“there is no time so miserable

but a man may be true.”

shakespeare.

“berthold, hast thou heard the news?”

“i have, pastor. i was coming to ask if you had heard it.”

“ah, it was told me last night, by one that meant it kindly. i knew it would come sooner or later.”

“what will they do, think you?” gerhardt hesitated. it was not so easy to guess in 1165 the awful depths to which religious hatred could descend, as it would have been some two centuries later. they knew something then of the fury of the church against open unbelievers or political enemies; but persecution of christians by christians on account of nothing but their belief and the confession of it, was something new at that time.

“they will impose penance on us, i suppose,” suggested old berthold.

“doubtless, if we stand firm. and we must stand firm, berthold,—every one of us.”

“oh, of course,” replied berthold calmly. “they won’t touch the women?—what think you?”

“i know not what to think. but i imagine—not.”

“fine and scourging, perchance. well, we can stand that.”

“we can stand any thing with god to aid us: without him we can bear nothing. thanks be to the lord, that last they that trust him will never be called upon to do.”

“i heard there was a council of the bishops to be held upon us,” suggested berthold a little doubtfully.

“i hope not. that were worse for us than a summons before the king. howbeit, the will of the lord be done. it may be that the hotter the furnace is heated, the more glory shall be his by the song of his servants in the fires.”

“ay, there’ll be four,” said old berthold, bowing reverently. “sure enough, pastor, whatever we are called upon to bear, there will be one more than our number, and his form shall be that of the son of god. well! the children will be safe, no question. but i am afraid the hottest corner of the furnace may be kept for you, dear teacher.”

“be it so,” answered gerhardt quietly. “let my lord do with me what is good in his sight; only let me bring glory to him, and show forth his name among the people.”

“ay, but it does seem strange,” was the response, “that the work should be stopped, and the cause suffer, and eloquent lips be silenced, just when all seemed most needed! can you understand it, pastor?”

“no,” said gerhardt calmly. “why should i? he understands who has it all to do. but the cause, berthold! the cause will not suffer. it is god’s custom to bring good out of evil—to give honey to his samsons out of the carcases of lions, and to bring his davids through the cave of adullam to the throne of israel. it is for him to see that the cause prospers, in his own time and way. we have only to do each our little handful of duty, to take the next step as he brings it before us. sometimes the next step is a steep pull, sometimes it is only an easy level progress. we have but to take it as it comes. never two steps at once; never one step, without the lord at our right hand. never a cry of ‘lord, save me!’ from a sinking soul, that the hand which holds up all the worlds is not immediately stretched forth to hold him up.”

“one can’t always feel it, though,” said the old man wistfully.

“it is enough to know it.”

“ay, when we two stand talking together in overee lane (overee lane ran out of grandpont street, just below the south gate), so it may be: but when the furnace door stands open, an king nebuchadnezzar’s mighty men are hauling you towards it, how then, good pastor?”

“berthold, what kind of a father would he be who, in carrying his child over a bridge, should hold it so carelessly that he let it slip from his arms into the torrent beneath, and be drowned?”

“couldn’t believe such a tale, pastor, unless the father were either drunk or mad. why, he wouldn’t be a man—he’d be a monster.”

“and is that the character that thou deemest it fair and true to give to him who laid down his life for thee?”

“pastor!—oh! i see now what you mean. well—ay, of course—”

“depend upon it, berthold, the lord shall see that thou hast grace sufficient for the evil day, if thy trust be laid on him. he shall not give thee half enough for thy need out of his royal treasure, and leave thee to make up the other half out of thy poor empty coffer. ‘my god shall supply all your need, according to his riches in glory’—‘that ye, always having all-sufficiency in all things, may abound to every good work.’ is that too small an alner (note 1) to hold the wealth thou wouldst have? how many things needest thou beyond ‘all things’?”

“true enough,” said berthold. “but i was not thinking so much of myself, pastor—i’ve had my life: i’m two-and-fourscore this day; and if i am called on to lay it down for the lord, it will only be a few months at the furthest that i have to give him. it wouldn’t take so much to kill me, neither. an old man dies maybe easier than one in the full vigour of life. but you, my dear pastor!—and the young fellows among us—guelph, and conrad, and dietbold, and wilhelm—it’ll be harder work for the young saplings to stand the blast, than for the old oak whose boughs have bent before a thousand storms. there would most likely be a long term of suffering before you, when my rest was won.”

