she 
had been Mahaut herself, could such a boon have been 
bestowed by that haughty and reserved damoysel ; but he 
soon forgot Kudaverse again and fell back among his fears 
and anxieties. 

As for Fulk, it was all right with him now that Ruda- 
verse was found. He promised himself the satisfaction of 
furbishing her up with great care, and on that delicious 
idea fell asleep and snored until about midnight, when his 
master, who had not closed an eye, waked him to take the 
road to Cornouiller before the day dawn should come to 
make their departure visible to the watchmen at Typhaines 
and tempt those irreconcilable enemies to pursue him. 
The prior and his monks were busy at matins ; so Philippe 
thought best not to interrupt them, and having saddled 
his horse with his own hands while Fulk was getting his 
own roadster ready, he mounted, reached the great gate, 
which, thanks to the porter, was very willingly and kindly 
thrown open, and they set out for the chatel. 

Monseigneur Philippe and Fulk riding forth, both with 
helm on the head, visors closed and lance in hand, met 
with nothing on the way but a few swallows and one wild 
doe ; and when they reached Rusquet Wood, saw nothing 
but the trampled ground with bloodstains here and there, 
left by the late conflict ; the wounded and the dead, if 
there were any dead, had been removed ; and so, the travel- 
lers went on until they came without any misadventure to 
the tower of Cornouiller. 

They alighted in the court-yard, handed over their horses 
to the care of a page, and Fulk remained in the court with- 
out caring a fig about what the people, who had been friends 
with him in the morning, might have to say about the way 


he had handled them in the afternoon. The crusader went 
up to the upper hall of the donjon, and there found Mahaut, 
surrounded by her women, who gave him an icy reception. 
Though very much embarrassed, he took a seat near her and 
began to twiddle with some flocks of wool that had fallen 
from the distafif she was twirling, and finding that the 
maiden wouldn't speak — 

" I am about to explain myself very frankly," said he. 
" You are angry on account of what I have done ; I assure 
you that you are mistaken on the subject, and haven't the 
least reason to cast any blame upon me." 

'* It may possibly be as you say," replied Mahaut, very 

" I do not know what your opinion on the matter really 
is," objected he. 

" It is a very simple one. Yesterday you disobeyed me, 
attacked and wounded my people, and tore out of my law- 
ful hands a woman who is a witch." 

" But she isn't a witch at all" 

" Suppose her an angel," said Mahaut, " if I wanted to 
get possession of her, it was not your affair to hinder lûe !" 

"It would have disgraced me," replied the knight. 

" Is it a very honorable thing for a knight to turn valet 
to a brazen-faced burgher-girl ?" 

" Brazen faced or not," rejoined he, " she is no burgher- 
girl of mine, nor am I her valet ; but for Christ's sake, my 
lady, can you have any notion that such a conversation as 
this can be pleasing to me ? Show me a kinder counte- 
nance, I implore you I" 

"Agreed! you are right," said she; "and perhaps I 
really have no cause to be vexed vdth you." » 

" Now do tell me what all this means ; your words do 
not agree with your looks at all," said the crusader. 

" It is five years, Monseigneur, since I last saw you," 


said Mahaut. "Many things may have happened since 
that day. Setting forth with a soul filled with honor, it 
may be you 've come back after losing it altogether. How 
am I to know anything on the subject ? Perhaps you are 
worried because you have allowed a bond to be made be- 
twixt ... Eh ! don't mind breaking any lien between us. 
It wouldn't trouble me in the least to break it oflf." 

Mahaut sat gazing at her lover — her voice as she uttered 
the words was benign and softened and her eyes humid 
and tender. Had Philippe not loved her, she would have 
burst into tears on the spot and all her haughtiness and 
pride would have broke down at once at the least proof of 
his forgetfulness or indifference. But the brave crusader 
made such a gesture of energy and passion jn an attempt 
to repel her accusing words, that the chatelaine could 
not indulge a single doubt as to her power over her lover, 
and she then with a firm enunciation resumed : — . 

" Monseigneur, if you truly do love me, you can easily 
give me a proof of it. I made war on the burgh of Ty- 
phaines solely in behalf of the Abbot and yourself. Now 
that you are rescued, there is no reason why I should not 
make peace with them. Do you wish me to do so ? All 
the allies desire it." 

" The devil take your allies," was Philippe's naive reply ; 
" you must never lay down your arms until the commune is 
broken up." 

"Do you really think so?" cried Mahaut, taking his 
hand. " Well then, let us take Typhaines by assault — put 
the town to sack and pillage — place Damerones in my 
hands, who, I aflSrm it, is a witch, and who is trying to tear 
you from me. Speak I will you have it so ?" 

For the first time in his life Monseigneur Philippe, see- 
ing himself so pressed, essayed, innocent though he was, 
to evade the trouble by a trick. 


" My lady," said he, " is it an easy thing to do, to carry 
the burgh by a conp-de-main ? I made a careful recon- 
noissance of it as I came away from the minster this morn- 
ing and found how well defended it is, and I fear an assault 
would end only in covering us with shame." 

" Want of success," said Mahaut, " is never considered 
shameful, where success was impossible," and she spoke 
with studied gentleness. " The bravest knights mount to 
the assault again and again, four, yes five times in succes- 
sion, before they succeed in carrying a rampart, but I never 
heard they were dishonored by such obstinate courage." 

" Typhaines is too strong," responded Messire. " If I 
should assault it, I should only get your men killed for 

" I thought you was more in a hurry to avenge yourself 
of your enemies I" 

"In the devil's name," cried Philippe, stamping the 
floor hard with his foot, " you are right, madam, and I 
lay aside all pretences of any kind. What is it makes 
me afraid of you, lady ? I, who fear no being else beneath 
the moon ? Promise me to do no harm to Damerones and 
I '11 sack the village for you." 

Mahaut held her peace for a moment. She reddened 
and turned pale by turns, and her clenched fingers were 
tearing at the crimson fringe of her seigneural chair. She 
was terribly agitated, but at last rose from the seat and 
strode up and down the hall. To her it seemed quite evi- 
dent that the knight was cherishing a very différent senti- 
ment in his heart from any he was willing to avow, and 
that such a feeling existed, nourished and stimulated by 
the devilish arts, as she supposed, of the wicked Rose of 
Typhaines, was drawing off from her side the man to whom 
she had been so long and so truly faithful. Besides, she 
was ever accustomed to see everything bend to her will, 


and to see that no will whatever should rise in power above 
her own. 

She suddenly stopped in front of the knight, and said — 
''Monseigneur, you must be aware of what I have 
hitherto done in fulfilling the engagement between you 
and me. For the purpose of giving you an opportunity to 
win honor and fame, I insisted on your departure for the 
Holy Land in spite of my deep sorrow at the parting ; and 
during the five years of your absence, I confined myself to 
the interior of my donjon without seeing any company, 
and thinking of you alone. In the mean time, many an 
honorable claimant for my hand had* offered me an illus- 
trious name, wealth, glory, and pleasure ; but I preferred 
your distant affection to all the gifts of fortune, and my 
present solitude with it. Something, so it seems to me, is 
due to an attachment so great. Now that you are re- 
turned, and by some misfortune impossible to foresee, 
fallen into the hands of our cruellest enemies, I at once 
surround myself with armed men, and renouncing my soli- 
tude I quit the occupations of my sex and very nearly put 
on an armor of mail, and ... Be you. Monseigneur, judge 
between us, I beg you to be so ; decide, if you dare, in 
favor of your obstinacy. For a tenderness so well proved 
what recompense have you offered me up to the present 
moment? Scarce do I see you, but you fall upon and 
massacre my servants, and rescue a miserable drab of a 
village girl out of my jurisdiction 1 That is the way you 
prove your loyalty; and yet, if you still wish it, I will 
pardon you readily. Act in such a way as that Dame- 
rones shall perish. What is the life of such a girl as that 
to you, sir ? In the cities and towns you have put to pil- 
lage you have been witness to the woful death of many a 
woman who certainly was far more worthy than she ? Give 
up Damerones, put her into my hands again, leave me at 


fall liberty to punish her, and I swear to yon I will forgiye 
yon and all shall be well with ns as ever before." 

Without losing time to reflect, Monseigneur exclaimed : 
'* Mahaut ! Neither for Damerones nor for any other hu- 
man being could I ever have the thought to offend you. If 
you require oaths, lead me to the most sacred of relics ; 
lead me to the venerated corpse of my redoubted father, 
and I will lay my hand on that noble knight's bosom, and 
without hesitation swear that in all my life long I never 
loved woman but you 1" 

'' And Damerones ?" cried Mahaut. 

" Damerones," replied the chevalier, " has twice saved 
my life, and certainly I will never be the cause of her 
death I" 

" And so you refuse to revenge your father, and to re- 
venge yourself by attacking Typhaines I" 

" Not so, upon honor," rejoined Philippe, with a fiery 
tone. " I will assault Typhaines, and — ^please God — I will 
carry it ; but then I will repay to Damerones the good she 
did to me, and if I do not do so, may I be treated as the 
meanest and basest of mankind I" 

" I love to hear you talk in that way," said Mahaut, 
slowly ; " I at least discern very clearly the bottom of your 
thought, and as there is no way to clear your soul of the 
desire that offends me there, know that from this hour every- 
thing is broken off betwixt you and me." 

" Broken I" despairingly asked the knight. 

" Yes, broken, and by the Saviour's cross I swear it. I 
take back all the tenderness I had vowed for you. From 
this moment forth you are to me nothing more than the 
vilest of men. You have betrayed me, you have deceived 
me 1 you play me off against a wretched girl, a magician, 
a fairy, a — I know not what ; perhaps the most infamous 
demon that ever escaped out of the pit of hell 1 Begone 


Monseigneur Philippe I go join that wretch 1 I give you 
back your pledged word, and put you wholly at ease ; no 
doubt, sir, while you were in Syria, you must have turned 
Mahometan I" 

Tears here broke off the words of that impetuous Ma- 
haut. The chatelaine, sobbing, and ready to suffocate, 
threw herself down into her arm-chair, buried her face be- 
twixt her hands, and gave way to boundless despair, which 
degenerated at last into screams. As to Monseigneur 
Philippe, terrified at such vehemence, he could hardly re- 
strain himself from following her example, and answer sob 
for sob of the passionate maiden of the rock ; but he made 
out so far as to renew his oaths, supplications, and passionate 
appeals ; he put the lady in mind of the chaste and sweet 
beginnings of their mutual love in the Bishop of Cambrai's 
palace. He appealed to her own heart against her unjust 
anger, and said everything he could say to appease her. 
Unhappily, he was not an adroit speaker; he knew not that 
the heart repulses the frankest of remedies, and that when 
roused by passion, you must give it line, fis to a fish that 
refuses to come in. Sure of himself, and in full confidence 
of his own loyalty. Monseigneur Philippe was not careful 
while making his own defence to say little enough on the 
subject of Damerones' virtuous devotion; such eulogies 
were discords for Mahaut's ears ; to be brief, in spite of 
the very love that glowed and shone in every word he 
spoke, he succeeded in the course of half an hour, during 
which she spoke not a word, so well, that Mahaut ceased 
weeping ; looked hard in her lover's face with a cold reso- 
lute stare ; rose up from her fauteuil and quitted the hall, 
ordering her women to follow her. 

Monseigneur Philippe was greatly embarrassed. It is 
a diflScult thing for human nature to exhibit equal enthu- 
siasm in its outward and its inner man at one and the same 


time. He began by handing himself over to the devil, with 
all his heart, and Damerones and her good services with 
him, and began to ask himself very seriously what was the 
real meaning of all those charges about witchcraft, that had ' 
been so perpetually rung in his ears. 

" Decidedly," said he, " I may possibly be in the wrong to 
swear so out and out that I would defend Damerones against 
her I Damerones is all safe now behind her town walls, and if 
I could by chance manage to carry them by assault, I could 
give Fulk charge of her, and the damoiselle know nothing 
about it. But what 's the meaning of all this talk about 
sorcery I . . I must have a talk with the canon about 
that I Ah, yes indeed, I never thought of it till this mo- 
ment! The canon is the only man who can put me all 
right on the subject. He is friends with Damerones, he is 
friends with me, and Mahaut too. How came it that I 
never thought of all that before ?" 

Monseigneur Philippe was greatly in want of something 
to brace up his courage ; for it must be confessed that nei- 
ther in Palestine nor in Typhaines gaol had he ever felt so 
unhappy as he - now was in Mahaut's chatel. He went 
down the donjon staircase to proceed to the oratory ; but 
when in the court-yard he heard a noise of quarrelling, 
which induced him to look towards the entrance gate — 
and what was it he saw ? At first he could hardly trust 
in his own eyesight 

Fulk, who had been laid hold of by a crowd of men-at- 
arms, was, in spite of his outcries and protests, being 
pushed by the shoulders and turned out of doors from the 
fortified inclosure. His protests were all shouted forth in 
vain, his calls for help were vain as well as all his demands 
for explanation. Compelled to give way to superior num- 
bers he had drawn his sword, but as the valiant squire was 
bareheaded, he had a hard task to fend ofif the blows they 


aimed at him, and so was forced, step by step, backwards 
to the gate. The men that were pressing on him had all 
the better heart for their work, seeing how ronghly he had 
bandied them the day before at the fight in Rusqnet Woods. 

Thinking that it meant nothing more than one of those 
broils so common among soldiers. Monseigneur Philippe 
advanced a few steps and shouted with a voice like 
thunder : — 

" You miserable scoundrels there I will you soon have 
done attacking my man in such numbers ? If any man 
has something to say to Fulk, all he has to do is to offer 
to fight him in a fair way ; I answer for it, he '11 not decline 
to knock the whole of you over, if you '11 come on one at 
a time I" 

Monseigneur Philippe was greatly astonished to see that 
his intervention did not put an instant end to the struggle. 
On the contrary, the sergeants-at-arms pushed poor Fulk 
harder than ever, and now hootings and curses broke out 
against the knight himself I Highly irritated, he was about 
to chastise what he called the insolence of that low scum, 
when two of the gentlemen, Mahaut's allies, came forward 
with looks both solemn and sad. 

"Monseigneur," said one of the gentlemen, "we know 
not why the damoiselle employs us as bearers of a message 
that afflicts us much." 

" Never mind your message just now," replied he. " See 
how they are maltreating my squire there. Help me punish 
the brutes first — and I will then hear whatever you may 
please to say 1" 

"Monseigneur," continued the gentleman, "they have 
no intention to kill Fulk, but merely to expel him from the 
castle. The Lady of Comouiller's orders will have it so." 

" The lady's orders ? Eh 1 what has my squire done to 
deserve such treatment ?" 


..Nothing at all;but where the .^st^r^ 
there the squire cannot remam. The L<«»y " ^^^^^-.^^ to 
charges us to say to you in ^^^'^ '^r^XrTZcerers, 
ha.e no further connection -t^;f;]^\'^^Se, fortress 
and their adherents, she commanda you to quit n 

^"iltnL Philippe was ^o-^!;^tZ£^:^^^'- 
hearing these words that he stood «»>"' -«=^Pf ^^j, heart 
ing one word or finding -f j;7,^,,*:,°^?h: ,ould sufifo- 
seemed to him so cramped tbat ».e git as ^^ .^ 

cate-tears rose up to his eyes. He knew no 
was anger or grief, that dominated him H« loc^^^;.*' ^^^ 
right and then to the left with an undecided «tare , an 
Lulled, rather by some kind of instinct th-r-J-^^^ 
any sort, he bowed to the two knights, moved towards^e 
great gate, and made Fulk a sign to offer no f-Jj-'^^^ '^ J 
Le, and follow him. He stepped across the threshold of 
his unjust fiancee, heart-broken, and miserable beyona 
expression. , 

In this way he stalked onwards followed by Fulfc, wno 
kept quietly asking him for some explanation on the strange 
affair; when, of a sudden, they heard the tramp of coming 
horses behind tbena. 

They were the knight's and Fulk's chargers coming 
down the slope, driven forwards by the stable boys, who 
were cracking their whips to drive them faster down hilL 



When the burgher cavalcade, the evening before, re- 
entered the fortifications of Typhaines tired and out of 
breath with excitement and fatigue, Simon proceeded at 
once to his home, where we have seen him on other occa- 
BÎons. He did not go to the sumptuous mansion with its 
two towers on Weavers Street, for it was no nearer being 
finished than were the abodes going up for Eudes, Jacques, 
and Payen — ^he simply took Damerones to the old thatched 
dwelling we know of. In spite of entreaties and prayers, 
which at times seemed very near to coming to curses, Payen 
persisted in not quitting his colleague's side, and as the 
cloth merchant could not venture altogether to act out the 
part of imperious pre-eminence over his hardy colleague, 
he submitted, though with a bad grace, to the necessity of 
accepting his company. 

On entering his door ho said to Jeanne : " Here, I have 
brought back your daughter ; now that her life is safe I 
am going to make her expiate her crimes." 

" Father," said Damerones, in tones soft though firm, 
" you treat me as if I was guilty, and you are greatly in 
the wrong. If, however, it seems to you just that I should 
suffer in my body for my sins and other faults, I make 
supplication unto you that you would put your trust in me 
to that end, and you shall have no reason to regret it, for 
you never can mortify my flesh so much as I intend to do 



" Look at her — ^the hypocrite 1" cried Simon, " slie wants 
to seduce ns again I After tearing ont of my grasp that 
, tiger-cab of Comehant she is in hopes of evading the penal- 
ties she has so richly deserved ; bat she will not succeed in 
that !" 

" What good do yon expect from this violence," asked 
Damerooes in the same placid tone, " and who can induce 
you to believe that I even dream of deceiving you ? If 
you should punish me with stripes, by privations of all 
sorts, by confining me in a dungeon, you '11 do no more, I 
repeat it, than I intended to do of my own accord ; and if 
you wish to know my motives I will not refuse to explain 

'* Speak, then — flying and faithless girl I thou enemy of 
thy father and thy city. Speak," said Simon, '' and let us 
know what new trick it is thy spirit hath begotten." 

" I have just passed," said Damerones, " long days and 
longer nights in the dolorous solitude of a prison. It was 
there Heaven gave me to see my hopes and desires all 
naked before my eyes. I have learned to know how misera- 
ble thej all are, and it is to the service of God that I now 
desire to consecrate my future existence." 

This declaration seemed to touch even Master Simon to 
the quick ; Jeanne tenderly took hold of her daughter's 
hand ; Payen, who when he entered the room had taken a 
seat in the far off shadow of the place, never moved. It 
seemed that this general silence had worked its influence 
on Damerones' feelings ; on finding some little indulgence 
her soul softened down and melted with the emotion. She 
threw herself on her knees in front of her father, and 
Bpoke : — 

*' I well know you can accuse me of having ill recom- 
pensed your much afl*ection for me, and yet, what is it I 
have done ? I saved Monseigneur Philippe's life ? Know 


you not that his death could never resuscitate our friends 
we have lost ? . . . Enough blood, father, has been shed 
on the earth. . . . Men are wicked I . . . God 1 how many 
inventions have they conceived to divide and rend asun- 
der — to attack and destroy each other I But, father, let us 
not speak of such sad things any more — I will become a 
poor Clarisse, Very well I I shall expiate my faults, and i 
this one too among the resf 

Damerones uttered these words with a tone of voice where- 
in a faint smile appeared as if to suppress the rising tear. 
The savage burgher made no reply, and with crossed arms 
on his breast he appeared to be contending against the 
wild heart-throbs below them. Tender love of his child 
was, as we all know, a full swelling energetic sentiment in 
Simon's soul ; it must well have been so, to enable him 
to struggle with the tempestuous passions to which the 
burgher had given up his whole life in its whole and every 
part. He was penetrated with grief as he looked and saw 
how severe her sufferings must have been. Damerones' 
fair countenance had grown thin now ; her great blue eyes 
begirt around with dark aureoles gave forth a splendor of 
beam they had never before been known to pour around, 
and her vague and dolorous smile served only to reveal 
the sufferings she would vainly strive to hide. Simon's 
heart was touched, but the wrath-fire that had for many 
days been smouldering in the deepest depths of his soul 
was not so easily to be quenched, as not at once to give 
place to a profound feeling of melancholy; and the consul, 
dissembling his real intention, made a stately gesture. ; 

"To me it seems," said he, "that you have greatly fallen 
from your old high ambition. You used to dream of other 
things than celestial joys; and, if my memory serves, I 
think I have seen you filled with the insensate hope of par- 


ticîpatîng in the donjon and the chiralric honors of the Sire 
de Comehant ?" 

