Tales from the Old French Part 6

Despite me then I will speak, but, certes, no more will I do."

Then wrathfully he began to tell over the tale of his sins one after the other, word by word he told them, nor did he fail of any. And when he had made his confession he said to the hermit: "Now have I told you all my deeds; are ye well content, and wherein are ye bettered? By St.

James, meseems ye had not been appeased and if I had not told you the whole tale of my deeds. But now all is said,--and what then? Will ye leave me in peace henceforth? Now methinks I can go. By St. James, I have no will to talk more with you, nor to let my eyes rest longer upon you. Certes, without sword ye have won the day of me, ye that have made me speak perforce."

The good man had no will to laugh, but he weepeth full sorrowfully in that the knight doth not repent him. "Sir," he maketh answer, "well have ye said your say, save that it is without repentance; but now if you will do some penance I shall hold me well repaid." "And a fair return ye would make me," quoth he, "ye that would make me a penitent. Foul fall him who hath aught to do herein or who would desire it of me. But if it were my will so to do, what penance would ye lay on me?" "In sooth, even that which ye would." "Nay, but tell me." "Sir, with good will; to overcome your sins you should fast a s.p.a.ce, each Friday these seven years." "Seven years!" quoth he, "nay, that I will not." "Then for three." "Nay, in sooth." "Each Friday for but a single month." "Hold your peace, nought will I do herein for I may not achieve it." "Go barefoot for but one full year." "No, by Saint Abraham!" "Go all in wool without linen." "Anon my body would be preyed upon and devoured of vermin." "Do but chastise yourself with rods each night." "That is ill said," quoth he; "know that I may not endure to beat or mutilate my flesh." "Then go a pilgrimage over sea," quoth the hermit. "That is too bitter a word,"

answered the knight; "say no more of it; herein ye speak idly, for full of peril is the sea." "Go but to Rome, or to the shrine of Saint James."

"By my soul," said he, "thither will I never." "Go then each day to church and hear G.o.d's service, and kneel till that ye have said two prayers, an ave and a pater noster, that G.o.d may grant you salvation."

"That labour were over great," made he answer. "All this ado avails not, for certes, no one of these things will I agree unto." "How now! Ye will nought of good? yet shall ye do somewhat, and it please G.o.d and please you, before we twain dispart. Now do but take my water cask to yonder stream for the love of G.o.d omnipotent, and dip it into the fountain, no hurt will that be to you, and if ye bring it to me full, ye shall be freed and absolved of both your sins and your penance, no more need you be in doubt, but I will take upon myself all the burden of your iniquity; lo, now your penalty is meted out to you."

The baron heard him and laughed out in scorn, and then he spoke, saying: "No great toil will it be and if I do go to the fountain; and speedily will this penance be done. Now give me the cask forthwith for I am in haste." The good man brought it to him, and lightly, as one untroubled, he received it, saying: "I take it on this covenant, that, until I have brought it back full to you I will never rest me." "And on this covenant I give it unto you, friend." So the knight fared forth, and his men would fain have followed him, but he would have none of them: "No, in sooth, abide where ye are," he saith.

So he cometh to the fountain and dippeth in the cask, but not a single drop runneth into it, although he turns it this way and that until he is well nigh beside himself. Then he thinketh something hath stopped the opening and thrusteth in a stick, but finds it all free and empty. So again in his wrath, he that was proud of heart dipped the little cask into the fountain, but not a drop would enter therein. "G.o.d's death!"

saith he, "how is it that nought comes into it?" Then yet again he thrust the cask into the water; yet were he to lose his head thereby no whit might he fill it.

Then in his chagrin he ground his teeth, and rose up in great wrath, and went again to the hermit. Hot and ireful he hardened his heart, and spoke, saying: "G.o.d! I have not a single drop. I have done my uttermost, yet I could not contrive or so dip the cask that so much as a tear-drop of water came therein; but by him who made my soul never will I rest, nor will I cease night or day till that I have brought it to you again filled to overflowing." And again he spoke to the hermit, saying: "Ye have brought me into sore trouble by this cask of the devil. Cursed be the day whereon it was shaped and fashioned, since by reason of it so great toil must be mine, that never may I rest, nor know solace or ease by day or by night, nor let my face be washen, nor my nails trimmed, nor my hair or my beard be cut, till that I have fulfilled my covenant; afoot will I travel, and penniless will I go, nor take with me so much as a farthing in my doublet, nor yet bread nor meat."

The hermit heareth him and weepeth full gently: "Brother," quoth he, "in an ill hour were ye born, and most bitter are your days. Certes, and if a child had lowered this cask into the fountain he would have drawn it forth full to overflowing, and you have not gathered a single drop.