“then our rest would be the sweeter,” replied gerhardt softly. “‘he knoweth the way that we take; when he hath tried us, we shall come forth as gold.’ he is faithful, who will not suffer us to be tried above that we are able to bear. and he can make us able to bear any thing.”

gerhardt was just turning into kepeharme lane, when a voice at his elbow made him pause and look back.

“did you want me, friend?”

“no,” answered a hoarse voice, in a significant tone. “you want me.”

gerhardt smiled. “i thank you, then, for coming to my help. i almost think i know your voice. are you not rubi, the brother of countess, who made such a pet of my little child?”

an affirmative grunt was the response.

“well, friend?”

“if an open pit lay just across this street, between you and the walnut tree, what would you do?” asked the hoarse voice.

“that would depend on how necessary it was that i should pass it, would it not?”

“life this way—death that way,” said rubi shortly.

“and what way honour?”

“pshaw! ‘all that a man hath will he give for his life.’”

“truth: yet even life, sometimes, will a man give for glory, patriotism, or love. there is a life beyond this, friend rubi; and for that, no price were too high to pay.”

“men may weigh gold, but not clouds,” answered rubi in a rather scornful tone.

“yet how much gold would purchase the life-giving water that comes from the clouds?” was gerhardt’s ready response.

“at how much do you value your life?” asked rubi without answering the question.

“truly, friend, i know not how to respond to that. do you count my life to be in danger, that you ask me?”

“not if the morning light come to you in aylesbury or cricklade—at least, perchance not. but if it dawn on you where you can hear the bell from yon tower—ay, i do.”

“i perceive your meaning. you would have me to fly.”

in the evening twilight, now fast darkening, gerhardt could see a nod of rubi’s black head.

“‘should such a man as i flee?’ friend, i am the leader of this band of my countrymen—”

“just so. that’s the reason.”

“were i to flee, would they stand firm?” said gerhardt thoughtfully, rather to himself than to the young jew.

“firm—to what?”

“to god,” replied gerhardt reverently, “and to his truth.”

“what does a gentile care for truth? they want you to worship one dead man, and you prefer to worship another dead man. what’s the odds to you? can’t you mutter your latin, and play with your beads, before both, and have done with it?”

“i worship no saints, and have no beads.”

“father jacob! you must be a new sort of a gentile. never came across a reptile of your pattern before. is that why countess took to you?”

“i cannot say. it was the child, i think, that attracted her. well, friend, i am thankful for your warning. but how come you to know?”

a smothered laugh, as hoarse as the voice, replied—

“folks have ways and means, sometimes, that other folks can’t always guess.”

“if you know more than others,” said gerhardt boldly, “suffer me to question you a moment.”

“question away. i don’t promise to answer.”

“are we all to be taken and examined?”

“all.”

“before the king?”

“and the creeping creatures called bishops.”

“will any thing be done to the women and children?”

“does the lion discriminate between a kid and a goat? ‘let your little ones also go with you.’ even pharaoh could say that—when he could not help allowing it.”

“i think i understand you, friend rubi, and i thank you.”

“you are not so badly off for brains,” said rubi approvingly.

“but how far to act upon your warning i know not, until i lay it before the lord, and receive his guidance.”

“you—a gentile—receive guidance from the holy one (blessed be he)!” rubi’s tone was not precisely scornful; it seemed rather a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and perplexity.

“ay, friend, i assure you, however strange it may seem to you, the good lord deigns to guide even us gentiles. and why not? is it not written, ‘even them will i bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer’? and, ‘o thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come’?”

“those promises belong to the reign of the messiah. he is not come yet. do you new sort of gentiles believe he is?”

it was a most difficult question to answer. “yes” would probably drive rubi away in anger—perhaps with a torrent of blasphemy on his lips. “no” would be false and cowardly.

“i believe,” said gerhardt softly, “that he shall yet come to zion, and turn away iniquity from jacob. may thou and i, rubi, be ready to welcome him when he cometh!”

“you are better than yonder lot,” answered rubi, with a scornful wave of his hand towards carfax behind them. “ay, i suppose the blessed one has some mercies even for gentiles—decent ones such as you. well, remember you’ve been warned. good night!”