" I was wrong," said Damerones, very gently, while a 
painful emotion visibly flitted across her features — " I was 
very wrong ; I knew not things that to-day I no longer 
ignore. Bat Canon Norbert spoke to me on the way ; he 
showed me what the troth was ; he laid open before me the 
very bottom of our hearts. I do not repent me of having 
rescued Messire Philippe from death, but I know that I 
saved him for another, and not for me. But, father, let 
there be an end to all this now, as there is no longer any 
question of a man who is nothing to me — ^not my brother, 
not my friend, not my ... . (added she in a lower tone) 
my betrothed I ... I will be a Clarisse, and seeing that I 
am now detached from this world, you will grant me your 

Payen, whom no one had appeared to be thinking of, 
arose from the corner where he had been sitting and ap- 
proached Simon. The tall stature of the youthful consul, 
the mail that covered him, his crimson mantle, long sword, 
and tanned cheeks, hardy and bold, his whole outlook in 
fact gave him a warrior's look of which a nobleman might 
well be proud. 

" Friend Simon," cried he, " I followed you here to pro- 
tect your daughter in case yoar anger should happen to 
carry you too far. But now I am to take part against 
her. I am neither a gentleman nor a glib speaker, and it 
may be that my phrases will not be good ones ; still, to 
tell the whole truth, I am in love with Damerones, and I 
will not allow her to lead such a hard life as that of the 
poor Clarisse's. Do you know, of a surety, my child," pur- 
sued the consul, turning to Damerones, " that the poor souls 
that enter that Order are obliged to fast all day long on 
bread and water, wear serge next to their naked bodies, 


scarce sleep o' nights, and bruise and mangle their bodies 
with blows, no doubt, because they conceive it is not enough 
to drag themselves all day on their knees over the icy stone- 
pavements of their churches ? For great sinners, perhaps, 
such penance as that may be all right, and I see no harm 
in their taking all that trouble to turn their poor souls a 
little whiter or so. But for you, my child, who have 
nothing to complain of but a wildish head, the punish- 
ment is rather too severe. So now. Master Simon, here is 
what ought to be done — give me your daughter to wife. 
You once told me that such a proposal was agreeable 
to you ; I am a burgher and a consul of Typhaines, 
wealthy, as you know, and able to do whatever I like, 
buy, or build even two more mansions superior to the one 
about which the whole town is daily paying its compliments 
to me. You will tell me, perhaps, that Damerones has 
been so silly as to think of marrying the knight ; but what 's 
that to me ? She is a worthy good girl, and 'pon my soul, 
though the knight is an enemy of the commune, and though 
I feel quite ready to give him back blow for blow if the 
chance should offer, if my head was as weak as a woman's, 
I could myself well love and call him peerless. After all, 
he has just saved the whole of us at Rusquet Woods. In 
short, Damerones is a child, and if you will order her to 
marry me, it 's my opinion she '11 find more honor and profit 
too in obeying your command than listening to the foolish 
notions she 's got into her head." 

After this speech, Payen crossed his arms, stood looking 
at Master Simon, and waited to hear what answer his col- 
league could make. 

In other days, to marry his daughter to the wealthy 
young blacksmith had been the favored dream of our cloth- 
merchant. His long and adventurous life had forced him 
to become acquainted with and to judge the characters of 


too man J différent men, not to hare laade him skflfnl in the 
scieDce of pbysiognomj and disposition, and that science 
had earlj enabled him to perceire in Pajen an elerated and 
noble nature, lojal in the extreme, and rarelj to be met 
with. Bom in a noble rank, the Tjphaines blacicsmith 
woald certainly have made a man to rival even the auda- 
dons and brilliant courage of Monseigneur Philippe him- 
self: cast by birth down into the burgess-rank he had 
still, most promptly, comprehended and accepted too, the 
exalted opinions and purposes of Simon, and was one of 
the first men in the borough to conspire for the change of 
the feudal institution of the abbey of Typhaines into a pow- 
erful and independent commune. Impassioned with the 
theories he had embraced, he hated the gentlemen, in so 
far as they proved to be enemies to his commune ; in other 
respects, sensitive in the highest degree to everything 
splendid and glorious, he had become captivated with the 
valiant and lojal nature of Monseigneur Philippe, and 
thought it no harm in Damerones to be struck with ad- 
miration as great as his own. 

Beyond this the spirit of the blacksmith's inquiry did 
not go. He had that simple, natural confidence in himself 
as to never dream that the consul's child could refuse his 
offered hand, now that to marry the crusader was become 
a thing impossible. 

But Simon was far better acquainted with the nature of 
human passion, and with Damerones' heart. Tired as he 
was of struggling, and ever failing in the strife, the consul 
felt no heart to enter on a new conflict with the girl, which 
he knew could end only in a new defeat. The very excess 
of his sorrow, his disappointments, made it an imperious 
necessity for him no longer to oppress her, but, on the 
contrary, to raise her up and press her to his breast. That 
austere and powerful soul of his was now the prey of a 


sudden feeling of depression and discouragement that 
demands rest, and Payen's speech, by recalling him to a 
renewed and painful contest, sounded in his ears as a sad 
and lugubrious tone. He shook his head therefore sorrow* 
fully, and taking his young colleague by the hand, spoke as 
follows : — 

" I thank you, my friend, for your good intentions ; in 
them I recognize the proofs of your friendly regard; 
but, believe me, it is better to let some time elapse before 
we speak together on these matters ; the poor girl there 
who is gazing at us is still too far given over to her crimi- 
nal thoughts.* It is all a vain notion in her to aspire to 
the peace of the cloister life ; I do not believe a word of 
it, and I should be angry at myself were I to send a woman 
so indisposed to honor and serve you, to your mansion here. 
Believe me, it is better to wait until the still glowing em- 
bers of her insensate projects shall have become extin- 
guished and cold in her frivolous brain ; it will be time 
enough to talk of a marriage when that is all over." 

Payen looked suspiciously at his colleague. " I guess at 
your meaning," said he. " You prefer to keep Damerones, 
and punish her. That is your right, and there are many 
who would approve of your doing so. But I don't care 
about what you call justice ; I love Damerones, and I will 
not suffer her to be afflicted. Should I learn, then, that the 
girl has been maltreated at your hands, I swear to you^ 
Simon, though you are her father, I will come to your 
house and take her out of your hands, and make her my 
wife, in spite of you." 

"My lord consul," interrupted Damerones, "your 
thoughts as to me may be very kind, but they please me 
not. My father is my master, and if he would kill me, who 
has a right to hinder him ? As to becoming your wife, 


think no longer of it ; for, from this day forth I am a hand- 
mud to my God." 

" What a crazy family I" cried Pay en, as he stamped his 
foot on the ground. ** I wasn't taltdng to yon, and I don't 
want your opinion abont it ; it 's yoor father's affair to de- 
cide what '8 right and proper for him, and mine to decide 
what is best for myself. So hold your peace, Damerones, 
I beg of you." 

" Now all this is going to end in a quarrel," said Jeanne. 
" Be reasonable, master Payen I As my man says you '11 
have to wait, why don't you yield to his wish» about it ?" 

" I told you about that, already," replied Payen ; " it is 
because I can see in the looks of him that he wants to mal- 
treat Damerones." 

" You see wrong, then," answered Simon ; ^ and as I do 
not wish to have a dispute, or any noise with a colleague, 
I promise you that my daughter shall be as free and as 
happy as she was a week ago — ^yes, a fortnight ago — nay a 
whole month ago, before any cause of division rose up be- 
tween us. That I swear, and if you wish it, I will swear 
to it by St. Procul himself, the patron of our commune." 

" Ah, that 's the way to talk," said Payen, slapping his 
hand into Simon's big palm ; " and you, Damerones, good- 
night to you ; try to be reasonable, and I truly swear for 
my part that when we are married, you shall have no cause 
to repent it." 

Delighted with all he had said and done, Payen lifted the 
latch, and went into the street. He hadn't the least doubt 
that in two or three days Simon would send word that his 
proposals were accepted, and that Damerones — completely 
restored to her senses — would, as well she might, begin to 
count over the whole extent of her good fortune. Delivered 
fully over to these agreeable thoughts, the young consul, 
who was fond of ventilating his armor of mail, long sword, 


and scarlet mantle, on the high street, strode on towards 
Weavers' Street to inspect the works going on at his new- 
mansion. He was soon met and joined by a crowd of some 
of the borough notables, who happy and proud to be counted 
as among a consul's familiar acquaintances, continued to 
attend him without being invited to do so, and to lavish the 
flattering speeches that are ever the certain revenue paid 
to all placemen. 

As Payen and his friends now stood in front of the grow- 
ing mansion-house — 

" What a beautiful edifice 1" cried one. 

** What a superb front I" said another. 

" As for me," said a small money-broker, " I have seen 
Milan, I have seen Florence, I have visited Arras, Bruges, 
Ghent, Liege, and the Ehine cities, and sure I am, when 
this structure is completed, it must eclipse everything of 
the sort ever imagined by the magistrates of those great 
towns ; they never built anything so magnificent — not one 
of them." 

" But this costs me very dear," murmured Payen, rather 
proudly, and with a smile to show how little he cared what 
it cost. " I will never rest content with it until I have re- 
ceived a visit in it from Monseigneur the Count de Nevers, 
and even Lord Louis, the King of France." 

" Is it your opinion then that either of those personages 
is likely to come ?" asked a craving news-hunter. 

" Well, they say so," negligently and diplomatically re- 
sponded Payen. 

While these followers of the young consul were going 
into ecstasies over the opulence of the magisterial burgher, 
and calculating the honors that must inevitably crowd in 
upon him, there seemed to be some sort of emotion growing 
up among the outer ranges of the crowd, and with their 
acclamations to the one who was prime favorite with them» 


were heard whisperings and suppressed accents, that told 
there was some rumor abroad among them of grave and 
serious import. 

Those rumors soon reached and penetrated the group of 
Payen's friends ; and when he, who had been busy with the 
master mason charged with the execution of the fine sculp- 
tures on the façade, suddenly turned round, he read on their 
visages the signs of a great consternation. 

" Well, what is it all about ?" inquired the young man 
somewhat astonished. 

" Oh I nothing — nothing at all, or at most, only some 
small matter ;" responded the little broker. "There is a 
rumor in the crowd that there 's a Council met at Rheims 
to judge our cause, and that Abbot Anselm is omnipotent 
in it.» 

" Bah I" replied Payen with a shrug. 

Just then a burgher came up, and humbly touching hia 
cap, said — 

" Seigneur consul, the city council are met, and request 
you to join them without delay." 

Payen received the communication with all due dignity: 
and assuring the friends about him that he would keep them 
informed, as far as duty might allow, of what was going 
on at council, followed the messenger to the Commune- 

Typhaines — that little city of the Middle Ages, which, 
though it had only within a few weeks past conquered its 
independence, was nevertheless just now at the very height 
of that kind of activity, so many examples of which are to 
be seen in all modern revolutions ; only a few days had been 
required to effect a complete metamorphosis in the town ; 
it had ceased to look like a vassal-borough attached to the 
abbey on the hill. The appearance oi the houses and 
streets had undergone a change ; the population had 


doubled, and the burghers had assumed an air of such 
pride, as well as luxury in dress, that you would not have 
known the very streets of the old vassal town. You met 
in the streets with none but wealthy burghers, dressed in 
good clothes, and wearing chaperones on their heads, either 
of fur or felt, and begirt with rich sword-belts and heavy 

A commune in the Middle Ages no more resembled a 
municipal city in the seventeenth century than the latter 
does a modern one. Indeed, it was a real, though small 
aristocratic republic, governed by the wealthiest and most 
distinguished of its burghers, and whose whole territory 
was comprised within the circumference of its outer walls, 
its general interests being the interests of its members, and 
which looked on events of all sorts, provided they did not 
transpire within a league of home, with an indifference as 
supreme as if they were occurring in the remotest bounds 
of Germany. A commune of the twelfth century was ever 
trying to form alliances, to create a standing armed force, 
and open outlets and avenues for its commercial opera- 
tions ; it forwarded and received ambassadors, and had no 
connection with the rest of France beyond a sort of con- 
ventional respect for the king, which was scarce more that 
nominal. As to the immediate seigneur, they acknow- 
ledged his claim of homage, and paid him certain dues as 
suzerain . . but always on condition that the town autho- 
rities would accept no refusal. Burgher towns, numerous 
enough and wealthy enough to conceive such a state of 
things, must have in time become sufficiently bold and war- 
like to push their pretensions as far as possible. 

As to Typhaines, it was just now one of the completest 
models of the most turbulent of republics. Military ardor, 
enthusiastic love of liberty, greed for trade and money- 
making, fondness for social honors and distinctions, deligb^ 


in novelties and in venturesome excitements of all kînds^ 
so dear to people in rebellion, animated the whole scene. 
The ravages effected by the recent raid might be said to 
be already forgotten by the multitude. The Typhaineers 
were so sure of the eternity of their commune, had so little 
doubt of their own strength, were. so vehemently in love 
with public affairs, that it was out of their power to dream 
of anything less than victory and success. 

Yet, when Payen entered the Council Chamber, he did 
not descry such a cheerful self-complacent expression on 
the faces of the assembly as he had just left in the street 
outside. By Simon's side sat the Seigneur de Pomes, 
whose unexpected arrival, no doubt, was the reason why 
a meeting had been called. The wily visage of the cun- 
ning baron, like the faces of the rest of the members, was 
a rather disconsolate one. 

"Colleague," said Simon to his young friend, "our 
enemies are threatening us in a way that looks dangerous." 

" Yes," replied Payen, " I have just heard of it. They 
say a Council has been convened against us." 

"And that 's true," said Seigneur Baudouin, " and you 
haven't one single friend in the whole Council." 

" What have we to fear, then ? Let us know it at once, 
B,É we have nothing to hope for I" 

" You *11 all be excommunicated, like so many Jews," 
replied the chevalier. 

" Is that a thing to kill ?" responded Payen resolutely. 

" We are not a set of Mahometan idolaters," said An- 
toine, " to make a jest of matters of this kind I" and he 
crossed himself. 

"No indeed," said Sire Baudouin, "for Monseigneur de 

Nevers, who is on bad terms with his bishop, already knows 

very well that you are the only party that 's threatened ; 

id if he should be put under an Interdict, his neighbors, 


who greatly admire his elegant lands, and his vassals too, 
many of them adherents of your Abbot, would be sure to 
turn their backs on him, or even treat him worse than 

'* So," said Payen, " Monseigneur the Count sends us 
word by you, does he, that he is going to give us up ?" 

"Oh no, not that," said the châtelain confused; ''but 
you ought to understand that provided the bishops and 
abbots in council should push matters to the extreme, the 
lord king will be forced to revoke his guaranty, and then 
Monseigneur will not be in force sufficient to enable him 
to stand by you. Oh, if he only had a few more troops I 
but his men-at-arms are deserting day by day. He has 
no money — and now I think of it, it wouldn^t be a bad 
thing for you to offer him a small supply." 

" We must have a clear understanding about that," said 
Simon. " We have already sent the count two thousand 
gold oboluses; he promised, and we have it here in the 
charter, a succor of knights and squires, but we haven't as 
yet seen a soul of them." 

" You must be joking," replied Monseigneur Baudouin. 
" Am I not here, with my men ? And how did you treat 
me ? Messire Payen there, himself prevailed on me to 
retire from the town." 

" It was out of pure friendship for you then," said Payen 
laughing : " your men were forever squabbling and fight- 
ing with people in the streets, and the end would have 
been that not a soul of them would have been left alive. 
If you '11 prevail on your count to send us a lot of men not 
so quarrelsome as your vassals, baron, we will give him 
two thousand gold oboluses more." 

"Well said," cried Antoine. 

" Agreed, and you '11 put in one thousand for ray good 
offices in the matter. I think that wouldn't be too much 



Bat be in a hurry aboat it, for the count is really in want 
of the money. 

"A moment (interrupted Simon) — a moment. We will 
engage to pay the money when the count has captured 
Cornouiller Castle, which troubles us too much, and not 
beforehand. For your portion of the booty we will agree 
to let you have the chatelaine; and yon can marry her to 
your son, if you like ; and in my opinion that 's as much as 
you have any right to expect." 

" Give me a merchant, when there's talk of a bargain," 
said Messire de Pornes, with the sleek look so peculiar to 
his visage. " Let your intentions be drawn up in writing, 
and I will set off for Ne vers at once." 

" That 's a good notion," said Payen ; " but if we are to 
be excommunicated, I foresee already that our allies will 
turn their backs on us, and even in Typhaines we shall 
find traitors and people with weak knees ; plenty of them. 
No matter, though. As long as any man is willing to fight 
he shall have me for a comrade, and if there 's nobody else 
I '11 fight by myself The Abbot never shall come back 
here, except he steps across my body." 

There was not a man in the room but Simon to answer 
by a resolute look these brave words, and when the schedule 
had been drawn up and sealed. Châtelain de Pomes went 
oif to join his followers, and the council adjourned, rather 
more silently than usual. 

"We have a parcel of scoundrels to deal with," said 
Simon to Payen. 

" Very well, then ; we '11 treat them as such, and I make 
it my business to take them in hand." 

fyPIIAlNES ABB£T. 855 


The Canon had not been present at the fight in Rnsquet 
Woods. The truth is, that as soon as he crossed the river 
he quitted Mahaut's party and followed the burghers ; but 
soon left them, too, to look after any poor victims of the 
raid, with a view to offer them assistance and religious 
consolations; after which he proposed to repair to Ty- 
phaines again and there carry out the plans his ardent 
imagination had inspired as to his grand work on the heart 
of the fair Rose of Typhaines. Of all the Saints of the 
time, and they were very many, setting aside St. Bernard 
and Peter the Venerable, St. Dominic and St. Francois 
d'Assize, Saint Norbert exerted the greatest and most 
special influence on the population of that age and region. 

He had come into France as a pious adventurer, filled 
with the idea that he could convert the wealthy preben- 
daries, whose licentious lives had proved to be a scandal 
for the whole church, and a danger as well : his success in 
that design was not very great ; but by way of compensa- 
tion, he did, by the vigor of his zeal and the impetuosity of 
his preachings, tame down the crowds of the laity who had 
refused to be frightened by his advice and his exemplary 
devotion, to the severest forms of religious penance. In the 
years during which our history is passing, in those parts 
of the country where St. Norbert appeared, there was not 
a knight, a burgher, or a serf, but held him to be a real 
bona fide Missionary sent down from the skies. His oddi- 


ties, the profound misery in which he persisted to live ; and 
which would look so strange in our day, were but so many 
means for acting on the gross understandings of the age. 
St. Norbert was admired and ^venerated by the whole 
country around. 

The Saint had deeply reflected upon Damerones' passion, 
and, above all else, had been struck by the act of courage by 
which the young maiden proposed to redeem the life of 
her beloved. That act seemed no more of a comedy in his 
eyes than it was in her own heart. In the manners and 
customs of that day, everything appears to have turned on 
some sudden fit of passion, and nothing could be more 
likely than to see Simon offer up his daughter as a sacrifice 
to his revenge, or Mahaut to follow his lead. Thus, though 
Damerones knew quite well what risk she was running by 
going headlong into the danger, her firmness inspired him 
with that secret esteem that strong minds never refuse to 
virtues that are real. Looking on the maid of Typhaines 
as a being altogether different from the numerous other 
women to whom he habitually imparted spiritual instruc- 
tion in that country, the old man had made up his mind to 
lead her on in the only path by which, according to his 
views, her merits could be so brought out as to work the 
full harvest of good to be expected from them. As he 
was despatching her to Cornouiller, he had already be- 
stowed his primary lessons of instruction on the sweet 

He showed her that her love for Philippe could not pos- 
sibly come to a happy end ; he had proved that, by explain- 
ing that the knight was a son of the persecutor of her race ; 
and so, he being divided from her by all those murders, she 
was better fitted to comprehend the power of the oath that 
bound Mahaut's and Philippe's life into one bond. She saw 
that, without an outrage, the gentleman could not possibly 


renounce a betrothal that had become consecrated during 
five years of absence, by what in the opinion of the whole 
province had been the very model of reserve and modesty 
among women. Nor did the Canon make any scruple about 
telling poor Damerones of Philippe's great love for the 
damoiselle, a love by the by she was fully aware of, as two 
troubadours had already published their poems on the sub- 
ject, and which she had got by heart. In fine, Norbert piled 
up before the poor child's eyes the most overwhelming 
proofs of the vanity of her hopes. He then went on to 
attempt to make her comprehend that she was reserved 
for another task ; that it was shameful in such an one as she 
to sigh and to suffer in behalf of the miserable happiness 
of an impossible passion. 

Her heart pierced through with as many wounds as the 
Canon had launched out arguments, Damerones listened 
submissively, but silently, to the aged priest's counsels. 
Norbert reminded her that, according to God's will, the 
enthusiastic attachments of this lower world are incapable 
of returning a full recompense of reward. He sounded 
forth into her ears the then far-famed name of a woman, 
which has ever remained a celebrated one, who after aston- 
ishing the world by the depth of her devotion, seemed 
afterwards destined to enlighten it by the perfection of 
her virtues. He named Heloise's name, and proposed 
that it ought to be her noblest object and aim to live hence- 
forth detached from all mundane things, and at the feet 
of the Abbess of Paraclete. In the mystic language so 
familiar to the theologian of every age, he boasted the 
sweets of penitence, the mysterious joys of austerity ; he 
drew a picture, well conceived to seduce a passionate soul, 
of that bliss unequalled, boundless, and regretless, that 
overcomes the soul, the heart, the imagination, when absti- 
nence, fasting, detachment from all things worldly, anf* 


from earth itself, have brought the insensate revolts of the 
will down to the very foot of the cross. He did not point 
out to her — though she saw it herself — ^that in existences 
of that nature, where all is nullified except an exasperated 
power to desire, and an immense expansion of the soul, 
even the endless reveries of a despairing love find, at last, a 
place where nothing comes in to put a check or set a bound 
to their free indulgence. 

