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Heroines That Every Child Should Know

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Title: Heroines That Every Child Should Know

Editor: Hamilton Wright Mabie
        Kate Stephens

Illustrator: Blanche Ostertag


        
Release date: April 29, 2011 [eBook #35994]

Language: English

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[Illustration: I bring you the best help that ever Knight or City
had For it is God's help not sent for love of me but by God's
good pleasure]


HEROINES THAT EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

Tales for Young People of the World's Heroines of All Ages

CO-EDITED BY
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
AND KATE STEPHENS

DECORATED BY
BLANCHE OSTERTAG


[Illustration]


New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1908




COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHED, FEBRUARY, 1908


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The editors and publishers wish to acknowledge the courtesy of authors
and publishers named below, for the use of certain material in this
volume: To Mrs. Elizabeth E. Seelye for material adapted for
Pocahontas, from her volume entitled "Pocahontas" (copyrighted, 1879,
by Dodd, Mead & Company); to Messrs. Harper and Brothers and to the
Estate of Mr. John S.C. Abbott for material adapted for Madame Roland;
to Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company for material adapted for Alcestis,
Antigone and Iphigenia; to Messrs. E.P. Dutton & Company for material
adapted for Lady Jane Grey; to the Macmillan Company for certain
material in Paula; to Messrs. Hutchinson & Company, London, for
material adapted for Sister Dora.




INTRODUCTION


The Book of Heroes should never be separated from the Book of
Heroines; they are the two parts of that story of courage, service and
achievement which is the most interesting and inspiring chapter in the
history of human kind in this wonderful world of ours. Whenever and
wherever there has appeared a hero, a heroine has almost always worked
with or for him; for heroic and noble deeds are rarely done without
some kind of cooperation. Now and then, it is true, single acts of
daring stand out alone; but, as a rule, the hero gains his end because
other men or women stand beside him in times of great peril. William
the Silent could not have made his heroic defence of the Low Countries
against the armies of Spain if men of heroic temper and women of
indomitable courage had not been about him in those terrible years;
Washington could not have converted a body of farmers into an
organized and disciplined army if he had not been aided by the skill
of drill masters like Steuben; nor could Lieutenant Peary make
brilliant dashes for the North Pole if other men did not join him in
his perilous expeditions. The hero is generally a leader of heroes, as
a great general is a leader of soldiers who carry out his plans in
hourly jeopardy of limb and life.

It is a mistake to think of heroes as rare and exceptional men; the
world is full of those who take their lives in their hands every day
and think nothing about it; or, if they think of it at all, think of
it, as Mr. Kipling would say, as part of the day's work. It is almost
impossible to open a daily newspaper without coming upon some story of
daring by some obscure man or woman. The record of a fire department
is usually a continuous register of the brave deeds done by those who
receive very small pay for a very dangerous service to their fellows.
It is not necessary to go back to the days of chivalry or to open the
histories of great wars to find a hero; he lives in every street,
works in every profession and never thinks that he is doing anything
unusual or impressive. There are many stories of heroic deeds and men,
but these are as nothing compared with the unwritten stories of brave
and chivalrous people whose lives are full of courage, self-denial and
sacrifice, but of whom no public reports are ever made.

It has taken three centuries to explore and settle this country, and
there are still parts of it in which those who live face the perils
and hardships of pioneers. Ever since the war of the Revolution the
skirmish line of civilisation has moved steadily forward from the
Atlantic to the Pacific; and every man who has carried a rifle or an
axe, who has defended his home against Indians or cut down trees, made
a clearing, built a rude house and turned the prairie or the land
taken from the forest into a farm, has had something of the hero in
him. He has often been selfish, harsh and unjust; but he has been
daring, full of endurance and with a capacity for heroic work; But he
has never been alone; we see him always as he faces his foes or bears
the strain of his work: we often forget that there was as much courage
in the log house as on the firing line at the edge of the forest, and
that the work indoors was harder in many ways than the work out of
doors and far less varied and inspiriting. If we could get at the
facts we should find that there have been more heroines than heroes in
the long warfare of the race against foes within and without, and that
the courage of women has had far less to stimulate it in dramatic or
picturesque conditions or crises. It is much easier to make a perilous
charge in full daylight, with flying banners and the music of bugles
ringing across the field, than to hold a lonely post, in solitude at
midnight, against a stealthy and unseen enemy.

Boys do not need to be taught to admire the bold rush on the enemies'
position, the brilliant and audacious passage through the narrow
channel under the guns of masked batteries, the lonely march into
Central Africa, the dash to the North Pole; they do need to be taught
the heroism of those who give the hero his sword and then go home
to wait for his return; who leave the stockade unarmed and, under a
fire of poisoned arrows, run to the springs for water for a thirsting
garrison; who quietly stay at their posts and as quietly die
without the inspiration of dramatic achievement or of the heart-felt
applause of spectators; who bear heavy burdens without a chance to
drop or change them; who are heroically patient under blighting
disappointments and are loyal to those who are disloyal to them; who
bear terrible wrongs in silence, and conceal the cowardice of those
they love and cover their retreat with a smiling courage which is the
very soul of the pathos of unavailing heroism and undeserved failure.

From the days of Esther, Judith and Antigone to those of Florence
Nightingale, women have shown every kind of courage that men have
shown, faced every kind of peril that men have braved, divided with
men the dangers and hardships of heroism but have never had an equal
share of recognition and applause. So far as they are concerned this
lack of equal public reward has been of small consequence; the best of
them have not only not cared for it, but have shunned it. It is well
to remember that the noblest heroes have never sought applause; and
that popularity is much more dangerous to heroes than the foes they
faced or the savage conditions they mastered in the splendid hour of
daring achievement. Many heroes have been betrayed by popularity into
vanity and folly and have lost at home the glory they won abroad.
Heroic women have not cared for public recognition and do not need it;
but it is of immense importance to society that the ideals of heroism
should be high and true, and that the soldier and the explorer should
not be placed above those whose achievements have been less dramatic,
but of a finer quality. The women who have shown heroic courage,
heroic patience, heroic purity and heroic devotion outrank the men
whose deeds have had their inspiration in physical bravery, who have
led splendid charges in full view of the world, who have achieved
miracles of material construction in canal or railroad, or the
reclaiming of barbarous lands to the uses of civilization. In a true
scale of heroic living and doing women must be counted more heroic
than men.

A writer of varied and brilliant talent and of a generous and gallant
spirit was asked at a dinner table, one evening not many years ago,
why no women appeared in his stories. He promptly replied that he
admired pluck above all other qualities, that he was timid by nature
and had won courage at the point of danger, and cared for it as the
most splendid of manly qualities. There happened to be a woman present
who bore the name of one of the most daring men of the time, and who
knew army life intimately. She made no comment and offered no
objection to the implication of the eminent writer's incautious
statement; but presently she began, in a very quiet tone, to describe
the incidents of her experience in army posts and on the march, and
every body listened intently as she went on narrating story after
story of the pluck and indifference to danger of women on the frontier
posts and, in some instances, on the march. The eminent writer
remained silent, but the moment the woman withdrew from the table he
was eager to know who the teller of these stories of heroism was and
how she had happened upon such remarkable experiences; and it was
noted that a woman appeared in his next novel!

The stories in this volume have been collected from many sources in
the endeavour to illustrate the wide range of heroism in the lives of
brave and noble women, and with the hope that these records of
splendid or quiet courage will open the eyes of young readers to the
many forms which heroism wears, and furnish a more spiritual scale of
heroic qualities.

                                               HAMILTON W. MABIE.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE

     I. ALCESTIS. Adapted from "Stories from the Greek
          Tragedians," by the Rev. Alfred J. Church                  3

    II. ANTIGONE. Adapted from "Stories from the Greek
          Tragedians," by the Rev. Alfred J. Church                 18

   III. IPHIGENIA. Adapted from "Stories from the Greek
          Tragedians," by the Rev. Alfred J. Church                 33

    IV. PAULA. Written and adapted from "The Makers of Modern
          Rome," by Mrs. Oliphant, "Martyrs and Saints of the
          First Twelve Centuries," by Mrs. E. Rundle Charles,
          and other sources                                         43

     V. JOAN OF ARC. Adapted from "Joan of Arc, the Maid,"
          by Janet Tuckey                                           57

    VI. CATHERINE DOUGLAS. From the Poetical Works of Dante
          Gabriel Rossetti                                         101

   VII. LADY JANE GREY. Adapted from "Child-life and Girlhood
          of Remarkable Women," by W.H. Davenport Adams            132

  VIII. POCAHONTAS. Adapted from "Pocahontas," by Elizabeth
          Eggleston Seelye, assisted by Edward Eggleston           146

    IX. FLORA MACDONALD. Adapted from "The Heroines of
          Domestic Life," by Mrs. Octavius Freire Owen             174

     X. MADAME ROLAND. Adapted from "Madame Roland," by John
          S.C. Abbott                                              190

    XI. GRACE DARLING. Written and adapted from various
          sources                                                  230

   XII. SISTER DORA. Adapted from "Virgin Saints and Martyrs,"
          by S. Baring-Gould                                       241

  XIII. FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. Written and adapted from various
          sources                                                  266




Heroines Every Child Should Know




HEROINES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW




I

ALCESTIS


Asclepius, the son of Apollo, being a mighty physician, raised men
from the dead. But Zeus was wroth that a man should have such power,
and so make of no effect the ordinance of the gods. Wherefore he smote
Asclepius with a thunderbolt and slew him. And when Apollo knew this,
he slew the Cyclopes that had made the thunderbolts for his father
Zeus, for men say that they make them on their forges that are in the
mountain of Etna.

Zeus suffered not this deed to go unpunished, but passed this sentence
on his son Apollo, that he should serve a mortal man for the space of
a whole year. Wherefore, for all that he was a god, he kept the sheep
of Admetus, who was the Prince of Pherae in Thessaly. And Admetus knew
not that he was a god; but, nevertheless, being a just man, dealt
truly with him.

And it came to pass after this that Admetus was sick unto death. But
Apollo gained this grace for him of the Fates (who order of life and
death for men), that he should live, if only he could find some one
who should be willing to die in his stead. And he went to all his
kinsmen and friends and asked this thing of them, but found no one
that was willing so to die; only Alcestis his wife was willing.

And when the day was come on the which it was appointed for her to
die, Death came that he might fetch her. And when he was come, he
found Apollo walking to and for before the palace of King Admetus,
having his bow in his hand. And when Death saw him, he said:

"What doest thou here, Apollo? Is it not enough for thee to have kept
Admetus from his doom? Dost thou keep watch and ward over this woman
with thine arrows and thy bow?"

"Fear not," the god made answer, "I have justice on my side."

"If thou hast justice, what need of thy bow?"

"'Tis my wont to carry it."

"Ay, and it is thy wont to help this house beyond all right and law."

"Nay, but I was troubled at the sorrows of one that I loved, and
helped him."

"I know thy cunning speech and fair ways; but this woman thou shalt
not take from me."

"But consider; thou canst have but one life. Wilt thou not take
another in her stead?"

"Her and no other will I have, for my honour is the greater when I
take the young."

"I know thy temper, hated both of gods and of men. But there cometh a
guest to this house, whom Eurystheus sendeth to the snowy plains of
Thrace, to fetch the horses of Diomed. Haply he shall persuade thee
against thy will."

"Say what thou wilt; it shall avail nothing. And now I go to cut off
a lock of her hair, for I take these first-fruits of them that die."

In the meantime, within the palace, Alcestis prepared herself for
death. And first she washed her body with pure water from the river,
and then she took from her coffer of cedar her fairest apparel, and
adorned herself therewith. Then, being so arranged, she stood before
the hearth and prayed, saying:

"O Queen Here, behold! I depart this day. Do thou therefore keep my
children, giving to this one a noble husband and to that a loving
wife."

And all the altars that were in the house she visited in like manner,
crowning them with myrtle leaves and praying at them. Nor did she weep
at all, or groan, or grow pale. But at the last, when she came to her
chamber, she cast herself upon the bed and kissed it, crying:

"I hate thee not, though I die for thee, giving myself for my husband.
And thee another wife shall possess, not more true than I am, but,
maybe, more fortunate!"

And after she had left the chamber, she turned to it again and again
with many tears.

And all the while her children clung to her garments, and she took
them up in her arms, the one first and then the other, and kissed
them. And all the servants that were in the house bewailed their
mistress, nor did she fail to reach her hand to each of them greeting
him. There was not one of them so vile but she spake to him and was
spoken to again.

After this, when the hour was now come when she must die, she cried to
her husband (for he held her in his arms, as if he would have stayed
her that she should not depart):

"I see the boat of the dead, and Charon standing with his hand upon
the pole, who calleth me, saying, 'Hasten; thou delayest us'; and then
again, 'A winged messenger of the dead looketh at me from under his
dark eyebrows, and would lead me away. Dost thou not see him?'"

Then, after this, she seemed now ready to die, yet again she gathered
strength, and said to the King:

"Listen, and I will tell thee before I die what I would have thee do.
Thou knowest how I have given my life for thy life. For when I might
have lived, and had for my husband any prince of Thessaly that I
would, and dwelt here in wealth and royal state, yet could I not
endure to be widowed of thee and that thy children should be
fatherless. Therefore I spared not myself, though thy father and
mother betrayed thee. But the gods have ordered all this after their
own pleasure. So be it. Do thou therefore make this recompense, which
indeed thou owest to me, for what will not a man give for his life?
Thou lovest these children even as I love them. Suffer them then to be
rulers in this house, and bring not a stepmother over them who shall
hate them and deal with them unkindly. A son, indeed, hath a tower of
strength in his father. But, O my daughter, how shall it fare with
thee, for thy mother will not give thee in marriage, nor be with thee,
comforting thee when a mother most showeth kindness and love. And now
farewell, for I die this day. And thou, too, farewell, my husband.
Thou losest a true wife, and ye, too, my children, a true mother."

Then Admetus made answer:

"Fear not, it shall be as thou wilt. I could not find other wife fair
and well born and true as thou. Never more shall I gather revellers
in my palace, or crown my head with garlands, or hearken to the voice
of music. Never shall I touch the harp or sing to the Libyan flute.
And some cunning craftsman shall make an image fashioned like unto
thee, and this I will hold in my arms and think of thee. Cold comfort
indeed, yet that shall ease somewhat of the burden of my soul. But oh!
that I had the voice and melody of Orpheus, for then had I gone down
to Hell and persuaded the Queen thereof or her husband with my song to
let thee go; nor would the watch-dog of Pluto, nor Charon that
ferrieth the dead, have hindered me but that I had brought thee to the
light. But do thou wait for me there, for there will I dwell with
thee; and when I die they shall lay me by thy side, for never was wife
so true as thou."

Then said Alcestis:

"Take these children as a gift from me, and be as a mother to them."

"O me!" he cried, "what shall I do, being bereaved of thee?"

And she said:

"Time will comfort thee; the dead are as nothing."

But he said:

"Nay, but let me depart with thee."

But the Queen made answer:

"'Tis enough that I die in thy stead."

And when she had thus spoken she gave up the ghost.

Then the King said to the old men that were gathered together to
comfort him:

"I will see to this burial. And do ye sing a hymn as is meet to the
god of the dead. And to all my people I make this decree; that they
mourn for this woman, and clothe themselves in black, and shave their
heads, and that such as have horses cut off their manes, and that
there be not heard in the city the voice of the flute or the sound of
the harp for the space of twelve months."

Then the old men sang the hymn as they had been bidden. And when they
had finished, it befell that Hercules, who was on a journey, came to
the palace and asked whether King Admetus was sojourning there.

And the old men answered:

"'Tis even so, Hercules. But what, I pray thee, bringeth thee to this
land?"

"I am bound on an errand for King Eurystheus; even to bring back to
him horses of King Diomed."

"How wilt thou do this? Dost thou not know this Diomed?"

"I know naught of him, nor of his land."

"Thou wilt not master him or his horses without blows."

"Even so, yet I may not refuse the tasks that are set to me."

"Thou art resolved then to do this thing or to die?"

"Ay; and this is not the first race that I have run."

"Thou wilt not easily bridle these horses."

"Why not? They breathe not fire from their nostrils."

"No, but they devour the flesh of men."

"What sayest thou? This is the food of wild beasts, not of horses."

"Yet 'tis true. Thou wilt see their mangers foul with blood."

"And the master of these steeds, whose son is he?"

"He is son of Ares, lord of the land of Thrace."

"Now this is a strange fate and a hard that maketh me fight ever with
the sons of Ares, with Lycaon first, and with Cycnus next, and now
with this King Diomed. But none shall ever see the son of Alcmena
trembling before an enemy."

And now King Admetus came forth from the palace. And when the two had
greeted one another, Hercules would fain know why the King had shaven
his hair as one that mourned for the dead. And the King answered that
he was about to bury that day one that was dear to him.

And when Hercules inquired yet further who this might be, the King
said that his children were well, and his father also, and his mother.
But of his wife he answered so that Hercules understood not that he
spake of her. For he said that she was a stranger by blood, yet near
in friendship, and that she had dwelt in his house, having been left
an orphan of her father. Nevertheless Hercules would have departed and
found entertainment elsewhere, for he would not be troublesome to his
host. But the King suffered him not. And to the servant that stood by
he said:

"Take thou this guest to the guest-chamber; and see that they that
have charge of these matters set abundance of food before him. And
take care that ye shut the doors between the chambers and the palace;
for it is not meet that the guest at his meal should hear the cry of
them that mourn."

And when the old men would know why the King, having so great a
trouble upon him, yet entertained a guest, he made answer:

"Would ye have commended me the more if I had caused him to depart
from this house and this city? For my sorrow had not been one whit the
less, and I had lost the praise of hospitality. And a right worthy
host is he to me if ever I chance to visit the land of Argos."

And now they had finished all things for the burying of Alcestis, when
the old man Pheres, the father of the King, approached, and servants
came with him bearing robes and crowns and other adornments wherewith
to do honour to the dead. And when he was come over against the bier
whereon they laid the dead woman, he spake to the King, saying:

"I am come to mourn with thee, my son, for thou hast lost a noble
wife. Only thou must endure, though this indeed is a hard thing. But
take these adornments, for it is meet that she should be honoured who
died for thee, and for me also, that I should not go down to the grave
childless." And to the dead he said, "Fare thee well, noble wife, that
hast kept this house from falling. May it be well with thee in the
dwellings of the dead!"

But the King answered him in great wrath:

"I did not bid thee to this burial, nor shall this dead woman be
adorned with gifts of thine. Who art thou that thou shouldest bewail
her? Surely thou art not father of mine. For being come to extreme old
age, yet thou wouldst not die for thy son, but sufferedst this woman,
being a stranger in blood, to die for me. Her, therefore, I count
father and mother also. Yet this had been a noble deed for thee,
seeing that the span of life that was left to thee was short. And I,
too, had not been left to live out my days thus miserably, bereaved of
her whom I loved. Hast thou not had all happiness, thus having lived
in kingly power from youth to age? And thou wouldst have left a son to
come after thee, that thy house should not be spoiled by thine
enemies. Have I not always done due reverence to thee and to my
mother? And, lo! this is the recompense that ye make me. Wherefore I
say to thee, make haste and raise other sons who may nourish thee in
thy old age, and pay thee due honour when thou art dead, for I will
not bury thee. To thee I am dead."

Then the old man spake:

"Thinkest thou that thou art driving some Lydian and Phrygian slave
that hath been bought with money, and forgettest that I am a freeborn
man of Thessaly, as my father was freeborn before me? I reared thee to
rule this house after me; but to die for thee, that I owed thee not.
This is no custom among the Greeks that a father should die for his
son. To thyself thou livest or diest. All that was thy due thou hast
received of me; the kingdom over many people, and, in due time, broad
lands which I also received of my father. How have I wronged thee? Of
what have I defrauded thee? I ask thee not to die for me; and I die
not for thee. Thou lovest to behold this light. Thinkest thou that thy
father loveth it not? For the years of the dead are very long; but the
days of the living are short yet sweet withal. But I say to thee that
thou hast fled from thy fate in shameless fashion, and hast slain this
woman. Yea, a woman hath vanquished thee, and yet thou chargest
cowardice against me. In truth, 'tis a wise device of thine that thou
mayest live forever, if marrying many times, thou canst still persuade
thy wife to die for thee. Be silent, then, for shame's sake; and if
thou lovest life, remember that others love it also."