“good night, rubi, and god go with thee!”

as gerhardt stepped into the walnut tree, isel’s voice greeted him from the top of the ladder leading to the upper chamber.

“who is that—gerard or haimet?”

“it is i, isel,” said the german pastor.

“well, now, don’t put out your lantern, but do, like a good man, take this girl back to the castle. i’ve been on thorns how to get her back, for i’ve kept her talking a bit too long, and there hasn’t a creature come near that i could ask. it’s leuesa, that aliz de norton spoke about, and we’ve settled she’s to be derette’s maid. it’s a mercy you’ve come just in time!”

“the next step!” said gerhardt to himself with a smile. “well, this at least is no hard one.”

the girl who came down the ladder and entrusted herself to gerhardt’s escort, was very young-looking for an anchorhold: slim, fair, and frail in appearance, with some timidity of manner. they set out for the castle.

“you know the girl who is to be my mistress?” asked leuesa. “will she be easy or hard to serve?”

“very easy, i think, so long as you obey her. she has a will of her own, as you will find, if you do not.”

“oh dear, i don’t want to disobey her! but i don’t like to be scolded at from morning to night, whether i do right or wrong.”

“derette will not treat you in that fashion. she has a good temper, and is bright and cheerful.”

“i am so glad to hear it! i get so tired—”

leuesa suddenly broke off her sentence.

“you look young for the work,” said gerhardt.

“i am older than i look. at least, people say so. i am twenty-one.”

“dear! i should not have thought you eighteen.”

“oh yes, i am twenty-one,” replied leuesa, with a bright little laugh; adding with sudden gravity, “i think i am much older than that in some ways.”

“hast thou found life hard, poor child?” asked gerhardt sympathisingly.

“well, one gets tired, you know,” replied the girl vaguely. “i suppose it has to be, if one’s sins are to be expiated. so many sins, so many sufferings. that’s what mother says. it will be counted up some time, maybe. only, sometimes, it does seem as if there were more sufferings than sins.”

“is that thy religion, maiden?” responded gerhardt with a pitying smile.

“it’s about all i know. why?—isn’t it good?”

“friend, if thou wert to suffer for ten thousand years, without a moment’s intermission, thy sins could never be balanced by thy sufferings. suffering is finite; sin is infinite. it is not only what thou hast done, or hast left undone. the sin of thy whole nature requires atonement. thou art sin! the love of sin which is in thee is worse than any act of sin thou couldst commit. what then is to be done with thy sins?”

leuesa looked up with an expression of wistful simplicity in her blue eyes.

she might be older than her years in some respects, thought gerhardt, but there were some others in which she was a very child.

“i don’t know!” she said blankly, with a frightened accent. “can’t you tell me?”

“thank god, i can tell thee. thou must get rid of this load of sin, by laying it on him who came down from heaven that he might bear it for thee. tell me whom i mean.”

the flaxen head was shaken. “i can’t—not certainly. perhaps it’s a saint i don’t know.”

“dost thou not know jesu christ?”

“oh, of course. he’s to judge us at the last day.”

“if he save thee not before he judge thee, thou wilt never be saved. dost thou not know he is the saviour of men?”

“well, i’ve heard say so, but i never thought it meant any thing.”

“it means every thing to sinners. now, how art thou about to come by the salvation that christ has wrought for thee?”

“the priest will give me some, won’t he?”

“he hath it not to give thee. thou must go straight to the lord himself.”

“but i can’t go save through the church. and oh dear, but i should be frightened to have aught to do with him! except when he’s a baby, and then we’ve got our lady to intercede for us.”

“art thou, then, very much afraid of me?”

“you? oh no! you’re coming with me to take care of me—aren’t you?”

“i am. but what am i doing for thee, in comparison of him who died for thee? afraid of the lord that laid down his life for thine! why, maiden, there is nought in his heart for thee save love and pity and strength to help. he loved thee—get it into thy mind, grave it deep in thy soul—he loved thee, and gave his life for thee.”

“me?” leuesa had come to a sudden stand. “you don’t mean me?”

“i mean thee, and none other.”

“mother always says i’m so stupid, nobody will ever care for me. i thought—i never heard any body talk like that. i thought it was only the very greatest saints that could get near him, and then only through the church.”

“thou and i are the church, if christ saves us.”