In spite of all, whether it was that her hopes — ^foolish 
though she knew them to be — still held her so firmly en- 
thralled, or whether she could not find in her heart to think 
she must renounce of her own free will all that had made 
life — life for her — she departed on her journey, shaken, but 
not fully convinced, to present herself to Mahaut, her soul 
filled with dreams, and her will still undecided : she allowed 
too vivid a flash of her secret to play around her features ; 
and thus fell under the wrath of the proud fiancée, who had 
herself suffered quite too long not to have nursed her love 
until it had grown implacable. 

It was in the dark prison at Cornouiller that the thoughts 
accumulated round about the soul of Damerones with such 
zeal by Norbert, awoke and began to hum and to buzz in a 
way to call her to a deep consideration of their real purport 
and value. The poor girl's anxiety concerning Monseig- 
neur's fate during the eight mortal days of seclusion in the 
deep obscurity of her dungeon, disabled her from calculating 
the lapse of the hours that were prolonged by her impa- 
tience, and led her to suppose that her attachment to the che- 
valier, and consequently her resistance to the sacred will of 
the Canon, might well be punished by the death. of the cru- 
sader. The idea was so horrible that it seemed as if true 
in its influence on her imagination. In great misfortunes 
we little doubt of what we most fear. In her despair, then, 
she asked herself whether she ought not to renounce a 


coarse so accursed of heaven. She wept, she sobbed, she 
settled the terms of daty, and the hours still flew on, and 
no one came to say that Monseigneur Philippe was saved. 
In fine, about an hour before the stone slab that closed her 
prison above was raised, she had gone down on her knees 
on the stone floor, and prostrated her forehead to the cold 
flags, and there took the solemn vow to obey the Canon, 
renounce her passion, and go bury with herself, within the 
convent of Paraclete, a passion as unhappy as the one 
which was already sleeping in that sequestered abode. 

As usual, under great crises of the soul, as soon as she had 
pronounced her vow, she rose from her knees with a feeling 
of utter exhaustion, which she mistook for a feeling of com- 
plete rest. When her prison door opened, and the knight's 
deliverance announced so promptly after the making of her 
vow, she returned thanks to heaven that had not disap- 
pointed her expectations, and never for a moment doubted 
that Philippe's safety was a direct result of the work of her 
own hands. In this conviction she found a new source of 
strength, and a new reason to push her sacrifice to the last 
extremity, and made up her mind that as long as she 
should continue within the walls of Cornouiller, she would 
not utter a single word, for fear lest should she speak, even 
to Norbert himself, it might lead to a gush of her old ten- 
derness, and to a giving way to the softer emotions of her 
bruised and aching heart. But for this apprehension of 
turning weak again, she might have spared Mahaut the 
poignant distress inseparable from a passion of love that 
believes itself betrayed. 

During the entire ride to the foot of the bridge, she per. 
sisted in her silence, wholly absorbed in the contemplation 
of her sorrows, and given up to the interior tumults of her 
despair-enthusiasm; her outward appearance was one of 
coldness and constraint. Mahaut considered that stolidity 


as the crimiDal dissimulation of a corrapt soul ; even Nor- 
bert interpreted it as the sign of a profound sorrow that 
was still clinging to its old hopes. 

While tlie ceremony for the exchange of the prisoners was 
going on, Damerones had descried Messire Philippe coming 
forward ; and when the gentleman, on speaking to her got 
no answer, he, too, was misled to suppose that the mournful 
expression of her features, while she was inwardly taking 
an everlasting farewell, really meant a reproach of ingrati- 
tude ; though, in fact, she was breaking off forever the only 
bonds that now bound her to earth. To her it seemed that 
this last look she bore on her lover's countenance had drunk 
up the very last drops of human happiness in her bosom, 
and all the invectives of her old father fell unheard on her 
ears ; and, indeed, throughout the entire march to Ty- 
phaines, she remained perfectly insensible to Payen's simple 
and natural evidences of affection. She didn't come to her- 
self at all until the scene at Rusquet Woods, when she sud- 
denly beheld in all the hurry of the heady fight Monseigneur 
Philippe, sword in hand, looking as redoubtable, as beau- 
tiful, and irresistible, thought she, as the valorous archangel 
Michael, when, with his flaming fiEilchion, the immortal 
warrior assails and disperses the embattled legions of hell. 

But now, secluded in her father's dwelling, her only 
thought turned on the fulfilment of her vow. After he 
left the house, she held a conference with Simon and Jeanne, 
as sad for them as it was burning for her own poor stricken 
heart. She again explained her purposes, and swore that 
nothing in the world would induce her to give them up. 

** If it must be so," said she, resolutely, "I will invoke 
the protection of the Canon and the population of Ty- 
phaines against your foolish opposition ; a Christian com- 
mune never can abandon the woman who desires to give 
herself up to the most high God I" 


Simon had supplicated in vain. He saw that his child's 
will was inexorable, and situated as the commune then was ; 
as he himself was, indeed, he clearly comprehended that 
too protracted an opposition would bring him into suspicion 
with the religious portion of the community, and lend new 
arms to bis own enemies, and the commune's as well. In 
utter despair, then, of preserving hjs onjy child, he was 
leaving the house with death in his soul, as word was 
brought that Seigneur de Pornes had arrived ; and next, 
meeting with Norbert in the street, he accosted him hum- 
bly and submissively ; how different from the boldness that 
in other days had shone out of his manly features I . . . 
but reiterated strokes of sorrow had at long last bent that 
intractable soul of the cloth merchant. 

" Holy father," said the consul, " I presume that you are 
going to visit my unhappy child. I implore you, take her 
not away from me I You are a wise man, and very differ- 
ent from those priests who are moved by an inconsiderate 
zeal ; you are not the man to desire to divide the happi- 
ness of men from the service of God. Does not the whole 
world know that 'twas you who dissuaded the good Count 
of Champagne from entering a convent, under the thought 
that he could better serve God by well governing his people 
than by praying in a cloister ? Leave me, I conjure you, 
leave me my only child I" 

"Master Simon," rudely responded the Canon, "you 
talk like a laic, with neither wisdom nor reason. Go you 
and mind your own affairs, and don't meddle with what con- 
cerns you not." 

The consul wrung his hands. He knew that menaces 
and excitement were powerless as weapons against the 
ancient priest, who, seeing how grieved he was, added in a 
softened tone — 

" You speak foolishness. Master Simon, I tell you. You 


are not consulting the best interests of yonr child. What I 
do yoa snppose that a soul cradled for years in an ambition 
BO lofty can come down again to low and vulgar desires ? 
No, you ought to know what a heart is better than that 
Damerones has been dreaming she would be the wife of a 
chevalier; she could never henceforth go down into a 
lower condition without ever blushing for shame. I know 
her ; her soul is a great one, and she requires things far 
above her social rank. The cloister alone ofifers her what 
can serve to fill up the measure of that soul of hers. Go, 
Master Simon, go in peace ; I take charge of Damerones^ 
and I am not the man to act like a negligent pastor. . . 
Now hearken to mj advice on another subject. . . Yon 
know that I condemn and contemn the sedition of which 
the Typhaines people are guilty. The moment is near 
when you, their chief and leader, will have to render an 
account of your crimes. I know that powers you can never 
think of resisting, are conjured up against you. Take care 
of yourself I It is no pleasing sight for me to look upon 
bloodshedding 1" 

At these words Simon stood straight up ; the disconso- 
late father vanished, and the consul of Typhaines was him- 
self again. 

" Holy father," said the burgher. " Thank you for your 
counsel. But, believe me, that I and my friends have no 
fears of the future ; we have conquered our liberties, and 
think as you will of it, there is no power beneath the moon 
strong enough to wrest them away. Death, at the worst, is 
an ever open asylum, and we shall know how to find refuge 

" Oh, obstinate race 1" replied the old man, striking the 
foot of his staff on the ground ; and without another word, 
he turned his back on the consul, and soon entered the 
abode where Damerones, seated by her mother's side, was 


trying to depict their approaching separation in a way less 
cruel, less dolorous. 

The coming in of the Canon added new force to the in- 
stances and exhortations of the young maiden. Only a few- 
words were wanting, and then the consul's wife gave in, 
for she trembled at the thought of standing out in opposi- 
tion to the will of a man she looked on as the direct and 
special delegate of God himself; so that, after a few 
minutes she went forth to a corner of the garden where she 
might weep free and alone over her unspeakable loss. 

Now Norbert was alone with his neophyte ; with her 
whom he had introduced into a new line of thought — into 
a new era, and as he made her give him an account of the 
state of her soul, he was struck with the rapidity with 
which his counsels had blossomed and borne rich fruit in 
her heart. He felicitated Damerones on the occasion, and 
they agreed that within two days to come, she should silently 
evade the pangs of farewell to her parents ; and so Mon- 
seigneur's unhappy friend, quitting her childhood's home, 
should proceed in company with the venerable old Canon 
to the convent at Paraclete, which lay at no great distance 
from the borough of Typhaines. 

During the time Damerones was thus making ready to 
renounce the whole world. Monseigneur Philippe and Fulk, 
so rudely expelled from Mahaut's chatel, were mutually 
asking what was the fault, what the real crime that had 
brought such undeserved treatment on them. The knight 
and his companion retired into the very heart of the wood, 
and tying their horses to the trees, had seated themselves 
on the margin of a spring, where they gave themselves up 
to the most sorrowful meditations. 

" The truth is," said the melancholy chevalier, " that I 
don't believe there ever was a more miserable being than I 
am. Ever since we came back to my native land, every- 


thing has gone wrong with me — and yet where is my 
fault f " 

"It's no concern of mine," responded Fulk, "to know 
whether there has been any fault or no. The only thing I 
can think about is, that we are going to spend the evening 
without any supper, and that to-morrow morning we are to 
fall into the Typhaineers' hands, unless there should some 
good miracle happen. Women, it must be confessed, are 
a most abominable set I I thank God for putting my eye 
out at Cambrai, for that circumstance has dispensed me 
from the necessity of having anything more to do with 

" How many misfortunes in only a few weeks I" exclaimed 
Messire Philippe. " There 's my father's death ; then the 
loss of my tower ; next to that a most horrible dungeon, 
and to crown the whole, comes Mahaut's wrath ! ah, that, 
indeed, is worst of all 1 Knowest thou why she treats me 
so ill ?" 

" Know 1 Not I, indeed; I have not the least idea of it ; 
no more than she has." 

" Oh, yes ; she has taken it into her head that I 'm in 
love with the Consul of Typhaines' daughter, that little 
Damerones, that saved me from the claws of that old devil 
of a father of hers. He 's worse than the devil, though I" 

" Oh, you mean that little wicked thing they are accusing 
of witchcraft ?" 

This speech of Fulk's recalled to Philippe's recollection 
the urgency of Mahaut in always coming back to the impu- 
tation which had seemed to him to be merely an invective. 
Fulk had heard the story in conversation among the men- 
at-arms at the chatel, and edified his master's ears with 
accounts which, in spite of all their gravity, he could by 
no means make up his mind to believe in. 

"No, no," said he, "Damerones has nothing to do with 


hell ; I should have to see a very striking proof of it be- 
fore I could believe in that. She might be crazy, perhaps ; 
if she ever had an idea of making me forget my devoirs to 
Mahaut, ont of mere gratitude to her : she might save my 
life a thousand times over again, and she could not succeed 
in that. But if she is out of her senses, poor thing, she 
ought to be pitied, and not accused. If I only could get 
hold of that rascal Rigauld I He, the traitor, is the cause 
of all the misfortunes that overwhelm me now." 

" Oh I you are right there," exclaimed Fulk. " If I had 
him in hands wouldn't I shake him till his infernal soul 
would be too glad to squeeze itself out betwixt his two 
d d lips I" 

Now, just as if these charitable ejaculations had been 
words of power, no sooner had the squire made an end of 
uttering them than Bigauld, yes, Kigauld in person, made 
his appearance in the path I Fulk uttered a cry of joy, for 
he descried him before his master saw him ; but a second 
look showed that the forester was not unattended, and that 
very likely the people with him wouldn't suffer him to be 
mishandled without knowing the reason why. 

Kigauld was walking on with a hasty step, head up and 
face all joyful, in front of a numerous cavalcade. He was 
dressed as of yore, and held in his hand, instead of his 
crossbow, a very long javelin with a thin bright iron point. 
Behind him, for no doubt he was the guide, came riding 
on a richly caparisoned mule, his Seigneur Anselm, and by 
his side Master Guillaume de Champeaux, Bishop of Cha- 
lons-sur-Marne, and the good knight Sire Jean Berniot, 
whom we are already acquainted with ; then came on a 
troop of clerks equally well mounted, and then about fifty 
men-at-arms and sergeants on foot with long lances and 

The sight of that numerous company that so suddenlv 


debouched from the woods, turned the course of Philippe's 
and Fulk's meditations, yet they, neither of them, moved, 
and when the Abbot got up with them, they offered him 
no salute. 

" Why, how 's this 1" cried Anselm ; " is it indeed you, 
my son, that I find out here ? Praised be the Lord I he 
hath delivered you out of the hand of the impious." 

" It 'fl no fault of yours," answered Monseigneur Phi- 
lippe, " if my head does stick on my shoulders — ^thanks to 

your d d abbey and you too, I have met with more 

misfortunes than tongue can tell I" 

" What do you mean, my son ?" asked the monk. " What- 
ever may have been the strokes of fortune, be you consoled, 
for Heaven deems that we have been suflBciently tried, and 
now everything is returning to good order again." 

"No doubt," put in Messire de Berniot, "and as this 
knight is, I doubt it not, the valiant crusader who defended 
Typhaines so gloriously against the peasantry, he will be 
pleased to learn, together with the good news we bear, that 
the recital of his actions has covered him with glory at the 
court of our good King Louis." 

All sorrowing though he was. Monseigneur Philippe 
could not rest insensible to Sir Jean de Berniot's speech ; 
and after a shoi:t parley he suffered himself to be prevailed 
on, and so mounted his horse to accompany the ecclesiasti- 
cal dignitaries, who insisted on knowing the cause of his 
isolation in that lonely Rusquet Wood, and the deep dis- 
content that seemed to have overmastered him. 

" You will go with us to the abbey ?" said Anselm. 

" How, what ? Do you expect to get in there ?" said 

" What do you find to surprise you in that ?" asked 
Master Guillaume. "Don't you see what a following 
Messire de Berniot commands ; and do you imagine those 


burghers, stupid though they be, will likely be tempted to 
face the temporal censures of all these men in arms ?" 

" You are right there," replied the chevalier, " and my 
surprise arises from the promptness the holy Abbot has 
evinced in thus changing his rout into a victory." 

" It is always thus with the affairs of the Church," 
proudly returned the bishop. " None but the mad and the 
rash ever attack her ; for, in fact, God has promised her an 
eternal triumph. So, my son, I would have you believe 
that though the Typhaines peasantry have been for a few 
days glorifying themselves in their revolt and madness, but 
a few days will pass before they shall be seen weeping 
together over the ruins of their commune." 

" So mote it be I" rejoined the crusader, " but I none the 
less must remain robbed of my tower, and my domain, 
merely because it pleased monseigneur my father to dis- 
inherit me without the least reason in the world.'' 

"You shall espouse the wealthy damoiselle of Cornouil- 
ler," replied Bishop Guillaume, "and the blessings our 
prayers will draw down on you will leave you nothing to 
wish for." 

This ill-timed consolation brought on the recital of all 
the crusader's sorrows ; but Anselm, altogether taken up 
with concerns far more sacred and, in his estimation, far 
more important, turned but an inattentive ear to the tale. 
The towers of Typhaines were already in sight, and Mes- 
sire Jean interrupted the knight's explanation and doléances 
for the purpose of observing to the two prelates, that it 
was now time to redouble their precaution, lest they should 
be surprised by the burgh-people in case they should chance 
to have got wind of the approach of the cavalcade. 

The bishop felt but little interest in the love and business 
affairs of Sir Philippe de Cornehaut the disinherited ; he 
eagerly listened therefore to Sir Jean de Berniot's observa- 


lions, and further remarked, how unseemly it would be for 
the Abbot of Typhaines to re-enter his idinster without 
due pomp and parade. They therefore hurried Rigauld 
forward to advertise the monks of their seigneur's return. 

The party came to a halt ; order was restored in the line ; 
the cortege was arranged and time allowed to the clergy 
to dress the two prelates with their pontificals. When all 
was ready, the troop issued from the wood, and the sentinels 
at Typhaines sounding the alarum summoned the people 
to the ramparts to see their cruelest enemies defiling in 
front of them. First came on the trumpeters, with a band 
of crossbow men on foot ; then followed ten men-at-arms 
on horseback, from whose midst floated out the banner of 
the abbey. After these rode Abbot Anselm, coiffed in his 
mitre and holding his abbatial cross, on a mule with a 
caparison of cloth of silver ; by his side advanced Bishop 
Guillaume, whose episcopal vesture was sparkling with 
gold and gems. Next they beheld the two knights, Mes- 
sire Jean and Monseigneur Philippe de Gornehant, between 
whom marched the banner of the Bishop of Chalons. Fulk 
brought up the rear ; the rest of the infantry and cavalry 
closed the march, with Messire Jean de Berniot's banner 
in the midst of them. 

The crowd assembled on the town ramparts were smitten 
with terror at the sight. But, when they beheld how the 
abbey monks were issuing in procession from the great 
gate, rage got the upper hand of fear, and they broke out 
in hootings and menacings, the only effect of which was to 
bring back all Messire Philippe's hatred to the people who 
had treated him so cruelly. Not a man left the town, for 
the consuls had severely forbidden them to make a sortie. 
Mingled with the distant din of the burghers, you might 
also hear some of their prayers ; many of the aged women, 
seeing a bishop before them, went down in obedience to 


cnstom, on their knees, while some of the men, who though 
they did not follow their example, were frozen with terror. 

As to the monks, when they saw their Abbot again, they 
gave way to the most touching demonstrations of joy and 
love. On their knees, by the roadside, they kissed the hem 
of his robe, and the prior, who had meditated an address 
to be drawn up in solemn words, burst into tears as he 
gazed on his Superior. 

Anselm reproved them mildly for an emotion unworthy 
of a band of Cœnobites who ought to be insensible to 
every earthly emotion. Yet even he was not wholly ex- 
empt from a sort of tender heartedness. As he was passing 
in at the grand minster-gate Bishop Guillaume took his 
arm, and pointing to the Typhaines populace, who were 
crowded on the ramparts compact and uneasy — 

" Yonder," said he, " are your serfs, and we will make 
them supple to the yoke of your authority." 

The Abbot gazed for a while at the town below him, and 
tears filled his eyes. 

" They are my children," said he, " and I am forbidden 
to bless them I" 

He then went into the abbey, and as soon as the last 
cavalier of the band had crossed its threshold the portal 
closed again. 



Thk Seîgneor de Pomes had left Typhaines, fully ab- 
Borbed in his meditations. Monseigneur Baudouin, of all 
the knights of the Nivernais, was one who was most giren 
to meditation ; unfortunately, his reflections generally bore 
upon the best means of hurting his neighbors. Like a 
poet meditating an ode, or a musician dreaming about 
some symphony, the cautelous châtelain ever had on the 
anvil some more or less diabolical machination. His tem- 
per, too, was strangely affected by the success or the failure 
of his plans. Had he succeeded well in some act of per- 
fidy — had he led to a happy conclusion some infamous 
snare, he became a most charming man on the spot, and 
anybody might venture to accost him, and provided some 
idea of how he could hurt you did not flash through his 
brain, he proved to be the gayest, the most delightful of 
good fellows, and witty and amusing to a degree. 

