by David Ker
CHAPTER II
Facing a Monster
As the song proceeded, the moody lad bent forward to listen with avisibly brightening face, though in an attitude of reverent awe; forhis first thought was one that would have occurred to any man of thatage in his place--that the voice he heard was that of his patron saint,or of an angel sent down from heaven to comfort him in his distress.
But ere he could utter the devout thanksgiving that rose to his lips,he was checked by the sudden appearance of the singer himself.
From the thickets issued a boy about his own age, with a huge faggot ofdead wood on his back. He was barefooted and barelegged, and whatlittle clothing he had was sorely tattered and soiled; but thewholesome brown of his tanned face, and the springy lightness of hisstep under that heavy burden, told that his rough life agreed with him.It was plain, however, from the wandering look of his eyes, and thebird-like restlessness of all his movements, that he was one of thepoor half-witted creatures so numerous then in every part of France,and pretty common even now in some remote parts of it.
At sight of the young noble (whose grim features had certainly nothingreassuring in them at the first glance) the simpleton came to a suddenhalt, and looked not a little scared. Nor was this surprising; for somany and so tyrannical were the privileges claimed by the landed gentryin an age when all France was divided into beasts of prey called noblesand beasts of burden called peasants, that (though among the sturdyBretons there was happily less of the frightful oppression thatdisgraced France proper) this poor lad could not tell that he might nothave committed, by picking up these dry sticks in a wood that virtuallybelonged to no one, some offence rendering him liable to punishment;and punishment was no trifle in the fourteenth century, whetherinflicted by the law or against it.
But ere a word could be spoken on either side, there came a sudden andstartling interruption.
Fully occupied with his supposed enemy in front, the wood-boy knewnothing of the far worse peril that menaced him from the rear. He neverheard, poor lad, the warning rustle in the thicket behind him, nor sawthe hungry gleam of the cruel greenish-yellow eye that glared at himthrough the tangled boughs; but all at once came a crackle and crash ofbroken twigs--a fierce yell, a stifled cry, a heavy fall--and theforest-lad lay face downward on the earth, struggling beneath theweight of a huge grey wolf, ravenous from its winter fast!
BERTRAND GRAPPLES WITH THE WOLF]
Luckily for the poor boy, the furious beast was hampered for a momentby the projecting sticks of the huge fagot, on which its first rush hadfallen. But an instant more would have seen the helpless lad fearfullymangled, if not killed outright, when, just as all seemed over, rescuecame.
The moment the young noble caught sight of the springing monster, helooked round for the hunting-knife that he had flung down in the grassand ferns; but not finding it, he whirled up the broken bough like aflail, and dealt a crushing blow at the wolf's head with all his mightand main.
Had that blow fallen as it was meant, the brute would never have movedagain; but a quick jerk of the long, gaunt body foiled the stroke,which, missing its head, hit the fore paw and snapped the bone like areed. With a sharp howl of pain, the savage beast let go its prey andflew at its enemy.
But that sullen, hard-featured lad was one whom no peril, no matter howsudden and terrific, ever found unprepared. Dropping his now uselessclub, he sprang upon the wolf in turn and fastened both hands on itslean, sinewy throat with a grip like a smith's vice.
And then began a terrible battle. Over and over rolled boy and beast,amid snapping twigs and flying dust, the boy throwing his whole forceinto the strangling clutch that he still maintained, while the wolf'scruel fangs gnashed and snapped close to his throat, and its hot, foulbreath came steaming in his face, and the blood-flecked foam from itsgaping jaws hung upon his hair or fell in clammy flakes on his cheek.
Such a struggle, however, was too furious to last. Little by little thefire died out of the fierce yellow eyes--the wolfish yells sank into alow, gasping whine--the monster's frantic struggles grew fainter andfainter; the victory was all but won.
But the boy-champion, too, was almost spent with the terrific strain ofthis death-grapple, and his numbed fingers were already beginning torelax the iron grasp which they had so sternly made good till now. Onemoment more would have let loose the all-but-conquered enemy, andsealed the brave lad's doom; but just then came a flash of steel beforehis swimming eyes--a dull thud, like a tap on a padded door--a hoarse,gurgling gasp--and the wolf lay limp and dead on the trampled earth.
The half-witted boy, recovering from the first stun of his fall, hadseen his rescuer's peril, and his keen eye had caught the glitter ofthe lost knife in the fern. To pounce on it, to snatch it up, to dealone sure thrust into the wolf's exposed side, was the work of a moment;but, quick as he was, he came only just in time.
"I thank thee, friend," said the young noble, with a quiet dignity farbeyond his years, as he slowly rose to his feet. "St. Yves be my speed,but yon blow of thine was as good a one as ever was stricken; and hadit been one whit less swift or less sure, methinks it had gone hardwith me. But how fares it with thee? Thou canst scarce have come offscatheless from the clutch of yon felon beast."
"I am unharmed, messire; praise be to God and the holy saints," saidthe other, respectfully. "I trow it is I who ought rather to thank yourvaliancy, since, but for your aid, my strength had availed noughtagainst such a beast as this."
"A grim quarry, in good sooth," cried the boy-conqueror, scanning withadmiring looks the slain wolf's sinewy limbs and mighty jaws; "but, bethat as it may, neither man nor beast shall harm a defenceless boywhile I can lift hand to stay it!"
