Black Magic, Marjorie Bowen [100 books to read TXT] 📗

CHAPTER XXII

BLAISE

 

Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Ch�lons,

on their way to Paris.

 

For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some

hermit’s cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter

nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent.

 

So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and

remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was

Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond.

 

No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his

behaviour; he was gentle as a girl, obedient as a servant, rigid in

his prayers (and he had a strangely complete knowledge of the offices

and penances of the Church), silent and sorrowful often, taking no

pleasure in anything save the saint’s talk of Paradise and holy

things.

 

Particularly he loved to hear of the dead youth Blaise, of his saintly

life, of his desire to join the stern Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart,

in Paris, of his fame as one beloved of God, of the convent’s wish to

receive him, of his great learning, of his beautiful death in the

snowy evening.

 

To all this Dirk listened with still attention, and from Saint

Ambrose’s rapt and loving recital he gathered little earthly details

of the subject of their speech.

 

Such as that he was from Flanders, of a noble family, that his

immediate relatives were dead, that his years were no more than

twenty, and that he was dark and pale.

 

For himself Dirk had little to say; he described simply his shame and

remorse after he had stolen the holy gold, his gradual sickening of

his companions, the long torture of his awakening soul, his attempts

to find the saint, and how, finally, after he had resolved to flee his

evil life and enter a convent, he had run out of Frankfort, found a

boat waiting—and so drifted to Saint Ambrose’s feet.

 

The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter

the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy

youth’s death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude. And so they

passed through Ch�lons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the

waters of the Maine.

 

Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the

rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold

wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light

filled the mean bare place. Dirk sat on a broken stool, reading aloud

the writings of Saint Jerome.

 

He wore a coarse brown robe, very different from his usual attire,

fastened round the waist with a rope into which was twisted a wooden

rosary; his feet were encased in rude leather boots, his hands

reddened with the cold, his face hollow and of a bluish pallor in

which his eyes shone feverishly large and dark.

 

His smooth hair hung on to his shoulders; he stooped, in contrast with

his usual erect carriage. Pausing on his low and gentle reading he

looked across at the saint.

 

Ambrose of Menthon sat on a rough-hewn bench against the rougher wall;

weariness, exposure, and sheer weakness of body had done their work at

last; Dirk knew that for three nights he had not slept…he was asleep

now or had swooned; his fair head fell forward on his breast, his

hands hung by his side.

 

As Dunk became assured that his companion was unconscious, he slowly

rose and set down the holy volume. He was himself half starved, cold

to the heart and shuddering; he looked round the plaster walls and the

meek expression of his face changed to one of scorn, derision and

wicked disdain; he darted a bitter glance at the wan man, and crept

towards the door.

 

Opening it softly, he gazed out; the scene was fair and lonely—the

distant tourelles of Ch�lons rose clear and pointed against the winter

clouds; near by the grey river flowed between its high banks, where

the bare willows grew and the snow-wreaths still lay.

 

Dunk took shivering steps into the open and turned towards the Maine;

the keen wind penetrated his poor garments and lifted the heavy hair

from his thin cheeks; he beat his breast, chafed his hands and walked

rapidly.

 

Reaching the bank he looked up and down the river; there was no one in

sight, neither boat nor animal nor house to break the monotony of

land, sky and water, only those distant towers of the town.

 

Dirk walked among the twisted willows, then came to a pause.

 

A little ahead of him were a black man and a black dog, both seated on

the bank and gazing towards Ch�lons.

 

The youth came a little nearer.

 

“Good even,” he said. “It is very cold.”

 

The Blackamoor looked round.

 

“Are you pleased with the way you travel?” he asked, nodding his head.

“And your companion?”

 

Dunk’s face lowered.

 

“How much longer am I to endure it?”

 

“You must have patience,” said the black man, “and endurance.”

 

“I have both,” answered Dirk. “Look at my hands—they are no longer

soft, but red and hard; my feet are galled and wounded in rough

boots—I must walk till I am sick, then pray instead of sleeping; I

see no fire, and scarcely do I touch food.”

 

The hell-hound stirred and whined among the osiers, the jewels in the

Blackamoor’s collar flashed richly, though there was no light to

strike them.

 

“You will be rewarded,” he said, “and revenged too—o—ho—o! it is

very cold, as you say, very cold.”

 

“What must I do?” asked Dirk.

 

The black man rubbed his hands together.

 

“You know—you know.”

 

Dirk’s pinched wan face grew intent, and eager.

 

“Am I to use…this?” He touched the breast of his rough habit.

 

“Yea.”

 

“Then shall I be left defenceless.” Dirk’s voice shook a little. “If

anything should happen—I would not, I could not—oh, Sathanas!—I

could not be revealed!”

 

The Blackamoor rose from among the willows.

 

“Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.

 

Dirk put his thin hand over his eyes.

 

“Yea, master.”

 

“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years—when

you have triumphed I shall come.”

 

He turned swiftly and ran down the bank, the hound at his heels; one

after another they leaped into the waters of the Maine and disappeared

with an inner sound.

 

Dunk straightened himself and set his lips. He reentered the hut to

find Ambrose of Menthon still against the wall, now indeed wearily

asleep; Dirk came softly forward; slowly and cautiously he put his

hand into his bosom and drew out a small green-coloured phial.

 

With his eyes keenly on the saint he broke the seal, then crept close.

 

By Saint Ambrose’s side hung his rosary, every bead smooth with the

constant pressure of his lips; Dunk raised the heavy crucifix

attached, and poured on to it the precious drop contained in the

phial.

 

Saint Ambrose did not wake nor move; Dunk drew away and crouched

against the wall, cursing the bitter wind with fierce eyes…

 

When the saint awoke, Dirk was on the broken stool reading aloud the

writings of Saint Jerome.

 

“Is it still light?” asked Ambrose of Menthon amazedly.

 

“It is the dawn,” answered Dunk.

 

“And I have slept the night through.” The saint dragged his stiff

limbs from the seat and fell on his knees in a misery of prayer.

 

Dunk closed the book and watched him; watched his long fingers twining

in the beads of his rosary, watched him kiss the crucifix, again and

again; then he, too, knelt, his face hidden in his hands.

 

He was the first to rise.

 

“Master, shall we press on to Paris?” he asked humbly.

 

The saint lifted dazed eyes from his devotions.

 

“Yea,” he said. “Yea.”

 

Dunk began putting together in a bundle their few books, and the

wooden platter in which they collected their broken food; this being

their all.

 

“I dreamt last night of Paradise,” said Saint Ambrose faintly, “the

floor was so thick-strewn with close little flowers, red, white, and

purple…and it was warm as Italy in May…” Dunk swung the bundle on

to his shoulder and opened the door of the hut.

 

“There is no sun to-day,” he remarked.

 

“How long it is since we have seen the sun!” said Saint Ambrose

wistfully.

 

They passed out into the dreary landscape and took their slow way

along the banks of the Maine.

 

Until midday they did not pause, scarcely spoke; then they passed

through a little village, and the charitable gave them food.

 

That night they slept in the open, under shelter of