Wretch, it is by reason of your sins that G.o.d is in anger against you, but now in his mercy he would that you should do your penance, and torment your body for his sake; now be not unwise but serve G.o.d full sweetly." But in wrath the baron made answer: "For G.o.d, certes, will I do nought, but I will do it for very pride, and in wrath and vexation: it is done neither for good, nor for the sake of my fellows." Then all in pride he turned to his men, saying: "Now get ye gone forthright, and take with you my horse, and bide you quiet in your own land. And if you hear men talk of me, mind that ye tell them nought, neither one nor other, nor this man nor his fellow, but hold your peace and be silent, and live after your wont; for I have become such that never henceforth shall I know a day without travail and toil, by reason of this cask which is of the fiend,--may the cursed fire and the cursed flame devour it! Meseems the devils have had it in their care and have laid a spell upon it; but I tell you of a sooth that rather will I seek out all the waters of all the world than not bring it back again full to overflowing."

Then without taking leave he fared forth, and pa.s.sed out of the door with the little cask hung about his neck. But know ye of a truth that, save only the garments he wore, he took not with him so much treasure as would buy him four straws; and alone he set forth, for none went with him save G.o.d only. Now know ye what anon he will know, what hardships will fall to him by night and by day, at morning and evening, for he goeth forth into strange lands. Few will he have of those delights to which he is wont, and he must lie hard and lodge ill, and cold victual will be his and scanty bread; poverty will be ofttimes his neighbor, and much toil and trouble will be his.

So over hill and dale fared he, and to whatsoever water he cometh he thrusteth in his cask and testeth it, but it avails him not, for nought can he gather up. And his great wrath, that sways him overmuch, is ever kindled and burning. Well nigh half a week it was before he bethought him of food or had any desire thereof. Ever his great wrath consumed him, but when he saw that hunger so beset him that he might not defend him, it behooved him to sell and barter his robe, whatever else anyone should tell you, for a paltry tunic that was worn and tattered and shameful for so high a man. Nor had he any sleeves, whether full or narrow, and neither hood nor capuchon. So he wandered by valley and plain until his face, which of old had been fresh and fair, grew changed and tanned and blackened. But whatsoever water he came unto, ever he thrust in his cask and proved it, but little his labour profited him, for howsoever much he toiled, he might not gather up a single drop; and much he suffered and endured thereby.

His sorry raiment soon grew worn and tattered. Barefooted he crossed many a great hill and many a valley. He wandereth in cold and in heat: he fareth through briars and thorns, and among the wild beasts; his flesh is torn in many a place, and many a drop of blood falleth from him, and sore pain and trouble is his. Now he pa.s.seth ill days and ill nights: now he is poor and a-beggared; now rebuffs and ill words are his portion, and he hath neither robe nor chattle; now he findeth no hostel, and again he meeteth with folk full harsh, churlish and cruel, for in that they see him so denuded, so stark and tall and great of limb, so hideous and tanned and blackened, and bare legged even to the thighs, many a one, forsooth, feareth to give him lodging, so that ofttimes he must lie in the fields. Neither jest nor song had he, but ever great wrath and sore torment. And I may tell you thus much, that never could he humble himself, or lighten his sore heart, save in so far as he made lament to G.o.d of the great travail and misease he endured; yet it was, but for bewilderment, for he was nowise repentant.

When that he had spent the money he won by the sale of his raiment, he had not wherewith to buy bread; and if he would eat he must perforce learn to beg. Now are all his woes exceeded, for never again shall he know solace, but woe only so long as he liveth. Often he fasteth for two days or three, and when his heart is so weakened that he may no longer endure his hunger, in wrath he goeth aside to seek for bread or some crumb or morsel, and then he fares on for a s.p.a.ce.

Thus he sought through all of Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Poitou, Normandy and France and Burgundy, Provence and Spain and Gascony, and all of Hungary and Moriane, and Apulia and Calabria and Tuscany, and Germany, and Romagna, and all the plain of Lombardy, and all Lorraine and Alsace; and everywhere he setteth his heart to the task. Methinketh I need not tell you more; the day long I might tell ye of the woes he endured, but in a word, from the sea that circles and encloses England even unto Baretta that lieth on the Eastern sh.o.r.e, ye cannot name a land that he hath not searched, nor any river that he hath not tested; nor lake, nor mere, nor spring, nor fountain, nor any water foul or fresh, into which he hath not dipped his cask, but never might he draw a single drop; never would any whit come into it, howsoever much he strove; and yet he did all his endeavour, and more and still more he laboured.

