The Gathering of Brother Hilarius [24]
so maybe God will spare the innocent."
Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to bring her food, but she would not.
"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone that I may die the sooner."
Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child awake.
He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was peace.
Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his fatherless, motherless maid.
She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tender arms; and he fought with death for his little maid.
Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke and the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came to pass that when the light kissed her little white face she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.
The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he was standing by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no question.
PART III - THE FRUIT
CHAPTER I - HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!
THE Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible name.
True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub- Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving the chapter, the Convent - yea, even the novices - were silent, to show their displeasure.
When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.
Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer - but of him let us say little and think with charity; for 'tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to judgment.
Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was
Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to bring her food, but she would not.
"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone that I may die the sooner."
Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child awake.
He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead, with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with God in the silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face was peace.
Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his fatherless, motherless maid.
She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare; but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tender arms; and he fought with death for his little maid.
Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the new day broke and the east was pale with light he carried the child out that he might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came to pass that when the light kissed her little white face she opened her eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.
The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he was standing by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no question.
PART III - THE FRUIT
CHAPTER I - HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!
THE Monastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible name.
True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub- Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign his office. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing the Verba mea on leaving the chapter, the Convent - yea, even the novices - were silent, to show their displeasure.
When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.
Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer - but of him let us say little and think with charity; for 'tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to judgment.
Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was