To this uncommon amiability, and the extreme gentleness 
and elegance of his manners it was, that he owed his influ- 
ence with his suzerain, the Count de Nevers : repeated 
proofs had been laid before the count of many reprehen- 
sible acts of Baudouin, but the count only shrugged his 
shoulders, and always reused to treat the man harshly, 
who helped him in all his affairs, and who, above all, was 
sure to find money for him when he was hard pressed, 
never worried him with advice, and with his keen, yet quick 
face, could always make out to keep him in a roar of 


The day Monseigneur Baudouin left Typhaines, be was 
in a most particular good humor, for more reasons than 
one. The first was that, in a hunt of several days' dura- 
tion after the serfs that had run off with Joslin, he had been 
so lucky as to get them into an ambuscade he had planned 
for the very purpose. He hung four of them, ripped up the 
bellies of two more, and being desirous, as he expressed it, 
to treat his favorite Joslin with special distinction, he had 
him tied to a powerful stag's horns, that soon tore the poor 
wretch into strips. These occurrences had transpired the 
evening before, and Monseigneur Baudouin grew so amiable 
and delightful over it, that at supper his daughter, son, son- 
in-law, men-at-arms, and all the servitors had been forced 
to laugh till they cried, over his funny account of the matter, 
and everybody saw that he was beyond any peradventure, 
the very best of fathers and masters, and that it would be 
wrong to hold him to a strict account for certain little 
severities that were natural to his temper. 

His good fortune gave him next day a chance to deceive 
both his master and the Typhaines folk too. He had for 
a long time been persuading the count to support the 
burgher cause against the Abbot, and showed him how it 
could only serve to a considerable extension of his autho- 
rity, besides bringing in a great deal of money. There was 
no use talking about the expense, inasmuch as he took it 
on himself to supply the commune with everything they 
might be in want of, out of the two thousand gold oboluses 
he had received in the morning ; he counted on keeping a 
thousand for himself, and then make his master give him 
five hundred more to pay the troops he was thinking of 
raising, and whom he had not the least idea of paying, as 
he intended to let them live on the country, a thing most 
delightful to hireling soldiers, who are ever passionately 
fond of disorder. But suppose now all his plans shoul'' 


turn out wroDg, what would be the consequence ? Sup- 
pose his suzerain should declare war against him ? what 
then ? that was a matter of perfect indifference to the 
seigneur, for he knew that his castle was impregnable. 
Suppose they should excommunicate him! Monseigneur 
Baudouin, a rather rare case, was one of the strong- 
minded sort of people, and he concluded if they should 
proceed to such extremities as that with him, he would 
avail himself of the circumstances to pillage, annoy, and 
bring so many calamities on the people, priests, and monks, 
within ten leagues round, that they would be glad to recon- 
cile him to the church were it but to secure a little rest. 
With all these agreeable perspectives before him, Mon- 
seigneur Baudouin was the luckiest, best-humored châte- 
lain in the whole country holding from France, or, if you 
prefer it, from the great tower of the Louvre. Yet his 
happiness that day was destined to become still greater. 
As he was riding onwards with his escort, he met a knight 
called Messire Bertrand, who in fact was one of the four- 
teen confederates in Mahaut's league ; an old wolf who, as 
he hadn't much to lose, gave Baudouin no particular motive 
to attack him. Messire Baudouin lived with him on terms 
which, if not good, a thing impossible as to any neighbor, 
yet at least if there were any differences betwixt the two 
men, they were old ones and half forgotten, or too slight 
to hinder the baron from opening a conversation with him. 

The first polite salutations being now past, Baudouin 
said : — 

" It seems we are travelling the same road. Monseigneur, 
and yet this is not your road home." 

"I am not going home," replied Messire Bertrand, "I 
am on my way to Ne vers." 

" To Nevers ? Eh I you surprise me I What is it you 
can have to do with the count our seigneur — ^you were in 


open revolt against him the other day, along with the lady 
of Cornouiller Castle ?" 

" I was so, sir ; but it appears I am not so now. The 
fact is, to keep you from languishing for the news, I am 
ready to tell you about all the events at Cornouiller from 
beginning to end, if you like." 

" My interest in that matter is not very great in itself 
considered," replied the old cheat, " but when one is travel- 
ling along the road there 's nothing shortens the journey 
better than a good story told by a wise and considerate 

'^ As you are pleased to regard me as a wise and prudent 
person," said Bertrand, ** I have to say that Mahaut has quar- 
relled with the Seigneur de Cornehaut her betrothed, whose 
love has been so much bragged about in the whole country 
these five years past. They were said to be the most 
attached couple, the fondest and most united of lovers I 
Very well ; instead of fighting the Saracens, and leading an 
elevated and noble life beyond seas, it appears certain the 
young gentleman has been busy at anything but heav- 
ing long sighs. So, those two people who were so remark- 
ably fond, hardly had time to meet before they flew at each 
other like mad I I do not precisely know what they said 
on the occasion, but the knight certainly did behave with the 
utmost brutality. He has cut her sergeants-at-arms to 
pieces for the sake of rescuing a burgher girl, who is no 
doubt his mistress ; and to sum it all up he has been just 
turned neck and crop out of the lady's chatel. I am now 
on my way, in Lady Mahaut's behalf, to Nevers, to inform 
our lord the count that his vassal surrenders herself to his 
mercy, renounces her hostilities against Typhaines, and 
requests his orders, which she intends to obey in every 
particular, and that most faithfully." 

"You astonish and at the same time rejoice me much!" 


said Seigneur Baudouin; "but how happens it that so 
many lords, about the lady of the chatel, and who all 
seemed greatly inritated against the Typhaineers, have 
changed their minds so suddenly when it was her pleasure 
to do so ?" 

** Ten of them at least did quibble a good deal about it, 
and in a very bad hamor too ; the rest, that is, two of my 
friends and myself, who never really took any interest in 
the war except for Mahaut's pay and the privilege of 
plundering, gave ourselves no great concern as to whether 
we should serve along with them or against them, for, in 
the present disturbed state of the country, it was out of the 
question to think of being neutral. " 

The sentiments of complete impartiality thus displayed 
by Monseigneur Bertrand were most readily appreciated 
by his auditor ; with that quick wit Heaven had endowed 
him with he at once thought out a plan of action that he 
imparted to his fellow traveller, or at least as much of it as 
he thought best to disclose. The plan consisted in in- 
ducing the knight to add a simple phrase to Mahaut's 
message to the count, showing that the lady renounced 
her engagement to the disinherited lord of Cornehaut, and 
referred to her suzerain's wisdom the selection of a proper 
husband for herself. These few words, which would cost 
nothing to Messire Bertrand's eloquence, and still less to 
his conscience, the châtelain engaged to pay for with the 
sum of eight marks in silver, fine. The bargain was soon 
concluded, and all the words and conditions sworn to, they 
agreed to separate so as not to have the air of any private 
concert or agreement between the two barons. Monseig- 
neur Baudouin took it on himself to direct the count's 
choice in such a way as to soon bring the affair to a close. 
He had no real conception of the circumstances that had 
led to Mahaut's sudden change of mind, but imagined that 


some misunderstanding that had hurt her feelings very 
badly had induced her to behave in a way to allow him to 
make a favorable use of the opportunity. Although he never 
had been allowed to enter the castle, his greed for that splen- 
did domain and its powerful chatel had induced him to 
make frequent inquiries as to the state of the lady's temper, 
which he knew was a very haughty and headstrong one. He 
thought of course that it would be best to be in a hurry 
about it, for violent tempered people are very likely to 
suddenly repent of their excitement and go back to their 
old state of feeling ; so that Messire Baudouin trembled for 
fear some new freak of Mahaut's brain might interfere 
with the smiling prospects before him. 

While the baron's perfidious head was busy turning his 
mingled hopes and fears over and over, Mahaut, quite given 
up to despair, had begun to get over the late bursts of her 
angry passion. Though so easily governed by her pride and 
resentment, she was really a devoted creature, and had loved 
the knight for so many tedious years she could not make out 
how all her legitimate hopes should have tumbled into ruin. 
Up to that hour she had gloried in her fidelity and con- 
stancy, and all she had suffered during her long isolation : 
for the uneasiness occasioned by the claimants for her 
hand, and the violent measures they had made use of to 
secure the possession of it, she expected to be fully re- 
warded by Monseigneur Philippe's inviolate attachment. 
But, alas I her betrothed had broken his plighted word I 

As her anger went on growing colder and colder, her 
grief grew greater and greater, and she passed the whole 
day in tears. 

Then, too, the rather violent discussion she had had with 
her confederates, began to make her doubt somewhat in 
regard to the justice of her own conduct in the matter. 
Used as she was to never bend or give way to anybody or 


anything on a question where she had once made up her 
mind, she had maintained, in the council with the barons, 
her perfect right to give op the Abbot of Typhaines, if 
such should be her good pleasure; but once she was 
obeyed, she began to blush for the excesses into which 
her wounded self-love had misled her, and for shame at the 
thought of making an alliance with the men of Typhaines^ 
all which overwhelmed her with sorrow. She was next 
tempted to despatch a messenger to the monastery to com- 
fort the poor monks, and assure them she intended to be 
perfectly neutral. Just as she was about to carry out that 
notion, she reflected that people would accuse her of light- 
mindedness, and even think she might have gone crazy : 
next, she remembered that she had sent off Messire Ber. 
trand to Nevers, and then, in her pride, made up her mind 
to silently wait for the consequences of that rash and vio- 
lent proceeding ; and, after all, the feeling that her tender- 
ness had been betrayed, and her sacrifices ignored, was 
even more poignant a distress than the memory of the 
spotless fame over which she had so long watched with 
most jealous care. 

Thus was Mahaut far more to be pitied than her sup- 
posed rival. Damerones had been very unhappy, and was 
still so, in spite of her exalted piety — in spite of her heroic 
courage ; but she was sustained by thousands of cheering 
thoughts : the wretched chatelaine had nothing of the sort to 
lean on, for her impetuous passion had broken every support 
to pieces. From the summit of her donjon she had looked 
out on the departure of the very last of her friends, and was 
now lonely; isolated with a garrison composed mostly of 
mercenaries, in the very heart of a country torn by wars ; 
faithless to her devoir, as a woman of the noble class, as a 
good Christian ; suspected, no doubt, or soon to be so, of 
protecting the seditious Typhaineers, and above all things 


else, and worst of all — a widow — though an unmarried 
woman I 

Who is there can tell how bitter were the tears poor Ma- 
haut was shedding on the battlements of her strong ehatel ? 
Who can give expression to her agonies ; who name the 
shiverings that passed, like ice-bolts, among the quiver- 
ing fibres of her heart ! A thousand and a thousand times 
she wished she could die; a thousand times, in heart- 
rending tones, did she utter the name of Philippe I — Phi- 
lippe now forever lost to her. 

Judging by her own heart, she felt certain that after the 
signal outrage of his expulsion from her own ehatel, he never 
would return — never could pardon. Besides all this, she 
felt she never could receive him to mercy again. Thus it 
was all over, and that very evening she gave proof of 
the utter blindness in which her soul was held bound and 
captive by a causeless, but fierce jealousy. 

Rigauld came in from the abbey, and brought two let- 
ters with him, one from the Abbot, and the other from 
Canon Norbert. 

" Lady," said the gamekeeper, " Monseigneur, the Abbot, 
has sent me to inform you that he is returned from Rheims ; 
that many of the knights who were here are now assembled 
at the monastery, and after a long conference between them 
and Monseigneur Philippe, he sent a messenger to the 
Burgh to request Canon Norbert to go to the minster and 
speak with him. An hour after that was done, they de- 
spatched me hither with these two letters, and with orders 
to deliver them into your own hands." 

" Give them," cried the chatelaine. 

Seizing the two parchments, she went to the oratory to 
read them quietly, and alone, for she knew how to read ; 
her uncle, the Bishop of Cambrai, had made her learn that 
science from the priests under his chnrge. 



Norbert's letter Just like all the good Canon's eloquence, 
was nothing bat fire and flame. It began by radely scold- 
ing Mahaut for her inexcusable behavior. By breaking 
with her friends, and by outraging her betrothed, she had 
clearly shown to every judicious mind that she must be pos- 
sessed by some malign spirit. Then he spoke of Dame- 
rones, and on that topic launched out into eulogies so great, 
expressions of admiration so enthusiastic, that every word 
he wrote to make the girl's innocency shine out clearer as 
to M essire Philippe, looked very much, to her, like a piece 
of special-pleading. He closed by threatening Mahaut 
with the whole weight of his anger in case she would not 
make haste to humble herself in the presence of such a 
splendid spectacle of sanctity in the individual whom she 
suspected of being her rival in love, and in case, too, she 
should fail to make, in a true spirit of gentleness and pa- 
tience, the proper excuses to her betrothed husband, open 
the gates of her fortress again to her allies, and, in one 
word, undo everything she had lately been doing. 

Had Mahaut been only a little out of temper, this mis- 
sive of the old priest would have been of itself enough to 
make her carry matters to the very last extremity. When 
she began to read the Abbot's letter, her feelings were ex- 
cessively hurt already, and that, no doubt, was the reason 
why she was so insensible to the wise and moderate lan- 
guage held by that good man, her once venerated guardian. 

Master Anselm explained, and, as he said, confided to 
her clear and correct understanding a true account of the 
crusader's conduct ; he took his part most discreetly and 
cautiously, yet he gently reproved Mahaut for a violence of 
behavior, the causes of which were purely and simply fri- 
volous ones. He availed himself of all the Canon's argu- 
ments, but presented them in a better shape, and concluded 
his despatch by supplicating his pupil to return once 
more to her sound common sense, and no longer compro- 


mise her happiness by unjust and hasty resolutions. 
Then quitting this subject, that constituted the first portion 
of his letter, bat was far from being the largest part of it, 
he proceeded to that which was much nearer his heart, to 
wit, the neutrality which his god-daughter was said to be 
thinking of between the abbey and its rebellious burghers ; 
he pointed out in strong terms how very wrong that would 
be on her part, and conjured her to give up the thought ; 
and, to be brief, he pleaded so well, that he left the chate- 
laine fully convinced that all his solicitude in her behalf 
looked to neither more nor less than the personal profit he 
was hoping to make out of an alliance with herself. 

" Cunning monk I" said she, as she tore his letter all to 
tatters. " You think of nothing but your old abbey, and 
you 'd think yourself mighty smart if you could only de- 
ceive my simplicity enough to make me spend myself in 
your cause, and reimburse the perfidious creature you've 
been robbing, with my estate I But you '11 have no such 
satisfaction, I assure you." 

She ordered Rigauld to be called. 

" Did you see Messire Philippe ?" said she. 

" Yes," answered the forester ; " I first saw him in the 
chapter-hall at the abbey, where he was seated with the 
Abbot, the knight, the bishop, the Canon, and the digni- 
taries of the convent. As I was leaving the hall, after I 
got those letters, he followed, and drawing me aside, he 
told me in just so many words, that I must assure you he 
is innocent ; that if you won't pardon his imaginary fault, 
you will be the cause of his death ; but as for him he will 
love you as long as he lives, and, as he was saying so, his 
eyes were full of tears." 

Mahaut held her eyes downcast on the stone floor while 
the forester was speaking, and was silent for some time 
after he had made an end, and then stammered out — 


" Tell the knight" . . 

She stopped. No doubt some word of tender affection 
had risen to her lips ; she was on the point of renouncing 
her severity and delivering her own heart from the thrall 
of its sorrow ; but a fatal thought uprose. 

"Answer me truly," said she rapidly, looking right into 
Kigauld's eyes, " did you hear Monseigneur Philippe, in 
the chapter-hall, in the court-yard, or anywhere else, name 
the name of Damerones ?" 

The forester knew no reason why he should not tell the 

" Certainly I did," said he ; " he talked about her a good 
while, with Norbert and Monseigneur Abbot too." 

" What did he say about her ?" 

" Why, he said she was a devoted young woman ; and 
but for her he would have been put. to death ; and to the 
last day of his life she would seem more worthy of respect, 
in his opinion, than a great many dames and damoiselles.'' 

In those words Mahaut could see nothing but an insult ; 
she felt her heart carried away in a new whirl of indomita- 
ble and terrible passion ; she felt sure that the Abbot and 
the Canon too were attempting only to cheat her for the 
profit they hoped to make out of it, and that the knight 
was anxious about nothing in the world but his own estate. 

" Rigauld," she exclaimed, " you will bear no answer 
whatever to Seigneur de Cornehaut. I '11 have nothing to 
do with him all the days of my life, and I '11 have him to 
know that never will I see him more. As to the Abbot 
and the Canon, tell them that I have put myself into my 
suzerain's hands, the Count de Nevers ; he will tell me 
what 's just and right, and I will obey him in every respect. 
Begone with you I and remember, you too, for your own 
safety as well as others, that any messenger, of what sort 
soever, who may come hither from the abbey, shall find my 


gates shat, and shall be shot with arrows at the foot of the 
wall by my archers." 

Upon hearing this declaration, Riganld stared at the 
angry dame in utter astonishment. His thick brain was 
unequal to the comprehension of how he, who for so many 
weeks past had had such good lodgings at the manor, could 
BO suddenly have turned into an enemy. He rubbed his 
ear, and after awhile spoke to his fearful interlocutress. 

" My lady, seems to me there is great misfortunes in all 
this — I myself, for long, really thought Damerones was a 
real witch, but now it appears she is a saint, a real saint ; 
and all the people in Typhaines, so they say, are stooping 
down to kiss her very foot-prints on the street — I don't go 
against that no more, for Master Norbert will have it that 
it 's all a fact. Seems I must have mistook ! but if I did, 
of course you mistook too as well as I. If I was in your 
place I 'd let Messire Philippe come back, and Fulk too ; 
I 'd get married, and there 'd be an end on 't." 

Mahaut deigned no reply to the gamekeeper, she merely 
pointed with her finger towards the gate. The forester 
went out at double quick, passed the barbican, and never 
checked his pace until he was fairly out of bow-shot. He 
was very sorry for these incidents, for he had got used to 
Cornouiller ; he had been well treated at the chatel, and in 
the rear of the raiders had scrambled up a most capital 
booty in the suburbs at Typhaines. But after all, he loved, 
like the faithful vassal he was, the very least of the abbey 
monks more than all the knights and dames in the whole 
province. As soon as he got back to the abbey he repeated 
the whole thing in its native crudity. 

There are many people who have suspected that the 
good forester, induced by some personal resentment, had 
made no really true report of his conference with the lady 
of Cornouiller, but that is not a thing to be even though* 


of. The very words she spoke were quite enough to eon- 
Tince the gnests at the abbey that there was nothing to 
hope for as far as she was concerned. 

Norbert, had he been still on the spot, would have spent 
himself in savage complaints of the chatelaine ; but that 
zealous and ardent personage had remained at the abbey 
only just long enough to fully vindicate and justify the 
whole conduct of Damerones. 

Anselm was well acquainted with Rigauld's nonsensical 
superstition, and no long examination was required to show 
that Damerones was not the fairy of St. ProcuPs Spring. 
The sweet Rose of Typhaines, the cloth-merchant's child, 
in telling her story to the good Canon, had explained to 
him how the idea of warning Mahaut of the crusader's 
peril had crossed her mind ; how she happened to think of 
Rigauld as a fitting messenger, he being the only man at 
the minster she thought she would trust ; and how it hap- 
pened that while searching for him she chanced to meet 
him close to St. ProcuPs Spring. She had been aware of 
the dull forester's mistake, and availed herself of his terror 
to spur on his zeal. These details did not and need not 
take up much time to clear up the whole business. 

Norbert, then, had gone back to Typhaines, to the con- 
sul's, and warned Damerones that the time to depart was 
at hand. 

" In the course of a few days," said he, " God alone knows 
what misfortunes are to fall on this unhappy and guilty 
town. You, Damerones, whom the Lord hath chosen to 
be one of the most cherished lambs of His flock, it is not 
fitting that you should stay and be an eye-witness to the 
ruin of your people." It was in the presence of Jeanne 
and Simon too, that the Canon thus spoke. Foreseeing 
the approaching departure of their child, that unfortunate 
man, torn between love for his daughter and love for his 


city, was constaotly running from his house to the council 
chamber, and from that to his house again. He had hardly 
left the one for a few minutes when he was forced back 
again to the other — he was so uneasy he could not be quiet 
anywhere, for he was ever on the lookout for some horrible 
news. His instinct by no means betrayed him. He was 
at home when Norbert came in at his door to carry his 
child away. 

Damerones went up to him and begged him to give her 
his blessing. 

" Forgive me, father," she said, " I have been a heavy 
burthen for you to bear — I have not kept the faith I owed 
to you. I have failed in my obedience ; forgive me. I, too, 
have been unhappy." 

Her voice was broken ; yet she armed herself with firm- 
ness, though she could not restrain the gushing tears that 
rolled down her fair, now pale cheeks in spite of her. 

Simon took her hands in his own, while Jeanne, like her 
daughter, on her knees close by the bench on which the 
consul sat, looked like a thing inanimate. The broad bald 
forehead of the consul, furrowed with wrinkles, embrowned, 
his gray beard, all made him look the image of one of the 
patriarchs of the old law. He answered his daughter : — 

" It is better for thee that thou shouldst go away, Dame- 
rones; but think of the life I am living I My people 
m^sacred ; my child devoted to the son of their execu- 
tioner ; my city on the point of losing her liberties. . . . 
all the great and puissant of the land conspiring against 
one poor merchant 1 and yet, what harm have I done — to 
anybody ?" 

" Come, Damerones," murmured Norbert in the kindest 
tone, and taking hold of his penitent's hand. 