So King Admetus and his father reproached each other with many
unseemly words. And when the old man had departed, they carried forth
Alcestis to her burial.

But when they that bare the body had departed, there came in the old
man that had the charge of the guest-chambers, and spake, saying:

"I have seen many guests that have come from all the lands under the
sun to this palace of Admetus, but never have I given entertainment to
such evil guest as this. For first, knowing that my lord was in sore
trouble and sorrow, he forebore not to enter these gates. And then he
took his entertainment in most unseemly fashion; for if he lacked
aught he would call loudly for it; and then, taking a great cup
wreathed with leaves of ivy in his hands, he drank of red wine
untempered with water. And when the food had warmed him, he crowned
his head with myrtle boughs, and sang in the vilest fashion. Then
might one hear two melodies, this fellow's songs, which he sang
without thought for the troubles of my lord and the lamentation
wherewith we servants lamented our mistress. But we suffered not this
stranger to see our tears, for so my lord had commanded. Surely this
is a grievous thing that I must entertain this stranger, who surely is
some thief or robber. And meanwhile they have taken my mistress to her
grave, and I followed not after her, nor reached my hand to her, that
was as a mother to all that dwell in this place."

When the man had so spoken, Hercules came forth from the
guest-chamber, crowned with myrtle, and his face flushed with wine.
And he cried to the servant, saying:

"Ho, there! why lookest thou so solemn and full of care? Thou shouldst
not scowl on thy guest after this fashion, being full of some sorrow
that concerns thee not nearly. Come hither, and I will teach thee to
be wiser. Knowest thou what manner of thing the life of a man is? I
trow not. Hearken therefore. There is not a man who knoweth what a day
may bring forth. Therefore I say to thee: Make glad thy heart; eat,
drink, count the day that now is to be thine own, but all else to be
doubtful. As for all other things, let them be, and hearken to my
words. Put away this great grief that lieth upon thee, and enter into
this chamber. Right soon shall I ease thee of these gloomy thoughts.
As thou art a man, be wise after the fashion of a man; for to them
that are of a gloomy countenance, life, if only I judge rightly, is
not life but trouble only."

Then the servant answered:

"All this I know; but we have fared so ill in this house that mirth
and laughter ill beseem us."

"But they tell me that this dead woman was a stranger. Why shouldst
thou be so troubled, seeing that they who rule this house yet live?"

"How sayest thou that they live? Thou knowest not what trouble we
endure."

"I know it, unless thy lord strangely deceived me."

"My lord is given to hospitality."

"And should it hinder him that there is some stranger dead in the
house?"

"A stranger, sayest thou? 'Tis passing strange to call her thus."

"Hath thy lord then suffered some sorrow that he told thee not?"

"Even so, or I had not loathed to see thee at thy revels. Thou seest
this shaven hair and these black robes."

"What then? Who is dead? One of thy lord's children, or the old man,
his father?"

"Stranger, 'tis the wife of Admetus that is dead."

"What sayest thou? And yet he gave me entertainment?"

"Yea, for he would not, for shame, turn thee from his house."

"O miserable man, what a helpmeet thou hast lost!"

"Ay, and we are all lost with her."

"Well I knew it; for I saw the tears in his eyes, and his head shaven,
and his sorrowful regard; but he deceived me, saying that the dead
woman was a stranger. Therefore did I enter the doors and make merry,
and crown myself with garlands, not knowing what had befallen my host.
But, come, tell me; where doth he bury her? Where shall I find her?"

"Follow straight along the road that leadeth to Larissa, and thou
shalt see her tomb in the outskirts of the city."

Then said Hercules to himself:

"O my heart, thou hast dared many great deeds before this day; and now
most of all must I show myself a true son of Zeus. Now will I save
this dead woman Alcestis, and give her back to her husband, and make
due recompense to Admetus. I will go, therefore, and watch for this
black-robed king, even Death. Me-thinks I shall find him nigh unto the
tomb, drinking the blood of the sacrifices. There will I lie in wait
for him, and run upon him, and throw my arms about him, nor shall
anyone deliver him out of my hands, till he have given up to me this
woman. But if it chance that I find him not there, and he come not to
the feast of blood, I will go down to the Queen of Hell, to the land
where the sun shineth not, and beg her of the Queen; and doubtless she
will give her to me, that I may give her to her husband. Right nobly
did he entertain me, and drave me not from his house, for all that he
had been stricken by such sorrow. Is there a man in Thessaly, nay in
the whole land of Greece, that is such a lover of hospitality? I trow
not. Noble is he, and he shall know that he is no ill friend to whom
he hath done this thing."

So Hercules went his way. And when he was gone Admetus came back from
the burying of his wife, a great company following him, of whom the
elders sought to comfort him in his sorrow. And when he was come to
the gates of his palace he cried:

"How shall I enter thee? how shall I dwell in thee? Once I came within
thy gates with many pine-torches from Pelion, and the merry noise of
the marriage song, holding in my hand the hand of her that is dead;
and after us followed a troop that magnified her and me, so noble a
pair we were. And now with wailing instead of marriage songs, and
garments of black for white wedding robes, I go to my desolate couch."

But while he yet lingered before the palace Hercules came back,
leading with him a woman that was covered with a veil. And when he saw
the King, he said:

"I hold it well to speak freely to one that is a friend, and that a
man should not hide a grudge in his heart. Hear me, therefore. Though
I was worthy to be counted thy friend, yet thou saidst not that thy
wife lay dead in thy house, but suffered me to feast and make merry.
For this, therefore, I blame thee. And now I will tell thee why I am
returned. I pray thee, keep this woman against the day when I shall
come back from the land of Thrace, bringing the horses of King Diomed.
And if it should fare ill with me, let her abide here and serve thee.
Not without toil came she into my hands. I found as I went upon my way
that certain men had ordered contests for wrestlers and runners, and
the like. Now for them that had the preeminence in lesser things there
were horses for prizes; and for the greater, as wrestling and boxing,
a reward of oxen, to which was added this woman. And now I would have
thee keep her, for which thing, haply, thou wilt one day thank me."

To this the King answered:

"I thought no slight when I hid this truth from thee. Only it would
have been for me sorrow upon sorrow if thou hadst gone to the house of
another. But as for this woman, I would have thee ask this thing of
some prince of Thessaly that hath not suffered such grief as I. In
Pherae here thou hast many friends; but I could not look upon her
without tears. Add not then this new trouble. And also how could she,
being young, abide in my house, for young I judge her to be? And of a
truth, lady, thou art very like in shape and stature to my Alcestis
that is dead. I pray you, take her from my sight, for she troubleth my
heart, and my tears run over with beholding her."

Then said Hercules:

"Would I had such strength that I could bring back thy wife from the
dwellings of the dead, and put her in thy hands."

"I know thy good will, but what profiteth it? No man may bring back
the dead."

"Well, time will soften thy grief, which yet is new."

"Yea, if by time thou meanest death."

"But a new wife will comfort thee."

"Hold thy peace; such a thing cometh not into my thoughts."

"What? wilt thou always keep this widowed state?"

"Never shall woman more be wife of mine."

"What will this profit her that is dead?"

"I know not, yet had I sooner die than be false to her."

"Yet I would have thee take this woman into thy house."

"Ask it not of me, I entreat thee, by thy father Zeus."

"Thou wilt lose much if thou wilt not do it."

"And if I do it I shall break my heart."

"Haply some day thou wilt thank me; only be persuaded."

"Be it so; they shall take the woman into the house."

"I would not have thee entrust her to thy servants."

"If thou so thinkest, lead her in thyself."

"Nay, but I would give her into thy hands."

"I touch her not, but my house she may enter."

"'Tis only to thy hand I entrust her."

"O King, thou compellest me to this against my will."

"Stretch forth thy hand and touch her."

"I touch her as I would touch the Gorgon's head."

"Hast thou hold of her?"

"I have hold."

"Then keep her safe, and say that the son of Zeus is a noble friend.
See if she be like thy wife; and change thy sorrow for joy."

And when the King looked, lo! the veiled woman was Alcestis his wife.




II

ANTIGONE


It befell in times past that the gods, being angry with the
inhabitants of Thebes, sent into their land a very noisome beast which
men called the Sphinx. Now this beast had the face and breast of a
fair woman, but the feet and claws of a lion; and it was wont to ask a
riddle of such as encountered it; and such as answered not aright it
would tear and devour.

When it had laid waste the land many days, there chanced to come to
Thebes one Oedipus, who had fled from the city of Corinth that he
might escape the doom which the gods had spoken against him. And the
men of the place told him of the Sphinx, how she cruelly devoured the
people, and that he who should deliver them from her should have the
kingdom. So Oedipus, being very bold, and also ready of wit, went
forth to meet the monster. And when she saw him she spake, saying:

    "Read me this riddle right, or die:
    What liveth there beneath the sky,
    Four-footed creature that doth choose
    Now three feet and now twain to use,
    And still more feebly o'er the plain
    Walketh with three feet than with twain?"

And Oedipus made reply:

    "'Tis man, who in life's early day
    Four-footed crawleth on his way;
    When time hath made his strength complete,
    Upright his form and twain his feet;
    When age hath bowed him to the ground
    A third foot in his staff is found."

And when the Sphinx found that her riddle was answered, she cast
herself from a high rock and perished.

For a while Oedipus reigned in great power and glory; but afterwards
in madness he put out his own eyes. Then his two sons cast him into
prison, and took his kingdom, making agreement between themselves that
each should reign for the space of one year. And the elder of the two,
whose name was Eteocles, first had the kingdom; but when his year was
come to an end, he would not abide by his promise, but kept that which
he should have given up, and drave out his younger brother from the
city. Then the younger, whose name was Polynices, fled to Argos, to
King Adrastus. And after a while he married the daughter of the King,
who made a covenant with him that he would bring him back with a high
hand to Thebes, and set him on the throne of his father. Then the King
sent messengers to certain of the princes of Greece, entreating that
they would help in this matter. And of these some would not, but
others hearkened to his words, so that a great army was gathered
together and followed the King and Polynices to make war against
Thebes. So they came and pitched their camp over against the city. And
after they had been there many days, the battle grew fierce about the
wall. But the chiefest fight was between the two brothers, for the two
came together in an open space before the gates. And first Polynices
prayed to Here, for she was the goddess of the great city of Argos,
which had helped him in this enterprise, and Eteocles prayed to
Pallas of the Golden Shield, whose temple stood hard by. Then they
crouched, each covered with his shield, and holding his spear in his
hand, if by chance his enemy should give occasion to smite him; and if
one showed so much as an eye above the rim of his shield the other
would strike at him. But after a while King Eteocles slipped upon a
stone that was under his foot, and uncovered his leg, at which
straightway Polynices took aim with his spear, piercing the skin. But
so doing he laid his own shoulder bare, and King Eteocles gave him a
wound in the breast. He brake his spear in striking, and would have
fared ill but that with a great stone he smote the spear of Polynices,
and brake this also in the middle. And now were the two equal, for
each had lost his spear. So they drew their swords and came yet closer
together. But Eteocles used a device which he had learnt in the land
of Thessaly; for he drew his left foot back, as if he would have
ceased from the battle, and then of a sudden moved the right forward;
and so smiting sideways, drave his sword right through the body of
Polynices. But when thinking that he had slain him he set his weapons
in the earth, and began to spoil him of his arms, the other, for he
yet breathed a little, laid his hand upon his sword, and though he had
scarce strength to smite, yet gave the King a mortal blow, so that the
two lay dead together on the plain. And the men of Thebes lifted up
the bodies of the dead, and bare them both into the city.

When these two brothers, the sons of King Oedipus, had fallen each by
the hand of the other, the kingdom fell to Creon their uncle. For not
only was he the next of kin to the dead, but also the people held him
in great honour because his son Menoeceus had offered himself with a
willing heart that he might deliver his city from captivity.

Now when Creon was come to the throne, he made a proclamation about
the two princes, commanding that they should bury Eteocles with all
honour, seeing that he died as beseemed a good man and a brave, doing
battle for his country, that it should not be delivered into the hands
of the enemy; but as for Polynices he bade them leave his body to be
devoured by the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field, because
he had joined himself to the enemy, and would have beaten down the
walls of the city, and burned the temples of the gods with fire, and
led the people captive. Also he commanded that if any man should break
this decree he should suffer death by stoning.

Now Antigone, who was sister to the two princes, heard that the decree
had gone forth, and chancing to meet her sister Ismene before the
gates of the palace, spake to her, saying:

"O my sister, hast thou heard this decree that the King hath put forth
concerning our brethren that are dead?"

Then Ismene made answer: "I have heard nothing my sister, only that we
are bereaved of both of our brethren in one day, and that the army of
the Argives is departed in this night that is now past. So much I
know, but no more."

"Hearken then. King Creon hath made a proclamation that they shall
bury Eteocles with all honour; but that Polynices shall lie unburied,
that the birds of the air and the beasts of the field may devour him;
and that whosoever shall break this decree shall suffer death by
stoning."

"But if it be so, my sister, how can we avail to change it?"

"Think whether or no thou wilt share with me the doing of this deed."

"What deed? What meanest thou?"

"To pay due honour to this dead body."

"What? Wilt thou bury him when the King hath forbidden it?"

"Yea, for he is my brother and also thine, though, perchance, thou
wouldst not have it so. And I will not play him false."

"O my sister, wilt thou do this when Creon hath forbidden it?"

"Why should he stand between me and mine?"

"But think now what sorrows are come upon our house. For our father
perished miserably, having first put out his own eyes; and our mother
hanged herself with her own hands; and our two brothers fell in one
day, each by the other's spear; and now we two only are left. And
shall we not fall into a worse destruction than any, if we transgress
these commands of the King? Think, too, that we are women and not men,
and of necessity obey them that are stronger. Wherefore, as for me, I
will pray the dead to pardon me, seeing that I am thus constrained;
but I will obey them that rule."

"I advise thee not, and, if thou thinkest thus, I would not have thee
for helper. But know that I will bury my brother, nor could I better
die than for doing such a deed. For as he loved me, so also do I love
him greatly. And shall not I do pleasure to the dead rather than to
the living, seeing that I shall abide with the dead for ever? But
thou, if thou wilt, do dishonour to the laws of the gods?"

"I dishonour them not. Only I cannot set myself against the powers
that be."

"So be it; but I will bury my brother."

"O my sister, how I fear for thee!"

"Fear for thyself. Thine own lot needeth all thy care."

"Thou wilt at least keep thy counsel, nor tell the thing to any man."

"Not so: hide it not. I shall scorn thee more if thou proclaim it not
aloud to all."

So Antigone departed; and after a while came to the same place King
Creon, clad in his royal robes, and with his sceptre in his hand, and
set forth his counsel to the elders who were assembled, how he had
dealt with the two princes according to their deserving, giving all
honour to him that loved his country and casting forth the other
unburied. And he bade them take care that this decree should be kept,
saying that he had also appointed certain men to watch the dead body.

But he had scarcely left speaking when there came one of these same
watchers and said:

"I have not come hither in haste, O King, nay, I doubted much, while I
was yet on the way, whether I should not turn again. For now I
thought, 'Fool, why goest thou where thou shalt suffer for it'; and
then, again, 'Fool, the King will hear the matter elsewhere, and then
how wilt thou fare?' But at the last I came as I had purposed, for I
know that nothing may happen to me contrary to fate."

"But say," said the King, "what troubles thee so much?"

"First hear my case. I did not the thing, and know not who did it, and
it were a grievous wrong should I fall into trouble for such a
cause."

"Thou makest a long preface, excusing thyself, but yet hast, as I
judge, something to tell."

"Fear, my lord, ever causeth delay."

"Wilt thou not speak out thy news and then begone?"

"I will speak it. Know then that some man hath thrown dust upon this
dead corpse, and done besides such things as are needful."

"What sayest thou? Who hath dared to do this deed?"

"That I know not, for there was no mark as of spade or pick-axe; nor
was the earth broken, nor had wagon passed thereon. We were sore
dismayed when the watchman showed the thing to us; for the body we
could not see. Buried indeed it was not, but rather covered with dust.
Nor was there any sign as of wild beast or of dog that had torn it.
Then there arose a contention among us, each blaming the other, and
accusing his fellows, and himself denying that he had done the deed or
was privy to it. And doubtless we had fallen to blows but that one
spake a word which made us all tremble for fear, knowing that it must
be as he said. For he said that the thing must be told to thee, and in
no wise hidden. So we drew lots, and by evil chance the lot fell upon
me. Wherefore I am here, not willingly, for no man loveth him that
bringing evil tidings."

Then said the chief of the old men:

"Consider, O King, for haply this thing is from the gods."

But the King cried:

"Thinkest thou that the gods care for such an one as this dead man,
who would have burnt their temples with fire, and laid waste the land
which they love, and set at naught the laws? Not so. But there are
men in this city who have long time had ill will to me, not bowing
their necks to my yoke; and they have persuaded these fellows with
money to do this thing. Surely there never was so evil a thing as
money, which maketh cities into ruinous heaps, and banisheth men from
their houses, and turneth their thoughts from good unto evil. But as
for them that have done this deed for hire, of a truth they shall not
escape, for I say to thee, fellow, if ye bring not here before my eyes
the man that did this thing, I will hang you up alive. So shall ye
learn that ill gains bring no profit to a man."

So the guard departed; but as he went he said to himself:

"Now may the gods grant that the man be found; but however this may
be, thou shalt not see me come again on such errand as this, for even
now have I escaped beyond all hope."

Notwithstanding, after a space he came back with one of his fellows;
and they brought with them the maiden Antigone, with her hands bound
together.

And it chanced that at the same time King Creon came forth from the
palace. Then the guard set forth the thing to him, saying:

"We cleared away the dust from the dead body, and sat watching it. And
when it was now noon, and the sun was at his height, there came a
whirlwind over the plain, driving a great cloud of dust. And when this
had passed, we looked, and lo! this maiden whom we have brought hither
stood by the dead corpse. And when she saw that it lay bare as before,
she sent up an exceeding bitter cry, even as a bird whose young ones
have been taken from the nest. Then she cursed them that had done this
deed; and brought dust and sprinkled it upon the dead man, and poured
water upon him three times. Then we ran and laid hold upon her, and
accused her that she had done this deed; and she denied it not. But as
for me, 'tis well to have escaped from death, but it is ill to bring
friends into the same. Yet I hold that there is nothing dearer to a
man than his life."

Then said the King to Antigone:

"Tell me in a word, didst thou know my decree?"

"I knew it. Was it not plainly declared?"

"How daredst thou to transgress the laws?"

"Zeus made not such laws, nor Justice that dwelleth with the gods
below. I judged not that thy decrees had such authority that a man
should transgress for them the unwritten sure commandments of the
gods. For these, indeed, are not of to-day or yesterday, but they live
for ever, and their beginning no man knoweth. Should I, for fear of
thee, be found guilty against them? That I should die I knew. Why not?
All men must die. And if I die before my time, what loss? He who
liveth among many sorrows even as I have lived, counteth it gain to
die. But had I left my own mother's son unburied, this had been loss
indeed."

Then said the King:

"Such stubborn thoughts have a speedy fall, and are shivered even as
the iron that hath been made hard in the furnace. And as for this
woman and her sister--for I judge her sister to have had a part in
this matter--though they were nearer to me than all my kindred, yet
shall they not escape the doom of death. Wherefore let some one bring
the other woman hither."

And while they went to fetch the maiden Ismene, Antigone said to the
King:

"Is it not enough for thee to slay me? What need to say more? For thy
words please me not nor mine thee. Yet what nobler thing could I have
done than to bury my mother's son? And so would all men say but fear
shutteth their mouths."

"Nay," said the King, "none of the children of Cadmus thinketh thus,
but thou only. But, hold, was not he that fell in battle with this man
thy brother also?"

"Yes, truly, my brother he was."

"And dost thou not dishonour him when thou honourest his enemy?"

"The dead man would not say it, could he speak."

"Shall then the wicked have like honour with the good?"

"How knowest thou but that such honour pleaseth the gods below?"

"I have no love for them I hate, though they be dead."

"Of hating I know nothing: 'tis enough for me to love."

"If thou wilt love, go love the dead. But while I live no woman shall
rule me."

Then those that had been sent to fetch the maiden Ismene brought her
forth from the palace. And when the King accused her that she had been
privy to the deed she denied not, but would have shared one lot with
her sister.