“oh, what do you mean? the priests and bishops are the church. at least they say so.”

“ay, they do say so, the hirelings that foul with their feet the water whence the flock should drink: ‘we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us!’ ‘the temple of the lord are we!’ but the temple of the lord is larger, and wider, and higher, than their poor narrow souls. maiden, listen to me, for i speak to thee words from god. the church of god consists of the elect of god from the beginning to the end of the world, by the grace of god, through the merits of christ, gathered together by the holy ghost, and fore-ordained to eternal life. they that hear and understand the word of god, receiving it to their souls’ health, and being justified by christ—these are the church; these go into life eternal. hast thou understood me, maiden?”

“i don’t—exactly—know,” she said slowly. “i should like to understand. but how can i know whether i am one of them or not?”

“of the elect of god? if thou hast chosen god rather than the world, that is the strongest evidence thou canst have that he has chosen thee out of the world.”

“but i sha’n’t be in the world—just exactly. you see i’m going to live in the anchorhold. that isn’t the world.”

it was not easy to teach one who spoke a different dialect from the teacher. to gerhardt, the world was the opposite of god; to leuesa, it was merely the opposite of the cloister.

“put ‘sin’ for ‘the world,’ maiden,” said gerhardt, “and thou wilt understand me better.”

“but what must i do to keep out of sin?”

“‘if thou wilt love christ and follow his teaching,’” said gerhardt, quoting from his confession of faith, “‘thou must watch, and read the scriptures. spiritual poverty of heart must thou have, and love purity, and serve god in humility.’”

“i can’t read!” exclaimed leuesa, in a tone which showed that she would have deemed it a very extraordinary thing if she could.

“thou canst hear. ermine will repeat them to thee, if thou ask her—so long as we are here.”

“osbert says you won’t be for long. he thinks you are bad people; i don’t know why.”

“nor do i, seeing we serve god—save that the enemy of god and men spreads abroad falsehoods against us.”

they had reached the little postern of the castle. gerhardt rapped at the door, and after two or three repetitions, it was opened.

“oh, it’s you, is it?” said stephen’s voice behind it. “get you in quickly, leuesa, for hagena’s in a terrible tantrum. she declares you’ve run away.”

“i’m late, i know,” answered leuesa humbly; “but i could not help it, stephen.”

“well, you’ll catch it, i can tell you; and the longer you stay, the more you’ll catch: so best get it over.—gerard, will you come in? i want a word with you.”

gerhardt stepped inside the postern, and stephen beckoned him into an outhouse, at the moment untenanted.

“what are you going to do?”

“about what?”

“what! don’t you know you are to be haled before the bishops? every body else does.”

“yes, i have been told so.”

“are you going to wait for them?” demanded stephen, with several notes of astonishment in his voice.

“i am going to wait for the lord.”

“you’ll be a fool if you do!” the tone was compassionate, though the words were rough.

“never. ‘they shall not be ashamed that wait for him.’”

“do you expect him to come down from heaven to save you from the bishops?”

“as he pleases,” said gerhardt quietly.

“but, man!—if you are a man, and not a stone—don’t you know that the church has authority from god to bind and loose—that her sentence is his also?”

“your church has no jurisdiction over mine.”

“my church, forsooth! i am speaking of the catholic church, which has authority over every christian on earth.”

“where is it?”

“every where.”

“the church that is every where consists of faithful souls, elect of god. that church will not condemn me for being faithful to the word of god.”

“oh, i can’t split straws like you, nor preach like a doctor of the schools either. but one thing i can do, and that is to say, gerard, you are in danger—much more danger than the rest. get away while you can, and leave them to meet it. they won’t do half so much to them as to you.”

“‘he that is an hireling, when he seeth the wolf coming, leaveth the sheep and fleeth; and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep.’ is that conduct you recommend, stephen?”

“i recommend you to get outside of oxford as fast as you can, and take your womankind with you; and if you don’t, you’ll be sorry, that’s all. now be off, and don’t forget that you’ve been warned. good night!”

“i have been warned thrice, friend. but where god has need of me, there is my post, and there am i. there are penalties for desertion in the army of the lord. i thank you for your kindly meaning. good night!”