"One moment more, I implore you," said the father, 
with a suppliant look. 


He gazed at his child ; he took her head and pressed it 
between his two trembling hands; looked again, kissed 
her violently, and then with the courage of a real despair 
pushed her away and cried, " Qo," 

** God save you, father I and you, my mother J" 

She went out holding Norbert by the hand. Thîç was 
the deciding instant in Damerones' life. It was, so to 
speak, the very instant in which she was to cast away all 
the hopes and joys of this existence below, to never know 
beyond it anything save the severities and rigors of her 
conventual cell. It is true, the Christian faith that actu- 
ated her tore asunder before her eyes a curtain and revealed 
felicity superhuman in the other world. 

Nevertheless, Damerones was bathed in tears ; all her 
enthusiasm was clean gone. She iollowed her guide me- 
chanically, and the thought of never more beholding father 
or mother, nor any other thing she had loved in her youth, 
appeared to her stricken heart, armed with all its cruelty. 
As she went along the town streets, the burghers and the 
populace gathered about her ; they knew where she was 
going and what she intended to do. Norbert had cited 
her case as an example. The beautiful girl, the Rose of 
Typhaines, the very idol of all the gay and gallant and 
wealthy lads of the town, the maiden that Consul Payen 
had long ago announced as his future bride, had become 
the Saint for the whole country round, but she was inaen- 
sible to all this public respect and affection ; the submissive 
and humble child had suddenly reappeared : though, she 
wept at the parting and had no thought but the thought 
of separation. 

" Farewell, Damerones," said an old neighbor woman, 
her eyes streaming — " farewell ; you will pray for me, for 
they all say you are a great saint now I" 

A young girl, a friend of her happier days, threw herself 


sobbing on her breast. " Adieu, Damerones," she erie'd ; 
" oh, remember us sometimes 1" 

Norbert, the inflexible Norbert, scarce allowed his poor 
prey time to answer in brief words, full fraught with sor- 
rows and attachment ; he drew her onwards. The multi- 
tude opened for them to pass, and as they drew nearer and 
nearer to the town gate, the crowd redoubled their bless- 
ings and their last farewells. Pay en suddenly burst through 
the throng, and advanced towards the village maid. 

" Damerones, you are going to leave us 1 You will not 
have me to your husband 1" 

" Oh I my poor Pay en," exclaimed the poor desolate 
girl ; " go and console my parents." 

" To be sure I '11 do that, and I '11 do my best ; but only 
see I You are all in the wrong : I love you with a true- 
hearted love, and if you '11 come to me, you shall have no- 
thing in the world to wish for." 

*' Farewell, Payen," interrupted Damerones, sadly smil- 
ing; everything about her, everything she beheld, everything 
that, within a few moments she was to give up forever, now 
became dear to her heart — ohl dearer than tongue can 
tell I 

The consul still held the girl by the hand. 

" Indeed I" he said, " you are wrong to go and leave us ; 
I would have given you every one of my keys I you would 
have been far more mistress than I master of our home, and 
as to my love, it was all your own ; why go and shut your- 
self up in a cloister ? Is it because you was in love with 
the chevalier ? The thought of blaming you for that never 
entered my head, and never would. He is a valiant knight, 
and I wish I was like him." 

Damerones squeezed Payen's hand harder than a simple 
"Thank you" seemed to require, and covering her eyes 
with her hand, hurried along, and went out through the 


town gate. She walked on for some time, sighing, in spite 
of herself, and striving hard to suppress the outcry that 
seemed as if it mast tear its way through her bosom. Nor- 
bert, with manly tenderness and gentleness kept exhort- 
ing and encouraging her, and boasting of the celestial 
recompense of reward, whose treasure-house was being 
unlocked for her ; but she made no response. 

The two travellers had now left the boundaries of the 
town, and even the old abbey was soon to be lost to view 
behind the folds of the landscape. They were moving in a 
direction towards Champagne ; it was there the convent of 
Paraclete stood, whither Norbert was guiding the maiden 
who, in his mystic language he had declared was bom to 
become, at some future day, a bright Torch of love Divine. 
As they went on, they found themselves in the presence of 
Monseigneur Philippe, who, as well as his faithful squire 
Fulk, seemed plunged in deep melancholy, and engaged in 
some serious conference. 

Norbert was the first to descry him. 

"Daughter," said he to Damerones, "here your con- 
stancy has to bear up against one last assault — one last 
adieu — and the most painful of all, perhaps, is now in 
store for you. Be not troubled, and brave the snares of 
the demon." 

Philippe, too, had now recognized the coming pair ; he 
checked his steed, and leaning on his long lance, the heel 
of which he had dropped to the ground : " Well Dame- 
rones!" said he, tenderly: "you are going away to be a 
nun ? You will be an honor to the convent that receives 
you, for you have a good heart in your bosom, and I am sure 
you never could have wished that all the good you did for 
me should have been mixed up with so many misfortunes 
that are weighing me down this day." 

At first, Damerones had made up her mind not to raise 


her eyes to look on the man she had loved so loDg and so 
dearly ; but her strength was not equal to her resolution. 
The nun — and for the last time — was a woman, and a lover 
again. She was shocked to see how pale he was, and how 
great a change a few days had made in the warrior-like, 
bold, once so joyous traits of the crusader's face. She saw 
that his pale, thin features were stamped with the dolorous 
traces of watching and sorrow. His forehead, generally 
fair and smooth as polished marble, bore a slight wrinkle, 
his brows were contracted with reflection, and weighed 
down by a heavy burden of care. 

"You are as unhappy as others who are guilty," she 
cried, with heart-melting tones; '* but it cannot be that 
heaven will doom you to suffer. Take courage. Monseig- 
neur, the lady of Cornouiller will suffer herself to be moved, 
and will learn the whole truth." 

" I count not on it now, Damerones," replied Philippe, 
as he shook his head mournfully. '* She has condemned 
me unjustly, and I shall never see her more. You, they 
tell me, are a real saint, my child, and I will ever love you 
as if you were my own sister. Go, then, in peace, and 
pray for my soul 1" 

Monseigneur had no great talent at speech -making, or 
at holding his tongue when he ought ; we have seen proofs 
of that already ; but, though wit was wanting, he had all 
the delicacy of a great-souled man. His heart was as noble 
as his blood. He showed nothing whatever to even lead 
Damerones to suspect he was aware of her long-cherished 
love, and spoke to her with that air of patriarchal protec- 
tion that was befitting speech with a burgher-girl. 

The young girl again spoke — 

" If, unhappily, the lady will not suffer herself to yield, 
what would you do ?" she said. 

" Ah ! my child," responded Philippe, "that 's just what 


Folk was asking about a few minutes ago, as we were wan- 
dering along the roads, talking over my unhappy adven- 
ture. What would you have me do ? I came home from 
the holy land, thinking I had a father, a ehatel, a betrothed 
bride, and it seems I have none of them at all. I am here 
like a pastour, free to wander, just like him, all night long 
over the lands. I have no more home than he has." 

Here Norbert interfered with the conversation — 

" My son," said he, " I know you are unhappy, and that, 
too, without any fault of your own. I cannot allow Ty- 
phaines Abbey to retain possession of your estate. No 
doubt your father had good reasons for doing as he did 
when he gave it away to redeem his sins ; it was a good 
idea ; but he should have thought of you. On the other 
hand, it is known, and notorious, that holy father Anselm, 
the Abbot, has no right to despoil his monastery of a pro- 
perty that came duly and legitimately into his hands ; and 
I will go so far as to say he has opened himself to me on 
that subject, which is a great trouble and sorrow to him. 
I took it on myself to write to the Pope and the Cardinals 
on the subject, and their sense of justice cannot fail to soon 
cause your property to be restored, and yet the Abbot have 
nothing to reproach himself with as a despoiler of Holy 
Church with his own hands." 

" Ah I" cried Fulk, " what a brave Canon ; what a worthy 
Pope ; what excellent Cardinals I As for Abbot Anselm, he, 
on the whole, is a very honest monk, even though to save 
his life he did force me to leave my master in trouble, fool 
that I was I" 

The knight appeared far more indifferent than his squire 
was to the Canon's good news. 

" Father I" said he, " I thank you for your good inten- 
tions ; but if they should give me back my castle, cover 
me with benefits, load me with honors, and I not have 


Mahaut as I hoped, nothing in the world could make me 
happy, and all your charitable efforts would fail to relieve 
me of a burden of sorrows." 

'* Mahaut will listen to reason," said Norbert in friendly 
accents. '* You are a brave-hearted man, and you deserve 
to be a happy one ; and so much the more because you ask 
for nothing but what is right. But if, by chance, the chate- 
laine of Cornouiller should continue to be possessed by the 
evil spirit, I will give you a counsel that may alike tend to 
the glory of God and your own. For the present I only 
ask you to have patience ; and you, Damerones, follow me ; 
already has this conference lasted too long." 

"Monseigneur," stammered Damerones, "should you 
ever become the conqueror of Typhaines, and my father 
fall into your hands as a prisoner, pray remember that 
'twas I that saved you." 

" I promise you that," replied he ;." Master Simon shall 
never receive other than good at my hands, in remembrance 
of you. Is there anything else I can do in your behalf?" 

" Nothing — no, nothing, Monseigneur. I am a nun, and 
have nothing more to do with things earthly. . . I ought 
to have none. Adieu . . . Monseigneur . . . farewell" — 

She seemed to be hesitating — she appeared to want to 
say something she dared not express. Her eyes fell on 
Fulk ; and then she suddenly untied a narrow gold band 
that she wore on her neck : — 

"Here, brave squire," she said, "take this little present 
from my hands and keep it in remembrance of me. Be you 
faithful to your master. Ever love him. Whenever danger 
threatens, be you nigh. Never leave nor forsake him.. 
Take heed that no evil shall ever befall him. . . . This I 
say for your own advantage, and in order that you may not 
at some future day be called to make answer to our God, 
for having acted the part of an unfaithful servant." 



She did not again look at Messire Philippe, bot went on 
her way. Whether it was that her soul was greatly shaken, 
or whether it was that she felt constrained to appeal to 
her whole religious sense, she folded her hands and walked 
fast, and prayed fervently as she went. Norbert joined 
her in prayer. They came to the top of a hill ; she sud- 
denly turned, cast a rapid glance towards him she had just 
left behind, and then at once began to pray again, and so, 
disappeared, with the Canon, behind the distant hill-top. 

Fnlk sat in his saddle, not a little touched at heart by 
the penetrating, passionate gestures of the poor sad girl. 
He held in his still outstretched hand the collar of gold 
she had given, and could not very clearly make out why 
she had given it. 

** Bosh !" at last he exclaimed ; '' what a brave girl she 
is I and in spite of the Damoiselle de Cornouiller's nonsense, 
the fact is she did saye your life, Monseigneur." 

" It would have been better, a thousand times, if she 
had let me alone to die there and then 1 But as you say, 
I ought not to think hard of her ; she did her best for me, 
and I hope she may be happy in her convent, for she is a 
brave child, as you said, and would to God Mahaut were 
but as tender hearted as she is !" 

The conversation between the knight and his squire, 
which had been broken off by the meeting with Damerones^ 
was now resumed, and incessantly reverting to the thought 
of his misfortunes, and yet clinging fast to the smallest 
shreds on which his hope still hung, the knight slowly 
proceeded towards the minster; for though he was very 
much irritated against that establishment and its Abbot, 
there was something in Anselm's character that was so im- 
posing that he felt bound to the cause in whose behalf he 
had suffered so much. He would have blushed to abandon 
what he deemed to be just and right on account of an 


interest purely personal, no matter how great it might be. 
Hence, be had firmly resolved to continue faithful to the 
cause of the abbey, and postpone his declaration of hostility 
to her until after the town should have come back under 
the yoke of its masters. 

At the abbey, the days passed on while waiting for the 
results of the Council of Rheims, which was to bring back 
everjLthing into good order again. The bishop and Anselm, 
closeted with the prior, were receiving and despatching 
couriers and judging of the real news of the day, while the 
plain monks, who had nothing but rumors to judge by, ran 
their theories fairly into the ground, being almost invaria- 
bly far wide of the mark. Joy reigned in the sacred abode. 
The boasted liberties of the men of Typhaines were now 
suspended on a single thread : as the knight entered the 
chapter-hall, most important news was brought in. 

Under the inspiration of Bishop Guillaume and Anselm 
the council had been composed of prelates well known as 
irreconcilable enemies of all the innovations of the age ; 
men imposing by the high consideration of their Sees and 
their wealth as well. They were men whom the King of 
France was obliged to deal with most carefully, and whom 
the Count de Nevers might well fear. 

To their secular grandeur was superadded the terrible 
rod of their ecclesiastical power, and it was impossible to 
brave either the one or the other. Hence the lord king 
and his prime minister too had made no delay in bowing 
to the very first injunction that commanded them to change 
their whole attitude in relation to the poor Typhaineers. 
The citation, addressed by the fathers in council to the hardy 
sovereign, had been received with all due humility, and 
Louis at once announced that he willingly submitted the 
entire affair to the discretion and conduct of the holy per- 
sonages convened at Rheims. It may be, he was scheming 


the while, bat the bishops and abbots were full as knowing 
as he. Apprehending he might be intending to protract 
the business too long, they voted to send him a contribu- 
tion in money, a kind of bait that no power in that age of 
the world had ever the least idea of not taking. King 
Louis and his minister, who had already been paid to up- 
hold the charter of Typhaines, now eagerly accepted a 
bribe to overset it. Such was the sole policy of the day. 

The convent had for two days been made aware that 
this great point was won ; but that was not all of it. The 
Count de Nevers had tried to get up a countermine, and 
had forwarded his messengers to both Paris and Kheims. 
At Paris the count's remonstrances had been answered by 
grand demonstrations of submission to Holy Church and 
invitations to his mandatories to proceed at once to the 
Council, which alone had power to decide all the questions 
at issue. The Nivernais deputies were received with 
hauteur by the sacred council ; as it was at once an- 
nounced to them that the Count de Nivernais must at once 
and for all renounce his iniquitous claims to the suzerainty 
of Typhaines Abbey and his friendship for the rebels, or 
worse it would be for him : the count was not powerful 
enough to make it worth while to buy him. The next 
thing was that the Abbot of Typhaines should be charged 
to engage his revolted burghers and serfs to return to their 
duty, and in case of resistance on their part, excommunica- 
tion should be proclaimed, and should excommunication 
prove ineffectual, troops were to march against them from 
all quarters and ruin the rebels utterly. 

When these facts were made known to Philippe he ex- 
claimed — 

"It's all well." Bishop Guillaume rubbed his hands 
in his delight ; the good Abbot alone held his peace. He 
was carrying out the cause of his Church, and that he was 


resolved to do, but he mourned over the misfortunes that 
he foresaw must be drawn down on the rebels by their own 

" And now," said Bishop Guillaume, " the only question 
left is, how to advertise those sons of Belial of the misfor- 
tunes that are hanging above their heads." 

" That is a duty," added Anselm, " that belongs to me 
alone." As he said it a cry indicative of surprise and 
blame broke out in the assembly. 

. " How is this, holy father ? Can you possibly be think- 
ing of renewing your negotiations with those rebellious 
serfs ? Would you go so far as to compromise your sacred 
authority with the low people who have blasphemed it so 
openly ? Leave, yes, leave it to others to bend that fierce 
courage of theirs ; they will do it as well as you can, and 
the dignity of the church of Typhaines can lose nothing 
by their intervention." 

" Far be from me the weakness to hearken to your coun- 
sel," exclaimed the Abbot. " The question now is not how 
to keep up an attitude of mundane pride in victory. If the 
good right should prevail, it is the part of true charity to 
give check to the tears that cannot fail to flow. Not only 
will I make an appeal to my rebel vassals, but I will, in 
person, go and preach submission, give them promise of 

Nothing could turn the holy prelate aside from the deter- 
mination thus announced, and which was particularly dis- 
pleasing to Bishop Guillaume, a man charged brimful of 
respect for the church, and one never to relax his hold 
on the prescriptions of etiquette: still, Anselm had an- 
nounced his resolution, that, no "one could ever shake, and 
so, one of the knights repaired to the borough, accompanied 
by a trumpeter, to summon the consuls to a parley, in the 
name of their lawful lord. 


The prior and bishop, who led the opposition to the good 
Abbot's design, relied fully ou the hateful and violent tem- 
per of the iusurgents to hinder the interview from taking 
place, and to prevent the negotiation from going beyond a 
mere sammons to lay down their arms within a time fixed, 
or take the consequences. But these two great politicians 
found their hopes disappointed, absolutely disappointed; 
the Abbot's mandatory came back to the minster with news 
that the consuls had accepted the proposals for a confer- 
ence, and stood ready at once to repair, if so it should be 
agreed, to the spot to be appointed, at the entrance 
of the stone bridge, and there hear whatever it might be 
that Master Anselm might please to say to them. 

** Further," reported the knight, "I saw nothing of dark, 
sour visages I was led to expect, from the reports circu- 
lating on that subject among the monks. The men looked 
cold and determined, and not a soul, either in the streets, 
or the council chamber, oflfered me the slightest indignity." 

" They are scared," said the bishop, smiling. 

" I should be surprised at that," put in Messire Phi- 
lippe ; " they by no means looked to me, when I saw 
them, like people either to be easily astonished, or to turn 

'* Perhaps," said Master Anselm, "it has pleased the 
Lord to touch their hearts." 

"Bah I" rejoined Monseigneur Philippe, "they are too 
hardened for that." 

"Be it as it may," pursued Anselm, "let us give thanks 
to the Saints for the happy thought, which they alone 
could have breathed into their hearts, to accept of our 
conference; and you, Messire, who have just seen them, 
return, I pray, and say unto them that it pleaseth us to 
acknowledge their courtesy, by accepting their proposal to 
have an interview at once. In the course of an hour we 


shall be at the bridge with our friends : let the chiefs of the 
poor commune also repair to the same spot." 

The whole abbey was in motion as soon as the news 
got abroad of the coming event. The formalists con- 
demned, while the hot heads approved, the proposed plan ; 
the vindictives-^and there were some of that class among 
them — were furious about it. What, in fact, would be the 
consequence, in case the Abbot, by his eloquence, should 
really make a powerful impression on the hearts of his in- 
surrectionist vassals 1 There would be no such thing as 
pillaging Typhaines I burning Typhaines to the ground ; 
no such thing as a general sack and loot I pleasure, profit, 
and all, clean vanished and gone I It was a matter to 
make the mercenaries weep I Nevertheless, as I stated 
before, all was motion, agitation, chatter, behind the walls, 
and in the great court-yard of the sacred abode. Here 
was a fellow busy furbishing up his casque to make a finer 
show in the Abbot's suite there ; another swallowing his 
hasty-plate of soup, for fear of spending the whole day fast- 
ing, for everybody opined the interview must take up a 
great deal of time. 

' It was visible from the minster that the town was fully 
as much excited as the abbey population. Women and 
children, and even men were seen hurrying to the ram- 
part to gaze up at the venerable institution, and talking fast 
about what they saw, and what they thought. In fact, 
curiosity, emotion, and anxiety about what was to come to 
pass that great day, were at the height. And, what a 
strange thing I neither party appeared to have the least dis- 
trust as to the intention of their opponents. Neither side 
had even offered a proposal to secure the bridge against a 
coup-de-main ; the number of men in attendance on each 
had not been settled, nor even mentioned. It all went on 
simply, rapidly, and by a sort of carrying away ; th' 


looked as if in a hurry to have the thing over. Ah, ha I 
the burghers were seared about their excommunication I 
Were they ? They were terribly afraid of the coming 
push of pike 1. Oh, ho! However all that was, towards 
two o' the clock in the afternoon the abbey-cavalcade issued 
forth from the grand portal of the sacred fortress. The 
Typhaines consuls, notified of the proceeding by the 
shouts resounding from the rampart, passed out from the 
town walls, attended by a crowd of their people. In the 
whole band not a helm, not a hauberk, or buckler ; not a 
halbert or lance was to be seen. They were even bare- 
headed, and wore no armor that day but their swords. 

" What is this we are doing ?" cried Master Anselm at 
such a sight. ** When these people advance so peacefully 
to give us greeting, why all this parade of warlike arms and 
cavalry. Let the sergeants-at-arms go back to the abbey : 
let our knightly brethren alight from their chargers, and 
the venerable bishop and I will advance open-handed to 
meet these poor people." 

" You are right," said Monseigneur Philippe, who was 
first to leap to the ground ; " we must never let an enemy 
exhibit confidence greater than our own." 

" Monseigneur," muttered Fulk, " you know nothing 
about it : stick to your horse and your lance." 

" Hold your tongue, and be off at once with the courser 
and penon." 