And amid all his woe which was so great and grievous, a marvel befell him, for never by any chance of adventure did he find any man who did him aught of kindness, or spoke him fair in fellowship, but all men hated him and mocked and chid him, nor spake with him, whether in field or wood or hostel, and it were not to revile him; yet whatsoever shame men might say to him, he would neither dispute with any nor defame any, for he held them overmuch in scorn, and all men he hated and despised.

What more should I tell you? He fared for so long, up and down, here and there, that his body grew so tanned and stained and blackened that scarce had any man known him that had seen him aforetime. His hair was long and tangled and hung in locks about his shoulders; his fair hair and face and forehead grew black as a flitch of bacon, and his neck that had been great and thick, was long and thin to the bone. All lean from hunger he was and hairy; his eyebrows had grown s.h.a.ggy, his eyes sunken; his sides were all uncovered, and his skin so hung about his bones that you might count the ribs beneath; his legs were bared and brown and lean and shrunken; his veins showed and his sinews, and from toe to groin no shred of raiment had he, and black and brown and stained he was. Thereto had he waxed so weary and spent that scarce might he stand upright; he needs must have a stick to lean on as he walked, and much the cask, that he had carried night and day for a year, now weighed upon him. What more need I tell you? His body had been in so great torment the year through that marvel it was how he had brooked it; and so much had he borne and suffered that he knew right well he might not longer endure. Yet was there a thing he must do. He holdeth he must return again,--never will the hermit laugh when he seeth him, rather will he weep. So the knight set forth leaning upon his staff, and often he maketh lament in a loud voice, yet he strove so much that still he held on his way to the hermitage. At the end of the year on the same day he had departed from that most holy place, the high day of Good Friday, even in such guise as I have told you, he came thither again. Now hear ye what befell him.

All dolorous he entered; and the hermit, who had no thought of him, was alone within, and he looked at him in wonder for that he saw in him a man so weary and wasted. Him he knew not, but the cask, which was hung about his neck, he knew right well that aforetime he had seen it. And the holy man spoke, saying: "Fair brother, what need brings thee here, and who gave thee this cask? Ofttimes have I seen it, and this same day, a year past, I gave it forsooth to the fairest man in all the Empire of Rome and to the starkest, methinketh, but if he be alive or dead I know not, for never since hath he returned hither again; but tell me now of thy courtesy, who thou art and how men call thee, for never did I see so weary a man as thou seemest, nor one so poor and disgarnished. Had the Saracens had you in their prison even so stripped and denuded had ye seemed; whence thou art come I know not, but of a sooth thou hast fallen among ill folk." But the other brake out in anger, for still was his wrath great, and irefully he spoke: "Even to such a plight hast thou thyself brought me!" "I, how so, friend? For methinks I have never before set eyes upon thee. What wrong have I done thee? Prithee tell me, and if I can, I will amend it." "Sir," quoth he, "I will tell thee: I am he whom a year ago this day thou didst confess, and gave me as a penance this cask which has brought me to such straits as ye see." Then he told him all the tale of his travels, of all the lands and countries he had travelled through, of the sea and the rivers and the great and mighty waters. "Sir," saith he, "everywhere have I sought, and everywhere have I tested the cask, but never a drop hath entered therein, and yet I have done mine uttermost; and well I know that anon I must die, and may endure no more."

The good man heard him and was sore moved, and all in sorrow he began to speak, saying: "Wretch, wretch," so spake the hermit, "thou art worse than a Sodomite, or dog or wolf or any other beast. By the eyes of my head, methinketh that had a dog dragged the cask to so many waters, and through so many fords, he had drawn it full,--and thou hast not taken up a single drop! Now I see of a sooth G.o.d hateth thee, and thy penance is without savour, for that thou hast done it without repentance, and without love or pity." Then he wept and lamented and wrung his hands, and so rent was his heart that he cried aloud, "G.o.d, thou who seest and knowest all things and canst do all, look now upon this creature who has led so toilsome a life, who has lost both body and soul, and spent his time to no purpose. Blessed Mary, sweet mother, now pray G.o.d your sovereign father that it be his will to keep this man, and to rest his fair eyes upon him. If ever I did aught of good, sweet and dear G.o.d, or aught pleasing in thy sight, I pray thee here and now that thou grantest mercy to this man who hath been brought to so great distress through me; G.o.d, in thy mercy let not his misery be wasted, but lead him to repentance. G.o.d, if he were to die through me, I must render account thereof, and my grief were greater than I could bear. G.o.d, if thou takest to thee one of us twain, leave me here at adventure, and take thou this man." And he wept right tenderly.