But Antigone turned from her, saying:

"Not so; thou hast no part or lot in the matter. For thou hast chosen
life, and I have chosen death; and even so shall it be."

And when Ismene saw that she prevailed nothing with her sister, she
turned to the King and said:

"Wilt thou slay the bride of thy son?"

"Ay," said he, "there are other brides to win!"

"But none," she made reply, "that accord so well with him."

"I will have no evil wives for my sons," said the King.

Then cried Antigone:

"O Haemon, whom I love, how thy father wrongeth thee!"

Then the King bade the guards lead the two into the palace. But
scarcely had they gone when there came to the place the Prince Haemon,
the King's son, who was betrothed to the maiden Antigone. And when the
King saw him, he said:

"Art thou content, my son, with thy father's judgment?"

And the young man answered:

"My father, I would follow thy counsels in all things."

Then said the King:

"'Tis well spoken, my son. This is a thing to be desired, that a man
should have obedient children. But if it be otherwise with a man, he
hath gotten great trouble for himself, and maketh sport for them that
hate him. And now as to this matter. There is naught worse than an
evil wife. Wherefore I say let this damsel wed a bridegroom among the
dead. For since I have found her, alone of all this people, breaking
my decree, surely she shall die. Nor shall it profit her to claim
kinship with me, for he that would rule a city must first deal justly
with his own kindred. And as for obedience, this it is that maketh a
city to stand both in peace and in war."

To this the Prince Haemon made answer:

"What thou sayest, my father, I do not judge. Yet bethink thee, that I
see and hear on thy behalf what is hidden from thee. For common men
cannot abide thy look if they say that which pleaseth thee not. Yet do
I hear it in secret. Know then that all the city mourneth for this
maiden, saying that she dieth wrongfully for a very noble deed, in
that she buried her brother. And 'tis well, my father, not to be
wholly set on thy thoughts, but to listen to the counsels of others."

"Nay," said the King; "shall I be taught by such an one as thou?"

"I pray thee regard my words, if they be well, and not my years."

"Can it be well to honour them that transgress? And hath not this
woman transgressed?"

"The people of this city judgeth not so."

"The people, sayest thou? Is it for them to rule, or for me?"

"No city is the possession of one man only."

So the two answered one the other, and their anger waxed hot. And at
the last the King cried:

"Bring this accursed woman, and slay her before his eyes."

And the Prince answered:

"That thou shalt never do. And know this also, that thou shalt never
see my face again."

So he went away in a rage; and the old men would have appeased the
King's wrath, but he would not hearken to them, but said that the two
maidens should die.

"Wilt thou then slay them both?" said the old men.

"'Tis well said," the King made answer. "Her that meddled not with the
matter I harm not."

"And how wilt thou deal with the other?"

"There is a desolate place, and there I will shut her up alive in a
sepulchre; yet giving her so much of food as shall quit us of guilt in
the matter, for I would not have the city defiled. There let her
persuade Death whom she loveth so much, that he harm her not."

So the guards led Antigone away to shut her up alive in the sepulchre.
But scarcely had they departed when there came an old prophet
Tiresias, seeking the King. Blind he was, so that a boy led him by the
hand; but the gods had given him to see things to come.

And when the King saw him he asked:

"What seekest thou, wisest of men?"

Then the prophet answered:

"Hearken, O King, and I will tell thee. I sat in my seat, after my
custom, in the place whither all manner of birds resort. And as I sat
I heard a cry of birds that I knew not, very strange and full of
wrath. And I knew that they tare and slew each other, for I heard the
fierce flapping of their wings. And being afraid, I made inquiry about
the fire, how it burned upon the altars. And this boy, for as I am a
guide to others so he guideth me, told me that it shone not at all,
but smouldered and was dull, and that the flesh which was burnt upon
the altar spluttered in the flame, and wasted away into corruption and
filthiness. And now I tell thee, O King, that the city is troubled by
thy ill counsels. For the dogs and the birds of the air tear the flesh
of this dead son of Oedipus, whom thou sufferest not to have due
burial, and carry it to the altars, polluting them therewith.
Wherefore the gods receive not from us prayer or sacrifice; and the
cry of the birds hath an evil sound, for they are full of the flesh of
a man. Therefore I bid thee be wise in time. For all men may err; but
he that keepeth not his folly, but repenteth, doeth well; but
stubbornness cometh to great trouble."

Then the King answered:

"Old man, I know the race of prophets full well, how ye sell your art
for gold. But, make thy trade as thou wilt, this man shall not have
burial; yea, though the eagles of Zeus carry his flesh to their
master's throne in heaven, he shall not have it."

And when the prophet spake again, entreating him, and warning, the
King answered him after the same fashion, that he spake not honestly,
but had sold his art for money.

But at the last the prophet spake in great wrath, saying:

"Know, O King, that before many days shall pass, thou shalt pay a life
for a life, even one of thine own children, for them with whom thou
hast dealt unrighteously, shutting up the living with the dead, and
keeping the dead from them to whom they belong. Therefore the Furies
lie in wait for thee, and thou shalt see whether or no I speak these
things for money. For there shall be mourning and lamentation in thine
own house; and against thy people shall be stirred up many cities. And
now, my child, lead me home, and let this man rage against them that
are younger than I."

So the prophet departed, and the old men were sore afraid, and said:

"He hath spoken terrible things, O King; nor ever since these gray
hairs were black have we known him say that which was false."

"Even so," said the King, "and I am troubled in heart, and yet am
loath to depart from my purpose."

"King Creon," said the old men, "thou needest good counsel."

"What, then, would ye have done?"

"Set free the maiden from the sepulchre, and give this dead man
burial."

Then the King cried to his people that they should bring bars
wherewith to loosen the doors of the sepulchre, and hastened with them
to the place. But coming on their way to the body of Prince Polynices,
they took it up, and washed it, and buried that which remained of it,
and raised over the ashes a great mound of earth. And this being done,
they drew near to the place of the sepulchre; and as they approached,
the King heard within a very piteous voice, and knew it for the voice
of his son. Then he bade his attendants loose the door with all speed;
and when they had loosed it, they beheld within a very piteous sight.
For the maiden Antigone had hanged herself by the girdle of linen
which she wore, and the young man Prince Haemon stood with his arms
about her dead body, embracing it. And when the King saw him, he cried
to him to come forth; but the Prince glared fiercely upon him and
answered him not a word, but drew his two-edged sword. Then the King,
thinking that his son was minded in his madness to slay him, leapt
back, but the Prince drave the sword into his own heart, and fell
forward on the earth, still holding the dead maiden in his arms. And
when they brought the tidings of these things to Queen Eurydice, the
wife of King Creon and mother to the Prince, she could not endure the
grief, being thus bereaved of her children, but laid hold of a sword,
and slew herself therewith.

So the house of King Creon was left desolate unto him that day,
because he despised the ordinances of the gods.




III

IPHIGENIA


King Agamemnon sat in his tent at Aulis, where the army of the Greeks
was gathered together, being about to sail against the great city of
Troy. It was now past midnight. But the King slept not, for he was
careful and troubled about many things. And he had a lamp before him,
and in his hand a tablet of pine wood, whereon he wrote. But he seemed
not to remain in the same mind about that which he wrote; for now he
would blot out the letters, and then would write them again; and now
he fastened the seal upon the tablet and then brake it. And as he did
this he wept, and was like to a man distracted. But after a while he
called to an old man, his attendant (the man had been given in time
past by Tyndareus to his daughter, Queen Clytaemnestra), and said:

"Old man, thou knowest how Galchas the soothsayer bade me offer for a
sacrifice to Artemis, who is goddess of this place, my daughter
Iphigenia, saying that so only should the army have a prosperous
voyage from this place to Troy, and should take the city and destroy
it; and how when I heard these words I bade Talthybius the herald go
throughout the army and bid them depart, every man to his own country,
for that I would not do this thing; and how my brother, King Menelaus,
persuaded me so that I consented to it. Now, therefore, hearken to
this, for what I am about to tell thee three men only know, namely,
Calchas, the soothsayer, and Menelaus, and Ulysses, King of Ithaca. I
wrote a letter to my wife the Queen, that she should send her daughter
to this place, that she might be married to King Achilles; and I
magnified the man to her, saying that he would in no wise sail with us
unless I would give him my daughter in marriage. But now I have
changed my purpose, and have written another letter after this
fashion, as I will now set forth to thee: 'DAUGHTER OF LEDA, SEND
NOT THY CHILD TO THE LAND OF EUBOEA, FOR I WILL GIVE HER IN MARRIAGE
AT ANOTHER TIME.'"

"Ay," said the old man, "but how wilt thou deal with King Achilles?
Will he not be wroth, hearing that he hath been cheated of his wife?"

"Not so," answered the King, "for we have indeed used his name, but he
knoweth nothing of this marriage. And now make haste. Sit not thou
down by any fountain in the woods, and suffer not thine eyes to sleep.
And beware lest the chariot bearing the Queen and her daughter pass
thee where the roads divide. And see that thou keep the seal upon this
letter unbroken."

So the old man departed with the letter. But scarcely had he left the
tent when King Menelaus spied him and laid hands on him, taking the
letter and breaking the seal. And the old man cried out:

"Help, my lord; here is one hath taken thy letter!"

Then King Agamemnon came forth from his tent, saying:

"What meaneth this uproar and disputing that I hear?"

But even as he spake there came a messenger, saying:

"King Agamemnon, I am come, as thou badest me, with thy daughter
Iphigenia. Also her mother, Queen Clytaemnestra, is come, bringing
with her her little son, Orestes. And now they are resting themselves
and their horses by the side of a spring, for indeed the way is long
and weary. And all the army is gathered about them. And men question
much wherefore they are come, saying, 'Doth the King make a marriage
for his daughter; or hath he sent for her, desiring to see her?'"

King Agamemnon was sore dismayed when he knew that the Queen was come,
and spake to himself:

"Now what shall I say to my wife? For that she is rightly come to the
marriage of her daughter who can deny? But what will she say when she
knoweth my purpose? And of the maiden, what shall I say? Unhappy
maiden whose bridegroom shall be Death! For she will cry to me, 'Wilt
thou kill me, my father?' And the little Orestes will wail, not
knowing what he doeth, seeing he is but a babe."

And now King Menelaus came, saying that he repented, "For why should
thy child die for me? What hath she to do with war? Let the army be
scattered, so that wrong be not done."

Then said King Agamemnon:

"But how shall I escape from this strait? For the whole host will
compel me to this deed?"

"Not so," said King Menelaus, "if thou wilt send back the maiden to
Argos."

"But what shall that profit," said the King; "for Calchas will cause
the matter to be known; or Ulysses, saying that I have failed of my
promise; and if I fly to Argos, they will come and destroy my city and
lay waste my land. Woe is me! in what a strait am I set! But take
care, my brother, that Clytaemnestra hear nothing of these things."

When he had ended speaking, the Queen herself came unto the tent,
riding in a chariot, having her daughter by her side. And she bade one
of the attendants take out with care the caskets which she had brought
for her daughter and bade others help her daughter to alight, and
herself also, and to a fourth she said that he should take the young
Orestes. Then Iphigenia greeted her father, saying:

"Thou hast done well to send for me, my father."

"'Tis true and yet not true, my child."

"Thou lookest not well pleased to see me, my father."

"He that is a king and commandeth a host hath many cares."

"Put away thy cares awhile, and give thyself to me."

"I am glad beyond measure to see thee."

"Glad art thou? Then why dost thou weep?"

"I weep because thou must be long time absent from me."

"Perish all these fightings and troubles!"

"They will cause many to perish, and me most miserably of all."

"Art thou going a journey from me, my father?"

"Ay, and thou also hast a journey to make."

"Must I make it alone, or with my mother?"

"Alone; neither father nor mother may be with thee."

"Sendest thou me to dwell elsewhere?"

"Hold thy peace: such things are not for maidens to inquire."

"Well, my father, order matters with the Phrygians, and then make
haste to return."

"I must first make a sacrifice to the gods."

"'Tis well. The gods should have due honour."

"Ay, and thou wilt stand close to the altar."

"Shall I lead the dances, my father?"

"O my child, how I envy thee, that thou knowest naught! And now go
into the tent; but first kiss me, and give me thy hand, for thou shalt
be parted from thy father for many days."

And when she was gone within, he cried:

"O fair bosom and very lovely cheeks and yellow hair of my child! O
city of Priam, what woe thou bringest on me! But I must say no more."

Then he turned to the Queen, and excused himself that he wept when he
should rather have rejoiced for the marriage of his daughter. And when
the Queen would know of the estate of the bridegroom, he told her that
his name was Achilles, and that he was the son of Peleus and Thetis,
daughter of Nereus of the sea, and that he dwelt in Phthia. And when
she inquired of the time of the marriage, he said that it should be in
the same moon, on the first lucky day; and as to the place, that it
must be where the bridegroom was sojourning, that is to say, in the
camp. "And I," said the King, "will give the maiden to her husband."

"But where," answered the Queen, "is it your pleasure that I should
be?"

"Thou must return to Argos, and care for the maidens there."

"Sayest thou that I return? Who then will hold up the torch for the
bride?"

"I will do that which is needful. For it is not seemly that thou
shouldst be present where the whole army is gathered together."

"Ay, but it is seemly that a mother should give her daughter in
marriage."

"But the maidens at home should not be left alone."

"They are well kept."

"Be persuaded, lady."

"Not so; thou shalt order that which is without the house, but I that
which is within."

But now came Achilles, to tell the King that the army was growing
impatient, saying, that unless they might sail speedily, they would
return each man to his home. And when the Queen heard his name--for he
had said to the attendant, "Tell thy master that Achilles, the son of
Peleus, would speak with him"--she came forth from the tent and
greeted him, and bade him give her his right hand. And when the young
man was abashed she said:

"But why art thou abashed, seeing that thou art about to marry my
daughter?"

And he answered:

"What sayest thou, lady? I cannot speak for wonder at thy words."

"Often men are ashamed when they see new friends, and the talk is of
marriage."

"But lady, I never was suitor for thy daughter. Nor have the sons of
Atreus said aught to me of the matter."

The Queen was beyond measure astonished, and cried:

"Now this is shameful indeed, that I should seek a bridegroom for my
daughter in such fashion."

But when Achilles would have departed, to inquire of the King what
this thing might mean, the old man that had at the first carried the
letter came forth, and bade him stay. And when he had assurance that
he would receive no harm for what he should tell them, he unfolded
the whole matter. And when the Queen had heard it, she cried to
Achilles:

"O son of Thetis of the sea! help me now in this strait, and help this
maiden that hath been called thy bride! 'Twill be a shame to thee if
such wrong be done under thy name; for it is thy name that hath undone
us. Nor have I any altar to which I may flee, nor any friend but thee
only in this army."

Then Achilles made answer:

"Lady, I learnt from the most righteous of men to be true and honest.
Know, then, that thy daughter, seeing that she hath been given, though
but in word only, to me, shall not be slain by her father. For if she
so die, then shall my name be brought to great dishonour, since
through it thou hast been persuaded to come with her to this place.
This sword shall see right soon whether anyone will dare to take this
maiden from me."

And now King Agamemnon came forth, saying that all things were ready
for the marriage, and that they waited for the maiden.

"Tell me," cried the Queen, "dost thou purpose to slay thy daughter
and mine?" And when he was silent, not knowing, indeed, what to say,
she reproached him with many words, that she had been a loving and
faithful wife to him, for which he made an ill recompense slaying her
child.

And when she had made an end of speaking, the maiden came forth from
the tent, holding the young child Orestes in her arms, and cast
herself upon her knees before her father, and besought him, saying:

"I would, my father, that I had the voice of Orpheus, who made even
the rocks to follow him, that I might persuade thee; but now all that
I have I give, even these tears. O my father, I am thy child; slay me
not before my time. This light is sweet to look upon. Drive me not
from it to the land of darkness. I was the first to call thee father;
and the first to whom thou didst say 'my child.' And thou wouldst say
to me, 'Some day, my child, I shall see thee a happy wife in the home
of a husband.' And I would answer, 'And I will receive thee with all
love when thou art old, and pay thee back for all the benefits thou
hast done unto me.' This I indeed remember, but thou forgettest; for
thou art ready to slay me. Do it not, I beseech thee, by Pelops thy
grandsire, and Atreus thy father, and this my mother. And thou, O my
brother, though thou art but a babe, help me. Weep with me; beseech
thy father that he slay not thy sister. O my father, though he be
silent, yet, indeed, he beseecheth thee. For his sake, therefore, yea,
and for mine own, have pity upon me, and slay me not."

But the King was sore distracted, knowing not what he should say or
do, for a terrible necessity was upon him, seeing that the army could
not make their journey to Troy unless this deed should first be done.
And while he doubted came Achilles, saying that there was a horrible
tumult in the camp, the men crying out that the maiden must be
sacrificed, and that when he would have stayed them from their
purpose, the people had stoned him with stones. Nevertheless, he said
that he would fight for the maiden, even to the utmost; and that there
were faithful men who would stand with and help him. But when the
maiden heard these words, she stood forth and said:

"Hearken, my mother. Be not wroth with my father, for we cannot fight
against Fate. Also we must take thought that this young man suffer
not, for his help will avail naught, and he himself will perish.
Therefore I am resolved to die. All Greece looketh to me. Without me
the ships cannot make their voyage, nor the city of Troy be taken.
Wherefore I will give myself for the people. Offer me for an offering;
and let the Greeks take the city of Troy, for this shall be my
memorial for ever."

Then said Achilles:

"Lady, I should count myself most happy if the gods would grant thee
to be my wife. For I love thee well, when I see thee how noble thou
art. And if thou wilt, I will carry thee to my home. And I doubt not
that I shall save thee, though all the men of Greece be against me."

But the maiden answered:

"What I say, I say with full purpose. Nor will I that any man should
die for me, but rather will I save this land of Greece."

And Achilles said:

"If this be thy will, lady, I cannot say nay. It is a noble thing that
thou doest."

Nor was the maiden turned from her purpose though her mother besought
her with many tears. So they that were appointed led her to the grove
of Artemis, where there was built an altar, and the whole army of the
Greeks gathered about. When the King saw her going to her death he
covered his face with his mantle; but she stood by him, and said:

"I give my body with a willing heart to die for my country and for the
whole land of Greece. I pray the gods that ye may prosper, and win the
victory in this war, and come back safe to your homes. And now let no
man touch me, for I will offer my neck to the sword with a good
heart."

And all men marvelled to see the maiden of what a good courage she
was. Then the herald Talthybius stood in the midst and commanded
silence to the people; and Calchas the soothsayer put a garland about
her head, and drew a sharp knife from his sheath. And all the army
stood regarding the maiden and the priest and the altar.

Then there befell a marvellous thing. Calchas struck with his knife,
for the sound of the stroke all men heard, but the maiden was not
there. Whither she had gone no one knew; but in her stead there lay a
great hind, and all the altar was red with the blood thereof.

And Calchas said:

"See ye this, men of Greece, how the goddess hath provided this
offering in the place of the maiden, for she would not that her altar
should be defiled with innocent blood. Be of good courage, therefore,
and depart every man to his ship, for this day ye shall sail across
the sea to the land of Troy."




IV

PAULA


In the city of Rome when its imperial strength had faded, to seek
pleasure and to give one's self to display had taken the place of
honest work and sober duty. The time of which we speak was the fourth
century. Affairs of government had been moved to Constantinople, and
the effects of the conduct of great matters in their midst was thus
denied the Romans.

The populace, fed for ages on public doles and the terrible gaiety of
gladiatorial shows had become thoroughly debased, and unable to work
out their own bettering. The persons having riches were likewise
degraded by a life of luxury and senseless extravagance. Men of that
type aired themselves in lofty chariots, lazily reclining and showing
to advantage their carefully curled hair, robes of silk embroidery and
tissue of gold, to excite the admiration and envy of plainer livers.
Their horses' harness would be covered with ornaments of gold, their
coachmen armed with a golden wand instead of whip, and troups of
slaves, parasites and other servitors would dance attendance about
them. With such display the poor rich creatures would pass through the
streets, pushing out of the way or trampling and crushing to the dust
whomsoever they might chance to meet--very much as some automobilists
act to-day. Brutality and senseless show always are hand in glove with
each other.

The rich women of Rome well matched such men. Their very shoes
crackled under their feet from excess of gold and silver ornament.
Their dresses of cloth-of-gold or other expensive stuff were so heavy
that the wearers could hardly walk, even with the aid of attendants.
Their faces were often painted and their hair dyed and mounted high on
the head in monstrous shapes and designs.