Fulk's only response was by shrugging his shoulders. As 
soon as they beheld the change taking place in the band 
from the monastery, and the men-at-arms wending their 
way up the hill, with the pages leading oiT the war-horses 
and carrying their master's bucklers, the Typhaines popu- 
lation sounded their applause, and uttered most enthusi- 
astic cries and shouts ; on hearing which Abbot Anselm said 
to his companions — 


" The poor people are not yet perverted ; we shall bring 
them back without being obliged to chastise them." 

He had reached the foot of the bridge just as he uttered 
the words. The consuls and their retainer^ advanced upon 
it at the other end. Simon, Eudes, Jacques and Antoine 
were there, but not Payen ; he was wanting. 

Approaching the Abbot, Simon bent down as if he was 
about to kneel. Anselm, seeing all his sacred hopes on the 
very point of being realized, stretched forth his hands and 
opened his mouth to speak words of concord and union, 
when. the consul, quickly rising, drew his sword and struck 
a blow at the Abbot's head that knocked him senseless to 
the bridge ffoor, and shouted, ^^ Aid! Aid! Typhaines! 
Typhaines ! Death to the monks .'" 

Like a thunderbolt he rushed at Monseigneur Phi- 
lippe, who was at the Abbot's left, and utterly stunned 
and stupefied at the act, stood with his hands abroad, with- 
out even seeing the coming blow. Eudes, Jacques, and 
Antoine had all drawn their swords ; the burgher troop 
did likewise. The town gate continued to pour out streams 
of men, who now were clearly enemies indeed ; and the 
whole hateful band bore, like a pack of famished wolves, 
on the astonished and disarmed cortege of the venerable 
Abbot, on the bishop, the priests, and the monks, shouting 
** Typhaines ! Typhaines ! Death to the monks /" 




It is certain that at the beginning of this outbreak not 
a soul among the Abbot's followers had any clear notion of 
what was going on. Anselm lay stretched on the ground 
motionless, with a cut on his head that poured out streams 
of blood to empurple the stone pavement of the bridge, and 
yet people not more than two paces in the rear of him kept 
asking — What's the matter? what is it? Monseigneur 
Philippe had seen the blow struck, and instantly after it, 
Simon rushing at him sword in hand ; and yet, at first he 
had no clear conception of the incident. Such a stupefac- 
tion as that could not last very long without great risks, 
and, fortunately for him, it did not last long ; the good 
knight recovered his presence of mind soon enough to leap 
two paces backwards, and then dart to the right, where he 
drew Ruda verse from her scabbard, and then fearing naught 
from Master Simon, nor the devil himself, he shouted in a 
ringing tone, " Cornehautl Stand fast P^ 

At nearly the very same instant the knights, squires, 
and monks had all recovered their senses, and every sword 
was gleaming in the air ; the monks who, as having nothing 
to do with such affairs, were only in the way — made a hur- 
ried retreat to the rear-guard, and the fighting men came 
to the front, so that in the course of a minute the fight 
was regularly begun, to the vast disappointment of the 
burghers, who found themselves surprised in their turn. 

The conflict, at first, went on round and over the prostratP 


body of the venerable Abbot, and they fonght as the Greeks 
and Trojans of old did over the body of Patroclns ; Simon, 
who had proudly pressed his foot on the unfortunate pre- 
late's body, was driven backwards by a heavy blow that 
Philippe struck on his shoulder, and which forced him still 
further to give back : one of the pages seized the oppor- 
tunity to ran to the front and raise the unconscious Abbot, 
and bear him to the rear out of the fray. 

In the mean time Philippe and the consul continued to 
press each other with the greatest vigor, but the crusader 
had evidently got the upper hand of his valiant opponent 
Furious as a maddened bull at the sight of the venerable 
priest's flowing blood — a sight that carried him to the high- 
est pitch of indignation and rage — he lost all remembrance 
of the promise he had made to Damerones. His sword, 
that valtant Rudaverse, heavy though it was, in his hand 
weighed like a rush in a pastour's palm. She vibrated, and 
danced, and flashed like live lightning round Simon's 
head, shoulders, and arms, and often on the bright blade 
that the courageous Typhaineer opposed in fence. She 
fairly looked like a dancing demon, and her clickety- click 
was enough to make the stoutest man turn pale. At last, 
with a back-handed swing she dashed Simon's blade into 
fragments, and Cornehaut was his war-shout as he rushed 
on to seize the bruised and streaming frame of the hardy 

Philippe raised his adversary's body in his terrible arms, 
and pressing him on the edge of the parapet, was on the 
point of heaving him in the dark deep stream below. 
Simon uttered not a word, and his face wore a smile of 
blended rage and contempt. Philippe bethought him of 
Damerones — 

" I '11 pardon you for your daughter's sake 1" and he let 
go of him. 


" You are a madman," bellowed Fulk, close behind him, 
and at once stooping down over Simon, who had not had 
time to rise, he took hold of him again. In the mean- 
while Philippe had found it necessary to make head 
against Jacques, bj whom he had been struck with a dag- 
ger, though the point glanced on the polished scales of his 
armor. One sweep of Philippe's good sword tumbled the 
consul to the ground, and when he turned, Fulk and Simon 
had both disappeared. 

" If but that miscreant has only not dragged my poor 
squire to the bottom of the river with him I He must be a 
demon I However, I did keep my word to Damerones 1" 

The battle was lost to the burghers, and very simple was 
the reason why. 

Fulk, the man of precautions, and of little faith in others' 
good faith, had prevailed on the sergeants-at-arms not 
to retire too far from the place of conference at the bridge. 
He made them mount the knight's chargers, and it was in 
that way that at the first sign of the disturbance he brought 
up his strong reinforcement at th e gallop. The cavalry charge 
drove the communeers in at all points, though they seemed, 
as by a sort of enchantment, to have become instantly sup- 
plied with lances, battle-axes, and sharpened stakes, and 
would unquestionably have overwhelmed the small knightly 
escort that had remained on the bridge ; but, as I already 
stated, Fulk's distrust was well placed on that day. 

Still, we ought not to believe that, in spite of the fall 
of two of their consuls the multitudinous Typhaineers, 
though repulsed by the men-at-arms, resorted to a cow- 
ardly flight. No; the madmen were forced only step 
by step to the town gate, and made head with such fiery 
energy that they were very near recovering the advan- 
tage ; but, though they were constantly receiving rein- 
forcements from the burgh, and they did receive very 


many ; and though they were powerfully assisted by the 
clouds of crossbow bolts from the town rampart, the men- 
at-arms also grew most rapidly by the coming up of their 
companions in the abbey, and they came up at a run. At 
length, one last vigorous charge by the cavalry drove them 
back to the wall, and the mercenaries seemed as if they 
would enter the town with the retiring crowd. Monseig- 
neur Philippe, by a superhuman effort, had wrenched 
away one of the draw-bridge chains, but Payen made a 
sudden sortie with a fresh company, struck the chevalier a 
heavy blow on the head with his battle-axe, that he reeled 
and stumbled, and the draw-bridge head was at once 
standing upright in the air. 

" Good I we '11 pay you another visit," said Philippe : he 
beckoned a trumpeter to him, made him sound the retreat, 
and marshalling his troops, recrossed the bridge, on his 
way to the abbey, ne not only thought it useless to get 
his men shot to death from the walls, but as he had no lad- 
ders, he knew that an escalade was not to be thought of; 
and, besides, he was anxious to know what had become of 
the venerable Abbot and his faithful Fulk. 

The scene inside of the walls was a very diflTerent one. 

" We have had a very bad time of it," said Antoine to 
Payen. " The rascally monk is dead though, I hope ; the 
rest of them got oflT, and Simon — " 

" What of Simon ?" 

" Simon has disappeared, and Jacques is killed." 

" To the devil, the whole of you I" exclaimed Payen, as 
he wiped his bloody sword, and thrust it back into the 
scabbard. " You are a set of traitors, all of you, and I told 
you how it would be 1 You have disgraced the commune I" 

"Fool, that you are," rejoined Antoine, in a rage ; *'if 
you had gone with us, instead of hearkening to your stupid 
scruples, we should at this hour have been revenged, and 



safe too. With Simon to help you, we should have made 
an end of that scoundrel of a Cornehaut, and the commune 
wouldn't have had an enemy left." 

" Nonsense 1" rejoined Payen, as he stamped his foot 
upon the ground — *' nonsense I I am ready to die for the 
commune, but never, no, not even for her, will I be guilty 
of an act of infamy. Your project and Simon's was a 
scandalous one, and must ever be one accursed of heaven ; 
and I firmly believe has lost the commune, while a true 
and honorable courage would have been able to save her 

" After all," responded Eudes, with a jeer, " the Abbot 
has got his head clove open ; he 's dead, any how, and that 
makes one monk the less for us. Long life to the Com- 
mune .'" 

Payen turned his back on him, and went away, nor did 
he meet any smiling faces as he strode on. Not one of the 
customary acclamations was to be heard. Everybody knew 
how opposed he had been to the treasonable plan of his 
colleagues, and though they also knew he had just saved 
Typhaines from being captured and sacked, he was accused 
of caring very little about her ; his popularity was stone- 

When Payen became convinced it was so, the thought 
struck him to the heart. He stopped, and folding his 
arms across his manly breast, turned and faced the crowd 
that was following him, not silently, but mutteringly. 

" What do you want ?" he haughtily asked. 

" Death to all cowards ! down with the traitors I long 
life to Simon 1" were exclamations that were now heard, 
but only from the outer ranges of the encircling mob, though 
the nearest of them merely stood and stared at him, with- 
out a word said. Payen marched directly on to the press 


that at once opened and gave him way, until he met Eudes 
and Jacques on the street. 

" What 's the meaning of these shouts, my masters ?'' 
said he. 

" The people are not satisfied with you." 

" Nor I with the people. I thought I was in command 
of a body of brave men — not a gang of assassins I" 

Pay en unhooked his scarlet mantle, his consular cloak, 
and dashed it down to the pavement at their feet, and 
turned his back on them. Murmurs and threats now broke 
out like mad ; but he paid no attention to them whatever. 

" Silence ! my children 1" cried Jacques in paternal tones ; 
" be composed. Our lord King Louis and the Count de 
Nevers, our faithful allies, will make it all right. Even 
should the decision of the council be adverse, which I don't 
believe, it will be broke by the Pope. It is far better for 
you to be governed by people that really love you than by 
faint-hearted folks !" 

" Long life to Jacques I Long life to Eudes I" they 
cried. Payen, as he heard the shouts, merely shrugged 
his shoulders, to mark the intensity of his contempt, and 
went home to his own house. What a condition is that 
of a city, when its victorious enemy is marching on it and 
its ruin inevitable ? It is like an hospital for the insane ; 
and so it was with Typhaines. From that moment onward, 
Eudes and Jacques, a couple of stupid dunderheads, hardly 
fit to guide themselves, and whose only merit had been their 
complete obedience to Simon, were to become, at that very 
moment, absolute masters of the commune. They tried 
to blow up the popular courage with the most absurd 
schemes and hopes. Sometimes it was Suger, the king's 
minister of state, who was marching in person to the succor 
of Typhaines, at the head of a thousand lances. Some- 
times, it was the council, that had been won over by th' 


bargesses sent to them by the consuls to indace them to 
favor the commune. Twenty différent sorts of nonsense 
per hoar stimulated, and then disheartened the public con- 
fidence. In fact, common sense had fled the town. From 
time to time troops were seen marching to the ramparts to 
stare at the monastery on its rock above them, and as they 
gazed and gazed at the silent walls, they gave a loose to 
their conjectures as to what was going on inside of them. 

In the first place, and the most important too, the Abbot 
was not dead, Simon had missed his aim. Next, Simon 
himself, by a sort of miracle, was not lying at the bottom 
of the river ; for just as Fulk was on the very point of cast- 
ing him over the parapet, he had become illaminated by 
a flash of thought, not of clemency, for that was a kind 
that ever proved very confusing to the honest squire's 
brains while busy in a struggle, but it was a refined idea 
of vengeance, that to him smacked of divine inspiration. 

He dragged his prisoner, now exhausted by loss of blood 
and nearly choked to death by his vice-like grip at the 
throat, he dragged him, I say, out of the tumult, and call- 
ing a couple of soldiers who helped him to tie the poor 
man, they took him on their shoulders and hurried him 
off to the abbey, where the redoubtable burgher was in- 
stantly and faithfully deposited in the abbey dungeon, to 
the intense admiration of the monks. Bishop Guillaume, 
above all, could not sufficiently express his high satisfaction 
at the capture of the cloth merchant, though to be sure he 
was still in doubt as to the fate of his friend the Abbot. 

Ah I if but a compassionate angel, the same one, no 
doubt, whose address once turned aside the blow aimed at 
Isaac, had not been there to make Master Simon's hand 
swerve, the thread of the Abbot's life would have been 
mercilessly cut, and he would have received in heaven the 
recompense of the truth and the right for which he would 


have died the death of a martyr. The blow did swerve, 
and though the wound it gave was a deep, it was not a 
mortal one ; but the Abbot remained wholly unconscious 
during the whole of that and the following day. * 

Fulk, whose rather unmerciful habits his master was 
aware of, was surprised when his master expressed some 
surprise at his conduct in the matter, and did not need 
any pressing to explain to the knights in presence of the 
bishop and gentlemen, while at supper, how it had come 
to pass. 

" The fact is," said he, " I do believe my holy patron Saint, 
who when in the flesh must have been some remarkably wise 
clerk, did inspire me at the very niek of time. Only think 1 
as I was holding Master Simon on the parapet, my right 
hand on his throat and the left at his legs to give hira the 
somersault, I suddenly remembered the day when the Abbot 
was standing in the court-yard beside Sir Geoflfroy's dead 
body, then lying on the pavement ; the Abbot foretold, in 
the merchant's hearing, that he should do penance some 
day for his crimes, in that very court-yard. Of course I 
had no notion of going against Heaven's decree ; so I brought 
the fellow up here, and now it depends on these illustrious 
Seigneurs to say whether I was in the right or not." 

" So right," exclaimed Bishop Guillaume, " that the 
Abbot's prediction shall be brought to pass on the instant. 
It is possible that our illustrious friend may die this night 
of the wound he got at the bridge ; and it is even possible 
that his goodness might induce him to forgive his assassin ; 
if you believe me, my lords, the predicted expiation ought 
to take place on the spot." 

They all, with one voice, applauded the prelate's pro- 
posal ; and the abbey-court soon presented one of those 
strange scenes that are stamped forever on the startled 
imagination of every beholder of them. 


Night had now come on ; moonless ; stormy ; starless : a 
tempestuous wind was moaning or howling among the 
towers and along the corridors. Men-at-arms in their 
iron armOr, monks wrapped and hooded, valets with flam- 
ing pine torches in their hands, stood ranged around 
the court-jard. 

Four powerful brothers brought in the Abbot lying un- 
conscious on the stretcher, his head bound up in bloody 
wrappings ; four of the squires, in like manner, came in 
with a bier on which lay Sir Geoffroy de Cornehaut in his 
coffin ; one already a prey to the grim destroyer, and the 
other carrying on a feeble resistance to his pressing attacks. 
The two ghastly burdens were set down in the midst of 
the knights, facing the Bishop of Chalons-sur- Marne, who, 
bareheaded in the storm, and grave as the occasion, stood 
president of the terrible court. 

When all was ready, a guard of soldiers was despatched 
to bring in Master Simon from the dungeon. He was 
ordered to kneel ; but took no heed to the order, and said 
not a word. The men-at-arms then bent his legs by force, 
and held him down on his knees before his two victims. 
He uttered no complaint, and held down by the iron hands 
of the soldiers offered no resistance. His was the face of 
a stoic — ^his eyes were bold; but he neither braved nor 
supplicated his victors and judges. 

'* Simon I" spoke out the bishop, "you have come to 
the end of your crimes. Your murders, your rebellions, 
your most base and cowardly treason have dragged you 
to this spot. Behold I see yourself on your knees before 
your Seigneur the Abbot of Typhaines." 

Simon did not even frown ; he looked at the Abbot's 
body on the stretcher, and seeing that it moved not, some- 
thing like a disdainful smile seemed to swim over his hardy 
impassive features. 


" The Abbot still lives, and will live," said a knight. 

Simon seemed not to bear this refutation of his last hope. 

" Now look again," said Bishop Guillaume, " this is the 
dead body of father Nicolas — ^the Seigneur Geoffroy de 

• Simon looked towards the coflSn. A new smile sat on 
his lips, and for this once he opened his mouth. 

"As for him," said he .... but he stopped as if his 
determination to see all, and suffer all, was now fixed and 
unchangeable. He repelled the temptation he felt to 
triumph before his victors' faces, in the death of the Baron 
of Cornehaut, his terrible enemy ; and he held his peace. 
A shiver of rage ran through the ranks of the men-at-arms, 
and the two valets that held him on his knees pressed him 
harder down — ^they almost stretched him on the stones. 

In solemn tones the bishop resumed — 

" The hour of pride is past ; the time to repent is come. 
Here, thou proud man I thou impious murderer, thou standest 
humbled in presence of thy victims, and before the faces of 
these gallant men I these pious cœnobites, who stand gazing 
on thy countenance I Thou bearest witness that the spirit 
of prophecy did, once at least, visit the lips of holy Abbot 
Anselm. Rise up, now, or rather let them lift thee up, for 
thou art become a slave, and hast no longer a will of thine 
own. Holy Church repudiates and denies you, and delivers 
you over to the secular arm. " 

" Good," exclaimed Fulk ; " the secular arm ! I suppose 
that means us soldier-folks. The secular arm is going to 
give a good account of this villain. The monks took up 
the stretcher and the bier, on which lay the unconscious 
Abbot and the dead baron, and forming in procession two 
by two, moved solemnly and slowly away, carrying their 
wounded Superior, to whom had thus been paid an act of 
homage he would undoubtedly have refused to accept, bar* 


be been conscious of tbe proceeding, and along witb him 
the corpse of the late father Nicolas. The knights, squires, 
and men-at-arms remained and drew up in a circle close 
around the prisoner. The council of war for the trial of 
the cloth-roerchant was now conrened. 

Monseigneur Philippe was the first to speak. It was 
not much in his way to make a speech, and we hare seen 
that he was never inclined to make an abusive use of his 
eloquence, but for this occasion he broke his rule, and had 
his reasons for it, too. 

"Seigneurs," he said, "you, as wise and honorable men, 
are about to pronounce a verdict on this Master Simon 
before you. It is your right to do so, and I think there is 
none to gainsay it. But for myself, I pray you allow me 
to abstain from taking any share in his trial. A vow I 
made, forbids me from pronouncing an opinion on this 
burgher's case; should I cast my vote against him, I 
should look on myself as a perjurer and an ingrate. To 
be brief, I refuse to pronounce a verdict in his trial." 

" As you please. Monseigneur," replied one of the old- 
est of the knights: "pray withdraw to yon corner, and 
without uttering a word, look on, if you please, to see how 
we shall decide." 

" Willingly," rejoined Messire Philippe, and he took a 
stool that one of the soldiers oflFered him, and seating him- 
self a little way off in the shadow, prepared to watch the 
peripatetics of the scene about to be accomplished, and that 
was not likely to take up much time. He sat facing Mas- 
ter Simon, who was now on his feet again, with his scarlet 
cloak all torn to strips, hanging about him. His grizzly 
hair was all tumbled and glued up with the dried blood 
of his wounds ; and he stood with arms folded across bis 
breast. To the eyes of a friend he looked like a being 


wholly intrepid ; to an enemy's eyes, his was the face and 
attitude of a braggart and an insolent 

" You stand accused of many crimes," said the gray- 
headed knight, who, by right of seniority, had taken Mon- 
seigneur Philippe's place as president of the council of 

" I will enumerate them for you, and you are allowed to 
make a brief defence if you choose to do so." 

** Neither brief, nor long," said Simon, in a rude voice. 
" I have nothing to say to you ; and you may use your 
pleasure, as to me." 

" Are you resolved ?" 

" Resolved," answered the consul. 

" These are your misdeeds," resumed the knight. " More 
than twenty years ago, you forced your mistress, the lady 
of Cornehaut, to quit her castle halls. You impelled the 
serfs of the place aforesaid to set up a Commune, and in a 
state of open rebellion, you fought at their head against 
your liege lord. 

" When driven away from Cornehaut, you assisted the 
burgesses of Amiens to rise in insurrection against their 
seigneur, the bishop, and fought among the rebels. 

" When received at the burgh of Typhaines by holy 
Abbot Anselm, you again excited the burghers and serfs 
against their lawful seigneur. Father Nicolas was mur- 
dered by your direction ; you have headed the revolt, and 
you have been its principal leader ; in fine, you made a 
traitorous attempt to assassinate your benefactor the Ab- 
bot, at the very time he was thinking of granting you a 
pardon. Are you seriously resolved to make no defence 
and tender no answer ?" 

"Resolved 1" again said the consul in the same insulting 

" Then I will take your votes, Messeigneurs." 


The cooncil held a brief consaltation, in an under tone ; 
it was as brief as might have been expected, and the 
knight tamed to Simon. 

''Bnrgher 1" he said, ''yon are condemned to die on the 

He made a contemptnoos gesture for his only answer. 