The knight looked long upon him yet spake no word, but all low within himself he said: "Lo, here in sooth is a strange thing, whereof my heart hath great marvel, that this man who is not of my house, and hath no kinship with me save in G.o.d, should so hara.s.s himself for my sake, and weep and lament for my sins. Now of a surety, I am the basest man living, and the vilest sinner, that this man holds my soul so dear that he destroyeth himself because of my offences, and I am so spotted with evil, and have in me so little goodness that I have no compunction thereof; and yet he is full of sorrow because of them. Ah, sweet G.o.d, and thou wilt, through thy might and thy power, grant me such repentance that this good man who is so out of all cheer may be given solace. G.o.d, let not all my travail be vain and profitless to my soul; when all is said, by reason of my sin was this cask laid upon me, and for my sins I took it, sweet G.o.d, if I have done wrong herein, now do thou thy will; lo, I am ready." And G.o.d straightway so wrought in him that his heart was freed and disc.u.mbered of all pride and hardness, and fulfilled with humility and love and repentance, and fear and hope, whereby his spirit melteth, and he weepeth. Then he cast away the world from him, and the tears flowed forth from his heart, that nought might staunch them, all burning they were with repentance, and he drew such great sighs that at each it seemed his spirit must issue out of him. His repentance was so puissant that his very heart had been broke had it not been lightened by tears; but he shed them in so great plenteousness his relief is no marvel. Such dolour laid hold of his heart that he might not speak with his lips, but he made covenant with G.o.d within his heart full sweetly, that thenceforth he would sin no more, nor do more wrong towards him.

Now G.o.d seeth well that he repents him. The cask which had caused him such woe still hangeth about his neck, but still it was empty, and it was all his desire that it should be filled. And G.o.d seeth his longing, that his mind was bent on well-doing, and that he was no wise feigning; and then G.o.d did a great bounty and a fair kindness,--but what need to say it, for never did he unkindness. But now hear you what G.o.d did to comfort his friend who had cause to be out of all comfort. In his sore distress there sprang from his eyes a great tear which G.o.d drew forth from a true source; with the flight of a bolt it sprang straight into the cask, and the book telleth us that the cask was filled so full by the tear that the overflow gushed out and ran down on all sides, for this tear was so hot with repentance, and so boiling, that the froth over-ran.

And the hermit hastened to him, and cast himself down at his feet, and kissed them both all naked as they were. "Brother," said he, "fair sweet friend, the holy Ghost hath entered into thee. Brother, G.o.d hath heard thee, G.o.d hath saved thee from h.e.l.l's pit, never henceforth shalt thou be defiled. G.o.d hath pardoned thee thy sins, now rejoice and be glad, for thine expiation is complete." Then was the knight so glad methinketh never again shall I see such joy in any man; and still he weepeth, this is the sum thereof. Then he spake to the holy hermit, and told him all his desire: "Father," saith he, "I am wholly thine; father, all good hast thou done me. Fair, sweet father, and I might, how gladly would I stay with thee. Never in sooth would I leave thee; but ever would I serve thee and love thee; but I may endure no longer and I needs must suffer death, most sweet father, through G.o.d's mercy. This day a year past I was here, as vain and foolish as thou knowest, fair sweet father, and told thee all my sins in anger and sore wrath, without fear or repentance; and now I would tell them again in great love and great compunction, if it may be that G.o.d, who is life eternal, grant me to-day a good end." Saith the hermit: "Fair sweet brother, blessed be G.o.d who hath given thee this thought; and behold, now I am ready, speak and I will listen."

Then the knight beginneth, and from his very heart telleth all his life, weeping and with joined hands; nought did he mis-say, and from his heart he sigheth full softly, and his tears spring forth in great plenty. When the good man saw it was time to shrive him, he gave him absolution and granted him great treasure, the body of Jesus Christ, to wit, and well he showed its great virtue. "Dear son, lo, here is thy salvation, lo, here is thy life and thy healing. Believest thou so?" "Yes, fair father, well do I believe that this is my Redeemer and he that may save us all; but haste thee, for death is near me." And the holy man giveth him all the body of G.o.d; and the other taketh it, nor doth he delude himself, and in all excellence receiveth it, in love and in truth, and in right great humility.

When he was houseled, and so cleansed and purified that there remained in him no drop of the lees of folly and sin, he spake to the hermit, and told him all his desire, saying: "Fair sweet father, now I go hence, pray for me for I am near my end; here I may not tarry, but must seek another dwelling; my heart faileth me, sweet father, and no more may I speak with thee. Most sweet father, I commend thee to G.o.d, and now at the last I pray thee that thou put thy arms about me." And straightway the good man embraced him full gently and gladly and with good will.