Creeping into such a life as we have just been describing came the
pure and simple precepts of Jesus--and they doubtless found many a
soul athirst and sick with folly and coarse regard for riches. For
years the Christians had been persecuted and many of their number
gaining the strength that poverty and persecution bring. In opposition
to the luxury-loving spirit, also, had risen among a number an austere
denial of all pleasure, and such persons sought a solitary life in a
cave or other retired spot. The deserts were mined with caverns and
holes in the sand in which hermits dwelt, picking up food as best they
might, their bones rattling in a skin blackened by exposure--they were
starving, praying and agonising for the salvation of their own souls
and for a world sunk in luxury and wickedness.

Now and then one of these hermits would leave his country solitariness
and go to some city with a mission of converting vice to virtue. Among
these was a man whom we know as Jerome, or Saint Jerome. He was a
native of a village on the slope of the Illyrian Alps, and his full
name was Eusebius Hieronymus. Inflamed with a zeal for doing great
works, loving controversy and harsh and strong in conflict, Jerome
sought Rome after years of study and prayer in the desert. In Rome he
came to be a frequenter of a palace on the Aventine in which a number
of rich and influential women held meetings for Christian teaching and
sought a truer and purer life.

Of all these women we best know Paula. No fine lady of that day was
more exquisite, more fastidious, more splendid than she. She could not
walk abroad without the support of servants, nor cross the marble
floor from one silken couch to another, so heavily was gold interwoven
in the tissue of her dresses. Her eldest daughter, Blaesilla, a widow
at twenty, was a Roman exquisite, loving everything soft and
luxurious. It was said of her that she spent entire days before her
mirror giving herself to personal decoration--to the tower of curls on
her head and the touch of rouge on her cheeks. Paula's second
daughter, Paulina, had married a young patrician who was Christian.

The third member of the family, a girl of sixteen, was Eustochium, a
character strongly contrasting with her beautiful mother and sister.
Even in early years she had fixed her choice upon a secluded life and
shown herself untouched by the gaudy luxury about her. And to this the
following pretty story will bear witness. An aunt of hers was
Praetextata, wife of a high official of the Emperor Julian, and like
the Emperor a follower of the old faith in the gods rather than the
new faith in the teachings of Jesus. The family of Paula were,
however, as we said, Christian.

This aunt Praetextata saw with some impatience and anger what she
considered the artificial gravity of her youthful niece, and when she
heard that the maid had said she intended never to marry, and purposed
to withdraw from the world, she invited Eustochium to her house on a
visit. The young vestal donned her brown gown, the habit of humility,
and all unsuspicious sought her aunt. She had scarcely found herself
within the house, however, before she was seized by favourite maids,
who were interested in the plot. They loosed Eustochium's long hair
and elaborated it in curls and plaits; they took away her little brown
gown and covered her with silk and cloth-of-gold; they hung upon her
precious ornaments, and finally led her to the mirror to dazzle her
eyes with the reflection she would find in the polished surface.

The little maid with the Greek name and pure heart, let them turn her
round and round and praise her fresh and youthful beauty. But she was
a girl who knew her mind, and was blessed with a natural seriousness.
Her aunt's household she permitted to have their pleasure that day.
Then again she donned her little brown gown; and wore the habit all
her life.

To return to Jerome: he had hardly arrived in Rome when he was made
secretary of a council held in that city by ecclesiastics in the year
382. During his stay he dwelt in the house upon the Aventine in which
such women as Paula had been meeting. The little community were now
giving up their excessive luxuries and were devoting their time and
income to good works, to visiting the poor, tending the sick and
founding the first hospitals. To the man of the desert the gentle life
must have been more agreeable. In this retreat he accomplished the
first portion of his great work, the first authoritative translation
of the entire Canon of Scripture--the Vulgate--so named when the Latin
of Jerome was the language of the crowd.

But he did not work alone. Paula and other women of the community
helped in the translation. They studied with enthusiasm the
Scriptures in Hebrew and in Greek; they discussed phrases difficult of
understanding, and often held their own opinions against the learned
Jerome whose scribes they were willing to be.

Thus began the friendship between Paula and Jerome, which was deepened
by the death of Blaesilla. This eldest daughter of Paula had a serious
illness. One night, in a dream or vision, Jesus seemed to appear to
her and take her by the hand and say, "Arise, come forth." Waking, she
seemed to sit at the table like Mary of Bethany. From that night her
whole life was changed. She gathered together her embroidered robes
and her jewels and sold them for the poor. Instead of torturing her
head with a mitre of curls, she wore a simple veil. A woollen cord,
dark linen gown and common shoes replaced the gold embroidered girdle,
the glistening silks and the golden-heeled shoes. She slept upon a
hard couch. Like others of her family she was finely intelligent, and
she became one of the "apprentices" of Jerome, who wrote for her a
commentary on the book of Ecclesiastes, "Vanity of Vanities."

Her conversion was enduring, but her health failed. In a few months
another attack of fever laid her low. Her funeral was magnificent.
Paula, according to Roman custom, accompanied her child's body to the
tomb of her ancestors, wild with grief, lamenting, and, at last,
fainting, so that she was borne away as one dead.

The people were enraged. They accused Jerome, and other "detestable
monks" of killing the young widow with austerities. "Let them," they
said; "be stoned and thrown into the Tiber."

For days Paula wept and refused to see her friends. Jerome, because he
had understood, loved and reverenced her child, she consented to
admit. Paula listened to his telling her that she "refused nourishment
not from love of fasting, but from love of sorrow"; that "the spirit
of God descends only upon the humble," and she arose and went forth.
Nothing ever interrupted the friendship which from that time made the
joy of her life and of Jerome's.

It was in the summer of 385, nearly three years after his coming to
Rome, and not a year after the death of Blaesilla, that Jerome left
"Babylon," as he called the tumultuous city. An affectionate company
followed him to the seaport. Soon after Paula prepared for her
departure, dividing her patrimony among her children. Her daughter,
Paulina, was now married to a good and faithful husband, and these two
undertook the charge and rearing of their youngest sister and the
little Toxotius, a boy of ten. The grave young Eustochium, her head
now covered by the veil of the devotee, clung to her mother's side, a
serene figure in the midst of all the misunderstanding and agitation
of the parting.

Friends poured forth from the city to accompany them to the port, and
all the way along the winding banks of the Tiber they plied Paula with
entreaties and reproaches and tears. She made no answer. She was at
all times slow to speak, the chronicle tells us. She freighted a ship
at the port, Ostia, and retained her self-command until the vessel
began to move from the shore where stood her son Toxotius stretching
out his hands to her in last appeal, and by his side his sister
Rufina, with wistful eyes. Paula's heart was like to burst. She turned
her eyes away, unable to bear the sight, and would have fallen but
for the support of the firm Eustochium standing by her mother's side.

The rich Roman lady, luxury-loving, had become a pilgrim. She had,
however, according to the interpretation of the Christian spirit of
that day, in renouncing her former life and all its belongings, set
aside natural ties. Now she was going forth to make herself a home in
the solitude of Bethlehem.

Her ship was occupied by her own party alone, and carried much baggage
for this emigration for life. It came, hindered by no storms, to
Cyprus, where old friends received Paula with honour, and conducted
her to visit monks and nuns in their new establishments. She afterward
proceeded to Antioch, where Jerome joined the party, and then along
the coast of Tyre and Sidon, by Herod's splendid city of Caesarea and
by Joppa rich with memories of the early apostles of their faith.
Paula, the pilgrim, was no longer a tottering fine lady, but a strong,
animated, interested traveller.

The little company continued on their tour for a year. They first
paused, at Jerusalem, and here the tender, enthusiasm of Paula found
its fullest expression. She went in a rapture of tears and exaltation
from one to another of the sacred sites. She kissed the broken stone
which was supposed to have been that rolled against the door of the
Holy Sepulchre, and trod with pious awe the path to the cave where the
True Cross was found. The legend of Helena's finding the cross was
still fresh in those days, and doubts there were none.

The ecstasies and joy of Paula, which found their expression in
rapturous prayers and tears, moved all Jerusalem. The city was
thronged with pilgrims, and the great Roman lady became their wonder.
The crowd followed her from point to point, marvelling at her frank
emotion and the warmth of her natural feeling.

From Jerusalem the party set out to journey through the storied
deserts of Syria. This was in the year 387. They stopped everywhere to
visit those monasteries built in awful passes of the rocks and upon
stony wastes that the penance of the indwellers might be the greater.
They found shelter with tanned and weather-beaten hermits in their
holes and caverns. They poured upon them enthusiastic admiration, and
shared with them their Arab bread and clotted milk, and also gave many
an alm. Paula fascinated by the desert, would stay there and found a
convent. But Jerome prevailed upon her to turn toward Jerusalem.

Thus they came to green Bethlehem, and the calm sweetness of the place
and its pleasant fields smote their hearts. Here they determined to
settle and build two convents--Jerome's upon the hill near the western
gate and Paula's upon the smiling level below. He is said to have sold
all that he had, and all that his brother, his faithful and constant
companion, had, to gain money for the expense of his building. Paula,
doubtless, had ample means from her former great wealth. Indeed, after
her own was builded she had two other convents put up near by, and
these were soon filled with devotees.

Also, she built a hospice for the reception of travellers, so that, as
she said with tender smile and tears in eyes, "If Joseph and Mary
should return to Jerusalem, they might be sure of finding room for
them in the inn." This gentle speech shines like a gleam of light upon
the little holy city, and shows us the noble, natural kindness of
Paula, and how profoundly she had been moved by associations to her
most sacred and holy. Every poor pilgrim passing her door must to her
sympathetic heart have had some semblance to that simple pair who
carried the Light of the World to David's little town among the hills.

Paula now laying aside wholly the luxurious habits of her life, set
the example of simple and industrious living by washing floors and
cleaning lamps and other household work. But she was far from ceasing
her studies.

Jerome every day laboured at his great translation, and Paula and
Eustochium copied, compared and criticised his daily labours. A great
part of the Vulgate he had completed in Rome. His two friends had,
doubtless, shared his studies during their long journey. They now read
with him every day a portion of the Scriptures in the original; and it
was at their entreaty and with their help that he began the
translation of the Psalms. The following is a sympathetic description
of the method of this work as it was carried out in the rocky chamber
at Bethlehem, or in the convent close by:

    His two friends charged themselves with the task of collecting
    all the materials, and this edition, prepared by their care, is
    that which remains in the Church under Jerome's name.... It is
    pleasant to think of the two noble Roman ladies seated before
    the vast desk upon which were spread the numerous manuscripts,
    Greek, Hebrew and Latin... whilst they examined and compared,
    reducing to order under their hands, with piety and joy, that
    Psalter of St. Jerome which is still sung to-day.

So on a whole their days passed in fruitful labour. Jerome held a
school for boys and young men, in which he taught the classics. But
his great work, and the great work of Paula and Eustochium, was the
translation of the Bible into what was then the speech of the people.
For this they spared no pains nor costs. They must have found a quiet
happiness above all they had calculated in this work. Their minds and
thoughts must have been held by the charm of the noble poetry, by the
puzzle of words to be cleared and read aright, by the constant
interest of accomplishment that every sunrise brought to them, and
brings ever to steadfast workers in these days.

And so they dwelt, the gentle Paula, a woman of courtesy, high spirit,
steadfastness and gracious, sprightly humour; Eustochium, the grave
young daughter who never left her mother's side, whose gentle shadow
is one with her mother's; and Jerome, the greatest writer of his time,
the mighty controversialist, a man evidently a well of force and
sympathy, the kind friend and fellow-worker. Every day the three had
conferences as to the most accurate renderings possible, and at all
times the greatest respect for the scholarship and acuteness of one
another. Amid them was the pleasant stir of independent opinion.

In the books that went forth from that seclusion in Bethlehem we find
such an inscription as this:

    You, Paula, and Eustochium, who have studied so deeply the books
    of the Hebrews, take it, this book of Esther, and test it word
    by word; you can tell whether anything is added, anything
    withdrawn: and can bear faithful witness whether I have rendered
    aright in Latin this Hebrew history.

Between these zealous workers in Bethlehem and the old Christian
friends in Rome letters were constantly passing. And as the years of
her absence grew, Paula, in time, heard of the marriage of Toxotius,
who, a little boy of ten, had held out begging hands to her as her
ship set sail from the port of Rome. Anon came the joyful news that a
daughter had been born and named after her grandmother, Paula. The
baby's mother, Leta, looking forward with early longings for the
child's future, at once wrote to Jerome about the education of the
little one.

The great writer's first thought, amidst his joyous congratulations,
is the probable conversion of the baby's maternal grandfather,
Albinus, a follower of the old gods.

"Albinus is already a candidate for the faith," he writes, "a crowd of
sons and grandsons besiege him. I believe, on my part, that if Jupiter
himself had such a family he would be converted to Jesus Christ."

Then Jerome gives, with tender detail, the counsels as to education
for which Leta had asked. But he adds:

    "It will be difficult to bring up thy little daughter thus at
    Rome. Send her to Bethlehem; she will repose in the manger of
    Jesus. Eustochium wishes for her; trust the little one with her.
    Let this new Paula be cradled on the bosom of her grandmother.
    Send her to me; I will carry her on my shoulders, old man as I
    am. I will make myself a child with her; I will lisp to fit her
    speech; and, believe me, I shall be prouder of my employment
    than ever Aristotle was of his" [as tutor to Alexander.]

The invitation was accepted. In a few years the little maiden was
indeed sent to Bethlehem, though not till after the death of her
grandmother Paula. And it was the child, the younger Paula, who at
last closed the eyes of Jerome.

Paula, the grandmother, did not live long after the birth of her
namesake. Her last illness was beginning. Eustochium watched her night
and day, entrusting to no one else the tender last cares--sustaining
the drooping head, warming the cold feet, feeding the weakened body,
and making the invalid's bed. If the mother fell asleep for a little
while, the daughter would go for prayers to the Manger, close at hand
and sanctified by its tender associations of motherhood.

But the precious life was slowly ebbing away. Knowing that her end was
near, Paula began to repeat with great joy the verses of the Psalms
she knew so well:

    "Lord, I have loved the habitation of Thy house, and the place
    where Thine honour dwelleth!"; "How amiable are Thy tabernacles,
    O Lord God of hosts! My soul longeth, yea, fainteth, for the
    courts of the house of my God."; "Better to be a doorkeeper in
    the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of wickedness."

When she had finished, she began to say these songs of the threshold
over again. She did not answer when spoken to, until Jerome came and
asked gently why she did not speak and if she suffered. Then she
answered in Greek, the language of her father and of her childhood,
that she had no discomfort, but was "beholding in a vision all quiet
and tranquil things." "I feel already an infinite peace," she said.
And still she continued to murmur at intervals the words of that
ancient song of pilgrimage until her voice grew fainter and fainter,
and with the sigh of longing for God's presence on her lips she
entered it forever.

All Palestine may be said to have assisted at her funeral. A chorus of
psalms and lamentations sounded forth in all languages--Hebrew, Greek,
Latin. Hermits crept out of their caves, and monks came in throngs
from their monasteries to bewail their generous friend, this great
Roman lady, this devoted Christian. During her last days bishops from
the neighbouring dioceses had gathered round her and her coffin was
borne on their heads into the basilica of the Manger.

And there all the poor, the widowed and orphans lamented "their
foster-mother," "their mother," and showed the gifts she had given
them and the garments she had made for them. Eustochium could with
difficulty be prevailed to leave her. She stayed kissing the cold
lips, and at last, her grief breaking through the usual calm of her
life, throwing her arms about the unconscious form and praying to be
buried beside her.

Paula died at fifty-six. She had spent the last eighteen years of her
life in Palestine.

Jerome, for the first time in his laborious life, lost his appetite
for work. He could do no more. "I have been able to do nothing, not
even from the Scriptures, since the death of the holy and gracious
Paula," he wrote. "Grief overwhelms me."

Eustochium, with the instinct of true affection, drew him out of this
stupor by inducing him to write a memoir of her mother for her. In two
sleepless nights he dictated it. "He could not write himself. Each
time that he took up the tablets his fingers stiffened and the stylus
fell from his hand. He could not dwell," he said, "on her great
pedigree from the Scipios, the Gracchi, from Agamemnon, nor on her
splendid opulence and her palace at Rome. She had preferred Bethlehem
to Rome. Her praise was that she died poorer than the poorest she had
succoured. At Rome she had not been known beyond Rome. At Bethlehem
all Christendom, Roman and barbarian, revered her."

"We weep not her loss; we thank God to have had her. Nay! we have her
always, for all live by the spirit of God; and the elect who ascend to
Him remain still always in the family of those He loves."

Eustochium quietly took up the guidance of her mother's convents and
hospice and gently urged Jerome to resume his work. Writing almost
countless letters, translating and commenting on the Scriptures he
passed still many years, and at last, dying, at his own wish his body
was buried in a hollow of the rocks at Bethlehem. To this day, it is
said, his name can still be traced graven in the rock.

In the fifteen hundred years that have passed since the death of
Paula, the homes of piety and charity established by her strength and
love have been swept away. No tradition even of their site is left.
But with one storied chamber is connected a warm interest. It is the
rocky room, in one of the half caves, half excavations, close to that
of the Nativity, and communicating with it by rudely hewn stairs and
passages. In this, the legend runs, Jerome established himself while
his convent was building. He called it his paradise. Sunlit from
above, with prayer and the music of alleluias sounding there night and
day, brightened by the glow of the pure affections of Paula and
Eustochium and sanctified by their great work, from it flowed rivers
of water to refresh the earth.




V

JOAN OF ARC


On the 6th of January, 1412, Jeanne d'Arc, or, as we call her, Joan of
Arc, was born at Domremy, a little village on the left bank of the
Meuse, on land belonging to the French crown. Her parents, Jacques
d'Arc and Isabelle Romee, were simple peasants, "of good life and
reputation," who brought up their children to work hard, fear God and
honour the saints. Besides Joan, they had four children--three sons,
Jacques, Jean and Pierre, and a daughter, Catherine.

Joan's native valley was fair and fertile. The low hills that bounded
it were covered with thick forests, and the rich meadows along the
Meuse were gay with flowers, which gave to the chief town in the
district its name of Vaucouleurs, _Vallis colorum_. Domremy, built on
a slope, touched upon those flowery meadows, but over the hill behind
it spread an ancient oakwood, the _Bois Chesnu_ of legend and
prophecy. Between the forest and the village rose solitary a great
beech, "beautiful as a lily," about which the country people told a
thousand tales. They called it the "Fairies' Tree," the "Tree of the
Ladies," the "Beautiful May." In old times the fairies had danced
round it, and under its shadow a noble knight had formerly dared to
meet and talk with an elfin lady.

But now, in Joan's time, the presence of the fairies was less
certain, for the priest of Domremy came once a year to say mass under
the tree, and exorcise it and a spring that bubbled up close by. On
festival days the young villagers hung it with garlands, danced and
played round it, and rested under its boughs to eat certain cakes
which their mothers had made for them. During her childhood, Joan
brought her cakes and garlands like the rest, danced with them, and
sang more than she danced; but as she grew older, she would steal away
and carry her flowers to the neighbouring chapel of Our Lady of
Domremy.

Her early years were, considering the times, quiet and peaceful. With
the war raging between English and French and their allies, to its
west and north, Domremy had comparatively little to do. News of
English successes, of French defeats, and the sorrows of the French
King, were brought by fugitives from the war, by travelling monks, and
other wanderers. Joan helped to receive those wayfarers, waited on
them, gave up her own bed to them sometimes; and what they told of the
woes of France she heard with intense sympathy, and pondered in her
heart.

Her bringing up fitted her for the tender fulfilling of all womanly
duties. Unlike most girls of her class, she had few outdoor tasks, but
spent most of her time at her mother's side, doing the work of the
house, learning to sew and spin, to repeat the Belief, and the legends
of the saints. Her work done, her dearest pleasure was to go to the
village church, which was close to her father's cottage, and there
kneel in prayer, gaze on the pictured angels, or listen to the bells
calling the faithful to worship: she had always a peculiar delight in
the sound of church bells. She fasted regularly, and went often to
confession; so often, that her young companions were inclined to jest
at her devotion, and even her chosen friends, Haumette and Mengette,
half-scolded her for being over-religious. But her faith bore sound
fruit. The little money she got she gave in alms. She nursed the sick,
she was gentle to the young and weak, obedient to her parents, kind to
all. "There was no one like her in the village," said her priest. "She
was a good girl," testified an old peasant, "such a daughter as I
would gladly have had." A good girl, indeed: they were pure and
helpful hands that for a while held the fate of France.