“poor fool!” said stephen to himself as he fastened the postern behind gerhardt. “yet—‘penalties for desertion’—i don’t know. which is the fool, i wonder? if i could have saved her!”

gerhardt went back to the walnut tree, where they were sitting down to the last meal. it consisted of “fat fish,” apple turnovers, and spiced ale.

“eh dear!” said isel, with a sigh. “to think that this is pretty nigh the last supper you’ll ever eat in this house, derette! i could cry with the best when i think of it.”

“you can come to see me whenever you wish, mother—much better than if i were at godstowe.”

“so i can, child; but you can’t come to me.”

“i can send leuesa to say that i want to see you.”

“well, and if so be that i’ve broken my leg that very morning, and am lying groaning up atop of that ladder, with never a daughter to serve me—how then? thou gone, and flemild gone, and not a creature near!”

“you’ll have ermine. but you are not going to break your leg, mother, i hope.”

“you hope! oh ay, hope’s a fine trimming, but it’s poor stuff for a gown. and how long shall i have ermine? she’ll go and wed somebody or other—you see if she doesn’t.”

ermine smiled and shook her head.

“well, then, you’ll have agnes.”

“i shall have trouble—that’s what i shall have: it’s the only thing sure in this world: and it’s that loving it sticks to you all the tighter if you’ve got nothing else. there’s nought else does in this world—without it’s dogs.”

“‘there’s a friend that sticketh closer than a brother,’” quoted gerhardt softly.

“there’s precious few of them,” returned isel, who naturally did not understand the allusion. “you’ll not find one of that sort more than once in a— mercy on us! here’s a soldier walking straight in!—whatever does the man want?”

gerhardt’s quick eyes had caught the foreign texture of the soldier’s mantle—the bronzed face with its likeness to derette—the white cross of the english crusader.

“he wants his wife and children, i should think,” he answered calmly; and at the same moment the soldier said—

“isel! wife! dost thou not know me?”

nobody in the room could have given a clear and connected account of what happened after that. isel cried and laughed by turns, the majority all talked at once, and little rudolph, divided between fear and admiration, clung to his mother, and cast furtive glances at the new-comer. manning was naturally astonished to see how his family had grown, and much had to be explained to him—the presence of the germans, the approaching marriage of flemild, the past marriage of romund, and the profession of derette. the first and third he accepted with bluff good-humour. as to the second, he said he would have a talk with raven soclin—very likely he was all right now, though he remembered him a troublesome lad. but derette’s fate did not appear quite to please him. she had been his pet, and he had pictured her future differently and more according to his own notion of happiness.

“well, she seems to like it best herself,” said isel, “and i don’t see but you have to leave folks to be happy their own way, though the way some folks choose is mighty queer. father dolfin says we must always give god the best, and if we grudge it to him, it wipes out the merit of the sacrifice.”

“ay, father dolfin knows how they do things up yonder,” answered manning. “do thy duty, and leave the priest to see thou comest safe—that’s my way of thinking.”

“but suppose he fails to ‘see’?” suggested gerhardt.

manning eyed him rather suspiciously.

“i hope you aren’t one of that new lot that talk against the priests,” said he. “i’ve heard something of them as i came through almayne and guienne: saw one fellow flogged at the market-cross, that had let his tongue run too freely. and i can tell you, i’m not one of that sort. you’re welcome to stay while you behave decently, as i see you’ve been a help and comfort to my women here: but one word against the priests, or one wag of your head in irreverence to the holy mass, and out you go, bag and baggage!—ay, down to that child.”

rudolph seemed frightened by the harsh tones and loud words, and when manning ended by striking his hand upon his thigh with a resounding slap to enforce his threat, the child began to whimper.

“i trust, friend, you will never see any irreverence in me towards aught to which reverence is due,” replied gerhardt; “but if you do, fulfil your words, and i shall not trouble you longer.”

“well, look out!” said manning. “i don’t much like your long prayers just now: they’re a bad sign. as to haimet’s latin grace, i suppose he’s learnt that in the schools; and praying in latin isn’t so bad. but a cross over the supper-table is plenty good enough for me. i never did believe in folks that are always saying their prayers, and reckoning to be better than their neighbours.”

“i believe in being as good as i can be,” said gerhardt with a smile. “if that should make me better than my neighbours, it would hardly be my fault, would it? but in truth, friend manning, i do not think myself any better, for i know too much of the evil of mine own heart.”