The knight lieth him down before the altar, and hath given all his heart to G.o.d. He closeth his eyes and saith his _mea culpa_ and setteth all his hopes in G.o.d. His little cask that had done him more good than ill, lay upon his breast, nor would he let it be taken from him, for it was all his desire to keep it in death as in life. So upon his heart lieth his penance, and a flood of repentance hath so shaken him that G.o.d hath wholly pardoned him all sin and sorrow. His heart travaileth and his body is anguished, and it behooveth the twain to dispart, and the soul to leave the body. And it hath issued forth so purged and cleansed and purified that there is neither spot nor sin therein. So soon as the soul is freed of the body and hath gone forth, the blessed angels that have come thither, have received it. Great comfort hath come to the soul that was s.n.a.t.c.hed by the holy angels, and sore peril hath it escaped, for the devil was waiting for it, and he thought to have it, in all certainty and surety, but now he goeth thence discomforted. And all this was seen of the good man from point to point to the end, for he was illumined by the Holy Spirit. All clear he saw the angels that bore away the soul, the while the body resteth barefoot and naked, and lieth under a sorry covering.

But hear ye now what adventure befell upon his death, for his knights, who had been with him just a year before and to whom he had done so great annoy, came that day by reason of prayer, as was right and fitting, for it was the high day of Good Friday. Close upon noon the men of arms came within and found their lord dead; well they recognized him by his stature and all his form and seeming, and the cask they knew right well; and that it was their lord whose body was so wasted, they doubted not. Then were they sore troubled in that they knew not how he came to his end, whether well or ill, and every man maketh great lament; but the good man comforteth them and told them all the truth. From point to point, he told them all as it befell,--how their lord had come to him, and the hour and the time when he confessed and was repentant, and how his soul was ravished above into life perdurable, and how he had seen the angels all clearly that had borne it away. Then the knights made great joy, and honoured the body full n.o.bly, right gently they shrouded it, and after ma.s.s, gave it due burial. And when that they had eaten and drunk they took leave of the good man, and each went again to his own land, and everywhere they told and recounted all they knew of their lord; and the folk of that land had great joy thereof and great pity, and gave thanks to Our Lord.

Now have I told you all the tale of this high man, even as it hath come down to us from holy men who mistell nought herein, but all they accord in true telling, and disagree in nought of good. These men tell us how the knight strove and how G.o.d redeemed him,--and ever G.o.d knoweth how to work in this wise, and to ransom sinners who would return to him, for no man may do so great wrong, but, if it be his desire to turn again to G.o.d, G.o.d will not pardon him. And none should despise his fellow, but should hold himself to be the worst, and G.o.d who hath power to create men, knoweth their hearts, and hath the power rightfully to judge them; and subtle are his judgments. Here endeth the story of the cask, and in this wise the knight came to his death. Now let us pray G.o.d who created all things that it be his will to lead us to that glory wherein he dwelleth.

The Angel and the Hermit

[Ill.u.s.tration]

There dwelt in Egypt, of old time, a holy father who while yet young of age had withdrawn into a hermitage. There he set himself to great toil and sore labour, fasting, weeping, and living ever in solitude; and much pain and torment he endured of his body that he might bring joy and content to his soul. But ofttimes it betideth that one man, be he religious or layman, hath more of happiness than falleth to the lot of two of his fellows. And to him of whom the tale telleth, it seemed he had few of those delights which G.o.d giveth to his own, delights spiritual, to wit, and fain would he have had such as were enjoyed by certain of his acquaintance; for long had he served without reward, him seemed. Now oftentimes G.o.d giveth fair gifts to one who doth him scant service; and yet another who is more deserving, he leaveth, mayhap, all his life days in poverty, misery and sore want. And the hermit pondered much wherefore G.o.d's judgments are of so great diversity. Now it is summer, now winter; now it is one man, and anon to-morrow no more of him; and our life is even as a wheel that turns, abiding in no one estate. Such judgments are dark, yet are they good and right and just for G.o.d doth naught unwisely. And the good man so pondered the matter, that he said to himself he would go forth into the world to see if any man therein were of so great wisdom that he could show him wherefore G.o.d made the world after this manner, and wherefore men are not equal in good hap and ill hap. He was all desirous to know of this matter; and albeit there was neither road nor highway near him to his knowledge, he took his staff and set forth from his hut.

He had not travelled far before he came to a footpath; and thereinto the good man turned, and when he had walked on for a s.p.a.ce, he looked behind him and saw a youth that came after him with all speed. In his hand he bore a javelin, and full comely he was, and well fashioned, and he was girded up to the knee. His dress was seemly and such as befitteth a sergeant; fair of face he was, and goodly of body; and well might it be seen he served a rich lord and a mighty.