" Has anybody got a rope ?" asked Fulk. 

"Here's one 1 .... here 's a better one I" 

" If it 's only strong enough I" mattered the squire, as 
he adyanced to the prisoner and made a sign to the ser- 
geants-at-arms to lead him to the abbey-gate. 

At that moment supreme, the crusader approached him. 

" You are about to die," he said, " and though your sen- 
tence is a just one, I have not been forgetful that you con- 
sidered it a duty to take yengeance on my father and my- 
self for the death of your relations. In addition to that, 
your daughter saved my life, and I now, in her name, ask 
if I can do anything to assauge the bitterness of your last 
moments ?" 

" Yes," replied the consul ; " leave off speaking to me ; 
for in the world there is nothing I so utterly detest as 

Monseigneur Philippe, greatly scandalized, withdrew 
muttering — 

" Discourteous brute I " and he abandoned the con- 
demned man to his executioners. 

At the abbey-gate, looking towards the town, there was 
a stone gargoyle that projected some five or six feet from 
the eaves. By means of a ladder, two of the soldiers 
climbed up to the fatal support ; their comrades below had 
been equally expeditious, for Master Simon, stripped of his 
mantle and hauberk, and naked to the waist, was already 
standing beneath with the rope round his neck. Though 
the Commune of Typhaines and its adherents might be 


properly looked on as excommuDicates, the Bishop of 
Chalons, considering, he had received no official advices 
on that point, took it on himself to send a monk to Simon 
to assist him in his last moments. Simon inqnired whe- 
ther they could furnish him some other confessor, not be- 
longing to the abbey, and upon receiving a negative 
answer, said he had no need of any one. The soldiers upon 
the gargoyle had commenced hauling on the rope, and 
Simon's body slowly rose into the air. The acclamations 
of the men-at-arms and convent servitors became deafen- 
ing. In a moment it was all over. The body was left 
hanging in front of the abbey, and the first beams of the 
morning sun would disclose it to the terrified gaze of the 
people of Typhaines. 

" Good 1" said Fulk, and he winked his only eye. " One 
basilisk the less." 

Thus ended Simon, cloth-merchant, consul of the Com- 
mune of Typhaines, one of the most arrogant revolution- 
ists of the twelfth century. 



The morning following this execntion fonnd the Bishop 
of Chalons-sar-Marne in one of the halls of the monastery, 
seated by the bedside on which the venerable Abbot was 
lying, and there attended by certain of the convent bre- 
thren endowed with skill in surgery, who were eagerly 
engaged in lavishing on their wounded Superior all the re- 
sources of their art, with the utmost tenderness and affec- 
tion. The holy priest had recovered his consciousness, 
yet his weakness was extreme ; but that did not prevent 
him from questioning his friend on the recent events. 
Bishop Guillaume held a parchment-roll in his hand that 
he had just received. 

" Well, well, venerable brother," said he, " God hath not 
forsaken us I The church is triumphant, and impiety is 
overthrown and cast down. The Council of Rheims has 
been dissolved, after completing the measures proposed by 
your wisdom. The Excommunication has been proclaimed; 
this parchment is the official act ; and it now depends on 
you to fulminate it, in case the rebellion should hold out : 
what is more, the Crusade is to be preached throughout 
all Champagne, in Burgundy, and the Isle of France, 
against communeers and their adherents. We cannot doubt 
that this lair of assassins and robbers will return under 
your authority, and purged, too, of the wretches who have 
been carrying on war against you." 

"Yes," replied the Abbot feebly, "the immense mercy 


of the Divine Being hath come to my aid; henceforth the 
hour for firmness and courage hath passed and that of 
mansuétude is come. I hope I shall be found, not to have 
dishonored my dignity at the time I was despoiled utterly, 
and wandering and fleeing like a doe from the pursuing 
wolves. Now that the Lord hath restored power to my 
hands, it is a duty to act with gentleness to the people 
who, once subdued, are become my children again. Words 
of excommunication, I trust, shall never issue from my lips. 
As to the crusade, let us strive to avoid the use of it, and 
let the menace exert its power, and let us not put it to the 
last test ; it would make my heart bleed to see the burgh 
put to the sack, and delivered over to all the horrors of war. 
Believe me, in spite of yesterday's treason, I have not 
given up the hope of making those mistaken unfortunates 
listen to reason, and that even Master Simon himself, on 
finding the impossibility of a successful resistance, will 
counsel submission, and himself submit to the necessity of 
the case." 

"I verily do believe, venerable brother," responded the 
bishop, who was exceedingly surprised, " that your charity 
would induce you to pardon even Simon himself for his 
execrable crime 1" 

"And why not ?" answered Anselm, with a smile, " ought 
we, without some great necessity, to will the death of the 
sinner ?" 

" Happily for us all," rejoined Master Guillaume, " your 
men-at-arms and your allies, less debonair than your holi- 
ness, took it upon themselves to execute justice upon that 
villain." He then recounted to the Abbot all that had 
occurred from the time he had received the stroke that 
deprived him of consciousness at the Typhaines bridge. 
The old Abbot drew a long deep sigh, closed his eyes, and 
began a prayer. All the people around him immediately 



followed his example, and the prior had orders to have the 
proper office performed for the repose of the soul of the de- 
ceased consul. Quite a useless precaution, as Fulk showed, 
for it was his mind that that same soul, gone off with quite 
a stout packet of crimes, did of right and without remission 
belong to a very different place from one of rest. 

Be all that as it may, it was plain to be seen that the 
Abbot deeply regretted what had been done. Whether it 
was that he felt it a useless thing to complain, or that 
it was not quite befitting in him to hurt the feelings of 
his friends by further recrimination, the pious monk said 
nothing more in regard to the hasty verdict of the court- 
martial, with which he had neither lot nor part ; but, he 
issued a formal order that, until his cure should be com- 
pleted, all acts of hostility against the Commune should be 
suspended. No one dreamed of disobeying him, for his 
firmness was -a thing well known to all. 

Anselm did not, however, allow matters to take their 
own way. He held long conferences with Monseigneur 
Philippe, who that very same day was sent as a messen- 
ger to the borough to speak words of peace to the people. 
Anybody but the crusader would have been far from any 
wish to go back into a town where the recollections of it 
were so disagreeable, the danger too so great; but the 
crusader would have felt dishonored to refuse such a mis- 
sion. Besides, the. Abbot had rightly judged, by sending 
him, that the tigers there had turned into sheep. In fact, 
the first effervescence, once fairly at an end, had been fol- 
lowed by the deepest discouragement ; a sort of reaction 
had taken place in the Commune, hardly less violent than 
the despair that had led the consuls and the great mass of 
the population to the horrible idea of massacring the Ab- 
bot and knights while the friendly conference, as proposed 
by the good priest, was going on at the bridge. 


The only difficulty was that this violent reaction had 
begun to decline again. Simon, incontestably the very 
ablest man in Typhaineî, had clearly understood, the 
evening before, from the reports brought in from various 
quarters, that resistance might indeed be kept up for 
a while, but must inevitably come to a surrender at last. 
There was nothing seductive in the idea of drawing a cru- 
sade on the burgh: everybody knew that in such cases 
rebels were treated as conquered countries, as infidel, Pa- 
gan, Mussulman: the harsher this treatment the better 
it seemed. Simon and his friends had set their last hopes 
on the stroke they had planned to give at the conference, 
and thought that success in that signal audacity, by freez- 
ing the Typhaines monks with terror, by depriving the 
league of a chief so redoubtable for strength, fame, and 
activity, might indeed postpone for long, if not forever, 
these last great perils, and restore to the King of France 
and the Count de Nevers both the power and the will to 
act in behalf of the Commune. 

The whole scheme had failed. Simon was taken priso- 
ner. Payen the brave par excellence, after he had with ab- 
horrence repulsed their treasonable project, had none the 
less saved the town from a surprise, but he had abjured his 
office as magistrate and gone home to his house, where he 
still remained close shut in. Jacques and Eudes were still 
left ; they were two poor fellows, most miserable supports 
for such times. Simon having disappeared from the Com- 
mune, the soul that enabled them to think was dead too ; 
they never did any one thing but take his advice and fol- 
low it. When morning broke and exhibited on the horizon 
the swinging corpse of the great consul — that was the last 
stroke. Howls of grievous pain ran along the ramparts, 
went down into the town, passed through the streets, and 
spread out over the squares. 


As Monseigneur Philippe rode towards the eouncîl-hall 
he saw none but people squatting at the feet of the walls, 
and all bedewed with tears. Th% desolation had no bounds, 
as the rage had had none. 

The chevalier's conference with the magistrates turned 
altogether to the advantage of peace. The more the cru- 
sader pressed and advised them, the more the two men lost 
their wits, and saw the fumes of their old ambition vanish- 
ing awaj into thin air. Had they had nothing to lose by it, 
there is reason to believe that they would have held a very 
different kind of language, and clung to their dignity at 
the risk of seeing the town carried by assault and delivered 
over to pillage. But, as we well know, they were both 
wealthy and both avaricious ; therefore they chose to be 
reasonable, though the conditions imposed must have seemed 
hard to submit to. 

In the first place ; the Commune was to be abolished, the 
people going back under the old system of rule, and the 
refugee serfs all to return to their several glebes. In the 
next place; the burghers were to be held to pay all ex- 
penses caused by their rebellion ; among others, the pay for 
the men-at-arms the Abbot had now hired to serve him for 
the space of two years ; that is to say, provided the conduct 
of his vassals should not, in the mean time, give rise to any 
disturbance. Again, the ramparts were all to be levelled 
and the ditch filled up ; the houses constructed in town, 
with towers and pignons, and all houses showing forth the 
burgher-pride of the communeers, were to be demolished, 
and the old fashioned abodes reinstated in their old places. 
On these last-named points Monseigneur Philippe showed 
them that the Abbot was fully resolved to be inflexible ; for 
he would not agree to allow the spirit of resistance to feed 
upon any monuments of the rebellion. 

Jacques and Eudes, with many a sigh, and hearts very 


heavy, consented to everything. They merely asked per- 
mission to consult the population, being unwilling, so they 
said, to bear the whole burthen of responsibility for acts 
of that kind. The Seigneur de Cornehaut granted the 
article as just and proper, and the burgesses were convoked, 
by sound of trumpet, to a meeting in the same square 
where they had sworn to die for the Commune. The ques- 
tion now before them was, to set aside the Commune ; not 
to die in defence of it. 

It is natural to suppose that the new aspect of the square, 
and the crowds gathered in it, was not like the one we saw 
there on a former occasion. In the first place, many of the 
old thatched houses that were there then had disappeared 
and given place to handsome structures, which, to be sure, 
were not yet finished, but nevertheless displayed, in certain 
of their portions already completed, and in the height of the 
scaffolding, how sumptuous had been their owner's thoughts 
on architecture, and how wealthy, too, they were. Instead 
of the old humble buildings whose thatched roofs we once 
looked upon, here are beheld nothing but tourelles, pignons, 
and on some of the façades of the burgher-folk, the stone- 
cutters had made a beginning of the figures of Adam and 
Eve in conference with the serpent ; further on, our first 
parents doing penance for their first greed ; or other sub- 
jects taken from the New Testament, such as Cœsar's- 
pence ; or moral scenes, the application of which it was 
easy to make out. 

Ah I but how sad were the multitude, though those man- 
sions shone out so brilliant 1 Nothing was to be heard on 
every hand but moans and groans and stifled sobs ; and as 
Jacques, mounted on a stage, which for this particular 
occasion it was npt deemed worth while to drape, gave 
signal that he desired to speak ; the entire audience, that is 
to say, women, children, and burgher-men, all broke out so 


loud with sobs and moans that for some minutes the consal, 
who was himself overcome with the public emotion, could 
not CTen begin to pronounce his discourse — so that good 
Monseigneur was deeply touched with sympathy for the 
general sorrow. 

'' Come, come, now, my children," said the knight, in a 
half seyere tone, " we are not met here to weep, but to 
come to a decision such as becomes a set of reasonable 
men. As to myself, I cannot see, putting myself in your 
place, that you can do better than choose either to go on with 
an accursed rebellion on the one hand, in which case you 
will be all cut to pieces, and inevitably damned afterwards, 
every mother's son of you; or on the other hand, make an 
end of your nonsense at once, and submit to your lord 
Abbot, who, I assure you, has no wish to be a hard master. 
I am even authorized by him to say, that in case any of 
you should prefer to quit the town, he shall be allowed one 
month to arrange his business affairs and then go aigray. 
But, 8 'death I make up your minds quickly, for I take 
little delight in all this moaning and groaning ; it makes 
my ears ache." 

Jacques now rose and said : — 

" Friends and fellow-burgesses, you have now heard what 
this worthy knight has thought fit to say on the situation 
of our affairs, and you know he spoke truly when he told us 
that further resistance on our part is a thing wholly out of 
the question. It is yours to decide what ought to be done, 
for I have no advice to give you on the subject. I have 
nothing more to say, except that Eudes and I have both 
resigned our offices as consuls." 

" My friends," said Monseigneur Philippe, " I am wait- 
ing for your answer. Your lord Abbot will take into ac- 
count any good grace you may show in the act of returning 
to duty and obedience." 


To carry on a discussion of questions of treaty with a 
multitude is to lay one's self open to the strangest freaks. 

*'Long life to Comehavt ! éfod bless Gornehaut /" they 
roared, and few among the populace failed to join the 

" Well, now I" said Philippe to the .two consuls, " you 
have grown reasonable at last I don't you think so ?" And 
he could not suppress a smile of contempt. " My mission 
is at an end, I suppose ?" 

" Yes, Monseigneur," replied Eudes in a piteous tone ; 
"but may we now venture to ask you what is next to 
happen to us ?" 

'* Nothing, nothing at all," responded the knight. " The 
father Abbot will prove very merciful. The only thing is 
that you will have to contribute, rather more than some of 
the rest of you, to the pay of the abbey-garrison, and if it 
was any business of mine to give you advice, it would be to 
put away all your scarlet ensigns, take ofiT your mail-coats, 
and dress yourselves in a way becoming honest and good 
burgher-people, and first of all set to work with hammers 
on your new houses." 

The two burghers bowed and waited on the crusader as 
he proceeded towards the first barrier. They did not speak 
a word as they marched along. 

"By holy cross I" cried Monseigneur Philippe, gayly 
smacking his hand on Jacques' shoulder, " I 've a notion, 
my good fellow, that when you and your comrades had me 
down under that Isengrin's axe over yonder, you little 
thought how it was all to end — nor I neither, that I do 
swear! But I have nothing to complain of now." 

The two burghers raised their hands up towards heaven, 
and then looked steadily on each other's faces. Rage, 
humiliation, and grief — every frightful sentiment of the 
wildest anguish was depicted on their visages. 


'* Can't we resist 7^ mnrmared Eades in broken tones. 
'* Is it not better to fall by the swords of oar enemies than 
to be butchered to death with a thousand lesser stabs as 
we are doing?" 

" How can we resist ?" retorted Jacques, "not a soul of 
them would obej us now. Didn't you hear them cry long 
life to the chevalier ? Perhaps Payen" . . . 

" Xo, no ; I '11 have nothing to do with Payen I ... he 
called us a gang of cowards and assassins, and never will I 
forget that, as long as I live. He was always opposed to 
us in the council, and I 'd rather obey a thousand monks 
than that scoundrel's pride. If we must bend our necks, 
comrade Jacques, at least let us not yield them to one of 
our equals." 

" I agree with you in that," said Jacques, " and so good- 
bye — neither you nor I know anything of what 's to come." 

What was coming was to submit to their déchéance from 
the consulship : the populace too were glad to get rid of 
them, for not a soul spoke to them as they stalked along 
homewards, an evidence of their fallen state that was very 
grating to their feelings, for it is a hard thing to soon get 
used to the loss of place and distinction. • 

As they were about to hang him, the soldiers tore off 
Simon's cloak ; Antoine had been buried in his mantle, at the 
bottom of the river ; Payen had disdainfully cast his down 
on the street pavement ; Eudes and Jacques took off theirs, 
with weeping eyes, and carefully packed them away, with- 
out the least hope of ever wearing them again, but fully 
resolved to have the pleasure, now and then, of opening the 
coffers and gazing at them. They then, to bring every- 
thing down to the level of their real condition, at once 
began the task of demolishing their rising mansions. 

On the evening of that solemn day, it was not without 
emotion that the towns-folk looked on to see several of the 


Tjphaines monks walking through their streets : it was a 
very novel sight; and the reception they gave to their 
former masters, now restored to their rights, was both timid 
and servile ; yet when they found how kind and conciliating 
they were in speech and manners, they began to grow en- 
thusiastic about them. The monks boasted a great deal 
of the lord Abbot's sweet and gentle disposition, spoke of 
his wound in a way to comfort every body, and related, in 
a rather gloomy way, perhaps, the story of Simon's death ; 
it was not the fault of the good fathers that Simon had 
died ; but it all came of those mercenaries, who to make 
the best of it, had spread a report that Simon had died 
blaspheming like the very worst Mahometan. The monks 
failed not to tell all the poor folks they fell in with, to come 
up to the abbey next morning as in the good old times, and 
have a taste of the nice convent-soup that would be in 
waiting for them ; to the women they tendered the long 
absent sweets of their religious counsels. The men were 
promised a high-mass for the next day, to be followed by a 
Te Deum, and the exposition of St. ProcuPs Annulary. The 
burghers were in perfect ecstasies over the kindness, merits, 
and virtues of the Abbot and his recluses, and from that 
very moment they never could succeed in making out how 
it was they could be such a set of fools as to allow them- 
selves to be drawn into a rebellion against such excellent, 
such worthy seigneurs. Being now converted, they at once 
began to cast about, to find out some way of doing honor 
to themselves and at the same time show their affection to 
their masters. They held a consultation ; some proposed 
to kill Payen, but one of the meeting suggested that the 
blacksmith had openly protested against the murder of the 
Abbot ; of course he must have been secretly planning in 
the good seigneur's favor, and of course it wouldn't be well 


to lay their hands on him. At once the shout broke oat, 
"Long life to Payen ! long live Fayen /" 

The next idea was to plaj some bad turn on Eudes and 
Jacques, but the prudent part of them found it an easy 
matter to show that far from being a thing pleasing to the 
monks, it might very well happen to irritate them, for don't 
you see, it was Eudes and Jacques that were the very first 
of all to advise the communeers to submit. Well, then, what 
can be done ? for we must do something — ^it will never do 
to let such a splendid evening pass without doing some- 
thing of some sort As the consuls had quit, the bailiff not 
yet appointed, and there being no authority 'off any kind, 
the good people of Typhaines were left entirely to. ttem- 
Bclves and their good inspirations ; somebody cried out:— 

" Hurrah for Jeanne, Simon's wife, let 's go and give her 
a ducking 1" 

The thought was a most luminous one. The entire mob 
rushed off for the street where Damerones had resided. 
The door was standing wide open ; nobody àt home. 
They tumbled everything topsy-turvy and no person came 
up to stop them. Jeanne was gone. Let us, without de- 
lay, here state that, some days afterwards, Rigauld came 
across her dead body out in the woods, half devoured by 
the wolves; a most singular thing, that might put one in 
mind of the old saying, that that sort of animals are in the 
habit of eating each other. 

We will now return to the good people of Typhaines, 
who found themselves sorely tried for want of something 
to do. Most unfortunately, it had been clearly made known 
to them that there was no plausible reason why there 
should be any hanging done; and so, for want of that 
delight supreme, they had to go to work on things inani- 
mate, and away they gayly went and at once commenced 
the demolition of the ramparts. 


On the following morning, the prior, as the Abbot's 
representative, came in with the men-at-arms \o inaugurate 
the new bailiff for the borough. He was received most 
admirably ; they hugged his mule's legs, and if he could 
have trusted to people's wishes, he would have given his 
very frock for so much sacred relics. The prior, as part of 
his duty, traversed the streets and everywhere saw that the 
Abbot's ordinance concerning sumptuosity in dwelling- 
houses was in a fair way of being consummated. At one 
of the mansions, he and all his attendants were profoundly 
astonished to find that instead of being in a process of 
demolition the workmen were actually going on with the 

" What 's the meaning of this ?" inquired the prior of 
some of the notable burgesses about him. 
, "Alas I" they humbly replied, " this is Payen's house ; 
we thought he was better disposed to obey our seigneur's 
orders than this comes to." 

" Bring the man here," said the monk, " and let me tell 
him what his duty is." 

Some of the soldiers entered the house and found Pay en 
there, in his blacksmith's dress, and eating his supper. 

" Here, you peasant," said the soldiers, " come out and 
make your appearance before the lord prior of Typhaines." 

"I have no seigneur but the king," replied the black- 
smith, " and if the reverend prior wants to see me, he can 
come here and do that." 

" The day of insolence is passed," they replied, " you are 
nobody now, sir peasant, and if you won't follow us with a 
good will, we '11 force you to march." 

