The Gathering of Brother Hilarius [23]
Let them set it in the street, he would take it and cross no man's threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child die of want?
"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe," cried a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with blows and curses.
Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge.
A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were not his nestlings agape?
Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape and gaily painted.
He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in his awful need.
The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the sack and the hen had changed owners - but not unobserved; a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway - a thief.
"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply.
Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him.
"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis a rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?"
But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.
When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother stood watching him.
"Fetch bread and wine," said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to speak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten."
Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-
"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?"
Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of his little maid, and his were not the only tears.
The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder.
"But, Gia," grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us to- night."
"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry," she retorted, and filled a small sack with the victuals.
Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to him: "Now up and off to thy little maid."
Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed them.
"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!"
"Nay," she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her."
Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God.
When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely eat. Then he went out to find the woman.
He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried to him to keep back.
"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. As for thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child;
"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe," cried a voice; then they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with blows and curses.
Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased; breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge.
A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey. Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting open-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched if perchance a coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were not his nestlings agape?
Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape and gaily painted.
He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in his awful need.
The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the sack and the hen had changed owners - but not unobserved; a clear voice called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl and a boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway - a thief.
"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply.
Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him.
"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis a rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?"
But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.
When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge; the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother stood watching him.
"Fetch bread and wine," said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to speak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten."
Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-
"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?"
Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of his little maid, and his were not the only tears.
The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder.
"But, Gia," grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us to- night."
"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry," she retorted, and filled a small sack with the victuals.
Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to him: "Now up and off to thy little maid."
Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed them.
"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!"
"Nay," she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my old grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her."
Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God.
When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely eat. Then he went out to find the woman.
He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried to him to keep back.
"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. As for thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child;