So he drew near and bowed him and gave greeting; and the good man spoke to him, saying: "Now tell me, brother, whom dost thou serve?" "By my faith, sir, that will I full gladly; I am the servant of G.o.d who made all things." "Certes, thine is a right good lord, none better canst thou find. But tell me now where thou goest." "Sir," he saith, "I would fain visit the friends and fair ladies I have known in this land." "Now and if I might go with thee it would please me much, for never till to-day was I in this land and naught know I thereof." "Sir, full fair of speech are ye, and I were right glad of your company; so come with me, fair and dear father, for full well know I the land." Thereupon they set forth together; the varlet goeth before, and after him cometh the hermit, praying to G.o.d.

Thus they journeyed the day long, until that they came to a little wood wherein they espied a dead man who had been traitorously slain there, and who had lain so long upon the ground that, what with the summer and the warm weather, the body stunk so foully that there is no man in this earthly world were not sickened thereby, so be that he pa.s.sed that way and he did not well cover his face. The hermit held his nose and thought to die because of the foul smell. But the varlet straightway went up to the body, nor did he show by any sign that he perceived aught evil therein. "Fair father," he saith, "now come with me, for G.o.d hath guided us. .h.i.ther that here we may bury this dead man." "Fair, sweet brother, in G.o.d's mercy know that I may not do this thing. Because of the foul stink I cannot bring myself to set hand to him, for I am sore sickened thereby." Then saith the varlet: "I myself will give him burial, if that I may." And thereupon he dragged him into a ditch that he found hard by, and covered the body over with earth. The hermit marvelled much that the other smelt not the stink, or made no sign or semblance of so doing.

Thereafter the varlet set forth again, and the hermit followed after, striving to keep pace with him. When that they had gone on for a s.p.a.ce they encountered upon the way a train of knights and ladies; fast riding they drew towards them, and right fair was their array. They came from a feast, and I know not if they had drunk deep, but as they rode one jostled other, and profligate they were of seeming. The varlet covered over his face as well as he might, even as if he could not well endure the odour that came from them, and turned aside from the path. The hermit marvelled much that his comrade should so do, and that he should hide his face because of the knights, he that had not so done for the carrion.

But why tell ye a long tale? They journeyed on after this manner until night, when they lodged with a hermit who gave them shelter full willingly. Such meat as he had he set before them, and gladly they received it. And that evening as soon as they had supped they should have turned to prayer; but the varlet saw that their host gave himself much trouble because of a certain hanap or drinking-cup that he had, and that he spent more pains in drying and rubbing it than he did in praying to G.o.d. And the varlet took note where the good man bestowed the hanap, and he stole it away and hid it, for he would not leave it behind. On the morrow at dawn he carried it away, and thereafter showed it to his comrade. Now when the hermit saw it he was full sorrowful, nor might he hold his peace: "For love of G.o.d let us take it back again; you have done me much wrong and hurt in that you have deceived that good man, and robbed him of that which was his. Why have ye done such wickedness?" "Hold your peace and say no more, fair and dear father,"

saith the varlet; "know that there was need for this, and hereafter ye shall learn the truth herein. And whatsoever ye see me do, be not angry, but follow and be silent, for all is done in reason." And the youth so wrought with the hermit that he durst say no more, but goeth after him with bent head.

At evening they came to a city and besought lodging in many places, but could find none; ever it behooved them to pa.s.s on, for in that they were penniless the simplest folk looked askance at them; for still in many places do men love money dearer than G.o.d,--great is the pity and the blame thereof. The hermit and the varlet who were weary and wet to the skin, for it had rained the day long, sat them down upon the perron before the door of a great house. Both entreated the master thereof, but little they won thereby, for he refused them aught. Then saith the hermit to the varlet: "Certes, fair brother, I am sore weary, and here have we no shelter from the rain, let us rather creep under yonder pent-house." "Nay," saith the varlet, "let us call out again, for yet will I lodge within." And they so clamoured and beat upon the door that for very weariness they were suffered to enter and take refuge beneath the stairway, where was strewn a little of musty straw. "Here ye may rest until the morning," quoth the damsel; and so withdrew her, and left the twain in small comfort, for they had neither eaten nor drunk, nor had they either light or fire.

The master of the house was a usurer, full rich in gear and gold; but rather would he go without bread the day long than give a farthing to G.o.d, for the devil had him in his toils. Now that night when he had taken his pleasure and eaten and drunk plenteously, a few peas were yet left that might not be eaten, and these he sent to his guests. The damsel brought them the dish, but if she gave them a light I know not.

Thus then they pa.s.sed the night, and when the day dawned the hermit saith: "Now let us go hence." "What say ye, sir?" the varlet made answer; "for naught would I depart and if I did not first commend our host to G.o.d. I go now to take leave of him, and inasmuch as he hath given us lodging I would give him this good hanap that is neither of pine nor maplewood but of fair and well polished mazer,"--the same it was which he had taken from the hermit. Therewith the varlet mounted the stairway, and in the chamber above he met with his host. "Sir," he saith, "we would fain take leave of you; and in return for our lodging we give you this hanap which is right fair, for we would be just and naught beholden unto you." "Now as G.o.d may aid me, here is a proper guest," saith the burgher, and taketh the cup. "Fair sir, come ye often back hither; and may G.o.d keep ye, for fair is the bargain." So leave taken, the varlet went his way, and with him the hermit.