" In case I should knock out your brains, both of you," 
said Payen, looking askance at an enormous sledge-hammer 
within reach of his hand, " I should not by that restore the 


Coromnne; I should not find Damerones again — and so, 
I will submit and follow you." 

" Sire monk, what do you want with me ?" 

" No doubt yon have forgotten the lord Abbot's order f 
Your house was to be taken down I" 

" Never with my consent," spoke out the bold burgher. 

" In that case it will be demolished without asking you ; 
but think of it ; you are forcing me to employ a useless 

" The rigor will not be without its .use," replied Payen, 
and he scowled fiercely at the crowd, " for it will prove that 
there was one Communeer of Typhaines who resisted to 
the last." 

"Have the house taken down," said the prior to the 

The word was given, and the builders immediately began 
the demolition. The populace lent their hands to the 
operation and it was marvellous to see how rapidly the 
work was done. Payen stood by ; contemplated the scene 
of destruction ; heard the mob laughing and jeering, and saw 
the walls tremble, then topple down, without once changing 
his attitude of cold contempt. 

" Am I a prisoner ?" he asked. 

"Not at all." 

" Then I quit the burgh ; and hearken to me, sire monk : 
you and your Abbot have not been hard, for conquerors as 
you are ; you might have done worse ; but these miserable 
peopie of Typhaines have been too cowardly ; they might 
have done better." ^ 

And as this bravado drew down a storm of threats — ^ 

"Ah!" cried Payen, raising his clenched fist, "you 
wretched howlers — let not a soul of you recover his courage I 
I promise him he will make a miserable proof of it. . . . 
Place 1 make way for me while I pass 1" 


"That," said the mercenaries, struck with Payen's mar- 
tial attitude, and already well aware of his reputation for 
hravery, "that's the stuff to make a man-at-arms ofl 
Pity such a man should be a burgher." 

Pay en was gone. He had returned to his old residence, 
and there shut himself in. No one doubted of his determi- 
nation to avail himself of the permission granted by father 
! Anselm to withdraw as soon as the seceder could realize his 
property, and they were right. The only man who had 
loved liberty without hating anybody, and served her with- 
out treason or relaxation, could not consent to live among 
a people whom he now regarded as cowards and scoun- 
drels. Besides all that, he was now very much disabused 
on subjects once most cherished by him. The Commune 
was dead, and very dead. 

The prior went back to Father Anselm's bedside to re- 
port what he had seen, heard, and done, and Bishop Guil- 
laume, whose ardent zeal would have willingly hearkened 
to the violent counsels of the military, now fully agreed 
with his old friend that, next after proper firmness, gentle- 
ness was to be esteemed neither a weakness nor a mistake. 
The learned prelate departed the next day, quite proud of 
the part he had taken in this grand affair, and of the suc- 
cess that had crowned his efforts. May it please Heaven 
that Master Abelard's reputation may never knnoy him 
more I but it did continue to follow him for a long time ; 
indeed, down to this very day it beclouds his glory. Apart 
from this misfortune. Master Guillaume de Champeaux was 
a fortunate prelate, and the See of Chalons was honored by 
his science and virtues. The day after the prior's visit to 
Typhaines, Monseigneur Philippe approached the Abbot's 
bedside, and announced that he had come to take his leave. 

" Why, my son ?" said the venerable monk, rising on his 
elbow. " Take a seat by me, and listen to what I have +' 



propose ; perhaps the result of this conference may be to 
convince you that the melancholy that sits on your brow 
has no business to be there; and what is more besides, 
that there ought to be no question of a separation betwixt 
you and me." 

" I wait your orders, holy father," said the crusader, 
somewhat surprised. 

The Abbot softly laid his hand on the young man's arm^ 



"My son," pursued the Abbot, "though the days we 
have, of late, lived in and the tempests of adversity 
that have howled around us were most terrible, yet, 
with God helping us, we have passed in safety through 
the dreadful trials, and now, nothing is left for us but^ 
the pleasing task to show how great is our love, and 
how lasting our gratitude. Among all those who have 
given us good aid and comfort in such sore afflictions, you 
certainly do hold the highest place, my dear son ; still, I 
must say, that my personal respect, my admiration and 
gratitude, are no meet compensation for your eminent 
services to this abbey, and to God's holy church." 

"Ah, holy father," answered Philippe, mournfully, 
" speak not to me of rewards, for I desire none. I wish 
no temporal recompense for what I have tried to do in 
that behalf. I want for nothing ; nothing in this world . . . 

"But, my son," rejoined father Ansel m, "your marriage 
contract with the damoiselle of Cornouiller is by no means 
certainly broken off. It cannot be that a mere transitory fit 
of anger, utterly causeless as hers is, should lead my ward 
Mahaut to violate the pledged faith she has kept so long 
and so truly — and which has my fullest, my most entire 
sanction. All that is needed to convert your betrothed from 
her present resolution, and renew her long, faithful affection 
for your person, is but a little prudence. Mahaut's presep*" 


paroxysm of anger will gradually become a great calm 
again : the waters of the sea, which, though they may be 
lifted up into mountainous waves by the lashing tempest, 
always become smooth and calm again, as soon as the 
storm-Kind grows lull. Hearken, then, to the plan I have 
laid out for you : Bishop Guillaume has already intimated 
to you that the Church of Typhaines has sent a petition to 
Kome for liberty to restore your entire property, and I doubt 
not in the least that his holiness will yield to the solid 
reasons I have alleged in my letters, and that he will at once 
grant me the boon to reinstate you, my son, in your an- 
cient heritage. But that is not all it is proper I should do 
as a sufficient acknowledgment. of your services. Down to 
the present day the abbey has ever been without an Avoyer ; 
the country having been undisturbed, seigneurs and pea- 
sants alike have respected her power and rights throughout 
the whole region around her ; but times are now greatly 
changed — they are hard upon us; and though we have 
come off victors in the late strife, it is the dictate of pru- 
dence not to slumber upon our successes. You, then, 
shall become our Avoyer ; you shall keep on foot for our 
defence, one hundred lances and three-hundred crossbow- 
men ; and to make it easy to defray the expenses of so 
large an establishment, you are to receive as your fiefs from 
our hands the four castles of Maisonriche ; Bresnay ; Coq- 
Hardi and la Taille, with the lands on them depending. 
It's unnecessary for me to tell you that, together with 
your ancestral domain, these new acquisitions will, with 
the domain of Cornouiller, to be added by your union to 
Mahaut, make you the wealthiest seigneur in all the 
marches of the Nivernais.'' 

Monseigneur gratefully pressed the aged prelate's hand, 
but he slowly moved his head in sign of negation. 

*' I most clearly perceive," said he, "that your good-will 


to me is great, my father ; and as for my ownself, I do 
thank you for it, and will keep it, a precious memory all 
the future days of my poor life. But upon what, atid on 
whom, does the full realization of all these flattering pro- 
jects depend? On an angry woman, my lord, and one, 
too, who will not be even just to a man who loves her far 
more than the whole world beside. If Mahant persists in 
her hatred, far from becoming the abbey's Avoyer, I will 
go — I know not whither, to seek some remote comer of 
the world, and there to lay me down and die." 

The poor knight spoke under the deepest conviction, and 
what he said was certain and sure, for the punctilio — the 
point of honor — at that day was, ever to win the palm of 
constancy, and especially constancy in all love questions. 
The Abbot saw there was no use in combating so intense 
a sentiment as that — and all he did was to gravely and 
mechanically nod his head, and dismiss the true-hearted 
knight. A few minutes after the interview was over, the 
prior of the monastery, by Anselm's orders, was on his 
way to Cornouiller, and it may well be supposed he was 
bearer of a message of peace. 

The prior was received at the castle-gate without any 
difficulty, and then admitted to the interior of the donjon ; 
but his surprise was extreme when, instead of finding him- 
self in Mahaut's presence there, he stood face to face with 
Monseigneur Baudouin de Pornes. The worthy monk was 
near falling over backwards with the shock ; but Messire 
Baudouin, assuming a most agreeable manner and tone, 
reassured the messenger as far as he possibly could — 

" How happy I how rejoiced am 1 1" said Sire Baudouin, 
" to receive a visit from the reverend prior of Typhaines I 
Ahl I am well aware, father, that you have felt some 
doubts as to my devotion to that holy house I Some little 
misunderstandings, certainly, did spring up between 


yet I have heard, with the highest pleasure, that the rebels 
have submitted at last ! The wicked wretches had spread 
a report through the country that I was one of their allies — 
why, they actually stole several of my own serfs from me ! 
Bosh I don't let 's talk of them ; I 'm too delighted to wel- 
come you to my Chatel de Cornouiller, indeed I am." 

" Your castle ?" cried the annoyed prior. 

" That is to say, my son's chatel. To-morrow he is to 
be united in marriage to Madame Mahaut." 

" But, have you bethought you. Monseigneur, that the 
lady is the reverend Abbot's ward, and that he has not as 
yet conceded his assent to the union ?" 

" Pray be undeceived, father," replied Messire Baudouin, 
" his reverence the Abbot is no longer my lady's guardian. 
Upon her own demand, the Count de Nevers, our suzerain, 
has received her under his protection, as was his right to 
do ; and his kindness has induced him to approve of this 
union, which is most gratifying to me." 

"Might I be allowed to have speech with Mahaut?" 
asked the poor prior. 

"No;" was the baron's peremptory answer; "she's 
busy — or — perhaps — she 's asleep." 

To such a reply as that, there could be no gainsaying, and 
80, the monk bowed, and deeming his mission at an end, 
returned to the castle gate, accompanied however by the 
baron, lavishing on the missionary numerous civilities, the 
kindest, the most respectful, and politest in the world. 

He returned to. the abbey and communicated the result 

tto Father Anselm. 
There were various rumors abroad afterwards in rela- 
tion to that singular affair. It was said by many persons, 
that while the prior was conferring with, Messire de Pomes, 
Mahaut was restrained by main force from going into the 
hall to meet him : others asserted that the treatment mea- 


sored out to the monk was in full accordance with her own 
free will ; while those who knew her best, insisted that such 
a blind obstinacy as that was a thing impossible to be sup- 
posed of any human heart. 

It was said that she certainly had placed all her property 
and her person too under the protection and control of the 
Count de Nevers ; but, that the Seigneur de Pomes had been 
so canning as to hurry to the castle in good time ; for a few 
hours later, and without fail too, she would have changed 
her mind in regard to Philippe ; that no sooner did she 
set eyes on her old enemy, than she started as if waked 
out of a wild dream, and tried to expel the baron from her 
walls, but without success, because the cunning nobleman, 
suspecting some possible change in her temper, had got in 
in force, and instead of going out like an idiot after coming 
in like a thief and a robber, he was now able to talk in 
the tone of a master. 

Whatsoever, among all these various explanations, may 
be the real truth, there is no one now left to tell. It re- 
mained a deep and hidden mystery, and must ever be a 
mystery. It is known, however, that from the time of her 
marriage, Mahaut led a life of severe seclusion; receiving 
no visits, except those of a couple of ill-famed barons, who 
were her father-in-law's intimate friends. The baron took 
np his quarters at Chatel Cornouiller, under the pretext 
of supervising his dear children's affairs, who, so he said, 
were too much devoted to their mutual affection to mind 
their real and most important business : he took good care 
to keep up a stout garrison at the place, and maintained, 
watch and ward of the very strictest. 

Never was Abbot Anselm, though greatly concerned for 
his former ward, allowed to approach her presence. It was 
evident that no person could gain admission without Mes« 
sire Baudouin's sanction, by any means short of carrying 


the strong Keep by assault ; an enterprise rather too hope- 
less while the baron was there to hold it. 

In fine, we ha^e to state that Mahaut died quite yonng 
and chUdless; her father-in-law adjudged the succession 
to himself in right of his son, her husband. Rumors bo 
sinister had got abroad aboat the treatment the poor ladj 
received from the hands of those wicked people, that the 
peasantry even told how her ghost was seen wdking during 
dark and tempestuous nights on the summit or the lofty 
donjon ; and that they had heard her shrieking for help 
amid the roarings of the storm-wind, and exclaiming in 
heart-rending tones, " Comehaut! ComehautP^ 

Monseigneur Philippe coald certainly never have heard 
anything of those dreadful stories ; for, if he had heard of 
them, no doubt poor Mahaut's sad fate would have been 
cleared up some way or other. He, as soon as the Abbot 
had told him of the prior's visit to the chatel, at once sum- 
moned faithful old Fulk, ordered the horses to be saddled, 
and took leave of father Anselm, with many thanks for 
kind intentions to-him-ward, but still averring that he 
would not avail himself of them. It was a dolorous 
moment for the good old Abbot of Typhaines to see him 
depart. Being a man of great energy and devotion, he 
had, too, as we well know, a most tender heart, and Mon- 
seigneur had won it wholly. Of course, then, he often pon- 
dered over the absent knight, and was ever anxious to 
learn what had become of him, till one day, about four 
years after his departure from Typhaines Abbey, there 
came a knight Templar from the Holy Land to demand the 
surrender of Monseigneur's family estate : that personage 
had joined the Holy Temple Order ; to which he had made 
a full and free gift of all his worldly goods, whatsoever 
and wheresoever. What to him was worldly property, 


thenceforth forever ? Was not his lineage about to cease 
in the world, as soon as the last breath should pass out 
from his lips ? He was to leave no posterity behind at 
his death I and his sword and helm, so he ordained, were 
to be buried with him in the last narrow house whenever 
it might please his Maker to loose him from the bonds of 
this human life I 

Pilgrims, returning to France from the distant lands of 
Palestine, deeply imbued, as they well might be, with ad- 
miration and respect for these knight Templars, so brave I 
so single-hearted I so patient I spread throughout Europe 
the high fame of the commander of the Templars, Sir 
Philippe de Cornehaut, won, as it had been, in the course 
of so few lapsing years I He, so they told, was the very 
column of the Order and the glory of the true religion, 
Roman, Catholic, and Apostolic. 

Exploits of his were told of, that seemed to sur- 
pass the force of any human thought. Among other 
things, they told how he and Fulk, bis good old squire, a 
few leagues away from the town of Joppa, had once scat- 
tered, like so much dust, a whole Saracen corps of two 
hundred horse, commanded by the soldants own brother, 
whose head he clove by a flash of old Kudaverse ; it is 
unhappily true the while, that the Emir's mamelukes had car- 
ried oflF the valiant squire's head with a falchion's sweep, 
and that was a great sorrow set in Monseigneur the com- 
mander's heart I He loved his faithful servitor as if he 
were an own brother to him, and always accepted his coun- 
sels, having long proved how wise, sincere, and disinte- 
rested they had ever been. 

After he had wept over, and, to his very best, taken ven- 
geance for his humble friend, he made choice from among 
his lay-brothers of the Temple-Order, of a person named 


Payen, wbo, in many a rencootre, had lent him a Tali'ant 
support. The commander and his sqaire were said to have 
had long private conferences together, and that after they 
were over, and they both came forth, thej seemed always sad 
and dolent. Bnt that was a very plain story for ns, who 
know those old days, when they both received wounds in- 
curable. The commander nsed to talk on those occasions 
about Mahaut, who, away off, far away yonder in the little 
district of Nivernais, was spending her life in a living mar- 
tyrdom ; the other spoke of Damerones, whom his fancy 
drew as kneeling at Heloise's feet, a tme and holy Saint, 
at Paraclete. The one pondered on his life as a noble- 
man, now forever lost, his ancestral line broken, and soon 
with him to disappear, from the world's face forever I 
the other conjured up to fancy's eye the once loved Com- 
mune, and bemoaned most bitterly, and with many tears, 
too, the vices and crimes of his once loved friends. The 
two templars never quarrelled ; on liberty and on love, they 
neither were known to have any* sentiments whatever, for 
all such thoughts were quelled for evermore in their sad 
bosoms. Their death was sublime. It happened on that 
heroic and fatal day when King Louis le jeune so covered 
his name with glory. The Christian army, driven in at 
every point by the innumerable squadrons of the misbeliev- 
ing Paynim, had fallen like a ripened harvest beneath the 
arrows and falchions of the Pagan hosts. The com- 
mander of the Temple-Order, Sir Philippe de Cornehaot, 
and the brother Payen, were last seen standing alone on 
a rock, where they continued to fight as if on the sum- 
mit of some tall tower. They had strewn the space around 
their last refuge with the dead and dying bodies of the 
Saracens, and finding that the great cloud of their assail- 
ants was ever swelling and growing and darkening ; their 


hauberks and helms and bucklers, too, all beaten in and 
broken, with none but the ruined fragments left, they both 
comprehended that their last hour was come. They now 
swore they would never surrender, or fall alive into the 
hands of the Mohammedans. Tired at last of seeing their 
comrades slashed and slain by the two Christian giants, the 
sons of Islam withdrew beyond the sweep of their swords, 
and did just what the soldiers of Marsil bnce did to Ro- 
land the Paladin, and brave Archbishop Turpin, of 
Rheims ; they stood oflF at a safe distance from their re- 
doubtable foes, and rained on the two soldiers a storm of 
arrows and javelins. 

" This is the last of it," gravely said the commander to 
the squire. " We shall not spend the rest of the day with 
the ladies ; still, brother Payen, we should think of our 
souls. It is time to do so now." 

The two templars, without paying the least attention to 
the hurtling tempest of missiles, went down on their knees 
— face to face — on the rock, holding their sword-crosses 
before their eyes. They then began to confess their sins 
to each other ; but Payen had hardly begun his penitential 
recital, when a long zagaie came whistling on, struck 
him on the left temple, and cast him dying on the spot. 
Monseigneur Philippe went on devoutly with his orison, 
but had no long time to wait ; he, too, fell : but he yet had 
strength enough left to drag himself close to the brink of 
the rock, where it rose perpendicular to the flowing river 
below, and then to toss his trusty old Rudaverse into the 
air: it rose and rose, and then plunged deep into the 
wave, and was lost to sight forever, unstained, unsoiled by 
the touch of an infidel hand. This last effort over, the 
good knight laid him down at length on the rock, and with 
a murmured Jesu Maria! before the inrushing, bellowing 


wave of the Moslem soldiers could reach him, his last breath 
was drawn, and so he died. An Egyptian sheick, who had 
been an eyewitness of the gallant defence of the templars, 
refused permission to cut off their heads, and gave orders 
for an honorable burial. 


Mt UmiUnl ispt^ing Mi^U me wtU, 

When timet» mA leme» ari flrowing; 
^n& it pUaisiis wy ft^art u hent the i8w<U 
m tu îrfeû'is swtrt flt«rttis iïmïnq 
^n the etUinq wa«â: 
%n& i !«»« t0 Me all scatter'* awunâ, 
iavi«««is mA tents «a tfte wartial pottttd; 

^ni{ tȔ} strivtt iiU% it gaaiA 
®<r see m the XexeX jrlaiwis Ijea«tttf 
(Say ItnigWiS andl steeds eapris«»'«. 

ft pleases we wite» t&e laneers ft«W 

j^et men auiA aemies tlifing, 
g^nû it pleases we tm, t« ftear aroutttf 

Mt v«iee 0{ tfte soWiers erijing: 
gt«a |<ra is wine 
W^htn tite eastles Strang ïresieged sftafee 
%U waUs ttprtfiKted t«tter arnfl «rnafee 

i^nâ î see tfte taewen fain 
<!5n tfte w«atetf slt«re, all eawpass'ifl 'xmU 
^ittt tbe patisaAe anil parAeil ()r«ttn(l. 



%nA MtUli AimmiUA mA Ifvaltn, 
(9n tUt vttqt of tu trUoây hnttU mnt 
Mt iitlA of wratlt It^t^li^n, 

^nâ tttere fty tft^ ist^^âisi «t tU â^fitt^ and tf^ad: 
^nA wlter^ tlt( tningUA istrif^ i» »TfvaA 

%$ U tXun Wit UtmkxC^ litnlns and Itaâ 
S^fif rctn^tt^rofr U%% <rf tfte living ttian AtmA, 

f t(U î)0tt tltat ««ttting tny is^ul ran rlteir, 

(&xi liani)ttrttin(r 0v r^traising, 
IÇifej XU muti (xi^ m "(ïtttarflfe XUm" xm% 

gxem t^(\k Mty u in IiattU i;l0$in0 
Wltfn tlt( Ux^n n^iglt, 
^nA ttte trait ta "aiA" ï% ttU\n% touâ, 
^nA titere, on tlie partît, XU \m\^ mA pvottâ 

%Xk Vit tH% iH^Xtn \k\ 
^ntl yonder are tritetl Mit mxa^UA fteap 
0{ tfte Itrave wlto isal^A tite trenrft'is %Xm. 

^aronis! your raisttfiei in isafety trlari, 
Dottv ritie$ anA v\\U%t% too; 

§^nA iatriot ! quir^ty go 
g^nA trti tfte f orA o« " yns anA no" 
Sftat \^n(t atreaAy too long ftatlt Um. '-y 

mu 3 793: