The Gathering of Brother Hilarius [10]
of sunlit pasture, and the mantling forest which bowed and swayed at the will of the whispering wind?
"As well seek Heaven's gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city," Hilarius said to himself a little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. A prentice lad's homely brawl set him shivering; a woman's jest painted his cheeks 'til they rivalled a young maid's at her first wooing. He plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose mother, like his own, was light o' love: a strange link truly to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity.
Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. He reined up by Hilarius:
"Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?"
"That will I, Hal, an it be in my power."
"Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. 'Tis Luke Langland's reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head was full of feast and tourney, and 'tis yet undelivered. Mine host will not let the serving men and the two horses go 'til he hath seen Luke's money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me."
Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.
The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way.
The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.
Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-
"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"
He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.
"Sanctuary," stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I - "
The other laughed.
"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into these precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander - a strange place in which to see such a face as thine."
"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning," said Hilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place."
"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety - even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say 'tis a place of darkness and despair."
The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the other answered it.
"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom."
"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are
"As well seek Heaven's gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love in this light-minded, deceitful city," Hilarius said to himself a little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve them. A prentice lad's homely brawl set him shivering; a woman's jest painted his cheeks 'til they rivalled a young maid's at her first wooing. He plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only wherever mountebank or juggler held the crowd enthralled, there Hilarius, half-ashamed, would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope of seeing again the maid whose mother, like his own, was light o' love: a strange link truly to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of poor sinful humanity.
Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. He reined up by Hilarius:
"Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?"
"That will I, Hal, an it be in my power."
"Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host. 'Tis Luke Langland's reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my head was full of feast and tourney, and 'tis yet undelivered. Mine host will not let the serving men and the two horses go 'til he hath seen Luke's money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me."
Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.
The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than the reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced varlet by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for a less frequented way.
The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.
Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-
"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"
He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.
"Sanctuary," stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I - "
The other laughed.
"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into these precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander - a strange place in which to see such a face as thine."
"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning," said Hilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place."
"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety - even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say 'tis a place of darkness and despair."
The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the other answered it.
"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom."
"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are