When they were without the city, "Varlet," saith the hermit, "I know not whether it be in my despite thou dost so bear thyself; thou didst rob the good hermit who was a religious, and now to this man who entertained us so churlishly thou hast given a gift; such deeds are against reason."

"Good sir, I pray you hold your peace," saith the varlet, "you are no sage, instead you were brought up in these woods and wastes, and know not good from evil. Now follow me and fear naught, for as yet ye have seen but little."

That day they made good speed, and at night came to a convent wherein the monks gladly gave them lodging, and let serve them freely and bounteously; for great was the brotherhood and full rich in land and rents and harvest, and thereto many a fair house was theirs; no fear had they of times of dearth. Right well were those twain lodged; but in the morning when they were shod for their journey, the varlet lighted a brand and laid it at the foot of his bed. There was good plenty of straw, and the room was low, and lightly the blaze caught. Then the youth called to the hermit to hasten, saying: "Hie you fast, for anon the fire will run through all the place." And the hermit made what speed he might, for of the deed he was in sore fear. The varlet goeth before him, and leadeth him up a great hill from the top whereof he looketh abroad, and saith to the hermit: "Lo you, how clear and bright the abbey burneth." But the hermit crieth out aloud, and teareth and beateth his breast. "Woe and alas! what will become of me? Unhappy the father that engendered me, unhappy she who bore me, and most unhappy me in that I have lost all. Alack for my soul and my salvation! Lo now, I have become a burner of houses; never was man so wofully betrayed. Alack the day that I met this youth, and woe is me that I became his comrade, for he hath robbed me of my life and my soul!" And sore he rendeth himself with his nails. Thereupon the varlet cometh to him and beginneth to comfort him. "Nay, I have no love for thee," saith the good man; "thou hast taken from me my life." "Sir," the youth maketh answer, "ye do wrong to make such sorrow for naught. In the beginning I covenanted with you to do these things, and thereby to bring you to wisdom; now come away and say no more." And he so soothed the good man that he led him away in quietness.

All that day they fared on together, and at night they came to a city that stood beside a wide river, and whereof the burghers were rich and of good conditions. The youth made great cheer in that he knew the place well, and goeth straight unto a house wherein it seemeth him they might lodge at their ease. He cometh to the door with his master and asketh shelter in G.o.d's name. And right good cheer was theirs methinketh, for the burgher was a goodly man. A wife he had, and one child, a boy whom they dearly loved; no other had they and they were already waxing old; and the boy was ten years of his age. They washed the feet of the two travellers, and gave them to eat and to drink, and let them sleep until the day. In the morning when the time was come to depart, "Fair host,"

the varlet saith, "lend us the child for a little, that he may guide us beyond the bridge since we must pa.s.s that way." "That will I gladly.

Come, fair son," and straightway the boy riseth up; he goeth before, and the other twain follow after. Now when they were come to the bridge, where there was neither edge-stone nor parapet, the varlet so jostled the boy that he fell down into the water, and the stream swept him away and drowned him. "Herein have we done well," saith the varlet; "and stay, sir hermit, and ye will, for ye shall not be destroyed or slain."

But the hermit set himself to run, for he was all a-sweat with fear, and well-nigh had he slain himself for sorrow. When he was come into the fields he cast himself down. "Alas, unhappy that I am, what will become of me," saith the hermit. "Woe worth the day whereon I was born, for now I am come to despair and madness. Alas, caitiff that I am, why did I leave the place whereto I was appointed and wherein I had come to my old age? The devil hath betrayed and destroyed me. Never again shall I know joy nor peace. Was I not a party to the burning of the abbey and the death of the child? Christ! what will become of me? Now with mine own hands will I slay myself!"

Then saith the varlet within himself: "It behooveth me to go comfort that old man and foolish." So he getteth his javelin into his hand and cometh to the hermit, and saith: "Fond and simple that ye are, now give ear unto me. I am nowise mad; and do ye hold your peace and hear reason which shall bring you solace. Now shall be shown unto you the virtue of my deeds which ye thought done against reason. Now give heed unto me, fair, sweet sir; well know I that ye are a hermit, but ye were tempted of the devil when ye thought to go forth into the world to seek out a man of wisdom who knew all things, and who would tell you why G.o.d made the world such as we now see it. You would seek to understand his judgments, so do ye dote in your old age, whereas ye should have amended and bettered thyself; no whit wouldst thou struggle against this temptation, but thou didst wander forth from thy house, thou that wert bewildered as a silly sheep. The devil would have put thee to shame, and if G.o.d had not had pity upon thee, and sent a holy angel to thee to lead and guide thee; for thy sake he sent me to the earth,--for know that I am an angel. And I have shown thee that thou soughtest to know, and that which it was thy will to seek in the world, but thou knewest it not. Now listen and thou shalt learn.

