by A. D. Crake
CHAPTER XV. RESTORED TO LIFE.
Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hutof the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling againstthe throes of fever. In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon allthe scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet someProvidence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelationwhich might have endangered his safety--that he was himself themurderer of the son of his preserver.
Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his hearthe deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of hiscompanions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the gooddeed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.
At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, afterdays of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke onemorning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.
The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever,and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressionswhich had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?"for Etienne spoke in Norman French.
"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hathsaved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."
"Thanks, good mother."
There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said thesewords--"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance ofhunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadlycombat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to findmyself here."
"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thouart the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade theDismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father inthe patient's own tongue.
Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel thetangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came andbrought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fellback with a sigh.
Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight--andwith it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and themother of the murdered lad--for he knew her--had rescued him fromwhat his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, atleast at the hands of the English.
There are crises in all men's lives--and this was one in the lifeof Etienne--when they choose good or evil.
And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay indeep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to theforbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had beentreated.
"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: forin so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."
Etienne now felt these coals of fire.
He was not all pride and cruelty. His education had made him whathe was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such afather and the training of a Norman castle, many of my youngreaders who have detested his arrogance would have been like him,more or less.
"Their lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone,Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines."
But now the generosity which lay hidden deep in his heart wasawakened; the holy teachings which, in his childhood he had heardat his mother's knee--a mother who, had she lived, might haveinfluenced his whole conduct--came back to him. There were manypious mothers, after all, in Normandy. Pity they had not bettersons.
"Forgive us our trespasses."
The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he hadmade childless, were a noble commentary on these words.
"Mother," he said, one day, "forgive me--I have much to beforgiven--I cannot tell thee all."
"Nay, thou needst not; thou art forgiven for the love of Him whohas forgiven us all."
For a long time yet he lingered a prisoner on his couch; for feverhad so weakened him that he could hardly support his own weight.
But at length convalescence set in, and his strength returned; buthe could only take exercise--which was now necessary to hiscomplete recovery--when Father Kenelm was at hand to act as ascout, and warn him to retire in the case of the approach of anyEnglishman; for although he had adopted the English dress, yet hiscomplexion and manner would have betrayed him to any observer closeat hand.
At length came the day of deliverance.
It was a day in early April. The east winds of March had dried theearth, the sun had now some power, and the trees were bursting intoleaf in every direction. It was one of those first days of earlysummer, which are so delicious from their rarity, and seem torender this earth a paradise for the time being.
The convalescent was out of doors, inhaling the sweet breeze, inthe immediate proximity of the hut, when the good father appeared.
"My son," he said, "dost thou feel strong enough to travel?"
"I do, indeed, father," said the youth, his heart bounding withdelight; "but may I go, and without any ransom?"
"Surely; we have not preserved thy life from love of filthy lucre."
"I feel that father, in my very heart; but hast thou no pledge todemand? Dost thou trust all to my gratitude?"
"Thou wilt never fight against the poor fugitives here, my son?"
"Nor betray the path to their retreat" added Etienne.
"That is already known," said the father.
"Known! then war is at hand."
"It is, and I would remove thee, lest harm should befall thee. Thouwilt travel hence with me at once."
"Before we start I would fain be shriven by thee, for I havegrievously sinned, and to whom can I more fitly make my shrift? sothat he who has ministered to the body may in turn minister to thesoul."
"There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," said thegood monk, greatly moved, "and right gladly will I discharge mineoffice towards thee."
The hour had come for Etienne to depart. He had bidden farewell tothe faithful Hilda. His last words were--"Thou hast lost one son,mother, but found another; if Etienne de Malville lives, thou shaltbe recompensed one day."
The two pedestrians left the hut and, keeping close along theborder of the marsh, under the shadow of the trees, came at last tothe little isthmus which joined the firm ground within the marsh,to a chain of woody hills.
The ground was so covered with vegetation and undergrowth that itwas difficult to advance, save by one narrow path; but Etienne sawat once that in this direction the settlement could be assaulted atany time of the year with every chance of success.
The monk must have been aware also that he was betraying the secretof this approach to a Norman; but strangely enough, he did not seemto trouble about it at this juncture.
"Father," said Etienne, "I would fain ask thee one question beforewe part."
"Speak on, my son."
"I would fain know, father, what murderous hand gave thy abbey tothe flames--a deed abhorred by all good men, whether Normans orEnglish."
"Thou dost not know then?"
"Surely not, father."
"I may not tell thee whom all suspect; it is better for thy peaceof mind that it should remain a mystery till God solve the riddle."
"Thou mayst not tell how Wilfred escaped either," added Etienne,who in his heart thought that the outlaws had fired the place andreleased him from his imposed penance.
"On all these points my lips are sealed. Perhaps in God's own timethou wilt learn the truth."
"Then I may not act as a mediator between my father and hisfugitive vassals?"
"Not under present circumstances. There is a dark mystery, whichGod in His mercy hides from thee."
They had now gained a slight elevation, and could see the tops ofthe trees below them for miles, including a portion of the swamp.
"Father, how full the woods are of smoke: look, it is rolling ingreat billows over the tree tops. Surely the woods are on fire."
"I have heard that in foreign countries the woods are so dry insummer that they burn easily, and that people caught in the forestshave great difficul
ty in saving their lives; but it is not so here,the reeds and flags of the marshes alone are on fire."
"Methinks I hear the shouts of men who strive for mastery," and ashe spoke, the fire of the warrior kindled in his eyes.
"Thou mayst not join them if such be the case; thou wilt keep thypromise, my son."
"Yes," said the tamed tiger cub, with a sigh; "yet I would fainknow what my father is doing. Let us go on."
Two more hours of forest travelling carried them far from the soundof the conflict and they gained the outskirts of the forest.Entering some nicely cultivated meadows, they came in sight of asmall Norman priory, which Etienne had visited in earlier days,when out on woodland expeditions; for it was miles from Aescendune,and the way lay through the forest.
"Farewell my son, I must leave thee here. They are thy countrymenin yonder cell, and will gladly entertain thee."
"Thy blessing, my father."
"It is thine, my son. Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly withthy God, and He will bless thee."
Etienne sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, for he was very tired,and watched the departing figure of Father Kenelm. His eyes weredim, for he felt very much touched, for the time at least.
But he was now restored to life and liberty, and no bird in thesky, no deer on the mountain, felt more blithe and happy than hesoon began to feel.
There is an old adage about the Evil One. It is said he became sickand wanted to be a monk, but when he became well--well--Was thisthe case with Etienne?
Time will show: for the present we leave him blowing the hornsuspended at the gate of St. Ouen's priory.