There was a prophecy current during that unhappy time--an old prophecy
of Merlin--which the suffering people had taken and applied to their
own day and their own need. "The kingdom, lost by a woman, was to be
saved by a woman." The woman who had lost it was Isabeau, of Bavaria,
the wicked queen, the false wife of Charles VI, the unnatural mother.
Who was she that should save it? In the east of France it was said
that the deliverer would be a maid from the marshes of Lorraine.

Joan knew the ancient prophecy, and in her young mind it became
blended with legends of the saints, with stories of Bible heroines,
with her own ardent faith and high aspirations. She loved more and
more to be alone. Night and day the wonderful child brooded on the
sorrows of France. She sent out her vague hopes and yearnings in tears
and prayers, and passionate thoughts that were prayers, and they all
came back to her with form and sound, in the visions and voices that
were henceforth to be the rulers of her life.

They came first when she was thirteen years old. On a summer's day,
at noon, she was in her father's garden, when suddenly by the church
there appeared a great light, and out of the light a voice spoke to
her, "Joan, be a good child; go often to church." She was frightened
then, but both voice and brightness came again and again, and grew
dear and familiar. Noble shapes appeared in the glory. St. Michael
showed himself to her; St. Catherine and St. Margaret bent over her
their radiant heads, bidding her "be good; trust in God." They told
her of "the sorrow there was in the kingdom of France," and warned her
that one day it would be her mission to go and carry help to the King.

While to outward eyes she lived as usual, she had a life apart, given
to God and her saints. She vowed her virginity to Heaven, but of her
vow and the visions that had led her to it she told no one, not even
the priest. Her meditations, her prayers and unearthly friendships,
made of her no sickly dreamer nor hot brained fanatic. She grew up
strong, tall and handsome, with a healthy mind in her healthy body.

Meanwhile the dangers of France darkened and thickened. The war was
pushing southward; the English leader, Salisbury, was on his way to
Orleans; the French King, Charles, poor, indolent, ill-advised, was
deliberating whether he should retreat into Dauphine, or Spain, or
Scotland.

Joan's voices grew more frequent and more urgent. Their word now was
always, "Go--go into France!" At last they had told her the way: "Go
to Vaucouleurs, to Robert de Baudricourt, the governor; he will give
you men-at-arms, and send you to the King."

It was now that Joan's trial began. While her beautiful visitors had
spoken vaguely of some "deliverance" she was to bring about in the
future, she had listened with trembling joy. But now they had plainly
shown her the distasteful first step, and for a moment she shrank from
taking it. How could a peasant brave the governor of Vaucouleurs? How
was a modest girl to venture among rude men-at-arms? How could a
dutiful child leave her parents and her home?

"Alas!" she pleaded, "I am a poor girl; I know neither how to ride nor
how to fight." She had a short, hard struggle with her own weakness,
but the voices did not alter, and she set herself to do their bidding.

Her uncle, Durant Laxart, with whom she evidently was a favourite,
lived at a village near Vaucouleurs, and in May, 1428, she went to his
house for a visit. After a few days she confided to him something of
her plans, reminding him of the old prophecy of Merlin, but never
speaking of her visions. With much difficulty she prevailed on him to
help her. He went with her to Vaucouleurs, and before the governor, to
whom she made known her errand.

"Send and tell the Dauphin," she said, "to wait and not offer battle
to his enemies, because God will give him help before mid-Lent. The
kingdom belongs not to the Dauphin, but to my Lord; but my Lord wills
that the Dauphin shall be king, and hold it in trust. In spite of his
enemies he shall be king, and I myself shall lead him to be crowned."

"And who is your Lord?" demanded Baudricourt. She answered, "The King
of Heaven."

The governor, a rough and practical soldier, laughed at the young
peasant in her coarse red dress, and bade her uncle chastise her well,
and take her home to her father.

She returned to Domremy with her heart more than ever fixed on the
work she had before her. Now and again she let fall words that
revealed enough to make her parents anxious and fearful. Her father
dreamed that she had gone away with the soldiers. "If I thought such a
thing could happen," he said to her brothers, "I would bid you drown
her, and if you refused, I would drown her myself." But she was of a
marriageable age; why should she not marry, stay at home, and bring up
children, like other women? A lover came forward, a bold one, who,
when she rejected him, summoned her before the court at Toul,
declaring that she had promised to be his wife. But she went before
the judges, spoke out bravely, and defeated her persevering suitor.

As the months passed, her longing increased to be gone and do her
voices' bidding. Once more she obtained her uncle's help. His wife was
ill, and he came to Domremy and got leave for Joan to go back with him
and nurse her. She went, keeping secret the real end of her journey.
"If I had had a hundred fathers and a hundred mothers," she said
later, "and if I had been a king's daughter, I should have gone." She
took leave of her companion Mengette, but to Haumette, her dearer
friend, she would not trust herself to say farewell. Her uncle took
her to Vaucouleurs, and gave her in charge of a wheelwright's wife,
Catherine Royer, with whom she lived for some weeks. She went
constantly to church, she helped her hostess in the house, and was
gentle and obedient. At the same time, she spoke frankly of her
mission to any who chose to hear.

She again went to the governor, who received her no better than
before. But she was not cast down.

"I must go to the Dauphin," she said, "though I should go on my
knees."

Many people went to see her, among others a brave gentleman of Metz,
Jean de Novelonpont.

"What are you doing here, my child?" he asked her, jestingly. "Shall
the King be driven out of France, and must we all turn English?"

"I am come to this royal city," she answered, "to bid Robert de
Baudricourt take or send me to the King, but he does not heed my
words; and yet before mid-Lent I must be before the King, though I
should wear away my legs to the knees. For no one else in the world,
neither kings, nor dukes, can recover the kingdom of France, and there
is no help but in me. And, indeed, I would rather spin with my poor
mother, for this is not my calling; but I must go and do it, for it is
my Lord's will."

Like Baudricourt, the knight asked her:

"Who is your lord?"

And she answered, "He is God."

But, unlike Baudricourt, he was touched by her words. In the old
feudal fashion, he laid his hands within hers and vowed that, by God's
help, he would take her to the King. Another worthy gentleman,
Bertrand de Poulengy, gave a like promise.

Baudricourt was now forced to listen to Joan. The people of
Vaucouleurs believed in her with the ready faith of that time, and she
had at least two of his own class to take her part. But those voices
of hers, were they of God or of the Devil? Was she witch or saint? The
governor, like many another good soldier, had some weakness of
superstition. He went to see her, taking with him a priest, who began
to exorcise her, bidding her avaunt if she were of the Evil One. Joan
approached the priest and knelt before him, honouring not him, but his
office; for, as she said afterwards, he had not done well; he should
have known that no evil spirit spoke by her.

While she was waiting Baudricourt's pleasure, the Duke of Lorraine,
who was ill at Nancy, heard of her, and, hoping for the revelation of
some cure, desired to see her. He sent her a safe-conduct, and she
went to Nancy under care of her uncle. But she knew only what her
voices taught, and she had no power to cure any ills but those of
France. This she told the Duke, promising him her prayers, and begging
him to aid in her enterprise. He sent her back honourably, but did not
pledge himself to the royal cause.

The people of Vaucouleurs came forward to help Joan. They gave her a
horse, and the dress and equipment of a soldier; for as she was to
travel with men, she wisely chose to wear man's attire. Baudricourt
still doubted and delayed. The people she was sojourning with pitied
her anxiety. On the day of the battle of Rouvray she went to the
governor.

"In God's name," she said, "you are too slow about sending me. To-day
the Dauphin has suffered great loss near Orleans, and he is in danger
of yet greater if you do not send me to him soon."

At last he yielded to her urgency. He gave her a sword and a letter to
the King, and let her prepare to depart. Bertrand de Poulengy, Jean de
Novelonpont, and four armed men of lesser rank were to accompany her.
She did not see her parents to bid them farewell, but she sent them a
letter, entreating them to pardon her. She spoke cheerily to those who
were afraid for her safety. God and "her brothers of Paradise" would
guard her and her little escort on their dangerous journey.

On February 23, 1429, they set out, Baudricourt bidding her "Go, come
of it what may."

Her most timid well-wisher could hardly have exaggerated the perils of
the journey. More than half of it was through the enemy's country,
where there was continual risk of being stopped and questioned. The
rivers, swollen by the winter rains, were unfordable; therefore the
travellers had to cross over bridges in full sight of fortified towns.

On the eleventh day of their journey the Maid and her party reached
St. Catherine de Fierbois, near Chinon, where they rested, and Joan
heard three masses. She sent a letter to Charles requesting an
audience, and telling him she had come a hundred and fifty leagues to
help him.

An interview with Charles was no such simple affair as she had
fancied. Between her and him were doubts, jealousies, intrigues. But
her friends prevailed, and after two days' waiting she was admitted to
the castle. As she was passing through the gate, a man-at-arms called
out,

"What, is that the Maid?" and added a coarse jest and an oath.

Joan turned and looked gravely at him.

"Alas!" she said, "you blaspheme God, and you are so near your death!"
Within an hour the man was drowned by accident, and those words of
hers were repeated far and wide as a proof of her prophetic power.

The Count of Vendome led her into the royal presence. She entered
meekly, but undismayed; in her visions she had seen finer company
than any earthly court could show her. Charles stood among the crowd
of nobles, and when she knelt before him he pointed to a
richly-dressed lord, saying:

"That is the King, not I."

But she knew the King, probably from descriptions she had heard of
him, and answered:

"In God's name, gracious Prince, you are he, and none other." She then
repeated to him the words which, like a charm, had brought her so far
and overcome so much; "I am Joan the Maid, sent by God to save
France," and she asked him for troops, that she might go and raise the
siege of Orleans.

Presently the Duke of Alencon came in, and the King having told her
who he was, she bade him welcome.

"The more there are of the blood-royal of France," she said, "the
better it will be."

Alencon, who had lately returned from a three years' captivity in
England, and was still paying a ruinous ransom, sympathised with the
girl-champion, and was inclined to believe in her.

The King and his advisers went cautiously to work.

They sent two monks to Domremy to inquire into Joan's character and
past life. They called her now and again to Court, where statesmen and
churchmen questioned her closely. Meanwhile, she was honourably
treated. She was given to the charge of Bellier, the King's
lieutenant, whose wife was a lady of virtue and piety, and many
distinguished persons visited her at the castle where she was lodged.
One day she rode with the lance before the King, and acquitted herself
so well that the Duke of Alencon rewarded her with the gift of a
beautiful horse. Could she have at all forgotten her mission, the
time would have passed pleasantly; as it was, she wearied for action.

At last she sought the King, and said to him:

"Gracious Dauphin"--until Charles was anointed at Reims with the
sacred oil, he was no real king in her eyes--"Gracious Dauphin, why
will you not believe me? I tell you, God has pity on you, your kingdom
and people."

To satisfy all doubts about Joan, it was settled that she should be
taken to Poitiers, where the Parliament was assembled, and be there
questioned by a royal commission.

"In God's name, let us go," she said; "I shall have hard work, but my
Lord will help me."

She was lodged in the house of the advocate-general to the Parliament,
and committed to his wife's care. The Archbishop of Reims called
together churchmen and learned doctors. The Commissioners met, and,
having called Joan, showed her "by good and fair arguments" that she
was unworthy of belief. They reasoned with her for more than two
hours, and she answered them so well that they were amazed. In spite
of their expressed distrust, she spoke to them freely and fully, told
how her voices had bidden her go into France, how she had wept at
their command and yet obeyed it, how she had come safely, because she
was doing the will of God.

"You require an army," said one, "saying it is God's will that the
English shall quit France. If that be so, there is no need for
men-at-arms, because God can drive them away by His pleasure."

"The men-at-arms shall fight," she answered, "and God shall give the
victory"; and the monk confessed that she had answered well.

When the examination had dragged on for three weeks, two of the
doctors came one day to question her, bringing with them the King's
equerry, whom she had known at Chinon. She clapped him, comrade-like,
on the shoulder, exclaiming:

"Would that I had many more men of as good will as you!" Then turning
to the doctors, she said, "I believe you are come to catechise me.
Listen!--I know neither A nor B, but there is more in God's books than
in yours. He has sent me to save Orleans and crown the King."

She demanded paper and ink. "Write what I tell you!" she said, and
dictated to the amazed scholars the famous letter which soon after was
sent to the English.

The grave and stern commissioners were won by the young peasant. None
of them bore her any grudge for the occasional sharpness of her
replies. Many of them believed firmly that she was inspired, and
quoted the old prophecy of Merlin, who had foretold the coming of a
maid who should deliver France. All of them trusted in her good faith,
and appreciated more or less the influence she would have over the
people. They advised, almost commanded, Charles to employ her. Her
life, they said, has been carefully inquired into; for six weeks she
has been kept near the King; persons of all ranks, men and women, have
seen and talked with her, and have found in her only "goodness,
humility, chastity, devotion, seemliness and simplicity." She has
promised to show her sign before Orleans: let the King send her there,
for to reject her would be to reject the Holy Spirit.

Besides her learned judges, she had others, whom had she been an
impostor, she would have found hard to deceive. Keen women's eyes had
been set to watch her, and had seen no fault in her. The ladies who
came to see the warrior-damsel were amazed to find her a mere girl,
"very simple, and speaking little." Her goodness and innocence moved
them to tears. She prayed them to pardon her for the man's attire she
wore; but in that lawless day the most modest women must have well
understood that such a dress was fittest and safest for her who had to
live among men.

Towards the end of April she was sent to Tours, where a military staff
was appointed her. Her brothers, Jean and Pierre, who had followed
her, were included in her retinue. A suit of beautiful armour was made
for her. She was provided with a banner after her own device--white,
embroidered with lilies: on one side of it, a picture of God enthroned
on clouds and holding a globe in His hand; on the other, the shield of
France, supported by two angels. She had also a pennon, whereon was
represented the Annunciation. The King would have given her a sword,
but her voices, she said, had told her of the only one she might use,
an ancient weapon with five crosses on its blade, which was lying
buried behind the altar in the church of St. Catherine de Fierbois. A
messenger was sent, and in the place she had told of was found an old
rusty sword such as she had described. After being polished, it was
brought to her with two rich scabbards, one of crimson velvet, the
other of cloth-of-gold; but the practical Maid got herself yet another
of strong leather for daily wear.

Joan, being accepted, the National party made rapid preparations for
the relief of Orleans.

Her first care was that the army given her by God should be worthy of
His favour. For the priests attached to it, she had a banner made with
a picture of the Crucifixion, beneath which they said mass and sang
hymns to the Virgin morning and evening.

On Thursday, April 28th, the relieving army set out from Blois, the
priests going before and singing the _Veni Creator_ round their banner
of the Cross. Joan wished to march along the north bank of the Loire,
and through the line of English forts; her voices, she said, had told
her that the convoy would pass them without hurt. But the captains,
who had little faith in her revelations, preferred keeping the river
between themselves and the chief bastiles of the enemy. They had
orders, however, to obey the Maid, so, to avoid contradicting her,
they misled her as to the position of Orleans; crossing the bridge at
Blois, they advanced by the south bank of the stream. When night came,
the army encamped on the plain, and Joan, who lay down in her armour,
arose bruised and weary for the next day's march. But all her fatigue
was forgotten when she saw how she had been deceived.

Dunois, with a following of knights and citizens, came up the river to
welcome the convoy. When he approached Joan, she asked him:

"Are you the bastard of Orleans?"

"Yes," he replied, "and I am glad of your coming."

"And did you advise that I should be brought by this side of the
river, and not straight to the English?"

He answered that it was so, he and the council having judged it
safest.

"In God's name," she said, "my Lord's counsel is safer and wiser than
yours. You thought to deceive me, but you have deceived yourselves,
for I bring you the best help that ever knight or city had; for it is
God's help, not sent for love of me, but by God's pleasure."

At eight that evening she entered Orleans, riding a white horse, her
standard carried before her. The people thronged to meet her, wild
with joy, "as if she had been an angel of God." "They felt comforted
and, as it were, dis-besieged by the divine virtue there was said to
be in that simple Maid." They crowded so upon her, that one of their
torches set fire to the border of her standard, and when she bent
forward and crushed out the flame, the little brave action seemed a
miracle to the excited multitude. After returning thanks to God in the
cathedral, she rode to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer to the
Duke of Orleans, and was hospitably received by his wife and his young
daughter Charlotte, whom she took to share her chamber during her stay
in the city.

The next Sunday, May 1st, Dunois went to fetch the army from Blois.
The Maid rode with him a little way, and he and his following passed
unmolested by the English forts. The days of his absence were spent by
Joan in making friends with the citizens, in attending mass and riding
out to reconnoitre the enemy's siege-works. The enthusiastic people
followed her everywhere, fearing nothing so long as they were near
her. On Tuesday some reinforcements arrived, and news came that the
army was on its way.

This time they took the northern side of the river, and on May 4th
Joan went a league out of the city to meet them. The whole army passed
the line of forts and entered Orleans. The besiegers made no sign, and
it is not wonderful that the English soldiers, seeing that strange
apathy of their leaders, believed Joan to be a witch, whose arts it
would be useless to resist.

The same day, towards evening she lay down to rest, but suddenly she
started up and called her squire, saying, "My counsel tells me to go
against the English." While he was arming her, she heard voices in the
street shouting that the French were suffering loss. She rushed out,
and meeting her page on the way:

"Ah, graceless boy!" she exclaimed, "you never told me the blood of
France was being spilt."

Her hostess finished arming her, then she sprang upon her horse, took
her standard which the page handed her out of a window, and galloped
to the eastern gate, her horse's hoofs striking sparks as she passed.

For the first time she now saw real war, and her courage did not fail.
Standing at the edge of the fosse, she urged her men on to the
assault. This first success, moderate in itself, was of immense value
to the National party, for it restored to the French that faith in
themselves of which the long series of their defeats had almost
deprived them. And their reverse had as great an effect upon the
English. Their failure appeared to them out of the natural course of
events, a wicked miracle, a thing brought about by sorcery. The brave
yeomen of Henry V were learning to fear.

On Friday, May 6th, Joan and about 3,000 men crossed to an island, in
the Loire, passed from it to the shore by an extempore bridge of two
boats, and planted her standard before the rampart of the Augustins.
But her troops had not all crossed from Orleans, and those who were
with her, seeing that the English were coming to reinforce their
fellows, were seized with fear, and hurried back to the boats. The
garrison rushed out and pursued the fugitives with jeers and insults.
The defeat of the French appeared certain, but Joan, who had been
trying to cover the retreat, faced round, and with a small brave
company charged the pursuers. The panic was on their side now. They
saw the Witch of France riding down upon them, her charmed standard
flying, her eyes flashing with terrible wrath, and they turned and
fled before her. Once more she planted her flag before the rampart,
and this time she was well supported. The bastile was taken after an
obstinate defence, and to prevent riot and pillage she ordered it to
be set on fire.

She would gladly have stayed with her soldiers who were left that
night to be ready for the next day's assault, but the chiefs, seeing
that she was very weary, persuaded her to return with them into
Orleans. They had another reason for parting her from the troops.
While she was resting they held a council, and agreed not to renew the
attack on the morrow, but recall the troops into the city, which was
now well victualled, and there await reinforcements. A knight was sent
to tell her of their over-cautious decision:

"God had already done much to help them; now they would wait."
Wait!--how Joan must have hated that word! "You have been in your
council," she said, "and I have been in mine. Be sure that God's
counsel will hold good and come to pass, and that all other counsel
shall perish."

Then she turned to Pasquerel, who was standing near.

"Rise early to-morrow," she said, "and keep near me all day, for I
shall have much to do, and blood shall flow above my breast."

She rose at dawn, and after hearing mass, started for the assault. Her
host urged her to take food before going; a shad was being got ready,
he told her.

"Keep it till evening," she said, gaily, "I will come back over the
bridge."

If the French fought for the deliverance of Orleans and the kingdom,
the English were defending their ancient glory and their own lives;
the fort once taken, there would be small chance of escape for any of
its garrison. Under cannon-fire and through flights of arrows, the
assailants leaped into the fosse and swarmed up the escarpment, "as if
they believed themselves immortal."