"And for the dead body which lay in the wood and rotted upon the ground, and whereof ye smelt so great a stink that ye might not aid me therewith,--it is but in the course of nature that a body should rot, and therefore should it be buried; but such odour vexes me not, nor was it displeasing to Jesus Christ, for it is nowise contrary to nature; therefore I had no will to hide my face, but thou that wert neither G.o.d nor angel might not endure it. But when I saw the knights and squires and ladies that came from such a feast, each with a chaplet of flowers upon his head, and all fulfilled with luxury, they so stunk in my nostrils that it behooved me to hold my nose. Such evil odours rise even to G.o.d in paradise, and he lamenteth them to his own; Jesus Christ will revenge him of such sin and wickedness; and for them, they are filled with such vileness I have no will to say more thereof; and for the stink of them I covered my face.

"And now I will tell thee of the hermit whose hanap I stole, which deed seemed evil in thy sight. But the cup did him much hurt, for that he gave himself more toil and trouble in the rubbing and polishing thereof than he took in praying to G.o.d; to it he gave the greater part of his days and thereby was he come to sore peril, for it is G.o.d's will that a man should love naught save him only, and the more if that man be a hermit and a religious. Now there are certain men who hold their possessions so dear that they will lend them to none, and rather than so do they hide them away; and this methinketh is a great sin, that they should make of them an indulgence and an idol; and certes, he is but foolish who enters into religion and giveth not his whole heart to G.o.d.

Now the hermit had set his heart upon the drinking-cup which he loved overmuch, and therefore G.o.d willed that I should take it from him.

"And again I will tell thee of the usurer who left us to call and clamour at his door, and where we entered only through vexation. In the morning when it was time to depart, I told thee I would take courteous leave of our host and would give him the hanap; G.o.d willed that I should so do, for else the usurer, when he received his d.a.m.nation, might have said: 'Lord, Lord, I gave lodging to thy people; can I in justice be d.a.m.ned?' But G.o.d cares naught for the alms of such as he, and no usurer shall be saved if he does not return that which he hath wrongfully received of others; G.o.d will not permit or suffer him to give in charity the goods which are not rightfully his. If he bringeth a poor man into his house and shareth with him his bread, G.o.d will straightway return it to him again. Here and now, in this world, he taketh his portion, for into no other paradise shall he come. And therefore fair, sweet friend, G.o.d willed that he should be doubly paid by us. Now judge if it were well done."

"I am content," saith the hermit; "but tell me now of the abbey, and wherefore ye set fire to it; surely herein thou didst ill." Saith the angel: "I will tell thee in all truth. When the order was first established it was poor and unfavoured; the monks lived without chattels or revenue, yet they had sufficient unto each day, for G.o.d gave plenteously unto them that were their purveyors. In those days the brethren of the convent led holy lives and served G.o.d with all their might; and never, either morning or evening, did they neglect or fail of prayer. But now they had come to such a pa.s.s the order was going to destruction, their rule was no longer heeded by them, for they would not look before, and feared neither G.o.d nor man. Despite all their rents and goods they had no will to visit the poor nor aid them, nor do aught in charity. To get money and heap up wealth that they might take their pleasure, they grew false and cruel. Each one thought to be abbot, or at the least, provost, steward or cellarer; and each one was all desirous to have his the richest abbey. The churches and chapterhouses were neglected, and the refectory and halls were given over to idle talk and tale telling; and G.o.d willed that they should lose these things and become poor. Never shall ye hear praise of a rich monk; but know ye well a monk should be lowly, and he would be truly religious. Among the poor shall ye find G.o.d, there is his true hostel upon the earth; and therefore it was G.o.d's will to bring these monks again to poverty, to amend them of their folly and sin. Those who desired power and place will no longer, in that it would now yield them nought. They will build them new houses nought so rich as before, and the poor labourer will gain somewhat of the wealth of the monks, who henceforth will be more compa.s.sionate. For such reasons G.o.d made me to kindle the fire that destroyed all the convent." Quoth the hermit: "Well didst thou do, and herein I hold me content. But why didst thou drown the child of the good man who made us such cheer? For nought will I believe that was not very murder." Saith the angel: "Now hear why this was done in all justice; wise is he who learneth well.