The Gathering of Brother Hilarius [17]
wolf, and as such men shall hunt thee from their doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain sought and found it not, because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art damned, thrice damned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and he shall torment thee with remembrance."
There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the whiteness of the night.
The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward to close the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the company began in silence to make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad's voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others stood apart eyeing him fearfully.
He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, low voice: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: "Thou wilt live, my brother - and repent."
CHAPTER VI - A DARK FINDING
IT is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay - which village of the good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant - and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to repent and be saved, for Death's shadow was already upon them. Folk wondered and gaped - the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of London - but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same message half a man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed his preaching.
At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund's Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality that night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house - a brother had charged himself with the care of the Friar - he heard the sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English against the fashion of the day.
"Martin, Martin!" he cried.
The vielle was instantly silent.
"Hole, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily.
"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed farther afield." Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finished my ditty for this worshipful company; then, an't please thee to tell it, I will hear thy tale."
The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:-
"The fair maid came to the old oak tree (Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), The throstle he sang merrily - merrily - merrily, But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, Her sweet knight - Oh! where was he?
He lay dead in the cold, cold ground (Moon and stars and rain on the hill), In his side and breast were bloody wounds. Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, The poor knight - Ah! cold was he.
The maiden
There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the whiteness of the night.
The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward to close the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the company began in silence to make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad's voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others stood apart eyeing him fearfully.
He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, low voice: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: "Thou wilt live, my brother - and repent."
CHAPTER VI - A DARK FINDING
IT is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay - which village of the good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant - and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to repent and be saved, for Death's shadow was already upon them. Folk wondered and gaped - the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of London - but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same message half a man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed his preaching.
At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund's Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality that night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house - a brother had charged himself with the care of the Friar - he heard the sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English against the fashion of the day.
"Martin, Martin!" he cried.
The vielle was instantly silent.
"Hole, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily.
"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed farther afield." Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finished my ditty for this worshipful company; then, an't please thee to tell it, I will hear thy tale."
The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:-
"The fair maid came to the old oak tree (Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), The throstle he sang merrily - merrily - merrily, But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, Her sweet knight - Oh! where was he?
He lay dead in the cold, cold ground (Moon and stars and rain on the hill), In his side and breast were bloody wounds. Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, The poor knight - Ah! cold was he.
The maiden