The English met them at the top; again and again they were driven
back, again and again the Maid cheered them on, crying:

"Fear not!--the place is yours!"

At last, as if to force victory, she sprang into the fosse, and was
setting a scaling-ladder against the wall when an arrow pierced her
between the neck and shoulder. She was carried to a place of shelter,
weeping for pain and fright; but her strong courage soon reasserted
itself; she drew out the arrow with her own hand, and had the wound
dressed with oil, forbidding the men-at-arms to "charm" it, as they in
their superstitious kindness wanted to do. She then confessed herself,
and so, hastened back to the rampart.

There was no success yet for the French, and the captains came to
Joan, telling her they intended to retire and suspend the attack until
next day. She besought them to persevere. She tried to break their
resolve with brave words. She went to Dunois with prayers and
promises.

"In God's name, you shall enter shortly. Doubt not, and the English
shall have no more power over you!"

Her entreaties prevailed. Then she ordered the men to rest a while,
eat and drink, and when they had done so, bade them renew the attack
"in God's name."

She mounted her horse again and rode to a vineyard a little way off,
where, out of the turmoil of battle, she prayed a few minutes. On her
return she stationed herself near the rampart, holding her standard.

"Watch until my banner touches the fort," she said to a gentleman who
stood near. Presently the wind caught it and blew it against the wall.

"It touches, Joan, it touches!" exclaimed the gentleman.

She cried to the troops:

"Go in now, all is yours!"

By evening Joan reentered Orleans, where she and her men were received
with great joy, all the bells of the city ringing out the news of
victory. The Maid's wound was dressed carefully, and after her usual
supper of bread with a little wine and water, she lay down to sleep.

Very early next morning, those watching in Orleans saw the English
quit their bastiles and set themselves before the walls in order of
battle. The alarm was given, and the French, led by Joan, came out of
the city and ranged themselves in front of their enemies. While the
armies stood face to face, as it were waiting for a signal to begin to
fight, Joan had a camp-altar brought, and the priests said mass. Then
she asked:

"Are the faces of the English towards us, or their backs?"

She was told that they were retreating, and at that moment flames shot
up from some of their forts which they had set on fire.

"In God's name," said Joan, "let them go. My Lord does not choose
that we shall fight to-day. You shall have them another time."

Crowds rushed out from Orleans to destroy the unburnt bastiles, and
dragged back the stores and cannon the English had been obliged to
leave. But soon the excitement of victory gave way to the enthusiasm
of thankfulness. A few days ago the city had been surrounded by
enemies, threatened with the sword, more than threatened by famine.
But in one marvellous week God and the Maid had delivered it. Now let
her who had led the people to victory lead them also to give thanks.
They thronged after her. They followed her from church to church,
praising God and the saints, God and the Maid, before their rescued
altars. Night fell on their rejoicings, and early next morning the
Maid left them, eager to rejoin the King, and render an account of her
success. Her time for rest was not yet. She had as yet only given the
sign promised to the doctors of Poitiers--only begun the great work
she was sent to do.

Scholars, high in place, great in learning, paid her their tribute of
praise. But the common people were her most eager admirers and lovers.
During her journey from Orleans to Tours, they crowded about her,
trying to touch her hands, her dress, the trappings of her horse--even
stooping down to kiss the hoof-prints of her horse on the road.

Charles came to meet her at Tours. When she knelt before him, he took
off his cap, as to a queen, raised her, and seemed "as if he gladly
would have kissed her, for the joy he had." He would have ennobled her
at once, and he desired her to take for her arms the lilies of France,
with a royal crown and a sword drawn to defend it. Empty honours and
easy lip-gratitude were at her service, but she, who had only one
noble ambition, cared nothing for them. She wanted but one boon from
the King--ready action. Now was the time to go to Reims, while the
English were weakened and disheartened. Let the King come--she would
conduct him there safely and without hindrance--but let him come at
once, for she had much to do, and little time wherein to do it.

"Make use of me," she pleaded, "for I shall last only one year."

Her bold proposal amazed Charles and his council. Go to Reims, to a
city held by the English, through a country guarded by hostile troops!

The King, half-persuaded, agreed to go, but not until the English had
been driven from the Loire. The captains declared that it would be
unwise to march northward while the southern provinces remained so
exposed to the enemy, and Joan, whose good sense equalled her courage,
deferred to their judgment. An army was assembled, and put under
command of the Duke of Alencon, but the King required him to do
nothing without the Maid's advice. While she was near Charles, and her
brave words were in his ears, he almost believed in her.

On the 9th of June, just a month after her departure from Orleans,
Joan returned there with her army. During the campaign she made the
city her headquarters, to the delight of its people, who "could not
have enough of gazing at her." On the 11th she led the troops against
Jargeau, a strong town, bravely defended, but the assailants had the
advantage of numbers, and, once their fears were forgotten, went
boldly to the attack. Joan and the Duke, commanders though they were,
went down into the fosse like the rest, and the Maid was climbing a
scaling-ladder, when a stone hurled from the rampart struck her to the
earth. But she was up in a moment, shouting:

"Friends, friends, go on! Our Lord has condemned the English! They are
ours! Be of good courage!" The men swarmed over the walls, and the
place was taken. The more important captives were sent down the Loire
to Orleans, where Joan and Alencon returned the day after their
victory. Soon after, near Patay they came upon the English, who had
been warned of their approach, and were getting ready for battle. The
Duke asked Joan what was to be done.

"Have you good spurs?" she inquired.

"What!" exclaimed some who stood by; "should we turn our backs?"

"Not so, in God's name!" she answered. "The English shall do that.
They will be beaten, and you will want your spurs to pursue them."

Some of the chiefs hung back.

"In God's name, we must fight them!" she cried. "Though they were hung
to the clouds, we should have them. To-day the King shall have the
greatest victory he has won for long. My counsel tells me they are
ours."

In slain and prisoners the English lost nearly 3,000 men. Joan was
very indignant at the cruelty of the victors. Seeing one of them
strike down a wounded prisoner she sprang from her horse, raised the
poor soldier in her arms, and held him thus while he confessed to a
priest whom she had sent for, tenderly comforting him until he died.
It was always so with her. Before and during the fight she was the
stern champion of France; but when it was over she became again a
pitying woman, weeping for her dead enemies, and praying for their
souls.

Now Joan held her rightful place in the army. Every true and honest
man believed in her; even those who had doubted her at Orleans
confessed now not only her goodness and courage, but also the
instinctive military skill she had shown both in sieges and in the
field. Soldiers and leaders were alike eager to follow her to Reims.
With nothing to consult and combat but their frank likes and dislikes,
her task would have been an easy one; but to do her voices' bidding,
she had to hew or wind her way through the intrigues of a court.

Charles demurred at going to Reims at all. He hated trouble, and his
life in the south had been pleasant enough. All Joan's victories had
as yet done him no substantial good. He was as poor as ever, and the
excited men who flocked to the Maid's banner were to him objects less
of pride than of distrust.

The Maid, foreseeing more delays, sick at heart of his apathy, could
not control her tears, and he, bewildered by a grief he could not
understand, spoke to her kindly, paid her many compliments, and
advised her to take some rest. Still weeping, she besought him to have
faith, promising that he should recover his kingdom and be crowned
before long.

On Friday, June 24th, she brought the army of the Loire to Gien,
whence she sent a letter to the loyal city of Tournay, telling its
people of her late successes, and praying them to come to the
coronation.

Two days after her arrival at Gien, the justly impatient girl quitted
the town with some of her troops and encamped in the fields beyond it.
Her persistence carried the day. On the 29th, the King and an army of
12,000 men set out for Reims.

On July 5th it reached Troyes. Joan had written to the citizens,
requiring them to receive the King, and Charles also bade them
surrender, promising them amnesty and easy terms. But the place was
well garrisoned, and they determined to resist.

A council was held, and nearly all who were at it advised returning
southward. But among those faint hearts was one man who believed in
Joan--the old chancellor--and he spoke boldly for her. "When the King
undertook this journey, he did it not because of the great might of
the men-at-arms, nor because of the great wealth he had, nor because
the journey seemed possible to him, but because Joan told him to go
forward and be crowned at Reims, such being the good pleasure of God."
While he was yet speaking, Joan herself knocked at the door. She was
let in, and the Archbishop told her the cause of the debate.

She turned to the King.

"Will you believe me?" she asked.

"Speak," he replied, "and if you speak reasonably and profitably, we
will gladly believe you."

"Will you believe me?" she said again.

"Yes," repeated Charles, "according to what you say."

That cold answer might well have checked her, but she spoke on:

"Gracious King of France, if you will remain before your city of
Troyes, it shall be yours within three days by force or by love--doubt
it not."

"We would wait six, if we could be sure of having it," said the
Archbishop.

"Doubt not," she insisted, "you shall have it to-morrow."

It was then evening, but she at once mounted her horse and began
preparations for an assault. Her energy cheered the soldiers, who were
weary of inaction. They dragged the cannons into position, and brought
bundles of wood, doors, furniture, everything they could lay hands on,
to fill up the fosse. They worked far into the night--leaders, pages,
men-at-arms alike--Joan directing them "better than two of the best
captains could have done."

Through that night there was great excitement within Troyes. The
people had heard of Orleans and Jargeau; they could see and hear
Joan's preparations. At last they asked loudly why they, French by
birth, should risk their city and their lives for England. A council
was held, and the heads of the garrison and the city agreed to
surrender. Early next morning, just as Joan was giving the signal for
the assault, the city gates were opened.

The next day, Sunday, the King entered the town in state, attended by
Joan and his nobles.

They left Troyes, and approached Chalons on the 15th, and at some
distance from the town were met by a number of citizens who had come
to offer their submission. At Chalons, Joan had the great joy of
meeting friends from Domremy. She asked them many questions about her
home, and they looked with wonder at the girl who lived familiarly
with princes, and yet spoke and behaved as simply as ever she had done
in the days of her obscurity. One of them inquired whether she feared
nothing.

"Nothing but treachery," was her foreboding answer.

When the people of Reims heard that Chalons had submitted, and that
Charles was within four leagues, they sent deputies to tender their
obedience, and that same day, Saturday, July 16th, Charles entered the
city.

Preparations were at once made for his coronation, and early next
morning four nobles went to the abbey of St. Remi to escort thence the
ampulla containing the sacred oil which a dove had brought from heaven
to the saint. The abbot, in full canonicals, carried it to the
cathedral, where the Archbishop of Reims received it from him, and set
it on the high altar. Below the altar stood the Dauphin, attended by
the nobles and clergy who acted as proxies for the peers of France who
should have been with him. By his side was Joan, holding her sacred
banner. The ceremony was performed according to the ancient rites, and
when it was over, Joan knelt at the feet of Charles, her King indeed
now, crowned and anointed.

"Gracious King," she said, "now is fulfilled the pleasure of God,
whose will it was that you should come to Reims to receive your worthy
coronation, showing that you are the true King to whom the kingdom
should belong." As she spoke she wept, and all who were in the church
wept for sympathy. Among those who witnessed her triumph was her
father, who had come to Reims to see her. The good man was honourably
treated; the corporation of the town paid his expenses, and when he
returned to Domremy, gave him a horse for the journey.

After his coronation, when Charles was bestowing honours and rewards
on his followers, Joan asked him for one favour, which he granted
readily--freedom from taxation for her native Domremy and the
adjoining village of Greux. For herself she wanted nothing, except
what she had already claimed and failed to receive, what the King
never gave her--his trust.

She had given a king to France, now she had to give France to her
King. She longed to be again at work. Every day of waiting was a day
of pain to her. Now that her King was crowned, she would have him
press forward to Paris, defy the English, and startle the disloyal
French into loyalty; but the evil advice of his courtiers and his own
indolence made him catch at every excuse for delay.

During the northward march of the army, people from every place on the
road crowded to welcome Joan and the King, crying, Noel, Noel, and
singing _Te Deums_ before them. Joan was first. They were glad to have
a French King again, but their chief love and enthusiasm were for her,
the heroic girl in shining armour, with her calm face and gentle
voice. The common folk called her "the angelic"; they sang songs about
her; images of her were put up in little country churches; a special
collect was said at mass, thanking God for her having saved France;
medals were struck in her honour, and worn as amulets. The people
pressed about her horse, and kissed her hands and feet. She was often
vexed by this excess of homage, which brought upon her the displeasure
of many churchmen.

Near Crespy, as she, riding between Dunois and Regnault de Chartres,
passed through the welcoming crowd, she said:

"What good people! I have yet seen none so joyful at the coming of
their prince. May I be so happy as to die and be buried in this land!"

"Oh, Joan," said the Archbishop, "in what place do you expect to
die?"

"Wherever it shall please God," she answered, "for I know not the
place nor the hour any more than yourself. Would to God that I might
return now, and lay down my arms, and go back to serve my parents, and
guard their flocks with my sister and brothers, who would be right
glad to see me." She must often have longed for her home, but never
except this once did she express her longing. She had a rare reticence
for one so young and simple. "She spoke little, and showed a
marvellous prudence in her words."

Joan greatly desired the King's arrival before Paris, believing that
his mere presence would make its gates fly open like those of Reims
and Soissons. The King's folly and the ill-will of his favourites were
not Joan's only troubles. The army before Paris was not like that
chosen army she had led to Orleans, a company of men "confessed,
penitent," who for the time seemed purified from evil desires, and
followed her as to a holy war. Such a state of things, fair to the
eye, but born only of the froth and ecstasy of religion, could not
last, as the Maid in her young confidence perhaps expected. She had
now to grieve because of her soldiers' habits of blasphemy and
pillage.

On the morning of September 8th, the festival of the Virgin's
nativity, they advanced to attack the city. They were divided into two
corps. One, led by Joan, Gaucourt, and Retz, went at once to the
assault. The attack began about noon; the bastion of the St. Honore
gate having been set on fire, its defenders were forced to abandon it,
and the assailants, headed by Joan, passed the outer fosse. She
climbed the ridge separating it from the inner fosse, which was full
of water, and from that place summoned the city to surrender. She was
answered with jeers and insults and a shower of missiles, amid which
she carefully sounded the fosse with her lance, and found that it was
of unusual depth. At her bidding the men brought faggots and hurdles
to fill it up and make a resting-place for their ladders, but while
she was directing them, an arrow wounded her in the thigh so severely
that she was forced to lie down at the edge of the fosse. She
suffered, as she afterwards confessed, agonies of pain, but she never
ceased to encourage her men, bidding them advance boldly, for the
place would be taken. The place would have been taken, but the
captains who were with Joan, seeing that the hours went by and the men
were struck down without achieving much, ordered a retreat. The
trumpets sounded; the men withdrew, Joan, desperate in her sorrow,
clung to the ground, declaring she would not go until the place was
won. At about ten o'clock Gaucourt had her removed by force and set
upon her horse. She was carried back to La Chapelle, suffering in
body, suffering more in mind, but still resolute.

"The city would have been taken!" she insisted. "It would have been
taken!"

Joan spent four weary months--how weary we conjecture chiefly from
what we know of her character and her aspirations. Occasionally she
rode with a few followers to visit some town where she was known, but
generally she was with the Court, a sad and unwilling spectator of its
festivities. Sad only because of her unfulfilled mission: had she been
suffered to work it out, to see France delivered, she would doubtless
have taken pleasure in show and gaiety. She was at home and happy with
knights and ladies, and took a frank delight in rich garments and fine
armour. She was no bigot, her sanctity was altogether wholesome: it
was an exalted love for God, for France and the King, unsoured by any
contempt for the common life of humanity.

Wherever she went she visited the sick, she gave all she could in
alms, she was devoted to the services of the church and to prayer. The
people, who knew of her greatness and saw her goodness, treated her
with a reverence that was akin to superstition. They brought rings and
crosses for her to touch, and so turn into amulets. "Touch them
yourselves," she would say, laughing, "they will be just as good."
Some believed that she had a charmed life, and need never fear going
into battle.

Joan grew desperate. Sad voices from beyond the Loire were calling
her. She was greatly wanted there, and the King--her King whom she had
crowned--did not want her, cared nothing for her nor for his people's
trouble. She asked counsel of her other voices, of her saints, and
they neither bade her go nor stay; they told her only one certain
thing, that before St. John's day she would be taken. If so--if
indeed, as she herself had said, she was to last only a year--then the
more need to hasten with her work. One day at the end of March she
left Sully with a small company, as if going for one of her usual
rides. She did not bid farewell to the King, and she never saw him
again.

It was a time of sad forebodings for her. A story goes, that one
morning, after hearing mass in the church of St. Jacques, she went
apart and leaned dejectedly against a pillar. Some grown people and a
crowd of children came about her--she was always gentle to
children--and she said to them:

"My children and dear friends, I tell you that I am sold and betrayed,
and that I shall soon be given up to death. Therefore I entreat you
to pray for me, for never again shall I have any power to serve the
King or the Kingdom of France." She was not "sold and betrayed" yet;
that was to come.

Depression could not make her inactive. She went to Crespy for
reinforcements, but hearing that the siege of Compiegne had begun, she
hurried back there on the night of April 23rd, with about four hundred
men. She entered the place at sunrise, and spent the chief part of the
day in arranging a sortie, to be made before evening. Compiegne,
situated on the south bank of the Oise, was connected with the
opposite shore by a bridge, from which a raised causeway went over the
low river meadows to the hill-slopes of Picardy.

Late in the afternoon, Joan, with five hundred foot and horsemen, made
a short charge. Then Joan's troops feared to be cut off from
Compiegne, to be left in a country dotted with the enemy's camps, and
most of them turned, panic-stricken, and fled towards the city.

The English gained the causeway, and the archers stationed there dared
not shoot on them for fear of hurting their own people. The guns of
Compiegne were useless, for friends and foes were mingled in a
confused struggle. Joan tried to rally her men:

"Hold your peace!" she cried to some who spoke of retreating. "It
depends on you to discomfit them! Think only of falling upon them!"

But her words were in vain. All she could do was to cover the retreat,
and that she did valiantly, riding last, and charging back often.
Thanks to her a great part of the fugitives got safely into the city,
while others reached the boats; but the English pressed towards the
gate to cut off the retreat of the remainder, and Guillaume de Flavy,
afraid, as he said, lest in the confusion they might rush into the
town itself, ordered the draw-bridge to be raised, and the portcullis
lowered. There was no escape for the Maid now. She and a little
devoted band that kept with her fought desperately, but they were
driven into an angle of the fortifications; many fell in defending
her.

Compiegne remained shut. The city to whose help she had come at dawn
saw her lost at its very gates before sundown, and made no effort to
save her. Five or six men rushed on her at once, each crying:

"Yield to me! Pledge your faith to me!"

"I have sworn and pledged my faith to another than you," she said,
"and I will keep my oath."

She still struck at those who tried to seize her; but an archer came
behind her, and, grasping the gold-embroidered surcoat that she wore,
dragged her from her horse. She fell, exhausted and overcome at last,
and the man who had pulled her down carried her to his master.

She was taken to Margny, and thither flocked the English and
Burgundian captains, "more joyful than if they had taken five hundred
fighting men." In this very month of her capture, it had been found
needful to issue proclamations against English soldiers, men of the
old conquering race, who had refused to come over to France for fear
of the Witch. And now here was the Witch, vanquished, powerless, her
armour soiled in the fight, her magic banner fallen away from her. The
chiefs could hardly believe their good fortune, but her sad presence
was there to assure them of it, and they came and gazed on her.

The weeks went by, and no one stirred to help her. Her captors'
scruples were overcome, and before winter she was bought and sold.
John of Luxembourg got ten thousand livres--two thousand dollars.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hitherto we have seen Joan, a gracious figure always--better always
and nobler than her surroundings--but never yet solitary in goodness
and nobleness. Other figures have been grouped about her, gracious
also in their degree, worthy to divide with her our sympathy, and to
have some share in our love. Now they are all gone from her. Father
and mother, village friends and kinsfolk, devoted comrades and adoring
people, are all shut away from her for ever. The old life is over.