“ay, that’s the lingo of the pestilent vipers in guienne! i could find in my heart to lay a silver penny you’ll turn out to be one of that brood. girls, i hope you haven’t caught the infection? we’ll wait a few days and see—what we shall see.”

“eh, manning, they’re the peaceablest set ever came in a house!” exclaimed isel. “helped me over and over, they have, and never one of ’em gave me an ill word. and gerard’s made a pretty penny with weaving and wood-carving, and every farthing he’s given me, save what they wanted for clothes. do, for mercy’s sake, let ’em be! flemild married, and derette away to the anchorhold—i shall be a lost woman without agnes and ermine! nigh on seven years they’ve been here, and i haven’t been so comfortable in all my life afore. they may have some queer notions in their heads—that i can’t say; most folks have one way or another—but they’re downright good for help and quietness. they are, so!”

“what says father dolfin about them?”

“well, he don’t say much of no sort,” answered isel doubtfully, with an uneasy recollection of one or two things he had lately said. “but i say they’re as good folks as ever walked in shoe-leather, and you’ll not find their match in oxford, let be kepeharme lane.”

“well,” said manning, “let them bide a few days: we shall see. but i shall brook no heresy, and so i give you fair warning. no heretic, known to me, shall ever darken the doors of a soldier of the cross!”

“i pray you, hold to that!” was gerhardt’s answer.

the next morning dawned a fair autumn day. manning seemed somewhat more inclined to be friendly than on the previous evening, and matters went on pleasantly enough until the hour of dinner. they had just risen from table when a rap came on the door. flemild went to open it.

“holy saints!” they heard her cry.

then the door opened, and in walked two men in red and white livery, with four golden crosses patée embroidered on the left arm. with a glance round, they addressed themselves to manning.

“are you the owner of this house?”

manning knew in a moment who his visitors were—official sumners of the bishop of lincoln.

“i am,” he said. “what would you have?”

one of the sumners unrolled a parchment deed.

“we have here a writ to take the bodies of certain persons believed to be in your house, and we bid you, in the name of holy church, that you aid us in the execution of our office.”

isel, terribly frightened, was muttering ave marias by the dozen. to gerhardt’s forehead the blood had surged in one sudden flush, and then subsiding, left him calm and pale.

“when holy church bids, i am her lowly servant,” was manning’s answer. “do your duty.”

“you say well,” replied the sumner. “i demand the body of one gerard, a stranger of almayne, of agnes his wife, of rudolph their son, and of ermine, the man’s sister.”

“of what stand they accused?”

“of the worst that could be—heresy.”

“then will i give them no shelter. i pray you to note, master sumner, that i returned but last night from over seas, whither i have followed the cross, and have not hitherto had any opportunity to judge of these whom i found here.”

“you will have opportunity to clear yourself before the council,” said the sumner. “find me a rope, good woman. is this your son?” he added, appealing to gerhardt.

“this is my son,” answered gerhardt, with a tremulous smile. “he is scarcely yet old enough to commit crime.”

“eh, dear, good gentlemen, you’ll never take the little child!” pleaded isel. “why, he is but a babe. i’ll swear to you by every saint in the calendar, if you will, to bring him up the very best of catholic christians, under father dolfin’s eye. what can he have done?”

“he believes what has been taught him, probably,” said the sumner grimly. “but i cannot help it, good wife—the boy’s name is in the writ. the only favour in my power to show is to tie him with his mother. come now, the rope—quick!”

“no rope of mine shall tie them!” said isel, with sudden determination which no one had expected from her. “you may go buy your own ropes for such innocent lambs, for i’ll not find you one!”

“but a rope of mine shall!” thundered manning. “sit down, silly woman, and hold thy tongue.—i beseech you, my masters, to pardon this foolish creature; women are always making simpletons of themselves.”

“don’t put yourself out, good man,” answered the sumner with a smile of superiority; “i have a wife and four daughters.”

haimet now appeared with a rope which he handed to the sumner, who proceeded to tie together first gerhardt and ermine, then agnes and rudolph. the child was thoroughly frightened, and sobbing piteously.

“oh deary, deary me!” wailed poor isel. “that ever such a day should come to my house! dame mary, and all the blessed saints in heaven, have mercy on us! haven’t i always said there was nought but trouble in this world?”