"It is well spoken, fair son," said a grave, mild voice from behind;"and ever mayst thou buckler the weak against the strong, and beat downthe ravening wolves that slaughter the flock of God!"
Both boys looked up with a start, and saw with surprise and secret awethat, although they had neither seen nor heard any one approach, theywere no longer alone.
Beside them stood a tall, slim figure, clad in the grey frock and cowlof a monk, and protected from the flints and thorns of the rugged pathonly by a pair of torn and dusty sandals.
The stranger's arms and limbs, so far as his robe left them visible,seemed wasted almost to a skeleton; and on the hollow face that lookedforth from the shadowy cowl might be plainly read the traces of longhardship and bitter suffering, and of mental conflicts more exhaustingthan either. But on that worn face now rested the sweet and holycalmness of the peace that passeth all understanding. A kindly smileplayed on his thin, delicate lips, and his large, bright eyes werefilled with the loving, pitying tenderness of a guardian angel, thoughthrough it pierced ever and anon a flash of keen and terriblediscernment.
A child would have nestled trustfully to the owner of that face, evenwithout knowing who he was; a ruffian or a traitor would have slunkaway abashed at the first glimpse of it.
The stranger's soundless approach, his saintly aspect, and his suddenappearance at the very moment when the death-struggle ended in victory,bred in both lads a conviction which the beliefs of that age made quitenatural, and which the boy-noble was not slow to utter aloud.
"Holy father," said he, with a low and almost timid bow, "art thou mypatron saint, St. Yves of Bretagne? If so, I pray thee to accept mineunworthy thanks for thy timely aid."
"Give thy thanks to God, my son, not to the humblest of His servants,"replied the stranger, in a clear, musical voice, "though, could my aidhave profited thee, assuredly it should not have been lacking. No saintnor angel am I, but a poor brother of the monastery of Notre Dame deSecours (Our Lady of Help) in the town of Dinan; and men call meBrother Michael."
Hardly had he spoken, when the forest-boy threw himself at his feet,and kissed his hand, crying joyfully--
"You are he, then, whom they call 'God's Pilgrim!' Give me yourblessing, I pray, holy father, for men say t
hat good follows your stepswherever you go."
"God grant the like may be said of us all!" said the monk, earnestly,as his pale, worn face lighted up with so bright and happy a smile thatit fairly transfigured him for the moment. Then, laying his thin handgently on the boy's bowed head, he blessed him fervently.
As the overjoyed simpleton shambled to his feet again, Brother Michaelturned to the boy-noble, who was eyeing him with undisguisedadmiration; for he too had heard the fame of "God's Pilgrim," who wentfrom place to place doing good, and fearing neither pestilence, war,famine, robbers, nor any other peril, if there was even a chance ofhelping and comforting his fellow-men.
"Son," said he, kindly, "I have told thee my name; wilt thou tell methine?"
"Bertrand du Guesclin," replied the boy, in a tone of sullen dejection,which showed that he, at least, had no guess how soon the unknown namethat he uttered so despondingly was to echo like a roll of thunderthrough the length and breadth of Europe, and to be the symbol of allthat was chivalrous and noble alike with friend and foe.
The monk started slightly, and stood silent for a moment or two, withknitted brow and compressed lips, as if trying hard to recall somehalf-forgotten association connected with the name that he had justheard.
"Give me thy hand," said he at last, in a strangely altered voice.
The future hero extended his broad, sinewy hand to the clasp ofMichael's long, slender fingers; and the monk's deep, earnest eyesrested with a penetrating glance on those of young Du Guesclin, which,as they met his, remained fixed as if unable to turn away.
So the two stood gazing at each other without a word for some moments,while the young forester looked wonderingly on.
"Give glory to God, my son, for He hath destined thee to great honour,"said the monk at last, with a solemn earnestness, which showed howdeeply he felt the importance of the strange message that he wasdelivering. "The grace of Heaven hath vouchsafed to mine unworthy selfthe gift of reading in each face that I see the destiny of him whobears it; and I read in thine that God hath chosen thee to be thechampion of this distressed land, and to save it from all its foes!"
To any man of that age, the voice of a Churchman was as that of God;and Bertrand no more thought of doubting the monk's words than if theyhad come down to him from heaven. His heart bounded at the thought thathe, the ill-favoured, the mocked, the despised--he, on whom his ownparents looked down as a shame to them--should be chosen by Heavenitself for so glorious a task; and it was no disbelief, but sheerastonishment, that fettered his tongue when he tried to answer.
"_I_ the champion of France?" said he at last, with a look and tone ofjoyful amazement.
"Thou and no other," said the monk, firmly. "Why look'st thou thusamazed? Is it not told in Holy Writ how the greatest king of God'schosen people was at the first but an unknown shepherd-lad, and how hetoo was despised by his own kin?"
"Ha! how know'st thou that, holy father?" cried Du Guesclin, starting.
"By the revelation of God," said Michael, solemnly. "Fare thee well, myson; be thou strong to do thine appointed work, and to curb thine ownrebellious spirit; for he that humbleth himself shall be exalted. Asfor thee, my child," added he to the half-witted lad, who had watchedthis strange scene with ever-growing wonder, "come with me; I havesomewhat to say to thee."
The wood-boy obeyed like a child; and the next moment boy and monkvanished amid the trees, while Bertrand remained standing like a statueon the spot where they had left him, deep in thought.