She is desolate, and worse than alone; to the darling of the saints,
loneliness would be no such terrible punishment. Wrong and horror
crowd upon her. Her honour and her life are in the hands of men evil
by nature, or turned to evil by hatred, or greed, or fear. Here and
there a judge speaks some word in favour of banished justice, but
those feeble flashes leave no light in the gloom. The light shines all
on Joan. The pure maiden, the noble heroine, stands out,
heaven-illumined, against the darkness. Her sorrow and her endurance
of it crown and sanctify her. Piteous though her fate be, we almost
forget to pity her, for compassion is well-nigh lost in reverence and
wonder.

On her arrival at Rouen, Joan was taken to the castle, and put into an
iron cage that had been made to receive her; and, as if its bars were
not enough, she was chained in it by her neck, her hands and her feet.
After being kept thus for several days, she was transferred to a
gloomy chamber in one of the towers, where she was fettered to a great
log of wood during the day, and to her bed at night. Both by night
and day she was guarded by five English soldiers of the lowest and
rudest class, three of whom were always with her, while the other two
kept the door outside.

Once given over to the Church, she should have been placed in an
ecclesiastical prison, and guarded by women. For this right she
pleaded often, and her plea was supported by several of her judges.
But the English would not lose their grip of a captive who had cost
them and lost them so much, and Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais,
had too great fear of displeasing them to advise such a simple measure
of decency and justice.

Joan had visitors in her prison. English nobles whose nobility did not
keep them from insulting a woman and a helpless captive, came to stare
and jest at her. Warwick and Stafford came one day, and with them a
man who might well have shrunk from looking her in the face--the Judas
of Luxembourg. He told her he had come to ransom her, on condition
that she would not again take up arms against England. She answered
him scornfully, as he deserved:

"In God's name, you but mock me, for I know you have neither the will
nor the power to do it;" and she added, "I know that the English will
kill me, thinking to have the kingdom of France after my death; but
were they a hundred thousand Goddams more than they are, they should
not have the kingdom."

Cauchon refused the Maid's just request for counsel to advise and
defend her during her examination. But he was not merciful enough to
leave her to the guidance of her own wise brain and true heart.
According to the bad custom of the Inquisition, he sent her a sham
confidant, a creature even more abject than himself--his friend and
tool, the Canon Loyseleur. This man went to Joan in disguise, and told
her that he, too, was a prisoner, a loyal subject of King Charles, and
a native of her own province. The guards left them together, and she,
poor child! being glad to see a friendly face, talked to him with a
trustfulness that might have touched even such a heart as his. The
bishop listened in an adjoining room, and stationed two scribes there
to report Joan's words; but the men were too honest for such work, and
refused to do it. To gain her fuller confidence, Loyseleur made known
to her that he was a priest, and heard her in confession. He also gave
her counsel how to answer her judges--bad and crooked counsel, of
which she availed herself little, but still enough for us to trace
here and there the influence of an evil mind over hers.

On Tuesday, February 20th, she was summoned to appear next day before
her judges. Having heard and seen what they were, she demanded that an
equal number of assessors of the French party should be associated
with them. She also entreated the Bishop of Beauvais to let her hear
religious service. The prayer was denied.

Joan appeared before them a youthful, girlish creature in her
masculine dress. The dress was all black, relieved only by the pale
prison-worn face, from which the dark eyes looked out fearlessly.

The bishop began by briefly stating the crimes she was accused of, and
explaining to her how he came to be her judge. He then exhorted her,
"with gentleness and charity," to answer truly all questions put to
her. From the first moment of the trial she was on her guard. She
felt her judges' falsehood and malevolence in the very air around her.

The Gospels were brought, and she was ordered to swear upon them that
she would speak the truth. She hesitated.

"I do not know what questions you may put to me," she said. "Perhaps
you will ask me things I cannot tell you."

"Will you swear," insisted Cauchon, "to speak the truth about whatever
you are asked concerning the faith, and whatever you know?" She
answered that she would willingly speak of her parents, and of all her
own actions since she had left Domremy.

Jean Beaupere took up the examination. His first question was, when
she had last eaten and drunk. It was the season of Lent; if she had
taken food as usual, she might be accused of contempt for the Church;
if she had fasted, she gave colour to a theory of Beaupere's, that her
visions were induced chiefly by physical causes. She told him she had
fasted since noon the day before. He inquired at what hour she had
last heard the voice.

"I heard it yesterday and to-day," she said. "I was asleep, and it
woke me.... I do not know whether it was in my room, but it was in the
castle.... I thanked it, sitting up in my bed, with clasped hands, and
implored its counsel.... I had asked God to teach me by its counsel
how to answer."

"And what did the voice say?"

"It told me to answer boldly, and God would help me." Here she turned
to the bishop. "You say that you are my judge. Take heed what you do,
for indeed I am sent by God, and you are putting yourself in great
peril."

Beaupere asked her if the voice never varied in its counsel.

"No," she said; "it has never contradicted itself. Last night again it
bade me answer boldly."

Her dress, her banner and pennon, were inquired about. Had not the
Knights, her companions, their pennons made after the pattern of hers?
Had she not told them that such pennons would be lucky? To this she
answered:

"I said to my men--'Go in boldly among the English!'--_and I went
myself_."

"Did you not tell them to carry their pennons boldly, and they would
have good luck?"

"I indeed told them what came to pass, and will come to pass again."

Had she not ordered pictures or images of herself to be made? No, nor
had she ever seen any image in her likeness. She had seen a picture of
herself at Arras. She was represented kneeling on one knee, and
presenting letters to the King.

Did she know that those of her party had caused masses and prayers to
be said in her honour?

"I know nothing of it," she answered, "and if they did so, it was not
by my command. Nevertheless, if they prayed for me, I think they did
no wrong."

"Do those of your party believe firmly that you are sent by God?"

"I do not know. I leave that to their consciences. But if they do not
believe it, I am none the less sent by Him."

"Do you think them right in believing it?"

"If they believe that I am sent by God, they are not deceived."

"Did you understand the feelings of those who kissed your feet, your
hands and your garments?"

"Many were glad to see me. I let them kiss my hands as little as
possible; but the poor people came to me gladly, because I did them no
unkindness, but helped them as much as I could."

"Did not the women touch their rings with the ring you wore?"

"Many women touched my hands and my rings, but I do not know why they
did so."

       *       *       *       *       *

For more than three months her trial went on. But her fate was settled
now. The Inquisition had no pardon for her. The judges left her, a few
daring to be sorry for the brave creature, but most of them openly and
indecently glad. In the courtyard they found a number of English
waiting for news, among them the Earl of Warwick.

"Farewell, farewell!" cried the bishop, as he passed him; "be of good
cheer--it is done!"

Her guilt was proved; let her be given over to the secular power; but
first let her be charitably exhorted for her soul's welfare, and
warned that she had nothing more to hope for in this world.

The bishop ordered a citation to be drawn up, summoning Joan to appear
next morning in the Old Market Place of Rouen, to receive her final
sentence. She did not hear her doom that night (May 30, 1431), but the
grave faces and grave words of the monks showed her the dreadful
reality, and for a little while youth and womanhood and human weakness
had their own way with her. She wept piteously.

"Alas," she cried, "will they treat me so horribly and cruelly? Must
my body be consumed to-day and turned to ashes? Ah! I would sooner
seven times be beheaded than be burnt! Oh, I appeal to God, the great
Judge, against the wrong and injustice done to me!"

While she was thus lamenting Cauchon came in, with Pierre Maurice, and
two or three others. Seeing him, she cried:

"Bishop, I die by you!"

Maurice looked kindly at her as he went, and she said to him:

"Master Pierre, where shall I be to-night?"

"Have you not a good hope in God?" he asked.

"Ah, yes, and by God's grace, I shall be in Paradise."

She received the sacrament with tears, and with deep penitence and
devotion. Thenceforth her faith was unshaken, and she failed no more.

Next morning at nine o'clock she left the prison, clothed now in a
woman's long gown, and wearing a mitre, inscribed with the words,
_Heretic_, _Relapsed_, _Apostate_, _Idolatress_. A cart was waiting
for her, and she got into it, accompanied by Brother Martin and the
usher Massieu. A guard of about eight hundred soldiers surrounded her
to keep off the crowd, but suddenly there rushed through their ranks a
haggard and miserable figure. It was Nicolaus Loyseleur, who, seized
by late and vain remorse, had come to ask forgiveness of her whom he
had betrayed. But before he could reach her, the soldiers drove him
back, and Joan probably neither saw nor heard him, for she was weeping
and praying, her head bowed upon her hands.

When she looked up, she saw beyond the soldiers a dense throng of
people, most of them grieving for her, many of them lamenting that
this thing should be done in their city.

"O Rouen, Rouen!" she cried, "is it here that I must die?"

At last she reached the Old Market Place, a very large space, where
had been raised three scaffolds: one for the Bishop of Beauvais and
his colleagues, and for all the prelates and nobles who desired to see
the show; another for Joan and some priests and officials; the third,
also for Joan--a pile of stone and plaster, raised high above the
heads of the crowd, and heaped with faggots. In front of it was a
tablet bearing this inscription:

_Joan, who has called herself The Maid--liar, pernicious, deceiver of
the people, sorceress, superstitious, blasphemer of God, presumptuous,
disbeliever of the faith of Christ, boaster, idolatress, dissolute,
invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic, heretic._

Master Nicolas Midi, a famous doctor from Paris, preached Joan's last
sermon, on the text, "If one member suffer, all the members suffer
with it."

At its close, he addressed her:

"Joan, go in peace! The Church can no longer defend you; it gives you
up to the secular power."

Then the bishop spoke to her. He did not read the form of abjuration,
as had been advised, for she would have boldly disavowed it, and would
so have spoilt a scheme he had concocted. But he admonished her to
think of her salvation, to remember her misdeeds, and repent of them.
Finally, after the usual inquisitorial form, he declared her cut off
from the Church, and delivered over to secular justice.

She needed no exhortation to prayer and penitence. For a while she
seemed to forget the gazing crowd and the cruel judges. She knelt and
prayed fervently--prayed aloud with such passionate pathos, that all
who heard her were moved to tears. Even Cauchon wept. Even the
Cardinal was touched. She forgave her enemies; she remembered the
King, who had forgotten her; she asked pardon of all, imploring all to
pray for her, and especially entreating the priests to say a mass for
her soul. Presently she asked for a cross. An English soldier broke a
stick in two and made a rough cross, which he gave her. She kissed it
and put it in her bosom, weeping, calling upon God and the saints.

But the men-at-arms were growing impatient. "Come, you priests!"
shouted one of them, "are you going to make us dine here?"

The bailiff of Rouen, as representing the secular power, should have
now pronounced sentence of death, but he seemed afraid of delaying the
soldiers, two of whom came up and seized Joan.

"Take her! take her!" he said, hurriedly, and he bade the executioner
"do his duty." The bishop's trial had, after all, an illegal and
informal ending.

The soldiers dragged Joan to the pile, and as she climbed it, some of
her judges left their platform and rushed away, fearing to behold what
they had helped to bring about. She was fastened to the stake, high
up, that the flames might gain slowly upon her, and that the
executioner might not be able to reach her and mercifully shorten her
agony.

"Ah, Rouen!" she cried again, as she looked over the city, bright in
the May sunshine--"Ah, Rouen, Rouen! I fear thou wilt have to suffer
for my death!"

The executioner set fire to the pile. The confessor was by Joan's
side, praying with her, comforting her so earnestly, that he took no
notice of the ascending flames. It was she who saw them and bade him
leave her.

"But hold up the cross," she said, "that I may see it."

Now Cauchon went to the foot of the pile, hoping perhaps that his
victim might say some word of recantation. Perceiving him there, she
cried aloud:

"Bishop, I die by you!"

And now the flames reached her, and she shrank from them in terror,
calling for water--holy water! But as they rose and rose and wrapped
her round, she seemed to draw strength from their awful contact. She
still spoke. Brother Martin, standing in the heat and glare of the
fire, holding the cross aloft for her comfort, heard her dying words:

"Jesus! Jesus! Mary! My voices! My voices!"

Did she hear them, those voices that had said, "Fret not thyself
because of thy martyrdom; thou shalt come at last to the Kingdom of
Paradise"?

"Yes," she said, "my voices were from God! My voices have not deceived
me!" Then, uttering one great cry--"Jesus!" she drooped her head upon
her breast, and died.

       *       *       *       *       *

The common folk soon added their tale of signs and wonders to the
simple and terrible truth. An English soldier, who greatly hated the
Maid, had sworn to bring a faggot to her burning, and he threw it on
the pile just as she gave that last cry. Suddenly he fell senseless to
the earth, and when he recovered, he told how at that moment he had
looked up, and had seen a white dove fly heavenward out of the fire.
Others declared that they had seen the word Jesus--her dying
word--written in the flames. The executioner rushed to a confessor
crying that he feared to be damned, for he had burned a holy woman.
But her heart would not burn, he told the priest; the rest of her body
he had found consumed to ashes, but her heart was left whole and
unharmed.

Many, not of the populace, were moved by her death to recognise what
she had been in life.

"I would that my soul were where I believe the soul of that woman is!"
exclaimed Jean Alespee, one of the judges.

"We are all lost; we have burnt a saint!" cried Tressart, a secretary
of the King of England. Winchester--determined that, though she might
be called a saint, there should be no relics of her--had her ashes
carefully collected and thrown into the Seine.

The tidings of her death went speedily through France. They found
Charles in his southern retirement, and nowise disturbed the ease of
mind and body that was more to him than honour. They reached Domremy,
and broke the heart of Joan's stern, loving father. Isabelle Romee
lived to see her child's memory righted and her prophecies fulfilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

In June, 1455, Pope Calixtus, named a commission to inquire into the
trial of Joan of Arc.

Joan's aged mother came before them, supported by her sons, and
followed by a great procession of nobles, scholars, and honourable
ladies. She presented the petition she had made to the Pope, and the
letter whereby he granted it, and the commissioners took her aside,
heard her testimony, and promised to do her justice.

And now the dead heroine was confronted with her dead judges, to their
shame and her enduring honour. Messengers were sent into her country
to hear the story of her innocent childhood and pure, unselfish youth.
Through her whole life went the inquiry, gathering testimony from
people of all ranks. The peasants whom she had loved and tended in her
early girlhood, the men who had fought by her side, the women who had
known and honoured her, the officers of the trial, and many who had
watched her sufferings and beheld her death--all were called to speak
for her now. They testified to her goodness, her purity, her
single-hearted love for France, her piety, her boldness in war, and
her good sense in counsel. All were for her--not one voice was raised
against her. Rouen, the place of her martyrdom, became the place of
her triumph.

The judges pronounced the whole trial to be polluted by wrong and
calumny, and therefore null and void; finally, they proclaimed that
neither Joan nor any of her kindred had incurred any blot of infamy,
and freed them from every shadow of disgrace.

By order of the tribunal, this new verdict was read publicly in all
the cities of France, and first at Rouen, and in the Old Market Place,
where she had been cruelly burnt. This was done with great solemnity;
processions were made, sermons were preached, and on the site of her
martyrdom a stone cross was soon raised to her memory.

The world has no relic of Joan. Her armour, her banner, the picture of
herself that she saw at Arras, have all disappeared. We possess but
the record of a fair face framed in plentiful dark hair, of a strong
and graceful shape, of a sweet woman's voice. And it seems--and yet,
indeed, hardly is--a wonder that no worthy poem has been made in her
honour. She is one of the few for whom poet and romancer can do
little; for as there is nothing in her life that needs either to be
hidden or adorned, we see her best in the clear and searching light of
history.




VI

CATHERINE DOUGLAS

THE TRAGEDY OF JAMES I. OF SCOTS. 20TH FEBRUARY, 1437


    NOTE.--Tradition says that Catherine Douglas, in honour of her
    heroic act when she barred the door with her arm against the
    murderers of James the First of Scots, received popularly the
    name of "Barlass." The name remains to her descendants, the
    Barlas family, in Scotland, who bear for their crest a broken
    arm. She married Alexander Lovell of Bolunnie.

    A few stanzas from King James's lovely poem, known as _The
    King's Quhair_, are quoted in the course of this ballad.

    I Catherine am a Douglas born,
     A name to all Scots dear;
    And Kate Barlass they've called me now
     Through many a waning year.

    This old arm's withered now. 'T was once
      Most deft 'mong maidens all
    To rein the steed, to wing the shaft,
      To smite the palm-play ball.

    In hall adown the close-linked dance
      It has shone most white and fair;
    It has been the rest for a true lord's head,
    And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed,
      And the bar to a King's chambere.

    Ay, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,
      And hark with bated breath
    How good King James, King Robert's son,
      Was foully done to death.

    Through all the days of his gallant youth
      The princely James was pent,
    By his friends at first and then by his foes,
      In long imprisonment.

    For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir,
      By treason's murderous brood
    Was slain; and the father quaked for the child
      With the royal mortal blood.

    I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care,
      Was his childhood's life assured;
    And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,
    Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke
      His youth for long years immured.

    Yet in all things meet for a kingly man
      Himself did he approve;
    And the nightingale through his prison-wall
      Taught him both lore and love.

    For once, when the bird's song drew him close
      To the opened window-pane,
    In her bowers beneath a lady stood,
    A light of life to his sorrowful mood,
      Like a lily amid the rain.

    And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,
      He framed a sweeter Song,
    More sweet than ever a poet's heart
      Gave yet to the English tongue.

    She was a lady of royal blood;
      And when, past sorrow and teen
    He stood where still through his crownless years
      His Scotish realm had been,
    At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,
      A heart-wed King and Queen.

    But the bird may fall from the bough of youth,
      And song be turned to moan,
    And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate,
    When the tempest-waves of a troubled State
      Are beating against a throne.

    Yet well they loved; and the god of Love,
      Whom well the King had sung,
    Might find on the earth no truer hearts
      His lowliest swains among.

    From the days when first she rode abroad
      With Scotish maids in her train,
    I Catherine Douglas won the trust
      Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane.

    And oft she sighed, "To be born a King!"
      And oft along the way
    When she saw the homely lovers pass
      She has said, "Alack the day!"

    Years waned, the loving and toiling years:
      Till England's wrong renewed
    Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown,
      To the open field of feud.

    'T was when the King and his host were met
      At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold,
    The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp
      With a tale of dread to be told.

    And she showed him a secret letter writ
      That spoke of treasonous strife,
    And how a band of his noblest lords
      Were sworn to take his life.

    "And it may be here or it may be there,
      In the camp or the court," she said:
    "But for my sake come to your people's arms
      And guard your royal head."

    Quoth he, "'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege,
      And the castle's nigh to yield."
    "O face your foes on your throne," she cried,
      "And show the power you wield;
    And under your Scotish people's love
      You shall sit as under your shield."

    At the fair Queen's side I stood that day
      When he bade them raise the siege,
    And back to his Court he sped to know
      How the lords would meet their Liege.

    But when he summoned his Parliament,
      The lowering brows hung round,
    Like clouds that circle the mountain-head
      Ere the first low thunders sound.

    For he had tamed the nobles' lust
      And curbed their power and pride,
    And reached out an arm to right the poor
      Through Scotland far and wide;
    And marry a lordly wrong-doer
      By the headsman's axe had died.

    'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme,
      The bold o'ermastering man:
    "O King, in the name of your Three Estates
      I set you under their ban!

    "For, as your lords made oath to you
      Of service and fealty,
    Even in like wise you pledged your oath
      Their faithful sire to be:

    "Yet all we here that are nobly sprung
      Have mourned dear kith and kin
    Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse
      Did your bloody rule begin."

    With that he laid his hands on his King:
      "Is this not so, my lords?"
    But of all who had sworn to league with him
      Not one spake back to his words.

    Quoth the King: "Thou speak'st but for one Estate,
      Nor doth it avow thy gage.
    Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!"
      The Graeme fired dark with rage:
    "Who works for lesser men than himself,
      He earns but a witless wage!"

    But soon from the dungeon where he lay
      He won by privy plots,
    And forth he fled with a price on his head
      To the country of the Wild Scots.

    And word there came from Sir Robert Graeme
      To the King at Edinbro':
    "No Liege of mine thou art; but I see
    From this day forth alone in thee
      God's creature, my mortal foe.

    "Through thee are my wife and children lost,
      My heritage and lands;
    And when my God shall show me a way,
    Thyself my mortal foe will I slay
      With these my proper hands."

    Against the coming of Christmastide
      That year the King bade call
    I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth
      A solemn festival.

    And we of his household rode with him
      In a close-ranked company;
    But not till the sun had sunk from his throne
      Did we reach the Scotish Sea.