“it’s no good vexing, mother; it has to be,” said flemild, but there were tears in her eyes. “i’m glad derette’s not here.”

derette had gone to see her cousins at the castle,—a sort of farewell visit before entering the anchorhold.

“then i’m sorry,” said isel. “she might have given those rascals a lick with the rough side of her tongue—much if she wouldn’t, too. i’d like to have heard it, i would!”

the prisoners were marched out, with much show of righteous indignation against them from manning, and stolid assistance to the sumners on the part of haimet. when the door was shut and all quiet again, manning came up to isel.

“come, wife, don’t take on!” he said, in a much more gentle tone than before. “we must not let ourselves be suspected, you know. perhaps they’ll be acquitted—they seem decent, peaceable folk, and it may be found to be a false accusation. so long as holy church does not condemn them, we need not: but you know we must not set ourselves against her officers, nor get ourselves suspected and into trouble. hush, children! the fewer words the better. they may turn out to be all wrong, and then it would be sin to pity them. we can but wait and see.”

“saints alive! but i’m in a whole sea of trouble already!” cried isel. “we’ve lost six hands for work; and good workers too; and here had i reckoned on ermine tarrying with me, and being like a daughter to me, when my own were gone: and what am i to do now, never speak of them?”

“there are plenty more girls in the city,” said manning.

“maybe: but not another ermine.”

“perhaps not; but it’s no good crying over spilt milk, isel. do the best you can with what you have; and keep your mouth shut about what you have not.”

haimet was seen no more till nearly bedtime, when he came in with the information that all the germans had been committed to the castle dungeon, to await the arrival of king henry, who had summoned a council of bishops to sit on the question, the sunday after christmas. that untried prisoners should be kept nearly four months in a dark, damp, unhealthy cellar, termed a dungeon, was much too common an occurrence to excite surprise. isel, as usual, lamented over it, and derette, who had seen the prisoners marched into the castle yard, was as warm in her sympathy as even her mother could have wished. manning tried, not unkindly, to silence them both, and succeeded only when they had worn themselves out.

about ten days later, derette made her profession, and was installed in the anchorhold, with leuesa as her maid. the anchorhold consisted of two small chambers, some ten feet square, with a doorway of communication that could be closed by a curtain. the inner room, which was the bedchamber, was furnished with two bundles of straw, two rough woollen rugs, a tin basin, a wooden coffer, a form, and some hooks for hanging garments at one end. the outer room was kitchen and parlour; it held a tiny hearth for a wood-fire (no chimney), another form, a small pair of trestles and boards to form a table, which were piled in a corner when not wanted for immediate use; sundry shelves were put up around the walls, and from hooks in the low ceiling hung a lamp, a water-bucket, a pair of bellows, a bunch of candles, a rope of onions, a string of dried salt fish, and several bundles of medical herbs. the scent of the apartment, as may be imagined, was somewhat less fragrant than that of roses. in one corner stood the virgin mary, newly-painted and gilt; in the opposite one, saint john the baptist, whom the imager had made with such patent whites to his eyes, set in a bronzed complexion, that the effect was rather startling. a very small selection of primitive culinary utensils lay on a shelf close to the hearth. much was not wanted, when the most sumptuous meal to be had was boiled fish or roasted onions.

derette was extremely tired, and it was no cause for wonder. from early morning she had been kept on the strain by most exciting incidents. her childhood’s home, though it was scarcely more than a stone’s throw from her, she was never to see again. father or brother might not even touch her hand any more. her mother and sister could still enter her tiny abode; but she might never go out to them, no matter what necessity required it. derette was bright, and sensible, and strong: but she was tired that night. and there was no better repose to be had than sitting on a hard form, and leaning her head against the chimney-corner.

“shut the window, leuesa,” she said, “and come in. i am very weary, and i must sleep a little, if i can, before compline.”

“no marvel, lady,” replied leuesa, doing as she was requested. “i am sure you have had a tiring day. but your profession was lovely! i never saw a prettier scene in my life.”

“ay, marriages and funerals are both sights for the world. which was it most like, thinkest thou?”

“o lady! a marriage, of course. has it not made you the bride of jesu christ?”

leuesa fancied she heard a faint sigh from the chimney-corner; but derette gave no answer.

note 1. the alner, or alms-bag, was the largest sort of purse used in the middle ages.