The House of Walderne Part 42

Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally slept at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive's nightly rest.

The door opened, and--He beheld his father!

Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of another world over his worn features.

"Be of good cheer, my son; G.o.d permits me to come to thee thus, and to bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man's extremity is His opportunity."

"Art thou really my father?"

And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished.

It was of G.o.d's appointment, that vision, given to confirm the faith and hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert's belief {30}.

It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern climes. But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth; and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

"Shall I ever see my native land again?"

It seemed impossible, but "hope springs eternal in the human breast." All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of alarm or anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which he knew enough of their language to interpret--the palace was in flames.

"Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?"

The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard without. The doors were opened one after another--

"Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!"

The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers pa.s.sages and courts to the very front of the burning pile--blazing pile, we should say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre Eastern beauty--cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires, but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its aspect.

The slaves were instantly formed in line to pa.s.s leathern buckets from hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at this extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in front of the row, each looking and walking in the contrary direction to the other, changing their direction at the same moment as they went and returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of sight of the watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man knew, instinctively, that the least movement which looked suspicious might bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck, bearing away the trunkless head like a plaything.

Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the centre of the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular erection of stone, like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around it. The flat surface, the disc we may call it, was half composed of iron bars like a grate, supported by the stonework, and in the centre ran an iron post with rings stout and strong, from which an iron girdle, unclasped, depended.

What could it be meant for?

"Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow."

He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on either side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall, and the ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from it. Beyond the moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and hills, valleys and depths.

All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die on the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the fiery death designed for him on the morrow.

And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a window, right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces of some of the hopeful pupils of the "Old Man," forgotten and left, when the rest were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge, the same death awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with pitiless eyes, as inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow.

They had probably been looking forward to the occasion, as a Spaniard to his auto da fe, as an interesting spectacle.

Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and cruelty becomes a delight. G.o.d preserve us from such possibilities, which make us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the Mussulman, the Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not moralise here.

All eyes were drawn to the spot. The "Old Man" himself, now first heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was tottering; it bent inward, an awful crash, and--

At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind.

In a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a head, not Hubert's, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He lingered not an instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on the other sentinel, a moment's clashing of blades, the skill of the knight prevailed, and the Moslem was cleft to the chin.

"Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!"

And Hubert leapt over the wall.

He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for him his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to guide himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley, through which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled merrily along.

He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came crashing through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was the only man armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so boldly won.

Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which was reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in ruddy glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.

"Do any of my brethren know the country?"

At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke diffidently:

"If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters of Merom."

"But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and that only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might sustain a host," said another.

"We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to follow," said Hubert.

They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and boulders, avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the dawn was at hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a cathedral bell, booming down the valley.

"What bell is that?"

"No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds."

"But they can find no trace."

"They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the sense to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease we leave it."

"What shall we do?" asked the helpless men.

Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently inaccessible, but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a mere goat path, used perhaps also by shepherds.

"Follow me," he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a veritable mauvais pas. At the height of some two hundred feet it struck inward through a wild region.

"Here we must make a stand at this summit," said Hubert, "and meet the dogs. I will give a good account of them."

He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only ascend by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for the first dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with flashing eyes and gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received with a sweep of the scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in twain, and he rolled down the deep declivity, all mangled and bleeding, to the foot, missing the path and falling from rock to rock, so that when he was found by the party who followed they could not tell by what means he had received his first wound.

And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in gore, after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no farther.

Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool spot by the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom--the head waters of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which afforded them food, they watched in turn until the sun was low; after which they renewed their journey.

Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of the Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western sh.o.r.e, so rich in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin, Bethsaida, Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden: By those sacred feet once nailed, For our salvation, to the bitter rood.

In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim; and on the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns; begging bread in the villages--a boon readily granted. And in the evening they saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital of Saint John of Acre, where Hubert's father, Sir Roger, had been restored to health and life.

Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard of the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace of the "Old Man of the Mountain," and naturally curiosity led him to interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a knight like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the son of an old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.