    That eve was clenched for a boding storm,
      'Neath a toilsome moon, half seen;
    The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high;
    And where there was a line of the sky,
      Wild wings loomed dark between.

    And on a rock of the black beach-side
      By the veiled moon dimly lit,
    There was something seemed to heave with life
      As the King drew nigh to it.

    And was it only the tossing furze
      Or brake of the waste sea-wold?
    Or was it an eagle bent to the blast?
    When near we came, we knew it at last
      For a woman tattered and old.

    But it seemed as though by a fire within
      Her writhen limbs were wrung;
    And as soon as the King was close to her,
      She stood up gaunt and strong.

    'T was then the moon sailed clear of the rack
      On high in her hollow dome;
    And still as aloft with hoary crest
      Each clamorous wave rang home,
    Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed
      Amid the champing foam.

    And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:
      "O King, thou art come at last;
    But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea
      To my sight for four years past.

    "Four years it is since first I met,
      'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu,
    A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud,
      And that shape for thine I knew.

    "A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle
      I saw thee pass in the breeze,
    With the cerecloth risen above thy feet
      And wound about thy knees.

    "And yet a year, in the Links of Forth,
      As a wanderer without rest,
    Thou cam'st with both thine arms i' the shroud
      That clung high up thy breast.

    "And in this hour I find thee here,
      And well mine eyes may note
    That the winding-sheet hath passed thy breast
      And risen around thy throat.

    "And when I meet thee again, O King,
      That of death hast such sore drouth,
    Except thou turn again on this shore,
    The winding-sheet shall have moved once more
      And covered thine eyes and mouth.

    "O King, whom poor men bless for their King,
      Of thy fate be not so fain;
    But these my words for God's message take,
    And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake
      Who rides beside thy rein!"

    While the woman spoke, the King's horse reared
      As if it would breast the sea,
    And the Queen turned pale as she heard on the gale
      The voice die dolorously.

    When the woman ceased, the steed was still,
      But the King gazed on her yet,
    And in silence save for the wail of the sea
      His eyes and her eyes met.

    At last he said: "God's ways are His own;
      Man is but shadow and dust.
    Last night I prayed by His altar-stone;
    To-night I wend to the Feast of His Son;
      And in Him I set my trust.

    "I have held my people in sacred charge,
      And have not feared the sting
    Of proud men's hate, to His will resign'd
    Who has but one same death for a hind
      And one same death for a King.

    "And if God in His wisdom have brought close
      The day when I must die,
    That day by water or fire or air
    My feet shall fall in the destined snare
      Wherever my road may lie.

    "What man can say but the Fiend hath set
      Thy sorcery on my path,
    My heart with the fear of death to fill,
    And turn me against God's very will
      To sink in His burning wrath?"

    The woman stood as the train rode past,
      And moved nor limb nor eye;
    And when we were shipped, we saw her there
      Still standing against the sky.

    As the ship made way, the moon once more
      Sank slow in her rising pall;
    And I thought of the shrouded wraith of the King,
      And I said, "The Heavens know all."

    And now, ye lasses, must ye hear
      How my name is Kate Barlass:
    But a little thing, when all the tale
      Is told of the weary mass
    Of crime and woe which in Scotland's realm
      God's will let come to pass.

    'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth
      That the King and all his Court
    Were met, the Christmas Feast being done,
      For solace and disport.

    'T was a wind-wild eve in February,
      And against the casement-pane
    The branches smote like summoning hands
      And muttered the driving rain.

    And when the wind swooped over the lift
      And made the whole heaven frown,
    It seemed a grip was laid on the walls
      To tug the housetop down.

    And the Queen was there, more stately fair
      Than a lily in garden set;
    And the King was loth to stir from her side;
    For as on the day when she was his bride,
      Even so he loved her yet.

    And the Earl of Athole, the King's false friend,
      Sat with him at the board;
    And Robert Stuart the chamberlain
      Who had sold his sovereign Lord.

    Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber there
      Would fain have told him all,
    And vainly four times that night he strove
      To reach the King through the hall.

    But the wine is bright at the goblet's brim
      Though the poison lurk beneath;
    And the apples still are red on the tree
    Within whose shade may the adder be
      That shall turn thy life to death.

    There was a knight of the King's fast friends
      Whom he called the King of Love;
    And to such bright cheer and courtesy
      That name might best behove.

    And the King and Queen both loved him well
      For his gentle knightliness;
    And with him the King, as that eve wore on,
      Was playing at the chess.

    And the King said (for he thought to jest
      And soothe the Queen thereby),
    "In a book 'tis writ that this same year
      A King shall in Scotland die.

    "And I have pondered the matter o'er,
    And this have I found, Sir Hugh,
    There are but two Kings on Scotish ground,
      And those Kings are I and you.

    "And I have a wife and a newborn heir,
      And you are yourself alone;
    So stand you stark at my side with me
      To guard our double throne."

    "For here sit I and my wife and child,
      As well your heart shall approve,
    In full surrender and soothfastness,
      Beneath your Kingdom of Love."

    And the Knight laughed, and the Queen, too, smiled;
      But I knew her heavy thought,
    And I strove to find in the good King's jest
      What cheer might thence be wrought.

    And I said, "My Liege, for the Queen's dear love
      Now sing the song that of old
    You made, when a captive Prince you lay,
    And the nightingale sang sweet on the spray,
      In Windsor's castle-hold."

    Then he smiled the smile I knew so well
      When he thought to please the Queen;
    The smile which under all bitter frowns
      Of hate that rose between,
    For ever dwelt at the poet's heart
      Like the bird of love unseen.

    And he kissed her hand and took his harp,
      And the music sweetly rang;
    And when the song burst forth, it seemed
    'T was the nightingale that sang.

    "_Worship, ye lovers, on this May:
      Of bliss your kalends are begun:
    Sing with us, Away, Winter, away!
      Come, Summer, the sweet season and sun!
      Awake for shame, your heaven is won,
    And amorously your heads lift all:
    Thank Love, that you to his grace doth call!_"

    But when he bent to the Queen, and sang
      The speech whose praise was hers,
    It seemed his voice was the voice of the Spring
      And the voice of the bygone years.

    "_The fairest and the freshest flower
    That ever I saw before that hour,
    The which o' the sudden made to start
    The blood of my body to my heart._

      *       *       *       *       *

    _Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature
    Or heavenly thing in form of nature?_"

    And the song was long, and richly stored
      With wonder and beauteous things;
    And the harp was tuned to every change
      Of minstrel ministerings;
    But when he spoke of the Queen at the last,
      Its strings were his own heart-strings.

    "_Unworthy but only of her grace,
      Upon Love's rock that's easy and sure,
    In guerdon of all my love's space
      She took me her humble creaeture.
      Thus fell my blissful aventure
    In youth of love that from day to day
    Flowereth aye new, and further, I say._

    "_To reck all the circumstance
      As it happed when lessen gan my sore,
    Of my rancor and woeful chance,
      It were too long--I have done therefor.
      And of this flower I say no more
    But unto my help her heart hath tended
    And even from death her man defended._"

    "Ay, even from death," to myself I said;
      For I thought of the day when she
    Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' siege,
      Of the fell confederacy.

    But death even then took aim as he sang
      With an arrow deadly bright;
    And the grinning skull lurked grimly aloof,
    And the wings were spread far over the roof
      More dark than the winter night.

    Yet truly along the amorous song
      Of Love's high pomp and state,
    There were words of Fortune's trackless doom
      And the dreadful face of Fate.

    And oft have I heard again in dreams
      The voice of dire appeal
    In which the King sang of the pit
    That is under Fortune's wheel.

    "_And under the wheel beheld I there
      An ugly Pit as deep as hell,
    That to behold I quaked for fear:
      And this I heard, that who therein fell
      Came no more up, tidings to tell:
    Whereat, astound of the fearful sight,
    I wist not what to do for fright._"

    And oft has my thought called up again
      These words of the changeful song:
    "_Wist thou thy pain and thy travail
    To come, well might'st thou weep and wail!_"
      And our wail, O God! is long.

    But the song's end was all of his love;
      And well his heart was grac'd
    With her smiling lips and her tear-bright eyes
      As his arm went round her waist.

    And on the swell of her long fair throat
      Close clung the necklet-chain
    As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside,
    And in the warmth of his love and pride
      He kissed her lips full fain.

    And her true face was a rosy red,
      The very red of the rose
    That, couched on the happy garden-bed,
      In the summer sunlight glows.

    And all the wondrous things of love
      That sang so sweet through the song
    Were in the look that met in their eyes,
      And the look was deep and long.

    'T was then a knock came at the outer gate,
      And the usher sought the King.
    "The woman you met by the Scotish Sea,
      My Liege, would tell you a thing;
    And she says that her present need for speech
      Will bear no gainsaying."

    And the King said: "The hour is late;
      To-morrow will serve, I ween."
    Then he charged the usher strictly, and said:
      "No word of this to the Queen."

    But the usher came again to the King.
      "Shall I call her back?" quoth he:
    "For as she went on her way, she cried,
      'Woe! Woe! then the thing must be!'"

    And the King paused, but he did not speak.
      Then he called for the Voidee-cup:
    And as we heard the twelfth hour strike,
    There by true lips and false lips alike
      Was the draught of trust drained up.

    So with reverence meet to King and Queen
      To bed went all from the board;
    And the last to leave the courtly train
    Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain
      Who had sold his sovereign lord.

    And all the locks of the chamber-door
      Had the traitor riven and brast;
    And that Fate might win sure way from afar,
    He had drawn out every bolt and bar
      That made the entrance fast.

    And now at midnight he stole his way
      To the moat of the outer wall,
    And laid strong hurdles closely across
      Where the traitors' tread should fall.

    But we that were the Queen's bower-maids
      Alone were left behind;
    And with heed we drew the curtains close
      Against the winter wind.

    And now that all was still through the hall,
      More clearly we heard the rain
    That clamoured ever against the glass
      And the boughs that beat on the pane

    But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook,
      And through empty space around
    The shadows cast on the arras'd wall
    'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and tall
      Like spectres sprung from the ground.

    And the bed was dight in a deep alcove;
      And as he stood by the fire
    The King was still in talk with the Queen
      While he doffed his goodly attire.

    And the song had brought the image back
      Of many a bygone year;
    And many a loving word they said
    With hand in hand and head laid to head;
      And none of us went anear.

    But Love was weeping outside the house,
      A child in the piteous rain;
    And as he watched the arrow of Death,
    He wailed for his own shafts close in the sheath
      That never should fly again.

    And now beneath the window arose
      A wild voice suddenly:
    And the King reared straight, but the Queen fell back
      As for bitter dule to dree;
    And all of us knew the woman's voice
      Who spoke by the Scotish Sea.

    "O King," she cried, "in an evil hour
      They drove me from thy gate;
    And yet my voice must rise to thine ears;
      But alas! it comes too late!

    "Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour,
      When the moon was dead in the skies,
    O King, in a death-light of thine own
      I saw thy shape arise.

    "And in full season, as erst I said,
      The doom had gained its growth;
    And the shroud had risen above thy neck
      And covered thine eyes and mouth.

    "And no moon woke, but the pale dawn broke,
      And still thy soul stood there;
    And I thought its silence cried to my soul
      As the first rays crowned its hair.

    "Since then have I journeyed fast and fain
      In very despite of Fate,
    Lest Hope might still be found in God's will:
      But they drove me from thy gate.

    "For every man on God's ground, O King,
      His death grows up from his birth
    In the shadow-plant perpetually;
      And thine towers high, a black yew-tree,
      O'er the Charterhouse of Perth!"

    That room was built far out from the house;
    And none but we in the room
    Might hear the voice that rose beneath,
    Nor the tread of the coming doom.

    For now there came a torchlight-glare,
      And a clang of arms there came;
    And not a soul in that space but thought
      Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme.

    Yea, from the country of the Wild Scots,
      O'er mountain, valley, and glen,
    He had brought with him in murderous league
      Three hundred armed men.

    The King knew all in an instant's flash,
      And like a King did he stand;
    But there was no armour in all the room,
      Nor weapon lay to his hand.

    And all we women flew to the door
      And thought to have made it fast;
    But the bolts were gone and the bars were gone
      And the locks were riven and brast.

    And he caught the pale pale Queen in his arms
      As the iron footsteps fell,
    Then loosed her, standing alone, and said,
      "Our bliss was our farewell!"

    And 'twixt his lips he murmured a prayer,
      And he crossed his brow and breast;
    And proudly in royal hardihood
    Even so with folded arms he stood--
      The prize of the bloody quest.

    Then on me leaped the Queen like a deer:
      "O Catherine, help!" she cried.
    And low at his feet we clasped his knees
      Together side by side.
    "Oh! even a King, for his people's sake,
      From treasonous death must hide!"

    "For _her_ sake most!" I cried, and I marked
      The pang that my words could wring.
    And the iron tongs from the chimney-nook
      I snatched and held to the King:
    "Wrench up the plank! and the vault beneath
      Shall yield safe harbouring."

    With brows low-bent, from my eager hand
      The heavy heft did he take;
    And the plank at his feet he wrenched and tore;
    And as he frowned through the open floor,
      Again I said, "For her sake!"

    Then he cried to the Queen, "God's will be done!"
      For her hands were clasped in prayer.
    And down he sprang to the inner crypt;
    And straight we closed the plank he had ripp'd
      And toiled to smoothe it fair.

    (Alas! in that vault a gap once was
      Wherethro' the King might have fled;
    But three days since close-walled had it been
    By his will; for the ball would roll therein
      When without at the palm he play'd.)

    Then the Queen cried, "Catherine, keep the door,
      And I to this will suffice!"
    At her word I rose all dazed to my feet,
      And my heart was fire and ice.

    And louder ever the voices grew,
      And the tramp of men in mail;
    Until to my brain it seemed to be
    As though I tossed on a ship at sea
      In the teeth of a crashing gale.

    Then back I flew to the rest; and hard
      We strove with sinews knit
    To force the table against the door
      But we might not compass it.

    Then my wild gaze sped far down the hall
      To the place of the hearthstone-sill;
    And the Queen bent ever above the floor,
      For the plank was rising still.

    And now the rush was heard on the stair,
      And "God, what help?" was our cry.
    And was I frenzied or was I bold?
    I looked at each empty stanchion-hold,
      And no bar but my arm had I!

    Like iron felt my arm, as through
      The staple I made it pass:
    Alack! it was flesh and bone--no more!
    'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the door,
      But I fell back Kate Barlass.

    With that they all thronged into the hall,
      Half dim to my failing ken;
    And the space that was but a void before
      Was a crowd of wrathful men.

    Behind the door I had fall'n and lay,
      Yet my sense was widely aware,
    And for all the pain of my shattered arm
      I never fainted there.

    Even as I fell, my eyes were cast
      Where the King leaped down to the pit;
    And lo! the plank was smooth in its place,
      And the Queen stood far from it.

    And under the litters and through the bed
      And within the presses all
    The traitors sought for the King, and pierced
      The arras around the wall.

    And through the chamber they ramped and stormed
      Like lions loose in the lair,
    And scarce could trust to their very eyes--
      For behold! no King was there.

    Then one of them seized the Queen, and cried,
      "Now tells us, where is thy lord?"
    And he held the sharp point over her heart:
    She drooped not her eyes nor did she start,
      But she answered never a word.

    Then the sword half pierced the true true breast:
      But it was the Graeme's own son
    Cried, "This is a woman--we seek a man!"
      And away from her girdle-zone
    He struck the point of the murderous steel;
      And that foul deed was not done.

    And forth flowed all the throng like a sea,
      And 't was empty space once more;
    And my eyes sought out the wounded Queen
      As I lay behind the door.

    And I said: "Dear Lady, leave me here,
      For I cannot help you now;
    But fly while you may, and none shall reck
      Of my place here lying low."

    And she said, "My Catherine, God help thee!"
      Then she looked to the distant floor,
    And clapsing her hands, "O God help _him_,"
      She sobbed, "for we can no more!"

    But God He knows what help may mean,
      If it mean to live or to die;
    And what sore sorrow and mighty moan
    On earth it may cost ere yet a throne
      Be filled in His house on high.

    And now the ladies fled with the Queen;
      And through the open door
    The night-wind wailed round the empty room
      And the rushes shook on the floor.

    And the bed drooped low in the dark recess
      Whence the arras was rent away;
    And the firelight still shone over the space
      Where our hidden secret lay.

    And the rain had ceased, and the moonbeams lit
      The window high in the wall--
    Bright beams that on the plank that I knew
      Through the painted pane did fall
    And gleamed with the splendour of Scotland's crown
      And shield armorial.

    But then a great wind swept up the skies,
      And the climbing moon fell back;
    And the royal blazon fled from the floor,
      And naught remained on its track;
    And high in the darkened window-pane
      The shield and the crown were black.

    And what I say next I partly saw
      And partly I heard in sooth,
    And partly since from the murderers' lips
      The torture wrung the truth.

    For now again came the armed tread,
      And fast through the hall it fell;
    But the throng was less: and ere I saw,
      By the voice without I could tell
    That Robert Stuart had come with them
      Who knew that chamber well.

    And over the space the Graeme strode dark
      With his mantle round him flung;
    And in his eye was a flaming light
      But not a word on his tongue.

    And Stuart held a torch to the floor,
      And he found the thing he sought;
    And they slashed the plank away with their swords
      And O God! I fainted not!

    And the traitor held his torch in the gap,
      All smoking and smouldering;
    And through the vapour and fire, beneath
      In the dark crypt's narrow ring,
    With a shout that pealed to the room's high roof
      They saw their naked King.

    Half naked he stood, but stood as one
      Who yet could do and dare;
    With the crown, the King was stript away--
    The Knight was reft of his battle-array--
      But still the Man was there.

    From the rout then stepped a villain forth--
      Sir John Hall was his name:
    With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the vault
      Beneath the torchlight-flame.

    Of his person and stature was the King
      A man right manly strong,
    And mightily by the shoulderblades
      His foe to his feet he flung.

    Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas Hall,
      Sprang down to work his worst;
    And the King caught the second man by the neck
      And flung him above the first.

    And he smote and trampled them under him;
      And a long month thence they bare
    All black their throats with the grip of his hands
      When the hangman's hand came there.

    And sore he strove to have had their knives,
      But the sharp blades gashed his hands.
    Oh James! so armed, thou hadst battled there
      Till help had come of thy bands;
    And oh! once more thou hadst held our throne
      And ruled thy Scotish lands!

    But while the King o'er his foes still raged
      With a heart that naught could tame,
    Another man sprange down to the crypt;
    And with his sword in his hand hard-gripp'd,
      There stood Sir Robert Graeme.

    (Now shame on the recreant traitor's heart
      Who durst not face his King
    Till the body unarmed was wearied out
      With two-fold combating!

    Ah! well might the people sing and say,
      As oft ye have heard aright:
    "_O Robert Graeme, O Robert Graeme,
    Who slew our King, God give thee shame!_"
      For he slew him not as a knight.)

    And the naked King turned round at bay,
      But his strength had passed the goal,
    And he could but gasp: "Mine hour is come;
    But oh! to succour thine own soul's doom,
      Let a priest now shrive my soul!"

    And the traitor looked on the King's spent strength
      And said: "Have I kept my word?
    Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I gave?
    No black friar's shrift thy soul shall have,
      But the shrift of this red sword!"

    With that he smote his King through the breast;
      And all they three in the pen
    Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him there
      Like merciless murderous men

    Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert Graeme,
      Ere the King's last breath was o'er,
    Turned sick at heart with the deadly sight
      And would have done no more.

    But a cry came from the troop above:
      "If him thou do not slay,
    The price of his life that thou dost spare
      Thy forfeit life shall pay!"

    O God! what more did I hear or see,
      Or how should I tell the rest?
    But there at length our King lay slain
      With sixteen wounds in his breast.

    O God! and now did a bell boom forth,
      And the murderers turned and fled;
    Too late, too late, O God, did it sound!
    And I heard the true men mustering round,
      And the cries and the coming tread.

    But ere they came, to the black death-gap
      Somewise did I creep and steal;
    And lo! or ever I swooned away,
    Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay
      In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel.

    And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard
      Dread things of the days grown old--
    Even at the last, of true Queen Jane
      May somewhat yet be told,
    And how she dealt for her dear Lord's sake
      Dire vengeance manifold.

    'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth,
      In the fair-lit Death-chapelle,
    That the slai

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